I'm Telling You, I Itch!

A few days ago, my roommate expressed her concern regarding accommodations for our trip to Boston this September. The only reasonable hotels were located miles outside the city limits and we had no friends to speak of in the New England area. This only left one option: the hostel.

I have seen my fair share of hostels in the last two years and recognized Liz’s concerns. Yet, much like the public bus, I have always felt a sort of kinship to this cheap, if not sketchy, form of shelter.

My first hostel experience occurred two years ago during my time abroad. A few weeks into my trip, I spent a weekend in Wales. This initial hostel experience spoiled me, and I left the lovely abode with a disillusioned sense of cheap travel. Breakfast was free, the sheets appeared to be clean and there was a lovely den, complete with a fireplace and library for all to enjoy. Hostels were okay in my book.

After a handful of perfectly fine experiences in other places, my roommates and I began planning our spring break trip to Italy. Seasoned travelers by that point, or so we thought, we were confident in booking our own accommodations and secured our own hostels for both Rome and Florence. We had gone to the local STA office a few weeks prior and decided to let our cute travel agent, Toby, go ahead and book Venice on our behalf.

With uneventful stays in both Rome and Florence, we arrived in Venice eager to see what sort of palace Toby had booked.

After a ferry ride away from the touristy portion of Venice, we arrived at our hostel. Stepping inside, something did not seem right. Accustomed to the traditional 20-something crowd, we were surprised to see a soccer team full of 9 year-old boys in the cafeteria - the cafeteria which also served as the lobby.

We walked up to the front desk to check-in, slightly disturbed to find an elderly woman fishing through a giant laundry bin to our left. We soon learned this was where you fetched your “fresh” linens.

Despite some initial concerns, we lugged our suitcases up the stairs with a sense of hope. We would be spending our Easter here, afterall.

Trudging up to the top of the steps, we were immediately accosted by walls painted an ungodly shade of bright yellow. Instantly regretting that my sunglasses were out of reach, I proceeded ahead of the others and took a peak in our room.

I’ve never toured a women’s prison before, but I imagined it would have an uncanny look and feel to the room I was currently looking into.

Over 15 sets of bunk beds were lined up in the narrow space, stacked three high and nearly touching the ceiling. A cluster of Asian women were huddled together near the front of the room, muttering in broken English. I tried to prepare the girls as they walked over.

“Picture a prison.”

Hauling our luggage past the United Nations Women’s Correctional Gang, I was getting pretty alarmed. Damn that Toby!

By some small miracle I was to sleep on one of the bottom bunks, two strangers above me. I had enough trouble maneuvering a traditional set of bunk beds, never mind a threesome.

That evening I attempted to get a good night’s rest, which was incredibly difficult as the woman on top of me – so to speak – began yelling at the girls in the adjoining room to shut up. I imagined my life as this woman's bitch, forced to get a cropped haircut and go by the name of Lawrence.

The next morning I woke up feeling particularly itchy, but it was Easter morning and I had no time to dwell on paranoia. Besides, I had a free hot breakfast to look forward to!

We got dressed, squinted past the yellow walls and arrived at the cafeteria, where we grabbed trays and got in the serving line.

“Hot chocolate or coffee?” the woman on the other side asked me.

“Umm orange juice?”

“HOT CHOCOLATE OR COFFEE?”

Apparently write-ins were not acceptable. Grabbing my cup of hot chocolate, I waited for the next woman to serve me my breakfast. Instead, she plopped a hard roll on my tray and nudged me along.

Hot chocolate and a hard roll without butter were bad enough, but it was Easter morning! Toby would hear about this.

We sat silently at the table, gnawing at our rolls. I’ve always had a hearty appetite and one roll wasn’t going to hold me over for an hour, much less until lunch. After our five course meal, we bought some fruit at a local store, which once again hardly seemed sufficient. But food was becoming the least of my worries. The itching had not stopped.

That night we flew back to England. The next morning I woke up covered in little red bumps and was itching like crazy. My one roommate insisted this was “all in my head”, which was somewhat true. The red bumps WERE on my head, too.

After some frantic Google investigating, I came to the disturbing conclusion that thanks to Toby, I had gotten a troubling case of bed bugs from the Venetian prison.

For those of you who are fortunate enough to have never come down with bed bugs, the itching is not nearly as bad as the mental warfare this condition creates. To know your skin is infested with bugs you picked up from sheets out of a communal bin is a realization I wish on nobody. Well, except for Toby.

I purchased some anti-itch cream and looked like quite the prize as I answered the door that evening, covered in white medicated spots, to greet our very attractive handyman. Life was good.

I spent the rest of my time in England trying to avoid yellow walls and managed to return to the U.S. with nothing more than a slight mental condition.

The following year I arrived in Ireland and was generally pleased with the hostels I encountered. In the next five months I traveled the country without a harrowing story to be told.

And then I went back to England.

I had decided to return to Bath for a few days before moving back to the U.S., but was slightly apprehensive about my travel arrangements. Bridget wasn’t coming with me and it would be first time staying in a hostel without a friend.

Bath has very few accommodation options and I settled for the cheapest place I could find in the center of town. I didn’t plan on spending much time in the room anyway, and was willing to sacrifice a little luxury.

Had I known the emotional basket case I would become after leaving Ireland, I would have booked a private suite at the Ritz-Carlton, no expenses spared. I spent the first night in Bath sobbing uncontrollably in my hostel bed, which must have been very alarming for the five men who were sharing my room. Bridget was gone, Ireland was but a memory and I was miserable. Wearing flip flops in the shower and sleeping on top of my passport and valuables did not help. Listening to the man in the bunk next to mine moaning while lying in boxer briefs was no consolation, either.

The next day I was supposed to stay with an old high school friend who was living in a neighboring town, but plans fell through late in the day. Sitting in the basement of my old school after visiting my study abroad tutors, I realized I was without a place to stay that night. If I left the townhouse to venture out for food, there would be no guarantee I’d get back in. The tutors closed the building after 5 and if you didn’t know the code on the door pad, you couldn’t get in.
I sat at the computer, contemplating my options. It would be nearly impossible to find a hostel with an open bed and the couch in the basement looked pretty cozy. I knew a security guard came around at midnight to check the building, but I was praying he would go no further than the classrooms and bypass the basement turned living quarters.

It was only 6 pm and I had no more than a few cookies on me. Rationing them out over the next six hours like a World War II housewife feeding her eleven children, I moved to the couch around 10 pm. Setting an open textbook out on the table in front of me and keeping the lights on, I created the perfect scene. Should the security guard come downstairs, I would simply tell him I had fallen asleep studying.

I drifted off to sleep moments later, shivering on the tiny couch in my sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. British plumbing and heating, FYI, is deplorable.

A few hours later, I woke up to the sound of someone coming down the steps. Oh God, I suddenly thought, springing up on the couch, what have I done?!

A security guard came around the corner to find me sitting on the couch, calmly holding a textbook. I tried to play it cool, rubbing my eyes and shaking my head. “Oh geez, I must have fallen asleep while studying!” I said, quickly gathering my things.

“That’s okay,” the pleasant man said, walking me outside. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yes,” I lied, standing there like a crazy bag lady with my backpack and a pair of sneakers in my hand. “I’m just going to head back to the house.”

A lot of thoughts crossed my mind as I wandered the streets of Bath at midnight, the most frequent of which being, “OH SHIT.” It was a freezing October night and I had nowhere to go, surrounded by crowds of drunken teenagers. If you’ve ever lived in England, you understand just how frightening those British adolescents can be.

I went to two hostels, both of which were full for the evening. I’m a fairly calm traveler but the idea of sleeping under the Pultney Bridge was too much, and despite falling for a very attractive homeless man the year prior, I had serious doubts he would still be in front of that same McDonalds, willing to lead me to a safe corner of town.

1 a.m. came and went before I stumbled upon one final YMCA hostel. By the grace of God, they informed me there were two beds available. I had never been so happy to sleep in a communal room in my entire life.

The next, and last, evening of my stay, I returned to the first hostel. The moaning man was still there.

Two more guys had also moved into the room and chatted with me briefly before going out to explore the city. With the room to myself for a short period of time, I began condensing my bags. Aer Lingus was a real bitch about excess luggage and I knew I’d have to throw away a few of my items prior to take-off. With that in mind, I tossed my Adidas shoes into the trashcan, taking a moment of silence to remember all the places they had been.

A few hours later the two guys returned. I watched from my bed as one of them walked over to the trashcan, peering in and yelling to his buddy. “Dude, someone left really good shoes in here!”
I raised the book I was reading in front of my face to conceal my laughter.

“Seriously, look at these,” he said, picking the right shoe up and examining it in the air.

“Don’t pick that up, you don’t know where that’s been!” the other one said.

The friend ignored him and continued inspecting my shoes. I watched in horror as he lowered his face into one of them. “They kind of smell and I think they might be women’s, but they’re in really good shape. Dude these are GOOD shoes! Why would someone throw them out?”

His friend looked fairly disgusted. "There's got to be a reason someone threw them out!"

Wholly unconvinced, the guy at the trashcan picked up the left counterpart and walked over to his bunk to try them on. “Fit like a GLOVE dude.”

It was incredibly hard to stifle my laughter as I watched the new shoe owner beaming at his second-hand Adidas before taking them off and placing them neatly next to his bunk.

That night after the boys went out on the town, I considered leaving a note on the shoes.

“Dude…these ARE women’s shoes. They were mine.” -Lauren.

Instead, I left the hostel quietly that night and headed to the train station, happy my shoes would continue to lead a life of travel and adventure. It was time for me to go home, but they had other places to see.

The following day I returned to the U.S. and the comforts of my own room, finally free from another hostel experience gone wrong.

My stay in Boston next month will be just shy of the one year anniversary since my last hostel experience in England and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate. Some prefer the luxuries of a clean hotel room, but I’m partial to the hostel, my home away from home during the most incredible two years of my life.

Despite my fond memories, there is a very real possibility that Liz’s concerns will come to fruition, and we’ll end up sitting in Fenway Park lathered in anti-itch ointment while strangers help themselves to our footwear. Should this be the case, I’ll no doubt console Liz, all the while hiding the smile spreading across my face and the realization I’ve come to embrace.

At least it’s a good story.