Lighten up Poole!!!

Damn!

That last blog was a massive downer! Let’s liven things up with a blast from the recent past! Here is the transcript of the guy who had the bottom bunk of which I was the top the third night I was in Chicago. The gentleman, peaceful and polite when awake, was a sleeptalker, sleep singer , sleep moaner and sleep groaner. His sleep diction was perfect, in fact he spoke clearer when asleep! The following is an accurate script form several hours one late February night in a Hostel in Chicago. When reading his lines unless directed, always read them with a bright loud tone.


One last note: though impossible to sleep through, it was all still pretty damn funny, especially as I had come back late into the room, but had figured out a way to change in the closet and thereby not wake up my companions! And with the adroitness of a Boy Scout I changed to my night-togs, lept soundlessly into the top bunk and laid back dreaming of Lady Russian academics
with mysterious smiles. Two second later:

BOTTOM: Well Mr.Martin? Were those curbs big enough?

TOP(Me):Oh! Dude, sorry I thought I was being quiet. . .

BOTTOM:Certainly we’ll find the coat rack. Keep those curbs drifting Mr. Martin!

TOP: (eyes suddenly wide).. . Uh. . .

(silence falls for twenty seconds)

BOTTOM: ( there are notes, but the actual song is indiscernible) mmmmmmmmmnnuh. Mmmmmmmmmnuh nuh nuh nuh nuh mmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMm YEAH! Num num num num YEAH ahahahahahaha ahah ha!

TOP: (eyes extremely wide, all sleepiness is gone, I am wide awake)

(Silence for 45 seconds. I am lulled into thinking it’s over)

BOTTOM: Oooh yes we can! Yep! Yes! Find it the way you left it! Johnson, you and Fairly get the rutabaga. Get it! Yes I said get it! If you don’t then it go wrong. Very wrong. Mattresses?
Yep!

BOTTOM: (violently tosses in bed, kicking at the mattress) If you don’t take care of it someone else will! I know where the frying pan is, Margaret! Ha! Yeah?
What? Sure? Where? Yes. Yes. Yes. NO! If you think best.

(SIlencefalls for about three minutes, again lulled into a false sense of peace)

BOTTOM: (softly at first) nnnnnn . . . . . .hhhnnnn. . . . .hnnnnnn. . . . . .hnnnnn . . .
.(volume picks up) NNNNNNN HUHN huuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnh MAAAAAHHHH!
MAAAH! (hard kick on bunk) mah mah!!

TOP: You gotta be shittin’ me.

BOTTOM:Yeah?! Yeah! Yeah! I’m gonna get some. A lot? You know it! Let’s all get some
of that sweet honey bear! Heh, heh. Heheheheheheh. MMMMMmmmmn nnnnnnlal lala. lalalloo laaaoooooo

(Silence falls, I am not fooled.)

BOTTOM: Hitler HitlerHitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler HitlerHitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler
Hitler Hitler Hitler Hitler!

TOP: (eyes could not be more wide)

BOTTOM:WHoooooooooo. Tummy mummm uumm hum hum mmmananna.




This all continued for the entire night.


He’s a nice guy. He just says Hitler a lot when he sleeps.

A Hostel is a Hostel is a hostel. . . .

To begin with, I found a place to live with a really cool dude in a fabulous apartment in a black neighborhood. I am beginning to become a WB sitcom.

But let us start with Hostel-ity.

There are two basic kind of hostels. The Serious Traveler and the Serious Partier.

That is also a lie, for there are never just ‘two basic’ anythings.

Not even gender.

But, it comes close sometimes.

The first Chicago hostel I patronized was a Serious Traveler. No drinking, guests are kicked out in the middle of the day, and the commons rooms are more like study halls. My current hostel is of the other type. Booze is allowed and drinking tours of the neighborhood bars are conducted regularly. The crowd at the Party Hostels are generally younger. Or is that too obvious?

Whatever kind of hostel it is there are some things they all have in common. And the international clientele sets the tone for every decision. Despite this, you must resist the urge to compare them to the United Nations or even The European Union. Practicality reigns at the hostel, and the gilded and carpeted halls where Earth’s diplomats eat gold and screw interns are on the other side of the mind entirely.

Picture it, bathrooms, showers, beds, toilets and kitchens must be accessible to Vietnamese, Austrians, Venezuelans, Japanese, Russians, Greenlanders and even Texans. And when you walk into a hostel at dinner high tide there is a euphony of dinner smells pouring forth from dozens of cooks from all other the planet. Especially in Chicago, as these guys can get a hold of their native cuisine with one train ride. And no, this ain’t just Ramen from around the world. A group of students from Viet Nam had come prepared, and every evening
we witnessed family style dinner with a line of bowls filled with beautiful food.

An odd thing about the smell. I have always been repulsed the odor if the combined KFC Taco Bell places. And once, when I went into a place that served both Mexican and Chinese food, I almost threw up from the violent riot of scents in my nose. These hostels doesn’t have that. Somehow the smells all work, they get along in a way that multiple foreign objects rarely do. Which takes us back the UN and all that is ‘other’ to it.

People here HAVE to get along. There are too busy, too poor and too alone to do otherwise. There are exceptions, but exceptions are exceptional ( Yes, the redundancy is important
here) and they are quickly ostracized or ignored. I don’t think I need to speak on this subject anymore to Chicago people. Here, elegant plumes of common sense in the shape of buildings, roads, trains and people fill the eye and mind.

So what is the difference between the UN and the hostel? Why are these two places so different? The UN exists to celebrate and defend the differences between people, the hostel forces you to find the commonality.

The last night I was in the hostel, I was up until 4am talking with a Chinese national, a Taiwanese and VietNamese and the occasional Brazilian about nothing BUT important topics. Can you imagine that? No small talk whatsoever, for even the most casual observances where lessons of English for them, and discoveries of knowledge for me. It was the kind of talk that makes you stronger, full of hope and less tolerant of the mean side of yourself.

Now it has to be said, communal living can suck due to sleep talkers, excessive drinkers and the strange smells that can come from the orifices of some folk of which good taste prevents description. However, I always feel like a better man every time I leave a hostel. And today, in a world of retail jobs and Republican debates, that’s a feeling more precious that Lady Gaga’s next hairdo.

NEXT WEEK:
ADVENTURE ON THE GREEN LINE! OR I HAVE MY FIRST REAL CITY DAY.