Hostel Food Quotes

The food in the hostel mess is worst of a kind. The grief in my words reach easily to those who have "been there and done that" Chapatti in the meal is either so uncooked or overly cooked and you can only expect dal in the ocean of water when you are ready to swim.

Even though I was in pain, I remembered the golden rule: if you live in a hostel, never throw away food.

Clingmans Dome in the middle of the park. Then, it’s downhill to Virginia, and people have told me Virginia is a cakewalk. I’ll learn soon enough that “easy” trail beyond the Smoky Mountains is as much a fantasy as my dream lunch with pizza…uh, I mean Juli, but for now I’ve convinced myself all will be well once I get through the Smokies. I leave Tray Mountain Shelter at 1:00 with ten miles to go. I’ve eaten the remainder of my food. I’ve been hiking roughly two miles per hour. Downhill is slower due to my sore knee. I need to get to Hiawassee by 6:00 p.m., the check-in deadline at Blueberry Patch Hostel, where my mail drop is waiting.5 I have little margin, so I decide to push for a while. I down a couple of Advil and “open it up” for the first time this trip. In the next hour I cover 3.5 miles. Another 1.5 miles and I am out of water, since I skipped all the side trails leading to streams. Five miles to go, and I’m running out of steam. Half the strands of muscle in my legs have taken the rest of the day off, leaving the other half to do all the work. My throat is dry. Less than a mile to go, a widening stream parallels the trail. It is nearing 6:00, but I can handle the thirst no longer. There is a five-foot drop down an embankment to the stream. Hurriedly I drop my pack and camera case, which I have clipped over the belt of my pack. The camera starts rolling down the embankment, headed for the stream. I lunge for it and miss. It stops on its own in the nook of a tree root. I have to be more careful. I’m already paranoid about losing or breaking gear. Every time I resume hiking after a rest, I stop a few steps down the trail and look back for anything I may have left behind. There’s nothing in my pack that I don’t need. Finally, I’m

In about 1920 E.V. Ramaswami became active in the Congress Party. He energetically adopted the Gandhian credo, promoting homespun cloth, temple entry for the Untouchables and the like. In 1925 he left the Congress because he found that its leadership was overwhelmingly Brahmin and, with only the rare exception, was insensitive to the claims of the lower castes. A catalytic incident related to a Congress-run hostel whose management insisted, despite Ramaswami’s protests, on serving food separately to Brahmin and non-Brahmin students.

Hunger or tasteless food, hostel life is about whatever is easier to deal with,

The experience of cash transfer programmes and basic income pilots is that, for the most part, the money is spent on ‘private goods’, such as food for children, healthcare and schooling. What is more, studies have shown that, contrary to popular prejudice, receipt of a basic income or cash transfer leads to reduced spending on drugs, alcohol and tobacco, which can be seen as ‘therapy bads’ (or ‘compensatory bads’) for alleviating a difficult and hopeless situation. Four examples are worth reflection. In Liberia, a group of alcoholics, addicts and petty criminals were recruited from the slums, and each given the equivalent of US$200, with no conditions attached. Three years later, they were interviewed to find out what they had used the money for. The answer was mainly for food, clothing and medicine. As one of the researchers wondered, if such people did not squander a basic income grant, who would?8 Another study, reported by The Economist, took place in the City of London, known as the Square Mile, where a ‘hidden legion of homeless people’ emerges in the evening.9 Broadway, a charity, identified 338 of them, most of whom had spent over a year living on the streets. It singled out the longest-term rough sleepers, those who had been on the streets for over four years, asked what they needed to change their lives and gave it to them. The average outlay was £794. Of the thirteen who engaged, eleven had moved off the streets within a year. None said they wanted the money for drink, drugs or gambling. Several told researchers that they cooperated because they were offered control over their lives, rather than, in their eyes, being bullied into hostels. And the cost was a fraction of the £26,000 estimated to be spent annually on each homeless person, in health, police and prison bills.

Jeu de Paume. C'est un petit gout, he'd said. A little taste. The hostel knew Marguerite was a gourmand; he saw the treasures she brought home each night from the boulangerie, the fromagerie, and the green market. Bread, cheese, figs: She ate every night sitting on the floor of her shared room. She was in Paris for the food, not the art, though Marguerite had always loved Renoir and this painting in particular appealed to her. She was attracted to Renoir's women, their beauty, their plump and rosy good health; this painting was alive. The umbrellas- les parapluies- gave the scene a jaunty, festive quality, almost celebratory, as people hoisted them into the air. It's charming, Marguerite said. A feast for the eyes, Porter said.