A hostel environment

“Am I the only one alive in here?” I thought to myself as I struggled to fall asleep on the top bunk of the four-person guestroom at a quiet place on the outskirts of Vienna. I couldn’t hear either of the Hungarians on the beds below me breathing. Not a single movement or sound out of them since I entered the room a couple hours after they had gone to sleep. It had been a while since I slept with strangers. I had grown quite used to it, almost preferring the setup, while traveling throughout the South Pacific. But since Southeast Asia was dirt-cheap when it came to accommodations and Jordan and I had been splitting rooms since meeting up in Turkey, it had been a while.

I wasn’t up to no good. I was simply writing emails in the lobby until I noticed it was past midnight and I’d better get to sleep since the free breakfast ended at 9 and I didn’t have an alarm clock. I had a strange feeling of guilt while entering the room, like a sneaky teenager climbing through the basement window of his parents’ house after a night of debauchery. I neglected to brush my teeth in fear of waking up the Hungarian brothers by turning on a light to find the necessary supplies I had forgotten to leave out or by running the sink. I had spoken to them briefly upon check-in – an awkward conversation in which they would speak in their native language after I would make a comment. Overall they seemed like nice guys, not the type who would mind much if I temporarily interrupted their slumber. Yet I tried my best to make it to my resting place in stealth mode, and it appeared my mission had been successful despite a creaky ladder that threatened not to support my 190 pounds. As I attempted to nestle into a comfortable position in a series of slight movements, I noticed how eerily quiet it was. Not only was there no snoring going on, there was no breathing. I had to peek over the edge to confirm there were two bodies below me. I settled for mid-range comfort, not wanting to move anymore since rustling the over-starched sheets sounded like a jackhammer in this environment. “Had the Hungarians coincidentally both died in their sleep on the same night?” I wondered as I lay in bed restless. I had slept with 10, 12 other people in the same room in New Zealand and Australia, so I can confirm that a bit of white noise helps more than it hurts. Had their been a creature stirring in this room, even a mouse, I would have heard it.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, completely breaking my conspiracies, one of the Hungarians rose from the bed below me, vigorously shaking the Fisher Price-quality unit, and headed for the bathroom. He couldn’t see where I had placed my bags, so he tripped, using the wall for support. He scanned the area for a light, flipping it on for a few seconds to get his bearings. I could hear every drop of piss hit the toilet water. He returned to his bed, reeking of flatulence, shaking the unit once again. At least one of my roommates was, in fact, not dead.

***

I don’t get yelled at frequently. I have been a law-abiding non-citizen throughout my travels. I have no boss to shout at me. I usually stroll through the days without disturbing any peace. But on this particular day in Vienna, I seemed to be pissing the entire country of Austria off.

It began at breakfast. Jordan and I were enjoying some free muesli and coffee at the guesthouse we were paying too much money for, and I needed something to quench my thirst. I noticed a refrigerator filled with water, half with gas (like soda water) and half without. A sign read on the front: 1.40 euro. The only problem was that there was no on one on the other end of this potential transaction, so I was unsure how to go about the purchase. I decided it shouldn’t be a problem that I walk back into the kitchen, take a bottle, and replace it with 1.50 euro -- the most exact change I had and 10 cents more than the price asked for. But before I could make the 10-second walk back to my chair, a woman who I recall looking something like Satan came running at me.

“What you doing here?” she shouted.

“Um. I was just getting a water. I didn’t know how to…I’m very sorry.”

“No. No sorry. No sorry.”

“But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No sorry. No sorry!”

I gave the woman a confused look, shocked by the fact that someone could be so upset by such a small action. She grabbed the money out of the refrigerator, physically pushed me out of the kitchen and marched back to the place she magically appeared from – a place that does not make it convenient for customers wishing to purchase bottles of water.

I never received my 10 cents in change back. I took a sip of the water. It was gas water. I hate gas water.

Later that evening, Jordan and I decided to buy a pair of tickets to an opera or symphony or show or musical or some combination of those things. The performance was located at a concert hall where Mozart had once performed, so I was sold.

We had dinner and drinks earlier that evening with a guy named Rick, who I had met while bartending at Micky’s Irish Pub in Iowa City. Rick, a native Midwesterner, had been visiting Iowa for a Hawkeye football game last fall. When I told him of my plans to travel, he said I was always welcome to visit him in Austria, where he currently lives. So I did.

We chatted about Iowa sports and the pros and cons of being abroad. When we parted ways, Jordan and I realized we had less than five minutes before the show began. Luckily it was only about a three-minute walk. We checked our coats and went to enter the hall when we noticed a man selling bottled beer and wine right outside the door where our seats were located. We forked over the 8 euro for a pair of drinks in preparation of a little night music. Not two steps after purchasing the drinks, a man, the conductor or leader of the symphony – someone of important status – yelled my direction.

“You cannot take those in there!” he said, appearing appalled.

“So then why do you sell them right outside the door?” I asked.

He hesitated, unable to answer what I thought was a simple question.

“This is a concert hall!” he said, as if it was a church.

Apparently symphonies don’t work the same as games at Wrigley.

***

Prior to catching the train back to Italy from Vienna, I had to relieve myself to the utmost degree. I threw my bags down at Jordan’s feet and began a light jog toward the men’s room. The pressure inside my bladder was multiplying since I am convinced it knows when a toilet is nearby. My progress came to crashing halt as I was faced with a contraption of the future that should only appear in science-fiction films. A sign informed me I was to pay 70 cents. I frantically reached into my pocket and pulled out all I had – two 1-euro coins. I slipped one in the machine. Rejected. I tried again. Rejected. I read the sign again.

“This machine accepts 10, 20, and 50 cent coins.”

Not only did you have to pay the obscure amount of 70 cents to pee, you had to have exact change. I ran back to where Jordan was standing, pleading to her for a handful of coins. I ran back to the Star Wars doors and inserted the proper amount. As they opened, they made a noise similar to a laser beam (I might be making this up for effect) and they immediately shut behind me as they sensed I had crossed the holy threshold. After the most expensive urination of my life, I considered leaving all of the faucets running to get my 70 cents worth out of the place, but the sinks were all sensor-operated. I shouldn’t have been surprised. To be fair, Austria had some beautiful qualities. But I didn’t feel wanted, and I was ready for a new environment.