13. The Longest Night

So down the hillside, from the bus station, I trekked; row upon row of banana plants on my left, the Atlantic Ocean to my right. Dusk was dawning as the sun slid into the ocean and disappeared, like a red plastic bobber pulled under the surface of the water by some unseen fish. The only remnants of the day were the crimson brush strokes that streaked the clouds hung above the horizon; a ball of cotton candy pulled apart, leaving billowy strands of spun sugar to dissolve in the evening sky.

With night fast approaching, my quest to find a place to sleep took on more significance. The good news was that I was now so concerned with this task that I had little time to feel sorry for myself. Mostly. I was so emotionally numb that somehow I was still able to function as a human being. Kind of.

As I made it back into the village of Vueltas I once again passed in front of the restaurant with the ratty apartments above it. The slovenly landlord yelled down at me.

“Apartamentos?” He was nothing if not persistent.
“No, Gracias.” I waved him off. Surely I could do better than that claptrap.

I remembered on our first walk together Cerstin pointing out to me all the flats with the letters AP next to the door. Those were apartments for rent she told me. Oh great; I’m thinking about Cerstin again. It’s times like these that the synapses in your brain start rapid firing, filling your head with all sorts of strange and disjointed thoughts. Should I have accepted that ROTC scholarship? What’s the Dolphin’s third round draft position? Did I leave the iron on? Why did I take French in high school? The last question really came home to roost. Growing up in South Florida I knew that I would leave to pursue a life of adventure. I distinctly remember thinking that I was going to move far away from anywhere that Spanish was spoken. I’ve now lived in Los Angeles for 27 years. How’d that work out for me? Say what you will about America first and English as the official language…. But it’s a sad state of affairs to have been around Spanish speakers for all this time and all I can say is “Uno mas Margarita, por favor.”

Up and down the streets I walked. I saw familiar faces of people I had been seeing all week. This is such a small village that I had befriended many of them as well. There was a husband, wife and daughter from Munich…. They had sat at the table next to ours after the second climb when Cerstin, Ule, Radiger and I were having a celebratory drink. Ironically that was at the restaurant/bar with the ratty apartments above it. They waved to me as a rolled near.

“Guten tag.” I said
“Hello.” They all chimed together.

They looked queerly at my bags; I’m sure they knew that there was no transportation off the island at this hour. I almost asked them if they had a spare room but that would have been terribly presumptuous. I just said that I needed to get to San Sebastian tonight so that I could get an early ferry over to Tenerife.

I saw the blond, Russian girlfriend of the German bar owner where Cerstin, Ule, Radiger and I stopped for our three absuchers the night Cerstin got sick. Damn…. Cerstin again.

“Dobre vercher.” I said
“Dobre vercher.”

She didn’t seem to give me or my appearance a passing thought. She’s a beautiful girl living with a successful businessman on a tropical island. No reason to be concerned with anyone else.

How it was that I didn’t run into Cerstin, Ule or Radiger is beyond me. You can walk down every street and pedestrian way; see every restaurant, bar and shop in five minutes. The entire village could easily fit with a tiny neighborhood block.

I knocked on doors. I rang bells. No one it seemed had a room for the evening. Most places would only rent for a week. Cerstin had mentioned that she had trouble getting our place with only a five-day rental.

It was now officially night. And dark. I must have cast quite a pathetic shadow as I dragged my suitcase past outdoor bars, under the faint, yellow/white glow of the ornamental lights strung in the branches of the trees that canopied over the walkways. Music was playing. People were laughing. Couples were wooing. During all this time I had been so single-mindedly concerned with finding shelter that I had given no attention to my other necessity; food. I needed to eat. It would also give me a chance to collect my thought and also warm up a bit. I didn’t want to eat in a place that was literally within sight of the apartment I had been staying at with what’s her name, so I walked back to the harbor entrance, which took about 1 minute.

There I had two choices; a couple of restaurants, side by side. Their respective doors sharing the same jamb, so that if there had been a doorman, he could have stood between them and held each door open at the same time. I stood outside on the crushed gravel parking lot (assuming that if anyone drove a car here to eat, this is where they would park) and looked through the windows of each restaurant. The one on the right was packed. The one on the left had hardly any customers. Judging by their signs and menus, both were seafood restaurants (what a surprise). Logic dictated that the one on the right was better, so with that as my barometer, I stumbled in.

Dragging myself and my bags into the tightly packed dining room I looked around for a small table. Quite a few heads turned in my direction. I must have looked like a fish out of water. I caught the eye of some innocuous staff person and held up one finger to indicate my seating needs. He looked around the main room, which we could both plainly see was full. He looked in to the back room and shook his head as a way of saying; You’re out of luck buddy. I turned for the door, knocking into chairs and the wall on my way out. Down four concrete steps to the parking lot. One step to my right. Turn. Up four concrete steps and into the door of the other restaurant.

The only diners here occupied the tables by the large picture windows, which, in the daytime would look out on the seawall that formed the harbor. Tonight it merely reflected back the inside of the restaurant. I sat in the middle of the room with my bags occupying two of the other seats. Not wanting to deal with a menu I pointed to the nearest diner who wasn’t eating squid, and indicated that whatever he was having was good enough for me. Oh…and uno cerveza, por forvor. I also ordered a basket of pommas, which I knew by now as the word for the Canary Island potatoes. Last chance for them.

I was hungry, yet I had no appetite. I hadn’t eaten lunch and there was no telling when I might have my next opportunity to eat so I wanted to take advantage of this calm port in the storm. I might as well have been eating Styrofoam peanuts. I could barely muster enough enthusiasm to bring my fork to my mouth. I stabbed at my fish, sipped on my beer and asked for the check. I made sure I took advantage of the restaurant’s indoor plumbing, as that too might become a rare commodity in the coming hours.

It was becoming painfully obvious (with the accent on “painfully”) that my best chance of finding a place to stay was to get to San Sebastian. It was the biggest town on the island so I assumed there would be more places to stay. I would call a taxi service and use the harbor as my pick up point. Otherwise I would have no idea how to explain where I was. Hello, could you send a taxi to take me to the other side of the island? …Yes, tonight; right away…. Well I suppose that does mean you would have to drive over the treacherously narrow, winding roads through the mountains…. Where am I now? Good question. Just go to the harbor. I’ll be the big, bald guy in a black leather jacket with a rolling carry-on suitcase and a laptop bag that can be used for mountain climbing. I might be crying but don’t let that put you off.

The payphone was just outside the harbor gate, about 50 yards from the restaurant. I took out the crumpled paper with the taxi company’s number on it; the one that the girl from the ferry service wrote down for me. I held it up under the dim light. I looked down at the dialing instructions. Spanish naturally. I could understand the amount of money that I was expected to deposit so I started pumping in the coins and punched the number. I got a recorded voice. I don’t know if it was informing that I had done something wrong or if I had reached the taxi company and they were closed. I hung up and tried again. Same result. Ok. So I will be staying in Vueltas after all.


Time was running out. It was 9:00 pm and I had been walking around for over 4 hours now. The night was chilling and my body was finally catching up to my mind in its exhaustive state. It was time to concede.
My options had run out. There was, after all, at least one place on this island that I knew had an apartment for rent. I turned down the narrow walkway and headed back to the restaurant with the ratty apartments above it. I entered the stairwell. There were no lights on. Obviously someone was trying to create the correct ambience for my mood. I trudged up the stairs and walked down to the last room where I had seen the man standing twice before. The door was open. The man was sitting at a table just inside of it. This must be his look out position. From his vantage point he could see tourists arriving from the harbor, carrying luggage. He obviously didn’t expect anyone to come around now, some four hours after the last ferry had arrived.

“Hola.” I frantically grasped for whatever Spanish I had picked up watching Zorro as a kid. “Habla Engles?”
“No. Engles.”

Great. Well, I couldn’t very well blame him for not speaking my language, under the circumstances. I was forced to continue on in English and rely on the fine art of pantomiming to convey my needs. I pointed at my luggage and then pointed at the floor.

“Apartamento?”
“Si.” He answered and then kept talking. He made no attempt to pantomime.

I held up my hands and shrugged; the universal sign for “I don’t understand.” He motioned me inside. The only illumination came from a small black and white TV. I now saw his wife, lying on the couch. She sat up and motioned me toward a fading calendar on the wall. I stared at it. Oh, for the love of God, why didn’t I know the Spanish word for “tonight”? I stabbed at today’s date with my finger and then pointed to my watch. I twirled my finger around the dial, which even the lowliest Bedouin would recognize as the symbol for the passage of time. I then held up one finger.

The wife took over the business end of the deal at this point. She stood and pointed at the calendar; underlining a week with her finger; the international symbol for “I’m screwed”. I shook my head. I held up one finger again. She looked over at her husband and back at me. She thought for what seemed like an eternity.

“Ochenta.” There was that word again. Eighty euros. They were out of their minds. They might think they had me over a barrel but they couldn’t make me get inside. I shook my head and held up my fingers.
“Quatro.” I knew that meant “four”, so hopefully she would understand that I meant it to be “Forty”.
She pointed to the calendar again.
“Ochenta.”

I was in no mood to haggle. I was in less of a mood to be taken advantage of. There had been enough of that today already. I held up my palm, hoping that the expression “Talk to the hand” had made it to this part of the world. I grabbed my bags and left.

Banging down the stairs I turned right and ended up by the music store where I had bought the CDs earlier in the day. It also doubled as an Internet café so it was still open for business. Regional music was wafting out of the entrance, which was a wide, open folding door. I rolled past and then suddenly stopped. I didn’t want my CDs anymore. I would never be able to listen to them without the memories of this last day over powering me. I turned around and went inside. The owner was behind the counter finishing up with a young, beautiful, happy German couple. I hated them.

It was my turn. I stepped up and he recognized me.

“Hello.” He said.
“Hi there. Listen. Here’s the thing. You remember the girl that I was with the other day? She bought five CDs yesterday…?”
“Ja.”
“Well, the truth is…. “

I took a deep breath. I had to pace myself.

“… She just broke up with me. She asked me to leave. And well, I don’t want the CDs I bought from you. It would be too hard to listen to them. Would you buy them back please?”

He stared incredulously at me as if I had just asked him to find another place to stay for the night. He blinked a few times. I couldn’t tell if he was processing the English to German nuances of my explanation or if was thinking of how to tell me to fuck off.

“Ja. I will buy them back from you. I am very sorry.”

Okay. So now I couldn’t hate the Germans on a wholesale scale. This guy was very genuine in his understanding of my dilemma. I fished the CDs out of my suitcase and handed them back to him. He gave me 34 euros. I thanked him for his generosity and started for the door. I hesitated.

“Do you know of anyplace I could stay tonight?”

He thought for a moment.

“There are some hotels on Avenuida Maritma the way to Playa. You might try there.”
“Danke. Tschüss.” May his children and his children’s children raise up their voices and call him a saint.

With renewed hope I once again lumbered down the cobbled stone street, past the markets and shops that were all closed or closing; past the bars that were all open or opening. I got to the main road that ran along the beach and headed away from the harbor. By now I was so familiar with the backstreets and byways of the Valley Gran Rey area and it’s tiny villages that I could hire myself out as a guide. I walked, maybe a half mile; I was on autopilot so the distance wasn’t nearly as much of a concern as was the destination itself.

Rolling down the wide, terra cotta tiled sidewalk now. Newly planted palm tress were equally spaced along my route: their drooping fronds smacking me in the face as I tried to duck under them. Up ahead, two middle-aged couples are leaning against a low wall that formed a raised planter that ran beside the sidewalk. They were sipping on fruity cocktails and conversing in German. A group of friends enjoying their vacation. As I rolled past them one of the guys let out a yelp and said something that I instinctually knew meant, “Hey! You just ran over my foot with your bag.”

Now, I might have been emotionally comatose at that moment but I was acutely aware of my surroundings. He had been joking to get a reaction from his friends and me. Besides, if I had hit his foot my bag would have tracked wildly and flipped over. At least that’s what it does when I’m in the airport and hit a seam in the rug. I didn’t even break stride or look back.

“That’s a good one.” I said as they continued their guffaws.

The attempt at a practical joke almost caused me to miss the hotel. There was an opening in the walled planter with a set of step that went down to a lower walkway. The hotel was located off that. I lifted by suitcase off the ground as I bounded down the steps, like a parent swinging their kid ahead of them as they walk. I entered the open lobby and reticently approached the girl behind the reception counter. She looked up pleasantly. I asked if there were any rooms available. Sorry. All booked. Weekends are always busy this time of year. I’m sure that my face and body language told a fuller story than my voice did when I asked if she knew of other hotels. She said that she didn’t know but she did suggest another hotel up the road.
I passed a couple of places that looked like they were private, seasonal condos before coming to what looked like a luxury apartment complex. I entered the courtyard trying to find the lobby and found a sign on a door that indicated that late check-ins with reservations should go to room 203. I wound my way up and around until I was standing in front of door with the number 203 on it. Unfortunately there were two doorbells; an A and a B. I rang A and a few moments later a tall, attractive brunette woman opened the door.

“Excuse me. Is there any chance you have a room available for this evening?” I posed the question; expecting the answer “No”, all the while trying to sound upbeat in order to mask my despondency.
“Do you have a reservation?” She asked.
“Would that help?”
“We are totally booked for the weekend, I’m very sorry.” Not half as sorry as I was….
“Do you know of anyplace that might have a room?

I must have looked like a dog lost in the rain. She seemed to sense that I was in a bad way. She stepped out her door and pointed down the street.

“You might try the Charco del Conde. It’s about 100 meters up the street; just past the bank.”

I had been to the bank earlier in the day to get money to give Cerstin for our apartment. That seemed like a lifetime ago. I thanked her and headed off toward Casa whatever it was she had said. Miraculously I found the place. I remembered it because of the thick wooden timbers that formed a wide stairway up from the sidewalk to the lobby. This afternoon there had been an ancient Great Dane sunning itself on the steps. I had tried to take a picture of her but she snorted and slowly moved off.

This building looked more like condos than a hotel. I lugged my bags up the stairs and into the deserted lobby. A woman came out from the office behind the counter. She was very cheerful and friendly. Her nametag said her name was Anna.

“Do you have a room available for tonight?”
“Just for one night?” She asked pleasantly but with a sense of confusion.
“Yes.”
“We rent by the week at €65 a night….” She began to explain.
“Oh.” I interrupted. I was crestfallen. “I only need a place to sleep for a few hours. I’m hoping to get the first ferry off the island in the morning.”

She looked me over empathetically.

“Did you just arrive?” I guess she was wondering why I was dragging around my luggage at 9:45 at night.
“No. Uh…Actually, I’ve already been here. I mean, I’ve been here for 5 days. The girl that I came here with just broke up with me.”
“I’m sorry. Why did she do that?” Anna asked.
"I don’t know. It was our last day together and she sent me a text message on my phone saying that she wanted me to find my own place to stay tonight.”
“On your last night together?”

I could feel the tears coming. Like at the bus station earlier; my body just wanted to collapse on itself.

“I can’t find anything.” I was surrendering.

Anna smiled. It was a kind and sympathetic gesture. We had shared an awkward yet honest moment and now she has to find a way to let me down gently.

“I could find you a small room for tonight.”

I’m sure I didn’t hear her right. She continued.

“It doesn’t have many features, but I can show it to you if you’d like to see it first.”

The rock that had been lodged in my chest exploded into a million pieces. I felt my shoulder relax and my body begin to unknot.

“Oh thank you so much. I really appreciate this so much. I’ll be gone by 5:30.”

Anna took my passport info and other particulars and showed me to my room. She apologized again as she unlocked the door.

“I’m sorry it is…do you say, 'No bones’?”
“Bare bones. Please don’t worry about that.” She opened the door and showed me the room. There was a living room with a couch, a small TV on a dresser and a dining table with four chairs.

“Does the couch unfold into the bed?” I inquired, though at this point I could have gratefully slept on the floor.
“Oh, the bedroom is in here….” Anna said as she opened another door. “And in here is your kitchenette…and over there is your bathroom.”

It was beyond expression. I couldn’t thank her enough. She said for me to get settled and then stop back by the reception desk before 10:00 so that I could sign my passport information. I told her I’d be right down. I brushed my teeth and laid out my alarm clock. Anna said she needed about 10 minutes. When I got there she had the paperwork ready and ran my credit card.

“I will only charge you €42 since you stay only a few hours.”

I wanted to hug this woman. After suffering through one of the worst days of my life; certainly a top three contender for all time relationship suckiness, I had been showered with a kindness that was immeasurable. We chatted for a while. She had been to Los Angeles but preferred San Francisco. I assured her that was usually the case. It was 10:00 now and Anna had to close the lobby. I had just gotten in under the wire. She told me to leave the key in the room when I left and she wished me a safe trip. I thanked her profusely and bid her a good evening as well.

Back in the room: My room, I turned on the TV. Finland was playing Russia in the Men’s ice hockey semi-finals. I carried the TV into the bedroom and put it in a chair at the foot of the bed. I undressed and slipped under the sheets. I was asleep within 5 minutes. The rest of the Longest Night would be spent in blissful slumber.