Mi Scusi

I think we can all agree that hostels are wonderful places. Practically 5-star with their roomy en-suites, big feather down pillows you can get lost in, and of course, the gourmet breakfasts. On the top floor? Don't worry because the bell-man is here to help. He'll carry your bags up those steep steps and offer you a complimentary bottle of sparkling water when you reach the top. Ah yes, don't even get me started on the roof top terrace and the mile long swimming pool. In. your. dreams...

Hostels are an experience. I think what I just described was an experience alright, but not the kind I'm looking for. Adored for their budget friendly nature, hostels give you exactly what you pay for; A dorm room nearly choked to death by the number of metal bunk bed frames squeezed into it and 6-12 other sweating bodies all competing for the remaining fresh air in the room. And you can forget about using the toilet alone. With one communal washroom, your given a free pass into the digestive tracks of every guest in the place. Enticing, isn't it?

When I finally reached Rome, ready to take on the world, my adrenaline high disappeared quickly when I found my hostel. The owner greeted me with a crooked yellow smile, tossing my stomach as if it were on tumble dry. His name was Marco and he was what a serial killer should look like. He was tall and lean, his dark curly hair plastered to his head with a thick layer of engine oil, he smelled awful, and to top it off, he was lonely. I had booked the hostel last minute and wasn't given much choice in lodging. I took the first hostel whose reviews didn't mention bed bugs and didn't ask questions. But when I got there, I found the place next to empty, save for a few American couples so lost in each other's eyes that  I didn't bother. There was a reason I was the only one there, a really good reason. The place was in the middle of nowhere, covered in a thick layer of grime and other unmentionables, I'm sure, and looked more like a half-way house than a functioning business.

 There was nothing else in the entire city of Rome, so this would home; Id learn to love it. But because I've got a shamrock stapled to my forehead, Marco decided that I was going to be his new best friend. He'd wake me with offers for gelati, corner me and discuss his oh so appealing sleep habits,  nag me about going out clubbing with his "hip" friends, invite me out on long romantic strolls, and convince me to let him show me his "art" (plastic masks painted with glitter). He even took to calling me bella, which might be cute if he was 20 years younger and didn't resemble a wanted pervert. I was desperate to shake this middle-aged creepy-crawler before my Roma experience turned into a train scene from "Eurotrip", so I took to sneaking out of the hostel as the sun came up, and not returning until I knew he was off "creating life" with glue sticks and sparkles. I used every excuse in the book to avoid the ultimate "mi scusi" moment (check out the link below to see what I'm talking about). I left the hostel on the third day, only after arguing for 20 minutes over the 10 cents change he didn't have but insisted I needed to continue my journey with. One very long and excruciatingly uncomfortable hug/massage later, I outta there and ready for my next 5-star experience.

Mi Scusi