A guy once said to me, after I had told him of my travels in Europe and my preference for staying in hostels, “wow, that’s cool of you, that you like those dirty places.” It was hard not to take just a little offense at the blind assumption, in spite of how clearly ill-informed he was. Although he did quickly followed up with, “I mean, don’t take offence, I really think that’s cool,” I couldn’t help but think what a great gap existed between his world and mine.
Popular film has most recently added death to the list of grade D associations that the word hostel seems to conjure – the others being dirt, drugs, and debauchery. If people only knew what they are missing when they choose instead to stay in a sterile hotel – the communal kitchens, the company, the incredible variety, the price.
In hostel stays, I've had the pleasure of many an unexpected acquaintance – a big-firm Louisiana lawyer at the top of her game and interested in taking an extended break, a Canadian golf-pro from Quebec looking to explore the overseas, a computer tech from Texas seeking to do the same, and as well, the regular college student interested in more adventure than offered by frat parties. All of those mentioned were traveling alone, and I had the great pleasure of meeting them in the common dining area of the hostel. Two of them, I later bumped into in a different city of a different country, and in another hostel.
They say the best things in life are free, but they left out the part where some of the greatest travel experiences are cheap. The dirty, party-time hostels are few and far between. And although any knowledgeable traveler will certainly hear of them, I for one have never stayed in one, nor have I ever had need to. The choice, quality, and cleanliness available in hostels are easily right up there with there with hotel stays.
In my travels, I've known supposed 4 star hotels that were nothing more than a small box, a bed, and a place to set down your bags. By comparison, I have stayed in $15 dollar a night hostels that were nothing short of villas, literally. And I have to say, iron bunk beds and centuries-old frescoes make an awe-inspiring combination.
Perhaps the most fantastic of these villa-turned-hostels, I found in the heart of Verona, La Villa Francescati. Its solid walls, rising high on either side of a great central staircase, also made of stone, feature the aged and remarkable Italian paintings in fading colors. This extraordinary hostel has an upper story conversation room, in which Italian classical symphony music plays each evening.
The other similarly large villa, Villa Camerata, is still situated at the edge of Florence. I’ll never forget the winding pathway that meandered gradually upward toward the villa’s entrance and expansive receiving room.
Certainly, not all hostels are converted villas. But even the small, quaint hostel has the all the charms of openness and adventure. Few hotels possess such built-in atmosphere. Those who travel alone and stay in hotels are likely there on business, and those traveling with company have scarce interest, inclination, or opportunity to meet other travelers. By comparison, the bunk beds, communal kitchens and dining areas of the typical hostel make meeting other travelers pleasantly unavoidable.
There is on trivial - perhaps tawdry - bit of fact that seems to escape people who view hostels as dirty joints. In both hotels and hostels, the sheets are changed daily. In hostels, however, it is in most cases a sure thing that only one person has rested in your proposed bed on any given night – hostels being the often gender separated accommodations that they are. Meanwhile, hotels cannot offer such assurance. And we all know that the hotel is as little likely to offer you a fresh mattress for your stay as a hostel.
Only a small handful of hostels are coed, in which guys and girls bunk in the same rooms together. The one time I personally stayed in a coed hostel, it was in Amsterdam, of course. This also happens to be the only time anything really out of the ordinary happened during one of my stays.
In the wee hours of the morning, there began a sudden frantic screaming at the center of a room filled with bunk beds and backpackers. "My arm, may arm,” a guy repeated over and over, and loudly. Apparently, the guy had fell asleep on his arm, and for a few stoned and hazy moments was scared out of his wits because he could no longer feel it. No doubt his got many in the room momentarily frightened as well. But he eventually quieted and we all fell back to bed. This was Amsterdam after all.
