It is not a hostel. It's my house. My home for a while. Feels like it. Pictures, posters, music, windows, kitchen, people, key, living room roof, stuff! Not a hostel ANYMORE. Used to be. People still come and knock the door of the "Planet Travelers". Couchsurfers find a shelter. Common backpackers don't! Don't anymore...!
House/ home full of musicians and people who love music. But this is not enough. Other musicians who used to live in this house with such an amazing character, still come and hang out with the common tenants! The house fills up with violins, harmonicas, trombones, accordions tambourines, guitars and nice people. And always has people playing sax, guitar, accordion, celo, etc etc...
Post stay: Second semester in the most perfect house and neighborhood I could get. Kensington Market. Augusta Avenue. Ex-hostel. Music, food, people. And a roof.
Living room. Ouzo, tsoureki, cigarettes, friends, music. Brock-sitar and Tangi accordion jamming...
My housemate Brock tocando su saxofono.
Sitar (Brock) behind glass doors.
Tangi with accordion. Mike smoking. Living room moments. Drinks and cigarettes. Still winter. Warmth in the cold.
Almost spring. Cold. Sunny. Breakfast in the backyard. Raccoons, graffiti, milk with cereals, some bread with nutella. Eyes closed absorbing sun. Music.
Ouzo, haloumi, marshmallows, roof, friends, easter, clouds, breeze, view. I miss the roof and all that comes with.
It is midnight in the market.
(The Market Song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUSgPlLrcxM&feature=related)
Roof and beers with friends.
Enjoying the view and the silence that a roof can offer.