Out Of Money
July 8, `77
It was three dollars a night to stay at the hostel, and an added
dollar if you ate breakfast in the morning. The food was great, too. I
was a real tourist now. Yesterday was an especially good day for me.
After I watched the changing of the guard (an English holdover I
guess) I took off for the Art Museum. On my way there, I stopped at
the Photo 77 exhibit. I spent an hour viewing the photography and then
another hour or so, trying to figure out how holograms were put
together. I never did figure it out, and I left exhausted.
A few blocks down the street I found a small pub. I felt right at
home, as I drank my thirty-cent drafts, listening to a room full of
old men talk French. I spent the whole afternoon playing pool with a
couple of the old guys. I never did get to the museum. With 25 cents
left in my pocket and almost drunk, I left the pub and went back to
the hostel and cooked up the steak (the one I picked up earlier and
stored in the hostel community fridge). I was now out of money, but I
wasn’t too worried because I knew more money would arrive in the
morning. After dinner I watched TV, and turned in early.
After morning breakfast, I walked down to the bank to pick up my
money. The guy behind the counter told me it hadn’t arrived. It was
Friday, and I had already waited four days for the money. I wasn’t
happy. With only twenty-five cents in my pocket, and only a slight
chance the money would arrive on Saturday, the thought of getting
through the whole weekend without any money was not a pleasant one.
After I left the bank, I stopped at a bakery and, with my last
quarter, bought a hard crust of bread. At that point, I didn’t even
know if I had a bed to sleep in. It took a little friendly persuasion
(something I didn’t like to do), but in the end I was permitted to
keep my bed at the hostel (on credit) until Monday.