I initially thought of sharing the story of my frustrating stay at Homeros Pension in Selcuk, Turkey in an entry. However, when my instructor showed me a writing contest in Harper’s Bazaar, UK with the theme ‘mother’, I knew this story will be perfect for that.
I have decided to tell it from the pension owner’s mother’s point of view. That is challenging considering that she speaks very limited English. As I write, I realise how many times I actually bothered the poor old woman. Her son deserved a a good spanking, he was so thoughtless and insincere. You can read my online review here: http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g293976-d307645-r25794318-Homeros_Pension-Selcuk_Izmir_Province_Turkish_Aegean_Coast.html
It will be tough keeping the story below 2000 words though. Let me know what you think, ya?:)
The next morning, I hear a female voice calling me. “Mamaaa! Mamaaaa!” The clock shows 6.30am. I climb up the stairs. The guest is standing in front of her bedroom door in her white thermal under shirt and pants. Her long hair looks uncombed. “There is no hot water,” she gestures with both hands. I put up my palm, a sign for her to wait. She nods. I climb up the stairs to the first floor and walk to the master bathroom. The hot water has been switched off. I turn it back on and then tell her to wait for another half an hour. I lift up one finger and indicate cutting it into two. She nods in understanding and re-enters her room.
After breakfast, Osman takes her to the Ephesus ruin site around 5 kilometer away. He tells me that she has ventured out on her own after that. She does not return when darkness creeps in and I start to worry as I wait in my room. To my relief, she turn up at 7.30pm. “Yoohoo…” I sing and rush up the stairs. She smiles and nods in appreciation. By then, she notices my concern.
The morning after, again she calls me at 6.30am. “Mamaaa…”
“Yes.” I climb up the stairs. “There is no hot water,” she says.
I recognise trouble. Winter does not stop this Asian girl from bathing twice daily, and from her irritation, I know that she did not get a hot shower that morning either .
“I give up,” I put my hands up and try telling her that it is caused by the cold. “Upstairs got hot water.” I pointed to the stairs and ask her to follow me. She goes into her room and picks up her transparent toiletry bag from the dresser and the used bath towel hanging on the wooden chair. We climb up. I point to the master communal bathroom. She goes in and thanks me.
During breakfast, she complains to Jervis, my son.
Originally written for Hazia’s blog