Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [61]
Our Peugeot is passing through the center of town, and several children run by the car, peeking in, some reaching hands through the half-open windows. The driver honks on the horn once and revs the engine, and the kids back off a few steps. The driver hits the gas a touch, sending the car up the steepest portion of the hill.
Once inside the gate of the Seven Olives, the driver pulls around to the front and stops. Clenching the last of the cigar in his teeth, he gets out and begins to remove our few belongings from the trunk. When he’s finished, I tip him and, with another thanks for the cigar, he hops in the car and speeds off back the way we came.
“It’s nice,” Espy says, and I have to agree. The hotel is a bit rustic looking, but I’m betting that’s half kitsch. Inside, it’s probably as modern as anything you’d find in most small towns back in the States. And I doubt many of the hotels back home boast a garden like this one. Espy has long held an interest in botany, and the well-kept grounds surrounding the Seven Olives could keep her busy for days if we didn’t have another pressing matter to attend to. Even my untrained eye spots a few flowers and bushes that merit attention, so I can only imagine what she sees as her eyes play over the foliage. Rather than compete for her notice, I pick up both our bags and my laptop and walk inside the hotel.
It’s just as nice inside and I see that my initial assessment was incorrect; the bucolic look is organic. It’s the other stuff— the technology—that has been added, built upon something that has been here for a long time. I cross to the front desk and navigate the process of reserving rooms. I’m hoping there are some left, what with the influx of people here for the celebration. I need not have worried. Espy and I each get a room, one right next to the other. As the desk clerk hands over the keys, he gives me the rundown on hotel services, their gift shop and wireless Internet access. The clerk also talks up the hotel’s best feature—the terrace, from which one can sit and enjoy the view of Lalibela from above.
When our business is concluded, I look back and see that Esperanza has not yet entered the hotel. So with a shrug I determine to check out the vista from the touted terrace. I deposit our bags by the restaurant entrance, trusting that no one will walk off with them, but I keep hold of my laptop.
The place seems full for this time of day, and I chalk it up to the seasonal visitors. Seeing the exit to the terrace across from me, I work my way through the restaurant and past the small, unoccupied bar.
I cross the threshold and look out over Lalibela. The clerk was right; it’s a spectacular view. But what makes it so is not so much that the town’s laid bare before my eyes, but that it seems so insignificant when compared to the landscape that hedges it into the mountain. I would probably be humbled if I wasn’t as tired as I am, but I do appreciate it. When I wake up tomorrow and come here for coffee and something unhealthy with which to start my day, I’ll give it another try and see what feelings the view evokes.
I turn and walk back into the restaurant, glancing again at the bar. There are now people there—three of them, with drinks poured. It’s obvious, even from the back, that they’re foreigners. I’m almost past the bar when one of the men leaning against the rail half turns to talk to one of his companions.
I’m not sure I ever fully understood the flight-or-fight response until now. And the unusual thing is that it’s not because of any perceived threat; rather, it’s the degree to which I am shocked by seeing a familiar face in this setting. I almost stop walking, and I feel the handle of my computer bag slipping through my fingers before I can tighten my grip on both the