We At The Hostel, Hostel, Holiday Hostel

20Oct11

A precursor to this tale: I now live in Toronto, Canada. I am here on a one-year working holiday visa. This is my sixteenth night in a hostel.

When in work, I often find my mind filled with pessimistic, cynical thoughts about my fellow hostel occupants. Not in a Human Centipede or twisted sexual deviant way though. My brain mush can’t help but imagine the fun they’re probably having right now in the hostel: the chortling japes they’re partaking in; and the lifelong friendships they are currently forming.

And what am I doing while all this is going on? I’m sitting with my eyeballs tetchily glued to the three monitors that have been graciously bestowed upon me in work. At my old IT job in Belfast this would have meant one monitor for Facebook, one for Twitter, and one for Miniclip 8-ball pool. (Click that link at your peril.)

(As a new arrival in Toronto, and having only started this job, I’m unaware of Canadian attitudes towards 8-ball pool. Is it more of a 9-ball culture here? Answers.com and the phrase “billiard hall” should be able to put me in touch with some enlightening fellows. Anyway, I shan’t risk it for at least two weeks. Starting off on the right foot, making a good first impression etc.)

So there I am, stuck in an open plan office, fearing the onset of squinty eyes (medical term: cross-eyed) due to the three-monitors two-eyes dilemma. Where I’m certainly not is quirkily introducing myself to Polish exchange students in the hostel, shaking hands and exchanging uproarious anecdotes over a fresh bottle of Gallo. “Whoa you’ve been travelling for ten months without a job and your parents haven’t funded it at all? Awesome socks! I sure hope those malnourished Kenyan orphans were grateful for your visit and the banter you provided. Giggles and shit. Sounds like hell to be honest.”

Just like wearing a watch and constantly having a peek, or staring forlornly at your Blackberry and praying for that little red beacon of hope to flash and provide a welcome distraction, these thoughts – of external hostel-based japery – can make a work day drag.

I exit the office at approximately 5pm. I cross Spadina Avenue and dander along Adelaide Street. The deli on my left looks smoke-stain faded and grimy – like a still from the movie Leon – and condo advertisements plaster high-rise walls. (In case you’re interested – most of the condos start from as little as $300,000.) I turn left onto Widmer Street and climb the small wooden steps up to the hostel door.

This is it. I’m on the threshold. I’m on the threshold in my Topman trousers, Topman shirt, Topman boots, Primark socks, Primark boxers, and imitation Ryan Gosling in ‘Drive’ jacket. I have yet to adorn it with a chalk drawn scorpion, but I have been sketching a few drafts/drafting a few sketches. One is displayed below.

I am perched on the threshold in this attire, my 8.30am to 5pm Canadian chain mail.¹ “Did Wayne Gretzky feel this way after a hard day at the rink?” races around my head.

I’m not exactly sure what lies beyond the door, but I can guess that it will include some, if not all of the following:

• Teenagers who speak broken English doing shots of Jagermeister through any orifice other than their mouths

• Irish labourers in GAA jerseys using a spirit level to ensure the stability and posture of a table (for an arm wrestling contest). The loser must stand atop the sturdy table and admit that his jovial outward appearance and boozy/up for anything attitude has all been bravado. As his hand is forcefully pushed from a perpendicular angle backwards onto a table, his makeup (bravado) is smudged and quickly removed by a burly Irish makeup wipe (the opposing arm wrestler), exposing the simple face of a nervous Irish child (bravado gone; fear now displayed instead). “Yes I am Irish, but I am lonely, and I am scared and I am worried about the future and my smiling mask has been lifted. So it has.”

• Hooters girls

• People cementing lifelong friendships (or at least meaningless Facebook friendships)

• Fun

I take a deep breath, roll my eyes, and push open the door. I glide through reception towards the ascending staircase.

There’s an Irish plumber asleep, sitting up. (And no, he isn’t ‘on the job’!)

Four Germans are sat glumly on Facebook, chatting to each other online. I catch a glimpse of one laptop screen: the Guardian app informs me that they’ve been reading an article titled ‘Die Bedeutung von 9 / 11’s umstrittensten Foto‘. My ‘E‘ in AS-Level German immediately kicks into gear – that’s an article about a controversial 9/11 photo! And not just any contoversial photo – 9/11’s most controversial photo!² Where did they find that? In my mind I wonder if it could possibly be as controversial as Ricky Gervais saying the word “mong“ earlier in the week. I doubt it. That controversial comedian typing a word on Twitter has really made me mad!!

A bunch of Spaniards are engaged in the Spanish national sport – making as much noise as humanly possible and generally getting in everyone’s way.

Others listlessly mill around, drinking endless cups of tea, eating packets of Mr. Noodles, making stunted small talk, and having no money to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city. For now my mind is eased.

_{1 Do genuine Canadian warriors sport chainmail? If so, I would invoke the maple syrup stereotype, pouring vats of it over my rippling armour, passing it off as patriotism and loyalty to the flag. Stumbling enemies would stick to the adhesive breakfast gloop, allowing me to smite them at will. And if so desired, I could walk around with various pieces of corpse sticking to my syrupy protection. Sticking a head to your midriff and strutting through a bloody battlefield is a more threatening and grand gesture than merely sticking a head on a spike.}

_{2 I heard that if you look at 9/11’s most controversial photo while having ‘Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘Mein Kampf’ in your Amazon Shopping Basket you go straight onto an FBI terror watch list. Government? More like Big Bruv-vernment.}

Filed under: 2011, Canada, Hostel, Mr. Noodles, Toronto   |  2 Comments