Guys, this isn’t my first rodeo: and by rodeo, I mean European summer. Like clockwork–for three years running–you could guarantee that by the time May rolled around, I was either on my way to Europe or already there.

If you’ve never stayed at a hostel before, you probably have a lot of questions. And I’m guessing that the question you most want answered is how the room situation works. At least, that’s what I was the most hung up on before I became a seasoned hostel-goer, because let’s be honest here: the thought of sharing a bedroom with strangers is daunting.

In a shocking twist of fate, here I am, feeling anxious yet again before yet another solo trip. I don’t need to look down at my Apple watch to see the stats pertaining to my racing heart; I can feel it thumping uncomfortably against my ribs. My hands are shaking, my mouth is dry, and my eyes are… not dry. 

Now you’re on hold with the help and customer support line. Since this airline is always at the top of their game, connecting the call with an actual person takes mere minutes, not hours (I beg you to hear my sarcasm), and once on this phone call, you learn that your reservation does not exist because you have been scammed by the unreliable third party app through which you booked your flight to save a whopping… ten bucks! 

I could probably write a novel (or at least a little novella) on all of the things I do that make it painfully obvious how white I am, and this one is up there. It didn’t even cross my mind that skydiving might also fall into that category until my friend Alaina said, “that is some white people shit,” at which point my eyes really opened to the sheer stupidity of the thing.

Even amongst my immediate family, I sometimes wonder if I was dropped off at the front door in a basket and taken in out of the kindness of my parent’s hearts.