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I stare at the glass in his hand. ‘Is that what I ask for if I want a beer in a pub? A pot?’
The corners of his mouth lift. ‘285ml is a pot.’ He holds up a larger glass. ‘425ml is a schooner.’ Then he gestures to a stack of glasses nearby. ‘570ml is a pint.’
I’m guessing by his amused expression that this is common knowledge. ‘Any chance I can get a large coffee instead?’
The bartender nods once and walks to the other end of the bar where a coffee pot sits. I pull a soggy ten-dollar note from my pocket and place it on the counter. He takes it when he returns with the coffee. ‘Cutlery’s over there.’ He gestures to a table in the corner.
Fifteen minutes later, a plate lands in front of me. The fatty T-bone steak is a decent size, and the salad fills the rest of the plate. As I eat, I’m hit with a wave of homesickness that steals my appetite. I’m sitting in a bar in the middle of the day—on a meeting day—and there’s not a fruit cake in sight. I barely recognise myself.
I force the rest of my food down because I have no idea when I’ll be eating next. He keeps asking me if I want anything else, and I feel bad telling him no. Ten dollars is my limit.
When I stand to leave, he says, ‘If for some reason they don’t have a bed, come back here. There are a few other places I can direct you to.’
I thank him before heading off, relieved to find that it’s stopped raining outside. It makes the walk slightly more comfortable.
The hostel has clear signage, so I have no issue locating it. Inside, people lounge on couches and armchairs around the foyer. Some have luggage by their feet. I walk over to what looks to be the counter and wait a long time for someone to come before noticing the bell in front of me.
Once I ring it, a lady with purple hair appears, her smile warm. ‘Hey there.’
I ask her what the cheapest accommodation is, and she informs me that a bed in an eight-share room is sixteen dollars per night.
I pull out a twenty. ‘One night, please.’
She gives me change, then disappears out back for a moment, returning with a pile of linen and a key. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you around.’
We head up some squeaky stairs, and she points out the communal laundry and kitchen. When we reach the top floor, she shows me the bathroom next to the room I’ll be staying in. The room itself is large and contains four bunk beds. There’s a young woman reading on one of them. She looks up and smiles briefly before returning to her book.
My host hands me the pile of linen. ‘First time?’
‘That obvious?’
She smiles again. ‘Think of it as school camp for grown-ups.’
I’ve never been on a school camp, so that’s no help at all.
She gestures to the poster on the wall. ‘House rules are right there. Come find me if you have any questions. You can take any bed that isn’t made up.’
I head to the bed farthest from the door, stomach swirling, and sink down onto the leather mattress. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, so exhausted, and so completely alone.
One step at a time. Just do the next thing, then the next thing, then the next thing.
Rising, I make my bed. The linen’s clean. The room’s clean. The people are fine. No one’s going to rob me. It’ll be okay. I’ll take a shower, sleep, and then tomorrow I’ll start looking for Bridget.
It’s a sensible plan—the only one I have. Or I return to the bus depot and buy a ticket home.
This is better.
This will eventually be better.
