Our taxi driver stopped outside a plain, heavy wooden door. Google Maps told me we were in the right place, but it took me a minute to find the tiny sign that read “Villacandelaria Hostel,” hidden next to the top corner of the door frame. The door was locked. After several hard knocks, a buzzer sounded and we were allowed in. We crammed ourselves into the tiny, dark entryway. Any further progress was barred by a heavy steel gate. A middle-aged man, the sour expression on his face hidden by his white surgical mask but still apparent in the eyes behind his glasses, stood on the other side, asking if we had a reservation. I saw a nightstick on the desk at his side, within easy reach. He only let us in after I showed him the email confirming our reservation, holding my phone up to the bars.

At least the security is good, I thought.

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