In less than a week, I’ve developed a passionate love/hate relationship with hostels.
I love the amount and variety of people who pass through each day.
In my 6-person dorm, I met a French girl, 3 Dutch chicks, and some mute dude with gray hair.
The next day, an entirely new cast arrived: 2 Irish guys, a Brit, a Korean, and a German.
Three left a few days later, and three guys from Papua New Guinea showed up immediately to take their place. But they only stayed one night, and a German couple appeared to take their place.It’s a revolving door of tourists, and they all have a story, an opinion and their own private odor.
That’s where the hate part comes in.
My third night in the Sydney hostel, I awoke at 3am to the Irishmen cuddling with my feet. He was on all fours, nuzzling his forehead around my dogs. I poked him, and he went back to his bed.
Backpackers sure like to throw back a few. And that means they come in at whatever hour reeking like beer. I don’t even understand why they travel since they spend their days and nights in the dingy lounge of the hostel, playing drinking games and ripping on Americans. I don’t mind the Americans part (I have been asked more than once whether we really renamed our favorite side dish “Freedom Fries.”). But the alcohol is not my style.
Another time, I walked in to my room and, to my surprise, stared right into the, uh, lips of a very fat vagina. An extremely large and drunk backpacker had past out naked, spread eagle, facing the door. I didn’t even have to pay extra.
So, yeah, the hostels are full of good stories, drunk-o’s, and a medley of international travelers. Oh, and smelly socks and boxed wine.
But I guess I’ll take ’em. In just a week I met Faustine and Fergus, two friends I will surely have for life.