On a Hostel Break

I finally left the Luna´s Castle/Mondo Taitu vortex today. It was sad to say goodbye, but my early morning flight did give me some time to think about a certain exchange some unknown defecators graffitied out on our ¨random trivia¨wall in one of the bathroom stalls at Luna´s:

¨Did you know that 90% of American travelers spend most of their time in their hostel?¨

¨Obviously you had to be spending the same amount of time to even know that, dumbass¨

¨Why the hostility?¨

I´m guilty as 90% of my ilk are charged. I spend a lot of time in hostels when I travel, even taking into account the fact that I work in them from time to time. I like them. I like the colorful art, the free Internet and coffee, the cheap beer and expensive laundry service. I like the inspired ennui of their scene and the constant transience, by way of contrast. I like the intense personalities of strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives gawked at by other strangers.

Don´t get it twisted, I also love traveling and finding out of the way, locally endemic bits of idiosyncracy. But I don´t think it´s wrong to travel in part to find other travelers.

I´m scrolling back through the faces on the scores of digital photos I´ve taken on this trip and realizing what a lucky, lucky girl I am. So shoot me, I hang out in hostels. Can you blame me?

Like, there was this one time, back in late November, when I had to drop off a friend at the San Jose, Costa Rica airport who I´d been traveling with and vibing off of for awhile. Sad times, particularly since it was yours truly´s 24th birthday. I got on the theft-prone busride for the cloud forest of Monteverde with a heavy heart and just a little blue I´d be spending my special day among strangers.

But here´s the thing about travel, and travelers. I walk into Pension Santa Elena, a sprawling hostel that looks more like a funky mountain restaurant from the entrance and ran smack into a big, happily international birthday party. Like, there were silly hats, a cake with frosting and everyone was singing that song I needed to hear.

Turns out Rory from Manhattan was turning 24 that very day, and before you could say ¨pura vida¨ I had a crew to get older with. We drank Imperial and were serenaded at the bar by one of the staff members´ reggae group. We had no need for introduction cause here we were, in Monteverde, Costa Rica, and if you think we needed any other connection to play with each other, you´re crazy.

I´m still in touch with some of the birthday partiers- they´ve got an open invitation to hang in Portland, just like the one I´ve got for when I get to their various home locales.

Some people feel most at home in the neighborhood they grew up in, or at the office, or on the basketball court. Its a place where they have things in common with other people, where they´re one of the gang. My corner of comfort in this world is the open road, and when I attack this thing with these six month travel-binges, I find the characters I pick up along the way are infinitely relatable, extensively compatible.


P.S. Erik and I just made it to Baranquilla, Colombia. One more stamp on the passport, one more continent to conquer. Carnaval hits this town by storm tomorrow. Wish me luck, I´ll be the one covered in facepaint and glitter. And stay tuned. Miss you all. -CD