Hostels

Whether you are a In Central America, the crusty dormitory has become a subculture of its own.  Travelers brag about their off-the-path destinations, but even the most seasoned will always break up their journey with a stopover at one of these havens, to drain the free wifi and cook noodles alongside other English-speakers. 

The best ones are covered in murals; the worst, clinical white with squeaking metal bunks.  The most basic leave you perching on kitchen counters to eke out a social life; the most extravagant providing cushion holes and leather sofas, pool tables and bars.  The strangest of locations hide pockets of sizzling atmosphere, largely dictated by the Lonely Planet's analysis, which perpetuates whichever scene the writer found during his stay, through however many editions the hostel survives. 

Most are run by travelers who got stuck, wanderers who came and just never left. 

Regardless of the social bubble offered, the hostel represents safety.  Not simply the safety of four walls, but the representative security found amongst others of your own kind.  In a hostel, I am not just a lost Brit. Even if I do not speak to a single person, I will feel as if I am part of something; as if there are things happening, that I am somehow involved in by just being there.