This is my last night in the hostel and I find myself feeling some kind of way about it.
On the one hand, how lucky am I to meet a fantastic girl on my first full day here, who is also on a working holiday visa, and is just so happening to be going home and needing someone to sublet for a bit?
And S P A C E.
Blessed, glorious space to unpack in, to fill a shelf in the refrigerator with, to finally be able to put my soap down.
A bed, on the ground, that doesn’t moan and creak with every nano-movement. I feel like I change my mind and the bed announces it to my 3 other roommates.
But, on the other hand, I’ll miss the communal life and cultural exchange. I love hablando español con el español et français avec les françaises and even a little deutsche with the deutschen Mädchen. Or the impromptu risotto cooked by my Italian housemate, the curry goat from the English.
I really like my roommates: Scottish Jenna, the first person I met here, who “cannot be bothered” and Jente, with his night terrors in Dutch. The blessed Parisienne who made me toast the night I came in fuming that some MONSTER had left their balled up paper towel on my tiny tiny shelf. Or the time the Kiwi invited a few of us to the park to play hackeysack and guitar.
It’s been good.
But I know I can’t stay here. I can’t feel settled living out of a suitcase and I need to come home to toilet paper with more than half a ply.
I hope the relationships I made here can survive the distance that is the other side of town with no car.
Yet knowing how way leads onto way…
I can be happy with what it was and curious still for what is yet to be.