Mike and I were accustomed to traveling at our own leisurely speed. The stop-and-go traffic did nothing to help our mindset. I had booked a room in a historic building in the university district. The Booking. We dragged ourselves, our two bags, and a handful of not-packed, odd-shaped items out of the car at Rosetti Square. The two policemen on the street in front of Hotel B. He focused on an electronic games magazine.
The elevator, one of those types seen in a s Paris-noire movie, was just large enough for Mike and our two soft-sided cases. Using the stairs that encircled it, I scurried up to the fifth floor and pushed the button, determined to will it upward.
Unsuccessful, I ran back down to the first and engaged a housekeeper who unloaded and re-loaded Mike and the luggage while speaking to him in Romanian. I felt relief when his body and bags finally rocketed upwards.
Together we walked into Room No, the toilet with the broken seat and porcelain base smelling of urine did not convince me this room deserved its three and one-half-star status.
Mike surprisingly said nothing. We were tired. We were hungry. We agreed to go downstairs for lunch. There we would rethink our choice of hotels. We sat in the cafe on the street and ordered pizza from a waiter, a university graduate who spoke English well. While he and Mike discussed Russian authors, I listened to half a phone conversation that took place at the table next to us.
