Kyle Hepp

October 9, 2009

It was late at night when Seba and I got to Turin’s central station. We were both exhausted from a solid 9 hours of transferring trains and searching for the bus stop. But, we found it, and boarded, en route to our hotel at last. There was only one minor snafu when the driver informed us that no, you cannot buy bus tickets on the bus and no he doesn’t know where you can buy them or what time the next bus passes. The day was saved again by Italian kindness when an old lady offered up two extra tickets she bought the day before. And good thing we bought them off her because for the first time during our entire trip through Europe an inspector climbed on board to make sure everyone on the bus is riding legally. The system here is faith based — you buy a ticket and there’s a machine on the buses or train where you stamp it but no one is actually checking or stopping you from riding if you don’t. Unless, of course, one of these elusive inspectors comes on.

Anyway, we took the bus. We rode through a unfamiliar town until the bus driver hollered out that this was our stop. Because we’re just stupid tourists obviously we didn’t understand him the first sixteen times he yelled at us so a Spanish gentleman translated after he must have heard us speaking to each other in Chilean.

As we got off the bus we saw a sign for our hotel. The website had said it was the old Fiat car factory remodeled and sure enough — there was a definitively industrial style building in front of us. I took a deep breath. I had caught Seba checking online how much it would cost to change our flights and go home early — that’s how deep his dislike for this country goes. I knew that if this was another sucky hotel with rude desk staff who looked down their noses at us because we were carrying backpacks and had a “continental breakfast,” that consisted of eggs sitting out uncovered all morning and stale bread, I would lose the romantic rendevous in Italy we never had, forever. Seba’s patience with this country was wearing thin and I understood why. At this point we were both pretty travel weary after living out of a suitcase for the past three months. This hotel was a last bid to see if we could finish this trip off in as happy go lucky a way as when we had started.

So we rolled up to Le Meridien Art + Tech with our backpacks, in tennis shoes and t-shirts stinky with the smell of 9 hours of Italian train on us — while other guests are having their BMW’s valet’ed: The entrance way was impressive with extreme high ceilings and glass elevators taking women with Louis Vuitton purses and men with Prada shoes up to their rooms. I’m completely intimidated by rich people so I wanted to turn around and walk back out the door in that same moment. But, to Luca’s credit, he didn’t look at all phased to see to stragglers like us coming into a hotel like that and checked us in with no problems. We had a few small issues that needed to taken care of and he resolved them all easily, leaving Seba to walk away and say, “Puta, el weon eficiente!” instead of muttering under his breath, “Italianos de mierda,” as he had previously done after our interactions with, oh, pretty much everyone else in the country who would give us the run around when we were trying to accomplish even the simplest of all tasks. While the italians really are wonderfully kindhearted people, efficiency is not their strong point. They make the Chileans look like the Norwegians.

We got to our room. It was a glorious sight — ultra modern, loft style with high ceilings and a huge wall of windows to make of feel spacious. The bathroom was nearly the size of our old apartment. This truly was a moment of sheer luxury. And that, my friends, is how we ended up finally taking a honeymoon, in Italy, unplanned, after 2.5 years of wedded bliss