NZ - what am I doing here?

Auckland was my first exposure to hostel living; in Mexico it had been cheap hotels and the US had been with friends other than the weird St Pauls Hotel in San Francisco (some of the regulars there would have eaten your average hostel dweller for breakfast and picked their teeth with the bones to boot). In Auckland I had randomly picked X-Base in Fort Street as my home - a big party-centric hostel or backpackers as they call them. (I didn't know that before I checked in.)

I had come from the travelllorrr free zones of Mexico and San Francisco and had landed in Auckland: Travelllorrr Central, the Piccadilly Circus of GAP yearers, a thronging crush of Brit, German, US and Canadian 20-somethings (and younger) with their cliques of geeks and sleeks. All of them running around like horny Jack Russells, rubbing up against each other and barking boozily. Those too cool for school (although only marginally too old) hanging around the pool table like it was back in the sixth form common room, the internet rooms full of the white noise of kids Skyping home. In short, I felt like a geography teacher on a field trip - I had the cords, all I was lacking was a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

Here's an example of a typical night:



Gather in the hostel kitchen and start getting excited. Green light.



Get to know some new friends, have some drinking games. Amber light.



And out we spill into the backpacker friendly bars and clubs. Red light.



Some of the more dangerous types who haven't forged a meaningful relationship over an Export Gold or vodka Red Bull carry on until dawn with Fijian rum. Lights OUT!

I was in Auckland for six days. That's three days too many in anyone's book. I had to get out of Auckland with cords and thorn proof tweed jacket intact.