The Doorbell Killer

(Special thanks goes out to co-author and star of this blog, Heidi.)

In our first hostel in Italy, each shower had its own cord hanging from some sort of button.  Because the lights were on a timer, I assumed the button was just another light switch since they looked about the same.  My sister once asked me about it and told me she had thought it was to turn on a fan.  We thought it wouldn’t matter so we never bothered to find out what it was for.  Unfortunately, our ignorance would prove to be problematic for us later on…

In the second town, my sister and I had the luxury of staying in a private apartment. After taking the first shower, Heidi noted that the bathroom had been unusually steamy and suggested that I try turning on the “fan.”

“That’s a great idea!  I’ll try pulling it once to see if the bathroom is just as steamy,” I planned out with my sister.

Just a few minutes into my shower, I decide it’s time to put our hypothesis to the test and I give the cord a swift tug.  Nothing happens.

Meanwhile, Heidi is enjoying Italian television and tending to her sunburned feet when, all of a sudden, the doorbell rings. 

Thankfully, our mother had spent the past three weeks forwarding emails about the dangers of Italy.  Answering doors in foreign countries?  Definitely not a good idea.

Being the intelligent woman that she is, Heidi freezes in her bed and hopes the Doorbell Killer will think nobody is home.

Meanwhile, back in the shower, I realize the steam is really starting to build up so I do the only thing I can: I pull on the cord two quick times.  Nothing happens.

Back in the room, just as Heidi has regained use of her limbs, the Doorbell Killer rings again.  Twice.

Back in the bathroom, thinking I had pulled the chord too quickly the other times, I give it one long yank.  Nothing happens. 

Heidi hears the Doorbell Killer ring again, this time demanding his admittance into our loft.

Now at the end of my shower, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid the dreaded post-shower mirror fog, I tug on the cord in a morse-code pattern, hoping to unlock the secret fan password.  Nothing happens.

Heidi, realizing the danger she is in, panics as the Doorbell Killer feverishly pushes the buzzer.

“Kate.  Katie.  Kate, “ I hear being whispered after I turn off the shower.

“WHAT?” I call back with a tone reserved only for my sisters.

“Someone keeps ringing the doorbell.  It happened four times while you were in the shower,” Heidi tells me.

“Ok, well I’m gonna go ahead and dry off now,” I answer, nonchalant about our impending murders.

“Hurry up,” Heidi begs me in a whisper.  Little did she know my company would not shield her from the mysterious Doorbell Killer but rather would bring her face-to-face with the murderer herself.

At this point, you might be asking yourself any number of these questions:

Who would be visiting you in Italy?

What made you think a visitor must be a murderer?

When would a killer ever ring a doorbell?

Where did you get the idea that fans were so hard to turn on?

Why is the doorbell in your shower?

The answer to all of these is simply that I don’t know.  At the time, it made sense.  In fact, it wasn’t until the next night when I took my shower and the Doorbell Killer returned that Heidi and I realized I was the Doorbell Killer.

Muriel

For our upcoming Easter break, I will be spending two weeks in Italy with my sister.

Or so I thought.

Because I knew I’d be doing a good bit of traveling by train while in Italy, I purchased a railpass to use for the trip.  My sister had set up all of our hostel reservations and our itinerary so all I had to do was get there.   Literally, my only responsibility was getting to Rome.

Now, I’ve done enough traveling to know that there’s no need to make train reservations.  There are trains constantly going places and all the trains I’ve ever been on have had plenty of empty seats.  So when my friends told me they were going to the train station two weeks before their departure to reserve tickets, I wasn’t concerned.

And then they came back.

“Muriel said we can’t go,” they told me.  

First of all, who is Muriel?  Why is she telling you this?  And go where?  To Italy?  Of course you can go to Italy.  There are like five different trains a day.

“Muriel from the train station.  We finally got her to understand what we wanted to do and she looked it up and said we couldn’t get on any of the trains.  They’re all booked.  We’re just going in May but I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

Oh.  No.  I have to get to Italy.  I guess I could find a flight but they’re probably all booked.  My mom has already sent me at least a dozen emails about how dangerous Italy can be.  I can’t leave my sister there alone!  She’s only 26!

The next day, I prepared myself for disappointing news as I gathered my railpass and a few other papers.  As I waited in line, I squinted to read the nametag of the woman working: Muriel.  Great.  I’m going to end up talking to her and she’s not even going to understand my French and she’s going to tell me the same news.  

But then, I saw another employee returning from her break.  Maybe I would get to talk to her.  She would just have to open her window before Muriel finished talking to her current customer.  I watched the new girl as she painstakingly straightened her papers and turned on her computer. 

Hurry up!  I’m gonna get stuck with Muriel!

She fixed her nametag and applied chapstick as I watched Muriel’s customer hand her some money.

“Open your window!!!” my eyes yelled at her while I continued to smile at the new girl.

Then, she slowly switched her sign to “Open” and called me to the window.  I ran up to her window, just in case Muriel tried to stop me, and explained to the new girl what I needed, all the while preparing myself for the inevitable bad news.  How would I explain to her in French that I had to go to Italy because my sister would be there alone and would get pick-pocketed unless I went?  (You see, while everyone working at McDonald’s refuses to speak anything but English with me, it never fails that every time I have to do something important the person doesn’t speak any English.) 

I’ve got it!  She might not be able to understand my French but I do know a universal language:  Crying Teenage American Girl.  CTAG has had impressive results in Europe, including getting me through Spanish customs…the opposite direction.  Spain should probably look into their security measures.

“Ok which train would you like?” the woman asked me in French.  In less than five minutes I had my tickets in my hand without shedding a tear.

“That’s it?” I asked her with a big smile on my face.

Laughing, she shooed me away from her window.

The next day my friends went back to the train station to get their tickets…unsuccessfully.  Like she’d said before, all the trains to Italy were booked.  

I just wanted some rice...

All I wanted was some white rice.  I didn’t even want anything special.  I didn’t want anything else in it.  Just white rice.  As we walked around London’s Chinatown, Megan and I picked out a lovely place to eat so that I could get white rice.

After looking at the menu, I decided I should order something else with white rice so the waiter wouldn't think it was a strange order.  When he came to ask us what we wanted, I ordered some noodles and white rice.

“So you want them both?  Two orders?” he said as he judged me.

“Yes,” I answered him, a bit embarrassed that he would call me out on that and flattered that he thought I wouldn't be able to eat that much.  That's sweet of you.  Really.  But just bring me the rice anyway.  They are both sides.  I'm not even trying to have two full meals…and even if I wanted two meals, one is just plain rice! 

“OK.  And for you?” he asked Megan, still hesitant about my order.

As Megan ordered a dish of chicken, a side of rice, and an order of spring rolls, I waited for the waiter to judge the quantity of food she ordered.  Instead, the young man looked at me, took his pen, and crossed something off on his notepad.

“You don’t need the rice,” he said to me.

This, of course, was not the first time I’ve been faced with the stereotype that Americans (or even that I) eat too much while I’ve been abroad.  And while I can agree with that sometimes, I still don’t even think this was one of those cases.  It was rice and noodles!  Rice.  And.  Noodles.  Megan got to have chicken and a whole order of spring rolls and rice without even being questioned.  Why did she get to have all of that food and I could only have noodles? 

As I looked at him, slightly offended, I laughed and told him that he could bring the rice anyway.  Really, I’m the one paying for it.  I don’t know why you care.  Bring me some rice, buddy.

With a very serious face, the waiter answered me, “No.  You can have it at the end if you need it.” 

When my “meal” finally came, I pushed aside Megan’s three plates to make room for my plate of noodles.  Determined I would show him I should have been allowed to get the rice, I finished my meal and waited for him to ask me if I’d like my rice now.

Instead, he brought us the check.

In an act of defiance, I marched across the street and ordered two big pastries .

And now my pants are too small.  I hope you're happy now, waiter.