Hostel snobbery

I’m staying at a chain hostel (my mistake) infested by the worst possible population of tourists. A cross-section:

1. Middle aged American woman with a voice like raked gravel from centuries of smoking spends five minutes trying in vain to plug in the microwave to make tea (that’s not how you make tea!) but can’t figure out the alien plug. I finally cave in and help her after watching her struggle for a while because I’m a terrible human. This is the last straw for her. “Why would they unplug the microwave? I’m honestly really disappointed in this city, I can’t wait to go home [Reno?]. I have a disability and none of the subways have elevators. This place isn’t what I thought it would be.” In her defense, I have often wondered how those with disabilities and strollers manage to navigate this alleged socialist paradise.

2. Australian girl commiserates with the aforementioned woman’s Paris Syndrome. She has practically been in tears to her brother over Skype for the past 45 minutes because her iPhone got stolen by a pickpocket on the Metro. I feel bad for her, she seems really sweet, but you know – rule number one of traveling is don’t get pickpocketed.

3. There was just a parade of three dozen 17-year-old American girls struggling to wrestle their enormous suitcases down the stairs and into lockers. I would bet money that every one of them brought along a blow dryer and six pairs of shoes (all of which have been savaged by puddles and cobblestones and subsequently whined about to their team mom chaperone).

4. Northface-clad boatshoe bros walk into what is called the “chill out room.” “Let’s check out the chill out room. Seems pretty chill man.” Yes, but is it as chill as the chill room at Kappa Sig, man? Is it as chill as your parents’ lake house, brah? Is it as chill as Panama City Spring Break ’08, dude? No, because you got a DUI on a bicycle. Your Dad made you mow the lawn all summer as punishment. Not chill, dude. That was not chill. EUROTRIP BRAH!

5. Some West African guy just walked into this room and assaulted all everyone with cologne. Drakkar Noir Bucket Challenge? The room is no longer chill. Man.

6. Hungover Australian girl has “heaps” of money but can’t access any of it and is going to London today. Good luck with that…

Yes, I am being hypercritical. I haven’t slept in 24 hours, fourteen of which have been spent on a bus, and I just want to take a shower and go to bed but I can’t check in for another two hours. The weather is crappy (i.e. not Barcelona) and this hostel, located in a sterile suburb of Paris, is a purgatorial joke between a Days Inn and a Youth Center. I will definitely not be tempted to join the festivities in the basement “nightclub” tonight. I’m going to go smash my head through the speaker that is vomiting out James Blunt right now.

UPDATE:

The Australian girl has holed herself up in her bunk with the curtain closed all day because she is scared to go out after getting her phone stolen. She’s young and it’s her first time traveling alone and now she has Paris Syndrome, a super chill Australian version, mind you, but it has rendered her incapacitated. I tried to be encouraging and invited her to go for a walk around the city but exactly 8 seconds later she shut the curtain. I think that constitutes a “no.”

I wasn’t able to nap today so I came downstairs to scout things out. Did you ever go to one of those multi-million dollar megachurches with entire wings devoted to making Christianity hip for Generation Y? With basketball courts and sparkly couches and huge auditoriums where budding bassists (who would be smoking pot in the gazebo within the year) would play edgy renditions of bible camp songs? Me too, once.

That’s what it’s like, except there’s no Pastor [insert monosyllabic first name here] to calm everybody down when they reach a certain prepubescent decibel level. I wandered around with my iPad and found a group of nerds working on a project in the corner. You can always count on a small group of studious French kids to completely ignore you. I feel good about my lunch table this year.

Under normal circumstances I would have a drink right now, because at hostels made for people who are off the daddy dole, shitty beer is almost always available for a euro or two behind the desk. But here they’ve professionally printed real menus (in impact font, lending to air of manufactured PG edginess) and I am not going to sacrifice 8 euros for a weak mojito made by a guy from Missouri. No, there is no refrigerator so I can’t go and get my own booze and bring it back here, and if I did I would probably have a camp counselor type tell me I’m not allowed to skirt around the price gouging. Furthermore, my blood filtration system suffered considerably in Barcelona and I feel good about having dried out the past couple of days, as does my wallet.

I’m going to go to bed in an hour or two and wake up bright and early tomorrow and go to Bruges with Marie as fast as humanly possible. If I have to wake up and yell at some Uggbooted exchange students about keeping the noise level down, I will go get a counselor and they’ll go to the isolation bunk for the rest of Session 7.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s