Waiting for the Shower

We didn’t go on holiday very often when I was young. My parents worked hard. And when we did travel, we stayed in hotels. Proper hotels. A private bathroom. No one standing outside your door wondering how much longer you were going to be.

Last weekend, I did something I had never done before. I booked a hostel in Lagos. It had a 9.1 rating on Booking.com, which gave me enough confidence. I thought: how bad can it be?

It turned out to be great.

Lovely staff. Interesting guests from all over the world. On the rooftop, during a yoga session, or at the communal dinner prepared by a cheerful Brazilian chef, there were stories everywhere. Brazil, Norway, Germany, Australia.

Fifteen euros for dinner. Twenty including unlimited drinks. These days, in some places, that barely buys you a glass of wine.

For Elyas, it was his first hostel experience too. He loved it. There were toys, a guitar, and within minutes he had made more friends than I usually make in a month.

The only thing that took some getting used to was the queue for the shower.

Suddenly, I was back in my student house in Groningen (the Netherlands). Seven students. One shower. And whenever girlfriends stayed over, the waiting time seemed to double. Through the thin door you could hear everything. Running water. Laughter. Mysterious little sounds. Waiting for the shower became an activity in itself.

At checkout, after paying my honesty bar bill, the receptionist looked at Elyas and asked:

“So, are you coming back next time without your father?”

That hit harder than the bill.

Olive Hostel Lagos – €75 per night for a private room.