The People We Meet (Or Don't) in Hostels

I’m watching a fly make lazy figure eights over me as I hear the door swing open. Out of curiosity, I slightly pull the curtain hiding me, and catch a glimpse of a woman unbuckling her bulging Osprey backpack from her body. Even from my vantage point from the top bunk, I can see her forehead glittering with sweat. Her hair is wrapped in a headband that is 2 centimeters from falling off completely, and her wrists are stacked with the same colorful bracelets I’ve seen from Vietnam to Sri Lanka.

She pulls off her worn Solomons, one by one. I can tell hers used to be cream. That’s why I bought mine in black.

She does a slow 360 turn, taking in her home for the night. I slide my curtain closed, careful not to bring attention to myself. I’d normally climb down to introduce myself, as hostel norms dictate, but I’m drained from my early morning surf class.

It’s been living in this tiny town for over a week now. I’ve achieved the coveted title of long-term guest at this hostel: I greet and hug travelers goodbye with the same enthusiasm as if I own the place. Every so often, I flirt with the idea of moving to a flashier part of Morocco - perhaps the crisp dunes of Merzouga, or the blue-washed buildings of Chefchaouen. But there’s a rhythm here. Familiarity. The swells are great, the people are kind, and I meet new characters every night - why would I leave before I have to?

Besides, Germany isn’t that far from Morocco. I can always come back.

The sounds of her rustling through her backpack lull me to a deep sleep.

When my eyes flutter open next, the lights are off and the room is completely empty. I stumble down the ladder, cursing as I narrowly miss the bottom step.

I wrap a scarf that I was pressured to buy in the Marrakech souks tightly around me. When I step out of the heavily air conditioned hostel, the sky welcomes me with splashes of pastel. Children toss a ball around on the street, their screeches piercing the air.

My stomach rumbles. I peek into the shops as I glide down the street. I’ve had enough tagine to last a lifetime, and nothing else is appetizing. I see an array of sandwiches. They look a bit sad, but it will do for tonight. I exchange some coins and swing my new package as I make my way back to the hostel, and up the stairs to the rooftop.

Just before I tear it open, the door opens. The woman from my dorm walks in, her hands carrying plastic bags heavy with produce. She flashes a quick smile at me, acknowledging my presence. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though.

She slowly pulls each of her treasures from the bag onto the communal kitchen countertop. Tomatoes. Onions. Rice. And, a can of chickpeas.

She probably got them from Hassan, who sells fresh vegetables down the street. I wonder if he gave her the same deal he gives me - for some reason, the price of the vegetables goes down each time I return to his shop.

Before she can move any further, her phone buzzes. She looks at it, and for a moment, it looks like she’s going to ignore it. But her finger swipes across the screen, and it’s tucked under her ear as she makes her way up the stairs to the the second rooftop. She greets the caller in a soft tone.

I try not to eavesdrop, but how can I not? I forgot my AirPods in my dorm room, a hundred flights of stairs away. I barely make out her voice over the distant crashes of the ocean - she’s talking in a language I don’t understand.

My sandwich has now gone cold. As I take my first bite, trying not to be too disappointed at the dry bread, her words slip into English and drops down the stairwell with a thud:

“I want you to be happy, but I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

I wonder what that is. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but a bigger part knows I should mind my own business. I spot a nearby book, and feel instant relief - an excuse to look busy. I flip through the pages as I force myself to take another bite of the soggy rectangle.

It’s in Dutch.

And then, the voice from above:

“I. Don’t. Know. Every phone call, you’re demanding answers to the same question. And I still don’t know.”

Silence follows. I imagine her sitting criss-crossed on one of the cushions, the wind rustling her hair, the salt of the ocean on her skin, the seagulls flapping their wings above her. I imagine her wanting to fly away with the seagulls.

As she walks down the stairwell to the lower rooftop I’m on, self-awareness hits me. Why am I so preoccupied with her movements? I suppose I’ve been at this hostel for so long, everything has become a tad monotonous. Any new arrival is bound to hold my interest.

Other hostel guests walk in, some new, some old. We fall into comfortable chatter - where we’ve been, where we’re going, and the most interesting stories of our day. We discover that the surf instructor I had a few days ago has been making other women uncomfortable. A pit forms in my stomach as the memories of that day wash over me.

No matter how far I travel, these type of men somehow always follow. The hollowness clings to me like a forgotten friend.

Suddenly, I’m exhausted.

Someone proposes we play a game. I shuffle cards instead of sifting through the past. Tea with fresh mint is poured. One of the guys asks the woman in the kitchen if she wants to join. She nods and says, in a minute.

As I slap down cards, I follow her movements from the corner of my eye.

She carefully lays out her vegetables, chopping them one by one. It all gets dumped in a bowl. She drizzles some oil.

Then, her energy shifts. She’s frantic, searching for something. Plates, utensils, pots - everything is tossed aside. She turns and almost looks straight at me. I immediately drop my gaze and hide behind my cards, hoping she didn’t catch me staring.

I don’t look up for another solid 5 minutes.

When enough time has passed, I glance up and notice a small plastic bag in her hand. When she tears it open and scoops spoonfuls on her bowl of veggies, I can’t help but lean a little closer. She stares at the bowl for a beat, and then dumps a bit more into it.

That’s definitely not from our hostel’s spice rack. We only have a few dusty bottles, and most of the seasonings are clumped together.

We’re in Morocco, where some of the world’s best spices line the bazaars. Why is this woman carrying her own spice in a random plastic bag? Where did it come from?

She pops it in the oven, and sits down to play a few rounds with us. I can tell her mind is somewhere else, because she keeps forgetting the rules and she doesn’t look as excited as she should be when she wins. No one else seems to notice.

The timer rings, and she collects her work in the oven. She layers the bowl with rice, then lettuce, then tomatoes and onions, and finally, her roasted chickpeas. She dusts another layer of spice on top, and the aroma finally cuts through the air: toasted cumin, warm cardamom, and a sharp, citrusy hit of coriander.

She settles on the couch, pulls out her Kindle, and tucks her feet underneath her. She takes her first bite. Her eyes briefly close and she melts into the cushions.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask her what’s been keeping her up at night. Maybe she’ll tell me who was on the other end of the phone call. And maybe, she’ll let me sprinkle some of her spice on my sad little sandwich.

Or maybe, she’ll check out before I wake up, and I’ll never see her again. And I’ll be left staring at the mirror, trying to find my own unmarked plastic bag.

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