I check into in Vienna, drop my bag and head to the on-site bar, where a circle of travellers guzzles discounted beer. “Let’s say our ages!” one person suggests. “21,” “24,” “22,” they chime.
An Australian hesitates and looks down. “I’m ..
. 30,” he admits. The group gives him a reassuring pat.
My stomach tightens when my turn arrives. “I’m ..
. 28,” I lie. No one bats an eye.
I wonder if the dim bar lighting helps hide my Botox and the fact that I’m almost a decade older than I say. We clink beer steins and belt, “ ” kicking off a long night out. Hostels may seem like something you’re supposed to leave behind in your 20s, but as a frequent solo traveller nearing my 40s, I still love staying in them.
This year alone, I’ve roomed at around 15 hostels. My preference isn’t just about saving money; it’s about remaining engaged with the world and resisting the idea that age should dictate how I experience life. I refuse to give up the youthful spirit of travel.
An avid solo traveller, Megan Snedden has stayed at around 15 hostels this year alone. A friend and I decided that travellers get two ages: their age and their age. Cross the threshold of a lobby overrun by backpacks and the smell of sweaty socks, and suddenly time suspends.
Does this make me dishonest? Maybe. But when I travel, I free myself from many things. I become unburdened by the ticking clock.
Like many women, I find myself caught between the traditional roles I was taught a.
