Straying Into Hostel Territory in New Zealand

We thought we had boarded the wrong flight in Fiji and returned to the U.S.

Parts of this hilly waterfront city look like San Francisco. The most prominent landmark, Sky Tower, evokes the Seattle Space Needle. And the America’s Cup yacht races in Hauraki Gulf recall home, San Diego, where the last three Cups were contested.

Everything about Auckland seemed familiar, right down to ubiquitous Starbucks. So it was the last place we figured to experience culture shock.

It was not the culture of the native Maori that shocked us, nor that of the immigrant Polynesians. It was the culture of youth.

Upon arriving in New Zealand--the second stop on our world tour--we were distressed to discover we had mistakenly booked ourselves into a youth hostel. It was Andrea’s fault. She had trusted me with the reservation.

I made the booking by phone before we left home, acting on our plan to confirm the first night’s lodging in each new country. The name of the place--International Backpackers--should have clued us that this was not the ideal accommodation for a couple in their 40s. But the guidebook said it was in the “stylish” Parnell district and mentioned “double rooms”--a term that to me conjures a king bed, cable TV and coffee maker.

The first hint that we had strayed from our comfort zone was the puzzled expression of the girlish desk clerk when I asked about our private bathroom. She said in a whisper that we could use the common bathroom at the end of the hall. We were too stunned to flee, so I paid the nightly double rate of $23, plus a $5 key deposit.

Carrying luggage from our rented Toyota Corolla into the industrial brick building reminded me of moving into my college dorm. The bulletin board was covered with notices for rides and part-time jobs. Reggae music pumped from behind a closed door. The sweet smell of cannabis hung in the air. All that was missing was a study lounge.

Our shock was reflected in the fresh faces of the other lodgers. We were all travelers, but the similarities ended there. I was fairly certain Andrea and I were the only guests without bleached hair, tattoos or nose rings. And although we had recently dropped out, they looked as though they had recently dropped out of high school. For the first time in my life, I felt in danger of being called “Pops.”

We hurried down the hall, passing dormitories crammed with bunk beds. At least we don’t have to sleep in one of those, I thought, turning the key to our double room. But when the door opened, there they were: his-and-hers stacked twin beds. The bunks nearly filled the cell-like room, illuminated by a hanging bare bulb.

“I get the top one,” I said.

Andrea slumped on the bottom bunk, the foam mattress sinking through the wooden slats.

“Miiiiiike,” she groaned. “We’re too old to be staying in a youth hostel. It’s embarrassing.”

I escaped into a daydream of my first and only hosteling trip. Europe, 1978. I wistfully recalled Susan, a comely California girl I had met in an Amsterdam hostel. My reverie burst when I realized she was now old enough to be the mother of the guitar player next door, who kept mangling the opening notes from “Layla.”

I ventured out to inspect the facilities. They were exactly like those I’d encountered 22 years ago: mildewy shower clogged with hair, sink stopped with tissue, hand towel as sheer as a veil.

When Andrea summoned the courage to step into the hall, she was relieved to see we weren’t the oldest guests. Coming down the corridor was a balding man. But as he drew near, he turned out to be a younger fellow suffering premature hair loss. Andrea quickly ducked into the bathroom before creeping back to our room.

“What are we doing here?” we each said again and again. In the parlance of our generation, we were freaking out.

The bunks each came with only one sheet, so we broke out the silk sleep sacks we’d packed for the grungy beds we didn’t expect to see until the Third World. Andrea slept little after two cats climbed through the window and joined her in bed. She was afraid to move them, sensing they were aggressive.

When the cats left in the morning, we hit the street, looking for less ludicrous lodging. We landed at the quaint Parnell Inn, where we felt neither foolish nor flabby.

We dined that evening at SPQR, a trendy bistro in the posh Ponsonby neighborhood, west of the city center. It was an overreaction to the hostel. Andrea had the rib-eye steak on a bed of spinach, with portabello mushrooms and potatoes pan roasted with rosemary, all in a red wine sauce. I had the free-range sauteed chicken marinated in garlic, accompanied by a fresh green salad with goat cheese. Drinks, dinner, desert and tip came to $39. It’s hard to spend more for a meal in New Zealand, where travel expenses run about half those in America.

It had been a day of extremes. I started it in a bunk bed and ended it behind a plate of profiteroles dripping with coffee creme anglaise. I wondered what they were eating in the communal kitchen back at the hostel.

NEXT WEEK: Sick as a dog.