Creak… Squeak… The spring bed above me started moving ever so slightly. A hint of a rhythmic rattle. Slowly at first — just a steady to and fro — then the pace quickened and the pace was more definite and the sounds of the springs on the bed were forceful. It was a cheaper hostel so the bed squeaked loudly and the upper bunk bed was only an arm’s reach from my head, very close to me. I could hear the heavy breathing of the sleeper above me climb to full volume, in tune with the rapid shaking of the springs… then, silence. Finished. And since it was two in the morning, I was relieved — until a few minutes later when the steady, slow chirping of the bunk bed springs started their rhythm again.
The scene played all night, and by the fifth episode, I could not help myself from whispering, “ Please… enough!” It was 5 a.m. and the bunkmate was too far into the beat; he could not stop.
Welcome to the world of hostels in Edinburgh, Scotland. After spending four months in many hostels, I have become a pro at meeting people from different countries. Some would describe hostels as a place where one can rent a bed, usually a bunk bed, and guests are free to behave as they wish. Sleeping dormitory-style, there are no mother superiors to regulate, and with a majority of guests under the age of 30, the forms of acceptable conduct are very flexible. Strangers have beds beside one another, men and women mixed in a room. Prices vary, with a four-bunk bedroom in Scotland charging about 19 British pounds on weekends and a dorm with 16 bunk beds costing 12 pounds per night on weekdays. Shared bathrooms, kitchens and lounges are designed to give guests an atmosphere whereby one can meet and be met.
Castle Rock has 300 beds and windows looking out onto the Edinburgh Castle. Cowgate Hostel, another favorite, swings with its 120 beds set up apartment-style. Many tourists are new college graduates, or candidates writing their theses for their doctorates; then there are the elders; very few bring children. Each guest averages two nights before they move on to their next adventure. In such an atmosphere, close friendships are made quickly, knowing there are only hours before it is time to say goodbye.
Every day is different and more so in a hostel where one is exposed to 12 strangers upon waking up. A plan to cook breakfast turned into bop dancing in the kitchen with Misha, an art student who is preparing to take her master’s in Switzerland. The Swiss subsidize their universities so citizens have free education. Her boyfriend had just graduated from an art school in New York. Together they have been hitchhiking for three weeks around the northern part of Scotland, getting off wherever the scene takes their fancy and climbing mountains whenever they please. Staying in a hostel where they can have a proper shower and a bed serves as a refreshing change for backpackers like them.
One afternoon, three adventurous, fully made-up ladies walked into the kitchen and asked if they could switch my music from Chopin’s mellow piano symphony to their contagious rhythmic beat. What started as a session to prepare for dinner became a booty-bumping, swirling dance led by these beautiful girls from Fife, an area in Scotland; we jiggled our bodies for over two hours as we danced the butt dance to the bass sounds which came from my Samsung phone.
That’s hostel life. A lady whom I came to call Turkish Delight transferred from the room we were in and moved into another dorm where a man she had been eyeing was staying. By morning, they were sharing the same bed.
Just beside them, three Brazilian students were discussing their plans. It turns out that they joined a one-year course to learn how to speak English. Brazilians are also fortunate because all they have to do is send a letter of acceptance from any learning institution and their government will pay the tuition fees.
It’s easy to start a conversation in hostels: “Where are you from? Where are you going? How long are you staying…?” And after taking the effort to translate into their language whatever greeting we give, the friendship begins. Somehow, guests end up helping one another: sharing food, lending shampoo and letting each other know how to move around and where to go.
Bathroom use is the tricky part. Hovering over the loo (the British term for the toilet) — well, “hovering over the loo” is literally the act of floating above the toilet seat. One needs to use his or her wits to conquer the loo problem. In every hostel, there are some toilets and showers that work better than others. Learning the timing of when to use the bathrooms is also a useful skill. The cleaners wait until most of the guests finish using the showers before they start to clean. I wait for the cleaners to do the bathrooms before I shower.
Every day there is a story to tell and this one is particularly memorable. It was Saturday early morning, about 5 a.m. Many partygoers were trickling into their beds, complete with makeup and tattered jeans, struggling to creep up silently on the wooden bunk beds. This time the handmade wooden beds were solid — no creaking platforms — when suddenly I heard a THUMP. Oh, no! The thought that one of these youngsters had fallen off her bed from a drunken state concerned me. “Are you all right?” I whispered into the dark cold room.
There were 16 beds in this room and no light shone. “Are you all right?” I again asked the girl whose moans aroused my hesitant concern. Then, in the dark, I heard a Scottish lad saying, “You are so tight.” (Note: “Tight” can mean two things here: the Brits use it to describe someone who’s drunk; or else, it can mean something else…) Anyway, he repeated this about 10 times — that is when I knew that the lady had survived and the loud thump was not someone falling off the bed. Soon enough, the male voice repeated over and over again: “I am sorry… I am sorry…”
Next morning, I saw a foil of king-size condoms near the bed. Unopened.