Along the road out of Istanbul, the last stop of note was a reasonably large hostel, solitary for miles. I was relieved to see it. It had gotten dark, and I had yet to find a suitable spot to plant my tent for the night. Besides, I had done well to avoid any unnecessary expenditure thus far. An actual bed, and perhaps breakfast in the morning, sounded perfect.

The parting doors ushered me into the warmth and light inside. A face my own age greeted me with a smile. I said hi, asked if they had any space.

“Ah, English!” said the girl with an accent I couldn’t place, and looked down at the computer at the desk. “I put you in 7B, with other English.”

“How much will it cost?”

“No money,” she laughed. “You tell story for everyone later, at dinner.”

Dinner as well? I was in heaven. She renewed her smile and asked me my name.

The Americans in Room 7B also seemed excited at the prospect of a fresh arrival. They turned as I entered, eager to ask me about myself. As I let the weight of my rucksack fall to my bunk, and felt the peculiar sensation of the embedded skin formerly bound by straps begin to breathe, they were already asking about my love life. I told them about my last boyfriend.

“How was the sex?” one asked. My surprise was lessened when I saw that there was no television.

I admit, I was curious about the concept of the place. I had known of many hostels that were to a degree self-sustaining, with a staff made up of traveling students with depleted funds. But stories couldn’t help with the expenses of the place. I asked the group whether they had done it, what sort of story was expected.

“Just tell them about yourself,” the American on the bunk above me said.

For some people, this would come easily, though I couldn’t think of anything to say. All I’d learned from my gap year so far was that trying to make my way with extremely limited funds had only made me more self-conscious about money. (So much for finding myself.) Perhaps I could fashion some wisdom or some joke, that only the wealthy can afford to be unconcerned about money.

No, clichéd.

Before I knew it, the Americans were leading me down to a cafeteria of some size where there was already an intimidating number of people. For those with a fear of public speaking, this is the equivalent of that dream where you have no clothes on. I was led to the front, in full view of everyone as the last seats were filled. I could smell dinner being heated behind me, and my brain froze on that.

A middle-aged woman in the middle of the audience gently prodded me: “Start from the beginning”. She must’ve been the owner-operator.

The beginning, then. My name, where and when I was born. My family. What they were like. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary or interesting. My earliest memories and secrets, the loneliness of childhood and secret horrors, my schools, my first kiss. Which classes I liked, which I didn’t. Who I liked and who I didn’t.

I felt narrative threads string together, storylines in miniature and connections that only occurred to me now as I recounted my life as a piece. I thought of the people I’d forgotten, how I’d like to see them again, and didn’t hold back from saying so.

Finally, I spoke about finishing school, and my hesitation about what to do next. What I wanted out of life, and what I feared. Not the strongest conclusion, yet a conclusion to the formation of my character maybe. And the assembled guests seemed appreciative, locked as they were in memories, dreams and reflections.

They were openly curious, asking for further details about where I grew up. Some seemed to have been there before, and inquired what it was like now. There was an inescapable feeling of stasis in the atmosphere, as if this were the city of sleep awoken at last. What was the outside world like? Or, at least, what was the world as I saw it? Something creeped at the edge of my consciousness like a word on the tip of your tongue, before a sense of religious dread sealed it away. They were asking now about the technological advancements in my time, and the developments in world politics.

I knew this place. Somehow, I knew this place.

Beyond the workings of the living world. Eventless. Where time and space merge into one. Where, when your time comes, all there is left to do is to wait to learn about the other side.

This was the end. I excused myself and, making no attempt to reclaim my things, headed straight to the entrance. Inevitably, the doors didn’t open.