The second in a series of...

...recollections.

Trapped in a hostel. Purgatory.

I’m writing two posts at once, partially because I’ve been pressed for time for the last week, partially because it was too difficult for me to formulate anything that even approaches what I felt when I left Oxford. In fact, I’m going to go ahead and write about what has happened more recently first, because I am still experiencing it and I don’t think I’ve settled on what to say about leaving the Summer School quite yet. I don’t know, but I feel like the quality of my writing tends to fluctuate wildly from day to day. Academic papers to e-mails, I think how good they are is almost totally dependent on my mood and physical state. As of now, I don’t think I am writing well, but I wanted to get this down on paper before I got too much farther on.
I am in London. My tourist activities aren’t really worth mentioning. I’ve probably walked 10 km, I’ve seen Big Ben and Parliament and Buckingham Palace. I’ve shipped a package to Jakarta. It is crowded and diverse. I have generally enjoyed my time, though choosing to go on a largely unplanned exploration of a place I have never been immediately following an intellectually and emotionally draining experience may not have been the best decision. I may relate other stories soon, but for now, the most interesting thing about my time in London has been one thing in particular.

I am staying in a hostel about 2 blocks from the Earl’s Court Train Stop in West-Central London. From the exterior, it is a very pretty building, situated near 4 or 5 two to three star hotels in a neighborhood that is crowded with tourists. There are 5 pubs, several cafes, a Burger King, a McDonalds, and a Starbucks all within walking distance. The interior of the Youth Hostel is big. Immediately after the entrance, reception is on the right and a row of outdated computers on the two walls on the left. The air is heavy with the smell of ethnic cooking and unwashed bodies. A series of complicated hallways lead to a staircase leading to several floors with fewer than three rooms on each floor. The layout is more akin to an apartment building than a hotel.

In my room, there is room for four beds, a sink, a dresser, and not much else. When I arrived, I was greeted by a tall Spaniard who nodded at me and left the room. I learned later that his name is Eric. Next, a small, portly man of about 45 walked in, he introduced himself as Patrizio. We chatted about empty things and I took a nap. I woke up to a room full of people. My last roommate is a Brazilian named Kauli. I exchanged the same pleasantries with those two, asking about their lives and about the ins and outs of the hostel. The first thing that I learned was that there are “things that bite you and suck your blood while you sleep.” Charming.

To this point, my expectations about the hostel had been as follows; full of 20-somethings, maybe some 18 and 19 year olds, from all over the world, staying for a couple of nights or a week on their tours of Europe or on holiday in London. Most of them would be well to do, but with limited travel funds; either students or recently graduated.

The only expectation that has been satisfied is the variety of origins. I’ve met two Italians, a man from south Africa, a Brazilian, a kid from Paraguay, and a couple others and a of couple of others. The median age is around 34. Everyone I’ve talked to has been here for at least a month. I’ve heard of short=term visitors, but I’m yet to meet any. About a third is employed.

Eric has been here for about 3 weeks. He arrived from Spain, intending to explore London for a short time. He says most days he explores various parks, reads, writes, drinks. Kauli had been here for a little over a month, give or take. He (along with 3 others I have met) says he is a “chef”. Apparently, he was employed as a line cook and married for the first 3 years he was in London. He and his wife divorced, he quit his job, and now he says he cooks for “private functions.” He failed to mention any of these functions while were talking. Patrizio has been at the Youth hostel for 3 months. Prior to this, he lived in another for a year and a half. He says he pays for it through savings. Asked what he does most says, he replied that he walks, he reads, he writes, sometimes he does drawings. He showed me a few in a small note pad, they were mostly 4 lines, about 20 words each. It was clear that English is not his first language and that love is a frequent preoccupation.

Each pays about 80 pounds a week for the privilege of sharing a single room with four people. I don’t know what their immigration status is in the UK. It appears that they each smoke a couple of joints several times a day.

What struck me most about the residents of Earls Court’s Youth Hostel are their reasons for remaining in a situation that they each complain about daily. Patrizio told me about how Kauli had announced his intention to leave the day before I arrived. Still, he was there to greet me on my first day. Patrizio says he’s wanted to leave for 2 years. He says his money will run out soon. When asked when he would leave,
Kauli replied,

“pretty soon, pretty soon”
Asked where he was going,
“If knew, I wouldn’t be here”
I asked him where he wanted to go. Patrizio interrupted,
“Nobody know. That’s why we’re all here. Nobody know!”

The Youth Hostel is not for Youth. It’s not a temporary place to live. People stay for months. It’s a sort of purgatory…a place people go when they are disappointed that London is not all that they imagined but they have no will or no way to return home. Nobody here likes London anymore. They talk about the pretty women, the temperate climate, but those I’ve talked to would rather be in America or Paris or anywhere else.

I haven’t slept well in the time that I’ve been here. I’ve been itchy, either because of the hard water in the shower, or because I’ve imagined little critters on my skin, or because there are actually bed bugs. The bed is uncomfortable. Last night Kauli came it at 3 with a bottle of wine in hand, he stood in front of Eric’s laptop playing some choice selections. As I recall it was mostly 50 cent, drum and bass, and Pink Floyd. It one point, he played “Horse With No Name” and “Hotel California” on repeat for about half an hour. I was particularly amused by the latter choice. The music played on until 6 this morning.

Despite everything described above, I’m glad I’ve sent this. The people I stay with seem to be very poignant examples of impetuousness gone totally awry. They all speak at least three languages. Eric, who studies Rousseau and Spanish wine guides as its beginning, Kauli, who apparently was quickly climbing the ranks at a popular restaurant in Rio as its middle, and Patrizio, who claims to have earned a degree and held a position that earned enough money to travel across North America and Europe as its late stages. I don’t know that these people are unhappy, but they certainly do not seem very happy.

This all seems to me to be a strong case for always having a purpose when traveling…not that everyone ends up this way. It just seems that the possibility would have been less likely had they had something that they came here for.

Happy Trails.

-kevpetuous.