A Hostel Look at Life

January 24, 2008

Photo: Flickr/Buteijn

And the warrior continued her war, albeit a peaceful one in which she alternated between assuming the contrary roles of victor and loser, but nonetheless a war waged on soil familiar to battles much greater and certainly of a character more devastating. I returned to Utrecht from Brussels, which had been a looming desire of mine for the past two weeks, following a trip there with my visiting older sister – someone capable of ridding any experience of the quality of enjoyable. A birthday present to yourself, I thought in planning. That said, I splurged and booked a hostel - dorm accommodations, 24 hour breakfast buffet (a world where muesli reigns free), with free musical instruments for hostel dwellers.

I walked passed the B&B City Centre Hostel about four times before finding a door with a note taped to the front offering directions on how to open the rectangular enigma. “Turn slow and firm,” read the gospel. That should have been the first red flag to exit the premises; I preferred knobs for which directions were negligible.

A plump man greeted me at the door (that I eventually succeeded in opening), and led me upstairs to the reception desk - that being the long breakfast buffet table - an impressively long and unimpressively chipped wooden table clad with cheeses that likely would never see a fridge, for their demise would be at the hands of the musical note seekers getting their 16 Euros worth by having individual jam sessions with free (yes, free!) musical instruments.

Everyone within sight was wearing a black shirt - the only common thread between ME and THEM. Though, not too common a fiber, as my garb was freshly washed and hailed from an empire known as the GAP, a domain where these anti-establishment guitar pic holders would likely never tread.

The concierge (nameless chubby being) went to look for a bed for me and, realizing that I could never stay here, I asked upon his return (via a waddle-like gait), “Do you have lockers?”

His negative reply, delivered with a ‘no man, but I wish we did’ tone was my means of exiting with my pink overnight bag without looking like someone who just didn’t want to sleep in a dirty place. I was justified; I was a warrior concerned about losing her armor – pink variety armor not fit to remain among sound producing objects that didn’t warrant a fee.

He offered to lock my things in the downstairs office - fast forward to my vision of this bandanna wearing banjo player playing dress up with my things in the middle of the night, stating to his reflection in the mirror, “Pink is a worthy color, pink is pretty, pink is my new friend.”

He then offered to show me my would-be room, as if I needed further convincing to run like hell. Pink-loving-but-doesn’t-know-it-yet hostel (though certainly not hostile) employee opened the door, then turned toward me to make an exaggerated “Shhh!” finger-to-the-lip gesture. I saw a girl who embodied the image of a drug addict – rail thin, eyes underscored by dark circles, perfecting a fixed, blank stare. Then I saw dirty sheets, lots of them, perhaps more sheets than musical instruments.

I thanked him upon exiting, quite the gentleman walking me to the door, and then began on the path of what had just morphed into a day trip. A light rain greeted me as I reunited with the outside world so I found my way to a café, consumed a latte from a big cup (finally, American portions! - loser becomes victor) and ate a sub-par muffin. It tasted like Angel Food Cake, the widely acclaimed “it’s like eating air” cake, so maybe my indulgence wasn’t so bad and I could have rationalized another pastry in an hour (1/2 hour?) as I knew walking around with my pink armor on a drizzly day would serve as reason to caffeinate myself in various other cafes along the exquisitely charming streets of Utrecht.

The cafe was busy when I arrived and, after squeezing myself, baggage, and wet umbrella into a narrow section of counter seating (without a doubt knocking at least three people in the head with my bags) a more humane table opened and I went after it (without a doubt knocking the same three people in the head with my aforementioned armor).

I sat down at a table home to a tray with two cups left behind from the pair of friends who not too long ago drank their contents. I wondered if I appeared to be someone whose friends went to the bathroom, someone who was not alone - both in real space and the cavernous home of emotions many call a heart.

No, I was the likeness of someone who arrived in Utrecht, was forced to cut her birthday vacation short, and was optimistic enough to think that a muffin served in a country lacking a relationship with skim milk was low-fat, even air-like. My undeniable appearance was that of a young woman willing to sit at a dirty table.

About the author : Jackie Leventhal is a Floridian turned Washingtonian who believes that life has a novelistic quality to it, so she’s fond of saying, “Story of my life.” She documents “only me” moments on her blog. Jackie debuted her prose with a weekly column on Employee Evolution (www.employeeevolution.com) where she humorously shared the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o’clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio. She volunteers as an English teacher to immigrants, finds happiness on a hot pink yoga mat, and leads a women’s writing group. She wants to be her own best-seller and subscribes to the Nancy Mair “I will write myself into well-being” philosophy.