We are now in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The second, doubling as a guest bedroom and study, has recently been repurposed into a bunkhouse for my daughter and grandson. They’re on an extended visit, she completing an online Master’s Degree and a divorce, both having only approximate dates of resolution. Afterward, her search for a job at a library in this time of budget cuts comprises the third approximation.

When friends or daughters stay over for a night or two, we bring out the deluxe queen-size air bed, complete with inflating pump. With a little furniture rearrangement, we can fit this into the middle of the living room. In the morning, the dog helps clear the room for general use by jumping on the bed, waking its inhabitants and only once requiring a replacement mattress (so far).

Upon those early morning occasions, I walk the blender into the bathroom to create my breakfast protein shake in relative silence. But there’s no quieting the screech of the espresso machine when I crank out my day-lighting latte. Good quality hostels don’t skimp on the coffee.

Fortunately, we have two bathrooms upstairs and can shuffle inhabitants between one or the other. Rarely have I had to use the half-bath outside, somewhere beyond the juniper bushes.

We are all aware of sounds in our shared housing experience and acknowledge the unwritten rules of the hostel. At night, we don’t flush the upstairs toilet, which drains through the wall at our tenant’s headboard in a deafening torrent, until a respectable time of the morning. Fortunately, she’s an early riser.

Water running through pipes makes a discernible sound, such that we know exactly when someone enters and exits a shower. I lie in bed, lollygagging until the water halts, then rouse myself to stumble toward the bath at the far end of the house. Occasionally I stumble too slowly, outmaneuvered by wife, daughter, or friend, in which case I alter course and head directly to the aforementioned espresso machine.

Caution is also exercised when running the clothes or dish washing machinery. Less controllable and more surprising is the outside irrigation, well known to elicit expletives from a soapy late riser. There’s always something going on in a hostel.

Unaware of the impact of noise in the household is my grandson, who generates it with frequent abandon – chasing the dog, stomping back to this room in audible displeasure, or throwing a tantrum in the living room. He can easily throw it through the floor and down toward our tenant. Fortunately, she has been accommodating of such outbursts.

I’ve always wondered how married Native American couples managed their romantic affairs in a teepee. Sure, in summer you could romp in the woods or by the river. But in the snowy season, what would they do? A three year old might sleep through the night, but older children could well arise, disruptingly curious. A closed door and muffling pillows are all we have to complement the silent discretion of our cohabitants.

We could ameliorate this density if we merely converted the dining room into sleeping quarters. The bath being immediately adjacent, it would truly be another Master Bedroom. Yet the spirit and center of a hostel lies in its common space, where the inhabitants cook, eat, and relax. Our favorite times involve full dinners of six to twelve friends and family, all gathered around the extended table in the dining room, telling stories, lifting glasses, sharing lives. It’s this energy that keeps the whole thing going, making hostels more fun than hotels, or even single family residences.