I’m breaking up with hostels
It’s not you, it’s me.
I never used to pack things just in case. On a recent trip I brought not one travel adapter, but two, even though the plugs matched those at home. I took an anti-aging serum that cost double the price of my bed for the night. I pulled my things behind me instead of carrying them on my back.
You’re going where? I still get asked when sharing my next destination. But I can’t deny that I travel differently now.
One of my best friends who I met travelling is as intrepid as I am. She came back from a three-month trip radiating from the things she had seen and the proof of what she can achieve alone. But she was firm about one thing;
“I think I’m done with hostels now.”
She shared dorms with people flagrantly having sex on a bottom bunk. She endured the snores of 60-year-old men on a motorcycling trip who were trying to offset their midlife crisis. One of them woke her up with a walking stick. She went on hostel bar crawls and drank from buckets.
I’m telling her stories because they’re more recent than mine. I’ve had the ick with hostels for a while now and I guess we’re in a situationship. I’m still attracted to them, but I set boundaries by booking a private room. I would like the option of meeting strangers without having to share a bathroom.
Age is an obvious factor. Nobody wants to be the oldest in a dorm yet still get chatted up by a guy who looks like he’s only just learnt to shave. I favour a buffed museum floor over that of a club. More work responsibility means that I can no longer afford to always come home more exhausted than when I left. I can afford accommodation that’s more upmarket.
But it’s complicated. In Rwanda a seasoned hitchhiker teased me mercilessly for booking a private guide for three days. I’m still annoyed by it. I can’t help but feel like I am selling out by choosing comfort over budget, even when going on trips that are more offbeat.
I think it’s the stories of discomfort that we like to share the most, that make us feel like veterans. The 24-hour train journeys. The weirdos in your dorm from walks of life so different to your own. The Delhi belly that forces you to shit in a crisp packet. Those moments when you are lost, can’t communicate with locals, sweating, dehydrated, wearing the same t shirt for four days and an absolute nobody. There’s nothing quite so humbling.
Surpassing those moments of unease and showing yourself that you can is why you hit the road in the first place. If you’re lucky enough, you get a kind gesture on the way. It can be a tissue when there’s no toilet roll, nor toilet. Someone intervenes to stop you getting ripped off. You get pointed in the right direction with a smile that tells you we’re all the same, just born in different places.
These anecdotes or memories, depending on who you are, will be your most precious.
Hostels are a junction for those seeking the unknown. Like a first love, the memories are rose-tinted but we’ve outgrown each other. It’s ok if we’re looking for different things.