I will gladly enjoy the pool, the shady path to the beach, the smart industrial designed overpriced room, the air conditioning and the endless playlist of electronic music. Such is the life at this new generation of hostels. International spoiled brats on holiday or gap year, surfers, goddesses holding space and Envision festival goers. They can’t clean up their mess in the kitchen, they can’t even get their dirty dishes into the sink or garbage into the can. They buy ice and fill the freezer with it. Not surprisingly not one of them has talked to me. They are all staring at their phones. I may have seen a few people actually working, digital nomads perhaps, or maybe they might just not be able to live without their MacBook Pro for a few weeks.
I’ve been here for days, same chair, same side table. I wear the same bathing suit every day. It’s called a classic bikini, you know the kind that actually covers your ass cheeks, but nonetheless still a bikini.
It is possible that I may be over dressed. I’ve learned that a cover up is some kind of a shirt that covers your belly but still allows your ass to hang out. I can’t understand why all the skinny bitches do not have tan lines and I wonder where all the fat girls hang out.
Everyday about 4pm I head to the beach because “surfs up” for the evening high tide. We watch as dozens of surfers are waiting for the last wave. We watch the sun go down. It is always amazing. It is always miraculous.
I’ve learned that surfers are in g reat shape and there is plenty of scenery poolside. Last night while eating a deliciously flavorful wok creation on a busy dusty beach road I heard a reggae version of a Dave Brubeck classic. I knew that perhaps it was time to head back home, the place where my house is, the place where my car is and a smattering of friends.
Next Stop: Home but just long enough to regroup and head out on a road trip for a few weeks.