every girl's a suspect

Needless to say, me in the middle of a city for months at a stretch isn't such a good idea. I could've told you that before, but then it was theory -- now it's science. Things might have been a little different if I hadn't parked myself in such a shit-hole. It's the cheapest hostel in town, for good reason; other places might be slightly better, but at nearly twice the price I really can't justify them, so here I am, pissed off and tired of it. I hate this place with a passion. It seemed okay at first, even better than the previous one (it's not hard to improve on a bedroom-sized common area that's filled to capacity when 10 people show up, or key cards that only give you 10 minutes to get to your room before they de-activate, never mind pit stops or stepping out for a minute once you're in). The facilities here are really okay when they're open, which doesn't necessarily coincide with when you'd actually want to use them. For instance, why does the basement close for cleaning during the last half-hour of breakfast, instantly eliminating half of the seating for the entire hostel? (It was even better when they were renovating the lobby and there was no seating at breakfast.) Why do the rooms close for 4 hours in the middle of every day, and the kitchen for 3 hours in the afternoon and again overnight, all in the name of 'cleaning'... yet nothing is ever actually clean? Or how about this: why is there no lost-and-found box at Reception? With dozens of people or more coming and going every day, do you mean to tell me that nobody accidentally leaves something behind that they're going to come back for? I've heard so many people complaining at the front desk about missing items, only to be met with a blank look and a shrug. 'It happens all the time, there's nothing we can do about it.' One guy I met had stashed his iPod in his pillowcase to take a shower, forgot to grab it when he checked out, instantly realized his mistake and went back to get it. The cleaners had already been, and supposedly didn't find anything. Apparently the person working told him that the cleaners never bring anything to them. Never, really? I overheard someone the other night complaining about a laptop that had disappeared from the common area, but the person wasn't allowed to view the security tape to see who might have taken it. Funny that there are enough cameras around the place for a prison, but no security. I wonder if found items are part of the hiring package. 'We won't pay you well or give you any benefits, but whatever you can get your hands on is yours to keep.'

 

I've been pretty good about keeping things under lock and key, only using the bedroom for sleep and storing everything in a locker. But I neglected one little thing -- my kick-ass BD Spot headlamp. I've been keeping it attached to my bunk so I can switch it on when I come into the dark room at night, or read before I go to sleep. I didn't think it was particularly susceptible, especially in an all-girls' room in a place where 99% of them wouldn't have a clue what to do with it. But last night when I came back from an evening out, my Spot was gone. I went from baffled to upset to absolutely livid in the space of about 2 minutes. I subjected myself to the anticipated empty-stare-and-shrug treatment at Reception, on the small chance that there could be someone working who was able to exceed my extremely low expectation, but no such luck of course. Stumbling tired and seething angry aren't the best combination. Half an hour earlier I was ready to fall straight into bed, now I was too worked up to sleep. The lobby area was closed for the night (I learned by watching a poor girl with her dinner get kicked out; nothing but tables and benches here, and within plain view of the 24-hour front desk, why they need to close it I can't begin to guess) leaving just the dungeon of a basement for a place to sit. Seeing as I was in a mood to beat someone's head in, I opted for the less-crowded confines of my room. After racking my brain for any possible way to recover my property and coming up with nothing, fully aware that any girl who walked into the room could potentially be the culprit -- it's not even the thing; though I use it every day and can't really spare the cost of replacement, it's the principle that gets me -- I finally coerced myself into lying down.

 

This morning I awoke feeling calm and fine, till the memory of the night's dreams faded and I remembered my frustration. It's easy to wake up in a bad mood in this dump, but today was worse. I must be wearing the most horrible expression, judging by the ache of tension that's cutting a line in my forehead. Tomorrow I'll move back to the other cheapest-place-in-town, where I would have stayed in the first place if they had room last week. Same owner and just a block away, but slightly better facilities and somehow less theft-prone. A morning in that place reminds me of the opening to Get Smart: there are doors and doors-within-doors, half of them requiring key-card access. If the other place is a prison, perhaps this one is a mental institution. The kitchen closes for 'cleaning' (again used loosely) at 1:30pm, which some people might consider to be lunchtime, but no matter. It's only a few more nights, and I hate it a little less than the Prison.

 

Indeed this city is wearing on me. A wise woman once said, 'We may be poor, but I refuse to live like it.' Dublin seems to be the opposite. For the key city in a country that's sitting pretty near the top of the global economic heap, it has some strangely impoverished tendencies. Kind of like a person with a full bank account who can't change his own smelly, torn t-shirt. In retrospect maybe I should have seen some of Ireland before I stopped here. It's an area I've wanted to visit for my whole life, yet at the moment the magic is gone; I just want to get out. I do have plans to see some of the country before leaving: my eye's on a spot with open space and lakes. Good medicine I hope, but that's a few days away and today needs its own tonic. Too restless and frustrated to read, I opt for something auditory. As I push the Play button, the sound of DeVotchKa eases into my brain and everything else recedes into the wings. Good medicine indeed.