Anthony noticed it too. “Why don’t we see any people?” Anthony was losing what was left of his patience. “Where are the street signs? Why can’t we find this? What the hell are these stairs for?”
Spencer started to see people, but only occasionally, and only poking their heads out of the windows above them, like spectators watching some game, some contest Spencer and Anthony were playing, but whose rules they didn’t know.
Finally, a beacon like the tree in the park back in Rome: a small logo in the distance that matched the color pattern Spencer remembered from the hostel brochure.
“I think that’s it!”
Anthony said nothing.
“For real this time, I think that’s it. Cheer up, man, we’re in Venice!”
The only sound from Anthony behind him was the rhythmic kuhklunk, kuh-klunk of the broken wheel on cobblestones.
Spencer heard raised voices in a foreign language. Italian? He couldn’t really tell but it definitely wasn’t English, and the closer he got to the hostel the clearer it became that an argument was underway. They walked into the front office and Spencer saw that the noise was coming from a couple yelling at a girl behind the desk. She caught eyes with Spencer, and he could tell she was trying to bite down a smile. It was too late to walk out, so he and Anthony shuffled their luggage to the back and stood awkwardly to the side of the tiny foyer as the girl tried to politely deflect the rage.
Spencer looked at Anthony, who raised his eyebrows. Finally the couple seemed to run out of steam and they barged out. The girl behind the desk looked at the boys and collapsed into giggles.
“What was that about?”
“Sorry for you to see that! They yell that they call the police because we don’t have the AC. They say it’s too hot to sleep so police come to shut us down.”
Spencer laughed. “Some people, right? The police?” He shook his head. “I’m sure we won’t be calling the police on you.” He smiled. The girl checked them in and pointed them to their room.
When he walked in, the heat nearly knocked him to his knees. “Holy shit.” It felt like an oven. Now he understood what the couple was so upset about. Somehow hotter even than outside, like all the heat had risen off the water up the hill and was being pulled in and trapped by this one room. So hot it was hard to breathe. And there were mosquitoes everywhere. Spencer started to count, lost track, and figured maybe three hundred. He tried closing the windows to see if he could stop them from coming in, but a moment after he closed the shutters the temperature kicked up even more.
“Okay, I admit it,” Spencer said. “I can’t stay in this room. There’s no way we’re sleeping here. We’ll figure something out later.”
Anthony just shook his head. He was focused on his phone.
“Wi-Fi working?”
“Yeah. I got a message from John.”
“John—wait, John Dickson?” Anthony had a friend playing semipro basketball somewhere in Europe. “He’s playing in Italy?”
“Germany. He told me to hit him up when I got to Europe, but he keeps moving.” His phone buzzed; Anthony looked down. “He says we should try to meet up when we get to Munich.”
For now, Spencer figured they only had one night in Venice, so they might as well make something of it. “All right, come on, we’re burning daylight. Let’s go see the sights.” They showered, changed, and went out to catch the water bus back to the main island. While they stood waiting, Spencer decided he wanted a photo of himself with the water and the buildings in the background, but Anthony was sitting over on a bench, trying to beat the heat by staying perfectly still. Spencer saw a girl who’d materialized out of this ghost town, waiting for the same bus. “Hey, excuse me, do you speak English?”
She laughed. “Yeah, I do.”
“Great, great, can you take a picture of me?”
“Of course!” Spencer posed, and asked her if she wanted one.
“That’s okay, I have plenty. I’ve been traveling a while.”
“By yourself? I’m Spencer, by the way.”
She laughed again. “Hi, I’m Lisa.”
“Nice to meet you. And this over here—Ant! Get up. Meet Lisa. Lisa, meet Ant. Or Anthony, I mean.”
“Hey, how’s it going?”
Spencer had an idea. “Hey, so we’re going to the main square, if you want to tag along with us.”
So Spencer, Anthony, and Lisa walked through the crowded markets, Anthony pulling out the selfie stick and filming, a signal to Spencer that his friend’s mood had improved. They decided to go on a gondola ride, because “when in Rome”—kind of—so they went down to a stand where a group of people waited, started talking to a couple, who turned out to be Malaysian, and soon Anthony convinced the three to split the fare. One by one they stepped on, the woman, her husband, Lisa, then Spencer and Anthony; the gondola driver’s eyes bulged at the size of the load piling in, but he managed to steady the boat. He shoved off into the water, manipulating the boat around tight turns and down narrow alleys, sticking out a leg to kick off when they drifted too close to the stone walls. The gondola almost tipped a half dozen times, eliciting woops from the couple, and out in the open water, it started rocking, but the close calls aside, it was just neat little narrow alleyways, passing garage doors leading down to the water, coasting under bridges and passing people eating at waterside restaurants, while Anthony captured every second on his camera.
The evening was beginning to take on that calm, almost magical feel, Spencer feeling careless and free, the Malaysian couple happy to have the company, and there was warmth to the new friends, all huddled together in this small space, bobbing on the water with the city lit up around them.
Lisa told them she was from New York, and that she’d been in Venice for a few days, staying with a local family, which was how she liked to travel, her way of saving money and picking up a bit of the language wherever she went. She’d been on a summer vacation tour of Europe, which she’d decided to do by herself. After the gondola ride she showed them some of the famous churches, her favorite views. She walked with them through the crowded market as Anthony led the way with his selfie stick like a standard bearer, trying to take candid videos of himself exploring Europe, pretending he wasn’t the one holding the camera. Since they were doing the tourist thing and in the company of a lady who clearly had some culture, they decided it was time for a classy night. In the main square, they walked past an upscale restaurant; Spencer saw Anthony looking in and said, “Screw it. Let’s go here.”
They ordered homemade pasta; Anthony ordered a glass of wine, which Spencer had never seen him do, and had a better idea. “Why don’t we just get a bottle?” They’d never done that either, ordered a bottle of wine for themselves. They were living it up, in athletic shorts and T-shirts, having a candlelit dinner served by waiters in well-tailored suits.
Over wine, Lisa asked for a full rundown of their plans. “It all sounds good,” she said. “Except France.”
“What, you don’t like it there?”
“Eh, Paris is okay. They’re kinda rude there.” Spencer looked at Anthony; Anthony shrugged. Lisa lowered her chin and squinted at them. “You know,” she said, “you should skip France.” Spencer refilled their glasses.
After dinner they strolled through the square like sophisticated Venetians, browsing shops to buy gifts for their families, and marveling at the little toy helicopters that lit up and flew hundreds of feet in the air. They took it all in, the street merchants and performers who seemed to have emerged from the earth just to put a show on for them. They tried gelato with Lisa, walked some more, found a quartet playing classical music, which switched to a string rendition of Cold-play’s “Viva la Vida” at just the moment they walked by, as if some celestial MC had seen the three approaching and decided to tee up a more current track just for them.
Back at the hostel, Spencer and Anthony decided to take some of the cool air up on the roof before trying to sleep down in the sauna. Spencer lit up a ci
garette, and they looked out over the water.
Behind him, Anthony had an idea. “It feels like all we’re doing is traveling. Maybe we should slow it down a little.”
“Maybe we should stop trying to do just one day in each place. Stay a little longer.” Way off in the distance, Spencer thought he saw a flash. He waited, looking out over the Adriatic. The sky was almost pitch black, save for the city twinkling behind him, but then he saw it again. Somewhere way out there, a cloud glowed for moment. It was a strange thing: out there, a millisecond of extraordinary power, the earth splitting open and roaring, and here, it didn’t even make a sound. Just an instant of quiet light, a hint of something happening somewhere far away. He felt moisture in the air though. He knew it was coming.
“Better go down before this storm hits us.”
17.
MUNICH WAS ALL Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs everywhere, even the taxis. Anthony couldn’t get over the cars; this time it was Spencer who just wanted to get to the hostel, eager to check email because he was supposed to hear about his next posting.
“A lot of halal shops,” Anthony said. He seemed taken with all the Muslims here, Middle Eastern–looking people all over the city. Spencer wasn’t paying attention. He was imagining himself at different US air force installations. Some backwater in America? Pápa Air Base in Hungary? Someplace in Europe? Somewhere on their trip? That would be funny. Morón Air Base in Spain, or even Ramstein, right here in Germany?
Which reminded him. “We need to see where Alek is when we get to Internet.”
“I got you. Lot of kabob restaurants. So many girls in head coverings.”
“I feel like that’s all of Europe,” Spencer said.
“I need a hamburger. We gotta find a McDonalds.”
“Really? A McDonalds? You already need American food? Let’s eat local.”
“What’s local here? Like . . . pretzels?”
“I feel like . . . maybe sausage?” Spencer was still only half listening to Anthony; now he was double-checking the map.
“Maybe schnitzer,” Anthony offered.
“Schnitzer? Snitch-er? What are you talking about?”
“Like wiener—snitcher.”
“I don’t think that’s right.”
“Pretty sure it’s right.
“Dude, what are you talking about?”
“Um . . .”
“Whatever, just, I need a Big Mac. Stat.”
“Okay fine, but let’s just make it quick. I need to go back and find out what my future holds.”
Sated with some greasy American food, they found the hostel with less fanfare than the last time, and connected to Wi-Fi. Anthony pinged his friend, John Dickson. “John’s gone again, he’s in some town, north of us apparently. He says . . .” but Spencer was still only half paying attention; he was writing to Alek. “We’re gonna go to Berlin next.”
“All right,” Alek wrote back, “I’ll try to meet you in Berlin.”
Then the message he was waiting for came in from his supervisor. Spencer yelled, “Holy shit!”
“What?” Anthony came over.
“It’s Nellis! I’m going to Nellis! They’re sending me to Las Vegas, baby!” Spencer was so happy he felt almost guilty. The air force had stationed him at a base in the Azores, which was basically an island paradise, and now, of all the places in the world he could have been posted—it could have been Iraq or Afghanistan; it could have been Greenland or Uzbekistan or Taiwan—he was being posted a short flight from his home, and a place Anthony happened to have family.
“Ah! We gotta celebrate!”
Spencer googled a bar and they set out for the closest one, ready to rage.
But the closest bar turned out to be a red-light bar, literally, red lights, and bizarre décor: decapitated Barbie dolls, someone’s acid-trip idea of a fetish. They each ordered a beer, found no one who seemed all that interesting—or safe—as conversation partners, so they finished their drinks, closed out, and escaped the Bizarro World bar, stumbling out into a gay pride parade that happened to be passing down the street. Spencer remembered a recommendation his mom had made for a place with big beers, so they called a taxi and went there, but that bar was empty.
Next they found a club, but that was mostly empty too.
Then a salsa bar, which was too disorienting—Latin American music in Germany? Anthony still wanted to find a club, but Spencer was getting bored and tired of strange bars so they decided to call it a night. Save their energy. No reason to stay out and, they decided, no reason to stay in Munich for another day. They’d head out tomorrow for Berlin.
Berlin, Spencer felt, was going to be good. He was excited. Excited for Berlin, excited for Vegas after all of it, excited for Spain.
The trip was picking up some momentum.
18.
THE HOSTEL IN Berlin was far from the train station, and in Berlin more cobblestones threatened Anthony’s suitcase. And his mood. At least Germany had street signs, and city planning, both improvements over Venice. But the words were so damn long it almost didn’t matter. It took another hour to find their way from the train to the hostel.
When they arrived, they knew their luck had fully turned. They had two separate beds, the room was spacious, the air cool and clean. Spencer was still traumatized from trying to sleep in the Venetian oven, so this all came as a relief. They took showers, changed clothes, and though Spencer’s foot was still a colorful balloon of inflammation, it seemed to slowly be improving, or at least to not be getting worse, even with all the walking. He took some of his ibuprofen, and they went downstairs to see if the receptionist could recommend a good place to party. As Spencer was talking to the woman at reception, Anthony interrupted. “Does that sign over there say ‘Louisiana Soul Food’?”
“Yes, we have American . . . you say ‘homestyle’ cooking?”
“Wait, really? Soul food in Berlin? Spencer, man, we have to see if it’s legit.”
So they had soul food in Berlin: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and corn. Spencer stuffed himself and Anthony seemed to approve of everything except for the Fanta. That, Anthony complained about. “It’s kind of gross,” he said, holding up the bottle, examining the label. “Probably because it’s made with real sugar. I’m not feeling it.”
Other than that, Berlin was shaping up well.
At breakfast the next morning, Spencer and Anthony sat silently chowing down, when a girl breezed past the dozen empty tables and slid into the seat next to them. She considered Spencer, then Anthony. Then she said, with enthusiasm that belied the early hour, “Hey! I’m Christy!”
“Uh . . .” Spencer was taken by surprise. “Um, hey,” he said. He gave Anthony a look. She hitting on us?
“Christy, what’s up.” Anthony wiped his hand, and offered it for her to shake. “I’m Anthony, this is Spencer.”
“So,” she said, “what do you guys have planned for today?
“Well,” Spencer said, still not totally adjusted to having a new dining partner, “we were actually going to plan out the day after breakfast.”
Anthony chimed in. “You have any recommendations?”
“I’m going on a bike tour later. It runs twice a day. I’m going to do the ten o’clock one, if you want to join.”
Not hitting on them, it turned out, just friendly and energetic. What was it with all the Asian girls traveling alone in Europe? Biking seemed like a good idea though; it gave him a little more time without putting weight on his foot. Plus, these girls always seemed to have the inside scoop on where to go and what to see. It was like they kept finding guides, an oracle in every port to help them on their way.
They rode the bikes single file through traffic, stopping occasionally for historical mini-lectures, which Spencer found more digestible than anything he’d learned in school. Perhaps it was for the obvious reason: that it was easier to learn with visuals. Perhaps just easier to learn on his own terms, or perhaps there was something in the air, but whateve
r it was, everything seemed more meaningful. Perhaps it was the guide, a skinny transplanted Londoner with a hat on backward and glasses Spencer wasn’t sure he actually needed—a bit of a hipster, but he seemed to know everything. And he seemed to be taking them on a historical tour of war-related sites, as if it were his job to show them only places where the world’s great menaces had been confronted.
Out in front of the University of Humboldt, they saw where the Nazis burned thousands of books, and the guide explained how students were trying to counter that evil by holding a book sale every year. “Their way of getting books back to the people,” he said, one leg hanging over his bike, looking at Spencer a beat longer than the others, as if this would mean something special to him. “To change what the history is.”
They biked some more, then stopped in the Pariser Platz, the square named for the French capital, in front of a series of columns with a statue on top, six stories high. Something about it seemed to draw Anthony in, and Spencer watched him walk a few steps away from the group and begin taking pictures, then put down his camera and just look at it, as if something didn’t quite make sense to him. Spencer squinted up toward it.
“This is the Brandenburg Gate,” the guide said. “Where your President Reagan told Mr. Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall.” The statue at the top had four horses pulling a chariot, like something out of Gladiator, except that the chariot carried a woman with wings. “This type of sculpture,” he said, “of a goddess with a four-horse chariot is called ‘quadriga.’ Quad, even you Americans know, is ‘four.’” This particular one carried Eirene, the goddess of peace. Sometimes, the guide said, the chariots in the sculptures carried Victoria, the goddess of victory. Often they carried Pheme, the goddess of fame.
This one, he said, had an extra bit of history. It was stolen by Napoleon after the siege of Berlin and taken to France. It was brought back only when the Prussians occupied Paris.
The 15:17 to Paris Page 9