Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,17

from smiles into sneers.

Oh, yeah. This boded well.

Chapter 3

A traffic accident in a tunnel outside the city limits kept us in gridlock on the Autostrada for hours, so we arrived in Florence after dark, which seemed a good thing since my instincts told me that the district where the Hotel Cosimo Firenze was located might not stand up too well in the glare of the noonday sun. The hotel itself appeared nice enough. Plain edifice. Victorian globe lights attached to the building. Crisp awning overhanging the entryway. Potted plants flanking the doors. It was the other stuff that threw me. The cars parked tailpipe to fender on the narrow sidewalk. The sea of garbage cans piled at the curb. The lack of streetlights. The cachet of spoiled meat and rotting fruit polluting the air. The rubbish lying in the gutters. I guess Florentines prided themselves on retaining the ambiance of their humble medieval beginnings.

We filed through a nine-by-twelve lobby that was crammed with vinyl - covered sofas and chairs straight out of the 1950s. Newspapers lay strewn across a small coffee table. A table lamp was set up for reading, but it was missing a shade. A flight of narrow, enclosed stairs led to the upper floors. Philip Blackmore cupped his hands around his mouth and addressed us as we squeezed into the lobby area.

"Could I have your attention before you all rush off? In about fifteen minutes I'd like to meet with all potential contest entrants and judges in the lobby." He eyed the space disdainfully. "Such as it is. It's getting late, so please try to be punctual."

Oohs. Aahs. An undercurrent of excitement.

A night clerk slouched on a stool behind the front desk -- a huge slug of a man with a stubbled jaw, three chins, lizard eyes, and approximately one tooth in his head. He gnawed on a cigar as he grabbed room keys off a board on the wall and handed them to Duncan.

"Some of you with single-room assignments may have to double up while we're here," Duncan announced as he distributed keys. "But I hope you'll take it in stride. Who knows? Your accidental roommate could end up changing your life in some unexpected way. Every room has two double beds. I'll record who's in what room and will copy the list for Emily so we'll both know where to find you. Breakfast is served in the dining room between 7:00 and 9:00 A.M. And there's no need to look for a guest elevator because there isn't one. We're all going to have to use the stairs. Sorry for the inconvenience. But since we don't have luggage, at least no one has to haul an oversized pullman up four flights of stairs."

Good-natured laughter. Nods of assent. I couldn't believe how well everyone was taking the burned luggage thing.

The night clerk growled a string of Italian that caused Duncan to take a peek behind the front desk. "Correction. Someone is going to be getting some exercise. A pullman the size of a Ford Explorer recently arrived from the Florence airport. Emily? Where are you? Is this your missing bag?"

My eyes bulged. My heart leaped. "They found my suitcase?" I squealed, shouldering my way to the front of the crowd for a look-see. "But...but how did the airlines know I was going to be here?"

"I called Alitalia to report the change in venue," Duncan said, as I peered over the counter. Flush against the wall was my trusty pullman, its tapestried exterior dotted with a slew of orange stickers proclaiming it to be HEAVY. "That's it! I can't believe it! It's not in Kansas anymore!" I spun around and wrapped my arms around the person standing closest to me. "My stuff," I cried, bouncing up and down with Gillian Jones in her tragically crinkled silk pantsuit. "They found my stuff! This is so cool! I have my suitcase back!"

But Gillian wasn't smiling. And neither was anyone else.

I froze midbounce.

Oops.

I escaped being assigned a roommate, so I wouldn't have to fight over which bed I wanted, both of which sagged in the middle. I didn't know what anyone else's room looked like, but mine was a pit. Soiled carpet. A solitary armchair with cigarette holes burned into the upholstery. Paint chipping off bare, grime-encrusted walls. No phone. No air-conditioning. No minibar with treats. The only goody for sale was a liter of bottled water that I could buy for twenty thousand lire. Ten dollars for water. Like that