I'll start with a disclaimer: I am by no means an expert.
But in the last 9 months, I've spent 11 weeks in 9 countries staying in hostels, so I have at least some idea.
I've had my share of grotty experiences, from shacks in Ayuthaya with only a fan to serve as "air conditioning" in the 37-degree heat and witnessing drug deals on an adjacent bunkbed in Vienna, to Tokyo dorms that more closely resembled pigeon-holes in post rooms and a Hong Kong digs with no shower.
But I've also had the best of times. That place in Tokyo is where I've made my best travelling friends. There's been a 6-person room to myself in Seoul, a free in-house onsen in Beppu, traditional tatami-matt rooms in Nagasaki and a guest-house built by the owner's own hands in Nara.
So here's my guide on how to not be a dick in hostels.
DO: take off your shoes. Especially in Asian countries, this is a big thing. But in general, unless the floor is made of lava, taking off your shoes at the door - at at least within your dorm - stops mud getting tracked everywhere you're living.
DO: be neat and tidy. Everyone is crammed in the same living quarters. Be on your best behaviour. Play nice.
DO: pay your dues. If you borrow someone's shampoo, lend them your razor or something. Mooching is not okay. And if you're in a position to help someone, do - which is why I am now apparently the "saint" of Nishi-Kawaguchi, after patching up someone's bleeding forehead with my handy first-aid kit.
DO: talk to people. Everyone. You might not get along with everyone, and that's okay. But you'll be amazed at who you meet - students, teachers, barmen, engineers, corporate drones; everyone in a hostel is there for a reason, and it's probably insatiable wanderlust.
DO: pick up other people's slang. I came back from a six-week trip with "aye" ingrained in my daily vernacular, and I am currently touting "Oh, I wouldn't say possibly, I'd definitely say for sure," on an irritatingly regular basis.
DO: realise that "where are you from?" is likely to replace "what's your name?" as an opening line. I've hung out for hours with people only to realise I have no way to identify them other than "the really tall Swedish guy" or "that Mexican guy's girlfriend".
DO: take chances. We get taught that there is danger around every corner, but travelling teaches you strangers are mostly kind. Have a drink or two, or three or four. Make friends. Go to karaoke and play football in the park. Appease the police. Kiss strangers. Laugh as much as you can.
DON'T: be noisy. So shut up in dorms. No calling friends at noon, because people WILL still be sleeping. No laughing drunkenly on the porch, and no sex. Okay, none of these are going to hold - but you should at least try and be quiet about them.
DON'T: do anything illegal.
DON'T: expect everyone to be your new best friend. Some people are just dicks. Accept it and move on.
DON'T: spend two hours in the shower. Especially if there's a very limited number. Get in, get clean, wash your hair, bugger off.
DON'T: feel guilty about engaging in behaviour that you would otherwise frown upon. A few cigarettes and make outs won't kill you, and it turns out that sharing someone's last smoke is a surprisingly good bonding experience.
DON'T: expect it to last forever. And at the same time - don't forget about it either.
Memories are all we have, really, as humans. Don't ruin someone else's. And let other people in - they're the ones who will make your memories really precious.
Go now, and hostel like a nice human being. And not a dick.
Showing posts with label social rules. Show all posts
Showing posts with label social rules. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 April 2014
Saturday, 2 March 2013
Confessions of a hairy girl.
I have a very privileged life, which means I get to spend a lot of my time thinking about things which aren't very important. While I could concern myself with how best to sort out the global hunger crisis, or trying to determine if the rise of UKIP will have any significant impact on mainstream UK politics, I instead find myself contemplating rather less weighty topics.
Like hair.
It seems that part of the rite of passage of self-identifying as a feminist involves a period of time where the Baby Feminist forsakes all razors. "These are tools of systematic male oppression!" they cry, and hide the razors in the back of their cupboards - but don't throw them out. "The shaving of hair is part of the patriarchy!" they holler, and swear off ever cutting their precious leg forests again. Outgrowths of dark curls sprout in their armpits, and their bikini lines go fantastically untended.
And then - after a while, be it days or weeks or months - these Baby Feminists will find themselves returning to the safety of their razors and waxing strips, and suddenly their bodies will once again be lithe and hairless and socially acceptable. Maybe they will vacillate between the two extremes of hairy and hairless, or maybe they will settle on one side or the other.
I will vacillate.
My relationship to body hair isn't so much driven by feelings of self-loathing or a craving for social acceptance; it's more reliant on my individual whims. Through the winter months, I make a point of cultivating body hair. I consider it an extra layer of warmth and insulation against the sudden sub-zero winter winds of Britain's temperate climate. My legs and armpits retain that little bit more warmth, and I tend to wear jeans and long pyjamas, things which hide the new growths. You'd never know, to look at me - I have the same face as I wear the rest of the year round; I haven't suddenly sprouted a beard or moustache - though that would be pretty cool - but under my clothes, I am naked. Naked, and hairy.
The exception to this rule is occasions when my body is on show. In the summer, my legs get shaved maybe once a fortnight - more if it's warm enough to necessitate wearing shorts every day - and my armpits probably every week. I don't consider dark stubble an enemy. Rather, it's an old friend, an irritating in-between stage which then gives way to the soft curls of body fuzz I've come to rather appreciate. (Currently, as it's still winter, my 'pits are only shaved if I know I'll be wearing a sleeveless shirt - something which came back to bite me in the butt recently when, on a first date, I realised midway through that I was wearing a strappy dress, and hadn't shaved my armpits. Cue awkwardly refusing to raise my arms for the rest of the night.)
However, this week, I found myself in the bathroom with some time to kill before dinner, and I wondered - what would it be like to be shaved all over? According to porn, muffs don't exist: all women are pre-pubescently shorn, an unbroken expanse of soft flesh running from their belly-buttons down to the Holy Grail of their vulvas. This, of course, is bullshit. But we as a society seem to have accepted this baldness as the norm. PETA use it in their adverts to advocate boycotting fur; razors are sold in putridly girly shades of pink and purple to be used specifically for "feminine hygiene"; girls as young as 11 have been reported going to beauty salons for a Brazillian wax. Personally, I could never go to a salon - the contents of my knickers are between me, the people I sleep with, and medical professionals; beauticians aren't included. Sorry to disappoint.
So, for whatever reason, I decided to shave my bush. My rationale went something as follows: a) Why not? It's perfectly possible. b) It's something I haven't done before. c) Next time I get my period, it'll be nice not to get menstrual blood caught up in my pubic hair. (It can't be just me that has this problem, right?) And thus, my usually neatly-trimmed fanny warmer was no more. Gone. In its place was skin I hadn't seen since I was about nine: pale, sensitive, with an almost waxy quality to it.
I didn't particularly like it. And I couldn't imagine particularly liking it on another girl, either. There appear to be no health benefits to a shaved minge, other than it makes things easier to see from a medical perspective, the same way the head is shaved before brain surgery. But the idea of eating a girl out, to be confronted by such a conspicuous absence of hair? I'd prefer my mouth to come into contact with some nicely-trimmed tangle than with the slippery skin I'm currently experiencing.
I am also painfully aware, a few days later, of the stubble growing back. And unlike the almost downy fuzz which spreads over my calves, this stubble is coarse and spiky. I'm not a fan of it, nor of the small dark polka-dots which are now spreading over the region, making it look like I've contracted an artistically-inclined STI.
I will be glad when the hair returns in its entirity, a soft silky hide I can run my fingers through and condition in the bath. But I'll also continue to shave my legs and armpits when need be - more out of a nagging sense of obligation than of genuine desire to. Maybe in order to fuck up the system, I ought to wander round proudly hirstute - and I have a whole-hearted respect and admiration for people who do - but I already work outside the system in so many other ways. I don't grow body hair to prove a point, either; it's more just arbitrary laziness. The Baby Feminists can carry on with creating long flowing thigh-tresses; I'll happily get rid of them if I've got to wear a skirt. Does this make me a bad feminist? Spoiler alert: the answer is no.
However, I have decided to keep my pubes from now on. We have pubic hair for a reason, and there doesn't seem any convincing arguments to get rid of it. I'm not sure it's a feminist issue, particularly; it's a case of You Do You. If your significant other is pressuring you to remove hair when you yourself want to keep it, that's another story - but while it's a free choice, there is no wrong answer. And if I'm ever confronted by a bed partner who doesn't like my downstairs hairstyle choices... they can suck it.
Like hair.
It seems that part of the rite of passage of self-identifying as a feminist involves a period of time where the Baby Feminist forsakes all razors. "These are tools of systematic male oppression!" they cry, and hide the razors in the back of their cupboards - but don't throw them out. "The shaving of hair is part of the patriarchy!" they holler, and swear off ever cutting their precious leg forests again. Outgrowths of dark curls sprout in their armpits, and their bikini lines go fantastically untended.
And then - after a while, be it days or weeks or months - these Baby Feminists will find themselves returning to the safety of their razors and waxing strips, and suddenly their bodies will once again be lithe and hairless and socially acceptable. Maybe they will vacillate between the two extremes of hairy and hairless, or maybe they will settle on one side or the other.
I will vacillate.
My relationship to body hair isn't so much driven by feelings of self-loathing or a craving for social acceptance; it's more reliant on my individual whims. Through the winter months, I make a point of cultivating body hair. I consider it an extra layer of warmth and insulation against the sudden sub-zero winter winds of Britain's temperate climate. My legs and armpits retain that little bit more warmth, and I tend to wear jeans and long pyjamas, things which hide the new growths. You'd never know, to look at me - I have the same face as I wear the rest of the year round; I haven't suddenly sprouted a beard or moustache - though that would be pretty cool - but under my clothes, I am naked. Naked, and hairy.
The exception to this rule is occasions when my body is on show. In the summer, my legs get shaved maybe once a fortnight - more if it's warm enough to necessitate wearing shorts every day - and my armpits probably every week. I don't consider dark stubble an enemy. Rather, it's an old friend, an irritating in-between stage which then gives way to the soft curls of body fuzz I've come to rather appreciate. (Currently, as it's still winter, my 'pits are only shaved if I know I'll be wearing a sleeveless shirt - something which came back to bite me in the butt recently when, on a first date, I realised midway through that I was wearing a strappy dress, and hadn't shaved my armpits. Cue awkwardly refusing to raise my arms for the rest of the night.)
However, this week, I found myself in the bathroom with some time to kill before dinner, and I wondered - what would it be like to be shaved all over? According to porn, muffs don't exist: all women are pre-pubescently shorn, an unbroken expanse of soft flesh running from their belly-buttons down to the Holy Grail of their vulvas. This, of course, is bullshit. But we as a society seem to have accepted this baldness as the norm. PETA use it in their adverts to advocate boycotting fur; razors are sold in putridly girly shades of pink and purple to be used specifically for "feminine hygiene"; girls as young as 11 have been reported going to beauty salons for a Brazillian wax. Personally, I could never go to a salon - the contents of my knickers are between me, the people I sleep with, and medical professionals; beauticians aren't included. Sorry to disappoint.
So, for whatever reason, I decided to shave my bush. My rationale went something as follows: a) Why not? It's perfectly possible. b) It's something I haven't done before. c) Next time I get my period, it'll be nice not to get menstrual blood caught up in my pubic hair. (It can't be just me that has this problem, right?) And thus, my usually neatly-trimmed fanny warmer was no more. Gone. In its place was skin I hadn't seen since I was about nine: pale, sensitive, with an almost waxy quality to it.
I didn't particularly like it. And I couldn't imagine particularly liking it on another girl, either. There appear to be no health benefits to a shaved minge, other than it makes things easier to see from a medical perspective, the same way the head is shaved before brain surgery. But the idea of eating a girl out, to be confronted by such a conspicuous absence of hair? I'd prefer my mouth to come into contact with some nicely-trimmed tangle than with the slippery skin I'm currently experiencing.
I am also painfully aware, a few days later, of the stubble growing back. And unlike the almost downy fuzz which spreads over my calves, this stubble is coarse and spiky. I'm not a fan of it, nor of the small dark polka-dots which are now spreading over the region, making it look like I've contracted an artistically-inclined STI.
I will be glad when the hair returns in its entirity, a soft silky hide I can run my fingers through and condition in the bath. But I'll also continue to shave my legs and armpits when need be - more out of a nagging sense of obligation than of genuine desire to. Maybe in order to fuck up the system, I ought to wander round proudly hirstute - and I have a whole-hearted respect and admiration for people who do - but I already work outside the system in so many other ways. I don't grow body hair to prove a point, either; it's more just arbitrary laziness. The Baby Feminists can carry on with creating long flowing thigh-tresses; I'll happily get rid of them if I've got to wear a skirt. Does this make me a bad feminist? Spoiler alert: the answer is no.
However, I have decided to keep my pubes from now on. We have pubic hair for a reason, and there doesn't seem any convincing arguments to get rid of it. I'm not sure it's a feminist issue, particularly; it's a case of You Do You. If your significant other is pressuring you to remove hair when you yourself want to keep it, that's another story - but while it's a free choice, there is no wrong answer. And if I'm ever confronted by a bed partner who doesn't like my downstairs hairstyle choices... they can suck it.
Monday, 25 February 2013
Broken rules and bleeding hearts.
There are rules about how to act in every social situation. They may be unwritten, or contained in tomes nobody owns up to owning but everyone does; they might be whispered in corners or written about in op-eds for swanky magazines, but there are rules governing everything. If you transgress the rules, who knows what might happen? You'll get a sneaky side-eyed sneer, or maybe a public critique, or perhaps the whole of society will crumble and crash down around your ears - and it'll all be your fault, because you didn't obey the rules.
One of the things I'm aware of is how I play by these rules, even when I don't consciously mean to. I'll find myself waiting for hours to receive texts from people, and then - rather than replying instantly, which is my usual course of action - I'll instead leave the message, saved as a draft, on my phone. I won't send it until half an hour, an hour, two hours, have elapsed - to make it seem like I'm just SO in demand, I'm too busy to reply to texts instantly, and you should be glad I bestowed my pity upon you and typed out a few lines of banal conversation. It means I spared you a thought, when I could have just forgotten. Be grateful.
This applies to everyone - friends, family, crushes. I just get scared of being in a position of vulnerability. I don't want to admit I like someone, in whatever capacity, because that means peeling back a little bit of your skin and showing something raw; and once it's out there, anyone can come and prod it, and make you hurt. Better to keep your bleeding heart in your chest, rather than where it habitually rests on my sleeve. Better to wear a coat and stop your feelings from being seen.
When I do come out and say exactly what I mean, I tend to get hurt. And everyone's afraid of being hurt. That's why there's so much bullshit in who is supposed to say what when, where you're supposed to go and what you're supposed to want. If you stick to the rules, you are safe. You're working within an established framework. Even if things go wrong, they'll fuck up within a pre-existing situation.You won't be far away from where you're supposed to be, and it's not that hard to get back in the game, start a new turn, and let all the rules carry you along again.
It's why I feel guilty about my last kiss. It was the end of a first date (with a boy who makes me feel like I swallowed a dragonfly) and we were at Edgeware Road. He had to catch the tube one way, and I the other. He stood on the train, and I on the platform. There was a narrow gap in the roof of the station. We shared a quick, chaste kiss while the thin snow fell through the gap and powdered our hair. The tube departed, and I watched him go, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling I had been left behind. That was one of the rules of heterosexual, traditional relationships - the girl is supposed to leave first, making the boy wait for her, his breath catching in his throat. It's not supposed to be the other way round.
I crossed the bridge to the other platform, to catch my own train, and had to avert my eyes from all the happy couples canoodling in the cold. Their laughter mingled in front of their faces, a soft-focus mist which could have come from either set of lungs.
I wished, one day, I could be that happy - even if it was only superficial. Maybe in the grey light of morning they would sit next to each other in bed - these laughing, kissing couples - and they wouldn't speak, keeping their unhappiness to themselves, maintaining a facade on the streets of London that they were bright and chipper and in love. But there's a reason you keep misery at home: the only thing worse than public displays of affection is public displays of unhappiness.
And that's just another rule. Keep the dirty laundry to your own washing machine.
If I were that unhappy, though, I would argue in public. I would make a scene, run onto the wrong train on purpose, lock myself in a bathroom and have a public official be called to get me out. I would make old women tut and young professionals avert their eyes in embarrassment and children stare, slack-jawed. If you're going to unravel, you might as well do it somewhere everyone can see. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a sympathetic stranger around to help patch your frayed edges back together and resew your hems. I have faith in the human race yet.
But I also have faith in myself. These rules might have been around for years, but I'm sure I know myself better than some anonymous set of social norms. So I might provoke the ire of traditionalists everywhere, but I will tentatively display my battered heart, and blame only myself if it gets broken. I will text back immediately and watch people leave me behind - because I am stronger than my anxieties, and I trust that everyone I love will come back - it might just take them a while.
One of the things I'm aware of is how I play by these rules, even when I don't consciously mean to. I'll find myself waiting for hours to receive texts from people, and then - rather than replying instantly, which is my usual course of action - I'll instead leave the message, saved as a draft, on my phone. I won't send it until half an hour, an hour, two hours, have elapsed - to make it seem like I'm just SO in demand, I'm too busy to reply to texts instantly, and you should be glad I bestowed my pity upon you and typed out a few lines of banal conversation. It means I spared you a thought, when I could have just forgotten. Be grateful.
This applies to everyone - friends, family, crushes. I just get scared of being in a position of vulnerability. I don't want to admit I like someone, in whatever capacity, because that means peeling back a little bit of your skin and showing something raw; and once it's out there, anyone can come and prod it, and make you hurt. Better to keep your bleeding heart in your chest, rather than where it habitually rests on my sleeve. Better to wear a coat and stop your feelings from being seen.
When I do come out and say exactly what I mean, I tend to get hurt. And everyone's afraid of being hurt. That's why there's so much bullshit in who is supposed to say what when, where you're supposed to go and what you're supposed to want. If you stick to the rules, you are safe. You're working within an established framework. Even if things go wrong, they'll fuck up within a pre-existing situation.You won't be far away from where you're supposed to be, and it's not that hard to get back in the game, start a new turn, and let all the rules carry you along again.
It's why I feel guilty about my last kiss. It was the end of a first date (with a boy who makes me feel like I swallowed a dragonfly) and we were at Edgeware Road. He had to catch the tube one way, and I the other. He stood on the train, and I on the platform. There was a narrow gap in the roof of the station. We shared a quick, chaste kiss while the thin snow fell through the gap and powdered our hair. The tube departed, and I watched him go, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling I had been left behind. That was one of the rules of heterosexual, traditional relationships - the girl is supposed to leave first, making the boy wait for her, his breath catching in his throat. It's not supposed to be the other way round.
I crossed the bridge to the other platform, to catch my own train, and had to avert my eyes from all the happy couples canoodling in the cold. Their laughter mingled in front of their faces, a soft-focus mist which could have come from either set of lungs.
I wished, one day, I could be that happy - even if it was only superficial. Maybe in the grey light of morning they would sit next to each other in bed - these laughing, kissing couples - and they wouldn't speak, keeping their unhappiness to themselves, maintaining a facade on the streets of London that they were bright and chipper and in love. But there's a reason you keep misery at home: the only thing worse than public displays of affection is public displays of unhappiness.
And that's just another rule. Keep the dirty laundry to your own washing machine.
If I were that unhappy, though, I would argue in public. I would make a scene, run onto the wrong train on purpose, lock myself in a bathroom and have a public official be called to get me out. I would make old women tut and young professionals avert their eyes in embarrassment and children stare, slack-jawed. If you're going to unravel, you might as well do it somewhere everyone can see. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a sympathetic stranger around to help patch your frayed edges back together and resew your hems. I have faith in the human race yet.
But I also have faith in myself. These rules might have been around for years, but I'm sure I know myself better than some anonymous set of social norms. So I might provoke the ire of traditionalists everywhere, but I will tentatively display my battered heart, and blame only myself if it gets broken. I will text back immediately and watch people leave me behind - because I am stronger than my anxieties, and I trust that everyone I love will come back - it might just take them a while.
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