The hostel

The hostel.
The hostel is cold, The room is alone.
Smell to men working.
No much, only a little. So cold to smell anything.
Today is friday, normally in that kind of rooms come men to sleep from Monday to Thursday.
The room of the hostel is cold, and all the terrace is of the seventies, from times when the people had money. Yes, from the times in which people had money and they spent it in putting floor tiles in the facade of its houses.
Not now, Not at Freixeiro, not at Ferrolterra. Now the floor tiles fell on the ground.
I go to the bathroom.
Humidity and more cold.
I touch the tubes of the heating
The heat is cold. No heating in winter.
I open the hot water. Is the only hot thing here. Maybe it's a kind of hot-cold water. There're a forgotten and pink used soap, with pink water around it.
I return to the room.
A chair of the sixties, living with a wardrobe of the nineties, probably bought at the hypermarket, that hypermarket that grew with the economic disaster of the eighties.
I see a narrow door. A white and cheap narrow door. I open the door , and there're a small terrace. More humidity, more cold. I see the street. The buildings of three and four floors without elevator, the buildings with floor tiles, the swimming-pool houses, like I like to say.
The light signs of a karaoke.
Cars. Cars of the seventies. Cars of today. All of them, baroque cars like a statue of a virgin in a Galician rural church.
The museums are for the politicians, people use cars.
I return to the room.
There are a small television. very small, with a small antenna. The television is over the mirror, over a little toilet.
The plug of the television it's wrapped by the wires. But at the ceiling there're a low-comsuption light.
Yes, not heating , but you can use the television from the bed. Digital era in the swimming-pool house.
Pink-orange walls.
It's Narón.