At the sign of the Flying Pig

I hope that even without my earlier mention of Bree my fellow Tolkien devotees would politely chuckle at this post's title. In any event, there I was, at the hostel/bar/opium den that attracts primarily Anglo-speaking young party-lovers and does its job so well that most of its guests seldom venture out into the streets of the city. I wasn't sure whether I'd love it or hate it, but for the two days I was there it was quite nice and reminded me of the relaxed and fun atmosphere of college.

The hostel features a couple of cozy sitting areas, which are crowded with residents smoking weed, talking, or staring blankly at the ceiling. A lively beat pumps through the many common areas at most hours of the day and night, and sometimes an amateur dj will spin their own musical selections. There is also a bar, pool table, a small library, a kitchen, a TV/breakfast room, and free internet access. I found myself lured in by the self-sufficient and pleasant surroundings, passing more than a couple of hours socializing with fellow travelers or simply blogging away on top of a stack of pillows in the corner.

I shared a room with about 15 other backpackers, all of whom were so quiet and respectful in the sleeping room that I had no need for my earplugs. Luckily I got a bottom bunk, which had convenient access to the large lockers each one of us was assigned. Bree had a top bunk in the same room and complained that the contraption was less steady than she would have liked.