When I dream, on my own, I'm alone but I ain't lonely...

Self-portrait, the Hostel Single
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Driving into Santa Fe

This marks my first American Hostel experience, and I felt some trepidation over whether we can do it like the foreigners after phoning the desk to inquire about their policies.

The short drive was a real treat, with bright blue sky and all the mountain diversity the state offers while rolling along. I chose some Mark Knopfler to set the mood (I had already determined that I was going to like this city), specifically The Long Highway followed by the theme from Local Hero, Going Home. How fitting it was. So as I drove up to the “Santa Fe International Hostel – Budget B&B,” I figured I was starting the tour right.

The guy at the desk wore a plaid suitjacket that could have come from a bizarro “Stop Making Sense” costume, and he had cleverly added in black permanent marker “The Price Is Wrong, Bitch” (a reference to Happy Gilmore’s attack on Bob Barker) below his breastpocket. He told me a single would cost $25 a night. And thus I understood the double entendre of the suitjacket’s exclamation.

I accepted because that’s still budget, to be sure, and he began to outline the rules. No lock out, no eating in the room, no smoking in the room, no sleeping bags in the room (why? I wondered, they’re so convenient and warm), Women’s bathroom in adjacent building, wireless internet for $2 a day, free food donated by local grocer’s, and then the best part “We’re a non-profit, so we ask everyone to help out a little bit. Here’s the chores area, where tomorrow at 7 am you’ll see your name on a sheet of paper, choose your chore and make a note of it by your name. Chores must be completed by noon, the earlier you wake up, the easier chore selection. We charge a ten dollar deposit for your towel and key.”

Huh. Now this was new to me. I can’t say it doesn’t make sense, but I can certainly ask where my $25 is going, when the manager on duty sits at the free computer for most of the shift and watches the guests keep the place clean. So the cogs in my conspiratorial brain began to turn, and I decided to be an exceptionally observant fly on the wall.

The kitchen was a marvel. It was very well stocked, with three industrial refrigerators, and by the front room a large selection of pastries and cakes. The grocery stores must donate old produce and desserts, and my first inclination was that the non-profit status was reached in order to gain such bonuses.

Then I met tie-guy. I heard a very interesting conversation outside (the door was in total about two inches shy of filling the jamb), of a nice lady and a curiously serious-toned man. The woman must have just returned to the hostel, and the odd man asked her about where she was going. She excitedly proclaimed that she had purchased the 500 dollar car, and was getting plates to go into town. The man offered his congratulations, then his own car for a ride. He would only charge her two dollars fee, which didn’t seem like a good way to forge a friendship with this person, but she gave my favorite hostel acceptance (sure, I just have to go back to my room for a while, then we can meet up), which is a great way to try to ditch lame people.

I needed to eat something so I went and sat in my sun-baked car for a time eating my half sandwich and carrots, but could no longer hear anything going on. The man whom I presumed was the same of the earlier conversation was standing by his car and was waiting to talk to me. I exited my vehicle and finally gave him a good look. Tan spring jacket, small sunglasses, very weak chin, the inability to make eye contact while speaking. He was retrieving a very old plastic garment bag from his car, and set the thing on his hood. As we discussed my plans and his brother-in-law’s winery, he delicately extracted tie after tie from the bag and folded them on his hood. As the conversation lost all intrigue, he continued to fold and refold his ties, which either were purchased in bulk at the salvation army down the street, or he dry cleans his ties. I couldn’t be certain. But I began to wonder about the clientele of the place.

For dinner I tried out the Blue Corn Café and Brewery, which had a big wait for a table but room at the bar. That’s always a good sign for everything about my meal save for my company. As I sampled the house IPA (quite good, nice and hoppy, but not particularly inspired) and read my book, a guy with his own mug sat down next to me, got out his book, ordered the same beer, and settled in. How nice, I thought to myself, that my male twin is here. He also received a phone call that placed his career somewhere in academia, in the cultural studies area. I should talk to him! But a guy bringing a book to a bar is either trying too hard to look learned or wants to disappear. So I kept my mouth shut and thoroughly enjoyed sitting side by side with him. When he left, mr. I haven’t gotten a different buzzcut since 1950 took his place. Aviator gold-rimmed glasses, time-weary stature, this guy looked exactly like his father must have. I looked around and realized that I was the only lady sitting at the bar. I always find that part amusing. After he barked a bit at my incredibly sweet bartender (think Forrest Whitaker with mostly Spanish in him), he got some food he barely touched. Now this guy, he was not tricked by the book, he knew I didn’t want to read. He started asking me questions about the book, then when I put it down to eat and watch the World Combat League fights, he asked me if I could seriously enjoy that kind of thing. Surprisingly, when I answered yes, he told me that his father had been a mid-century fighter, and we commenced to actually debate whether martial arts were more respectable than boxing. I’m of the former court.

It turned out that he was originally from north of Boston, but came out here about twenty years ago and never went back. Being both gullible and trusting, I didn’t think twice about his answer to my query of why he came out to Santa Fe “You really want to know? Too many beers. One night my boys and I we just lighted out of there, drove clear to New Mexico.”

Then the bartenders discussed his barking attitude, decided he was stinking drunk, and refused to serve him. The old alci had me fooled. Why didn’t they call him a cab?