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The Last Hostel

 

 Santa Barbara seemed almost too beautiful.  The puritan in me whispered that constant exposure to beauty, especially in combination with extreme comfort, has a debilitating effect on people.  On the pier, watching the perfect sun set on a perfect day, I imagined that I could tell the visitors from the locals.  The tourists looked happy, and grateful for the beauty around them, while those I took for local citizens either looked smug or vaguely dissatisfied with some minor flaw in the evening’s experience.  Perhaps the sunset, while gorgeous, was not quite as gorgeous as it had been last Thursday.

 

But the Santa Barbara Tourist Hostel, while right downtown in a very attractive area, is just this side of grungy.  It’s very cheap, the linen is mismatched and none-too-clean, and they charge extra for a threadbare towel.  On the night I spent there, it was full of 20 year-old Americans, swaggering drunk Englishmen, and foreign teenagers.  The usual small hostel contingent of older budget travelers like me was missing, as far as I could tell.

 

My assigned bunk was in a stark 12-bed dorm full of high school girls.  As I unpacked a few things and claimed my bunk, I listened to their cross-chatter.  I was unable to even venture a guess as to what language they were speaking, except that it sounded Slavic.  I would have simply asked, if they hadn’t been so remarkably unfriendly to me.  None of them would return my casual greeting, and when I apologized for nearly bumping one of them with the door when I returned from the bathroom, she and her friend stared in silent hostility. 

 

Pointless incivility among strangers who find themselves sharing a space really annoys me.  It was not clear to me whether they were unhappy to share their room with a woman who was roughly their mothers’ age, whether they didn’t like me in particular, or whether speaking to a stranger might be considered a lapse in solidarity.  After several tries at polite interaction, I gave up. 

 

I arranged myself on my bed, pulled out my little laptop, and went to work downloading and organizing the photos I’d taken on my trip so far.  Several of them looked at me curiously once I got absorbed in the project.  But I ignored them and focused on my work.  I wouldn’t reject any overt friendly gestures, but they’d snubbed me earlier, and the time when I’d meet them more than halfway had passed.  There are times when a certain dignity is the only defense for an adult dealing with teenagers.

 

Eventually, my roommates settled down to sleep, and I started to yawn and think about packing it in for the night.       

 

A hostel is a perfect place for theft.  It’s never happened to me, but I’ve heard enough from people who have been ripped off to be cautious with my stuff.  I felt the need to be especially careful in this place.  I doubt that it was more insecure than most hostels, but the fact that I was carrying more stealables—cameras, a laptop computer, even a small revolver—than I often carry when I travel made me feel vulnerable.  The unfriendly environment in my room increased my unease.

 

I’d rented a locker out in the hall for everything but the gun, which I’d buried among the junk in my truck parked on the street outside.  Possessions that generally made life on the road more comfortable now felt like burdens, and I knew that the things that were most precious to me—the photos I’d taken and the words I’d written—would be unimportant to anyone who actually did steal my computer or camera. 

 

I secured my things as best I could, double-checked the lock on my locker, and slipped into bed with my purse under my pillow.   It was a surprise that my roommates fell asleep earlier than I did.  Since I hoped for an early start in the morning, I’d wondered if they’d be awake and noisy for half the night.  I probably would have been, at their age.  But they were all asleep before midnight, when I finished what I was working on and lay down.  Maybe they had to get up early, too. 

 

This bed had cost me 23 dollars.  It sounded really good at the time, compared to the other options available in pricey Santa Barbara.  But I’m slowly admitting to myself that dorm rooms in hostels are sometimes more trouble than they’re worth.  I want to be an intrepid traveler, to be flexible and undemanding; to be able to get a good night’s sleep in almost any situation.  I want to hoist my backpack over my strong shoulders and say casually that I can sleep anywhere, anytime.

 

But I found myself really wishing for a private room.  Maybe there comes a time in the life of even the intrepid when it’s time to admit that comfort and privacy—maybe even beauty—might begin to outweigh the joy of sleeping cheap, and the adventure of being thrown in with unknown roommates. 

 

I like the variety of switching between hotels and hostels.  They are not merely cheap places to stay: I have an ideological commitment to the idea of hostels as a place where people of all ages and nationalities can share rooms and meet people, and where anyone on a tight budget can find a reasonable place to sleep--without paying 60$ or more to have a queen-size bed, private bathroom, and in-room HBO.

 

But when an ideological commitment butts heads with a desire for creature comfort, the conflict can be intense.  Earlier, out on the pier, I’d looked around at the self-satisfied faces of some of the people around me and decided that their lives were too pampered and comfortable.  I’d felt a self-righteous glow thinking that in the midst of all this plenty, I’d be spending the night, and very little money, in a no-frills hostel in the company of young adventurous types.   

 

But as the over-pampered dreamed in opulent isolation, I could not sleep.  The room was hot, even though the single window was wide open and the night was cool.  The t-shirt I’d worn to bed made me itch around the neckline.  In fact, the entire surface of my skin itched, as it does sometimes when it’s hot.  An antihistamine always fixes it.  The problem was that any meds I carry were out in the hall locker, which costs a quarter every time I open it, and I wasn’t sure I had any quarters left.  Also, antihistamines tend to knock me out for many hours.  The prospect of unconsciousness sounded appealing at that point, but I was determined to get on the road early in the morning.

 

So, I lay there.  I itched.  I twitched.  I pulled at the neckline of my shirt.  I was hungry, since I’d had no appetite and skipped dinner.  I had crackers in my backpack, but it would require an awful lot of rustling to get to and open them, and an awful lot of crunching to eat them.  I’ve slept, and not slept, in enough hostels to know how annoying late night rustling and crunching can be.  So I listened to my stomach growl and turn.  I felt the bed shake and creak as the girl in the bunk above me turned and shifted in her otherwise silent sleep. 

 

Two of the girls had colds.  They sniveled, sneezed, and sniffed.  It pointed up the contrast to the silent slumber of the other girls.  The silence reminded me of the vicious rumor that I sometimes snore.  I haven’t sought and would not welcome details on just how loud and horrible it is—it’s bad enough to know that I do something so obnoxious and am powerless to change it.  Somehow, to let myself drift off to sleep and then snore in this roomful of hostile girls seemed unbearable to me.  Dammit—if only someone else would start snoring—maybe I could relax then!  

 

But no one did, although the girls with colds continued sniveling.  It was so hot.  I felt like I’d just had a double shot of espresso.  My mind raced.  It flipped through pictures of the Central Coast, reviewed the menu at Nepenthe (why had I not ordered the stuffed avocado instead?), plotted my route for the next day’s drive, re-ran episodes of my trip so far.  I laid a gentle hand on my stomach, just barely touching.  I heard a stealthy creak in the hall, the footfall of the bad person who’d come to steal my laptop and my cameras.  I heard the car thief walk by on the street outside, debating how best to get into the truck to steal my .22 as a prelude to murderous mayhem.   

 

I scratched.  I tugged at my neckband.  Night thoughts slipped quietly into bed with me, burrowing under the covers and into my brain.  I pulled out my actions, thoughts, and attitudes, turning them over like pages in a book, and found them to be inadequate.  I wished I’d bought that fish taco from the food stand on the pier.  I berated myself for not climbing down the steep hillside that afternoon to get an unobstructed photo of the foggy cliffs south of Big Sur.  I wished the drunken Englishmen would start arguing over the pool table again.  What was up with this silence?  Why weren’t these girls creeping over to their friend’s bed to giggle and talk about boys, or sneaking out the window to explore?  I felt that I would sell my soul to be able to get up, turn on the light, strip my clothes off and take a long hot shower, turn on CNN or a late-night movie, and eat a handful or two of Pringles from the can in my backpack.  I am too old to stay in 23$ a night hostels, and too old to sleep in the same room with a dozen teenage girls I don’t know and don’t like.  I am too old.

 

Too old.

 

“No--not too old”, said my soothing self.  “Too experienced!  Too individualistic.”

 

“You know what that amounts to?” asked my cynical voice. 

 

It answered.  “Too old.  Just face it.” 

 

Bavaria is the only place I know of that has an age limit for staying in a “youth” hostel.  Most hostels emphasize the fact that they welcome travelers of all ages.  But it is a fact that those who stay in hostels, especially in the United States, are mostly under 30.  Mostly under 25, even.  I’m 40, and have had wonderful stays in places where I was the oldest person around, or where I bonded with others closer to my age.

 

But I have to admit that there are reasons beyond ignorance and knee-jerk consumerism that after a certain point in their lives, people tend to want a room of their own.  Maybe I overlooked a few of those realities in my desire to avoid seeing the pinched look of over-privileged discontent on my own face. 

 

I must have slept some.  I can’t possibly have lain awake till 5:30, when I finally stood up exhausted and unrefreshed.  I grabbed my backpack and went to the bathroom.  After the restless night, I was shocked to see that I still looked okay in the mirror, although my eyes were a little puffy.  I’d half-expected to look haggard and elderly. 

 

One of my roommates had actually beaten me into the bathroom.  She had her makeup and hair products and implements spread all over the meager counter-space.  I nodded to her.  Her return nod was chilly.

 

I claimed a little counter space for my bathroom kit, then washed my face and poked at my unruly hair.  Her hair was perfect and smooth, but as she worked it with her curling iron, I saw the dissatisfied look she gave herself in the mirror.  Maybe her hair wasn’t as perfect as it had been last Thursday.  I dusted powder across my nose and applied some mascara.

 

I wondered why she was up so early.  Her coldness made her look hard, but she was pretty.  It seemed to me that she’d look good, even without most of the junk she had spread across the counter.  But I’d never believed crap like that from older women—why would she?

 

My own hair looked as one might expect after a restless night.  I poked at it again, and said, “Oh, I give up!”

 

That earned me the closest thing to a smile I got out of any of the Slavs.  I smiled back, and gathered my belongings.  My locker had not been torn open or plundered, my truck was undisturbed.  I was thirty miles down the road by sunrise, shaking my foggy head to clear it, cursing the traffic on the coast highway, and swearing to myself that I’d never stay in another hostel.

 

But things cleared up when I left the congested coastal road, and headed east, through lush valleys, over mountain passes, and then across the Mojave.  The foggy coastal dawn gave way to brilliant agricultural morning, then to full day and desert afternoon.  I replayed the long sleepless night in my head.  It hadn’t been pleasant—but then, it hadn’t been fatal.  The mid-price hotel room I’d stay in that night would seem luxurious to me.  I’d be grateful for my full belly and for my ability to stretch out on the bed, in underwear or less, if I chose, and choose between reading a book, checking the news, or watching a movie.  I could sleep by 9, or read till 3. 

 

But once I closed the door to my room, there were unlikely to be any surprises, good or bad. 

 

Perhaps it is true that I am no longer flexible enough to count on sleeping comfortably in a big room full of people I don’t know.  But comfort is not the only point of existence—and certainly not the main point of travel.  On the other hand, we humans do need some comfort and indulgence, and those who deny that fact can end up as cornered as those who are afraid to take any risk of discomfort.   Maybe the truly intrepid traveler is the one who can keep all of her options open, remaining equally undaunted by cushy bourgeois comfort or dorm rooms packed with sullen Slavs.  Every spin of the planet has its own dynamic, and to travel is to embrace both the restless night and the clean new day.