All was silent. I thought I detected a feral movement in the periphery of my vision -- a cat, maybe a rat. I clutched the back of J.'s shirt with my free hand as we approached the grimy glass door and rang the bell. After several long moments a voice came from somewhere deep within, calling out unintelligibly. We waited. The voice called again, sounding angry. J. and I were having a hissing exchange. I wanted to start walking. I wanted to go to Metaponto. Now he didn't. We were here.

We heard a muttering approach and, after much rattling of the locks, the door swung open to reveal a portly, grizzled man wearing nothing but saggy underwear. He peered at us and waited.

"Is this a hotel, do you have any rooms?" J. asked, forgetting any Italian he might once have known. I said nothing. I whimpered, sotto voce.

The man's face flicked on. "Hotel?" he demanded. "How many?"

"Due," J. said, regaining his bilingual abilities, but holding up two fingers for good measure.

"Due!" the man repeated, as if he were a language instructor drilling his class. "Due!"

"Due," J. said again, mumbling now.

"Due!" I proclaimed, then jumped at the sound of a loud crash coming from some nearby garbage cans.

Sighing and rubbing his face, the man pulled the chain of an overhead light, which stuttered into keening fluorescence. He assumed his place behind what apparently was a registration desk. It was surrounded by metal bars, evoking the Wild West, or a pawn shop. Pushing a form toward us, he quoted, defiantly, an extremely low price.

J. looked cheered and reached for his special hideaway travel wallet. But I was whimpering again, and muttering supplications into J.'s ear and to the night in general. Our usual travel roles (J. cautious, me daring) were temporarily reversed. I really, really wanted to leave. I could picture that front desk on the evening news, accompanied by our passport photos, up there in the corner, J. and I grinning stupidly, permanently beyond any understanding of the newscaster's recitation -- operatic or otherwise -- of all the grisly details.

We followed the man up a flight of dark, splotched stairs, stopping at a half-open door from which came the desolate sound of dribbling water. I was thinking of my miniature, plastic travel corkscrew, tucked inside the hidden flap pocket of my day-to-evening, wrinkle-free travel skirt. I figured that if I could get it quickly out of its convenient plastic sheath, I could do some damage to an eye.

But J. was smiling foolishly and nodding his head happily as the man showed us first the rust-stained sink and toilet of a bathroom and then a room across the hall with two single beds, the bare bulb swinging at our entrance.

"Due!" the man said, and laughed, pausing to leer a little, it seemed to me, before shuffling away.

I quickly shut the door and locked it with a feeble-looking hook, ignoring J.'s exclamations about how he could see freighters out the window, over there. After first checking underneath, I sat down gingerly on one of the beds. We shouldn't have been so precipitous at the train station. We should have made a plan. We should have just stayed put. I began perusing the guidebook, a dire and chirpy "Let's Go," which I'd bitterly renamed Let's Not.

Rejecting the budget choices and zooming straight to moderate range, I settled on the Stella pensione. Tasteful hardwood furnishings, the book said. That sounded nice. Double and single, with or without bath ... charming location, close to station ... Previous guests recommended the rooms overlooking the sea.

"Pensione Stella," J. said. He had pulled back the cover on his bed and was reading the faded pillowcase. He lay down and sighed contentedly.

I put down the book and looked around me.

Well, there was a wooden desk. And a kind of wardrobe thing. Maybe I'd hold off a bit before announcing my relocation plans. I rummaged through my bag and found my vial of Woolite. Actually, the room was not bad. I felt the rumbling basso continuo of a ship's engine, heard the blast of a horn. I found my antiseptic face-cleansing pads. There was a certain unique quality to this place. I found my modest stash of Tanqueray in its extra-slim flask. That man had been amusing.

I regained equilibrium and began to relax. We were in the book. And being placed didn't feel all that bad. Usurpation of experience? Be my guest! This story was ... ordinary. (We could save the drama for the retelling.) If verification means obliteration -- as I'd been known to propose -- fine. Tonight was timeout for theory. Bring on oblivion! Better to be a conventional entry, though, than a witless statistic. I yawned, beginning to feel blissful, and eased toward an optimum sleep.

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