At 3:30 pm, my hostel was full of old couples who had taken the 9:45 ferry. Choppy waters made for roller-coaster travel. Like airplane turbulence. I heard his voice in the back of my mind saying "Look at the horizon. It doesn't move". I felt the swells of the ocean, the lack of gravity in my skin, and the bottom of my stomach, which yearned to settle back into its rightful place. I love airplanes, and I fear boats. I fear them because I don't want to lose the illusion of progress, of growth. You grow out of motion sickness and into ten AM naps, short wiry haircuts, and the retelling of the same story, in perpetuity. We all reach a point where comfort outweighs perception.
At 5:00 pm, my hostel was filled with individuals in their 30s, who had taken the 1:45 ferry. Their travel documentation spans the scope of Insta-filters, but messages are always a little too short and not enough direct. We saw the red-eye hours reflected in glassy gazes. My dorm-mate was asleep when I walked in, hidden under the covers, indistinct from backpacks and travel pillows littered on the foot of her mattress. She seemed upset when I quietly opened the door to deposit my overnight equipment. I didn't take inventory, even though I'm sure I've forgotten something that I will regret not having. We all see our discrepancies, they are just as easily hidden as laid bare.
At 7:30 pm, my hostel was full of young people, gap year students, who had taken the 5:00 ferry. People full of optimism, who are happy to sleep on the floor in a room with six others. Individuals who cook at hostels because they haven't yet lost the glossy sheen of camaraderie with the rest of humanity. They say hello a little too loud, they flirt a little too long, and they don't wear flip-flops in the showers. Communal spaces belong to them, like a living room, but instinctively, somehow they leave the couches for their elders. We all ask for advice we know we will not take.
At 9:00 pm, my hostel had one young girl, maybe 13-years-old, sitting with her father and sharing an waffle cone full of mint chocolate chip, pistachio, or pavlova ice cream. I don't know which ferry they took. I don't know what brings them here, or how they identify in this world. What I do know is that watching them race towards brain freeze reminds every traveler, young or old, that the most important thing about going away is the part where you return to the people you love.
At 5:00 pm, my hostel was filled with individuals in their 30s, who had taken the 1:45 ferry. Their travel documentation spans the scope of Insta-filters, but messages are always a little too short and not enough direct. We saw the red-eye hours reflected in glassy gazes. My dorm-mate was asleep when I walked in, hidden under the covers, indistinct from backpacks and travel pillows littered on the foot of her mattress. She seemed upset when I quietly opened the door to deposit my overnight equipment. I didn't take inventory, even though I'm sure I've forgotten something that I will regret not having. We all see our discrepancies, they are just as easily hidden as laid bare.
At 7:30 pm, my hostel was full of young people, gap year students, who had taken the 5:00 ferry. People full of optimism, who are happy to sleep on the floor in a room with six others. Individuals who cook at hostels because they haven't yet lost the glossy sheen of camaraderie with the rest of humanity. They say hello a little too loud, they flirt a little too long, and they don't wear flip-flops in the showers. Communal spaces belong to them, like a living room, but instinctively, somehow they leave the couches for their elders. We all ask for advice we know we will not take.
At 9:00 pm, my hostel had one young girl, maybe 13-years-old, sitting with her father and sharing an waffle cone full of mint chocolate chip, pistachio, or pavlova ice cream. I don't know which ferry they took. I don't know what brings them here, or how they identify in this world. What I do know is that watching them race towards brain freeze reminds every traveler, young or old, that the most important thing about going away is the part where you return to the people you love.
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