My Travel to Marvonia: Day 1
I arrived in Marvonia today and I have to say, I wasn’t as well-prepared as I usually am for a new adventure. I didn’t know much about this place, nor did I have any plans of stopping here. It was a spontaneous decision that I made while on the road, and I am so glad that I did.
When I arrived at customs, I was greeted by a friendly officer dressed in a uniform that immediately caught my eye. The fabric was a deep shade of blue, and I could see that it was handmade due to the slight unevenness of the seams and the small variations in the button spacing. The imperfections in the uniform only added to its charm and gave it a sense of character that I found endearing.
As the officer checked my passport and documents, I couldn’t help but notice the small, intricate details on his uniform. The collar had tiny embroidered flowers that were slightly off-center, and the cuffs had delicate beading that wasn’t perfectly symmetrical. These details were a clear sign that the uniform was crafted by hand with care and attention to detail.
When I opened my luggage, the officer didn’t seem to care much about what was inside. He simply asked me a few friendly questions about my trip and welcomed me to the country. It was a refreshing change from the usual experience of being interrogated and scrutinized at customs.
I searched for signs of a bus or train station, but I couldn’t find anything. It seemed that most people who arrived were being picked up by friends or family members in cars. I felt a pang of loneliness as I stood alone at the entrance of what I thought was a train station, watching as cars came and went without any sign of public transportation. But then, I noticed another person standing not far from me, a local resident who had also arrived by train. We exchanged a friendly smile and nodded to each other, despite not sharing a common language. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one stranded in this seemingly deserted station. Finally, a car arrived, and the driver got out, looking apologetic for being late. I couldn’t understand what he was saying as he spoke in the local language, but his gestures and facial expressions were clear enough. The other person who had arrived with me came up to me and gestured that they were all headed in the same direction, and asked if I needed a ride. Although we didn’t speak the same language, the gesture of kindness was universal.
I gestured with my hands, making a roof over my head, and said the word “hotel” in a few different languages. The driver and the other passenger looked at each other for a moment, and then seemed to understand. They nodded and motioned for me to get into the car. We all piled into the car, the driver and my fellow passenger chatting in the front seat while I sat in the back.
After a short drive, we arrived at a two-story building with a small sign in a foreign language. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was the right place. I stepped inside the building, unsure of what to expect. It didn’t look like a typical hotel, but I had no other options. As I walked towards the reception desk, the elderly woman smiled at me warmly. I used the international gesture for “hotel” and “sleep” while saying the word “hotel” aloud, hoping she would understand me. To my relief, she nodded and showed me a simple room on the first floor. The room was clean and basic, with just a bed, a small table, and a chair. There was a window that overlooked the street outside, and the curtains were drawn back to let in some natural light.
I liked the room. I went back to the reception desk to hand over my passport to complete the check-in process. The elderly woman looked at me with a smile as I approached. However, as she took the passport from me, I noticed that she didn’t seem to be looking at my name or other details. Instead, she copied down the word “passport” and my home country from the cover of the document into a small notebook. It was a curious thing to do, but I didn’t question it, assuming it was just a local protocol.
Next, I handed her my credit card. She took it and held it up, looking at both sides with a curious expression. It was as if she was examining an object she hadn’t seen too many times before. After a moment, she handed it back to me without checking it or asking me to sign anything. I was a bit surprised.
I looked around the lobby wondering how much it would cost me to stay here. I scanned the walls and tables for a price list or any indication of the cost, but I couldn’t find anything. Turning to the receptionist, I tried to ask her about the price using international phrases such as “dollar, rupee, yen,” hoping she would understand. However, she just smiled kindly and shook her head, indicating that she didn’t understand what I was trying to say.
Feeling a bit frustrated, I decided to give up on trying to find out the price. After all, the hotel didn’t look too expensive. I can afford a night here or two.
