During summer, I spent much longer than planned in a pop-up hostel in Turkey, run by some young Ukrainian hippies, on a patch of derelict land about 100m from the sea. The elderly Turkish lady who owned the delapidated building lived upstairs and just wanted to monetise the rickety building.
The guests were mostly Russian and Ukrainian guys. Probably more Russians on most days. There was me, a British girl with not so good teeth who worked for a charity, and a few random middle easterners and africans, token Dutch backpacker etc.
On my first night, I chilled with a Ukrainian guy on the beach. He was in the navy. Most of the Russians and Ukrainians there had been in the military. Most evenings there was a BBQ/campfire in the little garden patch. Everyone shared meat, and pizza, and cigarettes. More than a few of the guys had a brother or close friend still fighting, perhaps. There was visable trauma, but sometimes interrupted or blunted by cheap Turkish alcohol, dark humour, and more cigarettes... tobacco was a precious commodity, but freely shared between everyone.
Sometimes lots of laughter. Some arguments. Lots of tears. I haven't felt like sharing this experience until just now. Don't be a war whore Peter.
