09.14.06 hostels

I admit that I have never stayed in a hostel. I had to think for a bit to determine exactly why, but it probably has to do with a) the relative distance of hosteling type places from Seattle, and b) the fact that my prime lowbudget travelling (and therefore potentially hosteling) years were spent not bumming around Europe, but instead touring with the band. For those who don’t know, touring is essentially the same thing as bumming around: you have funny hair, don’t shower often, get loaded all the time, hang out with other temporary societal dropouts, espouse semi socialist dropout-ish ethical B.S. in an attempt to get laid, etc. etc. Except with touring, you have to drag musical instruments with you and stay in dirty punk rock dude houses instead of dirty hostels.

At any rate, I booked my 36 year old self and my 63 year old mother into a hostel called the Mainistir House (sounded fancy) on Inishmore Island, having no idea what staying in a hostel entailed, however excusable my ignorance may have been. Indication #1 that I had made a booking error was when the hike to the hostel turned out to be 1 mile. For me and a backpack, this is no biggie; but for me, mom, and our wheel-able suitcases, this was a bit ridiculous. Especially considering the quality and width of Inishmore roads, which seem to force tour bus drivers to zoom past pedestrians with very little clearance. After about half a mile uphill, I was dragging both the suitcases, and mom was grumpily walking about 40 feet behind me. Ominously, a sign pointing the way to our hostel rather ambiguously indicated that there was either a vegetarian restaurant in the same direction, or simply a vegetarian restaurant in the hostel. Since most of Inishmore consists of ruined stone houses and neolithic looking stone livestock enclosures, it was hard to imagine how there could be much living up that road, let alone a hostel and a separate vegetarian restaurant, let’s call that indication #2.

mainister

After about 30 minutes of dodging tour buses, etc., we arrived at Mainistir, and checked in. Mainistir is some sort of old house that has apparently been taped back together by hippies and turned into a low budget travelling (bumming) hippie twentysomething facility. There was a semi crusty punk chick checking email on the communal computers in the entry-way, handmade signage advertising the qualities of “Joel’s stew” available in the lunchroom, and the reception desk dude. The dude was black, effete and lispy to the point of being probably gay, wore only high tech hiker type longjohn tops and bottoms, and spoke with a thick Irish accent. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that, but for a provincial like me: he was pretty far out. For simplicity’s sake, I’d like to roll all of that up into indication #3. The dude was totally nice to us, got our money up front (#4), and let us pick our room (#5) from a couple that were open. I dragged our bags up the tiny rickety staircase to the 2nd floor, we picked the small and moderately sketchy room 9, and began checking out the joint. In all fairness to Mainistir, the views of the beach, old stone houses, and Galway bay were fabulous. The communal bathroom (#6) however, with the toilet seat ripped out (#7) and sitting on the floor (#8) did not impress mom too much, while the potato bug crawling across the floor of room 9 (coincidentally also indication #9) was a bit of a turnoff for me. Returning downstairs, I asked the dude for a key, to which I was informed that there were no keys (#10), at which point I realized that I would be hauling my laptop all around the island (#11). Sigh. Things had clearly been going way too right up to this point in the trip, I was due for some torture. While we walked back to town, mom tried to make me feel better about the hostel by looking on the bright side, saying that we didn’t come to Aran to hang out in the ho(s)tel, we came to see the sights, etc., etc. This, just like the breaking of the seventh seal, is an absolute and unquestionably clear indication that things have gone straight to hell, so I decided to find some new accommodations. I suppose that makes #12.

Eating dinner at a hotel right across from the ferry dock, called The Pier House, (or Teach na Céibhe in Irish… by the way, people are really into speaking Irish here, and you hear it all the time, although everyone seems to speak English as well) I slipped away from the table to check out and then reserve a room. In the end, we had a very nice seafood dinner, stayed in a lovely room at the Pier House, got fully reimbursed by the dude, and I got to walk our roller suitcases a mile back from Mainistir by myself, since I didn’t want to put mom through that walk again. I also learned that I will probably never stay (on purpose) in a hostel.

a nice place to stay on Inishmore