It's 3 AM. The guy in the bunk below me just strolled in, letting the door slam behind him. His friend, in the bottom bunk across from ours, is snoring. It's not a dull snore. More like a motorcycle exhaust pipe. I turn on my iPod to the middle of Adam Carolla's podcast. Carolla is bitching about dishwashers and while I'm agreeing with his genius, the Harley without a muffler seeps into my ears. Arrrrrr.

I'm in an eight person dorm room. In Amsterdam. Cheap options are limited (actually there are no cheap options with the euro-dollar exchange rate unless I want to sleep on a park bench). Besides stinky, audio invasive roommates, this hostel is alright. The free breakfast and clean sheets make up for other things-such as the bathroom, where my knees touch the door when I sit on the throne or LIMITED staff at the reception area. (Note: I find out later that both of these "negative" characteristics are notoriously Dutch.)
Most of my roomies have changed the three days I've been here except one Irish guy. The first day (around 5 PM) I was unpacking some of my stuff and he came in. "Hey," I said. "Hey," he replied and nose dived into bed. He put a sheet over his head. We haven't talked since then.

Morning comes and I feel ragged as the sleepless nights in this joint have caught up with me. I elbow through the line at reception and use the phone to call Jessica-my dad's best friend's daughter-who happens to be living in Amsterdam right now.

"Uhh, can I crash at your place tonight?"

"Yeah, yeah sure."

I feel relief.

And the stoners in the smoking room look on.