Some quick stories

So, as I watch Inglourious Basterds, or rather, Bastardos Sin Gloria or Bastardos Malditos, I figure I can also start writing about my trip. I think though, before detailing everywhere I went, like I usually do in a boring manner, I thought I could take my first blog entry about the trip to explain a few of the more exciting stories that happened throughout the trip. So, without further ado.

Barcelona – He Punched a Hooker

Our last night in Barcelona, Mack and I were yearning to go out. After all, in Barcelona, there is always a party, regardless of the day of the week. We had dinner at a table in the hostel were a group from WISCONSIN!!!! was sitting. After bonding over our home state, they invited us to come out with them, they were just going out to dinner and would come back to get ready and meet up with us. Sounds great! See you in a bit.

After they left I went to siesta. Let’s be honest, it was a nap. After dinner at 9pm it is no longer a siesta. It is a nap. Well, as I napped Mack bonded with some Moroccans. They invited Mack (and consequentially me too) to go out with them. Well, I guess since they are here, why wait for the fellow Wisconsinites? We can make some cultural connections. They go to get ready.

I come out to the common room of the hostel and sit down with a guy from Utah, a Brazilian, a Swede, and some Chinese girls studying in Sweden. Luckily, English is always the go to language. We chatted and hung out for a while. The guys were getting ready to go out and said I should come along. First of all, I love that pregaming is international. And, yes, of course I want to go out with you guys.

Well, that was easy, we now had 3 options of exploring Barcelona.

One thing leads to another and Mack got pregnant.

That was a lie.

So I tell Mack we were invited to go out with this group. Mack says let’s wait for the other group. We end up with 3(?) guys from Morocco, 2 girls from Madrid, the Swede (already drunk), the Brazilian (even drunker), and the guy from Utah. And we are off.

To where? Who knows where we are going? Nobody. Great.

Luckily, in big cities like Barcelona, there is always somebody trying to lure you to their bar with the promise of free entrance or a free shot or a free drink etc. A guy tells us we can go to some club, Pandamonium? Sweaty Dancy Club? Who knows. We decline, and head to an Irish pub. Fun fact, apparently Spain doesn’t understand what Irish pub means. Is it in English? Okay, awesome put it up. Ah well, at least that meant they were playing American football, the Packers no less, and serving Coronas? Okay, sure. A Corona in an Irish pub watching American football in Barcelona it is. Shots of tequila? Even better. (Don’t worry mom, I was responsible, only one beer and one shot for me.)

Okay, well we are done here, where too? Oh wait, first, let us take several pictures. Good. Okay, I think the pub staff is sufficiently annoyed with us. Pay and leave. Good. Let’s go. Oh wait, where is the guy from Utah? He knew where we were heading. Whatever.

On our way to the next place we run into… the guy from Utah! Everyone celebrates in the street. Nearby bars hear us, think we are drunker and rowdier than we are. They deny us. Good thing this chap offering us free shots to come to his bar doesn’t care, okay, everybody calm down.

Well, of course we don’t turn down the free shots. I sit down with the Madrid girls and Mack. The others go play spin the bottle with a group of Asians and French? Okay, as most people in CCC can tell you, that game just gets weird. Come on, we are old enough that bottles are not needed. The Brazilian comes over and starts running his hands through one of the Spanish girl’s hair while the Swede kind of just wanders about, looking depressed. Hmm.

Everybody done with their drinks? Good, let’s move on. Good idea, Swede, you take the drunk Brazilian home. He doesn’t look good and is stumbling. Cheers, see you tomorrow. Let’s meet up for breakfast.

Halfway to the club, the Spanish girls and I head back. I’d rather not go to a club, smell like smoke and sweat? No thanks, these clothes have to last me at least two more weeks. My body odor will do enough to make me unapproachable. Adios, hasta mañana.

The Spanish girls make our way back to the hostel. We pass a woman on the street, she looks upset, and also slutty. Something is obviously going on. Whatever, not our business. Upon making it back to Las Ramblas, we see the Swede and the Brazilian. What? We left you guys like half an hour ago. You should be back by now. The Swede sees us and runs up saying, “A hooker stole his wallet. I told him to go back and said the hooker probably stole it. We went back and then I slapped the hooker.”

Wait. Hold on. What? You slapped a hooker?

He dashes across the street, the Brazilian following him. We see the hooker we had just passed and the boys run up to her. Cops follow. Okay, not our place. Let’s just stay and watch, maybe we can find out what really happened. Oh, okay, they are getting taken to the cop station? Let’s just go back to the hostel and wait.

Never mind, it is 2am, I am not waiting anymore, I am going to sleep. I can wait until tomorrow.

I wake up, clean up and go to breakfast. The Madrid girls and I try to guess what really happened. We finally see the Swede. He confirms, someone indeed slapped or punched or kicked the hooker who they think stole the wallet. Well then, adios, off to Switzerland.

Geneva, Switzerland – Boarder Hopping

Mack asks, “So how are we getting to the hotel in Geneva?” Well, it is only a few kilometers from the airport, like less than three miles, I am sure we can catch some form of public transportation or a cheap cab ride there. Mack hesitantly agrees, that we should be fine.

We arrive in at the airport in Geneva. We go to the information desk for France. Our hotel is actually just across the border. She says, a bus runs kind of close to our town, but we would still have to walk. It’s better to just take a cab, it is night anyways. Fine, one cheap cab should be fine, we think.

Thirty five euros later, we disagree. We could have walked a few miles in the dark. Okay, let’s just drop off our stuff and walk to a restaurant, I am starving. Wait, you said the next town is a 15 minute walk away. Okay that is manageable. Oh? Everything closed half an hour ago? But it is only 7:30. Well, let’s just test it out.

No dice. She did not lie, everything is closed, we are wandering around in god knows where middle of nowhere France with no food. It is the middle of winter, it is night, I am cold. Let us just eat a big breakfast tomorrow.

Good, at least the stores open at a decent time. Breakfast was great. Okay, so now how do we get to Geneva? Okay, the lady at the desk says, we have to walk to the next town in Switzerland and catch a tram from there. Maybe a 20 minute walk.

Well, maybe a 20 minute walk when you know where you are going and it isn’t snowing. Well, at least it is beautiful. Do you think they will stamp our passports when we cross the border?

We get to Geneva. Where the hell was that border? Come on! I want a stamp from Switzerland. I walk across international borders and nobody even notices.

Paris – And he just stared at me

Being New Years Eve, we deemed it a good night to go out and enjoy some bubbly by the Eiffel Tower with the rest of the Parisians. A Brazilian notices us while getting to leave the hostel and says, “I want to go.”

“I am sorry? What?”

“I want to go. I am alone and want to go.”

“Umm, I don’t understand, do you speak another language.”

“Yes, Spanish.”

“Vale, que quieres?”

“I want to go out with you guys. I am alone and want to go to the Eiffel Tower but have nobody to go with.”

Oh, okay. Sounds good. Let me just put on a few more layers. I was freezing earlier today.

Mack lent me some long underwear, thank god. I go to my room to put it on. As I am taking off my pants to put on the underwear, another Brazilian comes in. Whatever, it is his room, too. Anyways, there is nothing to see.

He walks up to me, is about 5 feet way from me, and just watches me put on my long underwear, my pants and then belt up. Weird. Really strange. I leave, eager to go out, but more eager to avoid something like that again.

We wind up spending our night hanging out with more Brazilians. Luckily, none were as creepy as the other guy. One more thing, there are no formal fireworks at the Eiffel Tower. It just lights up at midnight. We didn’t even have a countdown. Oh well, still fun. And I got to pop open my first bottle of champagne while in Paris in front of the Eiffel Tower. Not too shabby.