Youth Hostel
Ah, the youth hostel.
The briefest mention of the word hostel evokes negative thoughts of all sorts. The mind might go to images from horror films about a small group of friends staying at a hostel in a foreign country, captured later, probably murdered. Mention a youth hostel to anybody and take notice of incoming looks of disdain mixed with pity.
“Do you want to die?” They balk. “Hostels are dangerous,” they continue, in full knowledge that all they know of hostels has come from the internet and B movies. But movies would have you believe that everyone’s a killer and the world is more dangerous than it really is.
The biggest risk at a youth hostel?
Feeling old.
Cheap prices and hip vibes draw university students and young travelers into the hosteling world—hence the word youth. Some hostels have huge sleeping quarters, a rambunctious night life, and a very questionable shower situation. But not this hostel. It had beds with privacy curtains, private showers, and a full breakfast.
After a long day, my wife and I cleaned up and went to the group room (a sort of lounge area). We sat reading in the dim light, sipping our hot beverages. A pack of Vietnamese tourists chatted loudly next to us. And a few Russians played Xbox. Presently, one of the hosts came in and began personally inviting people to the bar downstairs. They were conducting “Fast Friends.” We listened in as he explained to a Jamaican man that every Friday, they give out free beer and do a sort of speed dating to encourage making new friends. Maybe we’re getting old. But this just didn’t sound like our scene.
We tried to polish an excuse before he got to us.
“We’re just in the middle of a good book.”
“Oh, it’s nearly time for bed.” (8 p.m. mind you)
“Our TV program is about to come on.”
“I think it’s Lawrence Welk.”
“I just took out my dentures.”
“We’re working on a colonoscopy prep.”
“There’s a casserole in the oven.”
“How many stairs are there?”
“But it’s Friday; I wash my hair on Friday.”
But alas, the man took one look at us in our cozy pants and tea and gave a weak hand gesture and invite.
“You two good?” he asked.
“Yes,” I smiled back, “we’re good.”
He didn’t really try too hard. He turned and left, and we felt just a little older for it.
The next morning, I came back to the group room for a cup of coffee. Three guys eyed me from the corner until one of them piped up.
“Where are you from.”
“America,” I said.
“How old are you?”
But before I could answer, he jumped in, “let me guess. You’re 25.”
I just smiled. Maybe I am still young.
Maybe I’m still a youth.
anthony forrest
