as Alamo. “What is that?” the petite blond girl to my right asked pointing in the direction of the building. The driver, a weathered man who smelled of cigarette smoke and body odor, spoke almost zero English and clearly did not catch the girl’s question. He exited the van and then opened up the sliding door on our side. The man made a large sweeping gesture with his arm. “Out. This you place.” The nine of us, all college aged girls, looked around puzzled and bewildered.
The cobble stone street was cluttered by white tents which contained market gifts of souvenirs, shoes, jackets, and purses. To our left a group of thug looking men were hocking a variety of designer handbags and sunglasses. There was shouts of “Ciao bella! Good price!” as obvious tourists made their way down the street. On our left was an Italian caffe; it was wafting with the smells of baking doughy bread. No where did I see the apartment at which the driver claimed we had arrived. Are we living in a tent with the street vendors?
I felt my luggage suddenly thrust against my leg; the driver had already completely unloaded all of our suitcases from the v
an. He pressed a key into our hands and shook his hand at an elongated wooden door. “That. Go up.” He said and then returned to the van and drove away. I was dumbfounded. I guess they don’t believe in a warm welcoming here. Another girl in the group walked up to the designated door and tried her key. The door swung open a staircase. Up we went; five flights of steep inclining stairs were between me and the apartment. It was a difficult climb as I lugged all of my possessions required for the next two months. I was out of breath when we reached the top and another wooden door. We tried the key again, and the door opened to reveal the spacious apartment I would be living in for the next two months.
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