The Most Memorable Hotel Yet

We met after two cities spat me out in a single morning and afternoon. My 6 am flight leaving Leh dragged me out of bed at 4:30, and an ice cold shower that I couldn't bring myself to take awaited me in that detatched bathroom whose concrete floor felt colder than Canadian mornings on my bare toes.

I piled on everything in my pack that wasn't a tank top or a t-shirt, and hopped into the taxi. The airport was the size of a resturaunt, but all that really mattered was that it had sufficient space for sleep as I kicked back after the announcement sounded that the flight was delayed.

It took only an hour in the sky to take me from that tiny Tibetan city with mud houses tucked away in the tranquil mountains, to Delhi's bustling bazaars, sweltering heat, and its insatiable appetite that will take every goddamn rupee you showed up with. As I was given the run around from tourist office to ticket booth, and was told I couldn't buy a ticket at such and such place because I wasn't an Indian, and I wasn't a tourist, and as the railway officers even began to scam me, I decided that Delhi seems to have more crooks per capita then any city I have ever been to in my life. I was furious and exhausted, and asked for a ticket that would go anywhere, and somehow it wasn't possible.

As a last resort I showed up to an airline agent office and asked to book a plane ticket for any city that would strike my interest and that would leave in the next few hours.
Calcutta it was.

A couple more hours in the sky, and an arduous 2 hour cab ride where the driver continued to pretend he was not lost. I fell asleep and dropped my cellphone on the pleather seat. The second Indian cell phone lost, the first was to Goa's midnight sands, or perhaps, by now, to the tide.

After two rainfalls in that same taxi, we finally reached your door. I use the term loosely. It was crammed and opened like a garage.

You seemed friendly enough, and other wanderers seemed to be enjoying your company--laughing over beers. I was sure you'd suit me for a couple of days. I didn't realize how unique your situation was, until I began to settle down for bed, on sheets that looked worn out enough that they may have come over with the British. Your air was filled with the laughter and buzzing of the seedy Stuart Lane, and you are no less seedy, with signs that request "no cocaine and no hiroine," and stories that rapidly passed from lips to ears about a murder that happened here just two months ago--already a legend.

I had to share my bed with Mr. Big, ironically named, one of many stray kittens from a hotel accross the street who were doing away with the problem. They were dirty, but I am glad you saved them.

Mr. Big, along with the draft of your windows, broken glass filled in with scraps of newspaper and old scarves, which brought in endless mosquitos, kept me up at night and left me staring at scrawled on walls left behind by tourists.

To shake off the sleep was your rusted shower. Two taps for ice cold.

Paragon Hotel, you are a shit hole, but for a couple of brilliant Calcutta days you were home.