strangevisionz

Keeping my social circles to, well, I’d have to say “a higher class”, as there’s really no more honest way to put it, I really don’t come in contact with the dregs of society, the drug abusers, vagabonds, liars, cheats, abusers, and general backstabbers.  Those are what I avoid, not only because I am a responsible mother trying to raise decent, respectable children in this utterly lawless, becoming rule-less world; but also because I do enjoy being able to hold a halfway intelligent, not to mention intelligible, conversation, with at least a bit of depth; maybe the ability to possibly learn something from a fellow thinker-and I use that term lightly-; and not have to scurry my eyes as if in the front row-at the net-viewing a tennis match, as I try (in amusement, I must admit) to follow the tweaked antics of a street drug user.  Case in point, whilst traveling on business, kids in tow, we found ourselves trapped in an area where the hotels were booked up completely, as there were several conventions and events taking place over the course of two weeks.  Luckily, we were able to secure stay in a youth hostel.  For anyone who is not familiar with these accommodations, popular mainly to college students backpacking through Europe, they offer private or shared rooms, (ours gladly was private) with shared bathrooms and kitchen areas.  Essentally an inexpensive bed and breakfast, where you make your own bed-they provide the bedding; and you cook your own breakfast! They tend to be clean, well run, and populated by a wonderful array of colorful, storytelling, intelligent, respectful, usually foreign 20somethings on vacation.  Youth hostels offer a financially feasible alternative to hotels, and a safer and more comfortable means to camping.  I have stayed in many hostels overseas, and I have brought back wonderful memories.  The only rules are to be quieter during normal slumber hours, to clean up after yourself as there is no maid service, and to take something and leave something.  The latter, to most, is usually reserved to books.  There is always a wide array of titles and genres, from different tastes and cultures, many in foreign languages.  The multi-bedroom hostels are staffed by genuinely nice people, who are knowledgeable of the area and good-hearted.  They do it because they love it, it’s definitely not about the money, as hostels charge $15 to $20 per person, per night, less if you stay longer.   Many of them offer activities such as guided hikes or tours, personal pickups and drop-offs to and from airports, train and bus stations, and cookouts, dude-ranch style farm-alongs, or  simple and memorable games and activities in the living room.  I have enjoyed each and every fellow traveler I have ever met in a hostel, and they have each left a wonderful lasting impression… That is, until today.

This is my children’s second experience with a hostel.  I hold each one of them responsible and accountable for their own actions, and they each have age appropriate chores they must complete, even on vacations, although of course the responsibilities are less whilst on trips!  They number four, ages ranging from 11 to 6.  My 11 year old daughter and 9 year old son are in charge of the dishes.  Now, the hostel in which we are currently lodging is located in an inner city, urban area, and, apparently housing a few victims of the current economic meltdown.  There is a very nice, older gentleman I will call Tim from 1500 miles away, who recently underwent hip surgery which could only be performed here, and therefore needed a cheap place to stay while recovering and receiving his follow up care.  There are a couple single men who were victims of various layoffs, or are on leave from crab-boats.  ”Tim” has a self-proclaimed ’lady friend’ sharing his room, supposedly ‘taking care of him’, although my husband and I have given him several rides to the grocery store, as we couldn’t see him walking so soon after a hip replacement!  His ’lady friend’, I shall call her “Paprika”, is quite a character. Colorful-yes.  But the color is not at all bright.  Paprika appears to have been rode hard and put away wet; overly slumped posture; unkempt, greasy hair; clothes direly in need of a wash; and a suspicious, unprecedented attitude: whenever anyone walks into a room she occupies, she turns her back on them as if hiding something, and turns her head  to watch you out of the corner of her eye over one shoulder.  Even with a household noise ordinance in place, ‘Paprika’ will get something or another in her head about some wrongdoing personally placed upon her: last weeks accumulation of snow on her shoes, the fact that someone refused a beer she offered; or even her favorite show was a re-run this week because “they” knew that she was looking forward to a new episode; and stomp loudly throughout the house, throwing pots, pans, dishes, her shoes, her book.  Picking up the phone only to slam it into the receiver.  And she ALWAYS has this dingy, once black backpack either on her shoulder, or under her toes, it must hold many a treasure the way she guards it so.  I have yet to see anyone interact with her, she is very sketchy, forever scurrying this way and that with no destination.  I have said hello to her a couple times in passing, with no reciprocation other than a swift show of her back, and a quick scuttle away to some dark corner.  Thus I have avoided her, and my children are only here for dinner and to sleep-they are in a local school so as not to fall behind, therefore they never really come in contact.  This evening, after homework was checked and artwork admired, my daughter and I went into the kitchen to cook dinner.  I was at the stove stirring, and I caught Paprika out of the corner of my eye, scurrying toward the phone, changing her mind and doing an about face, scurrying away.  Then cloning the previous move; rush the phone, this time picking it up only to slam it immediately back down, then coming toward my back, slurring ”Excuse me!” in a rusty, showboaty voice.  I turned to find her making eye contact for the first time, if only for a fleeting moment.  She proceeded to accost me AND my daughter, blaming us for all her personal injustices of the world!  Some other residents’ dirtied pots, some rocks and twigs…  She tried in vain to puff herself up and seem intimidating, backing up immediately as apparently my 5′2″, 105 pound frame packs a heavy presence.  I proceeded to explain the facts calmly, neither my children nor I were in any way responsible for anyone other than ourselves, that we are not even here save for nights, and that her economic choices were hers alone, as she grew louder and more irate due to the fact that I inadvertently became yet another in her long line of personal, unfair injustices.  Sadly, I just could not see life her way, although I tried to be understanding, patiently standing by as she twitched nervously, pupils large as saucers, dime sized scrapes gouged from her face oozing, fresh flesh damming her fingernail undersides.  I politely informed this hopped up wench never to speak in front of my child again, and turned back to my cooking, signifying the conversations’ end.  Unfortunately, this Paprika could not grasp this in her chemically altered mind.  Either that or she had forgotten what I had just said.  Either is plausible.  I was stirring said dinner when she proceeded to verbally accost me yet again!  All this from a crackhead as nervous as a mouse!  Amazing!  Patience lost, furiously I whirled around, ordering her to close her cracked lips, that this was over, and to quickly leave.  Well, she did!  So that’s how you handle the career junkie!  What I didn’t realize, and my daughter later informed me, was that when I turned around, the metal spatula was still in my hand. 

Later I was to learn from the owner/manager of the establishment that said junkie was not allowed to speak to any of the residents of the hostel, by orders from her caseworker, and the owner himself.  It turns out that she had been kicked out of every mission and homeless shelter in the area, for none other than drugs and trouble making.  “Tim” had aquired her, and the owner had taken pity and let her into his home, as she had nowhere elst to go, and Tim is a very nice guy.  The owner now has to figure out what to do with her, he is a big hearted gem of a man, and this is not the first time she has tried to start a fight with a guest.  Well honey, the sanitarium is right down the street.  I’m confidant they offer free limo service.  Why does society allow people like this into society?  To visibly scar innocent children, who should never have such unfortune as to witness pathetic acts of the brain-boiled?  And the owner feels it is his responsibility?  Paprika’s “caseworker” needs to work her “case” a bit better.  This is rehab material if I ever saw it.  Fortunately, my daughter is a good sport.  She recounting the event to her father, and in a solemn, sincere voice, ended with “and that’s why I will NEVER do drugs.”