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Ostello della Moda: Eduardo

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John hadn't heard from any of his friends in Italy for the last 24 hours. The last thing he got was a text from Luke, saying "Last flight to Milan!" but that was yesterday afternoon. "See ya soon Johnny-boy." In college, he had gone by Johnny, even though his name was John. He hoped that the lack of communication was because they were having too much fun to post any pictures or send a reminder e-mail. He hoped everything would work itself out.

It was around 3:00 PM when he showed up at the "Ostello della Moda." He was exhausted. He went to the front desk and gave his name.

"Sorry, sir. No reservation under that name."

He gave the names of his friends, no luck. "No reservation," the man repeated. He wasn't the one that made the arrangements, so there must have been a mistake. He sat down at a table and tried to text his friends. After a few minutes, still nothing. He went back to the front desk.

"No one checked in under the names Walter, Dylan, Tyler, or Luke. No one?" he said, a little irritated by the whole situation.

"No reservation. We don't have any rooms left," the man said, trying to be polite, but failing.

He checked his phone again. Still no response. He was stranded. What would he do? Should he find another hostel? Should he get a hotel? Would he ever get in touch with his friends. There were people behind him in line, so he stepped out of line for a second to think and let the person behind him pass. He was a muscular man with short wavy hair, a thin mustache, stubble, and a tight bro-tank. He chatted rapidly with the man behind the desk and handed him some towels and supplies in exchange for some paperwork. Suddenly, he looked straight at John and then fired off some rapid Italian questions. They talked together and John felt like they were discussing him. The man walked over and said, "You are John?" in a thick accent. "Yes ... I mean ... sì," John answered. "Antonio," he said introducing himself. "We have open bed ... uh ... I checkout ... apartment next door ..." his English was not very clear. I turned to the man behind the desk for help. "He has an apartment in the building next door. He comes here often." They nodded. I considered my options. "You stay free," Antonio said. "Show you," he added.

I followed him outside and passed a storefront selling what looked like Italian hip-hop fashion. We walked inside and Antonio greeted the owner of the store as we walked up a flight of stairs. "Some work here. We live here," he said opening a door at the top of the stairs. Inside was a small apartment with a couch, a few chairs, and an entertainment center. There was a small kitchen and bathroom and a room with bunk beds along one wall. The most noticeable feature of the room was the clothes. There were boxes of clothes everywhere. Most of them looked like the kind sold in the store beneath them. In the bunk room there was a small weight set and a treadmill. Antonio pointed to one of the bunks. "Empty. For you," he said.

Suddenly, he heard voices in the living room and Antonio left. John followed him cautiously. Antonio greeted the two guys that had walked into the room and introduced them. "John ... here is Bruno and Christofano." They conversed in Italian, and the only thing that John could understand was that they were saying the name Edoardo a lot. He wanted to ask, but he mainly wanted to sleep and try to call his friends to connect about the hostel fiasco. Bruno jumped onto the couch and turned on the TV, finding a football game. Christofano and Antonio were discussing something in the kitchen, which left John to awkwardly slink back to the bunk room and try to process this nightmare that he was in. The room was stifling hot, but he wanted to sleep, so he laid down on the bunk bed and closed his eyes. The bunk was already covered in sheets and blankets, but he felt something lumpy underneath him. He reach and pulled out a blue baseball hat from between the sheets. It smelled strongly of cologne, and had a musky scent that seemed to come from the mattress and bed. This bed belonged to someone, it wasn't just an empty bed. He hoped that Antonio wasn't putting him in an awkward position if their roommate came back and found some random American guy sleeping there. He threw the hat onto the floor and laid back in the bunk trying to relax. He breathed in the hot stale air of the room and could here the guys in the other room shouting at the TV as they watched the game. He checked his phone again, but no one replied to his texts. Some vacation.

He drifted off to sleep.

--

He woke up a few hours later and was covered in sweat. The room had grown hotter and his t-shirt was drenched. He wanted to take off his shirt, but felt that would be gross for whoever else used this bunk. Instead, he walked into the living room, hoping that someone was around to help him. He was also really hungry. Everyone was gone, but there was a note on the table next to a plate of food and a can of beer. "For John. Help yourself!" He took the plate of pizza and beer and walked over to the couch. He ate it and checked his phone again. The battery had died. He finished the food and beer and tried to find his charger in the room. But when, looked for his bag, he couldn't find it. His bag was gone and all of his clothes. Then he saw a drawer open on one of the dressers. Inside was a phone charger and some other hygiene products. "For John." There was also the blue hat that he had found earlier. He grabbed the charger and plugged in his phone. The charger was different than the one he had brought, but it was compatible with the Italian outlet, so he decided to use it. When his phone finally turned on, the main screen and the default language was Italian. It looked like he had received a few text message replies. There was a message from Antonio, all in Italian. A few from Bruno. Someone had replied to a message from Christo whose name was Edoardo -- was this even his phone? Was this one of there other roommates. He was so confused and worried that all of his stuff had been stolen. He started to feel sick and needed to go to the bathroom. After he relieved himself, he stumbled back to the bunk and found a towel, some shampoo, and a pair of red underwear waiting for him. Again, the blue hat had been placed on the bed. He felt sweaty and dirty. He hadn't showered since the plane and that nap hadn't helped. He grabbed the pile of stuff and found the shower.

He stripped down and stepped into the warm stream. It felt good. The shampoo and body wash smelled clean and inviting -- they reminded him of the smell of his bunk in the bedroom. He relaxed and let the water wash away the stress of this doomed vacation. Suddenly, he heard his phone ringing. He turned off the shower, grabbed the towel, and raced to the counter of the bathroom.

"Hello?" he said.

The voice answered in rapid Italian.

"Who is this?" he said. He tried to listen, and oddly every few words he started to understand. Casually walked over to his stack of clothes and dressed as he listened. The phone cut out and he set it down and looked up into the mirror. The first thing he was was the blue hat. He was wearing it. He followed it down and realized he didn't recognize the face in the mirror. It was a dark, swarthy, face of an Italian man. He had also absent-mindedly put on a pair of tight red underwear, which accented his slim waist, and hairy pleasure trail that covered a rock-hard set of abs and chiseled torso. There was a knock on the door.

"Edoardo, è che tu?" said the voice.

"Sì, solo un momento," he rattled off without thinking. He dried himself in the towel and opened the door. He instantly recognized the man as Diego, which was odd because he didn't think he had been introduced. But, Diego didn't seem to care and continued saying that he needed to take a shit and that if Edoardo would be so kind as to leave! They joked and he left him in the bathroom. He walked to his room and felt an odd sense of recognition as he laid down on the bunk. He felt comfortable and relaxed. He put on some more clothes and knew that tonight he was working in a show with Christo in the fashion district. He texted him to confirm the time. A few minutes later, Antonio and Bruno returned with food for supper. They asked if they had met "John from America." He said no. Antonio shrugged his shoulders and said "He must have found his friends. Glad you're back, Edoardo! Or you would have had to sleep on the couch!" Edoardo punched him in the arm and they all laughed. It would have been fun to meet this John person, but somehow he felt that he had met him somehow. In any case, he was home now and was glad to be living the dream with his roommates!

Ostello della Moda: Diego

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Luke slid the last cigarette out of the pack and lit it up within a few seconds of stepping outside the brightly lit airport into the dark, hot Milanese night. Local time was 2:30 A.M., but he needed a cigarette so badly! The airline industry makes smoking so difficult and he needed his fix. He inhaled deeply and thought about his girlfriend back home. Well ... his ex-girlfriend. Part of the reason for their breakup was his smoking. That, combined with her desire to get married and started on a perfect American life, made Luke somewhat glad that he was free. This was going to be the trip of a lifetime!

He inhaled deeply and wondered if he could get a taxi to take him to the "Ostello della moda." They said they had 24-hour check-in. His friends were probably catching up, maybe headed out for a night on the town without him. But, he would catch up. He was the real party-animal of the group and always had been. He remembered those days in college when he would come back to the apartment completely hammered and they still took him in and helped him get to bed. He missed that -- he missed his friends.

He tossed the cigarette onto the concrete and walked towards a waiting taxi. He would need another pack in the morning, even though he was going to try and cut back on this trip. He wanted to quit, but habits don't die easily. "Last one until tomorrow night," he vowed.

The taxi wasn't air-conditioned and he tried to get comfortable. The cab smelled like smoke -- which made Luke even more anxious as the taxi bounced it's way towards the city because he could few the craving grow again -- especially when the driver lit up while driving. He didn't know enough Italian to ask him to stop, so he just inhaled it in and tried to relax. It took the cab about half an hour to make it to the hostel, and he tipped the man generously because he helped with the luggage.dn't

A sleepy young Italian man greeted him and asked him a few questions. "Uh...passport?" he said. "Right," Luke said as he reached into his bag. The zipper was halfway open and he pulled out a few things while digging for his passport. An opened pack of cigarettes fell onto the floor. Luke picked them up in astonishment. He was positive that the pack was empty. Plus, this was clearly an Italian brand that he was unfamiliar about.

"Sir...passport?" said the man. "Oh ... yeah. Here it is," he replied, wondering if maybe the taxi driver had left them there.

"You can smoke in the courtyard," said the man looking at the pack of cigarettes in Luke's hand.

"Oh, I wasn't ... I mean ... thanks."

"I need to make copy. Please, relax. I will return."

The young man walked into a back office and left Luke alone in the room. The courtyard looked empty and he didn't see any of his friends around. The cigarettes seemed to radiate energy and he knew it wouldn't go away until he smoked. He nervously walked to the courtyard, pulled out his lighter, and puffed away. The smell was different than the cab driver's brand. It felt comfortable. It felt like he had smoked these for years. On one of the drags, he brushed his hand against his chin and felt stubble. He could have sworn that he shaved before he left on this trip and he shouldn't have stubble yet. He also felt a burning on his left shoulder, like tingling needles. He put out the spent cigarette and spat into the bushes. On his way back inside he saw a bathroom and raced inside. He felt sweaty and sick, like his whole body was writhing. He pulled his shirt away and saw a dark black and red patch on his shoulder. His face looked different too. He pulled off his t-shirt and looked in the mirror. On his left shoulder and chest there was a large tattoo. His body looked slim and athletic, much more muscular than he remembered. He managed to put his shirt back on, but it was tight against his body and uncomfortable. His head was flooded with the high from the cigarette, but he managed to find the front desk again.

"Ah," said the man handing him his backpack. "Room 234, Bunk D, Diego." When he said the name "Diego," something clicked inside him. He felt a wawdve of recognition, including a mastery of the language, flooding into his brain. It was as if the chemicals in the cigarette had opened up an entirely new person inside him. As he climbed the stairs, he felt less and less like Luke and more like Diego. When he opened his back pack in the room, he pulled out a tight leather jacket, slim black pants, a pair of sunglasses, and dog-tags that had "Diego" printed on them. As he looked out the window at the dim morning light, he wondered if Bruno, Christo, and Antonio would be coming back soon. He walked over to the window and lit up another cigarette. He shivered slightly, and noticed a vein running along his bicep and the moon carve shadows on his tight abs. He stared out at the street letting the smoke fill his lungs, and with a deep breath, he exhaled the rest of his former life into the dark of night.

Ostello della Moda: Bruno

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Dylan hated Italy so far. It wasn't really "Italy's" fault, but his travel plans had been messed up. His plane leaving New York had been delayed, which meant he missed his connecting flight in Amsterdam, etc...but he was finally there. The airline had helped him arrive only a few hours later than expected in Milan, but it was frustrating nonetheless. He hadn't slept for hours and was exhausted by the time he arrived at "Ostello della moda." He had received some texts from Walter and Tyler, both of whom were supposed already at the hostel, but Nico at the front desk seemed confused about their arrival schedule. He insisted that everything was fine.

"Just need passport and paperwork. All is good," he said re-assuredly. "Your friends are coming. Or, maybe they go out for the night. I will help," he said. Dylan was too tired to eat any of the food. Even though he was a picky eater, he had managed to get a plump belly and flabby chest by his mid-twenties. Italian food wasn't really his "thing" and he just wanted to sleep. He dragged his suitcase to his room, panting and sweating in the hot humid hallway. He unlocked the door and threw his things on Bunk B. Someone was in the shower and Dylan wondered if maybe it was Tyler or Walter, but before Dylan could leave the room to avoid an awkward encounter, out stepped a steaming, muscular Italian man.

"Hi...I'm Dylan ... I mean ... 'Bruno,'" he corrected as he pointed to his name tag.

"Ciao! Antonio," replied the man without hesitation. "Eh, welcome to room ... eh, I go out ... eh ... downstairs?"

"Sure," said Dylan. "Have you seen someone named Walter?"

"Ooh-alter?" replied Antonio. "No."

Antonio left the room, leaving Dylan to himself. Since two of the beds were already occupied, he wondered if there was some mistake. Dylan was sure that they had ordered an entire room with five bunks, but maybe he missed something in the translation. In either case, Dylan was exhausted. He laid down on the bed, his eyes immediately closing.

He woke up a few hours later and the room was sweltering hot and it was dark outside. Dylan was still wearing his dirty travel clothes, so he stripped down to his underwear and walked over to the window, hoping to maybe let in some fresh air. He looked out across the street and saw dozens of young people walking around and enjoying the busy nightlife.

"So much for going out tonight..." he said as he rubbed his throbbing head and tried to swallow saliva from his dry mouth. He went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face and drank with his hands. He looked in the mirror and saw a pair of dark brown eyes staring back. He blinked and his eyes returned to their blue-green.

"Fuck..." he whispered, realizing how exhausted he still was. He slumped back into bed letting the cool night air and the sound of the street wash over him as he lay on his bunk.

He tossed and turned, and the sheets felt like pin pricks and his body was hot. After maybe an hour, his two roommates burst into the room. Discussing in rapid Italian and clearly staggering from too much beer.

"Dov'è Bruno?" they shouted, followed by "Bruno, sveglia!" They pulled Dylan from his bed, but he was still half-asleep. They handed him a bottle of beer and helped him into a shirt, jeans, and sandals.

"No ... let me sleep ... I'm not Bruno ... I'm ... tired ..." Dylan protested. But they insisted and pulled him into the hallway. On his way down, he drank a little of the bottle and felt more relaxed. They had dressed him in a pink brotank and tight jeans and marched him towards the door. They crossed the street and Dylan finished his beer as they plopped him into a chair. A man took a clippers and shaved his head. He heard a high buzzing sound and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Groggily, Dylan saw himself in the mirror. The reflection was a muscular, hairy, man with cropped hair, scruffy stubble, and arms and chests covered in tattoos. The man worked with the needle on another tattoo.

Surprisingly, the chubby, blonde boy that had come to Italy was erased with the very definition of "macho." Even in his pink tank top, he looked every inch like an Italian brute. As the alcohol took more effect and the hypnotic whining of the tattoo needle continued, he heard a name repeated over and over until it became his own. He was Bruno. His friends convinced him to go out tonight, and he was glad they did. Bruno was always looking for a good time. And everytime he partied or caused mayhem, it was another badge of honor for his image as the "Uomo supremo." He would get another tattoo to prove it.

Ostello della Moda: Christofano

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Tyler tried arguing with the man at the luggage counter but it was getting him nowhere. "My luggage was never transferred from Oslo ... but what will I do?" Tyler had planned on arriving later than his friends, but at the last minute, his booking company offered him a free upgrade to travel earlier. He was supposed to get there in the evening, but it was only 10:00 AM. Clearly, this "free" upgrade had cost him a day without his luggage. He had checked everything except a small backpack with his passport, phone, and a sweatshirt. He basically had the clothes on his back.

"And ... when my luggage comes ... you will transfer it to my hotel?" he asked.

"Yes," said the man speaking with very broken English. "Ostello della Moda..." he continued in rapid Italian. A few minutes later, he had negotiated with a few more customer service agents to get a free taxi ride to the hostel. The driver said he worker for "Ostello" and would bring him there immediately. But after an hour of winding through the grimier streets of Milan, Tyler wasn't so sure he trusted the man. The taxi drove past what looked like the red carpet to a fashion show or celebrity event. A few meters later, the cab pulled into a gated courtyard.

"Ostello della Moda," said the driver.

"Are you sure?" said Tyler. "This doesn't look like the picture I remember." The driver opened the trunk, jumped out and grabbed his backpack. Before Tyler could open his door, the driver ran into the courtyard with his backpack.

"Shit!" Tyler shouted as he struggled with the door, stumbled out of the cab, and raced after the man. The man turned into a dark door and Tyler followed him. He needed to get his backpack! Otherwise, he was lost in Italy with no phone, no IDs, and no money! He burst into the dark room and was knocked out cold by a stranger hiding inside.

"No ... please ... I don't have anything ..." Tyler mumbled as a pair of men pinned him down. His cab driver had opened his backpack and found his money and ID. "Let me go ... please ..." But the men had him trapped. One of them put a cloth over his mouth that had a fragrant chemical -- almost cologne like. He gagged a little, but then relaxed. He drifted off to sleep...

When he woke up, he could faintly hear electronic dance music through the walls. He had expected to be tied up in a dark room somewhere, but was just sitting on a chair in what looked like a dressing room. He blinked in the bright lights and saw that he had been stripped except for pair of tight athletic shorts. He looked down at his body in shock. His dark tan skin was covered in short curly hairs. His torso and abs were chiseled. His arms had small veins popping out toned muscle. He looked in the mirror and saw dark eyes looking back, a sexy stubbled jaw, and a thin dark mustache and goatee.

"Merda, che ora è?" he thought to himself, realizing a second later, than he had thought the phrase in Italian, not English. His head was pounding and the music seemed to be getting louder.

A short aggressive woman burst into the room and shouted at him. "Christo! Mossa! Tu sei il prossimo!" He jumped up and raced after her. He was backstage of a theatre that was filled with smoke, bright lights, and upbeat electronic music. Dozens of other men were crowded around him, each surrounded by crew members adjusting their clothes, fixing their makeup, and pushing them towards the door onto the stage. One of the crew dangled some necklaces over his neck and placed a neon baseball cap on his head. They adjusted a few bracelets on his arms. A young man wearing a headset pointed at him as the crew finished by oiling his chest so he looked sweaty and rugged. In a second, he followed the man in front of him onto the runway.

It was an exhilarating experience. Dozens of cameras flashed as he walked down the runway, making his turns, and modeling his body and clothes. He felt empowered as they gazed on his nearly naked body. It was a primal and raw feeling. He turned back towards the entrance -- a completely changed man! He had become Christofano -- one of hundreds of male models working in fashion district of Milan. With every new outfit, every camera flash, and every trip down the runway, he was embracing his new life.

After the show, he found was given a backpack with a set of clothes. He assumed they were his, so his way back to the courtyard where the taxi had dropped him off. The driver was waiting there. He handed him a cell phone and passport, which he said that Christofano had left behind accidentally in the cab. He thanked him and they drove off to the "Ostello della Moda." He saw a message from the airport and the hostel on his phone. His bag had been transferred to the hostel, he was in Bunk C. He texted his friend, who he hoped would meet him at the bar for a night of celebration.

In his mind, the thoughts of the airport, the missing luggage, the mysterious taxi driver, reminded him of something -- it was odd! But, then he remembered that he had done a photo shoot in Oslo recently ... or had he? Was he meeting some American friends at the hostel? But, who did he know from America? And wasn't his career based in Milan? Was he living in a hostel? Didn't he have an apartment that he shared with his friends ... what were there names? He couldn't remember, but figured it was probably fatigue from the show.

He walked into the hostel and the host greeted him. He explained the whole situation with the luggage -- two of his friends had arrived, but he should just wait at the bar. He drained his first beer, still a little lost about why he was spending the night at this hostel. Suddenly, someone shouted out his name.

"Christo!"

He turned to the man, a wave of recognition passing over him. "Antonio!"

They talked about how tonight they were celebrating with friends. First, they needed to drink! Then, they had a surprise for Bruno ... their friend waiting upstairs!