Two Months In Europe With Lachlan

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This adventure is a collaboration between Chwoka and Schazer. Though we will be trading off posting, all of the updates are written together.

I slide my keycard through the slit and I notice it catches a bit in the middle, so I assume that it's not going to take, and my assumption is confirmed by that tiny red light that flashes three times. Instead of running it through three, four more times I just put my card away and punch in the code onto the keypad (those pill-shaped buttons that are curved on the top gives it away as the CL line, and since it's not reading my card right it seems the hotel has not upgraded from the CL-302 or -402 to the -303 or -403 just yet), but not the code they gave me with the card because I don't remember that one, I just punch in the default manager's code, one-zero-one-zero-nine, figuring they haven't even changed it, and with three flashes of green the door mechanically clicks open. Typical. I grab the handle and step through.

From the other side you can easily tell it's the 303 since it doesn't have another keypad, just a button on the handle. If only I had my tools with me I could fix the code up so not just any bozo with five numbers in his head could waltz on in if he pleased. It's ridiculous. You spend your whole life installing these locks and because hotel management won't get off their asses and set a new code they're easier to pick than the classic cylinder unit you can go at with a bobby pin. That's probably what this place had thirty years ago. From the looks of things, nothing else in this room besides the knob has been replaced in thirty years. I still press the button on the handle though, even though it doesn't really mean anything. I'm halfway tempted to go back around and punch in the keypad-programmer's code to fix their problem for them, but even though it's my room it's not MY room... Although I could always just change it back before I went.

And then again, I could have used their app, but that's garbage, and my phone's likely roaming and low on battery anyway. Funny how you install a new doorknob and instantly add three new entrances to the room. Now's the time when I would throw down my luggage, but I don't have it with me, so I just dump my pockets on the nightstand and get right to the first thing any sensible person should do when they check into a new hotel room.

The bedroom window. It's big, almost the size of the whole wall. I don't know where I could hide from its gaze — I guess, the corners on either side of it, or behind the bed — but luckily, it's got big, thick curtains, and as I pull the first layer away I find there's even two sets, which is a relief. I look out from the crack between them. It's nothing I didn't see coming in in the taxi: a parking lot and a Pizza Hut. Beyond that it looks like the city peters out into hills, a few trees here and there, and a chain-link fence so kids don't go out and play on the train tracks. Even though it goes all the way to the floor, the window doesn't have a balcony or sliding door. That doesn't mean it's not still an entrance point, though.

I reach through the gap, careful not to disturb the curtains any more than I have to, and I tap the window with my knuckle. I can't hear it too well. I tap it again, harder. I'm not going to get anywhere like this. I slowly push my body through the curtains and gently place my ear to the glass. My arm got between the curtains somehow, so when I go to tap it again I have to shimmy my whole body so it's parallel to the window, then turn my head back the way it was. I'm a sitting duck like this, isolated against the plain white linen of the inner curtain. Knock knock.

I can't quite believe my ears. It's just one layer, and it's not reinforced. It's not "tong"ing like plexiglass. Even though every passing second increases the security risk, I tap twice more. I reach down the window and tap further away. I put both my hands up against the window like I'm getting frisked and I push a couple times. It bows, even. I hate being right.

The phone rings from the desk, right next to where I’d dumped my cellphone and wallet. Would’ve thought it was mine, except I set it to do not disturb since I left the airport and learned our tour bus had no wi-fi. That, and the ringing’s that classic bell sound I haven’t heard since everyone stopped using landlines. I’m standing at the window, frozen like an idiot all the while it rings.

Rattling a window can’t have made that much noise, right? How thin are these walls, even?

I glance outside, phone still chirping, but there are no cars on the road and scarcely more in the parking lot across from my room. I could let it ring until they hang up. I could absolutely ignore it.

I fight back through the curtains, shut them tight behind me, and pick up my phone, setting it to “disturb I guess in case there’s an actual emergency”. The hotel phone rings all the while, and I pick it up. It’s the girl from reception. “Hey hun, this is reception.”

“Yes,” I pause, “hello.”

“We’ve still had no word from your luggage, but our porters have been informed to bring them straight to you just as soon as they arrive, Mr. Lachlan.”

So, the exact same situation as you explained to me not ten minutes ago when I checked in. You don’t say. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

“Toiletries should be all lined up in your en suite, but give us a call if there’s anything else you need. We’ve got a laundry service if you don’t mind changing into a bathrobe and you’d like the clothes you’re wearing clean by morning, I can send someone up —”

“That’s fine. Thank you.” I hang up before she tries treating me to a pedicure or something.

The door to the bathroom creaks when I open it, probably from the humidity. That's good. What isn't is what's on the other side of the door. Firstly: the door hits something and stops halfway through its arc — the toilet. If I actually wanted to use it, I'd have to come all the way in and then shut the door again and make a U-turn the full length of the door. The second thing making this one of the worst-designed hotel bathrooms I've ever seen (and I've seen a lot,) is that directly across from the doorway there’s another window. It's not a small thing at the top of the ceiling in case you need an air vent, it's another big one: tall, one I could fit through, and I guess that's intentional since this is the one the fire escape connects to.

In a way it might be considered comforting to know you have a ready exit route, but I'm simply nauseated by the multiplication of entrance points, and disgusted by how it has to link up into my bathroom, without even a curtain on the curtain rod to hide my freshly-showered body from whoever decides to climb the stairs. I suppose this libertine attitude is just a European thing, like the bidet I also get. Either that or there's one perverted fire marshall.

I grab the handle on the side of the window's lower pane and give it a few good yanks until my face starts to turn as red as the handle. Probably the humidity, again. Rust. I widen my stance and pull one more time, pushing off the wall with my foot — and fly backwards, hitting the linoleum with my tailbone and leaving a head-shaped dent in the plywood door. Just great.

After I take a breath (or really, a sigh,) I try to stand up. I pull my knees in, put my hand down on the floor for support — then immediately take it off and fall back down, hissing from the pain. I take a look at my hand. I've cut it nasty right under my fingers on the fire escape handle. Amazing how much more secure the emergency exit is than the front door. I stand up, using my right hand this time, and pull open the first cabinet under the sink. No bandages, just pristine white towels, crisply folded. Before I can get to the second drawer, I hear my cell phone ringing back in the other room. I quickly wrap my injury in the towel so I stop dripping blood everywhere and move back into the bedroom.

"Hello, yes?"

"Hi, this is Alice from Eurotrip," says Alice from the tour company. "I hope you're settling in okay?"

"Well, I actually have a bit of a situation over here." I clutch the towel to my hand and the phone to my shoulder.

"Great to hear," she says. "Listen, we're sending around your luggage now, so it shouldn't be long."

"Okay, thanks, I gotta —"

"We would like to apologize for the overbooking situation," says Alice. "How does a $15 gift certificate sound?"

"Fine, whatever." I grab the phone and hang it up. It tells me I have only 10% battery left. I've probably already wasted 10% of my blood. Or at least 10% of my time.

I have a bleeding hand, an almost-dead phone, a wide-open bathroom window, a crick in my neck from the plane and the bus, and the rest of the evening to myself — though God knows how I'm going to sleep somewhere like this. What now?