Hostel Takeover

Mike Newall goes where Old City tourists crash on the cheap: Bank Street.

by Mike Newall

The Bank Street Hostel is where the crackerjack tourists, the vagabond drifters, the impoverished students lay their heads when visiting Philly. It is an old redbrick building with green awnings located on a narrow back alley between Second and Third streets in Old City. It's hard to find but many cash-strapped travelers seek it out. City Paper was curious to see how these tourists make out in Philly: Where do they sleep? Who do they meet?

I have stayed in a lot of hostels in my day and still have valid out-of-state identification — a prerequisite for check-in at Bank Street — so the task fell to me. I checked in two Fridays ago. As I opened the door, a bunch of kids in kilts piled out and stumbled off, arm in arm, down the alleyway.

At the front counter, a gangly young manager pushed his glasses off his nose and explained the deal: "It's $23 a night. Two dollars extra for sheets; one dollar more for a towel. Snacks are for sale and a movie will be shown in the commons area at 9 p.m., sharp."

The hostel doors are closed for good at 2:30 a.m. There are no exceptions, explained the manager. You don't make it back by then, you're on your own.

I wondered how many of the kilt guys would spend the night in the Bank Street gutter.

A commons area occupies the first floor. It was comfortable and very clean — a lot more so than many of the European hostels I've crashed in. There was a free pool table, a soda machine, couches, tables, coffee table books, and a large screen TV. Some dude was doing push-ups. Next to him, a pretty brunette was repeating English phrases from a tour book.

"One slice of pizza please," she said in an Eastern European accent.

In the kitchen, a stoop-shouldered old man boiled rice. He was Asian and neatly dressed in white cotton slacks, a white T-shirt and green flip-flops.

I fixed some tea and offered him a cup.

He had a wide, slightly unhinged, white-toothed smile: the grin of a man who finds the world hilarious but keeps the punch lines to himself. He blurted out something indecipherable and broke into laughter that shook his whole body. He patted his belly, which calmed him.

"Where from?" he asked.

"New York, originally," I said.

"Nu Yok like cockroacheees," he said, scurrying two fingers across the palm of his hand. More laughter. And a jig, "Cockroacheees. Cockroacheees."

"What brings ya here?" I asked, blowing on my tea.

He turned serious and talked with anger and heartbreak. He gesticulated wildly and seemed near tears. I couldn't understand a word. After a while, he returned to English.

"I live here now," he said. "Best friend owner. I stay six months year here, six months year my country."

"Where's your country?" I said.

He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes like he was sizing me up. Then he smiled and patted my arm.

"Wet Chesta," he said. "Wet Chesta, Nu Yok."

The old man went and ate his rice in silence. I scouted out the accommodations. Communal bathrooms and showers. Seventy beds total: Women sleep on the second floor, men on the third. Each room contains about six bunk beds. Clothes and towels draped empty bunks. Shoes stuck out from under beds. There were white stars painted on the tan walls. The place was cramped and smelled faintly of body odor but it was clean. A lot cleaner than many roadside motels I've stayed in. No signs of bugs. No mice. And all for 25 bucks.

I was assigned to cot 47, a top bunk. An old-timer was asleep on the bottom bunk. He was in undershorts and a T-shirt. His hands were folded on his stomach and he was smiling. He was the only other person in the room and looked like Mr. Magoo. It was still early evening. I tapped his foot and woke him.

"Well, hello," he said, coming to life. "I must have dozed off for a spell."

His name was Rex and he was originally from out west. Seen a lot of this country in his time, he said, and was back out on the road.

"That's just what us old fellers must do," he said. "Recently spent a week in Amsterdam and New York too. Stayed in hostels. Always do."

It was his sixth day in town. He had taken some walking trips around North and West Philadelphia. "They were sad places," he said. He would see a bit of South Philly tomorrow and then move on to the next town. He wouldn't tell me where that was. Maybe he didn't yet know. Rex was tired and wanted to sleep more. I unpacked my things and put on a clean shirt.

When I got back down to the Commons Area, Hitch was about to start. I sat down. There were about 12 of us there. Two girls cried during the finale. Afterwards I headed out with three girls from the Croatia.

We made the Second Street rounds: lagers at Skinner's Pub, martinis at the Continental and mojitos at Cuba Libre. The girls hit the dance floor at the Plough and the Stars and that was the last I saw of them. I walked the sidewalks for a while. It was late and the bars were spilling out. The sidewalk traffic was four deep. At the corner of Market Street and Strawberry Lane, street musician Chris Hall played "The Wind Cries Mary" by Jimi Hendrix.

Two frat boys began to slug each other in the Second Street parking lot. A crowd gathered and shouted encouragement. The Scottish guys in kilts were there, cheering like mad. I headed back to the hostel.

The kitchen and common area were empty. A middle-aged guy in khaki shorts was washing his feet in the sink of the men's room. Rex was sound asleep in his cot. Most of the cots were full. Some guy was rattling the windows with his snoring but the room was cool and the bed was comfortable.

I slept soundly. And all for 25 bucks.