Ciss Outdoors

I spent two months living in a hostel in Vancouver. Not as part of a long, drifting trip, but because I was there for a fixed research exchange at the University of British Columbia, with a clear reason to be in one place and a daily structure already in place. What mattered most, though, was not just having somewhere affordable to stay, but where that place allowed me to spend my time when I wasn’t working.

Vancouver is an extraordinary city, but it is also prohibitively expensive. For a stay of that length, a hostel was not a romantic choice. It was simply the option that made the trip possible. What I did not anticipate was how much the location of that hostel would shape the experience of living there.

Set on the UBC campus and removed from the intensity of downtown, the hostel offered immediate access to beaches, forest trails, and open green space. Pacific Spirit Regional Park sat effectively on my doorstep. That proximity changed the focus of my days, and it softened many of the concerns I had about shared accommodation. I arrived with some reservations, but also with a quiet confidence that being able to spend a lot of time outdoors, regularly and without effort, would make a long stay feel expansive, rather than confined.

This article moves between practical detail and longer reflections on what it was like to live in one place for an extended period. The sections below focus on different parts of that experience, and can be read together or individually.

What Daily Life Looked Like

Although I had research commitments, my days were not rigid. I tended to start early, often with time outside. I was running regularly at the time, training for a long-distance event, and that gave shape to my mornings. Work happened on campus, often interspersed with reading outdoors rather than at a desk. In the afternoons and evenings, I played casual basketball, sat outside with a book, or took simple meals down to the beach.

Because the hostel did not have a full kitchen, food was uncomplicated by necessity. Meals were small, functional, and rarely elaborate. I spent very little time inside the building itself beyond sleeping. The hostel was where I rested. Life happened elsewhere.

What Turned Out To Be Easier Than Expected

Living out of a single suitcase for two months was far simpler than I had imagined. In a place that encourages outdoor living, you quickly realise how little you actually need. Space matters less when most of your day is spent moving through the world rather than occupying a room.

Routine also came easily. Repeating the same routes, visiting the same places, and settling into predictable rhythms gave the stay a sense of continuity. Even the room itself, which was not modern or particularly aesthetic, began to feel like mine. Cleanliness, quiet, and safety mattered far more than appearance.

Being on campus helped enormously. There was a visible security presence, emergency contact points, and a general sense that people were around at all hours. I was on the top floor, with a female-only bathroom nearby, and that arrangement contributed to feeling settled rather than transient. It felt like a place designed to be lived in, not passed through.

The Small Things That Make Somewhere Feel
Like Home

It is often the unremarkable moments that change how a place feels. Doing laundry in the hostel basement. Learning which supermarkets make sense, which ones don’t, and gradually figuring out how to move through the city without thinking too hard about it.

Much of that understanding came through people I was spending time with on campus. Conversations with colleagues and acquaintances who already lived there helped me make sense of the city in practical ways, from how things worked day to day to what to be mindful of when finding my feet. That kind of local knowledge anchored me far more than conversations with other travellers ever could.

One space in particular became part of my daily life. In the centre of campus there was a broad, open area near the shops and bar. People gathered there to eat, read, rest, or simply exist. Sometimes there were informal sports games, sometimes an open-air dance class, sometimes nothing much at all. I would sit there with a book or a meal and let time pass.

What made it work was the mix. Students, visitors, people on their own, and people in groups, all sharing the same space for different reasons. No one stood out. It was possible to feel included without having to participate, present without being noticed. That balance mattered more than I realised at the time, and it played a quiet but important role in making the stay feel sustainable.

What Was Occasionally Difficult

The accommodation itself was rarely the issue. What occasionally caught me out was distance from home, particularly the time difference. There were moments when I would have liked to reach out to a friend or family member as something occurred to me, only to realise I would have to wait. Conversations had to be planned rather than spontaneous.

In hindsight, that was useful. It made me more aware of how I respond to those quieter moments of loneliness or uncertainty, and how to sit with them rather than immediately reaching for reassurance. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was instructive.

Noise was an occasional irritation rather than a defining issue. Because people tended to stay for only a few days at a time, there were moments when someone new arrived with a different rhythm, perhaps a late call or a door closing more loudly than necessary. It was noticeable when it happened, but it never lasted. Just as quickly as someone arrived, they moved on, and the quiet returned.

What Mattered Over Time

I realised that I don’t need many comforts to live happily while travelling. I need somewhere that feels safe, quiet enough to sleep, and clean. I need a room of my own, somewhere I can retreat to and properly recharge. Beyond that, everything else is secondary.

Access to Wi-Fi mattered more than I might have expected, though that felt very context dependent. In a large, unfamiliar city, so much of daily life now runs through your phone, from navigating public transport to finding your way around neighbourhoods and routines. In other places, I am often glad to be without it, but here it played a quiet role in helping me find my feet.

What mattered more than any of that, though, was familiarity and connection. Feeling at home came from knowing how things worked, recognising places, and having some thread that tied me into local life. Early on, colleagues from the research lab took me out to a small local bar with live music. It wasn’t late and it wasn’t a big night out, but it was an easy, unremarkable kind of inclusion, and it set the tone for the weeks that followed.

Those early connections didn’t last in a literal sense. People moved on, as they often do in academic spaces. But they opened the door to something more lasting. Over time, I built friendships in Vancouver through different channels, and those are the people I now see when I return. The details shifted, but the importance of finding ways to connect locally stayed the same.

Would This Way of Living Suit Everyone?

Probably not. A long stay in a hostel, even with a private room, means accepting shared bathrooms, fluctuating noise levels, and a steady turnover of people. The atmosphere can change week to week, and that’s part of the reality.

It tends to work best if you’re comfortable spending time on your own, don’t rely on cooking as a way to unwind, and plan to be out of the building for most of the day. If those things feel restrictive rather than freeing, this way of living is unlikely to suit you.

For me, it worked because the trade-offs were clear and felt worthwhile. Without that balance, the same setup could easily feel like a compromise.

If You’re Considering a Solo Stay

If you are thinking about a longer solo stay somewhere unfamiliar, I would still encourage you to give it a go. What helped me most was having a clear reason to be there, something that gave shape to my days and created natural points of contact with people who already knew the place.

Those connections did not need to be deep or immediate. Often, they came from small moments of inclusion, being invited along, being shown how things worked, or simply being treated as someone who belonged there for a while. Over time, that mattered far more than trying to build a social life from scratch with other travellers who were also passing through.

If you do decide to go, it can help to lean into places where you genuinely feel comfortable spending time. It’s good to step outside your comfort zone, but you don’t have to be interacting constantly to feel part of somewhere. Shared spaces where you can sit, read, eat, or simply exist alongside other people can be just as meaningful, especially when there’s a mix of individuals doing their own thing. Finding environments that make you feel part of the place in that quiet, everyday way can help a new place begin to feel homely.

Related reading:

How I Stay Safe Sleeping in My Micro Camper

New To The Outdoors? Where to Start