There's a part of me that keeps wondering if things feel so wrong here because Barcelona felt so comfortable. The hostel was a delight, the employees/volunteers were friendly, and the city truly did feel like it was happy to have you there. I don't know how else to explain it. Several of the hostel volunteers, mostly American, and I were talking one night at the hostel bar about how comfortable everything in Barcelona felt. In unison, we all breathed out, "If feels like... home." And it did. Before my plane took off for Italy, I was looking at apartments and houses on the outskirts of Barcelona to see if it were at all possible to buy a place. (It is.)
Then I get to Naples and, well, it's not home. It's not even your worst aunt's house. It feels angry that I'm here, and when I walk down the street, even in the early morning hours, it's as if sandpaper rubs against my skin. I've seen two school girls laugh, while all others keep carefully neutral faces at best, scowl at worst. Even the woman at the coffee shop where I picked up my croissant and cafe leche this morning seemed annoyed that I spoke to her (which I'd made every effort to do in Italian). It all feels ... wrong.
Add to it the hostel that I'm at. First, it's nearly impossible to find the door as it's unmarked. (Okay, this isn't entirely true. I saw the sign this evening when I came back from Pompei. It's impossible to read as it's completely covered in graffiti, but it's there.) It's in a back alley (probably a street, but to Americans, it will look and feel like a back alley) that has minimal lighting. The giant green-painted iron door pivots quietly and easily, though it looks like a prison door.
Once inside, it's actually fairly nice. It's clean(ish), with travertine flooring throughout. The entrance is on the ground floor, and the reception and lockers are up one flight of stairs (First Floor in Europe). The room that I'm staying in is up another flight of stairs (Second Floor in Europe, but my legs know it as Third Floor). One must unlock another large, iron door to enter the Second Floor area, then go down a winding hallway into a sad, drab little sitting area.
To the right is my room, a large, airy space with five beds. It's clean, has large cupboards (that don't lock) against one wall, and each bed has a small table and lamp.
There's also a tiny balcony outside the window, which absolutely terrifies me. I've gone out there twice: Once to take pictures, and once to hang out my towel and washcloth. I shook like a child both times.
To the left of the sitting area is the Second Floor kitchen. (There is another kitchen on the Third Floor, which is where breakfast is served.) Through the kitchen is another hallway that curves around to two bathrooms and the staff/volunteers' quarters.
It's an interesting set-up, and once I got inside last night, I felt fairly safe and comfortable with the place. Until this evening.
To say that I've been running around a lot is putting it mildly. As of today, I've averaged 22,000 steps a day, or around 10 miles. Today was over 27,000 steps. My body aches, and I'm exhausted. I just wanted a warm dinner, maybe some friendly conversation, and a hot shower. I had pizza leftovers from lunch, so once I could drag myself off my cot, I went to the kitchen to heat it up.
Three of the volunteers were in the kitchen making spaghetti for dinner. One showed me how to use the oven while the other two said nothing. I put my pizza in the oven, and sat down at the table to wait for it to heat up. The three volunteers - two young women and one young man - sat down at the other end of the table to eat. They chatted among themselves, but made zero effort to talk to me. Their conversation was such that it was kind of impossible to insert myself into it without being rude, so I sat quietly.
Once the pizza came out, I pulled it out, sat back down, and ate it, still being totally excluded by my tablemates. They weren't rude, but they weren't friendly, either. They just kept to themselves ... completely.
After, I put my things away, cleaned up my dishes, and went to get my things for a hot shower. I'd had hot food, had, um, listened to conversation, and now I needed the hot shower. I loaded up my arms with all that I needed, and headed to the bathroom, which is, as I mentioned, on the other side of the kitchen from my room. All three volunteers saw me walk past them obviously going to shower.
The bathroom isn't huge, but it isn't small, really. There just isn't a lot of space to set things down. So, I put most of my stuff on the floor, turned on the shower, and got my towel and washcloth out. I turned around and realized that the showerhead was pointed at the wall without the water tray in the bottom, so water was pouring onto the floor. I squeaked, turned the head, and then grabbed my clothing and dropped them into the (thankfully) dry sink. I cleaned up the water as best I could with the rug and handtowel, but as I did so, I realized that the water I was cleaning up was cold. Not even tepid. Cold. I had turned the showerhead quickly, but not paid attention. Now I checked to make sure that I'd turned the handle to the correct side, and felt the water again. Yes, definitely cold.
Maybe it just took a bit to warm up. I mean, it's an old building. I waited. And I waited. And finally, I gave up, turned off the water, put on my pajamas, and gathered up my things to leave. I was once again locked into the bathroom and it took me a few minutes fiddling with the ancient key and lock in the door before I was able to free myself. (This is a common theme here regarding door locks, by the way.)
I walked to the kitchen and asked if there was a problem with the hot water.
"Oh, there's no hot water on the second floor. You'll have to go up to the third floor if you want hot water. The boiler for this floor is broken and the guy didn't come today."
I just look at the young man. "I see."
"Sorry!" says one of the young women with a bright smile.
"So, go to the third floor? That's okay?"
"Oh, sure. Yes. Shouldn't be a problem."
"Mmhmm." I sigh deeply, go to my room to drop off my clothing, and head up the stairs to the third (fourth) floor for my (hopefully) hot shower. This bathroom was smaller yet, so I was really grateful that I'd dropped my clothing off prior to going up. I dumped my pajamas into the sink (still dry!) and turn the water on. It was, indeed, hot! *happy dance, albeit slowly and with considerable pain*
I showered, brushed my teeth, cleaned up the bathroom (the shower tray leaked so there was water on the floor again), and headed back downstairs. I put my shower stuff away, then headed out onto the terrifying balcony to hang up my towel and washcloth before crawling into my fairly comfortable cot.
Oh, and did I mention that the tap water in Naples isn't safe to drink? I asked one of the volunteers where I might be able to get a bottle of water, and she suggested the bar at the end of the alley. "I mean, they serve beer and wine, but I'm sure they'd sell you a bottle of water, too." There's no grocery store nearby? No convenience store? "No. Just go there." (Google says there's a grocery store a five-minute walk away that closed half an hour ago. *rolls eyes*)
So, while my room is comfortable and I feel safe here, I'm not thrilled with my accommodations. It's not HelloBCN by any stretch of the imagination, and Naples is most definitely not Barcelona.
I leave Wednesday morning. Not that I'm counting down or anything. (36 hours)
 |
| My stuff all packed up and ready to leave HelloBCN. :( |
Then I get to Naples and, well, it's not home. It's not even your worst aunt's house. It feels angry that I'm here, and when I walk down the street, even in the early morning hours, it's as if sandpaper rubs against my skin. I've seen two school girls laugh, while all others keep carefully neutral faces at best, scowl at worst. Even the woman at the coffee shop where I picked up my croissant and cafe leche this morning seemed annoyed that I spoke to her (which I'd made every effort to do in Italian). It all feels ... wrong.
Add to it the hostel that I'm at. First, it's nearly impossible to find the door as it's unmarked. (Okay, this isn't entirely true. I saw the sign this evening when I came back from Pompei. It's impossible to read as it's completely covered in graffiti, but it's there.) It's in a back alley (probably a street, but to Americans, it will look and feel like a back alley) that has minimal lighting. The giant green-painted iron door pivots quietly and easily, though it looks like a prison door.
Once inside, it's actually fairly nice. It's clean(ish), with travertine flooring throughout. The entrance is on the ground floor, and the reception and lockers are up one flight of stairs (First Floor in Europe). The room that I'm staying in is up another flight of stairs (Second Floor in Europe, but my legs know it as Third Floor). One must unlock another large, iron door to enter the Second Floor area, then go down a winding hallway into a sad, drab little sitting area.
To the right is my room, a large, airy space with five beds. It's clean, has large cupboards (that don't lock) against one wall, and each bed has a small table and lamp.
There's also a tiny balcony outside the window, which absolutely terrifies me. I've gone out there twice: Once to take pictures, and once to hang out my towel and washcloth. I shook like a child both times.
To the left of the sitting area is the Second Floor kitchen. (There is another kitchen on the Third Floor, which is where breakfast is served.) Through the kitchen is another hallway that curves around to two bathrooms and the staff/volunteers' quarters.
It's an interesting set-up, and once I got inside last night, I felt fairly safe and comfortable with the place. Until this evening.
To say that I've been running around a lot is putting it mildly. As of today, I've averaged 22,000 steps a day, or around 10 miles. Today was over 27,000 steps. My body aches, and I'm exhausted. I just wanted a warm dinner, maybe some friendly conversation, and a hot shower. I had pizza leftovers from lunch, so once I could drag myself off my cot, I went to the kitchen to heat it up.
Three of the volunteers were in the kitchen making spaghetti for dinner. One showed me how to use the oven while the other two said nothing. I put my pizza in the oven, and sat down at the table to wait for it to heat up. The three volunteers - two young women and one young man - sat down at the other end of the table to eat. They chatted among themselves, but made zero effort to talk to me. Their conversation was such that it was kind of impossible to insert myself into it without being rude, so I sat quietly.
Once the pizza came out, I pulled it out, sat back down, and ate it, still being totally excluded by my tablemates. They weren't rude, but they weren't friendly, either. They just kept to themselves ... completely.
After, I put my things away, cleaned up my dishes, and went to get my things for a hot shower. I'd had hot food, had, um, listened to conversation, and now I needed the hot shower. I loaded up my arms with all that I needed, and headed to the bathroom, which is, as I mentioned, on the other side of the kitchen from my room. All three volunteers saw me walk past them obviously going to shower.
The bathroom isn't huge, but it isn't small, really. There just isn't a lot of space to set things down. So, I put most of my stuff on the floor, turned on the shower, and got my towel and washcloth out. I turned around and realized that the showerhead was pointed at the wall without the water tray in the bottom, so water was pouring onto the floor. I squeaked, turned the head, and then grabbed my clothing and dropped them into the (thankfully) dry sink. I cleaned up the water as best I could with the rug and handtowel, but as I did so, I realized that the water I was cleaning up was cold. Not even tepid. Cold. I had turned the showerhead quickly, but not paid attention. Now I checked to make sure that I'd turned the handle to the correct side, and felt the water again. Yes, definitely cold.
Maybe it just took a bit to warm up. I mean, it's an old building. I waited. And I waited. And finally, I gave up, turned off the water, put on my pajamas, and gathered up my things to leave. I was once again locked into the bathroom and it took me a few minutes fiddling with the ancient key and lock in the door before I was able to free myself. (This is a common theme here regarding door locks, by the way.)
I walked to the kitchen and asked if there was a problem with the hot water.
"Oh, there's no hot water on the second floor. You'll have to go up to the third floor if you want hot water. The boiler for this floor is broken and the guy didn't come today."
I just look at the young man. "I see."
"Sorry!" says one of the young women with a bright smile.
"So, go to the third floor? That's okay?"
"Oh, sure. Yes. Shouldn't be a problem."
"Mmhmm." I sigh deeply, go to my room to drop off my clothing, and head up the stairs to the third (fourth) floor for my (hopefully) hot shower. This bathroom was smaller yet, so I was really grateful that I'd dropped my clothing off prior to going up. I dumped my pajamas into the sink (still dry!) and turn the water on. It was, indeed, hot! *happy dance, albeit slowly and with considerable pain*
I showered, brushed my teeth, cleaned up the bathroom (the shower tray leaked so there was water on the floor again), and headed back downstairs. I put my shower stuff away, then headed out onto the terrifying balcony to hang up my towel and washcloth before crawling into my fairly comfortable cot.
Oh, and did I mention that the tap water in Naples isn't safe to drink? I asked one of the volunteers where I might be able to get a bottle of water, and she suggested the bar at the end of the alley. "I mean, they serve beer and wine, but I'm sure they'd sell you a bottle of water, too." There's no grocery store nearby? No convenience store? "No. Just go there." (Google says there's a grocery store a five-minute walk away that closed half an hour ago. *rolls eyes*)
So, while my room is comfortable and I feel safe here, I'm not thrilled with my accommodations. It's not HelloBCN by any stretch of the imagination, and Naples is most definitely not Barcelona.
I leave Wednesday morning. Not that I'm counting down or anything. (36 hours)
Ug. What a mess! On to better places!
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