We check in at our hostel, drop our bags, drop our clothes, and crawl into bed. We sleep for about 4 hours to catch up from the previous night’s lack. Finally we start moving and head to the grocery store where we purchase rations which obviously include several bottles of cheap vino. Come back to the hostel, cook a dinner which includes vegetables for the first time in probably 3 weeks and begin punishing our grape juice while our digestive tracks suddenly battle the influx of vitamins to which they are unaccustomed. Ryan starts to get a little tipsy and strikes up a convo with some Aussies and an Irish guy who works at the hostel. Somehow he convinces me to go out that night. It went something like:

R: “Hey Ben, you want to go out with these guys?”
B: “Yeah sure, I don’t care.”

Convincing me to go out is about as easy as Geico auto insurance.

We head out with this hilarious group of Australians that somehow even though they don’t know each other, they are all from the same city and all equally alcoholic. I guess it’s not that hard when the city is Sydney and they are Australian.

We bounce around a couple of bars until we hit one which is completely deserted…except for a foos-ball table. Apparently the men from down under love the game and immediately load the table. They have an open spot and me screaming “Put me in coach, I can do it!” from the side. So I fill in not having played really since high school when my buddy owned a table. Let the good times roll because these guys blow and were easily steam-rolled by Ben “Quick Wrists” Click. I received that nickname for several reason but that’s not the point here. After several beers and games we cruise to the next bar.

San Sebastian

Upon entering we spot two decent looking girls at the bar. I walk up to order a drink and begin speckling them with the ole Click Charm. They are American. Ryan starts wingmaning the other. My girl was in a study abroad program and never went back to America and became an au paire yet somehow said she had two degrees? I did not question this discrepancy because I quickly realized how boring she was. Somewhere along this one-sided conversation Ryan blurts out, “Hey Ben, want to go to Bordeaux? This girl (other girl) lives there and says we can stay with her on our way to Lyon.” I respond with my usual lackluster, “Yeah ok, why not?” Ryan gets her number.

Ryan walks to go somewhere. His girl stands up from the bar. She is HUGE. I burst into laughter under my breath. Ryan returns and comments on how big she was once she stood up and tears up her number (the next day).

The Aussies say that they are leaving and sensing that this is my only escape from Only-Decent-Girl-Who-Won’t-Shut-Up, we go too. Things start to get a little blurry here, mainly because I am writing this several days later. But the Aussies decide to go to a club and Ryan wants to go too. I tell him that I am heading home (for once on this trip I am the voice of reason) and so he follows. But he doesn’t just follow. He jumps out in front of the herd I was leading and walks alone. Aussies ask what my friend is doing. “Oh he always does this. He has the map and he won’t tell you where he’s going.” We follow him home circa 4 am.

Next day, pretty boring. Cloudy weather. Went on a heterosexual hike then I went to the beach to oogle at boobies through my sunglasses (no matter how mature you think you are, every guy does this) while Ryan stayed indoors to read. That night Ryan continued his indoor stakeout and internet playing while I went out with some American guys and some French-Canadian girls…who absolutely sucked. The girls played leapfrog and tag while we walked to the bar. Then they sang songs inside the bar trying to out-voice the actual person hired to sing at the pub. And they were awful. After some beer chugging and belittling the French-Canadians, the Americans decide we need a better selection of girls. I don’t know what really happened to this idea because I woke up in my bed (chugging pints typically ends in this fashion). Meh, oh well. I didn’t wake up with any scars, physical or mental so I shrugged it off.

Off to Lyon to meet up with my friend, Amy who is just beginning to study abroad. We get to the local station and have the train lady set us up with a sweet set of connections in Paris (France) and then to Lyon which should get us there by 6 or 7 pm. We get on the train and I fall asleep because of my at this point habitual hangover. I wake up after about 4 hours and Ryan informs me that gentle train lady screwed us over big time because she made our train to Lyon leave before our one to Paris actually arrived. Shit balls. One would think that with the level of sophistication and clarity of the European train system, there would be some idiot-proof computer solution that would protect against this sheer stupidity. Shouldn’t be that big of a deal because trains to Lyon from Paris leave every hour, right?

What do you think now-time-invested reader, having read of our past luck with trains?

We get to Paris and head to the Gare de Lyon which almost exclusively serves the Lyon area to reserve our new seats. There we are informed that the next available train leaves at 9 pm…and the station is at the end of the line. Cursing the hag railway lady who will hopefully die miserable and alone, we board the train to our station. It takes us an hour to get there. We try to leave the station. Like DC metro stations, you have to use your ticket to leave the station in addition to entering. This effing gate says our tickets our invalid because we did not use them in the allotted one hour time frame. Well, no shit we didn’t because the stupid station is almost in Germany and took us over an hour to get there. Not the worst part oh no you little eager beavers. There are no machines on the inside of the station to buy new tickets to get out. What the hell kind of perverted system is this where I am sure the stupid frogs are watching us on security cameras and laughing while eating baguette and cheese and discussing how they didn’t REALLY need any help in either of the Great Wars. Using a trick we saw on MacGyver once, we finally just throw our bags through and squeeze through a door with a tiny gap. Sadly, an English lady in the same predicament couldn’t fit through.

We left her.

Oh well, we’re going to hell anyway.

Ryan at EuroDisney!

We get outside the station and realize where we are…EURO DISNEYLAND! This fact alone almost alleviates our anger and frustration with the days events. We take pictures and I giggle like I was 7 again getting Goofy’s autograph and getting ready to ride Space Mountain during which I almost pee my pants and have to recite in the words of Kevin McCallister, “It’s only my imagination.”

Childhood was a mixture of triumphs and hardships for me.

Eventually we get to Lyon, find our hotel and pass out while watching Wet, Hot, American Summer (cult classic for you mainstreamers out there). The next day we sleep in until 2 pm and go grab some lunch, wine, and do some day drinking because hell, we won’t know anything in Lyon and were not interested in the Letter Press Museum, the Silk Weavers Museum, or the Museum of Musical Instruments that were the highlights of our map.

We meet up with Amy and her roommate for studying abroad and grab some dinner and bottles of wine and champagne. We pregame and head out to bars with surprise surprise Ryan leading the pack. We go to a Spanish bar because I can actually speak Spanish (and all my linguistic thinking was still in Spanish) and place an order without looking too retarded. Based on previous successes I order a round of tequila shots. I recall Amy’s dismay as some mixture of muffled “I can’t, I can’ts” and ferocious head shaking. I give her the old Click pep talk and we shoot. She downs the whole thing and is giddy because apparently that is her first full shot ever (she used to take them in sips) and a pretty wicked one at that. We applaud and congratulate her for successfully graduating from 11th grade. We go to a club and it is deserted and expensive so we try to find better ones. Ryan just asks people on the street in English while the two French speakers hide nervously in the wings. This bodes well for their study abroad experience.

Megan, Amy, Ben in Lyon

Circa 3:30 am we decide to get in a cab to go to a club…only after learning that our cab driver just started and doesn’t really know where to go. We drive around for a bit and watch the meter climb. I notice Amy’s roommate starting to freak out a little. Apparently she needs to puke…soon. I tell her to effing hold it until we get her home because that’s where we are headed. We bid Amy and terrible drunk roommate adieu and go back to our hotel.

Two hours sleep and we wake up to catch our train BACK to Paris. So close to being done with this not sleeping thing I can almost cream my pants.

Now if you will excuse me I am going to fondle my sweaters.

I mean…make fondue with cheddar. Yeah.

Day 40

Due to yet another set back at the train station, this time in Valencia, we arrived fully prepared to depart at 2pm and had to wait until 9pm. The trip to Madrid isn’t the shortest on earth so we arrived a little after 1am with no idea as to where our hostel was and so decided to swallow our pride and pay out for a taxi as we hadn’t slept the night before either and were awkward smelling zombies meandering through the turnstyles. As our luck would have it the taxi driver had no idea either even though we had the proper address, when it was all said and done we entered our hostel at 2am dripping from the pre-dawn rain and only a five minute walk from the main train station, ten euro’s poorer for the cabbie of course. Tension brewing, exhaustion setting in.

Royal Palace = Kinda Weak

Day 41

We awoke quite late on Monday and as I had been to Madrid before and it was raining I set out to give Ben the highlights. For those of you who have never been, you can skip Madrid, I know it seems odd to say about a capital city but there really isnt that much history to witness as compared with other stops around it and the nightlife is shit compared to Barcelona and other coastal cities.

After a family-trip-esque tour of the Royal palace we walked through the center of the city before the showers picked up and we made for the hostel. Dispite a natural US citizen hesitancy, Ben and I have both gotten into the EuroCup 2008, its pretty sweet and its on every night almost so you always have pregame entertainment before going out. Ben made some dinner to watch the evening’s Cup matches at the hostel and we had our first encounter the Indian family that really got my anger building.

Hostels are for young people, and yes I actually qualify for young over here, most reputable hostels have rules saying 18-30 only, it keeps them from being booked up by cheap, pervish older people or families looking to save a few bucks, apparently this didn’t apply to “Mad”Hostel in Madrid. A family consisting of a lazy and apparently incredibly cheap father, a similarly lazy and drunk 15 year old son, a prissy teenage girl and a fugly mother who rocks sweatsuits like UVA girls sport multicolored belts, and will do anything to ensure that she watches all the younger hostelmates cook their dinner, awaiting her opportunity to make a crazy
4-course curry dinner for her “family.” I’m sure you can see my bloodpressure was rising at the very sight of this gypsy bazar, Ben’s
was too but mainly because the mom kept interupting his cooking to check the kitchen and hoard pots and pans for her planned Michelen Star dinner coming up two hours later. “10 fucking minutes you crazy New Dheli bitch!” If your kids are rich enough to have laptops and drink can after can of 1euro beers, you can stay at a hotel, end of story. We took it fairly easy that night, watched a few matches, drank a few bottles of wine from our Nalgene’s (yea this suck ass hostel didnt allow outside booze even though they had their bar closed all week for some reason) and crashed for the night. Still not mad at each other but sufficiently angry with the outside world to suffer an anuerism.

Day 42…

It began like any other, get up get dressed and start out for the day. We hit the major sites, the Prado muesum followed by the Parque del Retiro for lunch. It really is a beautiful city but when you’re this tired and have seen as much as we have in the past 6 weeks it takes a city like Paris or Rome to actually get you excited about a day of walking around and pointing at buildings. Returning to the hostel after the day of wandering we were exhausted and settled in for dinner and some wine. Fuck if the crazy family from hell didnt decide to sit down at our table for dinner, well this just ruined the afternoon and the bowl of whatever they
made, that I guaruntee you wouldn’t eat on a dare, filled the whole bar with an aura of crap that turned everyone’s happiness down a notch or two. We decided to shake it off and go out for a Euro favorite the organized “Pub Crawl.” Unbeknownst to us our blood was boiling from all the little ticks of six weeks of day to day travel and that we were only a few hours away from letting it all out.

Ben + Working Girls

A few of our hostelmates joined us as seems to happen no matter where you say you’re going and we hit the road for the crawl. At another hostel bar we had a pint and joined the other revelers to set out for a few bars with free drinks followed by “the best club in Madrid”. I put it in quotes because I’m not sure we ever got to a “club” let alone the best in Madrid as we were joined by a couple hired girls. I’m not sure how to say I knew they were trouble, lets just say God would never have designed women this disproportioned in their upper bodies, one slight gust of wind would put these girls to the ground boobs first and I’ve thrown enough water balloons to assume they would be in trouble. They were headed by a tiny girl who looked like she belonged on the set of a reproduction of Willow directed by Russ Meyer and it took a little talking to Ben to have him understand that these ex-pat tarts weren’t looking for a good time at no ones expense, we hit the road.

Now until this point we had been pulled around the city and through bars by someone who knew where they were going and for one of the only times on this trip, except perhaps for Munich, I had no fucking idea where we were. After a few minutes, maybe 30, of trying to navigate the streets with the tiny map I had in my back pocket Ben decides he’s had enough. We stop. It begins with a few comments from Ben about my navigation that evening and then quickly takes a slide toward a real argument when Ben starts shouting a few things he later asked to take back. I haven’t been angry in about 12 years and didn’t get angry this night either, I’m pretty sure the fact that I wasn’t going to shout back got Ben even more ticked off but he’ll have to comment on this himself.

Somehow in all the yelling I get a nose-bleed, I know it sounds childish but hell, for all I know thats what happens when I get mad its been that long since either. Ben starts to calm down once he realizes whats happening and agrees to go find some paper towels as I
lose about a pint and a half of blood on the streets of Madrid and we weren’t any closer to finding our hostel anytime soon.

I know it’s not what you were hoping for but what can I say, we just haven’t had reason or perhaps energy to actually throw fists yet. We made up and there’s a pretty funny video of me trying to get cleaned up as a car is very confused as to why my hands are covered in blood, we’ll try and get it up shortly. Ben agrees that perhaps the best way to make up for this blow out is to hit up a strip club and while I agreed, the strip club seemed to get a tip from the Heineken Experience and the Acropolis and was closed upon our 5am arrival. Tired and bloody we headed back to the now obvious location of the hostel at 530am and got up at 7am for our train to San Sebastian. An hour or two of sleep has become a staple of this trip and I can say that we are both better people after a long, sober, nights rest. But this is the trip of a lifetime, we have this blog and our pictures to keep our memories vibrant so we drink early, we drink often, we go out at 1am, and we get home when the sun comes up, because we’re in Europe and this is the only time we will be able to get away with it.

Ben’s Semi-Coherent Recollection of the Fight:

Yes, I went on a pub crawl. Yes, I got drunk. And yes, I did not know that the girls I was talking to may or may not have been part of the world’s oldest profession. Now, as I have said before, I let Ryan lead the way usually and blindly follow because I am pretty sure that maps and directions are some form of erotic literature to him. So on this night after the crawl (the end part I do not remember either) we wandered the streets per usual with Ryan leading the way and giving me no input as to whether he knows or doesn’t know the right way. It wouldn’t bother me if he just told me he was lost but it’s his refusal of admission that began to finally irritate me. I demanded the map and for him to point to where we were. He relunctantly handed it over and cockily asked me to
find the way. At this point in my alcohol induced state, I don’t think I could have picked a cow from a barnyard line up, much less read tiny street names and a map. I grew more frustrated at my own inability and took it out on Ryan. While some of the things I said may have been warranted from some of our experiences, others were not (and I did apologize the next day). Eventually Ryan left me and began to walk away with the map and I realized that I am bound for jail or a mugging if I didn’t find my way home. So I followed him. But he was upset (no matter what he says about his anger level) with me and kept turning around and yelling at me to leave. So I went Gollum on his ass and creepily stalked around the corners as he walked. Then I noticed that he stopped walking and was doubled over holding his head. I approached him and found him profusely bleeding from his nose. My cloud of rage and anger slowly lifted as I looked at this guy, with his clean shaven boyish looks helplessly oozing his own blood from his face. I decided to be
a big boy and help him. I went to find some paper towels and waited with him while he stained the streets of Madrid a dark maroon. Yes, we partially made up enough to try and find a gentlemen’s club and the video we will post is possibly my favorite documentary evidence of this trip, mostly because of the way he holds his hands while waiting to get his hands clean, how he cleans his hands, my comments as he washes up, and his final words as the video closes. Gold, Jerry, gold.

So with maybe an hour of REMless sleep, we head off to the train station. Ryan is not speaking to me the next morning. It takes me a while to piece together the previous night’s altercation. But while on the extremely overcrowded metro with my pack on, someone keeps bumping me. I hear an Australian accent call to me and a man to my right says, “Hey mate, you might want to watch yourself because he is a pick-pocket and is trying to work you.” The fellow immediately behind me jumps off the train almost instantaneously. I guess it takes an inhabitant of an island of criminals to know one.

We hopped a train to Valencia in hopes of possibly meeting some UVA kids or else just sitting on the beach and falling into unconsciousness. Naturally I think I slept most of the way there; however, due to the crazy night prior, I had not taken out my contacts. I have very sensitive eyes not to sound like a bitch. But my bloodshot right eye would not stop watering, therefore, I could not stop sniffling, consequently, it looked like I was crying in my sleep the entire ride like I had just seen The Notebook for the first time. (Ryan’s Interjection, he is a bitch or I’m an idiot, as I have yet to take out my contacts on this trip.)

We check in to our hostel and immediately decide its nap time. This is circa 3 pm.

7 pm. We wake up and agree to eat dinner. We know its very early for dinner in Spain but eff it, we were hungry.

8 pm. We finish dinner and go back to sleep.

11 pm. We wake up. Decide to watch some American TV.

12 am. Back to sleep.

10 am. Wake up.

In total we slept about 18 hours that day, the most I have ever slept in a 24 hour period. My circadian clocks are completely out of sync right now.

Valencia Beach

We go to the beach all day and just relax. Valencia has some nice beaches. And by nice beaches I mean tatas everywhere. Also the sand was so small and soft that the entire playa (Spanish for beach for you ar-tards that didn’t take Spanish) felt like those mattresses made from NASA space foam. It was a calm, peaceful day.

We meet some girls at the hostel and head out with them that night. We wander around looking for some good bars to start with and eventually to head to the infamous Spanish nightclubs.

A) These girls are not very attractive. We had no options at our fugly hostel.
2) They are not very fun.
III) We could not find a very sweet club to go to where I could pretend to be interested in these girls only to use them as bait to entice other, better looking females to talk to me.

Night 2 ends in disappointment. Can’t all be winners (these girls weren’t).

Day 3. Go to the beach again. What can I say? Valencia doesn’t really have much to see and I could care less about a big statue of Christopher Columbus. Typical beach day, nothing exciting.

We switched hostels that day because of a booking conflict and did not look back. The new hotel was HUGE. Something like 75 beds. Naturally I pass out upon check in and Ryan runs down and fiddles on the internet for several hours. He befriends a cute girl traveling alone (like a lion selecting the weak gazelles). We three go out to dinner, where I barter a street vendor for Nikki (her name) to purchase a sunshine flower and come back to start pregaming. We head to the enormous kitchen where there are about 30 people already slamming beers and bottles of wine. Giddy up.

Hostel Drunk Group Shot

We meet some guys from Tennessee studying in Madrid and Ryan pulls a perfect match. This guy looks EXACTLY like Wolf from the new American Gladiators. A clone, about 4 years behind the original. Per usual we head out with a group of about 15 people to a bar I discovered the previous night where I bought 5 tequila shots (Jose Cuervo double shots), expecting to lose about 50 euro, and ended up being only 3 euro a shot. Cheapest shot we have encountered besides Chupitos.

I decide to play Alpha male and lead the group in. I order 15 shots of tequila. I turn around. Somehow half the group has disappeared.

Sidenote: The next day we see the guys we lost and ask what happened. They say that one kid said to follow him to this place which sounded awesome. It turned out to be an ice cream shop. They tried to come back to the bar but we were gone.

So it is about 8 people now, 4 guys 4 girls. Naturally people have to double up on double shots to make these things go away. One girl has that crazy look in her eyes and slams them both back no problem. I can see where she is headed–Gutter Ball city. No less that 10 minutes later she is a wreck and has to be taken home by the guy she is clinging to.

“You, me, bar, beers – buzzed. Wings, shots – drunk. Waitresses – hot. Football – Cornell/Hofstra – slaughter. Then a quick nap at my place and we hit the tizown.” (Thanks to Ben II, Hoelsch for the quote)

Well we end up at a disco dancing like crazy. I end up checking a girl for cavities while Ryan, Nikki, and Sunshine (our baby flower’s name) watch. Ryan is still entertaining hopes of hooking up with Nikki. I realized earlier in the night that this was not her steeze and moved on. (Ryan’s Interjection, good body, dark hair, I never thought I had a thing until now.)

Everyone leaves.

Except for me and Girl-Who’s-Name-I-Don’t-Know-But-Isn’t-Stupid-Enough-To-Ask-Me. We end up leaving the club at around 5:30 am and realize that neither of us have a map nor any idea where we are. Still playing Alpha male, I lead us home somehow. Additional info: For the first two days in this city I did not wear contacts and Ryan was my seeing eye dog; therefore, on this night when I finally could see, I had absolutely NO idea where I was nor could I recognize ANYTHING.

Somehow we made it back and for some reason or another I decide that I don’t really want to hook up with this girl. I think I pictured Ryan shaming me for my decisions, even though this girl wasn’t that bad (concurrence from Ryan the next day).

Pass out. Wake up thinking that we are going to catch an early train. Drunkenly pack and stumble to the train station. Trains to Madrid: Sold Out. Hey, we have a Eurail Pass. We can just get on a train. We have done it before. Ahhh but Spain. I don’t know whether it is cause of the train bombing several years ago but they actually have a security line similar to an airport to board trains. We pass security but they ask for our ticket. Access Denied.

We make the only reservations available for the 9pm train and head back to the hostel where we just sloth around with Nikki and watch an undeleted-scene version of Dumb and Dumber (which I have never seen and highly suggest it).

Get on a train. Pass out. Next stop: Madrid.

No sleep. Exhaustion. Fatigue. Hangover. All setting in at once. I write this not having slept in about 3 days so forgive my lackluster style and any incomprehensible babbling that I stumble upon.

So we finally got to Barcelona. Finally a Spanish speaking city. Finally we can communicate in a semi-intelligible manner with the native people. Finally.

Except the major dialect in Barcelona is Catalonese so the signs and streets are a mixture of Spanish and French. And Ryan’s excitement for speaking Spanish results in him using spanglish, por ejemplo “two aguas.” I laugh and encourage him to really speak spanish. Oh well.

So we get to our hostel late on the first night courtesy of stupid trains and check in. People are pregaming, having a good time so I think, “Hey alright another cool hostel.” Until I read the signs plastered on the walls.

No getting drunk or large bottles of alcohol. No one in the main room after 24:00. Plastic only. Rules everywhere. Well I don’t play by anyone’s rules, not even my own.

The first night we just crash cause it had been a long travel day. No stories to share really besides Ryan being verbally accosted by a prostitute demanding to give him a blow job. You know, normal stuff.

Inside the Sagrada Familia Construction

The next day we woke up early and headed out. Fortunately, Ryan has been to Barcelona before so he knew which sites to see and which to skip. We went to the major Antoni Gaudi places. For those of you unfamiliar with Gaudi (which I was until the train ride to Barcelona) he was an infamous architect who designed some of the most astonishing buildings in history. Astonishing because they are so weird. You will have to look at the pictures to really see it but it was really amazing. We visited Gaudi’s world famous Sagrada Familia Cathedral which was started in the late 1800s and is still not done. It was estimated to take 300 years to finish at the initial start. With modern technology they are aiming to complete it by 2026, the 100 year anniversary of Gaudi’s death. Ridiculous.

Ok on to the good stories. The second night was a Tuesday. I was messing around in the main room looking through their books when I stumbled across a “Party Europe” travel guide. If I could make a theme for our trip, this was it. So I immediately flipped to Barcelona and read about all the crazy bars and discos. Tuesday night. Go to Chupitos was the resounding chorus from the different writers. Chupitos means shots in Spanish and this is what they do. Shots. Nothing else. And they have about 250 unique, can’t find anywhere else shots. Game on.

So we suit up and recruit the majority of our hostel to tag along on our quest for what is certain to be a really drunk night.

Shots on Fire at Chupito’s

We get to Chupitos and it is pretty crowded. At least it existed and the 2006 book didn’t lie. It is hot. Very hot. Then I realize why: they light the entire bar on fire with almost every shot. Spraying what must have been pure ethanol from squirt bottles and essentially caramelizing the fruit they put on top of the different shots. It was nuts. So of course Ryan and I are sporting our ignorant American baseball caps this night and we meet a bunch of study abroad kids and one girl. I think she is kind of cute. She gives me her number and invites me to come over and watch the soccer game the following evening. Ryan is the first to inform me of my alcohol goggles (not beer goggles due to only shot consumption). She was only kind of attractive. Maybe.

We stumble back to the hostel and pass out only to be awoken two hours later by roommates leaving and packing up. The sun is out. I declare that I have seen all that I care to see in Barcelona and demand to be taken to the beach. I typically haven’t taken charge on this trip mainly because I think Ryan gets his jollies from logistical planning and map reading so I let him have it. So when I make demands, Ryan typically listens. To the beach.

First we need towels. We stop at a convenience store next to the beach. They have three towels. One something that I don’t even know what, one Bob the Builder, and one Tweety Bird. Score. Then we spot the refrigerated section and something sparkly catches Ryan’s eye. Canned, cold, white wine? Is this heaven? We fill our arms, giggle as we pay, and skip to the beach with our golden refreshments. Following what I think is a Bear Grylles tip, Ryan buries our wine in the sand to stay cool. (Ryan’s interjection: it worked, cold wine all afternoon, and Bear Gryll’s is a fake piece of shit, ok I’m done now.)

We get drunk. And the vendors keep coming by offering massages, beers, chips, henna tattoos, sunglasses, the works. As a result of our constant denials, Ryan and I come up with the ingenious business plan to create signs that just say “NO GRACIAS” and you stick them into the ground next to you. Then, I am fairly certain under the Geneva Convention, you are allowed to castrate and fatally wound any solicitor that approaches you. PS: we have already put in for the copyright and patent and stuff so don’t think about stealing it. We also have a new line of variations such as “Go to Hell” and “I eat babies” Order forms available soon.

When Ryan gets drunk he slings around money like Caesar to the plebes. First its beers. Buzz concentrating. Then it’s sunglasses. I declare that if he pays for them, I will wear big white sunglasses like all the cool kids in Europe. Naturally they are girls sunglasses. He buys and I can’t back down. I look ridiculous. Then we make friends with some French Canadians sitting nearby. Ryan starts drinking from their bottle of champagne and speaking in Spanglish. They do not comprehend Spanish. I shrug my shoulders. Ryan disappears. Then one of the Canucks points over and asks what my friend is doing. I realize immediately that Ryan is bartering with a henna tattoo person. Trouble.

I am at the point in the trip and this day of my alcohol induced buzz that I don’t care. Bring it on. Seal had graciously supplied us with some funding for a gay moment on this trip. I suggest that perhaps a tattoo with the name “Ryan” in it is a good gay memento. I forget how long henna tattoos last. And so it is. I get a gay tattoo on my back. No big deal.

We head back, pass out, wake up, start pregaming. Two girls that I semi-recall meeting that afternoon come in and start drinking with us. They are cute. No goggles this time. They ask if they can come along with whatever we are planning that night. Sure thing.

We head out and after some aimlessly wandering trying to find a bar “between these two plazas with an 8-ball on the sign” according to girl from previous night, we go to a bar that this cute girl knows.

It starts getting hazy here but I recall shots of tequila, pitchers of sangria and beer, and more drinks. It was unanimously decided that it should be dance time we head to a disco.

Next thing I know this girl is eating my face and I look over and see Ryan’s girl doing the same. I love Europe. We dance and make out and decide we should “get out of here.”

Ben and the Girls Crushing Sangria

Normally a five minute walk, it takes us thirty to reach the port due to the make out seshes that occur every 10 steps. I can’t help but laugh at my own immaturity in this manner.

The happy couples separate and find their own niches. My girl starts bragging about her various piercings. One of her piercings I determine is very interesting for I have not dabbled with this one before. I declare out loud that I will play with this piercing. She smells confidence and is drawn like a bee to pollen. I do not know fully what happened between the hours of 3am and 5am with either Ryan or myself but I do know how both end separately.

Hostel shower.

The girls hostel shower.

I finally collapse in my bed somewhere near 6 am. We have to wake up at 8 am for our train to Valencia. No sleep. I am Tyler Durden.

First, back to the beginning, we arrived in Cinque Terre without lodging. In a normal sized city this wouldnt be that much of an issue but Riomaggiore, the town we would be staying in for the night, has few hotels and no hostels to speak of, therefore rooms are simply that, bedrooms in peoples homes that they are currently not using. We tried to get into one reputable establishment but were told simply to follow this lady, she has a room. We followed this 90+ year old woman to an apartment underneath her own, when we realized she didn’t speak a word of English she went to get her son who was about 70 himself and had the look of Donald Sutherland in Animal House but with rotten teeth and a close talking personality to boot. Anyways he was gross but we told her we wouldnt have any parties in her house, gave her 70 euros for the night (not horrible) and headed for the trail.

Cinque Terre Hike Break

Cinque Terre consists primarily of a path that once allowed citizens from five closely spaced towns to trade and communicate. The area has been converted to an Italian National Park and as it wraps around these towns, over mountains and along the coast it provides some of the most impressive and untouched views either Ben or I had expereinced on this trip. The hike is definitely challenging, and although most of you know I am very much a stranger to the gym, even Ben’s legs were giving out on this hike and he loves working out so much I’ve found him doing silent push-ups on hung over mornings. Starting from Monterosso on the northern end the hike climbed over several mountain peaks on a trail that could never exist in the U.S. due to a combination of one foot wide stone paths over rocky gorges and the American propensity to tort law.

The terrain changed quickly from Amazon jungle-like climbs through the forest, to wide paths of jagged rocks reminscient only of Mordor but lacking the companionship of Sam-wise, no offense Ben but that guy risked his life for Frodo. Since arriving in Cinque Terre so late in the day we had to keep up a brisk pace to get it all in by sundown and the lack of water didn’t help our bodies make up for the gallons we sweated out on the trail. We ended up finishing in under four hours, the lady said it would take five but there were a couple of older people we passed who didn’t look so hot, I’m pretty sure this “beautiful, flower laden wilderness trail” has claimed more than just the five euro entry fee from some of its guests, but what a way to go if that was it.

The next morning would we find out that while we slept a strike had paralyzed all but the major rail lines of the Italian train system, not a good morning to wake up in the smallest town of our trip…

Switch to Ben for a rant against TrenItalia:

Having enjoyed the strenuous exercise and one of our few sober nights on this trip, I think we both felt quite invigorated the next morning to start our journey toward Barcelona and finally, Spanish-speaking countries. Then we studied the train schedules. Barcelona was a long haul away and was probably not doable in one day. Therefore we committed a fatal sin and decided to stay in a French city for the night. Nice is located right on the coast line and seemed like a decent halfway point. We booked a hostel and went to catch the 11am train to Nice.

Ben on his Jump Seat

Then we get to the train station at Riomaggiore. “When is the next train to La Spezie (the big local train depot)?” To the reply of “I don’t know. There is a train strike. Whenever it comes.” Shit.

We have commented in this journal about the perfect efficiency of the European train system. All of those lauds and praises were suddenly kicking me in my own ass. Our friend Leah from Florence once told us of the Italian people, “they are never on time. When they say two o’clock, that is when they might think about leaving their house.” I had found this to be mostly untrue until now.

A train comes 15 minutes late. This isn’t so bad. We get to la Spezie to board our 11 oclock train. “Ritardo Indefinitivo” read the board. Balls. We go to the ticket counter where the robot hag of a woman simply shrugged her shoulders at us. Scenes from Connors’s rants of “socialist bastards” played in my head. My mood worsened.

Ryan and I ate lunch in the station that consisted of a soggy poptart covered in cheese termed a “pizza” and what may or may not have been chicken nuggets and discussed our options. We found a train that left at 4pm that went to Nice. We went back to the lady who clearly hasn’t been laid in 32 years and has grown sterile to make reservations. “Full.” Followed by shoulder shrug. Fury welling up inside of me. It finally occurs to me why the put that shatterproof glass between her and me.

Then Ryan tells me the details of the train strike. Only Saturday and Sunday from 9 am to 9 pm.

What?

They have organized times and days for their strike? Only in a country where they hail Mussolini and parade through the streets and then hang him publicly some years later. Flip Floppers.

So we wait at the train station. Only to realize later, Ryan and I were both scanning the train station secretly planning where the best place to sleep would be. I decided that the potting soil from a large plant would probably make a soft bed but I would wrap myself in a trash bag prior so that I wouldn’t be TOO dirty.

4 pm rolls around. We, along with about 400 other individuals cram each other into the cars. I couldn’t help but think back to Dauchau. No seats. Only the ones in the aisle that fold down consisting of about 4 square inches for butt space and a handrail jamming into your back assuring you the most uncomfortable ride of your life. But somehow I go to sleep. Trenitalia can’t stop me completely.

Anyway to make it to Nice and our hostel. Nothing mentionable happens. I would not wish this journey on my dearest enemy.

Tiny Ben in Front of David

We checked into our hostel which was both by comparison to the last shit hole we stayed in and on its own merits a really nice place called the Emerald Palace. There are numerous things you have to see when in Florence and Shea had given us a million of them but with our limited time we decided to go see Michelangelo’s David Thursday followed by the Duomo and the Uffizi gallery on Friday.

So far our trip has been fairly line free but we accepted the fact that Florence would break this trend and entered the non-reservation line at the Galeria Academia to see Michelangelo’s famous sculpture. While en queue a gentleman behind us noted our hats and commented that he too was an alumnus of Virginia. A lonely man and for fairly obvious reasons he droned on in a monotone about his travels in Italy, his meals, his digestive problems, generally everything we didn’t want, need or care to hear about while stuck in a line with no possible escape. After buying our tickets, like six Euro’s each, we quickly realized that our money and the horrible wait with the poor man’s Stephen Hawking were well worth it. To be genuinely awestruck is a pretty uncommon feeling and Ben and I are lucky to have had that opportunity twice this week with our previous visit to the Sistine Chapel and Thursday’s viewing of David. You really can’t imagine just how huge the statue is until your there and how perfect it stands coming from just one piece of marble while surrounded by works that are pinned together to hold their form. Although you can’t take pictures we snapped a few for posterity and to try and give a measure of scale to what I would say is the most impressive work of art I have seen in my life to date. Sorry for the rant but anyone who has been there will agree.

Once our jaws having returned to their normal positions we grabbed a few bottles of wine and made our way back to the hostel to catch up on writing, pictures and rest. After an evening of drinking we found a few hostel mates to go out on the town with, namely our roommate Will from Colorado, Carlo the Brazilian, and Tenesha from Sacramento. We went to a local bar and convinced Tenesha to steal a nearby umbrella as it was raining Thursday night and we don’t mind encouraging others to commit crimes. Down the street we found what may be one of my favorite aspects of Italy, a shop where they bottle wine for you from large casks and it only costs like two Euro’s for a really good bottle. A few of these and we were set to find something a bit more lively. While my memory fades at the next few bars the only really good story from the debauchery encountered that night finds Ben on the dance floor with another American we ran into downtown. After a brief half dance half make out session she stops him to ask the all important question (to girls, guys could care less).

Girl: Wait, wait. Do you even know my name?
Ben: (rears head back and laughs) Not a chance!
Girl: Oh god.
Ben: (realizes that as comical as this was, his good chance of laying pipe was dwindling) Ummmm…uhhhh. No no. Wait I have it. I’m kidding.
Girl: Oh god.
Ben: I think it starts with an L…uhhh.
Lustful look once in her eyes rapidly fading.
Ben: L..Lindsey? Something with an L?
Girl walks away. Ben shrugs his shoulders, laughs, and finds his friends.

The next morning we set out to see Botticelli’s famous “Ascension of Venus” and “Spring” at the famous (or at least famous in Florence) Uffizi gallery. Another long queue and right when we get to the front we encounter what has become a staple of non-British lines, the cutter. This time it’s a family with a blind father who walk directly to the front of an hour and a half line. I am normally an incredibly patient and non-confrontational person but this trip and numerous line jumpers have taken some of this away from me. I turn to Ben and say I’m not taking this shit anymore and proceed to inform a blind man that he and his precious family need to go to the back of the line which cannot even be seen from our present location, even if you possessed the gift of sight. Although they found some way to get in through another entrance without a horribly long wait, I did feel some pride in having at least resolved the issue as far as I could for my fellow patient line buddies.

Ben’s editing comment:

I just read this and did not realize that he was blind. In fact, handicapped people do get to cut the line. I just informed Ryan of this and he tried to justify his actions with a “but he should have been in the other line” comment followed by “using a blind guy to cut the line is a cheap way of getting in.” I currently feel very terrible about our actions and am completely convinced we are going to hell immediately following this trip.

Back to Ryan

A hung over tour of the gallery led us to missing the two pieces we had come to see and so we were forced to get back through the entrance (not the outer line just like 10 minutes.) Ben pleaded to just forget it but I hadn’t gone through all of this to be turned away from two of the only things I wanted to see in Florence. We viewed the “Ascension” or as some of our Australian hostel mates had referred to it “The Chick and The Clam” as well as “La Primavera” and went off to see the Duomo before contacting Leah to see the side of Florence that doesn’t involve long lines, but rather is rewarded with wine, panini, and gelato.

I set up a Skpye account (thats right, the return of drunk dialing!) and got in touch with Leah and John who we would meet at 230 that afternoon. Our flatmate and now good friend Tenesha (she greeted us upon our return to the hostel that afternoon with free wine she had just picked up) decided to join us as she and her travel companion had stopped talking altogether, a fate that I hope never reaches Ben and I on this trip. John takes the group to the Italia football stadium to get tickets for the evening match against Belgium, something we had not expected but immediately got excited for. Turns out if you are a foreigner or a man you have to pay a shitload of money for your tickets and so the idea was crushed then and there. Our next obvious stop was for panini, gelato, and finally and most importantly wine.

We sat on the steps of the Duomo and ate our gelato (picture right) while Leah gave us the best Florence history she could remember, which was a million times better than our standard practice of taking turns making up the history of a building or area to each other. With a bottle each we headed for Piazza Michelangelo on a hill overlooking Florence. After the David this is the one thing I would say a visitor to Florence must experience. We set up camp on a set of stairs and opened the bottels for one of the most memorable sunsets on the trip, and thankfully we now had the company of others to take away from the awkwardness of watching the sun set over the Italian countryside accompanied only by Ben.

At the Piazza, Italian Comedy Central had set up some sort of free comedy show also featuring Italian Total Request Live. By the time the sun had set and the wine had started to kick in, various comedians began to perform in front of a crowd, MAYBE, of 30 people. Tenesha, Ben, or myself don’t speak Italian and so Leah and John offered to translate the gist but it was very obvious…no one was laughing. These comics were crashing and burning in front of our eyes. The best one was a woman who failed to get a single laugh except from herself due to nervousness. Women comics are awful. Women Italian comics are the antithesis of funny.

Aided by a day of sightseeing and a bottle of wine, Tenesha and I had become rather friendly as the evening progressed and I realized this had become obvious when Ben turns to me and says, You have this, don’t fucking screw it up!. I suppose that is some sort of advice and I laughed and tried my best to heed it. While I won’t go into details the new found friendship did allow for a kiss or two at the Piazza which seemed fitting for the view and to cap off the evening.

After a long walk home and a few pints at a local Irish pub, with John being Irish it seemed a good opportunity to exchange stories and have a laugh as the night drew to a close. We thanked Leah and John for being incredible tour guides and showing us parts of Florence that we never would have found on our own. Ben, Tenesha and I went home for the hostel and Ben and I caught the early train to Cinque Terra but Florence definitely left us with memories and pictures that won’t be soon forgot.

Having sidetracked to Naples we had to book a hostel last minute and I guess that there was room in this one for a reason. It was a shit hole. First, they didn’t have change to help us pay. Second, it smelled like mildew…everywhere. Third, our shower was clogged so when you took a shower you had to spray yourself really quickly, turn the water off, lather up, rinse very quickly, and repeat. i don’t think I ever got really clean. And lastly, the guys who worked there were creeps. One had only been in Rome 10 days. They use the hostel as a way to meet girls essentially and would pound on doors late at night trying to get girls to join them in drinking. But that is my rant against that. Also it was on the top floor above 125 steps without a functioning elevator.

Which leads me to my tale of how I lost 10 pounds in a day. It was about 97 degrees and humid as we entered the city. One of those days when you walk outside and the moisture from the air combines with your skin to cause immediate persperation. We dropped our bags off in our fungal closet of a room, grapped a map and got going. We walked to the Trevi Fountain where Ryan could not stop talking about the Hilary Duff movie. Then a bus came by with Hannah Montana AND Hilary Duff on it and Ryan almost peed himself with excitement. Pantheon, Roman Forum, gellato, and gallons of water later we stumbled back to our hostel.

Ben and Hanna Montana!

The scumbag employees convinced us to pregame with them while we sat in our sweltering rooms and died a little inside. Ryan and I scrambled to book a tour of the Vatican for the next day so that we could actually appreciate what we were seeing instead of our usual routine of taking a picture, rotating on completely fabricating a history lesson behind the object, and checking it off the list.

So we got up sort of early and went to Colliseum. We wandered around pretending to be Russell Crowe and took pictures. Then we headed to the Vatican. Being some sort of religious country or something, they won’t let you in unless you have your knees and shoulders covered. Having left my Rafael Nadal capris at home, we had to wear pants…in 100 degree heat. Europeans man. So we took a tour with our guide Maya who talked like a hummingbird on methamphetamines. From what I could understand I think some famous painter painted something on a ceiling or wall which may or may not have been a church.

Roman Forum

Kidding aside, the Sistene Chapel is breath-taking. I didn’t even find the ceiling to be the most impressive part but rather the wall entitled The Last Judgement. It’s huge and ridiculously meticulate in detail. They won’t let you take pictures because even though most artists didn’t sign their work, apparently they put little “C”s with a circle around it in the corner indicating a copyrighted work. Then we went to St. Peter’s Basilica which was the most ornate church probably in the world. How all that crap doesn’t distract one from practicing religion is beyond me, but then again so is Catholicism.

That night we agreed to go out with sketchball employees because hey, we don’t have any friends in Rome and at this point anybody else to talk to besides Ryan is greatly appreciated. We pregamed and went to some bar. The girls we were with decided we should take shots. After about the fourth round one of the girls just tells the bartender to make a “good” shot. I think I saw a bottle of ouzo and cough syrup come out because it was the worst tasting concoction I will ever encounter. I would have readily licked the bottom of Ryan’s sandle after he stepped in a huge pile of dog shit to rid my mouth of that taste. Naturally I started browning out and blacked out the ride home.

Ryan’s Interjection

If you ask Ben we went to one bar that night and then went home. We really went to two bars that night and given how seemingly coherent he was I really expected Ben to remember the second. Our new found aqquaintances took us to an Irish pub where just about everyone was from America or Britain. It was decent enough but given that I was just standing next to a now blacked out Ben it could have been better. I ordered four pints of the house lager only to find out that the girls were heading home and Ben and I would have to put down the beers ourselves. I interpret this as a challenge and Ben goes along for a bit before falling asleep on the bar. A shockingly cheap cab ride home and now the night was over. Ben, get your shit straight the bus you were referencing just had two pictures of Hanna Montana on it, none of Hilary Duff and from this picture I think you’ll note that Ben was excited too.

Back to Ben

I awoke the next morning around 10:30, moaned, rolled over and saw one of the employees sleeping in the bunk across from me. Entirely confused I asked him why he was sleeping there. “Ah I just kind of made my way back here last night.” I then inform him that in my current physical state there was no way we were making the 11:00 check out time. “Whatever, that’s cool.” This guy has business entreprenuer or upper management written all over him.

Having completed our checklist of Rome, we hopped on a train to Florence to meet some friends and get some culture… maybe.

Ben and Shea in Napoli

If you haven’t been paying attention to the news in the past few months, the trash company in Naples has been on an epic strike and at one point during the worst of it piles of trash filled the streets of the city center. Fourtunately for us downtown Naples was only as trashy as any other European city and the trash problem has been simply pushed out to the surrounding suburbs like sweeping dirt under the carpet, which I and apparently the mayor of Naples would argue is as good as actually cleaning the dirt up.

The directions to our hotel in Naples, I should say Shea’s hotel, were simple enough: take a tram to a certain Piazza on the waterfront and then a short walk will get you to the hotel. This may have held water if we were simply walking rather than carrying not only our packs but also helping Shea and Leah navigate their gigantic suitcases, one of which weighed in at a whopping 90 lbs. I think Shea wears cinder blocks to bed. To their credit this isn’t how they always travel but rather the amount of clothes/shoes necessary for a few months of study abroad. Of all of our day long hikes to date this seemingly easy 30 minute train station – hotel baton death march takes the cake so far for worst city entrance, although I may have just jinxed us. A combination of huge luggage, ancient cobbled streets, crazy old Italian women, and 90 degree heat made this trek memorable to say the least but it did leave us starving for the Pizza that we had come all the way from Rome for.

A customary tour of the town with Shea leading Ben, Leah and I through the winding insanity of the streets of Naples and past all the ridiculous street vendors (I’ll come back to these scumbags in a later post…) took us past the castles guarding the city and some beautiful views before arriving at the famed “Pizzeria Michele”. This was Ben and I’s first introduction to Italian pizza and after all of Brittany’s raving I held some pretty high expectations. I was therefore curious when I was served what looked like a really big cracker topped with some canned tomatoes, slight dabs of mozzarella, dropped into a swimming pool and then served. I was even more curious with how pleased Shea seemed to be upon its arrival and therefore hesitantly dug in. I was impressed, while not the best pie I’ve ever had, it definitely lived up to the hype. The only way to really describe it I think is as another category as it really isn’t like what we think of “pizza” as in America so I wont compare apples to oranges. Since we opened with what some say is one of the best Italian pizzas, as we move further into this strange bootish land we will see if that proves true (Ben will note that for the first time on this trip he not only beat me to the end of the meal but I couldn’t even clear my plate, I guess I wasn’t feeling well but Shea beat us all so you never know, that girl can EAT but you wouldn’t know it from looking at her.)

An afternoon walk and a few pints later Ben and I took Shea out to celebrate her 21st a night early. As is standard we picked up a bottle of wine and walked the streets of Napoli before arriving at a waterfront castle and drinking until the clock struck 12. While we passed on the opprotunity to serenade her, hopefully Shea will remember this birthday unlike most of us who can only hear about our 21st from those that witnessed the destruction. She even tried to teach us some basic Italian so we wouldn’t look like the fools that we have been for the last 3 weeks. All I got from her lesson was that “prego” means almost everything. Bless her heart for trying though, I think she might have been a little tipsy at this point. We are working on catching up but feel a bit behind on pictures due to suck ass internet at our last hostel, more on the Roman adventures to come soon but for now Ben is sleeping on our train to Florence and the Tuscany region so I better wake him up for no reason by setting his I-pod to Hanna Montana (everybody has those days!). Prego. Ciao!

First 30 minutes of the ride were great. Then the wind really picked up. Got a little chilly. Ryan put on some pants. I put on my fleece.

Then we hit a rain storm. Having sat on the weather deck thinking we could catch some sun while we rode, we experienced the brunt of the freezing winds that bit through our clothing like Mike Tyson to an ear. I awoke from a nap shivering and shaking uncontrollably. This had to end.

Luckily the weather picked up and we completed our journey across Styx.

Santorini is absolutely gorgeous. The port is at the base of a cliff. Literally. The road winds back and forth almost at 45 degree angles to the top of the mountain. And all these cars are stick shift. My emotions varied between awing at the views and my knuckles turning white on the arm rest in fear.

Santorini

We stayed In Perissa which is a community located on the black, volcanic beaches of Santorini. We stayed at Anny’s studios which was awesome. The bartender, Steve, was from San Francisco and knew the island back and forth so he pointed us to all the chill spots.

To sum up Santorini:
We laid on the beach, Ryan got really sunburned, Ben turned golden crispy.
We rented an ATV to visit the old town of Thira (or Fira), see the video on our picture page.
Ben played with the ATV for most of the day, Ryan hid from the sun.
We met a douchebag from UVA who got really drunk during the Man U/Chelsea game and kept spilling his beer and yelling random players names.
We saw lots of boobies.

On Friday we caught a high speed ferry to Mykonos to meet up with Ashely Peck and Megan McDonald and club that shit up. And club we did. Now if you have been keeping up with past stories, Munich offered an intense Jaeger-filled night that left Ryan and I meandering through the city as lost as Andy Dick’s sexuality. Apparently Megan and Ashley enjoy Jaegar just as much. Consequently we spent the beginning of the night pounding Red Bull vodkas as a pregame and headed to a club Space.

We danced and took shots. Lots of shots. Lots of dancing.

Then we realized we were the only ones dancing in a full club. I thought this was a party island? Not to be deterred we took more shots and threw caution to the wind and bounced around. This series repeated until we couldn’t think of any different types of shots to take with varying forms of Jaeger and Red Bull. My tummy begins to ache. For those of you that know Liverman, you know that him and dancing mix as well as vodka and psychosis medications. This is a mental series now burned into my mind.

We rocked out until about 4 am until the drinks caught up to our mechanical functioning and could no longer bounce like a Tellytubby. The girls headed to their place and Ryan and I headed to ours, a mere 3 km away. We don’t know how we got home because you can only get taxis by calling them and a single taxi stand at the other end of the town. Neither of us remember getting in a taxi but true to plan I awoke at 9 am the next morning in my bed.

Off to the beach. I strangled Ryan until he started making weird moaning sounds and woke up. Then we headed to meet Pecker and “Mapquest Megan” (sung to the tune of the Hot Pockets jingle) who picked up that name by navigating our way through the perilous streets of the city (apparently designed to confuse pirates. Why they didn’t just build walls or something and protect the city is still beyond me). Ryan is thirsty and finds a 3/4 full bottle of water on the street. He drinks it. P and M were not awake because they did not own an alarm clock. I am the human alarm clock. Looking as pretty as ever, they struggle to open the door to which Ryan and I giggle like school girls at recess. Their hostel manager was not pleased and kindly asked Ryan and I to leave the premises. I cannot recall the last time I have been removed from any public location save Toys R Us when I was like 7 for riding the bikes into one another.

Not so Paradise Beach…

They met us outside and we headed to Paradise Beach, which is supposed to be an all day party. Baloney. Shenanigans. Whatever you call it, Salehi, I am calling you out. The only people that were on the beach were legitimately sunning and just laying out. Having slept a mere 3 hours we join in but choose to go to the less crowded part of the beach. Apparently it is less crowded for a reason. Surrounded by fat, old, Italian men…naked who decide it’s a good leg exercise to waggle back and forth. Vom.

We chilled out and decided that if this beach party does not start by 3 pm, we are going to start it. However, we also concurred that entirely too much Jaeger was enjoyed the previous night. Meggers cannot hear the word Jeager without having a miniature seizure. It was decided that until 3 pm the name shall be shortened to “J” and that a round of shots referred to as a “J job.”

I realize I am switching to mixing present and past tense–it makes for a better sounding story sometimes and I just don’t care right now.

3 pm hits. We order beers. Megan struggles. Ashley downs it like a champ. Ryan and I approve. We agree that since Ryan bought the first round, we now all have to buy rounds. Megan buys a round of beers even though she hasn’t finished her first, I still like her style and ambition. We indulge. My turn. Mapquest Megan complains that she wants something sugary. I decide that I will fulfill Ryan’s dream of having a drink with an umbrella in it and Megan’s yearnings in one. Strawberry Daquiris it is…9 euro strawberry daquiris. Eff. Oh well, we splurged.

Another round of beers, margaritas, and mojitos, the dance party finally begins by some guy who looked like a young Howard Stern from Private Parts. We laugh at the chunky girls agreeing to dance and then conclude that if Sara was going to contribute to our fund like she promised, that Megan and Ashley should at least dance too. It takes a little encouraging but they do, all in the name of fun. We all grin and giggle and decide to try and take a nap before we head out for a late dinner and another round of Murder on the Dance Floor.

4 km later Ryan and I have about 45 min to pass out before we are scheduled to meet up again. Eff.

After a nice dinner during which Ashely ordered entirely too much food for herself, we choose to pregame with a bottle of vodka and Red Bulls (surprise surprise!) to try and jolt ourselves out of our comatose states. It works…briefly.

“The” club in Mykonos is apparently a little ways from the downtown area so we caught a cab out there. This club does not even open until 2 am. We arrive close to 3. There is NO ONE there. Another American mistake. People don’t show up until closer to 5. By golly we are going to wait this out and make it to sun rise time. Jaeger bombs and copious amounts of Red Bull must be consumed. The view is amazing. We have fun. Then we start to lose Ashley around 4:30 am. In a very Connor-esque move she bobbles her head in a circular motion until her neck muscles give out and her chin plummets to her chest. Not on my watch, missy. I beg and plead with her to stay awake until sunrise. Megan pledges her undying allegiance to seeing the sun rise. This pleases me.

My attempts to simply open Ashley’s mouth and pour more Red Bull down her throat until her heart jumpstarts her head untimately fail and we pick up and head out just as people start filling the club and the sun is about to rise. Displeased and a little frustrated Ryan and I head back to our place. Ryan is really drunk. Apparently he does not drink liquor very often. I give him the silent treatment the entire way back. Once we get there, I can sense that the sun is just about to crown like a newborn over the hill. I grab a beer, let Ryan pout as I storm out and sit by the hostel pool. I promised myself an all night drinking adventure and I’ll be damned if I let myself down (this time).

Three hours pass. It is time to wake up and pack up. Neither Ryan nor I remember packing our bags and heading to the port but we do realize that we are about 2 hours early for our boat. We find a place to sit and just veg out. Megan and Ashley join us at the port (they are going to Santorini) and we recount our weekend full of J and my bet with Megan of who can be tanner at the end of the summer since neither of us have jobs/school until August. The reward: a bottle of J.

Then both Ryan and I spot something. We both cock our heads in that “is that…could it be…” fashion. She mimics our gesture from across the way. Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, Shea Varholak is standing at the port too. She comes over and her and Ryan talk. It turns out she and her friend, Leah, are on our ferry and actually on our flight to Rome the next morning also. They were planning on sleeping at the airport. Nonsense say we. Another Marriot night awaits us. This time it is like a 5-star Marriot. We clearly don’t belong but we say Nay to the blazer-wearing business type people staying there and jump in the hot tub for a soak. At one point I try and do a seal-like maneuver (the animal not the person) and slide directly from the hot tub into the pool for an invigorating temperature change. My back muscles do not agree with my decision and immediately go into full cramp mode during which I had to flop out of the pool like a fish and just lay on the side and moan. I guess I am getting old.

Salehi, you owe me money. Seal, the picture is happening soon. I was thinking how about a glass of wine since that is probably gayer?