[Editor's Note: We very much enjoyed reading what our 2nd Annual Wild Writing Women Weekend Workshop was like from a student’s perspective. We thought you would too!]

“Go to the top of the hill and turn left. You can’t miss it.” I climbed out of the cart and paid the young man—a college student earning extra money by bicycling people around Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Salty, damp air filled my lungs as I climbed the hill leading to the hostel located at Upper Fort Mason, a building that was once an old Army post that sits right on the bay. My shoulder ached as the strap of my bag wore away at my collar bone. The intrigue of not knowing what lay ahead was all consuming.

“I see here that you’ve never stayed at a hostel before,” the clerk announced to me in a slow, carefree voice as I checked in. Turning to the half-dozen or so people behind her the clerk said, “Hey, everybody. This is Sandra. She’s never stayed at a hostel before!” I nodded as everyone greeted me while they ate rice out of Chinese food carry-out boxes. I began to wonder why this fact was worthy of such attention. The clerk took faded pastel linens off the shelf. “Down the stairs and to the right,” she said handing me sheets and a towel. I felt a slight bit of progress towards feeling somewhat at home.

The room had seven beds—four sets of twin-size bunks plus one. There was barely room to walk between them. The storage space was under the beds. The bathroom was a short walk down the hall—three stalls and a shower with a small dressing area. There were three sinks and mirrors along one wall.

Back in the room, I lay down exhausted from the adventure of finding the place. Unanswered questions flowed through my head as I realized the intrigue of where I was—in San Francisco (a place I had never been before) staying in a hostel (which everyone now knew I’d never done before) waiting eagerly to attend a weekend writing conference.

My nap turned into bedtime. I realized as I lay dozing that people from possibly all over the world would be lying in beds next to me when I awoke. Nevertheless, exhausted, I fell asleep. Sounds of ruffling through stuff woke me at some point. I saw an outstretched hand and heard, “I’m Azalea.” I looked up into a kind, older face with tresses of gray hair bouncing about as she prepared her things for the night. I wished I could be more alert but fell back asleep pondering what a relief to know a lovely, flower of a person was lying in the next bunk. Sounds permeated the night: footsteps, laughter; people whispering, rummaging; pipes groaning, popping from the steam heat. This experience was absolutely more unique than I had ever imagined.

The weekend became a whirlwind of hiking up and down the hill from Upper Fort Mason to the conference being held at Lower Fort Mason (a compound of buildings with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge), exploring Fisherman’s Wharf, cruising around Alcatraz, meeting people from places such as Hawaii, Oregon, Italy. The highlight, of course, was meeting the “Wild Writing Women”—a funny, adventurous, smart cadre of women who travel the world, publish their writings, and—most importantly—model alternatives to bogging down at the middle-age stage of life.

Memories of the weekend shall remain with me for a long time: the hostel with people brought together from all over the world with the common bond of being a weary traveler; visions of Azalea flitting about, doing yoga handstands, offering a friendly face, kind words, hugs; sounds of pipes groaning, bringing warmth on chilly January nights; the taste of hot coffee and croissants from the coffee shop upstairs that offers a superior vantage point for viewing the Golden Gate Bridge; most of all, assembling with vibrant and creative writers and leaving with a desire to try something exciting, new, and different. So here I go—out into the world with a notebook, pen, and guidelines from the Wild Writing Women, a sense of wonder, and knowledge that friends await me at the next hostel.