I’m sitting in a hostel across the street from King Street Station. It is probably the last one I’ll be in for awhile, which is a strange feeling. The walls are aggressively yellow, and it smells like something cruciferous is cooking on the stove. There’s a large pile of gnawed chicken bones next to a table speaking something Slavic-sounding. It’s raining outside, as it’s been raining for days, which feels appropriate.
I wish I’d documented these hostels more vividly as I drifted through them, taken more pictures of the insides; they’re already beginning to blend together in my head.
Which was the one with the walls of each dorm painted by a different local artist? Was it the one above the pie shop and the piroshky place and the pizza bar? I thought so at first, but no, that one’s the one with cloudlike comforters, in which a group of teenage Asian boys made constant homoerotic jokes. I think it was the other one, its sister hostel, with the twin lions standing guard and the tiny alley courtyard in the back.
Which was the one in Montreal with the loft blanket fort, or the twenty-odd beds in an adjacent basement? Which was the unsettling one in NYC where the very clearly stoned manager just let me into a random apartment and then waved goodbye?
It doesn’t matter, of course, but I regret the fading. Then again, I suppose I regret a lot of things.
Today I gathered my things from my friend’s place and caught the bus downtown, then got my train shit safely in my grubby little hands. Then, to my own surprise, I actually returned the library book I’d checked out (Amy Poehler’s Yes Please). Which is probably the single most responsible thing I’ve done in the last six months, and that’s probably not much of an exaggeration.
So tomorrow I get on the train, and I will, hopefully, go back to being a failure of an adult in a manner I at least enjoy, for a couple weeks. And then, well. Fuck knows.