Hostels are churches

I don't believe in a supernatural god. But if there was one, hostels would be churches.

These are humble places; places of openness and serendipity. Great things happen in between the lines of life, and hostel life fills those lines like nothing else.

These are truly god's children. Young, vibrant and curious, they turn away from home comforts to learn and explore; to grow. Are they perfect? No. But choosing to travel free-form demonstrates an open spirit that places them in good staid for the rest of their lives.

Everything is shared. Showers are ugly, functional and clean. Beds, packed in tightly, are just cosy enough. Radio waves connect everyone to the outside world through spotty wi-fi. How shiny do these things need to be? Most important is the courtyard, where our supplicants swap stories, give advice and argue about pronunciation. Time passes through noisy exchanges in a humble environment.

Children of the West and wealthy East are afforded amazing privileges just for being born in the right country. Forget buying a ticket, nationality is humanity's great economic lottery. As much I feel the act of travel itself can be an indulgence, it is difficult to criticise those of privilege leveraging it for personal growth and enlightenment.

And so it is, a place where every day is Sunday. Where the devout cram in and connect to their congregation; where experience and transcendence matters above all. Today it is my turn to leave the church, but this service has strengthened my faith.

Right or wrong

There are no right or wrong ways to do anything, particularly when it comes to different approaches to travel.

This is only my second overseas trip in four and half years. This journey was heavily informed by my first solo trip, to the United States in early 2010. Though I consider myself an inexperienced traveller, I've long looked down on many other ways people take holidays. For instance, I've never really understood the idea of travelling overseas to relax. This is clearly related to my hang-ups regarding luxury and indulgence and my ever-present working-class chip on my shoulder.

My platonic ideal of travelling goes something like this. Accommodation is in dormitories, with larger being generally better. Travelling alone, I need to be around other people and almost be forced to interact with them. For me, hostels are the best way to make this happen. When I stayed in hotels on the West Coast of the United States, I was pretty miserable. When I got to hostels on the East Coast, I had the time of my life.

My days are filled with sightseeing. I'll develop a rough list of things to do and hit them one-by-one. Sometimes I'll find someone to tag along with on a day trip but if not, I'm going anyway. I haven't done long trips so I fee like I don't have time to waste. Who knows if I'll ever be back to these places. In a way, these trips are like work to me, but a different kind of work to when I'm at home: cultural work, humanist work, personal work.

Nights are for meeting other travellers, drinking and talking bullshit. I get a lot of enjoyment and enlightenment from these moments. It is fascinating to know why people are travelling, what it's like to live in different countries or what they do when they aren't on the road. These spontaneous meetings can stay with you for years.

Going with back-to-back-to-back sightseeing and night-drinking is great, and it's what I've chosen. But boy, it wears you down. Two mild hangovers combined with Bangkok's oppressive humidity made my last couple of days of solo sightseeing a little challenging. Poor me, I know. Today I'm on a twelve-hour train journey to Chiang Mai, and it is just what I needed.

I don't think I'll be going on week-long beach holidays anytime soon, but there's something to this idea that I might need a day every now and then to decompress, do laundry and make plans. If I squeeze in a couple of hours for lunch and beers, that's probably better. So here's to taking a day off while I'm taking days off.

The Opposite of The Truman Show

The first few moments in a new country are always dizzying; surreal, even. It feels like walking on to a movie set. You somehow expect to run into an edge of this new world. It's the opposite of the sailboat scene in The Truman Show, when he finally figures out his whole life is an artificial construct and ends up putting a hole in the in the set with his sailboat.

Gradually you come to terms with the idea that the new place is real, that this set is where millions of lives play out every day. We are broader, better people for this realisation. As we move around in the new space, we come to understand that other people's environment and circumstances can be radically different from our own. I believe this is a profound idea.