Stay Cool

“It’s too hot for the air-conditioning.”  The desk clerk shakes her head sadly at the foolishness of a tourist.  “Everywhere in Prague is hot right now.”

I stare back at her, wondering whether to point out that their website, where I booked, clearly shows that they have air-conditioning.  And that the purpose of air-conditioning is to make hot rooms cool.

“I will need your passport, and your partner’s.”

“He’s not here yet.  His train’s delayed.”

“Oh yes,” the desk clerk’s long orange fingernails click merrily across the keyboard “The trains don’t run when it’s hot.”

I roll my eyes, looking for someone to join in my incredulity, but Simon isn’t here, and no-one else in the pizza restaurant that doubles as a hotel check-in seems surprised.   Not the two guys drinking giant foaming Czech beers, not the family wrestling their dozen suitcases and children and looking at me accusingly as if I’m just wasting everyone’s time with my questions.

The air is gaspingly thick. Every stone in the walls is radiating heat.  But another hotel might be even worse, and I’d have to get there.

I had such hopes of this charming and romantic, old-fashioned hotel. Especially after the stuffy rooms at the conference centre.  At least my talk went well, and I’ve made lots of contacts.  At least I have that. Or do I? My brain is too foggy to remember where I put the list I made, or is it on my phone?

Up in my new room, it’s stifling.  I drag the thick bed quilts out of their bags so I can use the bags as a top sheet.   If I even need a top sheet.  When I open the window for air, there’s a blast of music, dust and traffic fumes.  A line of semi-naked, painted men with beers in their hands grunts down the street, “Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!”

I slam it shut again.

In the sultry darkness, I try to sleep.  The little blinking blue light on the (non-functional) air-conditioner taunts me hour after hour.  I get intermittent updates from Simon about his progress.  Berlin is supposedly only a few hours away, but so far he has taken twelve hours to get …not very far.

Maybe it’s just an excuse, and he’ll turn back?  Maybe he never wanted to come to Prague anyway?  Maybe I persuaded him because it suited me, but he didn’t like to say?

It’s been so long since I saw him, and the way we spoke then, it wasn’t good.  This time I have to stay cool, not push things too far, too soon. But this was my big chance, so long in the planning. A chance to make things better, to finally find the happiness we might be able to have together.

He said he would come and we’d sample Prague’s night life.  What if he didn’t mean it?

Stay cool.

The blue light says it’s 32 degrees Celsius.  I writhe around on the giant bed that was supposed to be the scene of a happy reunion. 

By the time he gets here, it will be nothing but wrinkles. And maybe, so will I.

I give up trying to sleep, flick on the bathroom light and squint, examining the bags under my eyes as if staring at them will cure them. 

A ping on my phone.  At least the wi-fi is still working.

“They’ve cancelled the train while they’re working on the track.  All the metal has warped in the heat.  They’re going to send a bus.  Just a couple more hours.”

I tell myself to stop moping.  Poor Simon, stuck on a train and a bus all night.    

I must have slept again, because finally there’s a tap at the door and I stagger up to open it. 

Simon’s crumpled, beardy face is there.  I reach to hug him, but he evades me.

“It’s not so bad in here.  The air-conditioning was broken in the bus.  Absolutely horrendous.”

“It’s broken here, too.”

I try to hug him again, awkwardly, behind him. “Argh. I think I put my back out, sitting in that seat all night.”

“Oh.”

As I let him go, he flops face forward onto the bed, then rolls over and looks up at me.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself.  So good to see you finally.” I smile hopefully at him.

He grins, then winces.  “Good to see you too. I think I need some ibuprofen.  Do you have any in that so-organized go-bag of yours?”

I shake my head, but he’s already shut his eyes.  Sprawled diagonally across the bed, there’s no room left for me. 

He needs me, though.  He needs me to get him some ibuprofen.  I take a cold shower and stagger out into the early morning, looking for an all-night chemist.

As I pass, there’s a blast of cold air from the entry of the other hotel that I didn’t book.  Clearly someone has working air-conditioning.   Everywhere else still radiates yesterday’s sunshine, and the day before’s, and the day before that’s.

Across the tram tracks there is a mall and it’s actually open this early.  Yay. I consider lying down on the cool terrazzo floor, but there are plenty of early morning shoppers to trample me if I try it.  Plus, I’ll just be giving an even worse name to tourists.   Worse than the grunting buck’s partiers?  Do I care?  I’m not sure.

When I get back he’s still snoring.  I wait and stifle, then go down and get breakfast in the one shady corner of the hotel courtyard, next to the staff table that’s covered in ashtrays.  I can see the filthy cobwebs hanging from the outside units of the air-conditioners.  I wonder if they’ve ever cleaned the filters?  Could I climb up there and wrestle with them myself, just to get the damn things going?  I’m tempted, but the scornful desk clerk comes out for her hourly cigarette.

Upstairs again, I try to hug him, but he groans “It’s too hot.”

Soon we’re both snoring.

I wake up to him shaking me.  I’m disoriented by jetlag and day-sleeping. He’s now looking wide awake and chipper.  Argh.

“Let’s go see Prague!”

The early evening isn’t really cooler, but he takes my hand and smiles as we pass a guitarist strumming to a shady courtyard strung with fairy lights.  The drinks are overpriced but I order a glass of ice and hold it to my face.

Then we trace ice-cubes down one another’s faces. Trickles and drips fall from his beard into the open neck of his shirt and my eyes follow them.

Stay cool.

In the great square by the Town Hall, fire trucks are circling the crowds, their sprays arcing over the swirls of tourists.  We trail behind one with hundreds of others, catching the mist.

After it passes, the air is even more humid, but we are laughing.