It was my first time on a plane by myself; I was nervous, excited and scared, all at the same time. Ten movies, six questionable meals, one hour of uncomfortable sleep and 22 hours later, I arrived in Paris. My friends met me at the train station and escorted me to what would be our new home for the next few days, St Christopher’s Inn Hostel.

This was another first for me. I had never stayed in a hostel before and I must admit, when I heard the word ‘hostel’, my mind instantly concocted images of hundreds of people squished into a tiny little room like sardines, dirty sheets on the bed, one bathroom and toilet that had never been cleaned, and the certainty that all your belongings would get stolen.

Needless to say, I was not looking forward to staying in a hostel. However, after lugging our twenty kilogram suitcases along the streets of Paris, we came to a restaurant that had retro booths and an overall welcoming and fun atmosphere, as well as a bar that opened up onto the streets; this was St Christopher’s. Checking in, we were handed our plastic key cards and made our way to our room.

Upon opening the door, I was pleasantly surprised: clean beds with a curtain for privacy, a beautiful view, space to move around and friendly people. Like moving into any new place for the first time, it’s almost like a lucky dip – you never know what to expect- and this time, I had hit the jackpot. We put our valuable items in the secure ‘cages’ beneath our beds, went out for dinner, came home at a reasonable hour and went to sleep in preparation for the big day of sight-seeing ahead.

All was well until the early hours of the morning, when I awoke to a creaking sound much like the sound of bunk-bed frames moving. The sound went away, so I closed my eyes in the hope of falling back asleep, but minutes later, the sound came back.

This time a new sound was introduced into the mix. It almost sounded like people kissing, but I couldn’t be sure. At this point, my friend had woken up to the noises as well, and just as we were trying to work out what the mysterious sounds were, another resonance filled the room – heaving breathing and panting.

Yes, there was no questioning what was happening in ‘our’ room. Someone had disobeyed the ‘one person to one bed rule’ and decided to bring someone back to their room for some extra curricular activities. By this point everyone was awake, mainly covering their mouths to hold back the laughter, but one guy in the bunk next to the ‘naughty’ bunk was not impressed. After several attempts knocking through the wall to get the attention of the promiscuous couple, he finally got a response and decided he needed to share his opinion of the goings-on.

‘Look guys, I don’t care if you want to finish up, but just hurry up and finish off, we all want to get s**ked off,’ exclaimed the unhappy gentleman in bunk A.

You’d think, after being caught in the act, that most people would stop what they were doing to save any shred of pride they could. Sadly, for our little room of twelve, this was not the case.

The two kept going, and in the morning were forced to make the walk of shame down the ladder and  face everyone else in the room. The girl awoke first to a room full of disapproving eyes, and you could almost see her head literally hang in shame as she tried to slip away quickly; it’s not an easy thing to gracefully climb down bunk-beds with one hand while in the other hand trying to hold all your belongings so you don’t have to make the embarrassing trip again.

For most people staying at a hostel for the first time, the events that transpired in our room would put them off staying in a hostel ever again. But for me, it was all part of the experience.

Sure, the comfort of a hotel bed with your own shower and the reassuring notion no one else will be coming into your room (without your approval) is second-to-none, but the episodes that can be witnessed at a hostel when you’re sharing a room with twelve other people from all around the world are priceless. You pay less for your room, meet an African-American guy from the US called OB who shares extremely inappropriate stories with you of when and where he has been with women, have a communal table of food in the middle of the room, get your thongs stolen, go to an Italian restaurant in France with people you just met, rent a towel that has a questionable stain on it and have hilarious stories to tell when you come back home.

Christina Lovrecz is a Graduate Diploma in Journalism student at La Trobe University and is one of upstart’s staff writers. You can follow her on Twitter: @clovrecz