With the constant comings and goings of #hostellife one tends to lose a lot of things on the road. My TOMS went missing in Rio, my eye mask is somewhere in Bahia, my whites never did come back from the laundry, and my Nikes were left at a hydro plant outside Machu Picchu. It’s an issue.
But it was the Curious Case of the Missing Flowered Shorts that was the most memorable, and for that I will share its story via blog.
It went like this:
‘Twas the morning before Lollapalooza and I (being the responsible sober individual that I am) left my glasses, shirt, and flowered PJ shorts nicely folded on my pillow so as to not disturb other sleepers when I inevitably stumbled in late for bed (considerate room mate). Except when I stumbled in post-Eminem glory, my carefully folded stack was missing. A lot of (attempted) quiet shuffling in the dark procured my glasses from the foot of the bed but my flowered shorts were definitely (and devastatingly) nowhere to be found. I slept in my beer-stained jean jacket.
The next morning was check out and, having only one pair or PJ shorts that I specifically bought for this trip (they were the perfect combination of comfy vs cute – ladies ya feel me), I put forth a lot of effort looking for them. I checked every locker, I checked every bed, I checked every bathroom, I checked every everything but, alas, the flowered shorts remained missing.
The shorts became a running joke between the old Lolla crew with me bitching and moaning about how every activity we did would’ve been better if I had my beloved shorts in my possession. Even the front desk guy was in on the joke. Every person that talked to me knew I loved my flowered shorts, and they knew that said flowered shorts were missing.
Fast forward one week later.
Me and the Quebecer (having long since switched hostels) happened to be back in the area killing time, so we decided to hit up the old hostel’s rooftop bar. We sat, sipped, and chatted, and I decided to ask ONE more time if the hostel had found my shorts while they were cleaning.
The front desk was four floors down so I stopped for a quick pee mid-route and coming out of the bathroom stall my jaw dropped. There, perfectly folded on the bench outside the (occupied) shower, sat my shorts, shirt, AND underwear (seriously, ew) for the naked person behind the curtain to change into.
No word of a lie, I did a legitimate happy dance (unadulterated excitement) then halted to consider the situation. Should I wait and confront the mystery girl in the shower?.. What if she argues the clothes are hers?.. I am 100% positive these are my belongings but I suck under pressure in a fight…
I grabbed my shit and ran.
I long to know the reaction of Mystery Shower Girl when she stepped out naked to an empty bench, but I’ll have to live with the memory of pure joy as I giddily ran up the stairs to show the Quebecer what I’d found. What. Are. The chances?
I found them.
Me and my flowered shorts were meant to be.