The Elusive Hostel is a Welcome Sight!

I’m in Costa Rica and it feels great to travel again. I know it’s a short stint and it’s a destination wedding, but for just a couple days here I can pretend to be a backpacker again, living life like I did in late 2009. In some odd sappy bout of sentimentality, I feel like I’m doing what I’m made to do when I can treat the world like my sandbox. And while it seems ridiculous to blog about a trip that is primarily a destination wedding–especially when my primary readership (i.e. my mom) is also going to be here–it’s something I still feel compelled to do. To me travel without reflection and blogging is like a morning without a fresh cup of coffee. It just doesn’t work for me.

Of course I’m not a backpacker this time round, and my disguise is so thin I’m not even really trying to pretend. Maybe it’s my rollie suitcase, or the fact that I have an iPhone, iPad, and laptop crammed into a locker with other valuables like jewelry. Or perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve been camped out on a hostel couch for the evening uploading files to Home Depot and trying to get last minute work obligations off my plate before I can really relax. Whatever the case, even though I know I’m a poser, I’m loving hanging out in this little common area, TV blaring with bad sitcoms, people coming and going, and various smells permeating the air as my fellow hostelers take their turns in the kitchen (I got there first after hitting a local grocery store and hours later still feel as if I have committed the deadly sin of gluttony).

I actually had a reservation at a Hilton Hotel with a shuttle from the airport to the hotel– and all for free thanks to hotel points. But for some reason I found myself cancelling it. I booked a bunk bed in a hostel instead, dorm style. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to travel this way. I mean, I’m no longer a fresh-out-of-college-on-a-tight-budget kid. There’s no need for me to pinch pennies by hosteling it. Is it my refusal to grow up? An old habit? My slight addiction to chaos and experiencing the unknown? Maybe I am just desperate to relive my around the world adventure of 2 years ago. Or perhaps it is a subtle act of rebellion, an assertion of independence. If I am honest with myself, I am still bothered way more than I would like to be that my plus-one to this wedding is not with me as originally planned–the result of a series of unfortunate non-events–and a bustling hostel is a good way to keep any sad and sour thoughts at bay.

I did start to question my decision to travel down and dirty when I turned down a cab to the hostel and opted for a local bus system instead. I only had to ask two people as I walked down the street, suitcase compliantly rolling along behind me, when I found my bus. At least I hoped it was my bus. The sign on it matched my destination. After I jumped on the bus only split seconds before the driver was about to pull away, I had no clue how much to pay for the ride. I held out a fistful of foreign coins as he impatiently plucked a couple from my hands. I could feel a zillion eyes on me, the foreign white girl fresh from the airport who obviously can’t speak a lick of Spanish. As the bus zoomed away, I loudly asked the driver to show me where the stop before the hospital was.

He shook his head, unable to converse in English.

I tried my hand at Spanglish. ¨Hos-pee-tall?¨

He gruffly nodded, made some impatient gestures, jibbered stuff I did not understand, and waved me to find a seat. I sighed as I clobbered down the aisle of the moving bus with my suitcase, trying to find a seat, very aware that I was being scrutinized with a mixture of fascination and amusement. They were probably also wondering why I didn’t take a cab.

I had no clue where to get off this bus or if I was even heading in the right direction. But for some reason this thought didn’t alarm me like perhaps it should have. I knew I’d figure it out somewhere, somehow, even with the language barriers.

As the bus chugged along I observed the vaguely familiar Central American feel- loud, dilapidated cars, shacks among gas stations and hard days restaurants, people walking everywhere, small motorbikes wheezing like smokers…It’s got a decent vibe and seemed to be about what I expected.

As I was observing this new country with a glorious backdrop of mountains, the bus stopped and the driver said something at the front in Spanish, loudly. I had no idea what, but in a strange sort of telephone-game like chain, punctuated by a lot of loud “Senorita!”s, I somehow knew I was being told to get off, even though there did not appear to be a hospital anywhere close by. So I disembarked the bus and stood on the side of the road with no clue whether I needed to turn left, right, or go straight.

Of course I choose the wrong way, but with the help of an English-speaking local, I was eventually rerouted and found my hostel. In a weird way, it felt homey and familiar to me when I checked in. I threw my stuff on a bottom bunk and met my roomies for the night: two fellow Canadian females, one of whom grew up one hour from where I did. Small world. I asked one about her friend and she informed me that her friend is her wife and they are on a two month honeymoon.  This is why I love hostels. You never know how you’ll meet.

So tonight, today, for 24 hours, I’m reliving the solo backpack dream, even if it is punctured by Skype messages from China informing me of shipment delays. The smell of tropics is in the air and I’m about to crash on a cardboard-like bunk bed in a room with two Lesbian strangers. The Hilton can’t beat that!