Somehow I'd gotten it into my head that Novi Sad would be a quaint little town, the kind you could ride into on a donkey and immediately find a place to stay for the night. It's actually Serbia's second largest city, and every inn seemed to be full. An encounter with some baksheesh-seeking Bosnian traffic cops had delayed our arrival to such a degree that the tourist office was shuttering up for the night when we rolled in, tired and hungry. The woman who worked there let Milo use the bathroom and then sent us on our way with vague directions to a new youth hostel she herself had not yet had a chance to inspect.
Staying in a hostel sounded pretty good to me. It would give the kids a chance to see how Mommy and Daddy (and several of Daddy's predecessors) had traveled back before they were born. Plus, maybe we'd run into some energetic young babysitter types, whose healthy teenage backs are well-suited for a few hours of complimentary piggyback rides. Maybe they'd even invite Greg and me to share some beer with them after the little ones went down for the night.
Unfortunately, no one answered the six-floor walk-up hostel's doorbell, and then a ground floor timer caused the hallway lights to go out. A woman whose office was on the fifth floor told us she was unaware of any hostel within the building. Well, the signage was pretty temporary-looking, just a sheet of paper taped to the door, upon which someone had scrawled the cell phone number we were trying to jot down when everything went black.
We quickly burned through several other options, and when I say quickly, what I mean is that it took us about an hour-and-a-half to come to terms with our fate. We could sleep in the car, or we could take the only room available at the Hotel Putnik. Since it was just for one night, and Milo was on the verge of emotional collapse, we opted for the latter, even though our top floor door wouldn't lock properly and there were all sorts of disturbing stains on the wall. There were three twin mattresses covered in fuzzy brown tapestries, a floor-to-ceiling bay window that invited all sorts of parental anxieties, and a low-slung easy chair that must have been very mod in 1974. I couldn't help thinking that that chair must have hosted a lot of NC-17 action. The general filthiness of our surroundings only deepened the impression that we had brought our children to a place where Communist-era high rollers and hairy-assed war profiteers used to lick bootleg caviar off their
The next thing I knew, the barricade I'd improvised was giving way, the door was creaking open . . .
prostitute girlfriends' breasts.
As for the bathroom, let's just say that it smelled the way the toilet smells when you've got your head propped on the bowl, wondering if you're going to throw up again.
And that there was forensic evidence of all kinds lingering on every available surface, including the towels.
"This is definitely the most glamorous place we've stayed," Inky declared, admiring herself in the main room's vanity mirror. I knew what she meant. At her age, I too, was a sucker for any reflective surface ringed in the sort of bulbs favored by movie stars. "Mommy, what are you doing?"
"Oh, I just thought that while we wait for Daddy to get back with the suitcases, I could check to see where the emergency exits are."
"Now what are you doing?"
"Looking for stationery."
In that arena, the Putnik did not disappoint. It was all vintage stock, the Do Not Disturb sign a state-controlled masterpiece featuring an ominous authority figure with one finger held to his lips. "Did you think you were alone, Comrade?" It's hanging in my kitchen now.
Inky and Greg set off to procure food. I stayed behind with Milo, who had conked out within seconds of our arrival. Despite my misgivings about those nappy brown bed coverings, I must have drifted off too, because the next thing I knew, the barricade I'd improvised from a small satchel of toys was giving way, the door was creaking open and the murderer was gaining entry to our room . . .
"Did you find a pizza place?" I inquired groggily.
©2007 Ayun Halliday and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Ayun Halliday is author of The Big Rumpus and No Touch Monkey! and the popular zine East Village Inky. She is a columnist for Bust and a frequent contributor to Babble. Visit AyunHalliday.com.
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