I was hoping for a chill stay at a nice hostel, some seafood with an ocean view, and a glass of dry, crisp sauvignon blanc with determined little beads of condensation marching down the glass towards the stem. I’d been told San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua, was cheap, with delectable seafood and great shopping! Perhaps I’d buy a new dress; I’m a gal who loves a deal. But, let me tell you something. Whoever told me San Juan Del Sur was cheap was either a wealthy person who lives sans budget or they were simply drunk and delirious. Seafood with an ocean view was for the extravagant traveler and dresses were for chicks with sugar daddies. I assume it’s expensive because it’s full of tourists. San Juan has the feel of a quaint little village right on the ocean with lots of colorful buildings and a little bit of local charm. However, it seemed to be a bit of a party town, or the hostel I was staying at was a party hostel, or I just got stuck in a dorm room with a bunch of young, drunk, sex-crazed travelers. I fear my view of San Juan Del Sur will always have a tainted hedonistic quality to it.
My first night there, I ended up getting a private room with little to no ventilation as the dorm rooms were booked. The type of tiny, airless room where you fart and the fan just pushes the smell around but never actually dissipates it. I was eager to switch over to the dormitory the following day as they were spacious, each bed having its own individual fan, adequate airflow for flatulence and keeping yourself cool. The following night, I realized perhaps my choice in a hostel in general was not the best as there were a bunch of young backpackers getting rowdy and inebriated. It wouldn’t have been so annoying if it ended there; however, some of them were constantly walking in and out of the dorm room and leaving the door wide open. They were talking in loud intoxicated voices, as you do, instead of whispering, as you should, out of respect for others feigning sleep as you drunkenly stumble about forgetting why you even came into the dorm room in the first place. This coming and going went on until about 3 a.m. During that time I had punched, dropkicked, and roundhoused all these kids…in my mind. In reality, I was a tired, fuming ball of pent-up annoyance.
Just as the sun was beginning to make its morning rounds, a couple came in (well who knows if they were a couple, they very well could have met ten minutes earlier) and climbed onto the top bunk across the room from me. I didn’t think much of it until I started to hear certain sounds. Sounds that you don’t want to hear in a public place, much less a shared dorm room that is no longer dark but bathed in morning light. Even without my contacts in, I could make out their withering shapes. I tried to close my eyes and block it all out but they were drunkenly not discreet with their moans and the steady rocking sound of the bunk bed. I imagined all the different scenarios in where I would sit up in bed and ask them to just stop. But I was uncomfortable enough; I didn’t want to join in in any way, even if that way was to vent my ultimate frustration. I wanted no part in their fornication and unfortunately, I was an innocent bystander, as were four other people tossing and turning in their beds thinking the exact same thoughts as me. I wondered if the Polish girl in the bottom bunk below the couple had it the worst. Was it worse to just hear and feel it? Or was my position worse where I could hear and see it?
I gave it an hour and then got up and left the room while they were still at it. I resigned myself to a day of bleary-eyed tiredness and shuddering everytime I thought of what occurred in the morning. As if it’s some type of compensation, at the very least they were under a sheet the entire time.