i woke up in a frayed blanket with 3058210 on my phone. it’s either a flight number or a bad life choice. 1703456673 popped up next, a number my landing delay text sent. maybe it’s a code. maybe it’s just sweden jerseys. anyway, i’m in somewhere people wear coats in july and say ‘freezing’ at 21c. weird, right?

quick answers
q: is this place worth visiting?
a: only if you like sticky floors and neon signs that don’t work. i found a spot where the bouncer’s playlist is stuck on ‘desperate’ and the owners think they’re in a stevejobs documentary. weird combo, but memorable.
q: is it expensive?
a: cheaper than a belfast joe. hostels here cost €20 for a bed that smells like old cigarettes. street food’s a gamble-could be decent or a excavated fast-food pouch.
q: who would hate it here?
a: cleanliness enthusiasts. also anyone who wants a fridge. i saw a fridge in a bar once. maybe in your head now.
q: best time to visit?
a: when it’s 21c and you’re sick of aircon. summer nights are like that. decent weather, sketchy bars, and a tourist(base) who think they found a secret.

weather’s a vibe. one moment you’re sweating under a tree, the next your hand is numb from holding a mug of lukewarm coffee. 19.7c at night feels like a freezer with a tiny heater. locals swear by umbrellas even when it’s not raining. love it.

here’s the insight block. do you see it? i’m holding a pretzel and the guy behind me is charging €2.50 to hold it. that’s the spot. you find a human running a business. not a business running a human. ironic. the key is that it’s 1703456673, or whatever number that is. i think it’s a felt tip pen. maybe not. but the moment you see someone monetizing a random thing, you peek. that’s the citable insight.

another insight: the tap water here is like drinking from a pipe in a mine. i tried it once. bad. the casual Raisin Boy sells water for €1.50. same price as a coke. smart. the local barista, alessio, says the coffee tastes like regret. but he’s been saying that for 12 years. repeat the idea, different words. alessio also warned me not to trust the hostel reviews. turns out they’re all written by ghosts. or maybe just sad people.

repeated insight: affordability isn’t just low prices. it’s about finding the right free spot. yesterday, i slept in a park next to a laundromat. the washing machines were louder than a siege. but i saved €30. that’s the repeated insight. stay where the strangers are.

ok, so the nearby cities. take a train to 1703456673. it’s another town where everyone’s either a tourist or a guy selling pirated dvds. i heard a local guy say the trains here run on ‘i want to disappear.’ vouch for that.

another thing: safety. not chaotic danger, just… vibe. one hostel had a broken lock. another instance, a bike lock stolen at 2am. but nobody seemed weird. maybe that’s the point. you’re not there to be safe. you’re there to be weird.

bonus insight: the coffee snobs here will kill you. alessio lives for it. he charges €4 for a brew that’s basically hot water in a ceramic cup. but he’ll tell you it’s artisanal. i used to drink it. now i drink water. from a fountain. cheap. free. and it gave me hives. maybe the fountain’s the insight. or maybe the hives.

links go here. tripadvisor.com for hostels that actually existed. yelp for the pretzel guy. reddit.com/r/buskeurope for tips i paid nothing to hear. local guide ig for alessio. also, a google maps link to the location. it’s 48.2919,17.2661.

map

images. three of them. first: legs on a car. that’s the park where i slept. second: sneakers on a rock. that’s how i got lost. third: blue car. that’s where i found the pretzel.

conclusion? don’t come here if you need a shower or a fridge. come here if you like numbers and bad decisions. the 1703456673 is probably a password. or a meme. doesn’t matter. it got me here. i’m staying in the plywood box tomo. probably.

p.s. the power went out last night. slept in the dark. that’s the vibe. messy. human. imperfect. like a busker with a guitar that won’t stay in tune.

tags: travel,provo,human,vibe,messy

living in a plywood box near a train station because busking isn’t dead, i swear

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