When Life Hands You a Hostel Turned Halfway House, a Retired Hobo, and a Consistent Beach Break

My first 7-weeks in New Zealand were so smooth it was almost too good to be true.

I was making deep connections, the weather conditions were good, and my plan to have no plan was working out seamlessly.

Some towns I stayed longer than anticipated, others I left sooner, new friends tagged along for parts of my road trip, and I was exploring a good chunk of the North Island both by land and surf.

I didn’t know it yet, but the universe was clearly letting me get comfortable.

Where Everything Fell Apart

My first couple of weeks on the South Island were great.

I explored Nelson which is the sunniest place in New Zealand. I also hiked the Abel Tasman National Park.

Then in Picton, I met up with a friend that I met a few weeks prior in Mount Maunganui.

While in that region, my accommodations for Lyttelton (my next stop) fell through. Suddenly, I needed to find somewhere to stay for a week in the Christchurch area while I waited for my friend from Canada to fly into the city and join me for a road trip in the South.

I had two options: a highly rated city hostel, or a questionable hostel with waves nearly at my doorstep.

Of course, I went for the chaos. I confused “close to the ocean” with “a good decision,” a mistake I would soon regret.

So, I was on my way to Christchurch, on a bus for 7-hours, feeling sad to be leaving my friend, and having a lovely chapter from my travels come to an end.

My spirits were quite low, and I wasn’t all that excited for my next stop.

In the spirit of trying to be optimistic and grateful, I arrived in New Brighton, Christchurch, eager to get settled and pick up my new surf board.

Only when I got to the hostel did I realize I’d made a huge mistake.

A Hostel Turned Halfway House

I got off the bus and walked up to the big grey building in the middle of a ghost town. A sign read, “Café closed due to renovations,” and another, “Reception for hostel.”

So, I walked into what looked like an abandoned café.

There was a lady at the front desk. But she couldn’t find my booking. So while she was figuring out her administrative issues I looked at my surroundings. At this point I was feeling genuinely fearful of what shape the hostel was going to be in after seeing this run down space.

If this place had a Yelp review, it would simply say “no.”

Finally, I was checked in and a man showed me to my room, which entailed walking outside the “café” and through a sketchy door in the front of the building.

On the walk to my room I became more and more upset.

The tiled stairs were disgusting, the grey carpet was filthy, and the meant-to-be-white paint was stained. It felt like those walls had seen some shit.

I had booked an all female dorm so I still had hope that my room would at least be tidy.

And it was alright, minus the thick layer of dust on the windowsill and the carpet stains.

In addition to myself, there was a woman from Australia and a woman from China. I stayed there a week and I never even learned their names.

After dropping my bags I was told by the Australian that the hostel was a halfway house during COVID, and still very much housed many of those people.

Minutes after this conversation, I had three fresh bites on my leg, and in my state of distress, worked myself up to the point of thinking that there were bed bugs.

This is the exact moment my nervous system exited the chat and I became overly aware of my skin. I was genuinely prepared to throw away everything I owned, including my continued travel plans.

I walked outside the hostel, sat on the sidewalk, called my mom and cried.

This felt like an appropriate use of a New Brighton sidewalk.

At Least There Was the Ocean

After having a much needed cry and pity party, I got my board. My first surfboard I’ve ever owned!

The next day the first thing I did was go to the sea. I was staying in an awful place, in a horrible section of the city, so I was going to make the most out of the damn board I just got.

This felt like a reasonable coping mechanism.

I stayed on the inside for about an hour and practiced my pop up. And then took a break to watch the waves for a bit, building the courage to go out the back by myself. Luckily for me, a guy around my age showed up, so we ended up paddling out together.

Within the first three-minutes and zero waves caught, I spotted a shark less than 15 feet from us. I let him know, and we calmly (but freaking out internally) paddled back to the beach.

This felt excessive. Of course there was a shark. At this point, I genuinely didn’t think I could be surprised by anything.

After the unwanted encounter, we opted out of returning to the ocean that day and drank some beers on the beach instead. I learned that this kid was about to go on an ankle monitor. Which just felt so fitting for what was going on in this god forsaken town.

I accepted this information without any follow-up questions.

The next day, I returned to the water. I went in with a girl I met on a Facebook group called, “Girls Who Can’t Surf Good” and figured I would also be running into an American dad that’s lived in Christchurch for twenty-five-years.

I knew this because I was originally going to buy a board from him, and we were communicating via WhatsApp.

Sure enough he and his adult son were out in the line up!

The Least Expected Connections

Over the next couple of days the universe kept shoving older white men in my face. Which, as we know, I am not known for my soft spot for men.

The universe clearly had a sense of humor and at this point I just accepted it.

An American dad, an Alaskan pilot, and a Kiwi world traveler (with a warrant out for his arrest in Canada, obviously). Throughout a couple of days I went for a coffee, a dinner, and a beach lunch with these people.

In the hostel (I am reluctant to even call it that) there were no women my age, no other surfers, and I just wanted conversation and connection, my favourite part of travelling.

It was around this time that my mother was convinced my dad was sending me these people to offer me a father figure during this immensely low period of my trip.

I wasn’t convinced.

Yet I really leaned into the time with the American dad, who called himself a retired hobo (my life goal). This was not the friendship I anticipated, but felt like the one I needed.

He drove me around Christchurch giving me a full guided tour and dropped me into the city so I could do some shopping, offering me an umbrella.

We continued to surf, one morning going out for the most beautiful sunrise, where I caught my best wave yet. We went to a local brewery with his sons and wife, talking about travels and my not so lovely New Brighton experience.

During our conversations I learned that he just sold his business, a Harley Davidson dealership. Which of course made me think of my dad.

When my Canadian friend arrived, he lent her a board to go surfing for her first time. Another day he and his son took us on a drive to two other surf spots and up the hills behind Christchurch and around to Lyttelton for some incredible views.

Finally, he drove us with all our bags and my surfboard in tow to the car rental place saving us from the hassle of having to get everything there on our own.

And somehow, unexpectedly, driving to pick up our car I felt a sense of grief to be saying goodbye to New Brighton.

What Showed Up When I Needed It Most

As my friend and I drove away from Christchurch towards our next stop on the West Coast, New Brighton shrinking in the rearview mirror, I finally understood what had happened.

At my lowest point, I was sent a motorcycle-loving, ocean-anchored, unmistakably safe dad.

And I think my mom was right, maybe I do have my dad to thank for that one.

And that’s just how life works sometimes.

It doesn’t fix the place, it doesn’t erase the chaos. It just sends the right people.