“DAICAZZOFIGLIODIPUTTANASTRONZOTESTADICAZZOPEZZODIMERDANONFAIUNCAZZOPERCHENOCAPISCIDICAZZONONSERVIAUNASEGANONMENEFREGAUNCAZZOMINCHIAFIGADILEGNO”
— a very angry couple
Nestled in the quiet foothills of the Alps, just outside the ancient city centre of Brescia, a delightful jaunt from the clear blue waters and soaring cliffs of Lake Garda, lies one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in Italy, Ronchi. If you’re looking for old money, nobility (read: literal princes), and the people that married into it all, this is the place to start.
Ai Ronchi Motor Hotel is the dump across the street.
It’s mid-afternoon as I lay here in the least comfortable bed I’ve yet to enjoy in my days of travel. It boggles the mind: how can such a thin piece of foam be so lumpy? It’s as if there were nothing at all but the hardwood support, until I move and discover a craggy outcrop of tangled springs and ossified down (or it’s cheapest, most plastic-est substitute).
Were I to stand and look to my left, I would be treated to the truly majestic sight of Ronchi, almost completely expunged from view by the intensely luminescent exterior of the gas station immediately next door.
The paper-thin walls, deftly interconnected by an ancient, clangorous, ventilation system, allow a bombastic slur of invective to gently waft through the rafters into my ears, scaring me half to death. I listen intently. I know some of these words! Oh, they’re the ones Maurizio taught me. Oh! They’re the ones Maurizio taught me!
While I’m always eager to expand upon and gain real-world experience in the usage of my nascent vocabulary (for better or for worse), I must admit that I can’t really make out what is being said. I can glean this for certain: a lady was very upset with a man, and that seemed to upset him right back.
Presented with situations like this, I often wonder, surely they’ve heard others through the same paper-thin walls. Surely they know that they can easily be overheard from all around. Right? They do, don’t they? Perhaps they just don’t care, or perhaps they’re so adept at the mindfulness of being present to every moment, they’re lost to the world, forever entwined in the furious dance of their passionate affection, unable to express to one another the true depths of their desire. Or maybe they’re just selfish jerks.
The cacophony abates as they disappear down the hall, their tirade trailing along.
I wish I could say that it ends here, but the melodrama continues later in the evening, and the next, and the following, well into the early morning on each occasion. Needless to say, our neighbours, coupled with the lumpy bunk, do not make for sound sleeping.
Such wakefulness provides other opportunities for observation: who’s moving furniture around right above us at 3AM? Why do the cleaning staff barge right in without knocking first thing in the morning, leaving immediately as I try furtively to put my pants on? Why don’t they ever return to remake the room, even after I’ve specifically requested, and making a show of leaving to allow them peace while they work? Oy! That pile of change I accidentally left at the back of the desk wasn’t a tip, but for my coffee for the next two days! Why does the water smell so funny? What’s up with that weird dip in the bathroom floor that causes me to slip every time while the dim overhead light slowly flickers to life? And most difficult of all, how is it that the WiFi router dangling from a thread right outside the door doesn’t provide a strong enough connection to load this text file? Most of these things could be easily overlooked and forgiven were we paying the same prices in Canadian dollars and not in euros. Oh well.
Such is life at the Ai Ronchi, the worst place in the best place in the land.
A Nix in Brixia 