Thinking I just have to get on with it, I attempt to sleep in a z-form. This conciliatory mood was not, however, shared by my inner subconscious, the part occasionally given to spontaneous violence.
It was the sound of breaking glass that woke me up. That and a sense of confusion that I now appeared to have an en-suite shower. There was a knocking on the door too, accompanied by not a little concern being expressed by what turned out to be the night porter.
I flicked on the light to find my wardrobe at an angle of 45°, lying through the smashed window. To get there, it had forced the sink off the wall and the subsequent spout from the damaged pipe was now spraying the ceiling – and everything else, for that matter.
It’s amazing how quickly you discover what’s important to you at moments such as this. The door was thrown open by a bald guy with a pass key. Meanwhile, I was stumbling around bollock naked shouting, ‘My f--king computer! Where’s my f--king computer?’ My friend was being equally vocal, presumably shouting something back about his bruised hotel. I couldn’t tell.
I must have pushed over the wardrobe in my sleep. The flimsy quality of the unit was given to instability. Had there been a camera in the room, it would have shown a man dreaming of escape, pushing with both feet against a wall perceived to be moving inexorably his way. But it turned out I wasn’t in the garbage-crusher scene from Star Wars; the smell was accurate, but the building not as robust. Over the wardrobe had toppled, taking the sink with it and careering through the window.
Bizarrely, the worst bit was the disdainfully accusing look I was given as the porter picked up a soggy porn mag. He held it at arm’s length around shoulder height, and dropped it theatrically into the wastebasket. It was a good shot: he did this while looking directly into my eyes. I took a breath, about to explain that it must have been abandoned on top of the toppled wardrobe by a previous guest. But instead I just let out the sigh of a condemned man.
I was given another room just behind the front desk, where the porter had clearly been resting until the commotion. The next morning I got a bill.
‘Up Towards the Pointy End.’
The thing about the accommodation pendulum is that it swings both ways. Occasionally you can find yourself opening a door into nirvana. For all the swings left there are those that swing just right, thank you very much.
The Milan–San Remo is a wonderful race. It’s called the Primavera, suggesting the first green shoots of spring, and it marks the real start of the cycling season. It’s a race longed for by fans and riders alike during a tedious winter. Say it quietly, but this is my favourite classic. Best time of year in the best country for food and optimism. It’s what they do. And to this list of bests I must now add a royal bed. The King of Italy’s bed, no less!
I turned up at the Hotel Globo to see three stars on the wall by the gate. A step up, I thought.
‘Rather nice,’ proffered Daniel Lloyd, who was with me for this one. As an ex-pro, Dan recognised a winning ticket in this game of Hotel Lucky Dip. Arriving optimistically at the front desk, we slid over our passports, which are always demanded in Italy. ‘You can collect them in the morning,’ said a heavily tattooed manager. Dan asked if he could have his back sooner.
‘No, sir’ was the don’t mess with me reply from a rather superior man whose attitude didn’t quite match his body art.
‘Have I got a double bed?’ I asked. The guy issued the muffled chuckle of a man in the know. His shoulders hunched and jiggled silently as he turned to get the key.
At this, Dan Lloyd gave one of his evil ‘You’re in trouble’ laughs.
Experiencing schadenfreude is Dan’s happiest state. ‘This’ll be fun,’ he offered to himself, clearly enjoying my apparent misfortune and pondering the response.
‘I take you to the room,’ said what turned out to be the owner.
‘No, I can manage,’ I said.
‘No! I take,’ he barked.
I was a bit taken aback.
‘Bloody hell, that’s weird,’ said Dan quietly to my back as I disappeared upstairs.
What followed can only be described as other-worldly. We came up against a pair of double doors. The only doors on the first floor landing, in fact. I noted the marble stairs had not given way to wood, as is normal once you leave the usually showy reception areas of small hotels.
He set down my case in front of a beautifully carved double door, stood to attention and stared at the door for a moment. It was as if he thought somebody was already inside. I waited uneasily.
‘This . . . is . . . your room!’ he said in a kind of ‘ta-da’ way as he flung open the doors.
I was speechless.
To say the setting was ornate is like describing the Venus de Milo as an armless statue. I can’t do the sight justice, even now. It was amazing.
No inch of the amphitheatre was undecorated. The floor was mosaic, the walls all trompe l’oeil and gilding. Angels flew everywhere across a domed ceiling that mirrored the most ornate of Vatican cathedrals. The room was ‘in the round’ with an enormous circular bed, thankfully pushed off-centre to avoid looking like a sacrificial plinth. In a sop to modernity, there was a lounge area accommodating not one but three pale calf leather sofas. This was epic in both proportion and decoration.
