You Can't Be A Liar in a Hostel Kitchen

Or: The spiritual clarity of making pasta next to a hilarious group of travelers with lost socks and found stories.

Somewhere outside Annecy, France, in a hostel with bunk beds that creaked if you even thought about rolling over, I realized I was in love with everyone. Not in a marry-me rom-com way. In a did-we-just-become-best-friends-we ’ve-just-been-trauma-bonded-by-a-free-walking-tour-and-too-much-cheap-wine way. The kind of love that arrives after three hours of shared sunburns and a group dinner that consisted only of pasta and emotional backstory. I’d known these people for less than a month and was already preparing my goodbye speech like I was hosting the Tonys.

I think there’s something sacred about hostel kitchens. They smell like garlic, Belgian beer (more often than not), and budget dreams. Everyone’s half-dressed, underhydrated, and overfed. You learn more about someone by how they cook in chaos than by any LinkedIn bio, “about me” page, or dating profile. Do they share their olive oil? Do they offer to strain your noodles? Do they sit beside you on the floor when there aren’t enough chairs?

That night I confessed to a Dutch girl I barely knew that I was working up the courage to say something I needed to, to someone not that far away. And she nodded like she’d been waiting for me to say it. Like that was exactly what the pasta was for. And then she said, “Well, maybe he was meant to miss you as you were to miss him. Maybe he was just a reference point.” And I was like, Ma’am.

I hadn’t cried in months. I felt like it then, a gushing, overwhelming feeling of “I’m alive, I’m alone, I’m surrounded, I’m warm and fucking living goddamit!” until we started to laugh over our spaghetti. All was glowing, pans sizzling, the slight clink of dainty European utensils.

There’s something about temporary spaces that allows you to be whichever character you want and simultaneously makes you reveal the truth about yourself in non-performance. Maybe it’s the shitty lighting, the clamor, the raucous sound, and plans that fall through (and even better ones that arise and weren’t plans at all). Hostels are more unique than almost any other gathering space, full of people longing for the same thing, in one place, not for long, and for no other reason than to see, experience, and unfold parts of themselves and the world.

It’s an open wink and a handshake. It’s imperfect and messy. We’re all temporary travelers. Everyone’s coming from something, unraveling or rebuilding, and headed toward adventure. Floating in that space felt like living inside a spell that was always on the move. Openness, absurdity, depth, and delight were everywhere. The fckn humanityyyy.

Maybe it’s the way no one’s trying to win (I still remember that group I danced all night with and ended up winning/losing/winning countless games of blackjack with on the floor of our bunk room in Greece until 6 am). And then I kissed a Scottish boy on a piano because he sang something like the Velvet Underground and said my being felt like magic and it was so cheesey and wonderful. Maybe it’s the low stakes of knowing you can be whomever you choose, and you’ll never see them again unless fate, or Instagram, decides otherwise.

I’ve spent so much of my life being careful with my feelings. Polished. Thoughtful. Medium mysterious. But travel turns you inside out. Suddenly, you’re drunk at 4 p.m., on top of a castle, talking about the mystical farm your dead grandmother lived on to a group of new friends from parts of the world you hadn’t imagined, and someone named Luke, who once worked at a crab shack, claims they believe in reincarnation but only for fire signs. You don’t even like crab. But you choose to believe in Luke because the table around him is shouting, “Salud!”.

What I’m saying is that I think something holy happens when we’re unguarded. When we’re dislocated. When we’re out of context, and underfed, and a little bit soft from carrying our bags too long.

I don’t know who I become when I travel, but I like her. She’s less filtered. Hungrier. Willing to talk about hope with strangers. Willing to stay up late for no reason. Willing to admit that she still wants to be held. And heard. And chosen. She’s firm and daring and thoughtful.

Sometimes, I wonder if I could live like that all the time: open, messy, and curious. And then I remember I have an overwhelmed Gmail account, insurance paperwork, and a kitchen that only smells like garlic if I choose to make it so.

But I try to keep a piece of that woman with me. I try to tell the truth more often. Even in my own time zone. Even during a panic attack in line at the grocery store. Believe in myself, even on days when nothing feels magical. When the piercing rejection, regret, and bewilderment of daily life grind down all you think is sacred and keeps you going.

Here’s what I know: you can’t be a liar in a hostel kitchen. The eye contact will see through you. Being a stranger in a strange land, the world laid bare - light will seep into all parts of yourself, healed and unhealed. When you’re barefoot on tile, stirring something that’s mostly edible. Someone will hand you a chipped bowl and ask how your home is, and you will answer. The answer slips out. Not the place, but the truth.

And maybe that’s the most romantic thing of all.

xoxo Sofia

p.s., of course, the beautiful dichotomy here is that you can be whomever you want when you travel. But travel will lay you bare and your humanity will be laid out to dry like all o the beautiful fucking linen on Madridian balcony’s drying racks in summer.

p.p.s. Of course, women can never be fully relaxed when traveling due to one half of homosapiens but we’ll forget about that pain for a moment.