Cartagena. Just typing the name takes me back to a hammock and a view. Warm Caribbean air. Beer at morning tea, and ceviche for every meal. I really love Colombia.
But staying in hostel dorm rooms just isn't my thing any more. It's not that I am too good for hostels, but rather I am just too snooty. Even while backpacking - ever since a night in an illegal New York hostel when a complete stranger brought back company and proceeded to get amorous on the top bunk a couple of metres from my face.
It might be the city that never sleeps, but no one in our dormitory did that night, either.
Having spent years on the road and half a lifetime in mid-range Best-Westerns, the average hotel room doesn't excite me a whole lot, any more. Most hotels in my price range serve a utilitarian purpose: they're good for a shower and a continental breakfast, but nothing that will change your life.
But my experiences on Airbnb have often been something else. Something special. After the incident with Romeo and Juliet, I ditched the dodgy New York hostel for a room in the apartment of Iranian twin brothers in a separate part of Manhattan.
