Jean Paul Sartre stayed in hostels, I’m sure of it. I’ll bet you any money you like he wrote ‘hell is other people’ from the bed bug-ridden bunk of an 18-room dorm he was sharing with a group of Italian exchange students.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not got anything against hostels per se – in fact they’re a lifesaver if you’re travelling on a budget – it’s all the other people I have a problem with. Here’s why.
After schlepping happily to some remote corner of a distant land, intent on adventure, you arrive at your hostel to find a bunch of inebriated Brits whinging about their student loans. One of them calls you over to the bar to ask if you’ve ‘done’ Bolivia and before you know it you’ve been talked into getting a drink and you’re hearing about the time Robbie haggled a toothless old beer seller in La Paz down to 2p a can. Ah the memories!
Next door in the TV room, a fractious, territorial family of four watches re-runs of Mr Bean while the guy on reception flirts openly with every girl within a ten-mile radius. When you ask him about local restaurants serving regional food, he recommends his place. Escaping to your dorm, you open the door to find a German girl methodically highlighting her guidebook, a glassy-eyed Norwegian (who judging from the smell hasn’t left his bunk for months) and a gaggle of enthusiastic North Americans whose rucksacks appear to have spontaneously combusted all at the same time.
Later, an aged Swiss hiker arrives who spends an hour carefully folding his hiking socks before turning in at 8.30pm and snoring like a dying lawnmower. He’s followed by a young Australian couple who are friendly to you but clearly not speaking to each other. Later, their truce will be heralded by urgent, muffled sounds and the creaking of bed springs.
Just after you drop off to sleep, the Americans – who had the BEST time – return and attempt to repack their rucksacks by first dividing everything into loudly rustling plastic bags. ‘Suffocation by carrier’ is justifiable homicide in such circumstances; I’ve checked.
As you queue forlornly for the hair-encrusted shower in the morning and breakfast on instant coffee and stale bread, you start to wonder if there is any corner of the globe not populated by the kind of people that you cross the street to avoid at home.
Ok, so hostels can be a hoot sometimes. And a necessary evil if funds are low. But what kind of local experience are you getting if you’re forced to listen to Craig from Wolverhampton wax lyrical about the virtues of Little Britain and Aldi wine?
