PulpLit.net

Home Sweet Hostel

I've been in San Diego for a few days now, and I'm feeling pretty relaxed. No offence to the city, but I chose it because I was looking for some place kind of average where there wasn't too much to do-- just sun, water and a lot of good pavement for skating on. It has delivered all of those things to some degree, although for some reason, it has been quite rainy-- a condition the locals assure me is absurd.

So I've been spending a lot of time just walking around or sitting at the hostel trying to work on the book, but mostly talking instead.

Hostels are so cool. I love them almost as much as I hate hotels. Hotels are lonely sterile places with scratchy sheets and funny smells. Here, everything is casual and friendly. My roommates this week have included two Swiss s who speak mostly German, and a veterinarian who, perhaps speaks horse. They all address me in English.

I've met several people this week who have prompted the comment "it takes all kinds, doesn't it?" Not from me. That's not one of my stock phrases. But meeker people seem to look to me for confirmation that, yes, this person who has just left the room appears to be one of the kind that needs taking.

There is, for instance, Onion Man. He keeps to himself, avoids eye contact and eats only cereal, onions and really big meat. (The pan covers three burners.) Onion Man is convinced that his roommate, Matt, has stolen one of his onions. Several people offered to give him their onions, but he refused to acknowledge the offers. He needs his own onion.

It's easy under these circumstances to slip into summer-camp-like behaviour, and so Matt is dealing with the conflict by buying a large bag of onions and hiding them in weird places around the hostel, everywhere Onion Man would go; nowhere he would expect to find onions.

It takes all kinds.

For the most part, though, everyone I've met has been really lovely. (Note to the reader: I have a marked tendency to love everyone, thing and place I come across on vacation, so this is no surprise.) Most of the people here are from the west coast. There was a couple from Seattle who run a window washing business and spend the winter traveling and washing windows while it's too cold and wet to wash windows at home. There was a guy from Brazil here on business, a woman attending a folk-festival conference, a Scottish guy no one can understand unless he speaks really slowly, a few people who are moving to the area and looking for apartments, several army guys, army reserve guys, and guys who used to be in the army and a few Japanese guys who nod a lot because they speak no English.

Every morning we have pancakes, and every night I fall asleep to the sound of s whispering in German. I feel like a fly on the wall at a Bavarian sleepover. So far so good.