If you’ve ever stayed in a hostel, you know what they’re like.
Blank, concrete corridors, sheets like nylon sandpaper, dormitories full of other people’s underwear, a smell of student cooking and old socks, and a pervading sense of depression. There’s always a drunken Australian student called Lee and a grumpy Swedish backpacker called Lars.
Still, it’s only £10 a night, so, as long as you can sleep (which you can’t, because the guy in the upper bunk has a hacking cough), shower in the morning (which you can’t, because the hot water’s run out) and make breakfast (which you can’t, because the communal kitchen looks like an explosion in a bacon factory), you’ve got your money’s worth.
