Amenities: One 24/7 café.

Disadvantages: Almost nowhere to sleep, no one doing it with you and only one place to buy snacks after about 11 PM.

I wasn’t planning on sleeping in Malaga. My ingenious plan was to beat jetlag before it hit and get on Central Standard Time a day before I left. What that would mean is staying up all night at the airport before catching my 6 AM flight the following morning, then promptly passing out the instant my fat arse hits that cheaply upholstered plane seat.

Only, nothing I ever plan typically goes that well. I also made the mistake of drinking two rather large beers at an outdoor café and felt just tipsy enough to want a quick kip at about 11:30 PM. Lucky for me, there were literally less than 10 other people looking to camp out overnight and I found a spot on a long cushioned bench near a café called Café Rigatta in Terminal 2. I sprawled out (sharing only with one other guy, there was room for at least 2 more on the bench) and conked.

Another downside to the Malaga airport is that unlike most budget airports with no overnight flights, the loop of security reminders and general airport announcements tends to get turned off between the hours of 12 and 5. Not here. The loop continued, playing the “please do not leave your suitcase unattended” blah every 15 minutes into eternity. Needless to say, even with my earplugs, I was still woken up by this every couple of plays. They’re not quiet.

When I finally let myself wake up for good at about 3:30 to go wait in line at my check-in counter, I passed only a handful of other people spread out across the airport. None of them must have looked far for their hideouts as they were all on the floor or on hard windowseat benches. I’m not saying my cushy bench was super comfortable (it really only worked when I was on my side as it was REALLY narrow and I am… well… not narrow), but at least my body parts weren’t falling asleep every 5 seconds from being squished against concrete. I even saw a quite obese woman sharing a snooze with her much thinner counterpart on the floor near one of the windows and she looked like an underfilled water balloon. There’s no way it was comfortable.

To note, the 24 hour café is called Café Y Te and is located in Terminal 3 all the way to the right behind the check-in counters by the bathrooms. There are hard chairs but no benches or seats nearby.

Overall ranking: 3/10 and only because of the lucky bench I found.

Amenities: Lots of great armless benches, 24/7 cafes, nooks and corners to sleep in

Disadvantages: You and the rest of the backpacker world are here together. If you don’t arrive by 10 PM, good luck finding a bench.

Stansted is famous for being a local budget airline hub. As such, hundreds of flights daily go in and out of this medium sized airport carting thousands of budget travelers to and fro around Europe.  As such, this airport caters to overnight guests. There are lots of flights leaving before 8 AM and as such, it’s a tempting option to stay at the airport rather than booking at a local hotel or hostel in London as sometimes the transfer times can render your departure impossible.  Because of this, Stansted provides dozens of options for overnight cafes and really does it’s best to enure that overnight guests get the best floor treatment possible.

The catch 22 of this reputation is that on any given night, there are hundreds of people camping out in the airport, knowing it’s a cheaper alternative to the local lodging.

My choice was honestly not a choice. I arrived in Stansted from Malaga at approximately 1 AM and departed from Stansted the following morning at 8. By the time I would have carted myself into London and back, I would have only been checked into a hostel for a couple hours and the local lodging options were astronomically priced.

When I finally made it through customs, at just before 1, I began the rounds, looking for anything resembling a cushion to call my bed for the evening. Unfortunately, after about 3 delirious rounds around the arrivals and departures lounges, I realized I was destined to join the nearly 100 people already camping on the floor in the awnings of the several closed stores.

Knowing I had a later departure, I was ready to get my full night’s rest and as such, wasn’t going to camp in someone’s front yard only for them to wake me up at 4:30 AM so they could open their store without the fear of vagabond bums (aka me) sleeping in front of them. So on about my fourth rotation of the airport, I finally found myself on the floor underneath the awning on the side of a vodafone kiosk, cleverly tucked under the side so as not to be disturbed by anyone in the morning. I was so close to benches that were fully occupied, and it made me a bit jealous, but something about sleeping about 30 deep in a space the size of my parent’s kitchen made me feel a bit secure. I popped in the headphones, turned up my white noise and awoke 6 hours later very rested and ready for my flight to Croatia

Overall ranking: 10/10 as long as you get there early enough to get a good spot.

Also... I met Tinie Tempah when I woke up. So I win. BAM

Amenities: A handfull of 24/7 cafes

Disadvantages: Not a lot of benches, few corners to feel private in. Everything is more or less exposed.

Athens airport sleeping for me was 100% about the money. Coming off of a rather large nearly $1000 car-fixing stint in Spain, I found myself pinching pennies while on Yacht Week 2011. At the end of the trip, after my Sugar Daddy went home, me and Sugar Daddy’s better half (we share nicely) found ourselves scheduled for early morning flights and without much cents for a hotel room at the hugely expensive Sofitel Athens across the street.

We arrived in the hotel hall at about 11 PM after loitering past our welcome at the hotel spa and restaurant at the Sofitel. After doing a round of the airport and not finding anything in the way of soft benches fit for two, we opted instead for softening our nerves and invested in a couple 40’s of Myknos and found a nice cozy wall near the bathrooms upstairs.

Weakened by brew, we both slept pretty soundly for the 4 or so hours we spent lying there. Being a rather large airport, Athens was pretty bustling all through the night. For that reason, we felt the most important thing to do was to find a spot outside of the main flow of traffic. Once we did that, we actually found it not too bad. The announcements in the airport were at a minimum and coupled with our exhaustion from an 8 day drinking binge, I found it a decent enough place to lay my head for free.

Overall ranking: 6/10 for the abundance of cafes and the selection of over the counter sleeping medication

After an easy 3.5 hour bus ride from San Ambrosio to Málaga, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the long sitting stint I would be doing, but was ready for the worst, equipped with my laptop, my Kindle, a book as a backup and every charged form of musical entertainment that I own. I wouldn’t be needing it though, as I went straight to the bar, had two big beers and went against everything I had planned and passed out. 

I awoke in plenty of time to catch my flight and in very untypical me fashion, actually arrived and boarded early, in the first group.

This is where shiz got fun. There was fog in Paris. So our plane sat a half hour on the runway. We were assured we would make up time in the air, but only having an hour layover, I was getting a little nervous. Upon landing, I was told to run. My flight was leaving out of a different terminal and it was going to be difficult to make it. The woman I spoke to at an Air France counter said she would call ahead and let them know I was coming. I spotted several other passengers from my first flight running, and I followed. About 10 minutes later (and having literally stripped down to a tank top and leggings) I arrived at the gate as they were shutting the door.

Sorry. You are too late.

In the process, I was required to leave the secured area and go back through security and lost one of my new earrings I had literally bought the day before. I was directed to the Air France desk where I spent the next hour missing each opportunity by just a couple minutes.

“Oh, someone JUST booked the last seat to Houston/Oklahoma City/Tulsa/Dallas…….”

I told the woman I was willing to fly to any city in Texas or Oklahoma, as long as I got there within 20 hours.

It was looking gloomy.

So I pulled out full stops. It didn’t take much as I was genuinely exhausted and my adrenaline was running nuts. But I played my girl card and played it well as I let a couple of tears slip down onto the ticket counter.

“I’m so sorry, I was just so excited to see my mom… I miss her so much.”

Suddenly the two agents on either side of my woman both started working on my case.

I wiped away my feux-tears and gave a little sniffle and a smile. A woman waiting in line next to me offered to buy me a beer when it was all finished and sneak me into the Delta Miles Lounge with her.

And…. cha-ching. The next thing I know, I’m booked on a flight to Atlanta then to Dallas arriving only a couple hours later than my original arrival.

And I’m actually going to spend less time on a plane. Albeit in a middle row between two, decent sized men.

It could be worse tho, I could still be sitting in that smelly French airport.

PS - Oh and Delta did JACK SHIT with this whole situation. I ended up dealing with Air France the entire time and they were great.

PPS – Ok, I’m now 6 hours into my 9 hour flight from Paris to Atlanta. This is the worst flight I think I’ve ever been on. I don’t think it’s been handled terribly by the Delta staff, in fact, I think they’ve done all they can, but it’s been a horrible flight. First, behind me and the gentleman to my right is a family of 4, in two seats. Two children, two laps, two parents. They kick a lot. The parents appear to be oblivious to it all, sleeping while the kids play on the floor, grab my ponytail over the seat and even put icecubes down my neighbors back. They aparently own other seats on the plane as they keep going somewhere else and then coming back, all the while pulling on our seats. No sleep. So what to do on a 9 hour flight when you can’t sleep? How about watch a movie. Well… tough shit. My headset connecter on my seat is broken, and although I have severly wanted to watch ANY of the three movies that have shown, I cannot. We also ran out of snacks, no more pretzels, which was announced aloud by the flight attendents (people were asked to forgoe their snack). The woman in front of me is Egyptian and speaks no English, she is constantly howling at someone to listen to her for some reason or another but none of us can figure out what she is saying. Fortunately, my wings are very nice men, beer is free and the flight attendent I have been complaining the most to keeps slipping me booze to keep me quiet (smart man). But I am NOT. Happy.

PPPS – Feeling more resolved. Neighbor just told me he paid $2100 for his ticket. I paid $995. Feeling like a champion flight finder.

PPPPS - Delta lost my bag. Die.

So one of my New Years Resolutions of 2012 was to get out more. To see more villages and to be a better tourist. And what better time to start than when my parents were in town.

Estepona, Málaga, España

Estepona is a town on the Costa del Sol in southern Andalucia south of Málaga. There's not a whole lot there, it's mostly known as a touristy beach town with a large ex-pat community. If the Costa del Sol is where all of Europe comes to vacation, Estepona is where they come to live when they retire. As such there's a great local and diverse culture full of small kitchy shops, diners and pubs. It really retains it's small town charm while still catering to the bigger crowds of tourists.

In addition to all that small town fun, there are skads of resorts and luxury homes here, so there is no shortness of the typical resort activities, golf, tennis and yachting. Most of my time in this lovely town was spent lounging by the beach at our beautiful Marriott resort (which comes highly HIGHLY recommended).

I would also highly recommend dinner at El Carnicero in the town. We ate at a couple of mediocre restaurants while we were here but were blown away with El Carnicero. Although it's crammed full of ex-pats, the food was actually pretty great and a good entry level Spanish restaurant for those who are new to the whole Spanish food thing.

Another must do/see if you have the ability to cook while you're in the area is to head down to the port and check out the daily fish markets. They're completely unpredictabe and can be horribly under-stocked, but it's a fun sight to see, especially on a big catch day or near the end of one of the tuna seasons when the big buyers have left town and the fushermans bring their tuna scraps for local sale.

For more info, check out the following links boiiii! - Estepona official tourism site - Spanish

St. Patrick's Day, Chicago, Wrigleyville, 2013

As do most of my posts about the beloved saint day, I don't particularly remember most of it. I do remember that I was spending the day with a new crew. I had plans to meet up with all the right people, friends from all over town. Of those people, the only one I ended up seeing was the one I ran into on the street on my walk north. We barhopped down Clark hitting any establishment that would serve us a shot/beer combo and after about 8 shots more of the Jamo and about a half dozen PBR/Old Style tall boys, we set up semi-permanent shop at a random ass bar called Roadhouse 66.

How do I remember the name of this bar, you ask? Oh well, it's because I not only left 2 credit card tabs open at this bar, but I also dropped my ATM card on the floor here. So naturally, I had to make a sober trip back. This was also the last real bar I made it to on my tour de Chicago. After leaving here, apparently (and with proof from pictures), I pulled a baby carseat out of a dumpster and put it on top of a BMW on the street, I also stole wood from the dumpster and made a jump on the sidewalk.

Of course we ended the day/night at GSP and naturally, I was asleep by 8 PM.

Fortunately, I did not lose a phone or a goose.

So when an Australian co-worker got stranded in the US on January 26th, I felt the need to facilitate debauchery.

Fortunately, I happen to have a BFF who lived in Australia for almost 2 years and she was more than happy to help me party plan. Inclusive of baking goods, printing off pictures of koalas and flip flops and dressing as insanely as I was.

Really, my only goal was to get Anthony sloshed and to make it feel as Australian as possible inside my freezing Chicago apartment. We played the entire JJJ Hot 100 countdown from start to finish. Leah baked the shit out of some traditional Lamington's and non-traditional Rice Krispy Treats. We fired up the Barbie in 24 degree (farenheit) heat and about 6 inches of snow (ok let's be real, I did not participate in the outdoor BBQ, rather like a good neighbor, Matt stood out there in his flippy floppy's and fried the burgers up). There were decorations, beer pong, racehorses, and a bunch of Aussie games we couldn't keep track of. Oh and slap the goon. So glad a great tradition like slapping a bag of boxed wine is something that we share culturally.

All in all, the day/night was a huge success. And although I passed out at approximately 10 PM before we even made it to the official Australia Day bar down the street, I have plenty of photos that prove that Anthony got sloppy.

And that's all I wanted.

PPS - graffiti was inevitably drawn on my chalkboard, and I can't decide whether my favorite drawing was the Sydney Opera House with a cowboy hat wearing penis coming out of it saying "OMG I <3 OZ DAY" or the picture of the dingo eating the baby. You decide.

Other than having fantastic surfers, the night was absolutely amazing. Some new Chicago girlfriends and I bought all-inclusive tickets to a dive bar in the neighborhood, Tin Lizzie. It was a great crowd and such a good deal. $60 all you can drink and eat from 8:30-2. And we did everything we could to make sure we ripped those guys off.

Chicago is a bit different from most other cities I've lived in, in that, for the big night, most bars are pre-pay only. A lot of them are rip-offs, I imagine, with all-inclusive rates going well up into the $100's, and lots of overcrowding in some of the trendier bars or those closest to the Universities. But we struck gold.

There's not a lot to remember from the night (see aforementioned point about trying to drink the bar under the table) but I do remember it being epic.

We started the morning relatively early, for Brian and I’s track record. We had played this year strategically. The one condition for my mother’s participation in Saint Patrick’s Day was that we go to the parade. And being that for the last 3 years in a row, Brian and I have managed to miss the St. Patrick’s Day parade in each of the respective cities we were visiting, we knew we needed to make a steady effort.

As such, on the Eve of Patrick, Bee and I spent our night pub hopping. The only requirement was that it had to be Irish, or have an Irish name. Literally, that was it. Being that I was living on the cusp of a bad neighborhood on the edge of Chelsea, very near the warehouses dividing it from Hell’s Kitchen and way too close to the bus station and the Post Office, all that glitters was definitely not gold.

As Google was quick to tell us, there were 7 Irish pubs within a 2 short block radius of me and the Terr’s apartment. We hit them all. We had already hit the Molly Wee the night before, and being that this was my local staple, a known “goodie” and the fact that we’d already been there, we saved it for last. Which didn’t turn out to be too much later than the first. Turns out, it doesn’t take much to be able to call your pub Irish. Take any run-down joint, stick an Irish flag outside and add a “O” to the beginning of the name and viola! Instant Ireland. One place we stumbled into (and very quickly out of) was one of 3 O’Brian’s we visited this night. This particular O’Brian’s was about 10 feet wide and about 30 feet deep. Included a run down bar, a largely gangster looking clientele, hardcore Rap music, and Guinness in a can only. When we walked in, everyone looked up at us. It was clear we were in the wrong place. And we took a hint, chugged our cans and headed back to Molly Wee.

Even after a 5 AM lock-in at the Molly Wee with my favorite Irish bartenders, we managed to get ourselves up early to meet the Terr at Central Park South for the St. Pat’s parade. Dressed in green and ready for a party, we watched the bands and groups from around the world march up in front of the Plaza. Having successfully not missed the parade, the Terr was in good spirits and we convinced her to pop in for a couple beers at our first stop of the day. Singing, shots of Jamo, making friends. It was intended to just be a quick stop but like most St. Pat's stops, you just never know where it's going to take you. And it kept us right where we were.

After about 5 hours of warm-up, we headed back to the Molly Wee. Obviously. And if it's even possible, the party got more crazy here. We actually managed to get a table, though I'm not sure how. The Terr even stayed out with us for a while! There were bagpipes, firefighters and Irish policemen (who I stole hats from). And the next thing I know, I'm eating pizza on the street outside our little Chelsea apartment at 4:30 AM. Once again, we win St. Pat's day.

I have no idea...

The view from the top of the windmills with Africa and the Med in the background

I was originally going to draw a map of this little ride, but I found out very quickly that it looks like absolutely nothing when drawn on the paper because it's in the middle of nowhere and there are no roads. #fail

So instead, you will have to settle with my word rambles supplemented by pictures. If you've been on this trail you know.

We started out by turning down the road towards the dovecote. After taking the left at the dovecote down the terrifying windy hole filled road, crossing the little river and back up the big hill, you walk around the sunflower field (which seems to almost never have sunflowers in it) and follow the main (dirt) road up through the farm.

From there, rather than take the road down the typical windmills path past the three pig's houses. Instead you keep going up (follow the sound of the windmills, if you aren't sure which way) and walk through the wheat fields up to the top of the hill between San Ambrosio and Vejer de la Fronterra. From here, you can literally walk next to the screaming windmills which is a pretty awesome fete.

From here it's an easy walk down the road back to the Yellow Brick Road and a quick tie-up and stop at Miguel's. And then Luis. And then Antonio's. Ok so to be completely honest, the only scenic part of the trip is the part up to the windmills, but the barcrawl is my favorite part.

Anyway. The 'rents did alright. Dad was hilarious. At one point, Polly started trotting down the road by El Palomar and he actually starting screaming "woah-oh-oh-woah-oh-oh-oh" in rhythm with her trot steps. But all in all, they did great. And if nothing else, I got a good barcrawl out of it!