Tuesday, May 8, 2012

The Best Hostel in Munich

Screenshot of the lovely Jaeger Hostel in Munich

The final guest post comes from my friend Sam (a girl), who writes about the ups and downs of staying in hostels. Sam studied abroad in London, and managed to make her way across Europe bouncing from Easyjet to train to hostel the way most of us go from door to driveway to car. — Amber

Hostels are a necessary evil when poor and traveling the world. There are many ways to ensure you don’t end up in a hostel with a strange Ukrainian man breathing over you when you wake up in the morning, but a bit of Googling can more easily prevent that situation than any tip I give.

Instead, I will tell the tale of the perfect hostel I visited and the testimonial I’m sure the establishment did not place on their website after I left.

As the control-freak traveler in my group of five girls, I always found comfort in searching for the perfect hostel. While studying abroad, we lived in a tiny apartment complex in London, in a room that barely held the two twin beds, dresser, desk and sink. The room was so small that from our separate beds, my roommate and I could hold hands, brush our teeth and even open the door with a good reach. Long story short, we were pretty low maintenance.

Sam's travelmate Negra models the finest in hostel decor.

When I found the
Jaeger Hostel for our trip to Munich, it fit the trifecta of expectations: it wasn’t sketch, it was cheap and it was located in the perfect place. What sold me was the free shot of Jaeger you received when you walked in the door.

We woke up in London, hopped on our Easyjet flight to Munich, spit out some “Sprache de English?” to some locals and eventually found ourselves at the hostel. As far as hostels go, this one was beautiful. Either brand new or remodeled, it was by far the prettiest of the six hostels we had already had the pleasure of resting our drunk bodies in.

The way hostels are set up, you can stay in rooms for four, six, eight or 12 people, with the rooms being cheaper the more amount of strangers you are willing to sleep with. Since we were traveling with five women, it’s always best to stick to the closest people-to-bed ratio as possible.

When we walked in our room, we were surprised to see the living situation was better than what we had in London. It was spacious, with brand new bathrooms and perfectly white walls. The only imperfection to be found was this tiny, drunk, Irish man propped up on the top bunk of one of the six beds.

“Hello, ladies,” the Irish man we named Urkel (because of his high pants and awkward face) said.

We shared amused looks amongst ourselves and responded with the normal salutations. He stepped back with his hands in the air.

“WHOA. Are you ladies from 90210?” he said with he slurred, foreign accent.

I actually found the question quite offensive.

We decided to get changed as quickly as possible to explore the city, lock our stuff up in a locker in the room and get away from the man who went from endearing to annoying faster than most men.
A night out in Munich (Sam is second from the right).

We had a little too much fun that night. Beginning with our shot in the hostel and getting as drunk as possible at
Hofbrauhaus, we don’t remember much about stumbling our way back into the room. The ten-minute conversation on the metro about who was going to bunk with Urkel was pointless, because he wasn’t in the room at 3 a.m. when we got back.

There was a bit of an odor when we walked into the room, but initial investigation turned up few results. Honestly, we were too intoxicated to care. We woke up early the next morning to catch the tour of
Dachau Concentration Camp, and Urkel was nowhere in sight. But the smell from the night before had gotten worse. Still, we could not find the source.

We were running late, so we were rushing out the door. The slowest girl of the group was still putting her shoes on while we stood in the doorway. She took one of her socks dampened from our original quest from the airport to the hostel off the heater. The next sock she picked up was a bit heavier.

“What the hell,” she said as she slowly opened the sock. Scream. The sock was thrown across the room. “THERE IS A SHIT IN MY SOCK.”

Multiple screams. I laugh. The sock girl begins to cry.

“The Irish guy shit in my sock,” she said still in a rage. It was just sock, but it seemed to have some sort of value the way she was carrying on about it.

To this day we don’t know how the poop got in the sock. Whatever way he accomplished such a feat, we took the sock to the front desk and attempted to squeeze some drinking money out of the staff. We didn’t receive a refund, but we did find ourselves in upgraded in five personal suites that had never been used.

My room. My bed. My shower.

Thank you, Urkel.

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