Wanderings

The night manager of the hostel, Miguel, always seemed to be trying to flirt with me, and it was something that I could not for the life of me comprehend. Every time he saw me I was wearing an outfit more abominable than the last, with some combination of khaki pants, khaki jacket, no make-up, and sneakers. As a single female traveler in southern Europe, it’s important to find that balance between looking bad enough so you don’t get followed around all the time, and not bursting into tears every time you pass by a mirror. And in a worst case scenario, I prefer the latter option to getting harassed.

But apparently even the wretched clothes fail to fully contain whatever mojo I have working, since Miguel, along with many of his countrymen, was still charmed. When two Canadian women showed up at the hostel the next day and became my bunk neighbors, I learned that my room had come at a discount, printing was not usually free, and that my free towel had been a deviation from hostel policy as well. 

I still chalked it up to managerial politeness, even though he was inordinately chatty about his day, my day, and his participation in the neighborhood soccer league every time I came through the door. But then there was the night that one of the Canadian girls and I split a load of laundry. I was just about to transition it into the dryer, when Miguel showed up at the door. He first helped to move the clothes, and then very gallantly whisked four Euros from his pocket and into the machine, adding a fifth for bonus drying time with a flourish. At that point, I was pretty sure he’d gone beyond his managerial duties, but it was now just the two of us in a hot tiny laundry room, and I didn’t think I could handle whatever else might be in store. So instead, I ran upstairs, giggling, to tell my Canadian friends.

It being the extreme off-season, I had arrived at the hostel to learn that I was the only person booked in my 10-bed all female dorm. Miguel, operating under the assumption that I enjoyed the company of other people, offered to show me another option, a mixed dorm with a man and two women.

“That’s ok,” I said, after peering in for less than a milli-second. “I’m happy with my own room.”

So we continued down the long hallway, past a line of doors over which each had a different “S” name: Serenity, Serendipity, Sunshine…

“I’ll take you to my favorite one,” Miguel said.

I looked up when I thought we had reached the end of the hallway. Overhead, it said “Sweet.”

“Is this it?” I asked.

“Keep going,” Miguel said.

The next one had a sign that read, “Sugar.”

“Ohh! This must be it!” I said.

“Keep going,” said Miguel.

Finally, we could go no further. The hallway was very dark now. The sign above me read, “Surprise.”

“Oh, boy,” I said.

But Miguel kindly left me to my own devices, which, after a day full of sedentary train riding, included dancing around in my bra to “Rebel Yell” on repeat.

The top three rules posted on the door were: Do not bring food into the room, Do not consume alcohol in the room, and Do not tamper with the heating.

I broke the first two within the first hour, naturally. I thought the theme song for Bridget Jones, “All by Myself,” playing in the supermarket as I was buying tuna, chickpeas, and red wine at 9pm on a Friday night was a little unnecessary, thank you Universe. As for the third rule, I broke it right before going to bed. As a result, the lights, which seemed to be connected to the heating system, kept going off and on all night.

The next evening, accompanied by one of my new Canadian room-mates, Lauren, I went down to ask Miguel to turn up the heating in our room, and tell him about the flickering lights.

“Maybe it was a ghost,” I said to Miguel, having decided to be moderately flirty. “Fantasma?”

“There are those, yes,” Miguel said, to my surprise. “Because this was once a…. monastery… no… convent?”

“Oh boy,” Lauren said, “Maybe one of the nuns was turning the lights on and off.”

“Not nuns,” Miguel said. “Sons.”

“Nuns don’t have sons,” I said, “They’re celibate.”

To which Miguel proceeded to inform us that under almost every convent is a graveyard, for the unwanted male babies of the un-celibate nuns.

“Are you saying, Miguel,” I said, “That the spirit of an aborted fetus haunts our room? Is that supposed to be the surprise?”

Of which Miguel’s limited English prevented him from Full Appreciation, but Lauren and I thought it was all quite entertaining, and after Miguel had adjusted the heating via a panel at the front desk, we scampered upstairs to tell Lauren’s mother all about the phantom fetus.