As is with the nature of hostels, I woke before seven in the morning at the shakes of my bunk bed because the guy up above seemed sure not to get dressed like the rest of the world with feet on the floor. Thump went my skull against the head rest as he spent what seemed like pointless minutes, sliding into one trouser leg after another. Just when I thought he was through – out came his jumper from a huge backpack which he presumably spooned all night. By the time he was done he’d woken the other two guys in the room as well.
I laid projecting exhausted yawns as if to kindly say ‘Please shut the fuck up’, the sounds of backpackers, lockers, tooth brushes, zips and sandals storming my mind awake. I reluctantly stretched to my toes, threw last night’s clothes over my shoulders and headed for the free breakfast down the hall, taking a leak along the way in a corridor toilet. I’d already been disrupted once by the room share. I certainly wasn’t getting in line for a ‘private’ bathroom to make small talk with the very folk who interrupted my intent. Nor was I going to place myself subjected to the peculiarities of a stranger’s toothbrush and sink routine. Just how many rinses and spits are necessary?
Over toast in the communal kitchen I spoke, or rather, I was spoken to, by a fifty year old lady who gave me a download of her views at every crunch of my bread – barely crispy due to the impatient huffs and puffs of people behind me in the toaster line. Hostels she moaned, used to be free. This one was too regulated. Everything in life is too complicated, she swims three hours up river from her home in the woods each day, VH1 play trash and if Kanye West and Beyonce are going to prance around as they do, they should at least install some high fashion. That girl Pink though, hits her spot.
With a final bite of my snack I politely smiled and left her to continue ranting aloud, reaffirming my observation that most, if not all hippies, be it the phonies or the real deals, have more chips on their shoulders and gripes with the world than they’ve grown dreadlocks, worn bangles or lit joints.
Suddenly the conformity in the sea of average joe hostel goers made more sense. Sure, the lumps of flesh headphoned into their laptops and wired up to head sets and microphones resembled something of a contradiction to the very purpose of a vacation away, their clothes almost matching from one node to another and nothing more controversial than a ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘How long are you here for?’ being exchanged, but they seemed content with their lives having not chosen the tree huggers route of looking first for a negative in any situation and looking or sounding like, well, an unhappy mess. Then again, should impact be the point, who makes the most?