My (D)Wellington Home

Before I came to New Zealand, I never dreamed that I would end up
living long-term in a hostel. The thought never even crossed my mind, it wasn’t even on my radar. Then I arrived in Wellington. I was broke, jobless and homeless. High on my list of urgent priorities (just below getting a job, in fact), was finding somewhere to live. Somewhere I could call home for the foreseeable future. Somewhere to spend Christmas, which was fast
approaching.

I scheduled some flat viewings in between pounding the pavements with
my CV and sending off job applications. And this is how my friend B and I came to stand outside a dilapidated looking house on Allenby Terrace, one fairly miserable afternoon in early December, both a little out of puff (me more than her) having just climbed an innumerable amount of steps to get there.

Undeterred by the peeling paintwork and the steps, I lifted the latch
on the gate and stepped into the ‘garden’. Then began the search for the door on which we should knock to gain entry and therefore an audience with my potential new flatmates. After five minutes, I located the door (hidden around a corner and so crummy looking we had originally passed it over as the entrance to a cellar) and knocked.

“I’m not sure about this,” I murmured to B, as we waited for someone
to answer.

“I am,” she replied, grimly, “There’s no way you can live here.”

Turns out, B was right. To cut a long story short, the person I was
supposed to meet was passed out in her room and unresponsive to numerous phone calls by her flatmate and to a bang on her door. Whilst her flatmate was trying to rouse her, B and I took the opportunity to take a cursory look around. Apart from the rotten damp smell (the sort that permeates clothing, a smell I can’t stand!) it looked like a bomb had hit the place. The ‘bedroom’ I would occupy, if you could call it that, was filthy and the ‘bed’ they had talked about in their advert was a stained single mattress on the tiled floor. I grimaced and withdrew my head. Thanks, but no thanks.

We took our leave. I was disconsolate. This was the third viewing I’d
had and I’d hated all of them for one reason or another. Was I being too fussy? Was it actually impossible to find a nice place to live in Wellington? Were all the houses messy / filthy / damp smelling / grim?

“Come back to my hostel,” B suggested, as we walked away. I was staying in a pretty nasty hostel for a few nights and gladly accepted her offer. Her hostel was warm, cosy and homely, with a largely clean kitchen and a long redwood table in the dining room, where we could sit to drink cups of the free tea or coffee that was provided.

We were joined by a few others, some hostel long-termers. I’d never heard of such a thing before. One of them, C, had already spent some time chatting with B and introduced herself to me as we sat down. We told her about the horrendous house viewing. The words that came out of her mouth next were pivotal in my life here in Wellington and directly led me to living in the hostel as a long-termer.

“Why don’t you go and speak with E? See when another long-term room
will become available again? I pay $175 a week and that’s all expenses included.”

I finished my tea with B. As I walked out into reception, I decided to do as C had suggested and went to the window to speak with E.

“There’s a room free next week, actually,” E informed me, checking her computer, “5^th December.”

I took it. It was a no-brainer. Sure, I’d have to share a room. But even that was better than sharing a disgusting filthy house with people I could tell at first glance I probably wouldn’t like. At least in the hostel I would be able to keep up with travellers, have the opportunity to meet new people all the time and would become part of a ‘family’ (although I didn’t know that last one just then).

A week later I moved in. Since then, I have lived at the hostel, which is called The Dwellington, on and off for eight months. I did try living in a house for a couple of months but I missed the buzz at the hostel and felt cut
off from the travelling world, so I moved back. I left for a month in May to
travel around New Zealand.

Now, I am part of one big, ever evolving family. My Dwellington family
consists of people past, present and future – those that were there in the
beginning and have now left, gone onto pastures new, those who are there
currently and who I spend time with and those who I am yet to meet, but who will, no doubt, arrive in the not too distant future and become  acquaintances and friends.

I’m not going to sugar coat it. Living in a hostel with roughly 60 other people can be difficult at times. When you need space or someone is getting on your nerves or the kitchen is too crowded to cook, I sometimes wonder what on earth I was thinking. Then I remember that I missed this place
when I was away – I chose to move back in for a reason. I love all the
friendships I have, the social aspect of it. I’m lucky that I share my room
with only one other person who works in the evenings – if I do need some time out, I just retreat into my room and spend some time alone.

I can’t imagine Wellington without The Dwellington now – I find it strange to think that if B hadn’t have been staying there, I would possibly never have known of its existence and therefore never ended up there. I would
never have met these people who help to make my life here in New Zealand
awesome. Although I never saw myself ending up in a hostel, and although I complain about it sometimes (quite a lot!!), I am glad that’s where I’m living now. The Dwellington is my home here in Wellington, the people there my family. I wouldn’t (I don’t think) have it any other way!