8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
I t takes two flights to get to Rhodes since I have to backtrack through Athens. From there, I take a bus to the gates of Old Town, which is where I now find myself struggling to drag my wheeled suitcase over the uneven cobblestones of the streets.
The crumbling old city walls and tavernas draped in vibrant pink bougainvillea flowers demand to be photographed, but both of my hands are otherwise occupied on the handle of my trusty suitcase. I’m terrified that with one wrong bump, I’ll lose a wheel. Or all four. So, I’m awkwardly trying to half drag it and half lift it in an attempt to prolong its life. The result is very slow going, very loud, and, I notice, has garnered the attention of several wait staff and the patrons at a nearby restaurant.
Smiling awkwardly at an older man who catches my eye, I yank my bag behind me. Broken wheels be damned. At this point, I’d rather buy a new suitcase than continue my role as this evening’s local entertainment.
I walk forcefully for another few minutes until I round a corner, safely out of sight from the observant locals. Leaning up against the rough stone of the city wall, I fish my water bottle out of my purse and chug down its contents. The water is warmer than I would like after a couple of hours of travel, but I’ll take what I can get.
Reaching into my pocket I pull out my phone to check Google Maps. The blue dot symbolizing me blinks in the middle of the screen in the labyrinth that is the Rhodes Old Town. Scanning the route, I can see that I still have a few more streets to navigate before I reach the end goal: my hotel.
I sigh, garnering the attention of a young couple passing by, no doubt on their way back from dinner. Smiling awkwardly, I tuck my empty water bottle away. Phone in one hand, suitcase handle in the other, I continue on my noisy, bumpy journey through the ancient streets.
Less than ten minutes later, I arrive at my hotel. Evie recommended it to me, citing a good location, friendly staff, and comfortable bed. Though to be honest, I’m most excited about the fact that the building was once home to knights. That excitement kicks into high gear as I observe the hotel in front of me: a castle-like building located within the ancient city walls. Despite the sweat soaking through the back of my t-shirt, my inner child is thrilled at the prospect of her princess dreams coming to life.
I’m instantly relieved to see the reception area of the hotel is smooth, level stone. My suitcase (with all four wheels still miraculously intact) now glides easily along the floor, sliding to a stop in front of the bulky reception desk.
“Hello!” I smile brightly at the man behind the desk. With his steel grey hair combed into place and button-up shirt tucked into trousers, he looks cool and dignified. The complete opposite of how I feel with my hair tugged up into a messy bun and oversized t-shirt hanging loosely over my black leggings.
“Check-in for Calla Barlowe, please.”
My host eyes me up and down before barking out something in Greek. Confused, I stand there waiting as a young man who looks to be in his mid-twenties pops out from around the closed door behind the desk. He takes a quick look at me before disappearing, returning only a few seconds later with a bottle of water.
“Looks like you could use this” he grins, a dimple appearing in his left cheek, as he hands me the bottle.
I smile awkwardly, completely aware that, now that I have stopped moving, my body has decided to sweat. I’m fairly confident that my day bag on my back hides any sweat marks there but I’m not so sure about the front. I send a quick prayer to any god that might listen that my boob sweat remains hidden, soaked up by my sports bra. But since I can feel moisture beading down my chest, I can’t be sure.
“Thanks!” I twist the cap off gratefully and take a large sip. “I’m from Canada,” I blurt out, trying to explain why I look such a hot mess. “It’s a little cooler over there this time of year. Especially in the evening.”
The young man nods, glancing at the bead of sweat that I can feel tracking its way down the left side of my neck before turning away to speak to the man behind the counter.
“My dad will check you in,” he tells me, tilting his head towards the older man, who seems to still be assessing me. “Your room should be ready.” He strides back behind the counter, heading towards the back room with one last look in my direction. “See you later, Canada.”
I smile weakly and turn my attention back to the man behind the desk. He pulls out a large, leather-bound notebook and runs his finger down the page before, presumably, finding my name.
“Calla Barlowe,” he reads as he slides his finger across the page. “Room three.”
Reaching into the drawer in front of him, he pulls out an old-timey skeleton key. A metal loop hangs from the top, attaching a plastic black tag with a large white 3 printed on the front. I take it from his hands as he points down the hallway to the left.
“Thank you!” I call over my shoulder, grabbing my suitcase and dragging it in the direction of my room for a much-needed shower.