Everyone is dancing wildly, their clothes drenched in sweat. I see at least five women wearing butterfly wings; most people wear technicolour outfits, and have faces painted with glitter. I take another sip of my coffee, then snap a photo on my phone for Instagram. The time reads 7:14am. This is not your ordinary rave.
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The way I’ve travelled has evolved over the years. In the beginning, when I first strapped my backpack to my back and took off around Europe, I moved quickly, barely getting to know one city before hopping on a train to the next. While sometimes that is the most efficient way to see a lot in a short period of time, I don’t like to travel that way anymore. I prefer, at the minimum, a few days in each place, and to visit at least a few places per country. Of course, it doesn’t always work out that way – I recently only had time for four days in Italy, for example – but, in an ideal world, I would be able to travel slowly. Over the years of adapting a slower style of travelling, then, there have been a few places that have just completely captivated me, or, perhaps, captured me.
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When I was invited to travel around the region of Basilicata, my first thought was, “Where’s Basilicata?” Even upon arriving at the airport in Bari, only a two-hour flight from London, I didn’t really know where I was or what to expect.
And while I’d visited Italy three times before, and seen most of the major cities, I didn’t expect to feel so immediately comfortable and welcome in the region. Each day, action-packed with cooking lessons and sailing and zip-lining and festival-going and eating and drinking (and eating and drinking some more), made me fall more and more in love with the region and its people.
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We met on a sweaty night in the middle of Hanoi, high up on a balcony full of backpackers. In the middle of the balcony was an old bathtub full of ice; staff members from the bar kept refilling it with bottles of beer, trying to keep up with the raucous crowd. For some inexplicable reason, everyone was wearing pink sombreros, and the place was filled with kids barely old enough to drink, sunburnt, be-hatted, throwing their heads back in drunken laughter. And then: I saw you.
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I have stayed in over 300 hostels in my life; the first one was over 17 years ago, in London. Since then, I’ve stayed in huge hostels and tiny hostels, one that are former prisons, ones that overlook beaches, ones with bedbugs, ones with the kind of atmosphere that encourages people to become best friends.
One of the very best hostels I’ve ever stayed in, however, is The Backpack in Cape Town, South Africa.
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How quickly a place can feel like a home. I’ve been thinking about that a lot these days, especially as I’ve now lived in London for nine months, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I remember, years ago, reading the book Zeitoun by Dave Eggers while lying under a mosquito net in Thailand; in it, Zeitoun speaks of his travelling past, and that he knew he’d always settle down somewhere if he either found a woman he loved or a port that he loved. While I won’t speak on the former at the moment, I can certainly speak for the latter. I love London.