Of all the hundreds of youth hostels on the European backpacker circuit, only a handful -- Balmer's Interlaken, for example, or Bob's Youth Hostel in Amsterdam -- have legendary reputations. Corfu's Pink Palace has found its way into this elite rank through a combination of leisure-resort amenities (three-course dinners, a Jacuzzi, jet-ski rentals) and an ouzo-soaked party atmosphere. The resulting ambience garners mixed opinions: The "Let's Go" guidebook compares it to a "laid-back frat party"; independent student-travel Web sites call it the "number one party hostel in Europe"; travel writer Jeff Greenwald once called it "a knock-off Club Med for horny 20-year-olds."

Valentina and I arrive at the quaint beach town of Agios Gordios at midday and head down to the trademark pink-hued buildings. From a distance, the Pink Palace complex has a kind of neoclassical elegance -- but up close, the place is all function: cement-and-asphalt simplicity, party-resistant by design. Supposedly, the complex can handle 1,000 budget revelers at a time.

I get my first and most vivid lesson in the social dynamics of the Pink Palace when I leave Valentina at poolside and go to fetch a spare key from the reception building.

When I enter the lobby, there is only one soul working the desk -- and he is currently initiating a batch of new guests by distributing shots of pink-tinted ouzo. All of the new travelers clutch their cardboard Pink Palace "passports," and one of them has already donned a T-shirt advertising the "10 Biggest Lies at the Pink Palace" ("I just want to kiss you ... you can keep your clothes on," reads No. 8).

There's one other traveler waiting at the desk -- a tall, sunburned British girl -- so I ask her if any other receptionists are on duty.

"Calm down, big guy!" she says. "You're on vacation now." She looks me over and shoots me a jesting grin. "Let me guess, you're from America."

"That's right," I say.

"I could tell because you talk like a cowboy. You can always tell Americans from their accents. That and they always talk so loud. And they never know anything about the country they're in."

"I've heard of that reputation," I say. "But I'm actually learning to read Greek while I'm here."

The British girl gives me a playfully skeptical look and holds up a wrinkled drachma note. "What does this say right here?" she demands, pointing at one of the Greek-lettered slogans.

"It's easier than it looks to read Greek," I say, taking the money from her. "Look. The T, A, Z, E and O in this phrase are all just like in English, but for example the triangle is a 'D' sound, and the lambda here is like an 'L.' So this reads 'Trapeza tees Ellados.'"

"Wow! You could be my Greek teacher then, right? What does 'Trapeze ... so and so' mean?"

"I'm not sure."

She shoots me an exaggerated look of suspicion. "How can you not be sure what it means if you can read Greek?"

"I just know the Greek letters. Once you learn the letters, then you can read things phonetically; it doesn't mean you can understand them."

The girl giggles and socks me in the shoulder. "You dummy! You don't really read Greek, just the letters."

For some reason, I can't understand why she's getting so worked up about this. "Knowing the letters can help you figure things out," I tell her. "For example, 'Trapeza tees Ellados' probably means 'Bank of Greece.' You know, Ellados, Hellenic. Greece."

"Well, perhaps I'll believe you then. I thought you were just, you know, taking the piss out of me. You don't meet many intelligent Yanks in Europe, you know."

"Well, I wouldn't credit my 'Yank' initiative as much as my Italian girlfriend. It was her idea to practice our basic Greek on the ferry in from Brindisi yesterday."

At my mention of the word "girlfriend," the girl's face goes red and she puts her hand to her mouth. There is a beat before I realize what this means. The British girl was never really interested in my intelligence or my Greek skills. This whole time she thought I'd been flirting with her.

Fortunately, our awkward moment is broken by the reception clerk, and soon I'm headed back down to the pool area with a new key. I arrive to discover Valentina sitting by the Jacuzzi with a couple of English guys.

"'Valentina,'" one of them says to her. "That's a great name. That's a beautiful name. You don't find girls named Valentina in England."

As he's saying this, Valentina notices me walking up and gestures to me. "This is the traveling friend I was telling you guys about."

The English fellows stare at me blankly. Obviously, they'd assumed that Valentina's 'traveling friend' was female.

"Howdy," I say to them. "Where are you all from?"

Neither of the English guys takes another look at Valentina. After 30 seconds of pleasantries, they both excuse themselves.

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