Carlos' House of Horrors

I am currently writing this under my bunk. Well, technically speaking, not under my bunk, but under the bunk above me. It’s super comfy, my head is tilted almost at 90 degrees and the pins and needles in my arm are morphing into a whole sewing kit. Why would I choose such cramped surrounds to spin my textual tapestry, I hear you ask? Am I trying to ‘method write’ a Kafkaesque tale of confinement and constriction? Am I channelling the spirit of some long-dead literary genius - did Tolstoy work under such conditions? Did Barbara Cartland? Unfortunately no. I am running with the whole mind over matter thing because I have just stumbled into the hostel from hell. It’s true. I am currently staying in the worst, most horrible, seriously ick, hostel I have stayed in, I think pretty much ever. But, except for the unfortunate fragrance of eau de bin, it’s not the place; I’m going to be a judgemental beeyatch and put it out there: it’s the people.

See, this place was supposed to be relaxed. Chilled out, but not in filthpig fashion, just in a cruisey, friendly, nice easy place if you’re travelling on your own, sort of way. The kind of hostel where you meet people, have a few beers, hang out. You know. Normal. Easygoing. Friendly. Ja. Whatever. Apparently, it’s so friendly here that two of the inhabitants had sex outside my window on the footpath last night. But don’t worry, it’s ok – they can’t remember any of it. Nothing. That makes it alright.

Clearly I’m a geriatric prude stuck in the occasionally-maintained body of a 25 year old woman, but I truly hate these kind of hostels, hostels where there’s zero private space and people push and push for you to go out for 2 euro shots at whatever grotty club is down the road. I usually avoid them like I would sharing a toothbrush with someone who has oral thrush, so it’s unfortunate when, Colgate in hand, you realise that your bathroom buddies request was used to ameliorate his odd resemblance to Old Yeller. It’s just a really gross place. I travel in a way I enjoy – lots of reading, talking, and relaxing, and it’s annoying when all these things are made impossible by your choice of accommodation, particularly when you realise this after you’ve already paid.

What is it about some people that the minute they get on foreign soil they just behave like utter tools? I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt here, and assuming they aren’t like this all the time. I really hope so, anyway. And these aren’t even just Australian bogans, who I could almost forgive, as they tend to get a little excited about the change of hemisphere thing—these ones are internationally sourced. And they're just as bad. I’m cranky, I’m going to bed. Ergh.

Postscript: the next day. I thought someone had cooked me fried eggs for breakfast this morning. But no, that was just the topless vision that greeted me of the girl who had sex in the bunk above me last night. Hurrah!