CUBE HOUSES, ROTTERDAM 

Photography by Xuebing Du

The bedroom  -  Gustav Sundin

Swedish, b. 1982  -

My dad used to develop his own photos circa 1980. 

Last year when I came back from travelling, my neighbour said ‘well, you must have been doing it on the cheap’, and wondered at how I could afford it. 

Odd comment aside, this is true. Of course I stayed in some shocking accommodations and returned with no money.  

‘Worst arrival experience’ prize can be given to the hostel pictured. With a modern art museum looking hallway in a bright yellowish green colour, the sense of unease crept in. When I burst into the dorm, it was empty of people… but not of cold meats.

Salami, pepperoni slices, beef salami and for some reason, gummy worms were strewn all over the floor. One bed was safe, the rest were covered in tobacco and coins.

The hostel receptionist arrived to show an older lady up to the dorm, and said to me ‘how have you done this to the room already?’ 

I replied that he couldn’t let the old lady can’t stay here and that we need to get a broom. For some reason I didn’t arrange to change rooms that night, as the  smell of raki covered the table (maybe explaining the person’s messy exit) and soggy towels gave a general feeling of dampness. I did take the coins though.

The rest of the trip was a mix of incomparably better hostels and also some situations I could’ve left earlier. 

Writing this from the warmth of my parents home, I sometimes miss the excitement of braving it through a shitty hostel: waking up to loud snoring, guys trying to sell drugs from their dorm bed, or extra charges for ridiculous things.

You experiment. Sticking items under your pillow is better than the hassle of Facebook marketplace.

She doesn’t take the plastic plate set you’ve tried to sell for weeks, but she takes a gold rimmed china saucer from your Grandma’s old set. You get brand new market value for it - from 1946 when it had been bought.

She ignores jeans and books, but trades for spoons and costume jewelry. The tooth fairy, you realize, is a bit of a magpie. If it’s a little bit shiny, she’ll give you cash.

You clear out the jewelry table at a garage sale, place them one by one under your pillow. The amount you get varies, but still is brand new market value of when the item was originally bought. Nothing more than $50, but that’s better than the $8 you bought it for.

After a few weeks, something changes. Your bank account isn’t as empty, your pillow is thicker. You take a nap, because sleeping on items isn’t the most comfortable. You wake up to a crinkle, a note next to your nose.

The writing is tiny, you need your phone’s magnifier to read it, but it turns out just as you’ve been using the tooth fairy, she wants to use you. She’s dropped off a list of wants; hints at a finder fee in cash or precious metals.

It’s specific, odd stuff. A clean dollar coin. A chandelier crystal. A reversible sequin pillow. Antique holiday ornaments. Photo hooks. All, you think, easy to get.