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The Missing Hotel
Copyright 2016 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
For the staff at the hotel. Merci.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Adventures in Paris.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft Number Two: A weak ending, but otherwise I’m pleased with this.
I was at the bookstore for business and for pleasure. I was also thinking about my upcoming trip to Paris.
Near the travel section, I wondered if our hotel had been reviewed by any of the guide books.
I picked up the first Paris guidebook and flipped to the hotel section.
Nothing.
I picked up another.
Nothing there, either.
I tried every single one of the guidebooks to Paris, not finding any information on the hotel where we would be staying.
Seriously? Was it in bad shape? Did it stink? Was it ugly?
Was it not all that fancy?
If that were the case, how fancy did it need to be to get into the books?
And then ... suddenly ... I wondered: did it even exist?
And if it did not ... there went my money.
I thought about the hotel-hunting process: I had searched only briefly before determining what would fit my budget, making a selection, and booking the room.
The hotel I picked was almost too perfect to be true, in almost every way I wanted it to be. It cost a bit more per night than I had originally budgeted, but I did not want to pay for a cheap hotel room far away from the main attractions. To compensate for the higher rate I reduced the food budget, subtracted metro tickets, and decided we could just look at the Eiffel Tower.
I remembered the pretty website, and thinking things over before making the transaction. Once it was completed, I was excited. There were a few e-mails about confirmation, and then I did not think much more about the hotel.
Until I was at the bookstore.
Words rang in my ears from a friend: Are you going through a travel agency?
Maybe I should have.
As the search continued, through more and more books, I thought: Yep, an agency might have been a good idea.
The only thing I knew about the hotel consisted of a few blurbs in a book I’ve owned for a while.
Perhaps the information was outdated? And perhaps the hotel was not even there?
That inspired a vision:
Several people -- of a variety of nationalities -- sitting around a smoke-filled room, playing Poker with my money. All of them wearing berets, dressed in black. Some or all of them smoking cigars like freight trains. One of them reading a book entitled “How To Start A Website.” Perhaps a serious, well-groomed lady named Simone -- the ringleader -- saying in a satisfied way: “Stupid American tourist. Booking a room on our fake website. We make money from her money.” The others laughing knowingly.
Even though I was imagining this, I muttered, “Hey, that’s my money.”
And Simone’s unamused, deadpan response, looking toward me as if at a movie camera in one of those melancholy European films: “You will not see it again.”
Then something primal filled my brain: the thrill of adventure. If the hotel did not exist, then we would have to find another one. In person. On foot. With our luggage.
We’d have to figure something out. But only if we got to the location and the hotel was not there. I would not do anything further until I had proof.
But what about the money? Practical me asked.
Primal me: It’s just money.
Just money? It’s a LOT of money. It’s not a tiny bit.
Primal me: In the great big scheme of things, it’s not a whole lot.
Practical me: You can be adventurous but I’ll be realistic. That money would come in handy for a lot of things.
Primal me and Practical me bickered on and off from that day until the arrival in Paris.
When TC (my traveling companion) and I stepped out into the arrival area at Charles De Gaulle Airport and did not find our transportation driver waiting inside the airport as promised, then I wondered about the validity of THAT company.
For a moment, I wondered if we would have even more adventures.
Then, logic kicked in. I decided the company was what it appeared to be: a franchise, and the local owners probably were quite busy with their daily activities. If they were not in the airport, they might be on their way. We wandered around until we found our driver pulling into the drop-off area. Once he looked up my name and reviewed my information, he hustled. Hopefully because back in the comfort of my home, I had chosen “treat me like royalty” from among the three possible tips on his company’s website. (The other choices were “I could really give a hoot about all the trouble you’re going through to transport me” and “Your service is greatly appreciated.” I chose the “royalty” amount because I anticipated being exhausted and irritated and hoping to get to my hotel as quickly as possible).
We piled into the van with many other people who were on their way to Paris. I sat back and just watched the scenery around me with my mouth open in astonishment, mostly because we had actually arrived in Europe and were on our way to our final destination. I had wanted to visit Paris since I was six years old, and I was quite tired, yet very delighted and filled with anticipation.
I was sitting in the van for only a few minutes when I saw a patch of land the size of a large American suburban backyard, with tiny things arranged inside it, in perfect rows. It was a parking lot. And the cars were so ... so ... so ....
“Are those CARS?” I asked the driver. “They’re so tiny!”
He agreed with a smile.
We entered and went down the highway, which was also a bit smaller than highways I have known, and got into several tiny traffic jams, in several tiny areas, and it all looked like the automobile ride at Disneyland.
We traveled and traveled, and entered a run-down area somewhere near the northwest section of Paris. That was odd. I had not thought about Paris having slums or graffiti or anything like that.
We started making loops and circles and whirls. And as we did so, I realized: Paris is like Denver: in the middle of a bowl, with the bottom near the River Seine. The outskirts are at the top. We were going down, at sharp angles, and making sharp turns in more tiny places among tiny cars and tiny boulevards and tiny streets.
Seriously. The cliche is that everything in Europe is smaller. I’d say the size of things is slightly less than three-quarters the size of what you’d expect to see in America.
I was exhausted and hungry, so my sudden outburst was a bit understandable. I saw some sort of communication tower and said, “Is that the Eiffel Tower?” No. No it was not.
TC said something about a main attraction behind us. I had not seen it, but I was getting the hang of where we were, and where the hotel was. Or might be. Or might have been.
We continued to loop and whirl among the whorls. The driver stopped several times, and assisted the other passengers.
We continued to travel. The streets got tighter and and narrower.
I saw the Moulin Rouge. Then thought: Seriously? It looked a bit small. But as I oriented myself, I decided it was the real one.
As we traveled around and around, I was already becoming familiar with the process: honk rudely at every opportunity, go fast, watch out for pedestrians, wait for the ambulances as they Dopplered past.
We continued to drive at an angle, downward, taking sharp turns.
I watched, checking the city blocks, one by one. Looking into the distance.
I waited. A few things were in the way.
And then:
There it was.
Our hotel.
Sitting there, as it had been for many years. Golden and shining, and reminding me somehow of My Love. I thought of him, and wished he were with me.
Rather swiftly, the driver let us out, handed us our luggage, and curtly advised on how to get in touch with him when I was ready to leave. Then he was gone.
Gratefully, happily, and with immense wonder, we went into the hotel.
And in there, up high, towering over us in a check-in area that I could barely reach ...
Was someone who looked almost exactly like the Simone in my vision.
She was brisk yet kind, and reminded us that we had a few hours to wait before checking in. Her co-workers were polite and helpful, yet rather silent and mysterious.
It was a long wait. We slept in the lobby. Slept some more. Got something to eat and drink. Waited some more.
Finally, we checked in.
And: No, the place was not ugly or stinky or bad or anything like that. It was pretty and smelled like tobacco and oranges and it was good.
To each his own, I eventually decided. All I need is cleanliness, and preferably no bugs of any sort sharing the room with me. If the temperature can be adjusted for my comfort, that would be nice. Other than that, I’m somewhat flexible.
I was very happy with the hotel and all that it had to offer.
Eventually, I found out that the feelings were mutual, and that “Simone” and her mysterious fellow employees would be happy to welcome me again.
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