A Word about Hostels

Before I went to Europe, I didn’t know much about hostels except from what I heard about the Eli Roth horror film.  There are hostels in the United States.  Many Americans I’ve spoken to didn’t realize this, so I thought it would be useful to include a word about these cheap accommodations.

Prior to my first night in London, I was worried about securing my bags, so I bought a combination lock because I heard there were lockers or chests in the rooms.  I envisioned a trunk at the foot of a single bed, but I have yet to see this layout. 

At the Astor Hyde Park Hostel in London, the staff members were incredibly friendly.  An Englishman told me my room was on the first floor, so I went about searching for the correct door, which I assumed I could find without ascending any stairs.  There was no doubt in my mind; I had scoured the entirety of the first floor but my room was nowhere to be found.  Obviously, there must be a mistake, I thought.  Or maybe there was a certain sequence of bricks I needed to tap to reveal a trap door.

“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist.  “Did you say my room was on the first floor?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Go up the stairs and it’s on your right.”

This was the first faux pas among a long string of them that I would make on my trip, and I had only landed at Heathrow a few hours ago. 

“That’s right,” I said, “I forgot the Europeans call the first floor the second floor.  Sorry about that.  I’m from the States.”

But what I really meant was:  “Please don’t think I’m an idiot.  It’s just that where I come from, we label our floors differently.”

A card key granted me access to my room.  There were six pairs of bunk beds, most of which were situated against a wall.  My bed was the top bunk in the middle of the room.  This meant that I had to sleep with my iPhone under my pillow and dangle my glasses over the bars that prevented me from rolling onto the floor from my six-foot precipice. 

My first night’s rest in London was perhaps the most agonizing ten hours in recent memory.  Jetlagged and fatigued from a restless twelve-hour flight, I passed out early around 6 PM, a mistake I will never repeat.  I had eaten bangers and mash in the afternoon, but I skipped dinner because I was too tired to walk to a restaurant, let alone chew my food. 

My grumbling stomach woke me around two in the morning, when all the restaurants nearby were closed.  I didn’t trust my foggy mind to navigate the darkened and unfamiliar streets.  I feared that if I were to leave the hostel in search of food I would never make it back to the hostel.  I’d probably end up passing out in Hyde Park and wake up covered in dew. 

But if I stayed I would fail miserably to attain REM, but my obliques would get a nice workout from all that tossing and turning.  In the end, I dug out my Kindle from my bag and read for a few hours with the screen dimmed until my eyelids could no longer prop themselves up on their own.

Below me, a stranger slept.  Below her was a pull-out drawer made out of thin strands of metal that screeched as the bottom dragged against the hardwood floor.  I stuffed my giant backpack inside and locked it.  In the beginning, I locked up everything, even my shoes while I was sleeping. 

In some places, this was impossible, for there was not enough space to accommodate my distrust for strangers.  Dublin’s Spire Hostel, a mediocre shelter, offered no free lockers, so I shoved everything under my bed, hoping that bending over or kneeling on the dusty floor would deter thieves.  During the day, I carried my valuables in my bag, and at night I slept with him.  Eventually I understood there was an unspoken rule among the backpackers:  Don’t steal my stuff, and I won’t steal yours.

Everyone I met at the hostels was very friendly and personable.  Most people were wanderers from all over the globe.  Nearly everyone staying in hostels has a fascinating itinerary (more fascinating than grocery store and post office errands) and will divulge their reasons for traveling without being prompted.  In Oxford, for example, I met an Australian girl who told me this: 

“Every night when I came home from work, I would just cry.  And I’m not one of those girly types who cries for no reason.  I usually cry once a year, just get it all out and then it starts to build up again.  So I thought, I have to get out.  I hate my job.  I needed to get out.”

When she told me this, we had not exchanged names yet.  She knew very little about me, but, despite this, she shared her background and a few Starbursts with me. 

All of the hostels where I stayed had lounges and kitchens.  I didn’t fully utilize these at first, except during breakfast.  Many hostels offer a free meal with the usual buffet items:  cereal, toast, jam, peanut butter, Nutella, juice, coffee, and tea.  The food is fairly standard, and you can eat as much as you want, except for some stingy hostels that charge for the meal.  But even when you have to pay, you’d be hard pressed to find a cheaper way to break your fast in the morning. 

Due to my frugal nature and lack of employment for two months during this trip to Europe, I strategized to save money.  When free breakfast was offered, I ate as much as I could without looking like a mooch so that I wouldn’t have to spend as much money filling my stomach in the evenings.  Breakfast is usually offered for two to three hours, before the shops and museums open.  I would often stay for a few hours to read my Kindle and gorge myself gradually. 

For lunch, I would often buy a sandwich from a little shop and eat it in a park or consume it in the hostel lounge.  The Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh, Scotland had a humongous, two-storied lounge.  There was ample seating and the Wi-Fi worked extremely well (usually it is slow because so many people are using it).  They offer free tea and coffee all day long.  You could play pool or snooker if you wanted.  This hostel even had a movie viewing room.  Each day at 6:00 PM, there would be a Scottish film and at 9:00 PM the hostel staff would play a well-known title like Inception.  By far, the Castle Rock in Edinburgh offered the best amenities.  They had everything I needed, even a computer lab where I could print out a boarding pass, and the staff was very accommodating. 

The Spire Hostel in Dublin, on the other hand, was the worst and also the cheapest.  I eventually learned at those two adjectives go hand in hand.  Three pairs of bunk beds were crammed into a space that could comfortably fit a queen-sized bed.  If a fat man were to sleep above me in the top bunk, the force of his gravity would undoubtedly sag onto my face if I slept on my back.  The bathroom was even more inconvenient.

In the sinks there are two faucets:  one for hot water and the other for cold water.  There are no knobs to twist.  If you press down on the cold water button, a powerful stream of water will erupt from the pipe and soak the bottom of your shirt.  After dousing a few outfits, I learned to press the button and jump back until the rainstorm abated.  Then I scrubbed my hands in the three-second window when the water was calm. 

The shower, too, had to be timed.  I closed the frosted glass doors and tapped the button under the shower head, which emitted a comfortably warm spray that surprisingly did not induce pain.  As I shampooed my hair, the water shut off, so I pushed the button again.  The water resumed.  I rinsed my hair and reached for my body wash when the water shut off again.  I pressed the button once more and counted to fifteen before the shower again took its scheduled break. 

Henceforth, the cleansing process became rhythmic.  With one hand scrubbing my body, the other hand bumped the button to rejuvenate the water supply.  I was constantly aware of how much time I had left until the water shut off.  I suspect if I had to stay there any longer, I would develop a rare form of Tourette’s syndrome active only in the shower.  Upon returning home, I would twitch and readjust the knobs and hit an imaginary button on the wall to guarantee a seamless flow of water.

Some of the hostels had on-suite bathrooms, whereas others had a shared latrine on a certain floor, wing, or corridor.  Everyone shared the facilities, which were equipped with several unisex stalls and showers.  Some places separated genders, and some didn’t. 

 

The first time I saw a woman in the same bathroom as me I wondered if I entered the wrong room, so I double-checked the emblem on the door.  It showed both the male and female symbols.  I returned to my sink and continued to shave my beard while the girl beside me applied her make-up.  The scene was particularly European.  Even in the bathroom, I was basking in culture. 

Aside from the bathrooms, the most important feature of a hostel is the kitchen.  Kitchens are crucial if you want to save money by avoiding expensive restaurant meals.  I saw how silly it was to diminish my budget by eating $20 dinners every night, so I started buying groceries that were easy to cook and simple to store.  I didn’t buy anything that needed multiple ingredients, and fortunately most hostels provided butter or oil so you wouldn’t buy four sticks to only use a sliver.  The spacious kitchen in Edinburgh was inviting because I didn’t have to wait for a stove to open up, but the cramped galley-kitchen in Dublin discouraged me from cooking.

The beds serve their purpose, but you get what you pay for.  At the Nos Da Hostel in Cardiff, Wales, I could feel the springs dig into my spine, and I could hear a man snoring next door.  Either his snoring is thunderous, or the walls are thin, just like the limp pillows provided.

If there were vacant beds, I would steal their extra pillows and sleep on an extra layer of down to cushion myself against those wrathful springs.  In Cardiff, I had a room with ten beds all to myself.  I stuffed so many pillows onto my bed that the housekeeping staff would’ve thought I hosted a slumber party on my mattress.  However, the bed upon which I slept in Liverpool would rival the comfort of my own, but my slumber in this temporary home was more costly.  As the prices get higher, the pillows grow thicker.

I used to eye my bunkmates with suspicion, as though they aimed to steal my Nikes when I dozed off.  But I soon realized that hostels are great places to make friends who share the same dreams as well as the same suspicions as you.