1:30 a.m. and I was still awake, seething over
the drunk who had burst through our door and casually turned on all of the
lights. I presume just for the hell of it; he left after only 30 seconds,
taking nothing with him. Now so tired that dreams blended with reality, I
finally managed to close my eyes. Even my dreams weren’t free from the hostel’s
dominion – I remember taking my blanket downstairs and trying to sleep in the
cafeteria. I wish it had been real because the next moment, something really
heavy fell onto me. Someone had climbed into my bed.
We arrived in Bath, England at about 3 p.m.
the day before. The five of us were on a three-day road to Oxford, Bath, and
Stonehenge. For about $25 each, we had a clean, warm, beds, hot showers, and
breakfast. Upfront, it’s a deal that’s hard to beat. As the first guests to
check-in, we had our pick of the beds in the room. Most hostels don’t make the
beds for guests. You have to do it yourself. It cuts down costs and, now this
is the most important part, it shows that the bed has already been claimed by
someone. So, us three guys (the girls, Jana and Helen, were in a separate room)
cobbled our beds together and were ready to go explore the town.
It was already late in the afternoon, and
we had the next morning to tour the museums and Roman baths, so we meandered
through the city and saw a few minor sights. For dinner, we went to Hall & Woodhouse, the most eclectic
pub I’ve ever seen. The front entrance was like a backyard patio, with white, wrought
iron garden chairs and tables, with glass table-tops and flowers in vases, all
on a tiled floor. The center was filled with massive, sturdy benches and
tables, straight out of a beer-hall, or Valhalla perhaps, not so much built as
hewn straight from fallen tree trunks— the type of place you could go to with
mates from a soccer team after a light scrimmage, so no matter how rowdy you
get no one can knock over a table. In the back, where we sat, there was a fireplace
with leather, Victorian sofas and candles for ambiance...along with a mounted
cow’s head, electric guitar, bagpipes, and alpine skis; as I said, eclectic. Tying it all together was a
bar straight out of a steam-punk fantasy, plated in riveted copper like an
abandoned piece of ocean liner. Knowing I had to drive 180 miles the next day I
had only a pint of Hofbräu and a dinner of chicken curry. We played Scrabble
and Risk! until closing time— the pub had a decent collection of board games as
well. We caught a quick cab up the hill, and were in the hostel foyer before
11:30. That’s when the fun began.
Us three guys furtively opened the bedroom
door— some people were already sleeping— and blindly ambled to our beds. Bart
and Adel had no problem climbing into the bottom bunks, but I looked up at my
bunk and was greeted by a pair of wide-open eyes and, strangely, a Cheshire
grin.
Some jag stole my bed, the one I had staked
my claim on by laying out the duvet cover, pillow, and mattress sheet. Adel,
seeing my uninvited guest, shared a knowing stare. Pissed, I chose the open
bunk above Bart and went into the hallway to put my duvet cover on— a Gordian
process if you’ve used quilts and blankets your entire life. Showering, I
remember thinking, that sucked, but at
least I’ll get a good night’s sleep—should’ve knocked on wood.
Our slumber was immediately interrupted by
an Asian student, who came into the room. I could tell he had intended to take
Bart’s bed. You could see it in his face. He too made his bed in the dark. He
went through the night sans pillow. Bart had taken a second one from an empty
bed earlier in the day; honestly, I didn’t blame him. Then, the snoring began.
One “guest” started sawing logs at about
12:30, and never stopped. I’ve had roommates who snored, it’s not difficult to
sleep through a person snoring, but this guy was sawing with a gas-powered chainsaw
rather than handtools. Changing metaphors, you know how most people have a
distinctive snore? Their own melody? Well, this fella was his own symphony.
Every five minutes, he’d begin playing a new tune in a different key with a
different instrument. Sometimes it sounded like an entire orchestra, other
times a solo act from first violin. I even heard a few a few duets in there. We
even enjoyed some opera; the guy beneath him started talking in his sleep, but
in a high-pitched, almost falsetto voice. By this time, I think the drunk had
turned the lights on and off. Probably at 1:30, I went to the bathroom to grab
some tissues to stuff in my ears, later discovering that they didn’t work. As I
cracked open the bedroom door, quieter than a church-mouse, the “music man”
sprang up from his bed screaming, Ahhhhhh!
What the fuck is goin’ on! Where the hell am I! What’s happenin’! Everyone’s
eyes turned to this guy, and then, slowly, to me. I still have no idea what
that guy thought was going on, other than a bunch of people trying to catch
some Zzzz’s. Maybe he thought he was being incepted.
The symphony’s second act started about 15
minutes after that brief interlude. Most of the audience continued observing
silently. But, by 2:30, another man snapped, jumping out of bed screaming, that’s it! I can’t take it anymore! I’ve
been wearing these goddamn earplugs all goddamn night and they aren’t doing a
goddamn thing! Stop the fucking
snoring and shut the FUCK up! He stomped over to the musician and actually
hit him. Just once, to make sure he was awake. The guy said he didn’t know he
was snoring and couldn't help it. By this point I hated both of them and just
wanted them to shut up. I’m still unsure what the angry guy was hoping to
achieve by waking everyone up and yelling...I suppose we were lucky there wasn't a fistfight in the middle of the room.
For the next twenty minutes, the room was a
tomb, quieter than a catacomb. By this point, I think I managed to close my
eyes and drift into sleep...
...and then someone was on top of me!
Grasping that this wasn’t part of the dream, I pushed out, hit the guy’s chest
with my open hands, and started shouting, What
the!? Get the...
I can’t include the rest of what I said,
not because I’m afraid of offending virgin ears (or is it eyes?). Rather, I can’t
remember what came next. I was so angry that I may have been cursing in tongues
for all I know; considering how livid I was, the number and novelty of the
swears would fill up a page of new entries in Webster’s.
The guy mumbled something and staggered out
of my bed and down the ladder. I didn’t see what happened next. It was 3:30 and
we had to get up at 7am. I collapsed into my pillow.
The next morning I woke up to Adel sitting
at his bedside, already showered and dressed. He didn’t sleep well either. No one
did.
At breakfast, we spooned cornflakes from
our bowls in silence. The girls had a pleasant night. They shared the room with
a couple of old ladies— tame stuff. I envied how well-rested they looked— sweet
dreams I suppose. Stomachs satisfied, we shared a laugh about the whole
experience. Bart told me how he saw the guy walk through the door, look up at
my bed, and then, without hesitating, climb up into it. Adel mentioned he considered
yelling on several occasions, but thought in his semi-conscious state that it
would come out in Russian instead of English. Thinking through my dreams, I’m
half-certain that someone tried to climb into my bed not once, but twice. Maybe
one instance was just a dream. That I’m unsure is the scary part.
Bart has a saying about turning dreams into
memories. He keeps a poster of it on his bedroom door. The girls walked out of
that hostel with dreams, we left with memories.
--
D.
P.S. If you doubt the veracity of my tale, this is
how I looked that morning after checking-out:
The truth is written all over that face. Hope you liked the story.
Let me know if there's anything else you'd like to hear about. I think I'll write about driving in Britain next.
