The Hostel

I’ve become a master at the hostel, burning away the hours cleaning the bathrooms, booking for the busy festival month of August, and making beds in minutes flat. I am working five shifts a week and have taken on initiatives like updating the training manual and trying to figure a better system for recording which guests are in what beds. (It is quite a hassle deducting whose luggage is with which of the 10 beds in the room when you have 20 beds to make before 2pm). I can almost tell the difference between a flat double sheet and a flat single sheet just by the size of the folded fabric. I know which rooms correspond with which numbers and where all the outlets are on every floor of all three buildings. I have an intimate relationship with the hoover (vacuum) and the giant sad-looking coy fish in the lounge that I feed every morning shift. I rush into the kitchen in the morning to get the French press coffee maker before any of the guests get there hands on it and I feel guilty for how this may affect the guest experience, but its either that or I record bookings incorrectly as my mind needs the rich, creamy jumpstart.

I take my time hanging the laundry when the weather is nice enough to put the sheets out in the garden. It’s allows me time outside during my 6 hour shift and it’s a household practice I cherish as we so rarely do this anymore in the United States – well , not in the city at least. I loved doing it in Spain as well, where we would have lines and funny contraptions hanging between the buildings and the stakes where much higher if you dropped a piece of clothing. I have the chance to practice my Spanish when guests from Spain check in. I get giddy just hearing the accent and love to answer their questions in English after they have asked one another in Spanish. I actually enjoy doing that with all the guests – they generally have the same questions and if you can catch a key word or understand a bit of their French or Italian you can answer before they ask you. It’s a small bit of entertainment when they look at their friends wondering if you could possibly speak Polish.

I also get the guests who recognize me as the American. A couple of bloks from Alabama checked in the other day and scrutinized me for my story. What a great accent they have I thought! Because of my working status and a few sticky interactions with curious hostel stayers, I have decided on a story to avoid trouble. For the time being, I am from the UK but grew up in Chicago all my life. My Da’ is Scottish which is how I am able to work at the hostel. I don’t think anyone would care about my work status but, I don’t need to test that theory out. That’s the last thing I would want to do to get Renata and Ged in trouble, as now I fondly look on them as my clan here in Edinburgh. Renata and I have a grand time discussing the differences between cultures and where the line needs to be drawn between stereotyping and looking out for your interests because: kids are always messy and Irish never wash. Renata and Ged have dealt with hundreds of people every week from all over the world so they obviously see patterns. As Ged puts it “I don’t discriminate, I hate everyone equally” which is rather charming with a Scottish accent and a jokers smile that makes my American political correctness seems the silly suggestion.

Cheers for now!