It’s one of the oldest stories in the book: girl studies abroad, girl travels to foreign city, girl wakes up next to pantless 45-year-old woman, girl develops new appreciation for all that is good in her life.

Wait a minute. You’re not familiar with that one? Not to worry, my friends, I (unfortunately) know it all too well.

It all started about one month ago when I arrived on Irish turf for the first of many days away from Boston. The outskirts of Allston didn’t seem so far off campus anymore.

The three G’s I expected to see here were all present: green, Guinness and glorious amounts of pale skin that made my chalky self fit in for once.

The “girl travels to foreign city” part is where the plot takes an interesting turn. Last week, we took a field trip to Belfast, Northern Ireland. Because it sounded much better than middle school trips to city hall, my friends and I decided to spend the night in a hostel to explore the area all weekend.

As we walked down the dark alley that led to the hostel, I felt like a C-list actress about to make her debut scream while being chased by Christopher Walken.

I also felt the tension still present in the city after years of endless conflict. I didn’t know how to handle that. The closest thing to conflict I’ve ever experienced was getting caught in the middle of a good old-fashioned Red Sox-Yankees fan brawl after a game. Then again, the closest thing to traveling in a foreign city I had prior to this trip was playing a rousing game of “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” about 10 years ago.

Anyway, we successfully arrived at the hostel. It had a distinct smell that I couldn’t quite grasp at first. The scent of freshly brewed tea, perhaps? No, that wasn’t it. Irish soda bread and scones? Nope. A lethal combination of urine, must, mothballs, old people and a developing insect problem? Ah, that’s the one.

I suspiciously walked up the wooden stairs, which were supported by a single wooden post weaker than the Olsen twins’ twiggy legs. We didn’t fall through, though, and we made it to our room.

The door squeaked open as I checked out the place I’d call home for the night. It was a small room with nine sets of bunk beds. I was assigned to a top bunk. I did a secret Tiger Woods fist pump; after years of bottom bunkdom as a child, it was my time to shine.

Apparently, it was Chewbacca’s time to shine the night before, as my bed contained more hair than any human being — or large furry animal — could produce. I told myself that Chewbacca is a celebrity and sleeping where he once snoozed was an honor.

Then I died a little inside.

Realizing the door didn’t lock, I took all valuables with me on our trip to the local jazz club. A three-man band of 75-year-old retirees played a song, took a whiskey break, played a song, took a whiskey break, drunkenly attempted to play a song and then hit on the younger women in the front row.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad night.

Fast forward: Four hours later, I’m lying in the bunk bed with my jacket, jeans and boots on. I put my extra clothes on the bed to function as a lice guard. I spooned my backpack as if it were the key to everlasting life.

Despite being too anxious to sleep, I managed to close my eyes for a few minutes. I imagined myself on a beach in Malibu, playing Frisbee with Matthew McConaughey. It was going well until I felt someone’s presence near me, and I opened my eyes to see a pantless, late-40-something woman scratching her feet next to my bed . . . in a youth hostel.

I died a lot more inside.

But after multiple showers and daily therapy sessions, I realized that waking up next to this shameless woman with no pants on was one of the best things that could’ve happened to me. This unfortunate vision made me appreciate things more than ever. I’ll never complain about my uncomfortable bed again.

Instead, I’ll think about how much better it is waking up next to my teddy bear on a foreign college campus than next to unnecessary amounts of a foreign woman’s flesh, and all will be well in the world once again.

Megan Murphy, a junior in the School of Education who is studying in Dublin this semester, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at [email protected].