A Farewell to Hostels

          The single room in Florence’s Archi Rossi hostel was slightly spartan: in addition to the (soft) bed, there was a desk and a large wardrobe with a lot of hangers. Not bad at all, I told myself. I was only there to sleep, after all. Then I opened the door to the bathroom. It was large and looked well-maintained, but it smelled of drains. It wasn’t unbearable at first, and a walk along the street outside revealed that this was in fact the neighborhood scent, but it got worse during the 18 hours of my stay. By the time I checked out it was intolerable. Like Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo (my travelling companion) I swore a solemn oath: never again would I stay in a hostel. 

          I used to like hostels. I had some unforgettable experiences in them when I was a lot younger, in Australia and Canada. Now I don’t belong in such establishments. It’s not just that my back kills me after a night on a cheap mattress. I'm just too old. As I sat down for breakfast in the Archi Rossi I surveyed the dining room and realized I was old enough to be the father of most of my fellow guests. It was a miserable thought, and I felt wholly out of place. 

The Archi Rossi was the last hostel I stayed in in Italy, but earlier in my trip I had spent a couple of nights in another one in Rome. It was very conveniently located about 5 minutes walk from Roma Termini train station. Privately I congratulated myself on this piece of forethought, for my backpack now felt like it contained a human being. The area wasn’t too bad either: multi-ethnic (kebab shops, mini-supermarkets run by Indians, Chinese and Korean restaurants), with lots of cafes and restaurants; a bit dirty, but with no sense of threat. 

          I busted a gut climbing two or three flights of steps to reception. The name of the hostel sounded Italian enough: it was called ‘Alessandro Downtown’. The staff were in consequence a surprise, for they were all Asian. Maybe they were Thais; it doesn’t really matter. Still, they had broad smiles and I was pleased with my reception. The communal areas were clean and, more importantly, my room was spacious and pretty modern. I took a quick shower and walked into the centre of Rome with the sense of excited expectation that all travelers feel the first time they see a great city. 

          When I returned near midnight I was deadbeat. I opened the large window, had a nightcap (a can of Birra Moretti), lay down and gamely attempted to read my French copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. As I wasn’t wholly sober I gave up after a couple of lines and crashed into sleep. 

I woke up a couple of hours later to use the bathroom. After getting back onto the bed (not into it: the room had no air-con and was sweltering) I realized my body had sunk into the middle of the mattress. As I lay there sweating it gradually dawned on me that there was an unpleasant odour in the room. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was – damp, sweat, mould? All three, perhaps? It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there, and unavoidable. I assumed it was from the cushion-like mattress. I came up with a solution which I had never before employed: I doused my neck with eau de toilette (Allure by Chanel), which just about cloaked the mephitic mattress smell. 

          Next time I woke up it was bright. My back felt like it belonged to an 80 year old. I was aware of a sort of panicked desperation to get out of my room as fast as humanly possible, so after taking a shower I plunged into the boiling streets of Rome. I didn’t go back to my room for about fifteen hours, and only then to sleep – aided by another dose of Chanel. 

          My hostel low-point had occurred before this, however. I had booked a different hostel in Florence on my way south. Exhausted from the heat and my journey from France, I plunged the wrong key into my bedroom door where it became firmly lodged. It was irretrievable and I had to pay 20 euros to have the hinges taken off the doorframe. I cursed my stinginess – the Scottish side of me, I suppose – and wondered why on earth I had elected to skimp on accommodation. 

          So why did I do it? For a couple of reasons, I suppose. First, to save a bit of cash. Second, to meet some fellow backpackers. Only when I arrived in these hostels did I become aware of my folly. The only friends I made on my trip in France and Italy were a Swiss couple whom I met over breakfast in a B & B in the Provençal wine village of Rasteau. They were in their fifties.