A stuffy hostel

It's 2:43 a.m. in Paris, my first night here. I can not sleep at all.

The hostel where I am staying in Montmartre is nice, clean, safe it seems, but quite stuffy. I share a room with three other people, a smallish Asian male, a nice Iranian guy and a girl from Toronto. I checked in around 9:30 this evening after getting off the train from the countryside and then went out to dinner with my uncle's friend Nicolas.

It was a perfect Parisien night, picturesque even. It was the City of Lights as it is envisioned in dreams. The outdoor cafe we went to was filled with beautiful young people laughing, cigarettes burning, the smoke drifting up into the moody light. Nicolas and I had a light dinner and drank a bottle of wine and talked about the weekend I spent with my uncle whom I've never really spent time with on my own. It was a refreshing visit. I learned more family secrets than my dad would probably like me to know.

Tonight would be my first night really on my own. After dinner I returned to the hostel expecting to find my bunkmates up and bonding and giddily talking about their own adventures. Instead I walked into a pitch black room with three people breathing heavyily in their bunks. I felt my way along the side of the bunkbed, stumbling into the corner and blindly seeking my toothbrush and T-shirt to sleep in.

After changing and getting ready for bed, I climbed into the top bunk as quietly as I could, the bed creaking and moving beneath my feet, only to drop my bottle of water loudly upon the floor. The girl from Toronto flipped on the lights and the two boys in the bottom bunk all groggily inquired what I was doing.

"I have work tomorrow you know," said the Canadian. "Don't break anything."

Yikes. It's freaking 11:30!

So now I sit up in the computer room unable to sleep and disappointed I will view Paris tomorrow through dejected eyes.