I Didn’t Realize Hostel Meant Renting Rooms out of Someone’s House

Last month I went to Granada with eight other people. We got into Granada at about 11pm and we had all booked different hostels. The four guys booked one together, three of the girls booked another, then this girl Maggie and I booked our own. We got out of our taxi and followed the street names. As we walked down the small streets we finally got to the place that the directions had told us to go. But there was no sign, no indication that it was a hostel. In fact, it was a house. We were confused, cold and terrified. This couldn’t possibly be the hostel. So when we saw a guy our age walking towards us we asked him to take us to the address on the paper. Unfortunately, he told us we were at the right place. Great, I thought. My first time being in a hostel and I’m going to be kidnapped. So we rang the doorbell and this skinny hippie-looking guy with baggy clothes opened the door. We walked in and asked him in Spanish if this was The Flophouse, and when he said yes I told him that we had reservations. The guy started to speak in clear English and it turns out he was from California. My relief of speaking with an American soon became anguish when he told us that he was going to take us to the other place because the one where we were was full. The place, he said, was only around the corner. As we walked and walked and walked my hands began to sweat and the more I spoke. My thought process was to just keep him talking. As long as he kept talking he didn’t have time to plan our kidnap because he was preoccupied answering my questions. Once we got to the other house, I was quickly looking for an escape route. What did I get myself into?! We walked up the steps and were led into this room with two bunk beds. One of them already had people sleeping in them. A Slovakian couple, probably in their 20s. We made small talk with them then went back downstairs, paid James, the hippie, for a two-night stay even though we were CLEARLY not staying there both nights. But apparently it was stated in the contract that there was a two-night minimum. Probably because people want to run the second they see what they got themselves into. Maggie and I got the key and bolted to meet up with the rest of the group. That night we drank our anxiety away, slept in the same bunk bed, woke up early and found a new place to stay where we slept soundly the next night in our own beds. From now on I’m consulting travel guides to tell me where to stay.