The Princess and the Pea

Hostels are my thing, but I realize I won't be able to convert many to the wonders of quickly plugging into a city when there is a string attached called "sharing a bathroom." Such is the case of my good friend. I affectionately call her my Persian Princess as she only will tolerate the nicest of things.

Stay in a hostel? No way! Marriot hotels are more her speed, but she was willing to slum it with me in a Best Western. Public transportation? Are you out of your mind? Instead, we rented a car. At the beach, I offered her peaches that I bought from a farmer's market, and she wanted to know how I was going to wash them first. Besides, she argued, "Didn't you see the flies on those things?"

Before we left on our trip, she emailed me a packing list which was a foreshadowing of what was to come. My first clue as to how much we are the odd couple was that this list included both hotel shoes and shower shoes. I thought, "Huh, room slippers and shower shoes? Maybe she wears slippers around her house like a 1930's Hollywood diva. But shower shoes when we aren't camping?"

To her defense, she wore the same flip flops around the room and in the shower as she did to the beach. Based on that, I'd lower her crazy from a 9 to an 8.

Like true royalty, my Princess required everything to be in perfect order before she could relax. The first thing she did when we entered our room was to inspect the sheets. She turned the bedside lamp on and carefully went through each square inch of sheet, blanket, pillow and pillow case under it's condemning light. She even inspected the mattress. Can you guess what she was looking for?

Bedbugs. She wanted to see if any blood drops could be found on the sheets and mattress. "And if you find any evidence of bedbugs," I asked? If so, then she wanted to ask for a new room. Awkwardly I tried to follow her instructions on inspecting the sheets. I totally went through the motions to appease her since I didn't know what the hell I was looking for. I just wanted the Princess to be happy.

I also thought she'd be proud of me for my initiative in cleaning my feet before hopping into bed with her. Walking around town in sandals left my feet dirty, so I washed my feet in the tub. The plug fell into the drain and the water pooled. I didn't care. I let my feet take turns soaking in the hot water while I cleaned the other foot.

She walked into the bathroom, squished up her face, and oozed, "Ewwww! That's disgusting! Don't you know what's been in that tub? Pubic hair! Jizz! All sorts of gross stuff! And now your feet are in the water that is touching where all of that stuff was."

Well, after that description, I wanted to throw up.

Her neurosis didn't end there. The remote control was wrapped in a tissue so that I could not figure out which button was for volume or input. She unpacked a package of toilet seat covers, and I wondered if that was for the hotel or for our outings. And when I walked around barefoot in the room, I remembered her stance on germs and quickly put on my flip flops while checking to see if she caught my blunder.

Observing her for a few days, I finally figured out what the problem was. "Have you ever been to a third world country?" I asked. She hadn't, which was just so obvious. Once you see the level of filth in which the human body can thrive, you realize just how clean the United States are. By comparison, our dirt is dang clean.

Until she hits rock bottom, and by that I mean using a porta potty without a seat cover, I really don't think any of my arguments will win her over to my carefree ways. As long as she travels in clean places, she will demand only the most sanitary of conditions. But I'm not prepared to say that this demand is such a bad thing. The princess who felt the pea below so many mattresses earned herself a prince. I'm sure my Persian Princess will too.

Cool People are at Cool Places

Hostels are also a great way to find where the cool is in a city. Here in Charleston, SC, the hipster staff put together a guide with their favorite picks. They revealed the funky vegetarian restaurants or best place to hear live music at an out of the way venue.

The alley entrance at Gilroy's

From their recommendations, my roommates and I frequented a bar that doesn't have a sign to advertise it. In lieu of an address, they gave us these instructions: walk down King St, turn right at Gilroy's Pizza, walk halfway down the alley, then up the stairs by the trash can. Guess what? There still wasn't a sign upstairs. We just opened the door and hoped we weren't walking in on something private.

There at the Upper Deck Tavern, the music was indie, the patrons were tattooed, and the cheap drinks were strong. On a Sunday night when every bar we past on the main street was empty, this bar bursted with drunk people accompanying the karaoke singers.

Two dudes with long hair and bandanas like Axel Rose sang a Flogging Molly song. A group of girls in Buddy Holly glasses lead the crowd in a rowdy Yeah Yeah Yeah's hit. The song lyrics were not only on a prompter for the singer, but the words were also projected behind the singer on a huge screen so that everyone else in the bar could sing along. A group of people danced to the songs, and others hooted acknowledgment. One of the guys at our table grabbed my hand and pulled me to dance floor for some country song. He danced the Texas swing really well!

With one of the guys who shared our table, my roommates and I ended up singing Living on a Prayer since my German roommate is such a huge fan of Bon Jovi. Of course, that song is a crowd favorite, so I  really didn't have to worry about anyone hearing my voice over the noise of the crowd singing along. Mission accomplished.

After singing, we played Jenga. When I went to grab the game for the table, I saw a hot guy dressed like a beatnik. He was all by himself, so I said, "Hey, you look lonely. Want to play Jenga with us?" He did.

This bar has it's own edition of the game. Each time we pulled a Jenga piece from the tower, we read the instructions that had been written in marker. We might have to buy the hottest guy at the bar a drink, or tickle the person to the left, or yell "Cunt licker!" 

At 2am, the bar closed and all of the coolest, hippest kids in town were kicked out to the street. Like a steady stream of clowns coming out of a car at the circus, we poured out of that tiny dive bar to fill the street outside. How had we all fit in there?

Had we not taken the advice of the staff at the hostel, we would've missed the biggest karaoke party in Charleston while sitting at an empty bar wondering, "Where is everybody?"

Hostels: You're Never Alone

Not So Hostel, Charleston, SC

When traveling alone, I love to stay in hostels since I never feel isolated there. For some glorious reason, everyone who stays at a hostel is friendly, talkative, and willing to invite those traveling alone to tag along because they are usually traveling alone too.

Many of my friends are afraid of staying in them after watching the horror movie in which a crazed killer has his way with the travelers in one unlucky hostel. Or they imagine them to be unclean. Or they don't want to share a room with other people.

I would submit that a crazy killer can find you anywhere, a hotel can be just as clean or unclean as a hostel, and that most hostels have private room options. However, you probably cannot get away from sharing the bathrooms. You've got me on that one.

By their very nature, hostels are designed to bring strangers together which might even be more valuable then their rock bottom room rate. Sharing space means bumping into people and giving you that excuse to talk to a stranger. In Charleston, SC, rooming with two other girls gave me the excuse to introduce myself then invite them along with me to my outing. Sharing computers in the living room, eating breakfast around the kitchen table, or enjoying the cool of the night on the gracious front porch were all opportunities I grabbed for good conversation.

As for eating dinner at a restaurant alone, who wants to be "that guy"? Not I. (Said the fly with the buy in his eye...random, but it all rhymes.) If I must eat alone, I prefer to sit at a bar in hopes of striking up conversation with the people on either side of me. But I find it so much nicer to walk in with my dinner companion so that there is a guarantee of company.

The hostel spared me again, this time I didn't need to chance eating my dinner alone. After my two roommates checked out of the hostel to move onto their next city, I had lost my impromptu traveling companions. But just as quickly as I had lost them, I found another. Walking out the door, I bumped into a guy who was also heading into town for dinner. Over a shared pizza, I learned he owns a hostel in Costa Rica. Yeah buddy! I plan to check that out one day!

People told me I am too old to have stayed at a hostel on this past trip, but I will continue to use hostels at any age if I'm traveling alone. I've seen families and old people staying at them, so I'll never run the risk of being too old. But really, I just love the hostels because without a great private room to hide in, people congregate in the shared spaces and conversations begin. I never have to feel alone even if I'm traveling alone.

Charleston, South Carolina: The Sweat!

Gross. This weather is disgusting.

Due to my late arrival at the hostel last night, my room assignment was mixed up. I ended up sleeping on a random bed in a room full of guys. I didn't know it was a room full of guys since I went to bed after 3am. What I noticed about the room is that it was stifling hot and smelled like feet.

This morning, I found out that I actually had a frigid room waiting for me with pleasant girls who smell clean. I'm so looking forward to sleep tonight!

As I couldn't sleep in, I went for a run. Big mistake. This heat rivals the tropics. Due to the intense heat,  all I could think about was the sweat dripping off of my pony tails.

After a shower and breakfast, I was still feeling sticky. Walking to town only increased my discomfort. Sure, I felt the sweat dripping down my back, but I didn't know that my clothes were as sweaty as if I'd gone running.

My dress darkened with sweat marks! Damp, dark fabric rose from my belly to two crescent shapes below my breasts. I guess my bra was doing a good enough job of soaking up the sweat. Ick! Gross! I was mortified!

As soon as my roommate and I found a coffee shop, we ducked into there and stayed until our clothes dried out. In the meantime, all that sweat and AC left me fa-reeeeezing. In fact I was so cold that I was shivering.

Dammit. Remind me again why we need to sweat outside of the bedroom?

Charleston, South Carolina: Take One

Last night I arrived in Charleston, South Carolina. It's way down south where DC's unusual heat wave is but a normal day's temperature. Right away, I realized that I'll only make it in this town if I hop from one air conditioned venue to another.

The DC boy wearing his Natty Boh.

As I'm traveling alone, I decided to stay at a hostel where I could meet some people. However I was disappointed when arriving to the hostel after midnight, I found everyone going to bed instead of heading out to the bars. So I ventured out on my own.

I wandered the streets until I found where all the bars are. All of the bars had long lines of frat boys and sorority girls. So when I found a bar called Macintosh that looked like Meridian Pint in Columbia Heights, I went in. I figured that if a bar decorated with a nod to the industrial then it would play better music and attract more interesting people, and I was right.

Sitting next to me at the counter was a boy from the Maryland side of DC who moved to town last week to work as some sort of chef at Husk, a restaurant that only uses ingredients from south of the Mason Dixon line. From his description, it sounded like fancy home cooked or soul food prepared with the idea that ingredients should be more local. I will definitely be trying that place.

We talked til the bar closed, and he walked me back to my hostel. Along the way, other Maryland people stopped us in the street to loudly slur, "Naaaaaaaatty Boh!"

Back at the hostel, all the night owls greeted me from the porch. The German au pairs swooned at the thought of my house so full of kids and asked me to come visit them in Europe in order for them to watch my brood. Um, can they swear to that in blood?

I'm Too Afraid to Go Home

Yesterday my oldest and I watched the movies Scream 2 and Scream 3. Watching that sequel during the daylight was no problem especially since the movie wasn't so creepy. However, we watched the scarier third installment at night which freaked me out!

Unlike my child, watching that gory movie at night unnerved me and frightened me. Being scared out of my mind meant forcing my kid to walk beside me through the house as I closed up for the night. I couldn't even go to the bathroom alone! I was so scared and wouldn't enter a room until it was inspected by my kid.

"And the mother of the year award goes to....."

In bed, we watched sitcoms until I fell asleep. It was sweet to share the bed with this child who hadn't crawled into bed with me for such a long time. Instead of me as the mother soothing a child after a nightmare, our situation was reversed. I was one the one laying there with my eyes wide open and needing to be comforted.

Tonight, the kids are with my ex. Who the hell will soothe me to sleep tonight? I don't want to be alone in my house so I'm avoiding my home. My plan is to stay here at Epicure Cafe until they kick me out at 2am. By that time, the murderer will be so bored waiting for me at my house that he'll move onto to someone else, right? RIGHT?

She Miró; She Lloró

Last Sunday I biked over to the National Gallery of Art to see the Miró exhibit. How refreshing it was for me to have time to go soak in art at my own pace. Since the children were off camping, the beautiful art kept me company.

Or was it beautiful art? I'm not a fan of surrealist art. Like so much of poetry, I usually want to strangle the proverbial neck of the artwork and scream, "Why don't you just say what you mean??"

While Miró didn't tell me what he meant, whoever did the write ups for the exhibit shed some light on his meaning. Each room grouped his works into a theme: a place where he lived, a war going on, a scene he repeatedly painted, etc. And in several rooms a recurring theme became evident. A few times he included a ladder to represent his escape.

Like Jacob's ladder, Miró's ladders are grounded on earth but reach to the heavens. For the artist, this escape was artistic expression free of all the political restrictions and turbulence oppressing him. To me, that ladder felt like hope and I cried as I sat there in the East Gallery looking at his art.

Unable to disguise my crying, I tried not care that people were looking at me. I read about his life, the 3 wars he lived through, the exile he was forced to endure, and thought about the peasants who didn't have the money to move away from the misery.

Something struck a chord within me, and to the surface came all the fucked up shit in my life that I try to drown out with distractions. I felt all the pain I try to ignore and longed for his ladder to escape my woes so that I can frolic in my own artistic expression.

Crazy isn't it? I looked at funky art like this and cried.