This post follows directly on from the last one, describing some very hastily planned travel in Western Europe in the summer of 2018. For context, see the previous posts.
I've always preferred taking the stairs to taking elevators.
An elevator might never come, and can move at a lethargic speed if it does.
On foot, however, I can leap with the speed of a gazelle (and none of its grace), arriving to wherever I climb as an undignified, sweaty mess. But, a mess that didn't have to wait for a stinking elevator.
I booked a bed in a hostel dormitory.
I think I may have tried to book an AirBnb or something, but virtually everything was already booked, and I fortunately realized that the site misleadingly increased my search radius to such a large area that the results it gave were countryside farms, far away from the quick city daytrips I was engaged with.
So, I bought a cheap padlock from the train station convenience store (along with some hair ties), and bounded the steps to a dormitory bed.
I looked at the reviews enough to feel confident that the risk of a bad experience was minimal, but not enough to realize that the hostel was at the top of a multi-story parking garage.
The single elevator, ponderously slow, cramped, and already occupied by motorists.
Up I went.