Member-only story
A Hostel Life
A den of hustle
My dad died a short time ago, leaving me free and aimless. I grabbed what money I could and made my way to Miami to find myself a new direction in life. It is the warmest place I could think to go to incase I ended up on the streets again. As I researched where to stay, I came to realize there are several hostels out here, so I picked the cheapest one and booked it for a couple of weeks.
Welcome to Little Havana, Miami. If you can not speak Spanish here, it will seem like you are a tourist in a foreign country. I am surrounded by Latin bars and restaurants, loud music and a sea of homeless people. It is not the nicest part of Miami, by far.
I checked in with only my computer, phone and a couple sets of clothing. I was shown to my bed, the middle bunk in a room of twelve. They handed me a makeshift pillow, an old blanket and a lock for my locker. I put my bag away and tried out the bed. It was better than the ground, I think.
A few hours later, I awoke to the sound of laughter outside the room. I put my shoes on and made my way into the common area. It was a diverse crowd. A couple of Italians were chatting about politics, a Nigerian was on his computer, a Russian girl was cooking something while a couple of Latin men were laughing about the sports highlights that were playing. It was an energetic but off vibe.
