I landed in San Diego Friday night at 11:30, and It’s been a while since I posted much content, so I was hoping a trip to Southern California would quickly get me back into the groove of writing. Ocean Beach, however, was proving to make writing a nearly impossible task. I brought my son Davin with me, he is staying on my brothers couch, while I retire every night to the local hostel where I share a room with 5 strangers that turns over almost nightly. It’s my first stay at a hostel, and I was looking forward to the experience and seeing how it measured up to my conception of a hostel. Hostels are uncommon in the U.S., virtually unheard of in the South, but a great way to travel elsewhere.
The Hostel
Essentially, you book a bed, sometimes co-ed, sometimes not. It doesn’t matter because no one is in the bunk rooms unless they are sleeping. There was a nice-sized community kitchen with a large wooden table, wooden cutting boards, and every pot and pan or cooking device you would need. A small pantry with community items and shelves with labeled products. There was a large gas station-style drink cooler with shelves and glass doors where refrigerated products could be placed.
There was always coffee on the counter, and they set up a free continental display every morning. Outside of the kitchen was a wrap-around courtyard that was half covered and half opened. The smoking section was under the open aired half and there were benches, couches, coffee tables a bar top in the corner with bar stools and at the far end was a heated tented section with a T.V., giant beanbags, more couches and love seats. The middle of the patio houses another large commercial fridge with a sign on the glass doors that says, beer cooler.
Settling in
It was filled with many six-packs and cases of different kinds, and all were marked with pink stickers with the owner’s name, room number, and checkout day. The checkout day served as the supply chain for the community shelves in the pantry and each cooler. After the sunsets, everyone starts stumbling in from their days out in San Diego. A very relaxed, chill, and exclusive gathering happens on the back patio of the hostel. You can’t enter the building unless you are an employee or a guest, and no one under 21 is permitted on the premises. These policies were strictly enforced.
If you had paid your admission fee, the hostel was one of the most exclusive parties in town. At 10:00 p.m. Every night, silent time was evoked, and to stay on the patio, you had to keep it down out of respect for those trying to sleep. There was always a night excursion to keep those occupied that weren’t ready to retire. I realized in my evenings that the hostel was one of the most interesting places I have ever stayed at anywhere in the world. It was also fun and a little crazy at times but incredibly interesting.
I arrived at the giant peace sign-topped building to check in on Saturday. Jake from Australia was running the desk. He told me the ropes, gave me the door code if it was after hours, and reminded me to check it every time I left. With constant turnover, it changes regularly. He handed me my room key card, sheets, a pillowcase, and a towel, and off I went.
The bunks were metal, and half had solid sides to give you privacy when lying down. Every bunk was taken but one when I walked in. It was noonish, and the lights were off, and two bunks were occupied with people sleeping. With the bed ticket I was to stick to my section of the bunk bed, I claimed my slot. I put my things on the bed and headed back out to see what the hostel was about.
After purchasing a six-pack of a local Hefeweizen, I labeled it with the stickers that were provided as my property and placed it in the fridge. As I walked into the lounge, I saw the T.V. and sat down to watch. As I sipped my beer, I had the privilege to watch, with my new friend from Cincinnati, a Brazilian woman dismantled a Mexican lady’s face and then put it back together again. She completed this task almost exclusively with her elbow. In a pretty brutal UFC match that surprisingly, unexpectedly, shockingly went the distance. How her knees allowed her to stay on her feet with the bloody beating her face and head were taking is a testament to her stamina. And to the prowess of her chin.
After the fight ended, I went back to make new friends. It was an interesting mix, and it was ever-changing. I can’t always remember everyone’s name, there was so many to keep up with. You only remembered those that stayed more than a day, and many people use it as a layover spot for breaking up long trips. There is a Hilarious chalkboard with funny sayings and questionnaires for the international guests that change daily. It asks questions like your dream job, and the answers are often hilarious.
The wild parrots gather on the power lines over the patio in the morning and talk loudly to each other like old friends. You call everyone by their place of birth, and first names come with multiple interactions. An Irishman from Belfast working and living in Brisbane was staying here now because he was on his way to Boston to ski and needed a break after a 15-hour flight. So he was hanging out talking with the other guests. Courtney from Sidney was in San Diego headed home from Canada after two years, finding herself in the Pacific Forrests of British Columbia.
Tim from Munich was in town surfing. He looked like a typical surfer dude from Southern California, with his unkempt sun-bleached hair covered by his flat-billed hat, T-shirt, and board shorts. This made for an interesting look when he would walk up and then talk with a thick German accent. There was Abdul from Saudi Arabia, who was on business in the States and on his maiden voyage outside the Muslim world.
Alcohol is forbidden in his kingdom, and San Diego was a place you could tell was making him fall in love. He never stopped smiling, ever, and not just a smirk. A Cheshire Cat smile that made one wish to feel his awe. We also had Medi from north of Paris, Sandra from Berlin, a guy from Dublin, Jake from Houston, Cincinnati, Seattle, and Jamie from the Mississippi coast, and that was just the first night.
Every night was an activity of some sort, and there was always something to do. They had a Sunday game night with cards, beer pong, and board games. Five-dollar barbeques, beach bonfires, and movie nights. Taco Tuesday, the Mexican restaurant next door, gives deep discounts on tacos for hostel guests. The town’s businesses offer a lot of local incentive-style promotions to keep hostel guests happy and help facilitate their journeys. It was a small community within the community, a summer camp for Adults. It is one of the most beautiful places in America.
When you have such a cross-section of people talking over beers, it becomes riotous, and we often were reprimanded for our noise. But we always brought it back to manageable. The topic of gasoline came up, and you have never seen a funnier sight than 8 people with cell phones taking a shot at converting gallons and miles while simultaneously trying to convert currencies in an incredibly hilarious attempt to first try and figure out what exactly it is your trying to convert in the first place.
We all agreed gas was cheap here, but it was even cheaper back home in Atlanta. Occasionally, things would get slightly serious, like when the German from Munich began to get a little hot on the topic of the Muslim invasion of Europe. Or Jay from Mumbai verbally go after Paul from London about British colonialism and how cricket was the only thing the British could effectively give any culture. It was quick, and he let it go, but it was a moment I felt could have escalated back home.
I got a kick out of the world’s view on the American standard measurement system. At one point, Abdul asked me why we changed measurements on everything. What do you mean? I asked. He began an explanation, and it essentially came down to one fact. America is pretty much the only country not on the metric system. I concluded that there were two types of countries in the world: those on the imperial system, i.e., the U.S. and the rest of the world. You could sense there was some global animosity of us holding out and not getting with the program. It was just fun to converse in this environment.
We went around the patio and asked each other what their fellow countrymen and women thought of their own fellow countrymen and women. It was hilarious. Germans are considered the living robots of society. Industrial and financially responsible, the world sees them as an industrial complex that peers down on the borders of Europe. Saudis are rich, “everyone knows that” was the global sentiment on Saudi Arabians with their liquid black gold. Australians think Americans are. Let me see if I can get this word correct, fuckwits, though I was assured it was not true. We were very polite and hospitable among the native English-speaking nations they had hung out in.
The Aussies I found, however, are absolute potty mouths and about as wild as they come. Courtney said the C word often, using the f word several times in a sentence. Sam from Sydney was keen to drink his beer out of his shoe. Most were amazed at Georgia gun laws, and it was unbelievable the ease with which a gun can be purchased in the U.S. The ease with which one can obtain a driver’s license was also interesting. Apparently, in Germany, one must take mandatory school on driving, many tests, and a couple thousand dollars. Here, don’t hit any cones, and give me 30 bucks.
There were also many here for the dispensaries, and everyone was shocked at the drug laws and penalties of the South. We all live in different worlds, and seeing different perspectives is always eye-opening. People came and went, sometimes with the ones they arrived with. I met Rafael from the Basque region of Spain. He was exploring the continent and had been to several countries and regions. He was in the middle of his journey of several months and heading to San Francisco next, though he hadn’t procured transportation or boarding yet.
We were all at a table having coffee and breakfast and getting ready for the day. It was around 6:30 in the morning. I was told you could set your watch to the gathering of parrots that would begin their chatter like, no pun intended, clockwork. We were all discussing the coming day when Jay from Mumbai, India, announced he was heading towards San Francisco in his rental car. What luck for Rafael, who also needed transportation to San Francisco. They finished their morning offerings, and off they went. I have never experienced a culture of people so free.
The final destinations were the only places the people I met in the hostel had set in stone. Getting there was what they were after, for finding your destination means the journey was over. It reminds me of a sign I saw and just so happened to take a picture of at a coffee shop in Da Nang the morning before I left for home that read, “the journey is the destination”. I met many new friends and have many new places to visit my new friends all over the world.
I realize as I write this that the title has been lost. “Einstein has it all wrong”. He did have it all wrong; you see, he has never been to Southern California. Space-time operates on a different set of rules here in San Diego. Time slows to a crawl, events become moments, and everything becomes right now. You begin to walk through life as if you are on a wave. Bobbing up and down in the surf, always floating to where you need to be, but rarely remembering how you got there. Go to San Diego and ride the wave. You will always be headed somewhere special, yet never really have plans to go anywhere. You always arrive at the party but never seem to have left for it. Spring break 2019 in Southern California is an amazingly fun time and place to be.
