No Room at the Inn

Posted by L.H. Rae on February 25, 2009 · 2 Comments 

Today, I fell in love.

No, not with a person.

With Soho.

I didn’t even mean to end up there. In fact, I really didn’t mean to at all. But it appears a lot has changed within the past few days, and this is how and why:

After reviewing your suggestions and thinking about it, I’ve decided I’m going to hostel it up for one more week. I felt I was rushing into finding a flat, because I’m only now getting to know the different neighbourhoods and still have so much to learn. Two days ago I went to the reception desk and asked if I could extend my stay a few more nights.

“Sorry,” the girl replied. “We’re booked up after Wednesday.”

“What about the quieter hostel down the road?” I asked in my very sharp, very lame, Canadian twang.

She checked. “No, they’re full too.”

I quickly pulled out my tiny purse notebook. Find place to live, I wrote under ‘Things To Do’.

I began to research hostels. A few years ago I began writing this novel in which my main character from Israel kind of runs away to London in 1968, and stays at this particular one. I figured if it was any good, I would consider staying there for a few days, for research purposes too, so I decided to go on a hunt for it. The hunt led me to the Oxford Circus tube station (Soho neighbourhood), where, after a long, standing tube ride in which I was sandwiched within a sea of black woolen businessman coats, I emerged from the massive underground network with no clue what Oxford and Regent Streets would look like in 2009.

Man. Alive.

There were shops everywhere. I mean everywhere. An H&M on practically every corner! I felt like I had gone to heaven! Huge stores, little boutiques, windows advertising all sorts of sales – it was, as my dad says, simply magical. The buildings were not your typical square cutouts either, they made you feel like you were back in the 1800s, glimpsing the future. And the people! I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many people on the sidewalks at the same time, aside from Nuit Blanche 2007. It was rush hour, so everyone was either on their way to the tube from work, or trying to catch a few stores before they closed after work. And by everyone, I mean, everyone.

After retracing my extremely fast-paced steps (you think I walk fast in Toronto? I’m a turtle compared to these Soho people) about four times on account of missing the stupid street, I finally managed to find my character’s hostel. Let’s just say that if he were real, he would absolutely hate me. What a dump. The online pictures looked so much better. Maybe in 1968 it would have been okay, but nowadays, not at all. It’s too bad, because I’m in love with Soho and would love to have stayed there, but instead, I’m settling for a four-star hostel near Stamford Brook station, a creepy suburb. Apparently this place is one of a kind and one of the highest rated hostels in London, but when I got off the tube, I was a bit put off by the area. But not to worry – my thinking was that a) it seemed like the kind of place that would only seem creepy at first, kind of like Brunswick Street in Toronto, and b) it would force me to stay inside for the next five days and really, actively seek food and shelter instead of daytripping around shopping districts and promising to treat myself to them once I actually find a job.

When I returned from Soho, after a pub dinner with another Canadian girl (the only other one), I nearly had the chance to go on a very nice evening walk with the very adorable French boy in the bed across from mine.

But sadly, it never happened.

It’s not his fault or mine. Yesterday we got a new member of the Sausage Party – not Shirtless Slovakian Dude, though he’s still here, unknown as ever – but a chubby kid from ____________? He came into the room last night as we were all reading and listening to our iPods, kind of enthusiastically as though this was his first time at a hostel and he was really looking forward to the wild room parties. But when he noticed the subdued nature of Room 16, he kind of stopped in his tracks. After a brief moment of standing there, catching his breath, he just flopped onto his bed. He stayed like that, grunting and sighing like an emo kid, until finally I think he realized that no, we would not get any more exciting than this, and he just gave up and threw the blankets over himself. Of course, no one said anything to him – I certainly wasn’t going to be the first.

When I returned to the room this evening, Adorable French Boy was in here eating an apple by himself, rather adorably, and I decided to strike up a conversation with him to help him with his English. Of course, hearing his answers just made him even more adorable, and I wanted to continue talking to him so I could squeal inside. But just then, Chubby Emo Dude flung the door open and came skulking into the room. As he did yesterday, he flopped onto his bed and slung his arm over his eyes without a word. French Boy and I kind of looked at him (though I think French Boy was too intently focusing on how best to translate his next sentence that he didn’t really notice) and then went back to our chat. French Boy told me that he wanted to go see what it was like on the roof. Apparently there’s a hot tub and a sauna there, and a barbecue thing.

“Right now?” I asked.

He looked at me and gave an adorable smile. “When I’m through with my apple,” he replied.

Leaving Chubby Emo to his emoness, the two of us ventured up the stairs to the door marked “Roof”. We went outside, only to be greeted by a very high fence (I guess nobody wants any suicide attempts at a hostel – I know I wouldn’t), a rusting barbecue that had been battered by rain, two ratty picnic tables, and a hot tub that had been taped up.

“Well,” laughed French Boy. “Now we know the roof.”

After a few moments of chatting about London Bridge in the struggling breeze through the fence, I thought of asking him if he wanted to take a spontaneous walk there (as the two of us are always the last to fall asleep, and I think we both secretly wish we could do more exciting things in the evenings). By the time we got back to the room, the words were on the tip of my tongue – I nearly said them – and if I were a more outgoing person, I would have no trouble doing so, but I’m painfully shy and it was all I could do to simply answer his half-English, half-French questions in my half-Toronto, half-Quebec accented words. But Chubby Emo Dude was there exactly as we’d left him, in the exact same position. Because he was not sleeping, nor doing anything but lying there looking emo, it was clear he was blatantly listening to every word we were saying. The more we all sat there, and the more I tried to say the words, the more I felt that at any minute, he was sure to blurt out, “OH GIVE IT UP, YOU STUPID CANADIAN. STOP TRYING TO BE NICE TO THIS GUY IN YOUR GRADE TWO ENGLISH AND JUST SHUT UP.”

So I never asked. Our conversation ceased on account of Australian Guy showing up, taking a seat next to me on the floor, and venting about how horrible his day had been (it really was horrible).

My evening could have been as magical as my afternoon in Soho, but alas, you can’t always win. Instead, here I am, on my last night in the Sausage Party, spending…well, spending quality time with them. I guess that’s all you can ask for sometimes, when you wish you could have just a few more nights, but once again, things have to change.

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Filed under hostel life, londoning, soho