The Hostel from Hell

Paris. Where do I begin. First there is the part where I was checked in as an Italian citizen and we thought they weren’t going to let us on the plane. Then there’s the part where we had to take a crazy ride in a taxi and sprint to catch each of our three trains. I’ll leave those stories for another time, but we made it. I think this is going to take more than one blog. Maybe I’ll do one for each day. So we take a bus from the airport into the city and as we roll off the bus...BAM there is a BYU tour bus. Thus begins our daily Mormon run ins. Sadly there were no people with the bus.
We found this awesome place to eat and I had my first steak frites...steak and fries, delicious. Then we made the trek to our hostel. We have to give our director our itinerary, including our hostel, so we have to book one in advance. Problem is that we never actually know where it is going to be. Well, turns out we were staying in the red light district, just a stones throw from the Moulin Rouge. Our hostel’s neon sign blended in well with the rest of the signs, but they were attracting a different crowd. As the guy is looking up our reservation a young Asian girl comes up to the desk and tells him that the hot water isn’t working. I can’t even begin to explain via blog this guy’s reaction. First he just looks at her like he doesn’t speak English and asks her to repeat. So she repeats. Then he’s like...where, what room. She tells him. His response: “Well it normally works. Maybe you should just wait or something.” So basically we’re off to a great start. The hostel is painted three colors: black, neon orange, and bright purple. Luckily we have our own room. It is 3/4 the size of my dorm room with one normal bunk bed and another bunk bed with three beds. Clearly I choose the top bed so I’m sleeping like 25 feet off the ground. The bed consists of one sheet tucked around the mattress, the pillow is like pillow fluff formed into a square underneath the sheet in the middle of the bed, and one gnarly blanket, reminiscent of the dorm blanket that was washed once every five years. Luckily I brought my own pillow case and I stuffed it with clothes...didn’t touch that blanket. Our ‘ensuite’ bathroom consisted of a shower and sink. Upon opening the shower an intense smell of sewage took over our room. We decided that showers would not be possible. For this reason I would like you to disregard if I look gross in pictures, I washed my hair in the sink one time and that was it. I’m sure we smelled fantastic, but we couldn’t tell.
Seeing as heat rises, I was perfectly fine up high, but apparently everyone else was freezing. Each night the other girls would layer on scarves and extra shirts. This is what Autumn looked like when I awoke in the morning. Oh and anytime anyone flinch the entire bunk bed moved. Needless to say the first night was a little rocky, but after that we were so tired that it didn’t even matter. The last night we were there we heard sirens outside our window so we ran over and witnessed some sort of fight literally next door to us. There was an ambulance, police, a woman screaming and then slammed against a wall, and people running...the usual.

So pretty much that whole thing was a fiasco but I’ll add this little tidbit: One day we were walking down our street and came across a window full of dozens of what can only be explained and hooker boots. They were simply amazing: red, white, and black cheap plastic patent leather, some lace up, many thigh high. So as we’re exclaiming about finding this gem and I’m whipping out my camera this guy comes out of the apartment behind us and says, in a thick New York accent...and I quote: “Hooker boots. What do you want hooker boots for? You know what those are for...the girls up the street!” He proceeds to tell us his story of leaving NY years ago blah blah, but I never really figured out why he chose to live next the hooker boot store.