A First Timer
- Triniti Rivera
- Mar 12
- 7 min read
Updated: Mar 13
My First Hostel Stay
It was around 7 pm when I arrived. The rain was beating down on me and the booming traffic made me more disoriented than I already was. But there it was—the hostel I’d only ever viewed pictures of—right in front of me, in the flesh. It was wedged into a random side street that looked like it would be scary to walk through at night. Two people smoking cigarettes outside welcomed me with their stares. A nice establishment.
Upon entering, the receptionist made a copy of my passport and gave me a card to unlock the turnstile—which was the only security measure in the entire hostel. The dining area had five tables and parrot-printed walls, leading to a tiny kitchen that held four people crammed in it, all trying to cook at once. Past that was a bathroom/hand-washing area, and a washer/dryer unit that was out of order from then until nearly the end of my work exchange.
The receptionist showed me the common area, which had two very worn couches, a foosball table, and a bar area that connected back to the reception desk. My last stop on the sight-seeing tour was my shared room. The receptionist opened the door to show three bunk beds, a set of lockers, and a little bathroom squeezed in the corner. I was just starting to hope for a bottom bunk when he pointed to the top one and said, “Here’s yours, and you get the corresponding locker, which is 3”.
I started to stow away my things and get ready for bed. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to make it in the hostel truthfully. The beds looked like they held more life in them than I did, the shower had no hot water, there was zero privacy, and I was sleeping in a room full of strangers with a door that didn’t lock. I reassured my mom that the hostel was so nice and that I felt comfortable staying in it before going to bed.
For the first week or so, I tightfisted an on-guard demeanor. I didn’t trust that people wouldn’t take my things–both my personal items and groceries in the fridge. There had already been a food bandit who went to the kitchen drunk and engorged himself with as much food as he could, disregarding whose food it was. My work partner’s groceries were collateral to the drunken rampage.
On the flip side, I had already liked a few of my roommates. One was a Hispanic woman who had a love for playing violin and having deep -conversations before bedtime, and another who was Greek and gave really good transportation tips. Anytime I let a flick of intimidation in being a solo-traveller bite at my fingertips, she would remind me of how common it was for Europeans. She shared how young she was when she first started; which made me feel that rather than playing with toys like American kids, Europeans played with travel. Maybe it was time for me to grow up.
I tried to spend as much time in the common area as possible to mingle. The staff and long-term stayers were all very close, and I wanted to befriend them. They held so many gatherings there and would invite me to celebrate birthdays, going-away parties, and the occasional dinner from time to time. They would typically pair each occasion with red and white wines and rumbling laughter as they shared insider Italian jokes I couldn’t pick up on.
One evening rather than going out to mingle, I was on a phone call in my bedroom. As I was sharing that I had finally gotten the bottom bunk, the door opened to show another receptionist holding a grocery sack. He smiled and set it on my bed as I confusingly returned a smile. It felt like one of those instances in Elementary, when a teacher sets flowers or a small gift on your desk because your mom bought you something “just because”. Though I never experienced this, I vicariously lived through my classmates that did.
Once my phone call had ended, I went to the reception desk to ask what the bag was for. The receptionist replied, “I just wanted to be nice.” I thanked him and went back to find that the bag had been loaded with chocolate: pure dark chocolate, dark chocolate with almonds, white chocolate (gross), pure milk chocolate, milk chocolate with caramel, and on and on. It was like the bag never ended—even after sharing the majority with my roommates. I just felt disappointed that it wasn’t my mom after all.
Every morning, I would pass the other late-night-early-morning receptionist.
“Buonasera” I’d tell him, and he’d reply, “No buongiorno”.
He and I would do that frequently, until I finally stopped saying “good evening” in Italian.
“Buongiorno” I’d say and he’d reply, “No, if you say giorno, you’ll sound a little more native.”
It didn’t take too long before I established a hostel routine. I would go out and explore before my shifts, babysit for a few hours, return and make myself dinner, eat more food that a Georgian man always insisted I needed to try, sit in the common area to mingle for a bit, and then return to my room to get ready for bed.
One evening, as I was tucking myself in, my mouth began to salivate at the thought of anything loaded with sugar. It’s not the night that makes you restless, it’s the thoughts that keep you up in the night, as they say.
As I lulled my sugar-junkie thoughts to bed, I flipped over to my side and slid my hand under the pillow. I immediately felt something hard underneath. As I pulled it out, I realized it was a hazelnut chocolate candy bar. I sat on my bed perplexed. What was that doing there? How long had it been sitting there? Had I just been visited by a chocolate-tooth fairy? I had a hunch about who I could attribute the gift to. So against my intense yearning, I decided to not eat it and died a little inside.
As I approached the end-date of my work exchange, I started to get nostalgic of all of the excursions and conversations I’d shared with people from all over the world. I felt a deep sense of gratitude in knowing that I was able to have companionships throughout my travels. The hostel staff and I had one last hurrah, this time celebrating my work partner’s and my departure.
We had an Aperitivo on the secret hostel balcony that overlooked other Italian buildings. We shared wine, rumbling laughter, and a few insider jokes that I had finally picked up on.
There was a medley of languages being exchanged over the intermingling of snacks and drinks. Some points of discussion ranged from customs in native countries, to someone’s love for Brad Pitt, to questions about what was to follow this hostel life. As the drinks were all close to sipped up, the conversations started to dwindle down, and we all gradually made it back to our rooms.
I had just sat on my bed when one of the reception girls knocked on my door, telling me to go to the reception desk. There, I came face-to-face with my chocolate tooth fairy—though this time, he was gifting something other than chocolate.
Poof. He bestowed a brand-new pair of Nike shoes in my size, which he had bought for me. I felt the intense impaling smiles of the peers I was just laughing and drinking with minutes ago. The candy under the pillow had felt too far, but now, realizing that he must’ve perused my busted-shoe collection, felt like an Oceanic country from Italy.
“Oh, that’s so thoughtful of you, but I’m okay.”
“Take them, they're for you.”
“I really can’t, but they’re super cool. Uh they’re not my size anyway. I wear a six.”
“Take them.” Along with other random items of mine, he was clearly seeing my bullshit.
“They really wouldn’t fit in my bag, but maybe someone else could use them”.
I wanted to hope that maybe he bought me the shoes thinking I really needed them, having seen the beaten Walmart sneakers I wore devoutly. But whether it was his demeanor or the mixing of wine and liquor, something left a wonky taste in my mouth. I felt that he was trying to tell me something.
Then he told me: “Well, if you don’t take them, you might as well just throw them in the trash.”
As I slowly backed away, noticing how everyone was intensely staring at me as if I’d just turned down a marriage proposal, he despondently looked at me as he continued to hold out the shoe box.
It hadn’t really been clear how much I had grown comfortable pushing my boundaries until that point. I had gone from intense nightmares and gritting my teeth from the stress of instability and lack of security I had, to establishing a firm sense of personal security and a firmer sense of self.
Isn’t that the way things go? One moment you’re in a completely different spot in life—having coffee at your office job—and the next, in a hostel in Italy, with a 19-year-old boy that's insistent on giving you shoes.
That night, I reflected on how appreciative I still was of the journey and of the people I met: the personable ones, the humorous ones, and even the strange ones. All they had ever done was teach me more about myself.
Isn’t that the way things go? You fully begin appreciating where you are, all of the elements and avenues it took you to arrive at that point, and the next day, you leave.
Next time:
Make sure that you bring lockable luggage and extra locks, seriously, to securely put your things and shoes away.
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