Funiculi, funicula(r)

(Editor’s note: Every time we go on a trip, something outrageous happens to me. So much so that it requires its own sidebar, or “side piece,” as Rebecca says, similar to this one. Our last river cruise in 2019 to the Bordeaux region of France involved a one-hour, full-body massage with a Romanian masseur that changed my life. And his. It was called “International Cover-up.” Click on the title to read it, after you read this one, of course.)

COMO, Italy – On Tuesday, September 20, at precisely 9:30 a.m., the hotel fire alarm started blasting. I was sound asleep in a semi-feverish state, nursing a rotten cold, cough and sore throat.

Startled, I woke up. “Where am I?” was my first thought.

On a cruise ship in the middle of the Rhine? No.

In a German castle surrounded by majestic hills, Kölsch beer and schnitzel? No.

On a bus to Bellinzona? No.

None of the above. I was in Room 423 at the Como Hilton and couldn’t find my nose from my elbow, let alone my key card!

The hotel room was dark and empty since Rebecca left with the others in our group for that morning’s excursion: an amazing ride up the Como-Brunate funicular, a transit railway that connects the city of Como with the village of Brunate in Lombardy, Italy. The line has operated since 1894 and is used by tourists and local residents.

Later, they would take an afternoon walking tour of Como on what has turned out to be the most beautiful day of our trip.

I hated them all right now.

But most of my ire was directed at my beloved because I couldn’t find my key card. I ransacked the room like a jewel thief on steroids and turned up nothing.

This was because since I didn’t have my room key card — the one that was left in the stupid slot by the door that controls the hotel room lights — it meant she did. Both key cards, in fact, since hers was nowhere to be found either.

You know the situation is serious when your beloved becomes a pronoun.

The fire alarm continued to blast. I opened the door to our room and saw people filing down the stairwell in an orderly fashion. A frantic woman looked up and motioned for me to come with them.

“Come, come! Vieni con me. We go! Andiamo!” she said, using the Italian equivalent of “get the hell out of here right now, you stupid American.”

I slammed the door shut. I was going to die in a Como hotel never having seen Como or Clooney or ridden up that damn funiculi funicular thing.

What’s a sick Detroit girl in a foreign country to do? Grab her valuables, don a white “Hilton” terry cloth robe over her cute little white & teal striped seersucker PJs, slip on some black sensible Skecher shoes and get the hell out of there.

And don’t forget the Kleenex, snot nose.

Aside: What would you grab if the fancy hotel you were staying in was on fire? Think. Think hard. What would you consider to be valuable?

Me? I put on my Apple Watch, grabbed my Apple iPhone and took everything out of the safe, including my Apple AirPods.

Jesus. We’re walking billboards for Tim Cook.

In addition, I grabbed all of our money, my passport and Rebecca’s, too, just in case I survived and decided to burn everything that was hers.

Then I opened the door, left our pitch-black room and took the stairs down four flights to an area I didn’t recognize one bit. I asked a nice young man how to get out of the building.

“This way, ma’am,” he said. (OK, I’ll let that go. Just this once.)

With that, I made my way to a door leading to a side entrance of the hotel and then walked around to the front. Dozens of guests and hotel workers milled around outside. The place was buzzing. I was sweating.

In my best-worst Italian, I asked a young woman clutching a clipboard wearing a Chanel suit and kitten-heel pumps this: “Dov’è il fuoco?”

Translation: “Where’s the fire?”

She looked stern. Good lord, I thought. This must be serious.

It wasn’t.

Some idiot had tried smoking in his room and set off the alarm. It better not be that annoying guy from New Jersey. I swear, I will hunt. Him. Down.

I wandered back inside the hotel, looking tres chic, I might add, and walked through the lobby to the front desk. I asked the clerk for another key card.

“Do you have some ID?” she asked, eyeing my shoes.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I have whatever you need,” I replied.

Moral of this side piece: When staying in Como with your partner in travel and life, keep your own room key card separate — preferably in the breast pocket of your own cute little white & teal striped seersucker PJs. And leave a light on.

To read about our 2022 Rhine river cruise in its entirety (well, almost), click this link.