Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

When I was a kid, I spent every weekend with my father. My parents have been divorced since I was two, and their joint custody agreement dictated that I spend non-school days with him. As it was, spending time with my father was like entering a different world where even the furniture seemed foreign.

The centerpiece of my bedroom were massive solid stained wood Ethan Allen bunk beds, laid out like an L. Despite their solid appearance, climbing on the beds revealed an unfortunate alternate reality. The entire construction would start to creek and moan, and the slightest movement of my body would amplify the beds into a terrifying wobble, belying a potential structural failure.

Picking the lower or upper bunk was the toughest choice. On one hand, I could sleep on the bottom and risk getting the top half of my body crushed by 500 pounds of oak. On the other, I could take my chances on the top, riding the giant bed down, perhaps only suffering spinal injuries and a lifetime of physical therapy.

***

Undoubtedly one the biggest disappointments of this trip has been having to prearrange accommodations much of the time, as we’ve been traveling much of the world during high season. I was, however, completely confident that we would visit Australia during shoulder season, and would have our choice of prime rooms.

My first inkling of my faulty thinking came in the form of a tall, frizzy-haired Aussie man we met while hiking in 100 degree weather in Cappadocia. He had the air of a slacker who drank his fair share of beer and enjoyed the ladies. As we walked, he proclaimed that, if we were lucky, the greatest party in Australia, the Melbourne Cup, could coincide with our visit and we’d be wise to book ahead. The most famous horse race in Australia, the Melbourne Cup apparently surpasses even the Kentucky Derby in its popularity, warranting a public holiday. It may have been the dehydration, but I quickly removed this thought from my mind.

Two weeks before arriving to Melbourne, we started to hear lots of press about the Melbourne Cup. I asked Liz if the big event would take place during our visit. Yep. Alarm bells went off in my head, and I immediately contacted several hostels and hotels. My dream of having our pick of rooms quickly evaporated as place after place informed us they had already been completely booked for quite a while. Then, the well-regarded Claremont Hotel informed us that they had a private double room available with bunk beds but shared bathroom during our desired dates. Panicked, I quickly snapped it up.

“It won’t be so bad,” Liz and I reassured each other. She quickly claimed the bottom bunk upon check in, relegating me to six nights of high-altitude sleeping. The bed itself must be a model Ikea sells direct to hostels and university dormitories. It has a minimalist, mass-produced appearance, with thin, black painted steel bars which give the feeling of a hospital bed. My bunk lets out an ear-splitting, prolonged creak each time I lay down or get up, and a coil pokes my hip when I try to sleep on my side. The ladder to the top bunk has two small hooks holding it in place, and climbing must be an exact science, or it will pivot from the top and crash loudly back into the bed frame. Each trip up and down makes me lament the loss of the pliable bones I once had as a child, making bunk bed sleeping possible.

Getting older (I am in my 30s, after all) has gifted me something else: the need to pee at least once during the night. If I’ve had a few drinks, double that number. Once trivial, the process of going to the bathroom has lengthened to a 10-minute ordeal. The process goes something like this:

1. Sit up in bed as quickly as possible to minimize the god awful creaking sound.
2. Slide body to the end of the bed and hang my legs over the edge, taking care not to castrate myself on the metal “footboard.”
3. Slowly lower myself down the ladder, taking care not to bang ladder against the bed frame or, worse, fall and break bones.
4. Rummage through clothes to find something presentable for my public appearance in the hallway.
5. Slip on flip flops, taking care not to step on the trick floorboard, which also makes a god awful creaking sound.
6. Go to bathroom, making sure not to close our room door too loudly, waking up the entire floor.
7. Reenter room, taking care to avoid the trick floorboard, while disrobing.
8. Make the perilous journey back up the ladder, slide the upper half of my body on the bed, legs flailing helplessly in the air.
9. Mentally prepare for god awful creaking sound #2, flipping my body around and quickly laying back down.
10. Ponder the absurdity of this process for an additional 10 minutes.

This was not our first experience with bunk beds. In Fremantle (see Backpacker Hell post), we also landed a bunk bed room at the Old Firestation hostel. Our saving grace was that the bottom bunk mattress was sized for two people. But many of our hostel rooms have come with two twin beds, separated by a small nightstand. Experiencing this very Ward and June Cleaver-esque sleeping arrangement is certainly not conducive to modern marriage. “Good night, Ozzie,” Liz calls through the darkened room. “Good night, Harriet.”