Travels With Baby: Love Shack
One night (with the kids) in Serbia's sketchiest hotel.
by Ayun Halliday
July 24, 2007
"Yeah, and when we came back that creepy night clerk was sitting at the reception desk, scrutinizing every page of my passport, like this." Greg rearranged his facial features into a hideous rictus and pawed at an imaginary version of the document whose number the hotel is obliged to register with the local police.
"Well, maybe he's never gotten the chance to travel to other countries. You do have a lot of interesting stamps in there . . . "
"Yes! Yes, I'm sure that's it," Greg drooled, continuing his pantomime.
"You did get them back, didn't you?"
"Our passports? Yes. All except yours."
"What?"
"I'm joking."
"Oh. Good. Inky, don't walk on this carpet without your shoes."
At midnight, we were roused by a young boy who ran up and down the hall, screaming, not unhappily, for his father. He didn't sound scared. I got the impression that Dad was in a nearby room, too plastered to take notice of the ruckus his unsupervised son was creating in the common areas. The walls were so thin it sounded like the kid was in the room with us, possibly on roller skates, or maybe a Big Wheel like the one Danny rides in The Shining.
"Why is that boy making so much noise?" Inky demanded from the middle bed.
"I think he wants to show his daddy some trick."
"Can't it wait until morning?" she groused.
"Just try to get some sleep, honey."
"I could if that kid would go to bed!"
"Okay. Shh, now."
I lay there wondering if I were a bad mother for allowing my own reticence to deprive my daughter of a goodWe big monkeys had inadvertently supplied the little monkeys with a first-hand taste of recent cultural history.
night's sleep. I suppose I could have stuck my head out the door and put my finger to my lips, à la the Do Not Disturb sign, but what if he told his dad, the violent, non-English-speaking drunk?
After a half hour or so, Inky's breathing became deep and regular. Miraculously, all three of my loved ones remained asleep throughout the insane cacophony at 4 a.m., when a band of revelers moved the party from the downstairs casino to a room next door to ours. Lewd female laughter alternated with rumbling male approval, then inevitably an open palm delivered a saucy smack to something soft and fleshy, at which the entire party roared with fresh delight. Several bottles shattered. One of the women pitched a fit that sent her companions into even greater paroxysms of merriment. Their high spirits brought to mind the delirious opening scene of Underground, Emir Kusturica's sprawling, allegorical history of Yugoslavia, minus the brass band and, I hoped, the gunshots. They kept it up until sunrise, by which time I was feeling quite unreasonably giddy, thrilled with the realization that we'd not only survived the night unscathed, we big monkeys had inadvertently supplied the little monkeys with a first-hand taste of recent cultural history. It might not have been entirely age-appropriate, but who can say when we'll be back in this part of the world and whether the Hotel Putnik will have ceased to exist, at least as we have known it.
©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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