My First Hostel Experience by Kelly Reising
Thanks to some d-list movie in the horror genre, I had a fear of hostels. You’ve maybe seen the films I’m talking about? The ones where quite a few young beautiful people get brutally murdered while traveling through some random resort town, where they make the huge mistake of staying in a seemingly innocent hostel. So, I never really wanted to stay in one before.
To give you a little background, a year ago my second husband and I split up. It was one of those breakups that sent my head spinning and left me curled up in bed watching comedy specials on Netflix, eating delivery pizza every night, and just trying to breathe. It knocked the wind right out of me. But I guess when you marry an abusive alcoholic it’s better that it ended after 11 years without our doomed relationship continuing a minute longer. Even that didn’t make it any easier. Walking away was one of the hardest moves I’ve ever made.
So, I decided to travel. I write a lot about sports, so naturally I decided to head out to a few of my favorite ballparks on an extended working vacation. First stop, Wrigley Field, for a couple of weeks in my father’s hometown seeing his favorite team the Cubs, then onto NYC and the new Yankee Stadium (not that new anymore) to watch one of my new favorite players, Aaron Judge, smack some home runs, and finally down to Miami because well, I knew I’d need some warmer weather after late fall baseball in the north.
When I got to Miami the sun, the sand, and the clubs made it very enticing to stay awhile, so I did. I spent a few months hotel hopping, enjoying my new-found freedom, hitting the beach, and making friends with locals there. At that point I figured there wasn’t much for me to go back to in Cleveland where my soon-to-be ex-husband lived, so I just stayed on in Miami.
Which brings me to my very first hostel stay. Heads up. Miami isn’t cheap and while I was cutting back on my writing workload, living off of my savings, or rather blowing through it, I knew I needed to cut back on my hotel and travel expenses. So, hostel, right? Yep. I thought I would try one off the beaten path of Miami a bit down in a lovely place called Florida City. I’m kidding about it being that lovely, they actually nickname it “Murderville.” Oh boy.
It was the night before Super Bowl Sunday, February 2, and since February is high tourist and snowbird season in Miami, I figured I’d spend a week on the outskirts getting some extra writing work done living on the cheap in a hostel. Plus, I could watch the Super Bowl at a less crowded bar down there with cheaper whiskey and Miller Lite prices, definitely a win-win in my opinion.
I booked the hostel. Arriving on Saturday night, I pulled up to the hostel and was instantly a little bit afraid. It was kind of dark and ominous from the outside with a giant terra cotta brick wall surrounding the building, but I couldn’t see much of the property. The desk lady was nice enough, the interior desk area small and dingy, but as she showed me to my shared co-ed bunk bed type room, I thought to myself, “what the hell, if I get murdered so be it, I’ve lived a good life.” Just kidding. I did not think that and instead thought, “what the holy hell did I get myself into?! I don’t want to sleep with a bunch of strangers and get murdered!”
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Murderers can smell fear, right? Is that a thing? Okay, there probably weren’t any murderers in my room, just two random dudes sleeping in a dark room with three sets of bunk beds. I tried not to think too much about the movie, “Hostel” at that point, climbed into my lower bunk bed and promptly went to sleep, thank goodness.
The next morning, I woke up and got ready to wander around the property. The courtyard was actually gigantic and beautiful with palm trees everywhere, sand all around, a rock lined swimming hole, and a tree house that had an enormous rope climbing thing with big nets you could lay in. Plus, there were red hammocks all around the courtyard just begging to be laid in to look up at all the tropical foliage. So I lay down on one of the red hammock, rocked myself with my left leg, and stared blankly up at the sky zoning out in this surprising paradise.
That’s when “this guy” walked by. He stopped, looked right at me, and said something like “hi, when did youuuuu get here.” Uh. Smile. Hmm. Keep in mind it was only about 7 in the morning and my perception of myself is that I probably looked a mess and it was crazy that “this guy” was chatting me up at the crack of dawn. But since he was cute and I’m nice, I started talking with him.
His name was Tom. He tried to guess mine before I pretty much gave him all five letters, told him it meant Irish warrior woman, and was one of the most popular names in the 80s next to Jennifer. We were laughing at all the names he came up with that weren’t Kelly. I finally had to tell him my name. Then we took a walk to the liquor store, bought a bottle of Jameson and toasted the upcoming Super Bowl festivities. He was staying at the hostel as well and the day before had built a giant screen where they were going to show the Super Bowl in the courtyard of the hostel that night.
Our banter continued to be flirty and fun. I realized how much I instantly liked him, felt comfortable with him, and definitely didn’t seem to be in harm’s way of getting murdered, so maybe my hostel fears were unfounded and silly. They were.
We’re still together. It’s only been a couple of months now, but we’ve been inseparateable since then. That first day we did climb the rope thing, spent quite a bit of the afternoon laying together high up under the palm trees, swam in the swimming hole, drank way too much, barely watched the Superbowl through all of our drunken chatter, and eventually ended up in the outdoor shower together. You can imagine what happened from there. Definitely memorable.
Since then we’ve done quite a few “memorable” things. Camping in the Everglades, a service at the oldest Catholic cathedral in America, slept in a very loud beachside hostel thumping with house music from the club below with an Chilean soccer team, and even visited a nude beach in Miami a couple of times. Talk about contrasting experiences. What I like about this relationship is that together we’re up for practically anything. Next up? Skydiving. He’s never been, but I have. I’m willing to jump a second time. That seems to be the theme of this new life I’ve created for myself. Jump. Go for it. Don’t hesitate. All the cliches about not letting life pass you by without experiencing great things or getting stuck in the past.
For a long time, I felt hopeless and trapped in my second marriage. Not anymore. Moving 1000 miles away from my family was an impulsive decision, but with all the new people and experiences in my life I can finally say that I’m happy. The new memories I’m creating are the best part. And so is that very memorable guy who stopped to talk with a girl swinging on a hammock, luckily, not getting murdered at a hostel.
Thanks to some d-list movie in the horror genre, I had a fear of hostels. You’ve maybe seen the films I’m talking about? The ones where quite a few young beautiful people get brutally murdered while traveling through some random resort town, where they make the huge mistake of staying in a seemingly innocent hostel. So, I never really wanted to stay in one before.
To give you a little background, a year ago my second husband and I split up. It was one of those breakups that sent my head spinning and left me curled up in bed watching comedy specials on Netflix, eating delivery pizza every night, and just trying to breathe. It knocked the wind right out of me. But I guess when you marry an abusive alcoholic it’s better that it ended after 11 years without our doomed relationship continuing a minute longer. Even that didn’t make it any easier. Walking away was one of the hardest moves I’ve ever made.
So, I decided to travel. I write a lot about sports, so naturally I decided to head out to a few of my favorite ballparks on an extended working vacation. First stop, Wrigley Field, for a couple of weeks in my father’s hometown seeing his favorite team the Cubs, then onto NYC and the new Yankee Stadium (not that new anymore) to watch one of my new favorite players, Aaron Judge, smack some home runs, and finally down to Miami because well, I knew I’d need some warmer weather after late fall baseball in the north.
When I got to Miami the sun, the sand, and the clubs made it very enticing to stay awhile, so I did. I spent a few months hotel hopping, enjoying my new-found freedom, hitting the beach, and making friends with locals there. At that point I figured there wasn’t much for me to go back to in Cleveland where my soon-to-be ex-husband lived, so I just stayed on in Miami.
Which brings me to my very first hostel stay. Heads up. Miami isn’t cheap and while I was cutting back on my writing workload, living off of my savings, or rather blowing through it, I knew I needed to cut back on my hotel and travel expenses. So, hostel, right? Yep. I thought I would try one off the beaten path of Miami a bit down in a lovely place called Florida City. I’m kidding about it being that lovely, they actually nickname it “Murderville.” Oh boy.
It was the night before Super Bowl Sunday, February 2, and since February is high tourist and snowbird season in Miami, I figured I’d spend a week on the outskirts getting some extra writing work done living on the cheap in a hostel. Plus, I could watch the Super Bowl at a less crowded bar down there with cheaper whiskey and Miller Lite prices, definitely a win-win in my opinion.
I booked the hostel. Arriving on Saturday night, I pulled up to the hostel and was instantly a little bit afraid. It was kind of dark and ominous from the outside with a giant terra cotta brick wall surrounding the building, but I couldn’t see much of the property. The desk lady was nice enough, the interior desk area small and dingy, but as she showed me to my shared co-ed bunk bed type room, I thought to myself, “what the hell, if I get murdered so be it, I’ve lived a good life.” Just kidding. I did not think that and instead thought, “what the holy hell did I get myself into?! I don’t want to sleep with a bunch of strangers and get murdered!”
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Murderers can smell fear, right? Is that a thing? Okay, there probably weren’t any murderers in my room, just two random dudes sleeping in a dark room with three sets of bunk beds. I tried not to think too much about the movie, “Hostel” at that point, climbed into my lower bunk bed and promptly went to sleep, thank goodness.
The next morning, I woke up and got ready to wander around the property. The courtyard was actually gigantic and beautiful with palm trees everywhere, sand all around, a rock lined swimming hole, and a tree house that had an enormous rope climbing thing with big nets you could lay in. Plus, there were red hammocks all around the courtyard just begging to be laid in to look up at all the tropical foliage. So I lay down on one of the red hammock, rocked myself with my left leg, and stared blankly up at the sky zoning out in this surprising paradise.
That’s when “this guy” walked by. He stopped, looked right at me, and said something like “hi, when did youuuuu get here.” Uh. Smile. Hmm. Keep in mind it was only about 7 in the morning and my perception of myself is that I probably looked a mess and it was crazy that “this guy” was chatting me up at the crack of dawn. But since he was cute and I’m nice, I started talking with him.
His name was Tom. He tried to guess mine before I pretty much gave him all five letters, told him it meant Irish warrior woman, and was one of the most popular names in the 80s next to Jennifer. We were laughing at all the names he came up with that weren’t Kelly. I finally had to tell him my name. Then we took a walk to the liquor store, bought a bottle of Jameson and toasted the upcoming Super Bowl festivities. He was staying at the hostel as well and the day before had built a giant screen where they were going to show the Super Bowl in the courtyard of the hostel that night.
Our banter continued to be flirty and fun. I realized how much I instantly liked him, felt comfortable with him, and definitely didn’t seem to be in harm’s way of getting murdered, so maybe my hostel fears were unfounded and silly. They were.
We’re still together. It’s only been a couple of months now, but we’ve been inseparateable since then. That first day we did climb the rope thing, spent quite a bit of the afternoon laying together high up under the palm trees, swam in the swimming hole, drank way too much, barely watched the Superbowl through all of our drunken chatter, and eventually ended up in the outdoor shower together. You can imagine what happened from there. Definitely memorable.
Since then we’ve done quite a few “memorable” things. Camping in the Everglades, a service at the oldest Catholic cathedral in America, slept in a very loud beachside hostel thumping with house music from the club below with an Chilean soccer team, and even visited a nude beach in Miami a couple of times. Talk about contrasting experiences. What I like about this relationship is that together we’re up for practically anything. Next up? Skydiving. He’s never been, but I have. I’m willing to jump a second time. That seems to be the theme of this new life I’ve created for myself. Jump. Go for it. Don’t hesitate. All the cliches about not letting life pass you by without experiencing great things or getting stuck in the past.
For a long time, I felt hopeless and trapped in my second marriage. Not anymore. Moving 1000 miles away from my family was an impulsive decision, but with all the new people and experiences in my life I can finally say that I’m happy. The new memories I’m creating are the best part. And so is that very memorable guy who stopped to talk with a girl swinging on a hammock, luckily, not getting murdered at a hostel.
