“MOTHER FUCKER!” Yelled Harry in the middle of the night. I rolled over into my pillow and started laughing.
“Dude bro that hurt so fucking bad.” Harry rubbed the spot on his head where he had slammed it up against the beam of the bunk above his. Six of us were crammed into tiny metal bunks in a tiny room that smelled like bleach. I wiggled my toes which poked out along with my ankles from the too-small blanket. Maddie groaned quietly. Rolling over again I dreamed of the soft beds of Saint Jean Pied-de-Port.
The beds in St. Jean had giant plush quilts and real sheets – not just disposable canvas wrapped over the mattress. The rooms were made of old wood and were were cozy and warm because of the house’s large furnace. In the morning the hospitaleros helped wake us up by playing gentle classical music through the house and the inviting smell of coffee and eggs did the rest.
The Australian man curled up with his South-African girlfriend in the bunk across from mine murmured something. They were one of those couples who hadn’t realized that they weren’t at home in bed any longer and that we could all see them perfectly well. Harry whispered something about dirty sheets.
Home is a hot topic for all of us, especially when falling asleep in hostels surrounded by strangers. During the day we talk about things we miss. Silly things mostly: TV, longer-than-5-minute showers, boyfriends, girlfriends, our own beds, Mexican food. My bedroom at home never feels crowded and certainly never dangerous.
I slept in a hostel in Torres del Rio that I’m pretty sure was run by an ex-pirate. I’m not trying to stereotype here but bandanas, hoop earrings, and a few gold teeth all scream pirate and this hospitalero was going for the look. When I ask for a bed and get a chuckle and a semi-shiny grin I reserve the right to be just a little afraid. The possibly sea-faring hospitalero led my companions and I up to the attic where A few wire bed frames and some sheet-less mattresses stood huddled together. I checked the corners for rats and hiding orphans but found nothing other than a Brazilian man standing in his underwear. We spent the night cold and hoping that the pirate would remember to unlock the attic door in the morning.
In Logroño my host was not creepy or pirate-like. She was actually kinda cute.
An oval mouth. Glossed nails. Shape like a water slide. Standing behind a counter covered in cakes and pastries. Trying to tell me something important about check out times but I’m busy checking things out. “If I was your girlfriend” plays appropriately over the cafe speakers. Shiny people of all sorts sit chatting over coffee. Everyone seems to be wearing a scarf.
Kinda-cute girl takes us on a tour of the facilities sporting personal bunks, computers, and a magic door that slides open when you press a certain picture. Kinda-cute girl over-enunciates her English words and she keeps staring at me very sternly which I think is just great. When the cops show up at midnight and I stand in the bar in my pajamas explaining to them why they found my wallet at a frozen yogurt stand, kinda-cute girl decides once and for all that I am a dunce.
“Y’all wanna get black-nasty bro?” Says Collin from his own tiny metal bunk.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.” Says Maddie.
“I wish you all could bump your head that hard too just so you know how I felt.” Says Harry.
Everyone agrees that it is too cold in the room.
The following night I stay at a hotel just to balance out my ratio of good sleeping arrangements to bad sleeping arrangements. If variety is the spice of life then El Camino is red-hot salsa picante on my nachos.