I Like Nice Things — Ginger & Juice

In an effort to mitigate any loneliness I might be experiencing my first weekend away, I decided to book my first Friday and Saturday nights at a hostel. When I studied abroad in 2007, I stayed in hostels almost exclusively; I never had a bad experience, but back then I was still in college. (My usual living arrangements consisted of a sorority "sleeping porch," where I slept in a cold, dark room with 19 other women. A room with only 4 bunk beds was a step up.) I did my research and found a beautiful hostel with great reviews and a slightly older (meaning 25-32 yrs old) clientele. It advertised a bar and restaurant onsite, and the architecture looked gorgeous. If Hogwarts and Downton Abbey got together and produced a tiny mansion, this would have been it... It. Was. Perfect. I booked everything in late November and then I waited.

. . .

I arrived on February 5th at 12:30pm. I left at 6:30pm. I lasted 6 hours, that's it. I don't want you to think that there was some grand disaster. There wasn't. It was more like a barrage of red flags.

The pictures didn't lie. The building itself was beautiful, but something about it felt off. Do you know that scene in Elf where Buddy is sent to the mail room? He arrives and says, "This place reminds me of Santa's Workshop! Except it smells like mushrooms and everyone looks like they want to hurt me." This was just like that, except Santa's Workshop was the Gryffindor common room. This place did smell like mushrooms and everyone did look like they wanted to hurt me. Still, I thought, maybe it'll be okay.

They couldn't check me in right away, but the staff invited me to wait in the sitting room. "It's a great place to relax, have some tea, and read a book." This proposed relaxation scenario didn't seem to account for the DEEP house music that was thundering throughout the establishment, but I still sat down and tried to read. After about 30 minutes, I looked up from my book and realized that I had a couple pairs of eyes on me. As a woman alone, this is never a comforting sight, but I still rationalized it. I thought "maybe these guys are just curious about who I am. Maybe we'll all have dinner together, maybe we'll become friends, maybe we'll end up meeting in Zurich or something 6 weeks from now. Maybe one of them is my future husband." Then another thought snuck in... "You've dealt with scary men before, you IDIOT. You've seen that scene from The Accused. You know what's up. This could all end with a pinball machine downstairs." I'm sure reality can be found somewhere in the middle of these two scenarios, and it's likely these guys were mostly harmless. That said, I was surrounded by strange men, all of whom seemed to have no issue looking me up and down for an extended period of time, and my imagination got away from me. I couldn't help but wonder if any of them were in town for that horrible "Legalize Rape" meet-up that had been all over the news.

I could go on and give you a laundry list of the other reasons this place didn't feel right, but I won't. I know I made the right call. What I will tell you is this: I didn't feel safe, there was nowhere to lock up my luggage, and as I sat in my itty-bitty top bunk, the girl below me opened a bag of chips (unmistakably sour cream & onion flavor) and proceeded to chew them loudly in bed while she hummed.

. . .

Tourists ready to physically fight one another for a photo in front of the Notting Hill Bookshop. Thanks a lot, Hugh.

As you may have gleaned from social media, I Hotwired my way the hell out of Dodge and ended up at the Hilton. I spent the weekend in Notting Hill, and while you can rest assured that Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts have ruined that neighborhood forever, it's still very sweet and beautiful. There's a tourist trap on every corner and the shopping is insanely expensive, but the vintage finds are gorgeous and the homes are adorable and candy colored.

I've given it a lot of thought, and regardless of whether or not I was in any real danger at that hostel, what matters is that it wasn't the right choice for me. I love having a space that is all my own, and what I love even more is feeling safe in that space. I like my alone time. I have a routine that I value very much. For example, when I get ready in the morning I spend 20-30 minutes putting myself together, and then I spend another hour or so lip syncing in front of the mirror and letting my shoulders belong to the music. It's just the way I like to start my day. When I was in college, some fraternity friends dubbed this act "Party Practice." I've never forgotten that. People frequently ask how I know the words to "all the songs." It's because I practice every gah-damn day. That's how.

I should tell you this has been very hard to write. At first I was embarrassed. It's a joke among some of my friends that I like nice things. Sometimes I'm on board with that statement, and sometimes that statement bothers me; I think it makes me sound like a snob. I was so nervous that if I left the hostel and went to a hotel, the perception would be that I'm some kind of princess who can't hang. I wasn't sure what people would think or how it would make me look. Now I don't mean to be crass, but in the interest of being totally and unapologetically myself, f*** that. As I sat in the common room of that hostel contemplating sleeping behind a door with no lock on a mattress that smelled like sharp cheddar, it occurred to me that it doesn't matter how my departure looks or what people might say. I've gotten myself into plenty of trouble that way, and I wasn't about to add "my first weekend in London" to the list of things I wish I'd handled differently. My opinion on the matter was enough. It is enough. I've been struggling to finish this post because I've been so concerned about how this is all going to be perceived... but that's not what this website, or this trip for that matter, is about. I need to keep reminding myself of that.

Before I left on this adventure, I told myself that I don't have to do anything that I don't feel like doing. If I arrive at a hotel (or hostel) and hate it, if I enter a bar and I'm not feeling the crowd, if I sit down at a cafe and realize I'd rather have a glass of wine at home, I don't have to stay. I can change my mind. It's allowed. I don't have to prove that I am brave. I know I'm brave. I've survived horrible loss, I've had a brush with death, I'm alone halfway across the world (and living to tell the tale), I use my phone in the bathtub sometimes, and I go to the Pacific Heights Whole Foods with no mascara on... In one way or another, I am living on the edge. I'm being brave all the time.

Upcycled fashion and Twiggy wallpaper by 55 Max London at One Vintage in Notting Hill. Image via @onevintagedesigns.