The Lisbon bus to the hostel was nice. A hot German lawyer sat next to me, in town to learn about Portuguese law. She’s from Munich so I got to hear what Oktoberfest is like for a resident: Not nice.
I got off my bus and walked my luggage to the hostel. It’s easier now that I’ve lightened it of souvenirs. When I got to the address, no hostel. Not even a hint of a hostel. Son of a … Every time!
The woman running the store at the address didn’t know English. But she wrote down an address and gave it to me. Maybe it is a hostel. Maybe it is a place she thinks I should stay. Maybe cousin Guido.
I headed off in the direction she’s pointed me towards. I got some other tourists with a better map to find the actual street. They’ve never heard of the place. Meanwhile it is getting dark and all the stores are closed.
I come across a payphone. I try to use it to call the hostel, but all it does is eat my money.
The address turns out to be correct. The hostel moved five months ago. The place seems nice. (One of the top ten hostels in the world as voted on hostelworld.com.) It is in a better location for everything and a lot of amenities are free. It even has a kitchen where I could cook a meal in. It looks like someone is making a casserole.
Well, I haven’t eaten since this morning. I think they eat later here. Food would be nice.