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xiphiasI'm posting from home on Saturday night; I'll be going back to Boskone in the morning, but I'm sleeping here tonight. Our plan had been to stay at the youth hostel on Hemminway St, three blocks from the con, and that's where Lis is staying tonight; I'm not.
See, we wanted to demonstrate that I could stay at a youth hostel, because they're cheap. And if I could stay at youth hostels, we could potentially travel more, which would be a good outcome for Lis. So I got my hostelling card, and we tried it.
Lis had no real trouble sleeping last night. Me, however -- I count last night as among the most horrific nights of my life.
We got back from the con to the hostel at midnight, about. and got changed into pajamas and got into bed. It was a six-bunk dorm room, three sets of bunk beds. I was in Bed 2, which was a top bunk.
We noticed later that my bunk was higher than the other two -- high enough, actually, that the ladder to the bunk bed didn't actually reach the ground, and therefore wasn't braced against anything, and was just hanging loosely off of the side of the bunk. . .
Have I mentioned that I'm afraid of heights? Well, I am. So I managed to crawl my way up the shaky, swaying ladder into the bed. I mentioned to Lis that I'm afraid of heights.
"I thought you slept in a bunk bed when you were a child," she said.
"I did. I fell out and broke my wrist when I was eight."
That, incidentally, was an exaggeration on my part. I did not, actually break my wrist. I simply sprained it severely enough that it still hurts today, especially in cold weather or in pressure changes. In very fine weather, when I'm feeling particularly healthy, my wrist will occasionally stop hurting briefly. This is a problem.
See, this is how I learned left from right: "Right Is The Wrist That Hurts." It's STILL how I tell left from right, which is why I get lost more often when I'm feeling well than poorly.
Of course, I can get equally lost any time that I bang my left wrist against anything. I have, over time, collected more asymmetric aches and pains, so I can go to "Left Is The Palm That Hurts, Left Is The Instep That Hurts, Right Is The Thumb That Hurts, Right Is The Fourth Toe That Hurts," and so forth, but I still primarily rely on "Right Is The Wrist That Hurts."
Which is one of the reasons I dislike bunk beds.
The second reason I disliked the bunk bed was that the mattress was. . . um, frankly better than you'd expect for a cheap hostel bed. If I wasn't me, I don't think I'd have had a problem with the mattress. There was nothing particularly horrific or objectionable about the mattress. It was thin, sure, but I think a normal person would have had little problem with it.
I am not a normal person. You know the fairy tale of the Princess And the Pea? Yeah, I've got deep sympathy for that woman, and think that she really should have brought a lawsuit for pain and suffering against those sadists who stuffed a dried pea under those mattresses.
And the pillow had similar problems -- which is to say, it would be reasonably comfortable for a reasonable person. Less so for me.
So, that's the physical part of the situation.
Then there's the social part.
We got to bed at around midnight, and Lis had a little trouble dropping off to sleep because of the noise in the street. 'Cause, see, the hostel is really right near the nightclubs. It's a GREAT place to be if you want to go out clubbing and all. Like, y'know, if you're a youth traveling to Boston.
I strongly suspect that I'm far to old a fuddy-duddy to really stay at this hostel. As evidence, I submit the fact that I just used the word "fuddy-duddy", and meant it.
I couldn't sleep until 3 AM, after the clubs closed down, just from noise from partying groups of people walking around outside.
Lis, of course, could sleep right through it.
But what was far worse was, for me, when the other occupants of our room came in. Mostly after 3 AM, after the clubs closed down. They were all, to a person, considerate, attempted to be as quiet and unobtrusive as they could be, and yet I felt absolute PANIC every time the door opened.
It wasn't about noise, or discourtesy, or inconsideration -- they were quiet, courteous, and considerate. It was simply that I can't sleep with strangers about.
I never knew that about myself.
I mean, I've crashed out on the floor of staff rooms at cons before -- but the other half-dozen people on the floor were all people I knew, at least somewhat. I can DO that. Acquaintances, no problem. Strangers -- problem.
This rather puts a kibosh on the idea of youth hostels for me.
And for this reason, I now consider the experiment of staying at a youth hostel a success (after Lis pointed this fact out to me). An experiment is a method of testing a hypothesis. We have now disproved the hypothesis "Ian Can Stay At A Youth Hostel" in a situation in which I could go home afterward instead of being stuck in a strange city with no place to stay.
See, we wanted to demonstrate that I could stay at a youth hostel, because they're cheap. And if I could stay at youth hostels, we could potentially travel more, which would be a good outcome for Lis. So I got my hostelling card, and we tried it.
Lis had no real trouble sleeping last night. Me, however -- I count last night as among the most horrific nights of my life.
We got back from the con to the hostel at midnight, about. and got changed into pajamas and got into bed. It was a six-bunk dorm room, three sets of bunk beds. I was in Bed 2, which was a top bunk.
We noticed later that my bunk was higher than the other two -- high enough, actually, that the ladder to the bunk bed didn't actually reach the ground, and therefore wasn't braced against anything, and was just hanging loosely off of the side of the bunk. . .
Have I mentioned that I'm afraid of heights? Well, I am. So I managed to crawl my way up the shaky, swaying ladder into the bed. I mentioned to Lis that I'm afraid of heights.
"I thought you slept in a bunk bed when you were a child," she said.
"I did. I fell out and broke my wrist when I was eight."
That, incidentally, was an exaggeration on my part. I did not, actually break my wrist. I simply sprained it severely enough that it still hurts today, especially in cold weather or in pressure changes. In very fine weather, when I'm feeling particularly healthy, my wrist will occasionally stop hurting briefly. This is a problem.
See, this is how I learned left from right: "Right Is The Wrist That Hurts." It's STILL how I tell left from right, which is why I get lost more often when I'm feeling well than poorly.
Of course, I can get equally lost any time that I bang my left wrist against anything. I have, over time, collected more asymmetric aches and pains, so I can go to "Left Is The Palm That Hurts, Left Is The Instep That Hurts, Right Is The Thumb That Hurts, Right Is The Fourth Toe That Hurts," and so forth, but I still primarily rely on "Right Is The Wrist That Hurts."
Which is one of the reasons I dislike bunk beds.
The second reason I disliked the bunk bed was that the mattress was. . . um, frankly better than you'd expect for a cheap hostel bed. If I wasn't me, I don't think I'd have had a problem with the mattress. There was nothing particularly horrific or objectionable about the mattress. It was thin, sure, but I think a normal person would have had little problem with it.
I am not a normal person. You know the fairy tale of the Princess And the Pea? Yeah, I've got deep sympathy for that woman, and think that she really should have brought a lawsuit for pain and suffering against those sadists who stuffed a dried pea under those mattresses.
And the pillow had similar problems -- which is to say, it would be reasonably comfortable for a reasonable person. Less so for me.
So, that's the physical part of the situation.
Then there's the social part.
We got to bed at around midnight, and Lis had a little trouble dropping off to sleep because of the noise in the street. 'Cause, see, the hostel is really right near the nightclubs. It's a GREAT place to be if you want to go out clubbing and all. Like, y'know, if you're a youth traveling to Boston.
I strongly suspect that I'm far to old a fuddy-duddy to really stay at this hostel. As evidence, I submit the fact that I just used the word "fuddy-duddy", and meant it.
I couldn't sleep until 3 AM, after the clubs closed down, just from noise from partying groups of people walking around outside.
Lis, of course, could sleep right through it.
But what was far worse was, for me, when the other occupants of our room came in. Mostly after 3 AM, after the clubs closed down. They were all, to a person, considerate, attempted to be as quiet and unobtrusive as they could be, and yet I felt absolute PANIC every time the door opened.
It wasn't about noise, or discourtesy, or inconsideration -- they were quiet, courteous, and considerate. It was simply that I can't sleep with strangers about.
I never knew that about myself.
I mean, I've crashed out on the floor of staff rooms at cons before -- but the other half-dozen people on the floor were all people I knew, at least somewhat. I can DO that. Acquaintances, no problem. Strangers -- problem.
This rather puts a kibosh on the idea of youth hostels for me.
And for this reason, I now consider the experiment of staying at a youth hostel a success (after Lis pointed this fact out to me). An experiment is a method of testing a hypothesis. We have now disproved the hypothesis "Ian Can Stay At A Youth Hostel" in a situation in which I could go home afterward instead of being stuck in a strange city with no place to stay.
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Date: 2006-02-19 09:55 am (UTC)