Am I too old now?
International travel is long and exhausting. Obvious statement. Between babies preventing sleep and the built-in germ box of an airplane, you’re pretty spent when you land. So having things perfectly planned to get you to your accommodation is ideal.
I did not do that.
I figured it would be easy enough to find a bus or snag an Uber or taxi. That was sort of true. Taxis and Ubers were priced out so I got a bus ticket. What I didn’t really consider was that it was already past midnight. Late night bus routes. They weren’t going to the stop I thought I was getting off at. Oops.
The driver was nice about it but I was last off at a very unofficial spot in downtown Auckland. It made for an interesting trek to the hostel. My phone was still in airplane mode so Verizon didn’t rip my underwear through my asshole. And I had already planned my walking route from the phantom bus stop.
Another interesting tidbit is that a highway splits the city centre from the neighborhood I had to get to. Had a dickens of a time finding a walking bridge or underpass. Then my wonky GPS shorted the address by about half a mile.
Keep in mind I’ve slept probably three hours since departing San Diego, which was…who knows? A day and a half ago at least.
But finally, I got to the hostel. Entered the code on the door and made my way in. It was past normal check in hours, so there was an envelope waiting for me.
I forgot how shitty it is to arrive super late at a damn hostel. And I of course got the dorm-style option cuz it’s cheaper.
I walk into the room and it’s pitch black. Everyone’s asleep. You can’t help but feel like a major douche fumbling around in the dark trying to figure which bed is yours and where to set down your stuff. There was no space and what seemed like no beds. Then I saw mine.
This fucking top shelf, indent afterthought area. Very audibly I’m like, “Good Lord!” A few people toss and turn. Worst pick of the lot when you’re last to arrive.
Whatever. I have to shower. Have to. So I start unzipping my shit and trying to locate what I need. Zippers have to be one of the top five most hated sounds in hostels. So disruptive. There’s no way to unzip something quietly. Try it.
After rinsing off, I was ready to get some much-needed shut-eye. I figured out how to navigate James’ giant beanstalk of a ladder up to the bed. Situated my noisy sleeping bag into position and zonked out. For a very restful three hours before the room started to hustle and bustle. Sniffling. Snoring. Jostling about. Getting up to pee. Coughing. Alarms. ZIPPERS. The sound of getting dressed.
That’s just how it goes in hostels.
Maybe I’m too old now.
