Somewhere Only We Know

Throughout my six-month post-college-graduation Europe backpacking trip, there were whispers about the best hostel ever. “It was so cozy,” a starry-eyed backpacker exclaimed. “It felt like coming home,” another backpacker sighed. “It’s got a dog,” another promised. However, no one could pronounce the name of the town it was in, and few people even remembered the name of the hostel.

I laid in a dormitory bedroom in Zakopane, Poland, awake before everyone else. The town was decidedly a Polish ski resort town, and as someone who speaks no Polish and does not ski, I felt it was time to move on. Thinking of this magical hostel I’d heard so much about, I quietly packed up my things, loaded on my front pack and my backpack, and headed out to the bus stop.

The bus arrived at the border in just half an hour. From there, a few elderly folks and I shuffled across a snowy bridge, entering Slovakia. We waited under a bus shelter for the Slovakian bus to arrive so we could continue our journeys. Small snowflakes twinkled as they floated to the ground, adding to the already ankle-high snow.

I boarded the bus last. Everyone else seemed to already know the bus driver but me. I told him “Ginger Monkey Hostel” with all of the confidence that saying such a silly name can afford. He nodded and spoke back to me in Slovak. Seeing my wide eyes, he determined I hadn’t understood.

“Deutsch?” he asked. I regretfully shook my head.

With no means of communication, I took out some Euro coins and held them out to him. He picked through them all, taking the ones he would need to allow me passage on his bus. Once he was satisfied, I took my seat.

Another quarter of an hour passed, and the bus driver indicated that we had arrived at my stop. I waddled my way with my two packs off the bus and into the quiet town of Ždiar. A couple of turns away, I’d found the hostel. The Ginger Monkey Hostel was little more than another house on the main road in town. Well, the only road in town.

I opened the door to a rush of warm air and a greeting from the staff. They advised me to take off my snowy boots and settle into my dorm room. Payment, they said, wasn’t required until the end of the stay, as so many people ended up extending their stays that it didn’t make sense to take payment upon arrival.

Shortly after unloading my bags in my four-bed dorm room, fellow guests had returned from a walk. That’s when I met the fluff ball named Wally, the hostel dog. After making acquaintance with two-legged and four-legged friends alike, we vowed to get goulash from the Goulash Man for dinner.

On the side of one of the houses in the village stood a small shed housing the only restaurant in town. We knocked on the door of the shed, and a gruff-looking man, affectionately known as the Goulash Man, opened the door. Inside there were two wooden tables and a few chairs. At the far end stood the pot of goulash. While the Goulash Man spoke no English, the process was simple enough. We gave him money, he served us goulash, and we ate it. With the cold and snow outdoors, nothing was better than a steaming bowl of hot goulash. Besides, it was pretty much the only food option in town, unless the hostel had pizza night.

For days, I would come out of my room in the morning and decide if I’d take Wally for a walk with some other guests or if I’d stay in for the day. After all, those were essentially the only two things to do. I’d also be sure to stop by reception and kindly request to extend for yet another day.

Guests would come and go. Some stayed for months at a time. Others stayed only a couple of days. Everyone was welcomed with warm smiles, and everyone was seen off to the bus stop with mournful waves good-bye.

My flight home from Poland slowly crept nearer and nearer. Eventually, it was my time to leave. I shared contact info with my fellow guests, many of whom I’m still in contact with to this day.

While scrolling on Instagram a few years ago, I found that Wally had passed on. Shortly thereafter, Ginger Monkey Hostel announced it would be permanently closed. A strange sense of grief overcame me, thinking of how wonderful of a space it was and what a beautiful reprieve it had been from the hustle and bustle of normal European backpacker destinations. This space will forever live in my heart and my memories as one of the best trips (within a trip) I’ve ever taken.