V is for Valencia and Very Awkward Hostel Situations

I hate to say this but Valencia never had a chance with me. As you may have realized after my love letter to Granada combined with my excitement to get to Barcelona, whatever city fell in between was just in a world of hurt when it came to its status in my eyes. I will say, Valencia was warm, sunny, had some gorgeous squares, and some seriously great ice cream. I found that all we did seemed to be sit in said squares and eat and eat…..and eat. It was clearly the refueling leg of this journey. Another nice part about our trip to the Big V was that I got my first chance to get these toes in the Mediterranean. Always nice to take advantage of a new waterway.
As I’ve pretty much already explained all we did in Valencia, I’m going to take this opportunity to give you a glimpse into the often unglamorous world of hostel crashing. So far we’ve been extremely fortunate. We’ve gotten private rooms everywhere except in Sevilla with American Anthony and the 4 Asian grandmothers as you’ll recall. While backpacking Europe screams FLY BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS, I’m here to tell you that I’m a planner like my mother. Gretch, the G, ever heard of her?? Her preparation and organizational abilities are legendary. Well, from time to time I can be a chip off the very beautiful and terribly youthful block. However, on this occasion I diverted from the norm. Jenny and I were a bit up in the air about our Valencia plans so I dare say we pretty much waited until the absolute last minute. We didn’t think it would be so bad as we were able to book a 3 person room and it was only 2 nights. We thought, “Eh what’s one stranger to deal with?” We come to find out upon check-in that that is in fact the scenario…for the first night. Great, we think! Then, the other shoe drops. Because people had booked earlier than us (well done, you people), the next night one of us was going to have to switch rooms. This felt problematic because…

A) We hadn’t ridden any part of this trip solo so a night in different rooms just felt, weird.

AND

B) With the questionable lottery of potential hostel guests, who in the world were we each going to end up with?

The thing we both completely agreed on was that we had our fingers crossed that our new candidates wouldn’t be smelly European boys. (If any of my European guy friends are reading this, no offense, and I certainly don’t feel you perpetuating this stereotype.) Alas, I have to go with it. But come on people, you know that smell I’m talking about. My friend, Elise, once described it as the international…ya know…funk.
So moment of truth, after a day of more ice cream eating in front of fountains, we came back to the hostel to find out the results of our fate. NOT GOOD NEWS. We walk Jenny to her new room, open the door,…boys. Of course her bed is in the middle wedged between them. To make matters worse they were both napping and popped up startled as we entered…AWKWARD. The best I can say for this is at least they didn’t smell bad, body odor bad. They did however come in at an obscene hour doused in a cheap Drakar Noir, or so she tells me. Moving right along, we thought that was bad until we were taking solace in my room and here it comes…What’s behind door #2 folks!?....I’ll tell you what…a STINK BOMB European couple who were likely pushing 40. Weirdest third wheel I’ve EVER been a part of. The oddest thing about this though was that the guy, very nice, wasn’t even the worst offender. His honey removed her sparkly purple clogs with pink flowers and instantly, my world was rocked. I have never smelled a reasonably normal looking person (minus the horrendous shoe choice and unseasonably frizzy hair) smell this bad. I mean, she was a woman. Get with the program sister! Needless to say, Jenny and I wandered the streets of Valencia as late as we could that night to avoid the general awkwardness and damage to my nasal cavities. Eventually though, we gave in, as someone always does. We had an early train to catch to Barcelona. It was time. Unfortunately for me, we didn’t pass any gas mask vendors on the way home so I indeed had to rough it. That was one long night in Valencia, and sadly, one I won’t soon likely forget.