Hostel revisited

Info at Genoa's train station says bus 35 then 40. After a wait in the hot Italian sun bus 40 takes us up switchback after switchback. Even being a small bus with only one seat per side other cars and buses still occasionally need to back up to allw us room to pass. At the top of the hill, the last stop, the hostel looms like some government utilatarian residential monolith (it indeed used to be a school) glowing stark white in the afternoon sun. Doors open at 3 and we are given a key by a somewhat sour but efficient tight haired woman and instructed to get sheets before our climb up to room 170. A "family" room with 2 bunkbeds and a single acquired at the Italian equivulant of Kmart is all ours.

These hostel travelers are different than I remember from 30 years ago. Backpacks have given way to rolling suitcases and the art of socialization has all but dissappeared. There is little eye contact much less introductions or the expected "where are you from?" and "where are you going next?". Most of the travelers have cell phones and many have laptops distancing them even further. Of course Sarah and I are in the old fart category of the group and we have chosen to get a private room so I suspect it might be unfair to totally generalize.