Kindness of Strangers

Saturday, October 18, 2008

We’ve stayed in our fair share of hostels on this trip, which have surprised us in their variety. In many cases we’ve stayed in historical homes in quiet hamlets, and have chatted with retired couples, families, and middle-aged travelers. But it was only a matter of time until we stayed at a real backpacker’s youth hostel. You know the kind I’m talking about: a congregation of shirtless twenty-somethings (at least the dudes) on journeys of enlightenment, who employ self-rolled cigarettes, techno music, joints, and beer as the trusty tools of their trade?

This was the scene that greeted Elizabeth and I upon check in at the Old Firestation Backpackers hostel in Fremantle, a quirky and artistic suburb of Perth. We had just survived a three and a half hour overnight flight from Bali, followed by a few hours of sleep in the airport terminal, and finally negotiating our rental car on unknown streets. As a former fire station, the building has a beautiful, historic air, with a surprising number of nooks and crannies that would make M.C. Escher proud. We quickly checked in, dumped our luggage, and headed into the town.

Our time in the downtown, reminiscent of Main Street USA, was productive enough. Half-drunk due to lack of sleep, we exchanged some books, purchased toiletries, Elizabeth bought a new T-shirt (she hated the shirt she was wearing so much, having served its baggy purpose through the Middle East, she had the store throw it away), and got haircuts. My lack of mental facilities peaked at lunchtime, when I took minutes to decide whether I wanted bread with my pasta dish. We made a beeline back to our room for a bit of sleep.

Waking up, we couldn’t help but notice the faint sound of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and the sound of clinking glass penetrating our walls. Leaving for dinner, we saw a small group of men gathered at a large picnic table, conveniently placed outside our door. Surely, we thought, they will be gone by the time we get back.

Upon returning, the small group had morphed into a brigade training for alcohol nuclear war. The music had reached a fever pitch, with European techno blasting from a karaoke machine. Two men were engaged in a fierce drunken battle of table tennis. We were outnumbered, so we stealthily entered our room and got ready for bed. Elizabeth, clearly disgusted, exclaimed, “I’m too cute for the Old Firestation,” and then jammed her iPod headphones in her ears, cranked up the volume, and promptly went to sleep. Taking her lead, I grabbed some earplugs, fell asleep immediately, woke up realizing I had never inserted the earplugs, put them in my ears, and fell asleep again.

You may never guess it, but I enjoyed blissful sleep that night. Even twenty-something backpackers have their limits, I suppose, and they finally retired to bed in the late hours of the night. I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter anyway. The morning was overcast and eerily quiet, except for the random squawk of a seagull. I stepped outside the room, and saw a vision of the post-apocalypse with copious empty bottles littering the table and floor. The only signs of life were the clean-cut and responsible-looking ones who we had never laid eyes on before.

I made my way to an oddly placed bathroom entitled “The Philosopher’s Shower.” Inside, someone had painted an “Under the Sea” theme, replete with mermaids and a variety of colorful fish, but the centerpiece was that of a pair of enormous black-rimmed “Philosopher’s” spectacles, much like I imagine those described on that billboard in the Great Gatsby. Like many public restrooms, former guests had obviously spent time in this bathroom and pondered the world only to scribe their wisdom on the wall. Comments ranged from the inane, “Check out ya big ride!”, to the surprisingly deep, “I have pondered the world’s problems and I concede…I am at a loss.”

Elizabeth could not wait to check out, and we quickly packed so we could start our big drive south. Handing our keys over to the Italian desk clerk, he asked how our stay was. I was surprised to find that this was a hard question for me to answer. In truth, there were a few other guests in the over 30 crowd, and the 20 year olds I talked with were uniformly nice and interesting people. I muttered something about it being a bit noisy, but that earplugs helped. He looked truly apologetic, but I quickly asked how he likes the hostel life.

“I love it!,” he quickly responded. “I live in a beach side apartment,” he conceded, “but our guests regularly live here from six months up to two years. We even had a guy who lived here for three years! Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in any other place in the world.” He spoke with such conviction, how could I not believe him?