38 posts tagged “vacation 07”

For my last full day in Europe the family split up.  Hughgag went with my aunt and uncle to London, B and K stayed and slept the sleep of the just in Amberley, and I went with my folks on a whirlwind tour of southern England.  This being the first time since childhood that I had traveled with my parents, I didn't know quite what to expect.  Let me tell you - they're a riot!  Take a normal couple of people seeing the sights and press fast forward.  That is my folks' version of things.  I love it.  Educational and entertaining, but efficient.

The perfect example of the FF phenomenon came pretty early in our day.  From Gatwick, we three drove through endless roundabouts towards Canterbury to see the famous cathedral there and the remains of the Roman wall that used to span practically half of the globe.  I got us to the town okay (I can read maps, I just can't trust my instincts otherwise), but of course once we got there we had no idea where to go.  Luckily we spotted steeple spires in the distance and drove in that general direction.  While doing so we passed what looked like rocks forming a wall so old that God could have cobbled it himself.  As the car positively whizzed by it I shouted, "Look - there's the remains of the Roman wall, Mother!"  She replied serenely, "Oh, good; I've always wanted to see that.  Now we can hit the cathedral and get out of here."  That was it.  No stopping, no walking on the wall, no pictures.  Just a three second glance was enough for her.  She'd seen it, time to move on.  Hilarious.

The cathedral was neat, too, although I have to say that I'm a little cathedraled out.  I'm not so much into churches as I am art, so I guess that explaines it.  The gothic architechture was cool, and the size of the place was staggering.  We also learned about the struggle of Henry the VIII against the anglican church and how some head bishop dude got murdered because of it, so I suppose it wasn't a complete loss.  I would just prefer to be looking at Rembrant rather than relics.

Much more to my taste was our second stop of the day, Hastings.  That's where the battle of 1066 took place between the Saxon king of England, Harold II, and the Duke of Normandy from France, Willaim the Conquerer.  Don't worry, I didn't know this stuff either before I went and saw where it happened.  Turns out this one battle changed the fate of England forever; the Normans are where we get our entire language and culture from.  I thought that was cool, that just one battle had enough weight and meaning to change the world forever.  We skipped the whole battle field and just went on the short walk (FF), and it was a great tour; in fact, it reminded me a lot of the battle museum at Gettysburg, which I've always liked, too.  All and all, well worth the time we spent there.

Since it was getting late and I needed to leave in the morning we headed back towards the airport via Brighton.  We were planning on staying there, but some confrence was in town and there were absolutely no rooms to be had.  Still, as we whipped through there we saw a couple of things that the guidbook talked about, so the 'rents checked Brighton off the list as having been seen (FF).  I don't know why I think their whole approach is so funny, but I totally do.

After more driving through sheep fields and hilly downs we found a gem of a hotel tucked away off the highway in a tiny little village.  Having my own room again was pure luxury; I don't think I'll ever take hotels for granted again.  Thank you, crazy hostels.  It was a nice way to end things, there with my folks.  This whole trip has been amazing and self empowering and just, oh, fabulous in more ways than I can describe here.  While I can't wait to get home, I know that I'll be back to this jam packed little continent just as soon as I can manage it. 

Au revoir, Europe - it's been great.

This whole checking in and out of hotels and hostels is getting to be a real bitch.  I think that there comes a point in every travel experience where you realize that you're really, really tired of living out of a suitcase and constantly being on the move.  For me, on this particular trip, that point was the day after the reception.  I mean, I've been annoyed occasionally about having to pack and unpack my sausage shaped hiking backpack every day, but this time I was livid.  Feeling rushed and tired of the constant search for items, I whirled around the hotel room cursing virulently and packing while my brother watched with bemusement.  For the first time, I feel like I'll be extremely glad to get home.

Enough of that nonsense, though, the day that followed after we checked out was awesome, and I shouldn't taint it with my tired mumblings about how put upon I am.  Traveling in Europe for three weeks, how horrible!  Hee.  I'm such a brat.  Anyways, we started the day out slowly, since some of the members of our group were feeling a little shaky.  Asprins were passed around like joints; no joke.  I guess that's one way to figure out that you're getting older.  After the painkiller buffet, we went for an ambling walk into Windsor to see the castle and just mooch around until our lunch date, once again with all twelve of the "kids."

Since it was a surpassingly gorgeous day we elected to sit outside on the deck of this little English pub.  It was wonderful; just sunny enough to be warm, and the company couldn't be beat.  Ever since I met K in San Fran when B started dating her, I've known that I absolutely adore her.  It doesn't surprise me at all, now, to see that her friends are just as funny and warm and nutty.  We spent the whole meal laughing and talking like we'd known each other for ages.  Thank goodness for my family, too.  With no way to get money, B and Hughgag have been footing the bill for me everywhere we go without the parental units.  I did have plenty of coin money, though, which led to comparisons of my little pouch to a purse that wouldn't have been out of place in Sherwood Forest.  So, now that little cloth sack will forever be known as my Robin Hood purse.  It came in handy to have all those pound coins, too; Robin Hood paid when we all got ice creams after lunch.  Killer funny - I should have tied the friggin' thing to my belt!

Saying goodbye to everyone after lunch was a long drawn out affair, but K, Hughgag, B and I finally hopped in the car and started our journey southward for K's parent's cottage.  Driving on the wrong side of the road was really doing my head in, plus, K is not the most confident of drivers.  She's yelling at B, "Call my father and ask him if we need to take this exit or the next, quickly, B!"  So what does B do?  Calls her father and starts out with opening pleasantries like, "Hey, J, how are you?"  K is screaming, "Quickly, B, quickly!!  Oh, too late."  While this whole debacle is going on the car is swerving a little wildly from right to left; brother and I are holding on for dear life and being vewwy quiet.  It was an adventure in driving, to be sure, but we eventually made it in one piece to Amberly, which is the site of the cutest cottages I've ever seen.  They all have thatched roofs and flowers curling round the garden gate.  It was just like I imagined it to be.

We got there just in time for cocktail hour, and everyone was making serious inroads into J and P's supply of Pimms before doing the same with dinner.  It seems like all I've done since retuning to England has been eat and drink lots.  I'm not complaining, of course; I'm just sayin'.

I was going to talk a little about brother's and my short last day in A-dam, but the worst thing happened on the train today.  My purse was stolen.  My purse with my camera, my wallet, my irreplaceable two years of service Wawa pen, and most of my life in it.  MY CAMERA WITH EVERY SINGLE PHOTO OF THE WHOLE TRIP WAS STOLEN.  It's gone forvever.  Pics of the night by the canal, gone.  Pics of the hallway parties in Nice, gone.  Pictures of the British Museum, the Louvre, the night on the beach, the dog in a helmet in Monmarte, the street performers, hot K on the pub crawl, gone.  GONE!!!!!!!!!  I'm screaming that in my head right now.  I can't put enough emphasis, enough exclamation points, enough bold print on that word.  Pictures are everything to me, and now I don't have them.  I feel like an appendage has been ripped away.  It looks so dramatic when I put it into print, but really, think about it happening to you; it is that dramatic.  I spent two hours in Brussels sobbing and snotting and reporting everything to a semi sympathetic policeman while missing trains and then trying to get onto the Eurostar without the credit card that I bought the ticket with.  Apparently my passport wasn't goddamn good enough. 

By the time I finally made it to the hotel in England, I was numb.  Not only was I stupid with unhappiness, but I was hours late, waiting forever for a taxi and completely exhausted physically and mentally.  I think that this day will go down in my personal history as one of the worst of my life.  Not as bad as the whole Mom has cancer day (she's cured now), but right motherfucking up there.  Reeeeaalllly close.  My dad commented on how lucky I was to still have my passport, but I would trade that thing in a hundred times over for my lost snapshots.  A passport is replaceable; my tangible memories are not.

I'm always the one taking pictures at events, and some of my friends have joked about me being paparazzi, like S before me.  But now I have disposable cameras, and I haven't taken one photo.  I feel like all the desire to be a shutterbug has been knocked clean out of me.  I refuse to let this ruin my whole memory of the trip, but it has put a big, greasy black smudge mark across it.

I'm pretty shattered about this.

I'm constantly amazed by the fact that on this trip I've actually been able to get up early day after day after partying my ass off night after night.  Maybe it has something to do with the location, or maybe I just feel obligated to go and see, I dunno.  Whatever it is, here's hoping that I'm able to carry this intangible over into my regular life.  It would be nice to hop out of bed raring to go to work every day.  It'll never happen, but a girl can dream...

The reason that I mention this at all is that Hughgag and I made it to the as it was opening!  Hurrah for us!  No lines, and no waiting; just a cafeteria opening for our delectation.  We found ourselves hungry that morning; I have no idea why, though.  After noshing down a selection of cheeses, cheese salads, and all other manner of dairy products, we were ready to be enlightened by one of the ultimate consumers of the little green fairy; Van Gogh.  Wow, he was definitely batshit insane, but he was also a visionary who still garners new disciples to this day.  For a guy who never sold a painting in his lifetime, he sure holds up well over the course of time.  Seeing as the top floor of the museum was closed (karma, what have I done?), we were left with plenty of the day to just wander around in the sunshine and stumble on a street market (interrupted by a stop into a coffeeshop).  After poking and prodding and generally just shopping, we decided that another meal was in order, seeing as it had been several hours.  has been like that, really.  A grudge match against my body; a constant round of musums, coffeshops, and snacks.  Mind boggling.

This time, though, we decided to have a proper meal at an Argentinean steakhouse, and it was fuckin' good.  I didn't even realize how much how much crappy on the go food I had been eating until I had some of the genuinely well prepared and nutritious stuff.  Yum, fooood.  Anyways, after that we headed for Dampkring, Rokerij and a smartshop for some of their famous mushroom tea, although brother didn't have any.  He's more of a coffee guy.  Then we were off on the wander again.  We did a lot of that; A-dam is a city that encourages aimless wanderers, for many reasons.

By this point it was heading towards evening, and H was getting tired.  I, on the other hand, was wide awake.  So, we went back to home base, he slept and I stared at the wall, and the light fixtures, and the TV, and my toes, and stuff.  It was fun!  I had no idea, though, how effed up I was until we ended up in the red light district.  To say that the RLD was crazy is putting it mildly.  Girls bouncing in windows with come hither expressions, pink neon everywhere, and packs of guys acting like ravening wolves on the prowl.  I was stunned.  Before this I had only seen what I guess what would be considered the normal parts of the city.  This was nothing like that.  The RLD is a  vivid caricature of the larger city.  More crazy, more permissive.  All the coffeeshops are Rasta, anything goes, and all the tourists loud and obnoxious.  Thanks to Hughgag, we also experienced the shystiest alley in Amsterdam.  No joke – this place was pretty haired out, and my state of mind didn’t help.  The alley, christened Shystenstraat by the clever one of the pair (not me), starts out as two graffitied cement walls less than an arms width apart.  It then widens to about six or seven feet across with girls in windows practically pressing against your face.  It was so wild.  I’m glad to say I’ve been down the old Shystenstraat, but I won’t be going there again.

The rest of the evening was fairly normal, or what passes for it here.  Did you know that there are places in the world where Heineken actually doesn’t make you want to vomit from the aftertaste?  There are, and one of them is A-dam.  That beer was friggin delicious.  After a quick stop at Dolphins, we went back to home base to chill and get ready for the jump tomorrow.  And then I stared at the walls some more.

The jump across town here in A-dam was the earliest of the trip yet.  Who makes check out time at nine friggin' thirty in the morning, huh?  That just ain't right!  Luckily, though, I was spared any necessity of being quiet while my myriad roomies slept.  Possibly it was unfair of me not to be quiet since some of the faces had changed, but, surprisingly enough, I really didn't care.  It was great, almost...liberating after a month of creeping around and cringing whenever noise was unavoidable.  You know what else?  This was my last day in a hostel!  Sayonara, suckers!  It's not that hostels haven't been the way to go on this little jaunt, but it is nice to have a real home base, one that doesn't kick you out in the middle of the day to clean the dorms.

Speaking of nice, when I got to the hotel expecting to have to wait (agin, agin, a-fucking-gin) to check in, I was informed that my room was already done being cleaned, and if I wanted to, I could move right in.  Heck, yes!  And there it was - my very own room.  Heaven.  Nobody waiting to use the bathroom, nobody sleeping in the middle of the day, nobody crowding you, being noisy, being any of the one hundred and one things that occur when total strangers live together in close proximity.  All was still and silent, and the bathroom was mad posh compared to what I'd been living with; best shower of my life, ahhh.

Anyways, it was about time to go pick up Hughgag at Barney's.  Once again I met people that I knew, although this was a little less weird, considering that they were from my Amsterdam hostel.  That made it more felicitous than holy shit incredible.  Still, felicitous is good, especially since I needed to kill some time before brother arrived.  And after what seemed like a very short and giggly two hours, there he was, rumpled and ready to party.  And party we did, folks.  The thing that has killed me about A-dam so far is the availibililty of everything.  It's like, here's a menu, here's a ton of choices, here's some stuff you've never even heard of, here's exactly what you asked for.  It's so goddamn easy that it blows my mind.  I mean, basically, the only rule is that you can't murder anybody.  That's all, just don't go around snuffing out life.  Other than that?  COOL!  You want it, you got it, and have fun doing it.  We're Dutch, and crazy!  Just don't kill anyone. 

In the afternoon we just wandered the city taking pics and visiting coffeeshops.  Hughgag has this theory that if you stand on any corner in Amsterdam for ten minutes you'll see some "wild Dutch shit."  Damned if he isn't completely right about that.  You people on Kwaj think we ride bikes?  We don't - not compared to these people.  They race around on bikes that look like they were made in the fifties, barely zooming in front of the trams and escaping death.  People sit on the backs of the bikes with total aplomb while the driver hauls ass up some steep bridge over a canal without even breathing hard.  We also saw some near crashes, some lady sprint into traffic and come out unscathed, and just, oh, general zaniness that seems to define the spirit of this city.  It's a phenomenally gorgeous place with quiet waterways and houseboats that look like they've grown where they're anchored.  The narrow, tall houses positively reek of age and culture that's been around for centuries.  It's amazing, especially when juxtaposed with the let it all hang out liberal feeling of life here in this modern port.  I love it here.

The night was more of the same, bouncing from place to place and getting majorly fucked up in the process.  it's not all about culture, peeps.  In the fuzzy whirl of events and places that comprised night the third, I stopped to realize how nice it was to have someone to rely on, to talk to, to laugh with who really knows me. 

I've had so much fun this trip, had so many hysterical 'man I'm fucked up' nights, but this one pops out as one of the best.  Not because anything really standout-ish happened, but because it was with Hughgag.  Plus, not for nothing, we were incredibly messd up.  That's always fun.

I had planned to sleep late on this last day of my vacation that I didn't have to be somewhere (or out, homeless) at a disgusting cow milking hour of the day.   Unbeknownst to me, though, I had found the Noisest Hostel In Chrisendom.  Seriously.  Up until now my experience with hostels has been really great.  Cheap rooms, cool people, a bed to sleep in and a pot to piss in.  Everything a girl traveling alone on a budget could want.  Despite the cramped quarters, most people are really good about trying to be quiet in the morning so that they don't JERK INNNOCENT ROOMIES OUT OF PEACEFUL SLUMBER WITH THE QUICKNESS.  Not this place, oh, no.  There was much bag rustling, water rushing, normal volume talking, and all kinds of awful and massively unecessary noise.  After about half an hour of struggling, I gave up the good fight and waved dreamland goodbye for the day.  Despite the early hour of my waking, I didn't get out of there until almost lunch because of the lack of more than one shower one each floor.  God!  This was the first hostel I've stayed in that I really didn't like.  As this was my last day alone in A-dam, I decided to bang out the two museums that my brother had already been to.  It turned out that two musums in one day, in Amsterdam, was monumentally ambitious. 

Before the artsy stuff, though, I had to scope out the meeting spot for tomorrow, Barney's.  With my abysmal sense of direction I like to get things all worked out ahead of time in order to prevent huge sobbing meltdowns ten minutes before I'm due to be somwhere.  Simplifying things only takes a little pre-planning (as I've belately learned).  Armed with two maps and my stripenkaart for the trams, I set off to do exactly that before I left the neighborhood.  That sorted, I figured I'd go and check out the Rokerij that my brother had highly recommended.  Heh, no pun intended.  The Rokerij was awsome, chill and quiet with little low round tables and muted lighting.  I had my first cup of tea for the day and settled in to figure out my route to the museums on the other end of town.  It didn't occur to me that I perhaps should have figured out the friggin' tram system before hitting the first coffeeshop of the day.  I stared and stared at my two maps for yonks trying to piece together how to get to the Rilks Museum.  I mean, I really stared a long time before I figured out what was going on.  Or so I thought.

I left the Rokerij and sprinted - sprinted - for the 9 tram that had just pulled up.  Having barely made it, I hopped up onto the tram congratulating myself on my cleverness.  That didn't last long.  As I informed the stripenkaart stamper girl of my destination, she cooly informed me right back that this particular tram didn't go there and I would have to switch.  That meant two more stamps on my stripenkaart, though, bugger.  Side note: can you tell I love that s word?  I do.  Striiiipppeeenkaaart, whee!  Ahh, back to the story now: to add insult to injury, when the correct tram finally arrived it was going the wrong way!  Cheeky bastard.  I got on anyway, and it did get me to my stop after what seemed an interminable time and endless stops announced in Dutch.

The Rilks Museum was cool, even though there are only about two hundred paintings on display right now due to construction until 2009.  This sort of thing keeps happening to me; do you think it's a kink in my karma?  Anyways, it was still fabulous.  I saw lots of Rembrants, including The Nightwatch, Vermeers, and various other Dutch masters.  I keep thinking that I'm going to get tired of all this museum stuff, paintings and whatnot, but I really haven't yet.  Maybe I will eventually reach that point.  Not yet, though, not now.  I'm still soaking it up like a caffine addict absorbs that first mouthful of coffee.  Delicious.

While finishing up that sucker a lot quicker than I had planned I decided that another stop into a coffeshop was past due.  Noon was only a block away, and a very mellow spot; mostly local.  I had to sit with other people since all the tables were taken.  Apparently it's a Dutch custom.  I think it's weird.  Luckily, though, the couple who were at the same table with me were cool, if a little low key for my style.  An hour slid into two, and I had to rush to get to the Anne Frank House before it closed.  Where does the time get to?

I managed to get the right tram this time, and actually found the AFH on the first try.  No wrong turns at all.  That's big, people.  And wow, the AFH simply blew me to smithereens in a totally different way than any other museum that had preceeded it.  With steps as steep as the hostel's, the actuality of standing where Anne's ordeal had taken place was incredibly poignant.  Seeing her own personal writing posted everywhere and tons of interviews with the people involved really made the whole thing real to me.  To think that a girl that talented could be so young, man.  And her pluck and casual courage snap things right into perspective for you.  Take it from me, your life rules.  That place was so worth a visit.  Amazing what the human spirit can do.

Soooo, all my highfaluting stuff done for the day, I headed back to my neighborhood.  In need of provisions, I beelined for Barney's.  I was standing and perusing the menu when I realized that the two people standing next to me were from the hostel in Nice, D and his grilfriend, umm... forgotten name goes here.  After many choruses of 'holy shit' and 'how the hell are you' we decided to chill there for a little while.  It was great.  We just laughed and bullshitted for ages.  With things humming right along in the land of milk and honey, we were having a marvelous time.  It was so good that we closed the place down.  Funny how things work out.  I never would have dreamed I'd run into people I knew, but it happened.  Cool.  It was a rockin' night; the unexpected ones are always like that. 

As I walked home by a different route, I reflected that I seemed to be getting to know the place pretty well.  Quickly, too.  Sort of like I've been here before, times without number.  I could definitely get used to the flow, the style here.  I quite decidedly like it.

Did you know that when small traveling circuses move towns they call it a jump?  Well, they do.  I learned that from reading romance novels - see - they're not as useless as you thought, huh?  Huh?  They're perfectly perfect at giving you useless trivia that you'll never use, and who doesn't need some of that action?  My somewhat long-winded point here being that this whole trip I've thought of it as a jump every day that I travel to another city.  It just seems like a good way to put it.

And this one?  This one was my longest jump yet.  Like Olympic long jumper gold medal winner long.  Ugh.  To make things worse there was the whole ball peen hammer/falling off the table thing to contend with.  I truly think that these are the worst injuries I've sustained in a drinking related accident (or maybe it just feels that way since I've been forced to travel the length and breadth of Europe today).  My one knee is about half again as big as the uninjured one, my shoulder is killing me, and my legs hurt in various specific spots.  And do you know what?  There's not one bruise to show for any of this pain, goddammit!  That really cheeses me off.  If you have to be in pain, why not get a few battle scars that you can show to your admiring public?  You know, like, "Check this one out!  Yeah, that's where I fell off a table.  Pretty knarly, huh?  (insert expression of awe here)  Well, that's just how I roll."  That would be a great conversation to have.  But noooOOOooo.  My body had to go and decide to hurt without showing its pain to the world.  It's stubborn that way sometimes; too independent to show vulnerabilities.  Crotchety old thing.

N-E ways, I didn't make the train at seven, duh, but managed to get on the nine thirty train by the skin of my teeth.  I slept a little, but some French dude had to go and wake me up wanting to check my ticket.  The nerve!  I think I was straight passed out, too, because when I awoke to his repeated "bonjour, madame"s, he sounded pretty exasperated.  That makes two of us, froggie.  Things got worse when he saw that I hadn't filled out my Eurail pass with the day's date, either.  He scolded me for it, but I was so stupified with sleep and hangover that I just kind of stared at him, dull eyed.  He looked at me, saw that I was a lost cause, gave it up, moved on, and left me wide fucking awake.

So here I am with not enough sleep, a hangover, and a bum knee.  When the train rolled into Paris, I was already ready to call it a day.  Ha!  I still had halfway to go.  To make things worse, I had to ride the Metro to a different station for the train to Brussels.  I thought this would be no problem (I am the master of the Metro!), but after walking several thousand miles (seemeingly), a couple of wrong turns and a crowded train ride later I found out I was wrong.  I did finally get on my train, though, and they served us food!  Food - my first of the day at four something.  Remind me never to do that again.  I will MAKE time to eat the next time I attempt something like this.

After another train change in Brussels, I was on my final leg.  The scenery was worth seeing, too.  It definitely made up for the hours of travel behind me (plus I was sitting down - it doesn't get much better than that).  It has constantly amazed me here in Europe how one little border can make so much difference in the landscape.  As soon as I was in the Netherlands, I could tell.  Little canals, twisty sets of row homes, and windmills everywhere.  Plus, some of the houses have kind of rounded roofs.  It really was the most darling thing.  Less darling was the guy sitting across from me, let's call him...Sir Nose Picker - Booger Eater.  In the state I was in I could have done without.  Yuck.  Still, I got there without loosing my meager food intake of the day all over Sir, and walked out of the train station into WINTER!  I'm sporting flip flops, a tee shirt and jeans from the south of France, and here in A-dam everyone is bundled up like the thaw is going to be a long time coming, liebshein.  Shit!

I actually found my hostel within the alotted time for a change, so I thought I was home free.  Then I opened the door and looked up at the steepest staircase I have ever seen.  Almost straight up.  The steps were so little that a midget's foot would have fit on there perfectly.  I had to laugh out of sheer exhaustion, and started to crawl up the steps.  Yes, crawl.  That's what they call it when you use your hands and feet.   What's a girl to do, though?  With my half as tall as me backpack and a laptop bag, I needed all the extra help I could get. 

Once I was checked in I pushed my tired body a little further to go get dinner and visit a coffee shop.  It was all right, but I think that I was just so tired that I couldn't take it all in.  Traveling for thirteen hours will do that to a Noodle.  Plus I was alone.  I'm getting pretty sick of that.

I've been terribly remiss about updating, my dears, but things have been insano crazy.  What with the Vegas style hit on A-dam and the reception and assorted other nonsense I simply haven't had the chance.  Fear not, though - it's all roiling around in my head and will be set down properly in due time.  Aged, like fine wine.  Gaaarrrk, I feel like I've flown the world half around.  Keep it locked - there's good stuff to come...tomorrow.

Let me give you a little unsolicited piece of advice, dear readers; never fall off a table the night before travelling the whole length of France, plus a couple countries in addition, just for a giggle.  Actually, come to think of it, don't fall off tables full stop.  I felt...bad.  Yeah, bad.  Not so much hungover as beaten with a ball peen hammer.  More on that later.

Anyways, I thought that my last day in Nice was going to be a bunch of errands, and that did take up a large part of it.  And no little bit of that was blogging.  For three hours I blogged away while the sun shown down on the ocean.  But, strangely enough, I'm at the point where I have to do it.  I feel itchy when I don't get things all down in words and out of my head.  I scribble little things down on on random bits of paper all the time.  It's really quite ridiculous. 

After work was done for the day I meandered down to the shore to take some pictures of the coast.  I dipped my feet in the old Med, just for been there - done that rights, bought a decent bottle of wine for a change, and headed back to Hostel Crazytown.  J and new Nineteen Year Old roomie and I decided to have dinner, and pointed ourselves towards the proper road.  That dinner consisted of J and I having a normal conversation and NYO making somewhat apalling and inane coments.  I remember those days, though, so I was inclined to cut him a little slack.  It was a good dinner (mmmm, escargot), food, company, and all.

I don't know about NYO, but J and I were going to pack for our different trips tomorrow and drink in the hallway like we did every night.  Not this night, though, baby.  One half of the hostel was going to eat dinner and then go to Wayne's, and the other half were going to drink at the ca-razy hostel and then go to Wayne's.  No kidding, to a man, everyone was going to Wayne's in that whole hostel.  J and I waffled (knowing we shouldn't before a trip), but even in my case, I gave up with a measely chorus of, "Shit, shit, shit!"  And started packing and getting orgenzied for real.  I also cracked that bottle of wine open.  It was gooood.  Light and fruity and melty in my mouth good.  Some of the best wine I've ever had.  After we got ready, we stayed still for a good hour and a half and just pre-gamed and shot the shit.  Sufficiently drunk that we wouldn't have to spend a fortune to maintain at the bar, we strode out confidently and crookedly for Vieux Nice, and Wayne's.

This place was nutzo, crawling with tourists of all stripes, along with the occasional local on the make thrown in for flavor.  No shit - the beers in there were fucking six euros.  No wonder all the emphasis on the drinking beforehand.  In fact, I think that huge double-deuce of Desperado out on the street on the way to the club might have been too much.  With my six euro beer I followed the Canadian girls right into chaos.  Everyone dancing on table tops and singing like crazy.  As soon as there was a spot, all the girls hopped up.  We sang, we danced, we posed for pictures.  After a few songs, though, I needed a rest - and some water.  J held out a hand and I pressed on the stool to make sure it was solid.  All seemed well so I really stepped for serious this time.  That was when shit got crazy.  I felt the wretched thing tilt right out from under me.  I went down in a hurry, but managed not to fall on my ass before I untangled my legs from the "so called" stool.  I kept my feet - well, with a lot of wrenching on my arm to keep me upright from J.

I needed to rest, and J was nice enough to chill with me and S, who was also feeling it.  She and I decided that we were donzo for the night, and would walk home.  Not a long trip, no probs, right?  Hahahahaha!  This is me we're talking about here, and apparently someone who's sense of direction was equally bad.  We wandered for what seemed like hours.  I truly don't think that we would have made it home at all if two guys hadn't taken the time to steer us right (this was after we had passed them several times).

Strangely enough, when we finally did make it back to the hostel I was energetic to wash and bang down a ton of fresh strawberries.  THEN I passed out. 

Good lord, I'm getting to old for this shit.

My twelve hour sleep made all the difference in the world.  I woke up refreshed and ready to be lazy. 

I wandered around a little bit before settling on a seaside cafe to have lunch at.  God, everything was so bright and sunny and pretty, but funnily enough, I was reminded of the Jersey Shore.  The water's nicer, of course, and everyone is nattering away in French, but other than that it's remarkably similar.  Same shops selling towels and rafts and beach toys, same smell, same sunburnt tourists.  It's bonkers.  I came halfway around the world to go downna shore.  After my very looong lunch (dining is an event here), I ended up back at the hostel.  The door is troublesome, but I was ready to give it a go.  As I was getting my keys out, though, the buzzer sounded WITHOUT ANY PROMPTING FROM ME.  I thought, cool, and went in.  As I got to the proper floor some French lady was looking at me enquiringly.  I kind of shrugged, and she started screaming in French, "I am not the concierege!!!!"  I responded by looking stunned.  When she repeated it from behind her door I shout back at her ineffectually in English that I hadn't pushed the friggin' thing!  She was my first official rude French person.  I did not push the button.  Anyways, after repeating the story a couple of time to the people in the hostel, I felt loads better.  N, a really cool Aussie chick, and I decided to get some books and have a wander round the old part of the city.

It was super fun, both the scenery and the company were just right.  That's one of the things that I love about travelling like this; you meet so many people who are from different places and have things to relate and stories and different viewpoints.  It's enlightening and humbling all at the same time.  We just walked and chatted and shopped idly.  After all that walking we decided a beer was definitely in order.  We sat for ages and chilled until it was time for dinner.  N had brought us to this nifty little place where you just buy a plate of food for a couple euros and then sit down at the nearby bar to eat it.  Three words I love; cheap, food, and bar.  It was a good way to while away a sunny afternoon.  The only sour note was the French dude who yelled at me for pulling two patches in bags off of their hooks (made out of twist ties).  He saw what I was doing, why didn't he come and help us?  He kept repeating, "You have broken them, you see?  The bags, the little plastic bags that I have millions of right in the drawer here, you have broken them!!!  I will actually have to replace the bag instead of sitting on my ass smoking!  You have broken the plastic bags!  You must buy them!"  Okay, maybe that's not exactly what he said, but I know it's what he meant.  I'm sure it is.  I bought one, but left him angry when I wouldn't buy the other.  Douche.  Today was rude bitches day, man!

By the time we got back to the hostel the nightly hallway party had already started.  I was practically hopping up and down while my wine was chilling.  Everyone else was drinking; I wanted to, too!  Of course, the boys from the room next to me were drinking little pony beers, so when I finally started I wasn't really behind.  In fact, M from Canada got so fed up that he yelled into the room, "This is a joke; where's the Jack?!?"  More hilarity ensued when more people showed up and we discovered there were no more cups.  The American boys had to drink out of a giant tin mug and a teeny tiny teapot.  That's right; a teapot - through the spout.

Once yet more people showed up we decided to get more provisions and have a mass exodus to the beach.  We did, and it was superb.  If the beach weren't made of pebbles it would have been even better, but we had bunches of those deeply philosophical conversations that can only take place when you're really drunk.  We laughed and were very serious and peed in public. 

We had music; wine and convivial company.  It was the perfect end to a nearly perfect day.