He did not make the call in time or more probably, anytime. Of course, I’m referring to the too-chill dude at the hostel in San Ignacio. 

 

We arrived at our hostel on Caye Caulker by mid-afternoon. The patchwork building looked cool enough with its large porch and elevated concrete walkaway leading over to a thatch-roofed platform strewn with hammocks and cigarette butts. It reminded me of what would happen if a shipwreck wound up in a tree and became a treehouse, assuming the sailors had managed to make cement. 

 

The clientele was strewn about the place smoking and chatting. I looked around the open room deciding who to talk to: the guy on the sofa, the people on the back porch, or a girl cooking. I walked up to the cook who was making something that looked like breakfast over a gas stove and asked for whoever worked there. She sauntered off to find someone and while we waited another bikinied girl arrived (everyone was in bikinis). This new girl must’ve been missing for a day considering the enthusiasm with which she was greeted. “I got drunk last night with this guy and wound up on Caye Ambergris,” (the largest caye) she related with excitement and was immediately high-fived by one of the guys (all the guys were in swim trucks).

 

At that point, I was pretty sure that we wouldn’t be part of the popular crowd considering the criteria.

 

The proprietor, a leathery middle aged woman with a cigarette, toddled up after a few minutes, looked us over, and then looked concerned. 

“Are you the group who reserved the 3 person room?” 

I confirmed that we were and watched as the cigarette wilted. After a moment the cigarette popped up and she seemed to have shrugged off her former anxiety. She explained that a group of girls was still inhabiting the room and – what could she do? They had refused to leave. 

 

I had a few ideas about what she could do but instead I mentioned that we’d booked weeks in advance. The lady only waved her cigarette and complained about online booking. 

 

“We only need one night,” I added, trying to make our request even easier. “Did you get a call from the [insert hostel brand] in San Ignacio?”

Her expression was uncomprehending. 

“They were supposed to call to cancel the second night. I tried calling a few times myself but couldn’t get through. I emailed several times as well – the same day I booked, two weeks ago.”

“My daughter handles the emails.”

“We only need tonight,” I reaffirmed. 

“Why?” she asked this with more gruffness than I would’ve expected from someone not willing to give us the room we booked.

“We have an Airbnb for tomorrow.” 

 

To her credit, she did make an effort to get rid of us properly by calling the Airbnb but as I had guessed, there was no room in that inn.

“I have a double and a bunk,” she offered, looking at my mom with concern. Her anxiety had definitely come back. “Or you could try another hostel.” I had picked this hostel because it was one of the cheapest and I needed this for the budget. 

 

It was clear that she really didn’t want us there – probably because we didn’t look fun. After all, excepting her, everyone else was probably under 25. 

 

She showed us the shabby little room and the shabby larger room with bunks next to it and which shared the same toilet. My mom, always up for an adventure, offered to take the bunk. This seemed to be the proprietor’s main source of anxiety and she worked hard to dissuade my mom from the treacherous top bunk. Mom remained unmoved. Besides, the alternatives had their own difficulties: either James would be sleeping in a bunk room full of bikinied 20-nothings or he would be rooming with his mother-in-law. The proprietor obviously wasn’t thinking of propriety and probably hadn’t in a long, long time. Conversely, my mom was mostly thinking about propriety and wouldn’t push her son-in-law into that position.

 

The more I saw of the lady, the more she looked like she could be the matron of some old time brothel. Maybe she could’ve been in Les Miserables. Perhaps it was the hardness in her eyes, the way the cigarette sagged from her lips, or perhaps it was just the buzz of young profligates flitting around her. But I think it was mostly how she cheated us out of $15 and then overcharged us. I mean, it was also how she interacted with the young people but the sneaky double-dealing really sealed the deal. 

 

A brothel sounds harsh. How about the proprietor lady from Crime and Punishment? She would sometimes be sitting on the porch with them, lightly listening to their gossip about interactions they will probably someday regret; sometimes be standing behind the volunteer boys (not paid but not charged), as they worked on the ramshackle building, barking orders in her raspy voice; but always she would have a cigarette and a low cut tank top. 

 

From what she said, her own life hadn’t been very different from the young lives around her. That added to her matronly air. She had fallen in love with a Belizian some 20 years ago and had 3 kids (presumably by him). They split up and she stayed to raise those kids though, as she related, she now wanted to move to Holland before the youngest “becomes too Belizian” – whatever that meant. I think that daughter was the one in charge of bookings and answering all my emails and calls so maybe that’s what she meant. Very laid back or something. If so, the matron wasn’t doing much better herself. 

I’m not saying that she couldn’t be nice. I just got the impression that I shouldn’t get on her bad side.

 

Back to propriety. Most hostels cater to young carefree travelers who are looking for a beer and a good time, or possibly, a new fling. Young and looking for experiences. 

 

As more introverted people who have the gall not to drink, we never fit in. We are instantly uncool. There are other uncool travelers, of course, but they probably just haven’t figured it out yet. We try to be friendly but mostly we just mind our own business. But even if we weren’t so uncool, we’re married, which is a big turn off for most hostel-goers (and all singles in general). They don’t want to be 3rd wheels and also it kinda rules out the whole fling thing.

 

James and I have stayed at something like 20 hostels so walking into this one wasn’t a new or surprising experience. There are plenty of worse things to find going on in your hostel room. However, walking my mother into a youth hostel was a new experience. 

 

It was a new experience for her too, apparently, because when we three walked into the shared co-ed bunk room and a young woman in underwear wanted to show mom how bad her sunburn was, mom covered her eyes and then, recalling James’ presence, practically tried to cover his. Luckily, James was already busily minding his own business and hardly noticed as he brushed past the girl on his way to our private room. 

 

The girl was as shocked by my mom’s shock as my mom was shocked by her underwear. As luck would have it, Sunburn Girl ended up being on the same snorkeling tour that we took the next day. For some reason, she and her two British guy friends didn’t make an effort to talk to us (they were all British; taking a gap year from Uni, as they say). Luckily, the ship was tiny so we could easily overhear her plans to tan topless once her current batch of first degree burns had healed.