The title is a title from a Charles Bukowski poem I read… I recommend it.
When I arrived at my hostel, I was just getting in the door when a man who worked there said, “Be careful, there is wet paint!” I managed to snake and weave my way through the hall, avoiding any contact with any walls or railings… even the floor! At first, the girl at the front desk, Jenny, kinda creeped me out… I kinda got the when-you-go-to-sleep-I’m-taking-your-kidneys vibe from her. It wasn’t helped at all by the fact that I got to my room I was the only person in it and I hadn’t seen another person in the hostel yet…
My apprehension was slightly alleviated when I met my first fellow traveller and roommate for the night, Rick Press. I was down in the lobbyish area looking at bus times to get to the station the next day when Mr. Press knocked on the door. I let him in and warned him of the wet paint, and he started babbling and talking in some sort of dialect that made my head spin… I understood about one of every 5 words that came out of his mouth and by the giggle he made every few seconds I could have sworn he was tripping balls on something. The only thing I got out of our first encounter was that he thought I worked there. I said no and pointed him towards the desk, smiling, because I couldn’t do anything else. Rick was in his late twenties and had just returned from a two year stint in Korea, Hong Kong, China and some other places in Asia where he had taught English and played his guitar on the streets at night to help him pay off his debt from the University. Not more than 10 minutes later I met my second and last fellow traveller and roommate. His name was Alex and he was a 60 something consultant for something who had been working in the Middle East for a number of years now. He was upset because on his way to Yemen, he had received a message from his brother saying it wasn’t safe and he should stop and turn around until it was okay for him to go, and instead of returning to the states, he made a quick trip to some places in the UK- apparently he felt sick because of a nasty hacking cough and also a recent three days of drinking in Liverpool.
The three of us talked for the next few hours about anything from international affairs and governments, to education systems , economics, terrorism and even a little philosophy. Rick enjoyed telling stories about Hong Kong and the myriad of Polynesian prostitutes that inhabited the city (just looking for some way to gain some citizenship somewhere) and playing Beatles songs on the streets for the hundreds of British millionaires in the city (it turns out 1 in 15 Brits in Hong Kong is a millionaire, go figure!) Alex liked talking about the old days. He was a Russian Studies and Economics major at Brown University, where he became good friends with Ziggy Marley. He also went to pilot school with John Kennedy and for all I know, is good friends with a lot of other famous people. Alex told us about his working with the US government on Americanizing Russians after the Cold War and all his debriefings with the CIA on counter-terrorism and all kinds of stuff. I think he also downed almost a whole bottle of cough syrup as well, which surprisingly didn’t seem to help his cough too much.
Around 6:30 Rick packed up his guitar and headed into town to play on the streets, not to return till 4 in the morning. Alex and I did our own thing and by about 8 o’clock I was ready to call it a night and turned in. Weak. I know.
Rick
Alex
The next two are what my hostel room looked like. I kept my kidneys.
My bed has the shoes by it.
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