From Paradise to Freezing Hell

So I’m back in Los Angeles, fresh off a two-month gig painting rooms at a youth hostel in Hawaii. Tropical weather, ocean breeze, the whole postcard thing. Paul, who manages a few hostels in LA, hits me with news: Brian – the guy who owns the whole hostel chain and who sent me to Hawaii in the first place – wants me in New York. He’s just leased a 13-floor building and needs help with renovations.

New York. In October. Heading into winter. Yeah, that sounds fucking great. On one hand, the idea of freezing my ass off in some half-demolished building doesn’t exactly make my heart sing. On the other hand, it’s New York. Huge, chaotic, cosmopolitan New York. Plus Brian’s offering to pay for the flight, and I need work anyway since there’s nothing left for me to do in LA.

I accept.

Once the decision’s made, I actually start getting excited about it. I’ve been to New York before – a few years back, overnight layover on a flight from Puerto Rico to Madrid. Plane problems. Didn’t see much, just wandered around near the hotel for a bit. This time I’ll actually get to know the place.

Landing in The Big Apple

October 1st. Continental flight to New York. Five hours in the air, three-hour time difference, wheels down at Newark. I grab my bag, take the bus into town to Port Authority – that massive, grimy bus terminal that smells like diesel and desperation. From there I walk south to the hostel. The building is very much under construction. A makeshift reception-desk, few rooms on the upper floors are done, but most of the place is still a disaster zone.

They check me into a dorm on the seventh floor. The room is cold. Brutally cold. No furniture except three mattresses on the floor and a bedside table shoved in the corner. That’s it. I stand there thinking: What the hell have I gotten myself into? Two months ago I was painting in tropical Hawaii, and now I’m freezing in this barely heated, spartan cell in New York? Well. Nothing I can do about it now. Make the best of it, I guess.

Later that evening I head down to the lobby and meet Brian. He takes me out to dinner, explains what needs doing in the building, what my job will be.

I start tomorrow.

International Construction Crew

Next morning Brian shows me around, introduces me to the crew. All backpackers, passing through from different corners of the world, stopping here long enough to earn a few bucks for wherever they’re headed next. Most are in their twenties, except Adam, the Australian foreman, who’s mid-thirties and actually seems to know what he’s doing.

Almost everyone lives in the hostel – two or four-bed dorms scattered throughout the building. The team welcomes me warmly. Brian immediately puts me in charge of painting since that’s my actual profession. I look around and quickly realize most of these people have absolutely no idea what they’re doing. No construction experience, no craftsmanship training, nothing. Except Mike, an Englishman who’s a trained electrician and clearly knows his shit.

First day I don’t do much. Just organize supplies, buy materials and tools, get a feel for the chaos.

The Sabotage Job

My first real task is beautifully petty. Brian wants me to spray-paint his previous hostel – an entire floor in a 10-story building – dark gray. He wants it almost uninhabitable. Why? So the new tenant can’t reopen it as a hostel right away and become competition. I kind of love it. That evening I grab drinks with Christian, my roommate, at a bar near Madison Square Park. A few beers, some conversation, checking out women, the usual. Good time.

A 13-Floor Monster

First and second floors are reserved for us – the workers and staff. There’s a big kitchen and lounge on the first floor. The next five floors are for hostel operation – bunk bed rooms – but only a few are actually renovated and ready for guests. The upper floors are meant to be regular hotel rooms. Again, only a handful are finished.

The building was a welfare house before Brian took it over. It’s in miserable shape – walls crumbling, plumbing questionable, everything dingy and depressing. Our job: get this disaster presentable. Monday I start working. There’s a lot to do. Thirteen floors, about 160 rooms. A few days in, they relocate me to a staff room on the second floor. Rooming with an English guy. Marginal upgrade from the frozen cell on seven.

Settling In

By now I’ve gotten to know everyone. They’re all pretty okay, honestly. Very international mix – English, Australian, New Zealand, Israeli, Nigerian, South African, you name it. Everyone gets along. Good atmosphere. No drama. Weekends we go out in groups, dive into the nightlife. East Village, West Village, Greenwich Village, sometimes other neighborhoods. The city never sleeps, and apparently neither do we.

My life falls into a routine that’s almost normal. Work 9 to 5. Hang out in the evening, watch TV, hit a nearby bar once in a while. Go out on weekends. Repeat. It’s weirdly domestic for someone living in a construction zone.

The City That Never Sleeps

The city itself? Fantastic. Shops that leave no wish unfulfilled – everything from tiny comic book stores to massive department stores. Cinemas on every corner. Restaurants with food from every region on earth. It’s overwhelming in the best way. But the nightlife is what really gets me. I think you could visit a different bar or club every night for the rest of your life and still not see everything. I’ve become a huge fan of this city, even though I barely know it yet. I’ve been around a bit. Took a boat tour around Manhattan. Walked up and down Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Explored Greenwich Village, Central Park, poked around Little Italy, Chinatown, Soho. Greenwich and Soho are my favorites – tons of bars, restaurants, live music, good pubs and clubs, galleries, all kinds of shops, weekend markets, really interesting scene. Curious people everywhere. We discovered this bar with incredible live blues music. And in the Meatpacking District, a country music joint with insane atmosphere – bar girls dancing on the counter, pouring liquor directly into people’s mouths while everyone screams. Absolutely wild.

Money Problem

Unfortunately, the city’s expensive as hell, especially if you’re going out regularly. So I keep my adventures limited. Luckily, I’ve got a flirt going with a Finnish woman who works at the hostel. Gives me a good excuse to stay home. Still. Despite everything – despite the good times, the crew, the city – I want out. I’m sick of this freezing weather. By mid-January I’ll have saved enough to leave for a few months, head back to South America. I’m so ready to turn my back on frozen New York.

Departure from NY: -5°C Arrival in Caracas, Venezuela: 31°C That`s more like it

South America Interlude (And Immigration Desaster)

I spend four months traveling through Venezuela, Brazil, and Colombia. End of May, I return to New York.

My last entry into the US was a nightmare. Immigration at Miami airport takes one look at all the stamps in my passport and decides I’m suspicious. The officer wants to know how much money I have, how long I’m planning to stay. I’ve got $400 cash. No credit card. I’m flying from New York to Europe in two weeks. “What? You want to stay in the US two weeks with only $400 and even travel to New York?” He looks at me like I’m either insane or a criminal. Probably both. He immediately calls another officer. They summon me to a separate room. I spend the next few hours answering questions, getting my luggage searched, getting myself searched, the whole degrading production.

Finally, they let me through.

Lucky me. They could’ve easily sent me back on the next flight.

The Passport Dilemma

This time , foolishly, before flying back to New York I lost my Passport. So I report it to the police in Caracas and get a police report confirming the loss. With this in my pocket I head to the embassy and apply for a new one. Everything goes smooth and relatively quick. New Passport, one year valid. Now I enter JFK with a brand new passport. No stamps. No suspicious travel history. I flash the customs officer my most sympathetic “me-no-speak-English” smile. He waves me through without a second glance.

Back to The Grind

Back at the hostel – home, basically – my old work colleagues greet me like a returning hero. Everyone immediately wants to hear about South America. A few people have left. New faces have appeared. Otherwise everything’s the same. I quickly settle back in, get set up painting again.

This time they put me in a two-bunk room with an Englishman and a Kiwi. But then I get involved with a woman who also works here, so I ask Brian for a single room. Privacy reasons. He grants it, no problem. Life resumes the same rhythm as before. Work, hang out, repeat. But this time I need to stay longer than three months. I’m completely burnt out of money.

The Long Haul

My plan for the next trip: travel around Asia. But to travel for five months or longer, I need serious cash. Which means staying in New York long enough to actually save up. Eight months. That’s what it takes. I love New York. I have a good time in the city, good time at the hostel. The crew’s great, the work’s fine, the nightlife’s incredible. But eight months is way too long. For me, anyway. By the end I’m itching to leave, practically counting down the days.

Time to go.

Departure to Thailand: January 1994.