In the 48th year, because of personal reasons, I spent the night in a hostel

After Fifteen Years, I Spent a Night In a Hostel

Memory recollection. Good one.

Last week I spent the night in the hostel. I am used to traveling by plane and sleeping in five-star hotels.

I slowly park my car in front of reception. Traveling light. I only have a mid-size backpack with everything I need for a ten-day vacation.

The reception is ridiculously small. Maybe four square meters. Bed number ten is in room seventeen. I am taking my wallet and cell phone.

I always order two black coffees. Personnel thinks I am waiting for someone to join me. Both coffees are mine. No milk, no sugar. Three euros in the city where one coffee is more like ten euros, not one and a half.

My table is three meters from the sea. It is seven o’clock, and my wristwatch shows that sunset will be at 19:55.

I am firing a cigarette and inhaling with enjoyment. I am always smoking strong cigarettes.

Behind me, many people enjoy their drinks, most beers. I have been sober for nine years.

Sunset is terrific. Beautiful.

I left the bar. My four-hour eating window ended at 18:00.

Under a shower, I am not alone. Only dark glass is between people to have at least some personal space.

The guy next to me, both of us wearing only towels, asked where I was from. He is from the United Kingdom, hitchhiking with his friends from Germany, Austria, and India toward Albania.

We had a great chat. Seven of us. Laughing and jokes.

All of them are half my age. Nobody cares. We are having a good time together.

As they are preparing themselves for a night out, I am going to bed reading.

I am 48 years old. I am young in my head.