We've all done it, or want to do it one day – 'Do Europe' – travelling from famous city to famous city and staying in hostels. It was my turn last summer. I went to some great places, but my abiding memories are not of museums and monuments, but of sleepless nights.
Hostels are cheap, usually friendly, and often have interesting people staying in them. The foreign environment encourages interaction and you may well find yourself baring all (not always literally – my sleepless nights had nothing to do with that) to complete strangers. But the main drawback is that you can't choose your roommates, and that's where the missing of the customary eight hours of sleep comes in.
I started off in Weimar. The first night, I was woken by the sound of somebody snoring. Now, this wasn't the average growl interspersed with silent pauses. This was like a baritone power drill, the sound rising to a crescendo as though the drill were passing through an extra hard material before falling again to an idling speed. There was no silence here – the guy was obviously going for the world record in both loudness and continuity. Mating rhinos at the crucial moment would have been more discreet. Sleep was impossible in the room. I gathered up my duvet and went out to the lounge area to try to sleep on the sofa there. But this was not much better. It was cold, there was a clock reminding me of the transience of things on the wall above my head, and even through the closed door, I could hear the strangled record-breaking attempts. The lounge also gave onto the kitchen and I could clearly hear some mice having a party there. When some rats gatecrashed the party (at least I assumed this was the case when the noise level increased), I had had enough. The snoring seemed to have died down and so I went back to bed. Minutes later, the man turned over and started off again…
When I moved on to the next hostel, my only roommate was a Dutchman. I was woken in the middle of the night by him having a nightmare. Obviously, a good night's sleep is unheard of in most of Europe. He was thrashing around and calling out in a suffering voice, then he jumped up and stared wildly around the semi-dark room. Concerned enquiry seemed appropriate. “Are you okay?” “I – I'm seeking…” “What are you seeking?” “I – I'm trying…” This last was said in a plaintive tone, and he suddenly rushed over to the window. Fortunately, he didn't dive through. After a while, he quietened down and got back into bed. I was a bit apprehensive about going to sleep, fearing that my disturbed roommate might stab me or something. You never know what people will do. But I woke up the next morning in one piece. When I enquired if he had slept well, he replied, “Yes, very well. I just had a little nightmare.” “What was it about?” “My family. When I was young, they didn't let me do anything. They made me go to church. Every week, they made me go to church. I wanted to be free to do things, but they just said I needed religion.” His eyes had become haunted. “But religion is no good. There is no point in going to church. It doesn't help. So one day, I just said no. They were afraid, but they couldn't do anything. And since then, I have been travelling and that is where I learn things. Not in church – you learn nothing there… In my dream, I was young again…” I felt sorry for him, but was rather relieved when he moved on to Leipzig.
On my first night in Prague, having spent the day travelling on rather slow trains, I was hoping for some rest and recuperation in readiness for the next day's exploring. No such luck. Just after midnight, my roommates came back with friends in tow and proceeded to have an absinthe and marijuana party. There was much striking of matches and scattering of sugar, as well as a competition to find the most outrageous drug/drink story. A tale of an Indian man drinking absinthe and repeatedly expressing the wish to die seemed to win the laurel crown. Smoke and drunken laughter filled the room. They acknowledged my recumbent form just once. “Absinthe?” one of them said kindly, holding out a glass. I would have preferred it if they had suggested mass suicide.
But don't let this put you off. I have managed to sleep in a hostel before. And after all, it's not sleep you're in search of when you go hostelling in Europe, but just this kind of character-building experience. At least, I think that's right.
