beyond belief, and strap the belt on, then take one last look around the dirty, threadbare room with sagging bunks and the unshowered stink of a couple of Swiss guys who arrived yesterday. They’re probably out at the clubs right now, but their sour aroma is here to stay.
Good riddance to this shithole.
When I first came to Europe, I never dreamed of staying in a run-down backpacker hostel like this one, but then again, when I first came to Europe, I was with my ex, Tom, and I had nothing but love and adventure in front of me, not to mention security for the first time in my life.
Though I’d saved up as much money as I could from working at the university bookstore after classes, it was Tom who really planned ahead for both of us. Traveling as a couple, it was rare that we stayed at a hostel, and when we did, it was always in a private room. Most of the time we were in a hotel. Nothing fancy, but nothing that smelled like alcohol-infused farts either.
Then, a month into our travels, I’d gotten an email from my friend Chantal back home, the email that changed my life. Chantal told me Tom had been sleeping with our mutual friend Jen throughout the two years we’d been together and, suffice to say, an epic breakup to end all breakups occurred, right in the middle of the train station in Vienna.
So now Tom’s gone back to Seattle, and I’ve been staggering around Europe with a broken heart and a dwindling bank account, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I’ve got three weeks before I have to fly back home, and I have no idea what I’ll do if I find out Tom is in most of my classes in September.
Shit, I don’t even know what I’ll do with myself period. Though the breakup occurred almost four weeks ago, I’m nowhere near being over him. With every new place I end up in, I can’t help but wish I had someone by my side to share it with.
I sigh and pick up my increasingly heavy backpack, throwing it on with a grunt. We had started our trip in London, where I spent way too much money buying clothes and knickknacks, and I’ve been lugging around too much shit for just one person. I probably should start leaving things behind or sending shit home, but I’m far too sentimental for the first option and way too broke for the second.
I head out into the hall and nod at the front-desk guy, Ryan from New Zealand.
“Sadie,” he says to me, pouting slightly, “you’re off?”
“I’ve got a train to catch, remember?” I tell him, adjusting the pack on my shoulders. He’s been hitting on me for the whole week I’ve been in Nice, and I’ve deftly avoided every one of his clumsy advances.
“But you’re going so late,” he says with a sloppy smile. “Why not stay the night and go to Barcelona in the morning?”
“No can do,” I tell him. “If I catch the eleven o’clock train, I sleep overnight and I don’t have to pay for another bed. Thank you for letting me keep my stuff in the dorm room, by the way.”
“No problem. You sure you don’t want to stay?”
“It’s all booked and nonrefundable.” I glance at the clock over his shoulder. “And I’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to the station.”
I give him a quick wave and then hustle out of there before he can try to convince me some more. I loved using Nice as a base to explore towns like Menton and Cannes and even Monaco, but I’m over the French Riviera. When you don’t have any money in a place like this, you really feel out of your element. I’m hoping Barcelona will be more in line with my spirit, that Spain will become the country to heal me before I return home. At the very least, it’s supposed to be easier on the wallet.
The night is warm and humid, and the sea breeze coming off the Mediterranean doesn’t seem to reach this far into the city. The hostel is somewhat near the train station, maybe a ten-minute walk, but it’s in a sketchy section of town.
If you were with Tom, maybe you’d be staying in one of the fancy hotels on the Promenade des Anglais, I can’t help but think.