The accomodation of my choise is as always in my life of the rock bottom type in Valencia, an old woman in rags that have probably seen no washing machine for some time, sitting in the lobby and having her eyes glued on an old yellowish paged comic book...
I will probably have to anaesthysize myself with at least half a gram of bad quality cocaine if I want the odour of s
tale urine and cheap perfume out of my nostrils that radiates off her...
Still... this dumphouse is dirt cheap and satisfies my fascination with the abombination I guess, apart from the fact I can stall my Kross bicycle in their luggage room free of charge...
Dragging my smelly packs up several flights of stairs, somehow I have never cared much for elevators in my life, I soon find the dormitory assigned to me, marijuan smoke oozing from the crack underneath the door I prepare myself to make acqauintance with my fellow room mates, floozy guitar music spilling into the corridor upon opening the door, a raspy female voice chanting a Bob Marley song ¨No Woman, No Cry¨, the cocaine I needed so bad to clear my nose earlier on the lobby of this seedy hostal is spiking the air like the ozone in a bad refridgerator...
Hippily dressed youngsters lying on bunk beds, smoking pot and humming along with the Rasta haired redhead Bob Marley singer, somehow remind me of my years in India when I was much younger and constatly doped up in my head, pretty much as these alternative members of the back pack scene are now....
Still... this dumphouse is dirt cheap and satisfies my fascination with the abombination I guess, apart from the fact I can stall my Kross bicycle in their luggage room free of charge...
Dragging my smelly packs up several flights of stairs, somehow I have never cared much for elevators in my life, I soon find the dormitory assigned to me, marijuan smoke oozing from the crack underneath the door I prepare myself to make acqauintance with my fellow room mates, floozy guitar music spilling into the corridor upon opening the door, a raspy female voice chanting a Bob Marley song ¨No Woman, No Cry¨, the cocaine I needed so bad to clear my nose earlier on the lobby of this seedy hostal is spiking the air like the ozone in a bad refridgerator...
Hippily dressed youngsters lying on bunk beds, smoking pot and humming along with the Rasta haired redhead Bob Marley singer, somehow remind me of my years in India when I was much younger and constatly doped up in my head, pretty much as these alternative members of the back pack scene are now....
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