We all get hit by wild stereotypes. Carpet-bombed generalisations throughout our lives that smack of reckless, blinkered ignorance. But at no point does it get flagged and flared up more than when we travel (except maybe in war zones).
The hostel is the drinking hole in the traveling wilderness, the gathering place for mammals of all nationalities. The excitable and broad-shouldered Australians and South Africans fully clad in national colours, transfixed by the outdated television teetering above the bar in an unstable metallic cradle, broadcasting live sports direct from murky time zones. The US and Dutch contingent vying for the loudest conversation award around a podium of barstools. The Englishmen in the corner nursing severely sunburnt skin by drinking themselves into the limp arms of paralysis and asking to borrow more aloe vera.