The taxi driver had pulled up under a covered gate to give me my bags but his kindness was futile. By the time I made it to the path that went through the woods and down the hill, I was saturated, hair dripping under my fake pashmina, feet beginnning to wrinkle from the damp. When I finally dragged my two suitcases to the porch of Ascension House, I was delighted to see that someone was inside.
The lady who let me in was more puzzled than delighted, and so was her coworker. The only word they understood from me was the name of the manager who had given me my reservation for the coming month and the only words I understood from them were "gone" and "no." But I was soaking wet and they were kind. They let me in and handed me a cloth bag labeled "hairdryer."
We tried to make ourselves comprehensible in English and Chinese, failed miserably, and one of the ladies made a phone call. A man who spoke English was easily as confused as the three of us were; the only clear fact was I had a reservation and nobody knew about it. "I'll call you back," he said but then the two ladies smiled, said goodbye, and left me in an empty house, taking the phone with them.
I used the hairdryer, wondering what else I could do. After about half an hour, I heard a knock on the door, and there was a man smiling and saying, "I think you are not where you are meant to be."
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