It’s about 11pm now as I sit here, overlooking the city of Nantes on a Sunday night. The red and white lights of its curving boulevard blink up at me like an empty, forgotten roller-coaster. It is the day before New Year’s Eve, and there is not a person in sight.
I am staying in perhaps the worst-value hostel I have ever had the misfortune to land in - though this is not surprising, since I ony arrived in the city at 10pm, with not a clue about where I was going to stay. I set off walking around the deserted streets, annoyed and confused to find that many of the hotels were “closed for the holidays”. The strongest contender I found in the area of the railway station was a pet-shop that remained open, and had a sign on the door advertising rooms available at 38 euros a night. I was tempted, given that I have never stayed in a petshop before; but I thought the price a bit steep for such a stinky little shop.
Further wanderings took me up the hill of Port-Neuve, where I had been told there is a youth hostel. I found a fluoro-lit doorway to a large building, with some people clustered around, so I cautiously entered here, though the sign above the door said “Residence Port-Neuve”. The reception desk inside reminded me of a hospital - and indeed the interior decor was in the full “institutional” style of hospitals, prisons and asylums everywhere. Frankly lingering in the reception area were a number of men who all seemed to have reduced mental faculties.
Undettered, I asked if this was the youth hostel.
“Youth hostel? What youth hostel?” asked the receptionist.
“The Hostel… of Port-Neuve?” I cautiously replied.
“Ah yes. This is it.”
This was strangely unconvincing.
“Are there any beds?”
The receptionist consulted a large piece of paper, and, after some pauses and calculations, making those special-favour-just-for-you gestures that are so often made for enquiries about accomodation, the receptionist said that yes I could have a bed for the night. I would have to pay 24.80, and be out by 10 in the morning.
It was 10:30pm, I was tired, the city seemed empty and uninviting. I said yes quite quickly.
I was given a key to room 503B, on the fifth floor, and as I made my way to the elevators, my suspicion deepened that I was staying in some kind of residence of the maladjusted.
The elevator had a pool of wee-wee in it. Not just the stain and smell of some historical urination, but a fresh pool of fluvia. Nice. I tried the other elevator, and found that it was so full of marijuana smoke that I think I could have got stoned from it if I took a couple of extra rides.
Thankfully, I have room 503B to myself, and while the decor is still on the underfunded public hospital theme, there is the pleasant surprise of a large window overlooking the city.
A piece of paper is taped to the inside of the door. It tells me what hours I am permitted to have visitors, and that breakfast is between 5:30 and 8am. I have locked myself in here, because there are some slightly scary people out in the corridor.
I guess that locking yourself in your room, and talking quietly to yourself about your experiences as you stare out over the city, is just the first step…
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