I Met A Diamond Dealer At A Youth Hostel
And he saved me from a night of friendship-induced misery.
Going to the backpacker's hotel when you’re not a backpacker seems weird. A little desperate, if you will. That’s what I told my friend Emily when she suggested we go to the one here in Melbourne.
She justified the visit with the fact that no other bars were open because it was a Tuesday night.
I reminded her that it was university night, the day of the week when drinking establishments welcomed students with discounts and bad DJs. Most of Melbourne’s southeast suburbs, where uni students hopped between these establishments, were thriving on these nights.
For some reason, though, my friend decided she had to go to the backpackers and I was obliged to go with her. The dutiful friend inside me couldn’t let her go alone, despite my loud protests.
I didn’t realise until I went overseas and stayed in one that this was technically a hostel. In Australia, backpackers was the affectionate name we gave it.
But when I stepped inside, it didn’t possess the cheap, slightly concerning decor I imagined cheap accommodation to look like. The walls were decorated in cool cement grey sheeting, with neon signs littering the entrances and exits. The space boasted three…
