Spent eight days in four different places, rivalling those days of my early twenties when i hopped from city to city in ignorant backpacking bliss.
I have been known to be rather indifferent to my accomodations during my travels, (quite the opposite from my OCD-excessive tidiness at my cozy little home) HOWEVER. I feel like, as I am in my thirties now, a bit of research is in order when a hostel is necessary. With the time-honored internet, there is much information and forewarnings at my disposal, and I thought I had been quite responsible in choosing a place, a bit more expensive than your usual pennies-n-bread joint, but close to the MoCCA festival, near St. Marks Place, etc.
And then, Sunday morning, I arrived there to this pasted on the window (click on image for full size):
Being a skeptical but cautious sort, I went in and asked the man behind the counter if i was going to die if i stayed there overnight. He was quite kind and sincere, but poo-pooed the notion. Deciding I had better things to do than trek around the city on a Sunday morning looking for a better place, I left my bag there, went festivalling, and came back that night. I climbed the stairs, i admit, with some trepidation. Crazily, this is what I found:
These photos may not be the clearest indicators, but the place was SPOTLESS. Like, really. I didn't stay long enough to take a pic of the dorm (got there at midnight or something, left at six the next morning for Philadelphia) The rooms were small with plenty of beds like any hostel, but there were polished hardwood floors, and bathrooms that were better looking than mine will ever be, and locks on the door, etc etc. It seems the sign was regarding the cramped living arrangements (fair enough) but, come on, guests weren't lying on top of each other, and "perilous to life"? Yeah. God Bless America.