My first impression of the Hostelling International Santa Monica was of the chilly receptionist who seemed to have a rather dim view on any travelers who wanted to enter before check-in time. Still, with our buy-one-get-one-free discounts (thanks to Mary, who signed us both up for HI memberships), we were each paying $14 a night for lodging two blocks from the Santa Monica pier, so I really couldn’t complain. We left our backpacks there and hit the beach.
This was the day after our adventures in Anaheim (February 2nd, for those who are interested in dates). Catherine happened to be driving her sister to the airport, so she went ahead and gave Mary and me a ride up to Santa Monica, saving us a several-hour bus ride. Now Mary and I were free to explore, and, like usual, just ended up walking along the ocean.
During my time in the area, I never entered Los Angeles proper, but the city didn’t sit very well with me. My eyes never stopped stinging, and half the time I felt like my lungs were slowly burning away. However, with its cultural nooks and spunky atmosphere and ecletic neighborhoods, I can imagine that, to some, it would be endearing.
The Santa Monica beach was, at least, beautiful enough: it’s hard to ever be discontent when there is an ocean nearby. We walked for a while, down to the Venice Beach pier. Mary napped while I called my boyfriend and called home and watched the sanderlings (tiny wading birds) skitter along the tide-line.
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| At least I can't complain about the view! |
That night, I left Mary in the park near the pier and ran back to the hostel to grab a sweatshirt. When I returned, she was shaky. She had been approached by some creeper who wanted her to “come away” with him, and when she refused, he yelled at her for being paranoid. I spent most of the rest of the night trying to help Mary get over the incident, and imagining several scenarios of what would have happened if I had seen the guy (they all ended in violence). I tried not to think that Mary and I would be parting ways in just two days, and I would be leaving her to all the creepers in California. I know she can handle herself, but the worry is still there. This is the curse of anyone with a traveling friend.
Finally, I crawled into my bunk and tied a bandana over my eyes so my roommates could leave the light on. I was just drifting into a deeper sleep when a fire alarm screamed into my ears. Awake in an instant, heart throbbing, I fumbled to grab my fanny pack, remembered that Mary was downstairs with my laptop, and leaped out of the bunk to stampede down the stairs along with everyone else on the floor. Some hundred of us crowded into the lobby as sirens flashed from the doorframes around us. Some ambled outside and lit up cigarettes; some huddled together with a language barrier between them and reassurance. I found Mary with my laptop tucked under her arm. Someone demanded, “Who was burning incense on the third floor?”
Eventually a hostel receptionist was able to shut down the siren and tell everyone it was a false alarm. The word spread through the group in a dozen different languages, and then the journey back to rooms began. I crowded in with the others, and we funneled back to our corresponding floors. I crept back into my bed, but I didn’t fall asleep for quite a while.
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| It's just not a Mary-and-Me trip until we take a picture in the bathroom. (Will she kill me for posting this? Maybe...) |
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