With Maria’s sunny presence infusing me with optimism, I readied myself to see my room. If a woman of Maria’s calibre saw fit to do business with the hotel, surely my room would be alright? I soon had my answer. I turned into a long, dirty hallway where the peeling, smoke-stained wallpaper was nothing like what was advertised in my brochure; no, the reality was significantly more terrifying. It was like an opening to a horror movie; you know, where the lone woman is making her way through an abandoned, creepy house and you’re screaming at her, ‘Get out! Get out, you idiot!’ I followed the porter down a long hall that I hoped would never end, afraid to see what awaited me. But after eight flights of stairs, rising heat and no air conditioning in sight, I was suddenly praying for the next door to be mine.

Finally the porter stopped and I doubled over behind him, hands on knees, taking in lungfuls of stuffy, humid air, realising how unfit I was—and I wasn’t the poor soul who had carried my suitcase up eight floors! Looking up at the skinny-jeans-wearing young man who hadn’t even broken a sweat, it occurred to me that after a solid five minutes of climbing, I didn’t even know his name.

‘Mi chiamo Sammi,’ I said breathlessly, thinking to prompt introduction. But instead of a response, he simply turned the door handle, no key necessary, and dragged my suitcase into the darkened room. Not one to follow strange men into dark places, I ran my hand along the inside of the doorway, scrambling for the light switch. The fluorescent bulb flicked to a dull hum, illuminating the space. Only then did I wish I had left it off.

The room was occupied by three sets of bunk beds, pressed up against the walls to afford the feeling of space, but all it did was clear a section on the grubby, broken tile floor, drawing attention to the clothes that were strewn all over the place. Black wire cages that slid under the bunk beds were kindly provided to house and lock belongings, although only one person had deemed their possessions worthy of protection. The room, stifling hot, smelt like a locker room, and judging by the size-eleven runner that was lying on its side, this was a co-ed living situation. There was shoestring, and then there was whatever this was. Hotel Luce del Sole translated as Hotel Sunshine, but there was nothing sunshiny about this.

The porter may not have wanted to part with his name, but I sure as hell was going to part with my feelings.

‘I’m sorry, but this just won’t do,’ I said, shaking my head, half expecting Maria to burst through and yell at the man for taking me to the wrong room. That my private quarters were elsewhere, waiting for me with my clean sheets and fluffy robe. The man looked at me for perhaps the first time. I wasn’t sure if he understood what I was saying, but reading my face he got my meaning, yet still he seemed confused.

‘There has to be some mistake,’ I said, quickly rummaging through my papers, looking for my booking confirmation that showed beautiful, delightful pictures of a clean double bed, a room with a view and a delightful write-up about hotel amenities including a typical Italian breakfast, with milk, coffee or tea, plumcakes, small tarts, biscottate slices, toasted bread, jam, marmalade, honey, nuts and Nutella.

Please tell me the freakin’ Nutella wasn’t a lie.

The man took the paper from me, his brows stitched together as his dark eyes scanned over it. He then shook his head, handing the page back to me.

‘Bellissimo? Maria?’ he asked.

‘Si, si, Bellissimo with Maria,’ I said urgently, feeling relief surge inside me, as I felt a possible connection forming with the no-name bag man. Until he started to laugh, laugh so loud and shake his head, like I had just told him the most hilarious joke he had ever heard.

‘What? What’s so funny?’ I demanded.

Again he did not respond, he simply wiped away a stray tear as he walked past me to the door, trying to contain himself before stilling and looking back at me, only to burst out laughing once more before he turned and walked away.

Now I was mad as hell. I was hot, tired, hungry and filthy. A filthy mood, a filthy body and standing in, for all intents and purposes, a filthy room. I stood with my hands on my hips, turning around in the chaos before something even more unsettling hit me.

Oh, no!

I dived out of the doorway, skidding sideways to yell at the retreating, laughing man before he turned the corner of the stairs.

‘Hey, wait!’

To my surprise he actually did, pausing at the top of the stairs and turning expectantly to me.

‘Luciano,’ he said.

Finally, a name.

‘Luciano, where’s the bathroom? Ah, il bagno?’

Recognition lined his face before he nodded, pointing to a door halfway down the hall.

‘Oh, please, no-no-no-no.’ I knocked gently then slowly turned the handle, closing my eyes before opening the door and instinctively reaching for a light switch to click on. Only then did I open my eyes to reveal my worst nightmare.

A communal bathroom.

Yep, I was officially in hell.

I sat on my bed; at least, I thought it was my bed. I wasn’t quite sure, but I really didn’t care. There was a groan of the springs as I sank slightly, my weighted, tired body slumped in defeat as tears failed to well in my eyes, no doubt due to dehydration caused by the excess perspiration that misted over my body. By now I had imagined that I would be long checked in, showered and enjoying complimentary bruschetta and limoncello with my fellow travellers. Instead I was in hotel hell, all alone, thirsty, hungry and shit-scared about where I was, and what I had done. This was by far the worst mistake of my life. I had dreamed of Rome, the culture, the people, the history, the romance. I didn’t expect anything like this; oh, if only my parents could see me now. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.

‘Come on, Sammi, pull it together.’ I squared my shoulders; the image of Mum with arms crossed and an ‘I told you so’ expression sobered me a little. It couldn’t be all that bad; heck, if it was good enough for the five other strangers in this room then surely I wasn’t so prim and proper to think myself above it. This was an adventure, a dirty, grimy … oh, God, was that mould on the ceiling? No, don’t think, just be, I pep-talked myself.

Okay, this is the deal. Lock your belongings in the bloody wire cage under the bed, have a nice, hopefully hot shower—everything will seem better after a shower. Then head downstairs and get your bearings with the group, and grab something to eat. Some drink and food will set you right.

It all sounded so convincing in my head but the cold, hard reality was hard to handle. There was little toilet paper, the showers were blocked so the water didn’t drain properly, and they didn’t have a door so water sprayed all over the floor. The bathroom was tiny, so I constantly smacked my limbs against the wall and shower and bathroom door while drying off. It was soooo annoying. I wiped a clean spot on the mirror, reflecting a weary yet determined reflection.

‘Just you wait, Jan and John Buzzo, until I get home,’ I said, promising to serve them a piece of my mind when I returned, before scoffing at how cocky I sounded. Home seemed like an eternity away, and at this rate I’d be lucky if I survived the night.