Travel Stories: Evil Wi-Fi, Life-Threatening Soap, and Other Cautions from a Hostel Employee

March of 2010 found me sitting on my bunk in Room 3 of the Monterey International Hostel, trying to get the Internet to work. I had been on the road for three and a half weeks now, two of those with my sister, hopping around the coast of California. At that point in my life I was hauling around ample amounts of money and heartbreak, so I traveled as the wind blew me— or, more realistically, where the cheap lodging was. But I decided that after Monterey I was heading up to Sacramento, and catching a flight home from there. A month of exploring was enough for now.

I stared at my laptop and frowned, wondering why it couldn’t connect to the Internet. After a few tries, I folded it up, tucked it under my arm, and strolled through the common room to the front desk.

The same employee who had checked me in the day before stood at the desk, a lanky man in his 50’s, dressed all in black from his beret down to his wingtips. I asked him about the Internet. 

“Oh, sorry, I’ll turn that on for ya,” he said, flipping a switch underneath his desk. “I like to keep it off…” He trailed off as if wanting to say more, but when he didn’t, I thanked him, returned to my room, and booked my flight home.

That night, an international group of music lovers (two French women, three Dutch guys, and me) gathered around the piano for some sing-a-longs. I pounded out a few embarrassing chords before one of the Dutch guys all but shoved me off the bench and the French women handed me a djembe. After a few songs, the hostel receptionist (I’ll just refer to him as Mr. Black from now on) grabbed his acoustic guitar and joined us. He was talented, and soon we were all chorusing songs we half-knew, reading the words out of a fakebook as Mr. Black and the Dutch pianist tried to keep in sync.

‘Cause I’m a picker

I’m a grinner

I’m a lover and I’m a sinner

I play my music in the sun…

We were up until nearly midnight, two hours past the “silence curfew.” But Mr. Black was right there with us, so nobody stopped us.

Apparently Mr. Black took a liking to me that night. Two days later, I stopped by the desk to ask if I could extend my stay. As he worked on getting me a new key, he said, “Here, I have something to show you. I don’t usually tell people, but you seem like a smart kid.”

I raised my eyebrows as he handed me a page with an ominous-looking title.

“The paper talks about how bad wi-fi is for you,” he said. And for the next fifteen minutes, he gave me a quiet but impassioned lecture about the horrors of wireless Internet. It goes through your cells and damages them, especially brain cells. It operates on the same wavelength as your brain waves, causing them to scramble. If you sit in wi-fi for any length of time, you become dull, unoriginal, weak-willed, and open to mind control. “It’s almost like it’s a conspiracy,” he said, although his tone indicated that he already believed it was. 

Somewhere in there he got off on another rant about how Vitamin D cures everything. “That’s why people are always so sick,” he said. “They use soap, and that blocks the Vitamin D from the sun from sinking in their skin.” He found his way back to wi-fi and concluded with, “You seem like you’re creative, and wi-fi will just mess that all up. So stay out of it whenever you can.” 

“Thanks,” I said, although I wasn’t thanking him for the reason he thought I was.

“I can always tell the difference when the wi-fi’s off here,” he said. “Like when we were playing music, it was off, and I felt so creative. Right now, it’s off, and I can just think so much clearer.”

“Cool,” I said. “Well, thanks for letting me know.” 

He smiled, standing a bit taller and looking like a burden had been lifted from his back. He handed me the key and we exchanged good-byes. 

I glanced at my iPod Touch as I headed to the common room, not having the heart to tell Mr. Black that I had used the wi-fi to check email just a second before coming to talk to him.

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