Three years ago I had the worst of times in the Phoenix Hostel. The owner behaved like a nazi camp commander, rules everywhere, ordered you to shower on arrival, prohibited smoking in open places, but suddenly would change the rule, etc. She confessed she hated men and hadn't had sex for ten years. And then she seemed to like me. It is difficult to know how to behave when a shark smiles at you...
This time the hundreds of prohibition signs are gone. I asked a girl who showed up the second day if she work there. She said, "I am the owner". Mary. The daughter of the woman I met here three years ago. On my second day, Mary asks me if I can do the barbecue. I do. Argentinian style. Charcoal and wood. She agrees. I buy the meat and she the salads and the wine. Argentinian style. The asado is a success. I get cheers from my ten guests (no "un aplauso para el asador" though).
From then on, they refuse to charge me for my stay. Do you get it? No charge! I do for them ceviche. Big success again. I bake bread. I feel that I can do again what I like most, sharing. Mary says to me that I am the kind of guests that brings good vibes to the place. The vibes hated by Lisa in Flagstaff are welcome here in Phoenix. Oh, well. You see? I was weary about coming back to Phoenix and now sad to leave. Phoenix was dead. Now it's alive in my heart. That's what Phoenixes do, right?
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