Back in the 1960’s, I lived in Chicago. The public high school I attended had 1,400 students. Those of us who were college prep students were required to study a foreign language, though I doubt that many of us thought we’d ever travel to a foreign country. I don’t remember any kids in my high school being foreign exchange students. And nobody I knew had ever gone to Europe on vacation. Certainly, none would have gone without their parents. Only after I was in college did I learn that European high school kids spent their summers traveling all over Europe by themselves, often on bicycles. They stayed in a network of Youth Hostels. These were generally big old houses that had been converted into boys and girls dormitories where young people could stay for the equivalent of a few dollars per night. As far as I knew, there were no Youth Hostels in the U.S.
After graduating college, I won the lottery. No, not that lottery. The Draft Board Lottery. My number was high enough that I would not have to spend two years in the army. I figured I had been given a gift of two years during which I could do whatever I wanted. I dreamt of someday traveling around the world for a couple of years supporting my travels by playing guitar and singing folk songs. Guitar playing was one of the few things I learned in college that I actually used after graduating. I kept putting off my dream of world travel because I had a good job as a biologist for the EPA. But when I was 28, my dad passed away and left me a small inheritance. I figured if I were ever going to be a globetrotting troubadour that was the time.
I sold my old junker car for enough money to buy a one-way ticket to Ireland. After a few nights in hotels and bed & breakfasts, I realized that I couldn’t afford to do that for the next two years. Besides, I wasn’t meeting other young backpackers. It was time to give Youth Hosteling a try. My first try was in a village called Carrick, up in County Donegal. The hostel was a large old stone-walled main house with a two-story building nearby. The common room, where everybody could gather and socialize, was in the main house. The dormitories were in the two-story building. The bottom floor was for girls, and the upper floor was for boys.
An elderly woman, who walked with a cane, was managing the place. For reasons that will soon become obvious, hostel managers are called wardens. As I entered the common room, I saw that I would be sharing the hostel with a couple of dozen teenagers – mostly German. They all spoke perfect English, and they knew all the popular American folk music. While I was playing a few of their favorite tunes, the warden came in to reprimand the kids for their behavior the night before. Apparently, they knew how to hot-wire the coin-operated water heater so that all the kids managed to get hot showers, but there was only one coin in the box. Clearly, this was not these kids’ first rodeo.
When the kids heard me sing a few Irish folksongs, they told me that a famous Irish fiddle player would be playing at the village pub that evening. They suggested that I bring my guitar because Irish pubs typically encourage visiting musicians to play a few songs before the main performance. If people liked what they heard, they would buy you a beer. Sure enough, when we went to the pub, I soon had more beers lined up on my table than I could possibly drink. Fortunately, I had an entourage of German teenagers who were up to the task.
When the pub’s official closing hour was announced, we headed back to the hostel. By then, the common room was closed, and everybody went to their dorms. But the boys wanted me to continue playing for a while before “lights out.” Pretty soon, the boys snuck the girls up into our dorm so they could also enjoy the music. I went through my whole repertoire – Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, John Denver, Peter, Paul and Mary, Simon and Garfunkel.
Eventually, the warden came to find out what was going on. She first checked the girl’s dorm and found it to be empty. But as she began hobbling up the wooden stairs, the kids sprang into action. The girls all dove under the covers. A couple of boys unscrewed all the light bulbs. Did I mention that this was not their first rodeo? By the time the warden opened our door, we were all snug in our beds pretending to be asleep. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the warden’s first rodeo either. She may not have been able to catch any girls in our dorm, but she knew none of them were in their dorm. As she was leaving, she announced that we would all be thrown out of the hostel the next morning.
So there you have it. My first night in a Youth Hostel, I got the whole crowd thrown out. I could only wonder if hostel wardens all over Europe would be remembering my two years of hosteling as a folksinger’s grand tour, or Sherman’s March to the Sea. Ah, but that’s another story.
Discover trusted local services and hidden gems with our easy-to-use online directory.
- My First Night In A Youth Hostel - August 30, 2025
- Ask Your Doctor - July 29, 2025
- Dog Gone - June 29, 2025
