"Adventures in Hostelling" Writing Contest

Winning Stories

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Broken English

As we checked in to Barcelona's Abba Hostel, a man approached us and asked, in broken English, "Why you come to Spain?"

We giggled politely, but couldn't answer. We'd only been in Spain for 20 minutes, and our Spanish was barely passable. My friends and I had spent the last few weeks seeing Europe by train, and we'd discovered ways of communicating that trumped our weak language skills: pointing, smiling, shrugging our shoulders as we tried the phrases we knew.

The desk clerk gave us a tour of the hostel. There was a sign on the bathroom door that read, "THIS SERVICE AFTER MIDNIGHT IS FOR EMERGENCY USE. PLEASE DON'T EXPLAIN THE NOISY HISTORY OF THE DAY." In the hallway, there was a soda machine that had been converted to dispense soup. Someone had posted a note over the machine's glowing face that said, "SAVE $. DRINK SOUP. YOU DON'T NEED MEAL."

So we stayed. We only used the bathroom in emergencies. We ate soup. We hung out in the lounge and chatted with the Iranian fencing champion and his friends. Our Spanish was broken, but at the hostel we discovered that the best way to speak histories is quietly and that broken language doesn't always need to be fixed. It turned out that we'd come to the hostel not to be perfect, but to be understood; to walk out onto the isthmus between one culture and another and understand the best we could.

by Elizabeth Langemak
Columbia, Missouri
GRAND PRIZE

By Flickering Lights

Assisi's Peace Hostel in Italy evokes a special memory felt by many hostellers. I relaxed there after months on the Euro backpack highway. After viewing the St. Francis hermitage, I settled at the quiet hostel, sharing an hour's wine and words with Mitsuko (from Osaka) and Isabella (from Seville).

"We're going to see a show, want to come?"

I nodded.

We sauntered past a bend of olive trees. Our jaws opened as thousands of living lights sparkled across the white meadow. Delicate accordion music pushed its way through the branches from a nearby farmhouse. I took Mitsuko's hand and twirled her below the show of fireflies. We all chuckled.

Soon, Isabella returned to the hostel -- Mitsuko and I said we'd return before curfew. We sat on a mossy log and told jokes. Then Bocelli's Time to Say Goodbye played. We danced again. After the song ended, we kissed as our eyes opened on the glistening field.

Mitsuko's gaze bounced off my watch. "We don't want to get locked out."

"No?" I smiled. We kissed again and held hands, parting at our separate rooms. Mitsuko left early the next morning. Though I got her email address and tried many letter combos, her inbox never opened.

Beyond rewriting emails for legibility, what I've learned most from hostelling involves an overwhelming appreciation of wonder -- contemplating the whereabouts of that special girl, or some wacky group, or all those laughing, amber faces in nighttime candlelight -- dozens of reflections held long after we've said goodbye.

by David Gorman
Oakland, California
JURY PRIZE

English

We met him in a little hostel in Cork with old-fashioned keys that opened old-fashioned locks and a resident spaniel. He was a physics major from France, a pianist, tall and slender. Every day he went out looking for work. Every night he and two girls from New York joined us in the common room, where we played cards and games of secrets until the early hours.

"Teach me English," he said.

"Basil," we said, adding it to the pot. "Garlic. Grapefruit. You know what a grape is. And fruit. No, it doesn't look like a grape. No, we don't understand English ourselves." We shared dinner: his cheddar, our pasta, his solitary tomato, our bread.

"Silverware," I said, passing him the soaped forks to rinse. "Dishes. You wash dirty dishes."

One of the New York girls was, like me, about to enter college; unlike me, she knew where she was going: an English major, an English teacher, a writer. I was directionless, anxious.

"I like it," I told her, "but what good does it do? You write papers. If they're good, you end up as a footnote in a margin somewhere. Maybe someone understands Milton better. Maybe your novel entertains someone for an hour. What does it matter?"

"You give someone a new perspective. A different way of thinking. Enjoyment. Life should be enjoyed, I think."

"Wasted," one of us said. "Stalker. They're useful words. Teach us French."

"Biche," he said, smiling, and was horribly misunderstood.

by Lily Yu
West Windsor, New Jersey
JURY PRIZE

Shortwinded

One of my best friends had lost his battle with prostate cancer. I missed the funeral. The only remedy was to hop a train with no particular itinerary.

A few hours later I checked into a hostel in Vancouver, BC. Drowsy with sadness and deliriously parched, I stumbled past the coin-operated computers and flurry of travelers waiting to be checked in. A couple sat in the corner reading maps to each other. The hand-painted flags on the wall made me feel far from home, far from everything. I sat on the sun porch and tried to blend in. Within the course of the afternoon I made six new friends, one in particular I will never forget.

Her name was Sonja. She saw the tears welling in my eyes and asked bluntly for my story. I told her of my woes. She handed me the first in a series of cold beers. Drunk and disorderly, she took me by the hand to the skydiving office. After signing on the dotted line, she took me back to the hostel, tucked me in bed.

She stayed on the ground to take pictures. Jumping from a perfectly good plane is a ridiculous idea, but very life affirming. It was awesome! The wind hugged me all the way down, as if my friend approved. Sonja was proud. Five beaming faces stood outside the hostel as we pulled up, anxiously awaiting verbal accounts of my date with near death. I think of them often.

by Lisa Lieberman
Seattle, Washington
JURY PRIZE

Life Is Waiting for You to Let It Happen

Kemp and I are sitting outside our breathtaking, beachfront hostel in Knysna, South Africa, having breakfast and admiring the morning waves in silent unison. Our cultural differences aren't obvious if you watch our exchange. You would never guess that we're almost perfect strangers.

This is the story of two people, backpacking through New York City, who run into each other in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Wall Street and decide to become friends. After spending just two days together, they embark on another adventure — an entire month in the beautiful and complex country of South Africa. A Canadian, dying to experience other cultures, and a South African who makes it happen for her.

On our fourth day together in South Africa, we decide to canoe from the side of the river to the ocean's opening. After five kilometers of sun-kissed faces, we find a place to take a break so quiet it feels like it's our own. We're close to the ocean. We can feel it. I watch Kemp climb up the sandbank to take a picture of me from the top. I look up at him and burst out laughing in amazement at how surreal this experience feels.

I've come to realize that life is filled with opportunities. And if your mind is open enough, you will discover that every person you encounter is your chance for another.

So take it.

by Kina Leclair
Casselman, Ontario, Canada
HONORABLE MENTION

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