There are a number of things that test you when travelling on your own. Hostel living is by far the biggest. Hostel owners cram four beds (2 bunks) in a 5×4 room, put a toilet and a shower in the cupboard and call it an ensuite, then throw in four strangers and watch the fireworks erupt. There are rules about sharing space with strangers and as always, the rules are meant to be broken.
On arriving at the hostel, I had to walk past another one only a block away. I looked in at the big glass doors, saw the posie of fresh flowers in the window bar, saw the black upholstered couches, fancy rug and wood-grained desk and thought, “Good job, Anna.” Finally, I’d gotten one right for a change. Before barging through the doors after being in transit for the last six hours, I thought I’d double check the address. Emblazoned on the front awning was 340 Mason Street. Looking down at my $50 smart phone, I see San Francisco International Hostel, 140 Mason Street.
Dejectedly, I picked up my suitcase and trundled further on down the street. The black man on the corner stood holding his Starbuck’s cup, looking at me like the visitor I was, and started singing. I smiled at his eccentricity and reminded myself I was in tolerant San Francisco and kept walking. The closer I got, the more his cup started to shake. It was clear that I probably shouldn’t have made eye contact with this one. With my head down and a quickened step, I fled past, searching for the beckoning light of 140 Mason. As I swished past and avoided the shaking cup, I glanced up to the next street number. 260. Still moving.
Looking ahead, the number of shaking Starbucks’ cups seemed to be multiplying fast. In various states of half dress, in a foggy and freezing San Franciscan afternoon, the street people of San Francisco had seemed to find me. Turning, looking for other foreigners, I found I was the only other human on Mason street. Very quickly I realised how Rick from The Walking Dead felt. I was trapped on an empty street, surrounded by approaching beggars who wanted nothing but my seemingly mounting pile of pennies in my handbag. I am guessing their supersonic hearing could distinguish the rattle from my wallet. Again I plastered a smile across my face, said sorry and headed for the big white 140 only a few more steps away. With some secret signal, they scattered and I was again alone on the street.
Walking through the doors of the hostel, it looked nothing like the photographs online. The carpet was dark and layered with grime, the walls hand painted not quite black and the entry way littered with young and mobile Germans. I checked in, paid my $130 for 6 nights and found my way to room 202. Opening the door at 4pm I find a young woman passed out on the bottom bunk. G-strings and heels left in disarray on the floor and the other two bunks obviously occupied with mused sheets and a collection of H&M and Forever 21 shopping bags. Which left the only bed, the top bunk above sleeping beauty, for me.
Top Bunks are shit. There is no other way to say it or express it. Being stuck on the top bunk means you have no where to store your luggage, you don’t have anywhere to sit, it’s impossible to get up and down without pissing off the person underneath and you only want to get up there once in your day. With a sigh and groan, I dumped my suitcase in the corner and headed for the communal lounge area. The top bunk was something I was going to have to work myself up for. On my return a little over an hour later, sleeping beauty was gone. The g-strings cleared away and the heels stowed under the bed.
Over the next three days sleeping beauty established quite a pattern. She would sleep all day, at about 5 she would rise, complete quite an elaborate make-up ritual, put on some very tight ripped jeans, a sparkly top, her heels and head out the door. At sometime between 4 and 5am she would return, strip off and take herself to bed. For four days the ritual continued. Sleeping Beauty rarely spoke and when she did it was to ask me to turn the light off. It’s hard to know whether that’s all her English allowed or that she honestly didn’t have time for my holiday banter. Magda, the woman in the other bed looked at me and shrugged. “She’s done the same thing since I’ve been here.” She said.
I wanted to ask her where she went. I wanted to ask her what she did. I wanted to know if she could teach me anything I should know. But I didn’t. The stories that I was building in my head were far better than anything she could have possibly said.
Trying to contain your suitcase in such an environment is a mission. Keeping your stray socks, mounting shopping bags, holiday purchases, spewing undies all contained while you’re fighting for your five minutes in the cupboard is an extreme sport. You manage by being organised, planning your outfits ahead of time but mostly just hoping that when you get back, everyone else is still out. It’s this rare quiet time that you get to find out about the people that are sharing your sleeping space. Noticing which toiletries they leave in the bathroom, what shoes they’ve brought on holidays, what size their jeans are and where they like to shop. For complete strangers you get to know some very intimate details, but rarely will you remember their names.
It’s only the beginning of my hosteling holiday and I am sure that things are going to get much worse. Remembering that all I really need is a bed and hot water will get me through most things. Making up stories about the others – that’s what will get me through the rest. Even if I have to sleep on the top bunk.
life in big frilly knickers 