The girl at the front desk of the backpackers is cute and friendly and giving me the eye, but I’m suddenly in no mood for chit-chat. Part of me wants to talk about a million things, do a million things, but most of me just wants to crash for a few hours.
She gives me the key to the hostel and the bunk room and tells me a few rules that I don’t really pay attention to. Then she shows me the way.
The room wasn’t the cheapest—it has only two bunk beds instead of four or six, but I figured the first few nights I was in Auckland I’d need all the extra privacy and sleep I could get. To my relief the room is empty and clean enough and the only available bunk is on the top, which means no one will be disturbing me.
It seems like there are only men in the room, judging by the state of their backpacks and the mess around their beds. There are lockers and I use one to store all my valuables, like my passport and credit cards, then I change into a new pair of clothes and climb onto the top bunk, cradling my backpack in my arms like it’s a girl who refuses to spoon. I had heard horror stories about people’s shit being stolen from their bags, and even though my roommates don’t seem to care about their stuff, I figure it doesn’t hurt to be cautious on the first day.
In seconds, I am out.
I wake up to shaking. It takes me a few moments to figure out where I am, then why the bunk is swaying back and forth. I try to open my eyes and it feels like I need a crowbar to finish the job. Dim golden light is coming in through the window. I don’t know what time it is or what day it is. I barely remember I’m not in Canada.
“Aw, sorry man, did I wake you?” A strange accent jabs into my skull.
I slowly turn my head to see what jackass has dared to wake the sleeping giant.
A short dude with a mess of brown hair is standing by the bunk and staring up at me expectantly with a big smile on his face. Though I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and my body is begging for more sleep, I can’t really be mad at this guy. He’s got one of those faces.
“I was sleeping, so yes,” I tell him groggily. One of my arms is numb under my backpack.
His grin broadens. “American? Canadian?”
“Canadian,” I tell him.
“Right on, I’ve been to Toronto.” Before I can tell him I’m not from Toronto, he gestures to the other guys in the room. “We’re from Germany. I’m Tibald and this is Schnell and Michael.”
I lift my head and see two other guys sitting on the bottom bunk. They raise their hands in hello. They all seem to have this wholesome, enthusiastic vibe that I can’t seem to wrap my head around.
“What’s your name?” Tibald asks, stepping up onto the bunk below so he can get a better look at me. I move back slightly, not used to having my personal space invaded by strange men (which is probably a good thing not to be used to).
“Josh,” I say, clearing my throat. I eye the golden cityscape outside of the window. “What time is it?”
“Seven,” he says. “At night. You must be jet-lagged. You should have seen us for the first few days. There’s an eleven-hour difference between here and Koln, where we’re from. We were batshit crazy.”
His English is very good. I nod. “Jet lag, I guess. I didn’t sleep on the plane either.”
“Well, you got enough sleep now,” he says, smacking the railing. “If you keep sleeping, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night. Come out with us. Have you seen any of Auckland yet? Did you come straight here?”
There are too many questions for my brain to handle. “No, and yes.”
He breaks into a smile again. “Well, then, you have no choice but to come with us. We’re just about to get something to eat at a pub.”
I slowly sit up. “I should shower . . .”
“Shower? What for? Are you planning on meeting any women and bringing them back here? I hope not. The bunk seems barely able to support you alone.”
I stare at the boisterous little man blankly. “Suit yourself,” I finally say. “You’re the ones who will have to put up with my stink.” I hop off the bunk—does teeter dangerously under my weight—and quickly brush my teeth at the sink they have in the room. I finish off with a spritz of cologne, just in case.
Twenty minutes later, Tibald, Schnell, Michael, and I are all at some Irish pub around the corner. I’m still tired but the beer is perking me up. I snack on potato wedges dipped in sour cream and sweet chili sauce before moving onto meat pie.
The Germans are an affable bunch. Tibald is the loudest and most talkative, while Schnell is silent and stone-faced and looks eerily like Paul Bettany in The Da Vinci Code. Michael, with his baby face, is happy and eager to please. I learn that they’re all triathletes back at home and Michael was thinking of doing his degree in sports medicine at one of the city universities, so they all came down to check it out together. They’ve been here one week already and in a few days are joining some multi-week bike tour, heading toward the South Island.