Can´t Tell Me Nothin

The following post is dedicated to the naysayers. It has been crafted in memory of all of the snarky comments insisting that we would be back in a month. This one goes out to every by the book know-it-all who was somehow affiliated with some esoteric knowledge of Europe that insisted that there was no way we could ever find jobs.

All of these people are idiots.

After about a week here in Spain we all have jobs, the five us are now English professors.



Game us, naysayers kill yourselves.

Flashing Lights

We have been in Madrid for a week now, and for the most part it has been an uneventful week. Now I know the negative connotations that the word "uneventful" carries and I need to dispel those with all possible. It has been deeply satisfying to sit on our asses all day every day, a welcome break from the busy pace that we had been keeping.


Regardless of how you feel about the word "uneventful", Friday night fucking shattered any notions of that particular adjective having anything to do with the city of Madrid, and after the shattering, the tattered pieces were swiftly crushed into a fine dust. The dust was then jettisoned into the furthest reaches of space, never to be seen or heard from again.

We decided to go clubbing.


Madrid is an optimal destination for the raccoons and vampires among our readers (Vampyres? Jon?) in that it really comes alive at night. In the downtown area the streets stay pretty much packed from about 11PM till 5 or 6AM. Amidst the pedestrians that fill the streets there are countless solicitors, patient vultures who perch on corners with fliers and eager eyes, ready to preach to you about whatever club, or brothel, has employed them.

Their efforts were in vain however, as Adam and I had done a little bit of research earlier and already picked our destination for the night. The five of us could not be deterred as we walked steadily downhill to the club, Joy. When we at last arrived, we hung out near the entrance for a couple of minutes, debating whether or not the it was full enough to be enjoyable(No pun intended, I swear that shit was an accident).


We decided against entering at that moment, as it was only about 12:30. So we continued our walk down to Sol, one of the many plazas that people gather at when the night comes. There was some strange event going on there which I still don't understand. About sixty people had formed a circle around a few attention starved jackasses that were parading around with thongs on, wielding dildos, and pretending to engage in lewd sexual acts with each other.

It wasn't funny.


The thing that the people didn't realize was that no less than 20 feet away from them something truly hilarious was happening. Some enterprising bum had apparently grown tired of endlessly degrading himself asking people for change, and realized that payphones had tons of change idly resting in their depths. It was determined that the optimal tool for obtaining said change was the payphone itself.

This money hungry son of the gutter was maniacally smashing the receiver against the box with every ounce of force he could muster. I wouldn't imagine that such a man could muster up much force, as I'm sure his feeble diet consisted of little more than bread crumbs flavored only by the stench of piss surrounding him and bingo tickets with ketchup on them. But he wanted that fucking money and he wasn't going to stop.


While I was watching this, Brock was being befriended by a couple of questionable Brazilian fellows that kept offering him free drinks that they concocted right there in the plaza. I was weary of these gentlemen, but they had gained the attention of the rest of the group, so I entered in the fray, offering up my meager knowledge of Spanish, meeting them halfway with their substandard English.

We told them what we were up to, and it seemed as good of a time as any to go to the club, so we began the short trek to Joy. When we got their we learned that there was a guest list. This brief moment of panic was remedied when the Brazilians offered up another location. We didn't know any better so we agreed.
We got to the door and paid fifteen euros to get in, a steep price partly due to the free drink ticket it included-useless to me for obvious reasons. We climbed the stairs and upon our entrance to the first room, this club was immediately disappointing.


The lights were impressive and the music was decent enough, but the room was filled with people who at the very least were a decade older than ourselves. The small dance floor was populated with thirty and forty somethings gyrating mildly in a last ditch attempt to masquerade youth and vitality. We all exchanged "What the fuck?"s for a couple of minutes before slipping into one of the many side rooms.

We posted up in this room for a bit, wondering what to do next, and soon enough the Great Goosby had attracted the attention of some chick. They talked for a bit, and I think it was during this time that Joel wandered off further into the depths of the club to see if he couldn't find something more suitable for us.
Joel returned with a fervent pitch insisting that he had found a satisfactory room. We followed him, as anything had to be better than the room we were in, and he was absolutely right. We had finally escaped from the geriatric shuffling of rooms past, and found our home. Glenn eventually followed with his new friend in tow, and we were introduced to her friends, a handful of lovely girls from London who were on a trip for a Spanish class. It turns out the girl Glenn was hitting on was their teacher, and she was 27.


We stayed with these girls for the rest of the night, and I have to say it was much better than our clubbing experience in London. The only problem was that the club was playing mostly Spanish club tracks, which often break down into a series of clicks and clacks just barely resembling percussion, severely reducing the low chances of us not looking like jackasses when we were dancing.

Also, while we were at the club we met a couple of guys, Chris and Jonah.




That's right, fucking McLovin and Seth.


Superbad had premiered in Spain a couple of days earlier so they were there doing promotional stuff. We would go over to the area that were hanging out in throughout the night and check up on them, talk for about fifteen minutes then go back to dancing. The funny shit was that Chris (McLovin) is pretty much the same person in real life as was in Superbad. Honest to God, his voice actually sounds like that. They were completely willing to sit around and talk shit with us, even though I would imagine that it wasn't that exciting for them.


So there you have it, we danced all night long with some cute British girls, hung out with McLovin (fucking McLovin!), and finally went home at 5AM. When we were half a block away from the hostel Joel stopped to piss in some alley. I sat on the steps of the metro stop waiting for him, and some enchanting Spanish girl said something to me that I didn't understand.


I pleaded her to repeat it for me, but I still didn't comprehend whatever she was trying to convey. She walked off into the night as I tried to decipher the message, but it was no use.

Joel finished pissing, I still wondered what she said, and at last the night was over.

Garbage Bodies

So we´ve been in the same hostel in Madrid for about a week now and I feel like I need to describe the interior of the room that we have spent a majority of our time in. It is a fairly small room with one bunk bed and three other beds crammed tightly into a small amount of space. So, with that, our huge backpacks, and us... there isn´t much room for anything else.

Except garbage.

The amount of garbage that we managed to pack into that room is ridiculous. There´s a supermarket right up the street that has a ton of cheap food and drinks, so we go there all the time. The amount of bread crumbs (Glenn´s broke ass sucks at eating fucking bread.), 2 liter fanta bottles, chip bags, Doo Wop wrappers, and other miscellaneous items was ridiculous. I managed to fill about 7 grocery bags almost to the bursting point, but there was still more. The lady at the hostel walked in one day and started laughing at all the trash we accumulated. And then we took it out, because we felt like bastards, only to have it reappear a couple days later.

But the main point of this story is garbage bodies. Due to the large amount of garbage, multiple times one of our beloved crew members has laid down on a bed, then when he stands up, he has a multitude of small pieces of garbage that have molded to his body. The best example is Brendan. Brendan sat up after reading or something and had created a breadcrumb farm on his back with a nice little tinfoil ball barn burrowed into his skin right below his shoulder. That is when the term ¨Garbage Bodies¨was coined.

Masterpiece Before the Curtains

As was mentioned in an earlier post, the Rugby World Cup is currently taking place in France. As I'm sure you can imagine, there a many festivities surrounding these events. One of these is the massive screens situated around Paris that display the matches.

During our time in Paris, we were lucky enough to attend the screening of a game between France and the New Zealand All Blacks team. New Zealand was the favored winner and from the few rumblings I had heard about the match things did not look well for France.

We climbed out of the subway station at the Hotel De Ville, whose massive courtyard was filled with the most people I have ever seen in my life. Everywhere around there were Rugby zealots with flags on there faces and in their hands. We began the arduous process of finding a place to sit among the massive crowds.

I will spare you all the actual details of the match, except the fact that we won. I feel kind of like a moron saying "we" as I am not French by any means, but sitting there with all those people around, erupting with them every time France scored a goal, booing the New Zealand team, and ultimately enjoying the pinnacle of the celebration when the game had ended as champagne bottles sprayed all around and flares lit up the night, I felt like I sure as hell wanted to be.

We waited after the game as the crowds dissipated, then we walked off into the night heading off to a party in celebration of the beautiful victory. The streets were alive, flooded with joyous pedestrians who still chanted the praises of the team and cars that utilized their horns to the fullest extent.

Friendly people walked around us and told us all about themselves while bombarding us with questions. It was a beautiful night.

We finally arrived at the apartment of a girl named Alta, daughter of the French playwright Yasmina Reza. The party that ensued was massively delightful. For the most of the night I sat there watching people dance.

They fucking danced all night long. It was beautiful. Watching them move around I felt like I was surrounded by the classic, romantic, fantasy France. That apartment was some romantic time capsule with scenes that played out like the massive canvas paintings in the Louvre.

Thank you to all the the people from that night, the gregarious Pianist, Vincent-who may be the best dancer in the world, the sultry couple who passionately threw each other around on the dance floor, the two girls who stepped perfectly with together, Alice of course, the young man who loved Queen, and everyone else.

If He Led a Life of Reason

The unfortunately brief amount of time that we spent in Paris was incredibly enjoyable. Many thanks must be extended to Alice for allowing the five of us to stay with her in Paris. She was incredibly hospitable, cooking us meals and cleaning our clothes, and we are very thankful for all of this.

The first night that we stayed with her we hopped on the subway heading to the Eiffel Tower to meet some friends of hers.

When we were on the subway I saw the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. At one stop a strange looking man entered into our car, on his shoulder was positioned a Casio keyboard, similar to the placement of a boombox in Golden Era B-Boy fashion. He tapped a button on the keyboard and a cheesy hi hat starting ticking. A thin beat followed which was then flushed out by his playing the keys.

He began a mournful wail in some middle eastern language. I have no idea what he said. He had a lazy eye that rolled all around the car testing to see how uncomfortable people were becoming with their strange visitor. For a while I was holding back laughter, but then something about his song won me over.

He was telling us all something even though he knew we couldn't hear it. That shit was hot. At the pinnacle of his opus we sped across the Seine River, with the Eiffel Tower now in view.

I must utilize one of my signature breaks at this point to explain this thing that the Eiffel Tower does every 40 minutes or so. It is illuminated brilliantly all night long, but occasionally it will burst with little tiny flashing lights that cover the entire surface.

So as we crossed the river and the strange being sang to us the tower exploded into a galaxy of lights. At this moment I was content with my existence.

Posted up at a Playground

So, before we got to Madrid, we made our way to a beautiful coastal French surfing town called Biarritz. The first two nights we got to stay at a really nice hostel. The third night had us sleeping on the amazing beach where for the past two days we had just chilled at all day. We stayed there for a while then decided to catch a train to Madrid which in turn we missed. So that night we camped in a nearby playground. Joel, Brock, Glenn and Brendan had a nice two story apartment complete with a slide and a climbing wall, which left me in a shabby little one room house that my feet stuck out of and left my head with one inch of clearance between the ground and a child sized bench. Needless to say, some of us went pee where i am sure children frollic. Don't be too worried though, we were able to wake up before kids decided to utilize our newly acquired housing for their stupid games. When we went back to the train station in the morning we saw a guy, Dan, that worked for Brock's dad on their house. It was fucking surreal to see someone else from Sandpoint in Biarritz.

Madrid is weird

So we´re in Madrid, haven´t really done much. But since we´ve been here I´ve seen some weird shit. Tons of people have dreads, which isn´t that weird until you´re looking at a guy that has a normal haircut, then he turns around and reveals like 5 dreads dangling right above his ass. Then this morning I was standing on the balcony of our hostel and I saw to cops on mopeds run into eachother, yell a little bit, then drive up a really steep hill, which was pretty sweet because they we´re going really slow because their mopeds sucked ass. Then, a little bit later, Adam, Brock, and I saw a clown dragging a suitcase on wheels cross the street then enter a building. Then, not long after I saw a midget. My hopes are high in regards to at least seeing some sweet shit while we´re here.

Merci Beaucoup Alice!!

I´m not sure if this has been mentioned in the bike post or not but our main goal for making the journey to Paris was because this extremely kind young woman by the name of Alice offered us to stay with her for a couple nights in her very nice appartment. We had all met her before when she traveled all the way to Sandpoint to stay with our good friend Autry for a little while. Other than a couple nights of camping and hanging out at the fountain, the five of us were practically just foreign acquaintences. Yet we were treated like family.

We were greeted at the train station and followed her to her very nice residence. We took showers as she prepared an excellent meal for us. Warm food was a wonderful change from eating just bread with either cold sauce or cheese. She even offered to keep our constant train of laundry going while we walked around Paris during the day. Taking care of damp clothes that were sitting in our bags since the bike incident was a task we did not even want to tackle ourselves.

So far, Paris has been my best experience on this trip and without the generosity of Alice, it would not have been even as close to as much fun.

So once again, Thank you Alice. Hopefully we will see you again or be able to return the hospitallity.

Watchin' The Long Arm of the Law

The cops in France are an odd bunch and I am having trouble finding out whether they like us or hate us. Our first run in with the authorities happened in Rouen, when we were sitting in a park/market area chewing on baguettes and sipping the cheapest, shittiest soda in the world.

There was a little walkway leading up to the park area, but the thing about France is that cars are allowed anywhere and everywhere. So a cop car rolls up with a man intently staring out of it looking for wrong doers. Joel was standing in front of the rest of us, his hand cupped counting what little change he had. I imagine this look liked a drug deal, Joel holding the coveted crack rocks that so need to survive. The cop called him over and Joel explained in French that didn't speak French, and all was well.

The next encounter occurred when we finally made it to Paris. We sat down with all of our stuff right there on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower and Glenn and I went to walk around the park. When we came back there was a group of officers congregated around the rest of the group, patting them down and all.

The cop touched Adam in a bad spot

Glenn and I arrived on the scene and asked what it was all about. They assured us that it was merely a routine check. Of course they didn't find anything. They made a bit of small talk and seemed pretty friendly about the whole thing and eventually left, wishing us a good time.

Further into the day our chances of finding a place to stay for the night were dwindling, and we decided that we would stay right there in front of the tower. We figured we would stay up all night, sleep in shifts whatever. As it turns out many people sit there until pretty late drinking the cheap champagne that is hawked by Indians carrying backpacks full of the shit. So the bottles were purchased and they proceeded to drink and drink, befriended those that surrounded us.

Good times were had that night until Joel and Adam began to feel the downsides of all that alcohol. Joel sat on a bench puking and Adam disappeared into the bushes, busy with the same task. Glenn slept on a bench for a while and eventually ran off into downtown Paris to find some Pizza at 2 AM. He didn't find any. After they had quelled the alcoholic aftermath they rolled out their sleeping bags, right there on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower. Brock and I were the only ones not drunk, so we found these actions questionable. Surely the cops would not agree with these arrangements, we turned out to be the only people there actually spending the night.

On top of this, the Rugby World Cup is going on right now in France, so they have this gigantic inflatable Rugby ball sitting about twenty feet from where we slept, with guards patrolling all night and occasionally staring at us. Brock and I decided it was best that we stay awake and keep an eye on things just in case the cops did arrive and have a problem with our camping.

I grew tired of this sitting and walked over to the tower, where I could see and hear to bums screaming at the top of their lungs at each other, in French. I have no idea what they were screaming about, but they felt the need to do it at the loudest possible volume. I avoided them and walked all the way down to the other end of the park. On my way back I saw that they had found someone to bother, they were now screaming in front of the inflatable rugby ball, while the guards stared at them, their hounds barking in protest. I was sure that the guards would at least do something to silence these madmen, but they merely watched in awe.

I saw back down with Brock as the bums approached us. They were so fucking loud. One of them borrowed Brock's lighter, and the other kept trying to tell us that we should "sleep, sleep" showing us hand gestures to make sure we understood. I am absolutely positive that he was trying to lure us to sleep in order to either rape us or steal all of our stuff. They yelled at each other longer, and I think they were arguing over who was to rape who.

They walked about thirty feet away, still yelling. At this point in time Brock and I turned around to see three men discussing something with the guards at the rugby ball. In the next instant the men charged towards the bums. They split up, one ran up to the closer bum, grabbed the upper half of his body and swept his legs dropping him to the ground. He pulled something out that sounded like a switch blade and pointed it at the bum who stared back in fear. The other two proceeded to deal with the other bum, throwing him down in a similar fashion. The bums got kicked repeatedly while they were on the ground and eventually cuffed.

We now realized these men to be plain clothes officers, and readied our passports as they approached us after throwing the bums in the back of their van. Brock and I were sure that at this point that we would be asked to leave. However, the cops said nothing about our camping. They merely asked if the bums had caused any problems with us, we responded and that was all we saw of those officers. We had somehow miraculously managed to still be watching over our passed out friends in front of the Eiffel Tower.

We went to sit on the bench when a cop car arrived, pulling up next to some bushes right in front us, then repositioning itself so that they were pointing directly at us. Now the jig was up, the cops had come to watch us for a little bit, then cart us off to the same place the bums went. Once again, they merely sat and watched for about an hour then drove off.

When the morning came there was a large ceremony occurring at the massive rugby ball, which housed a sort of mini museum on Rugby and New Zealand. The prime minister of New Zealand was there, as was all the press, also they had a bunch of natives dressed up in their native garb chanting and screaming the native chants while parading around the entrance. This woke Joel up for a brief second, which I would imagine was one of the funniest things to wake up to. After all this hullabaloo was complete Brock and I sat back down still in awe of everything that had just happened.

There, to the right of us was the Eiffel Tower. To the left was the worlds biggest Rugby Ball, hundreds of cameras and a Prime Minister. In the middle, Joel, Glenn, Adam, and our five backpacks soaking up the morning dew. Never have my eyes seen such an odd sight.

The tourists began to come and at around 10AM the cops visited once more, this time waking up our friends. The bizarre night had come to a close.

Garfunkel and Goo Face

"Baby Face". A name i was given against my will. I had long been awaiting the day that i would be able to come back with a name for my two main hecklers, Glenn and Brendan. The day has come. Brendan's new name came about yesterday while having dinner with Glenn's fine elderly relatives. Jacques is a man of few English words, but he loves to point out the fact that Brendan doesn't drink or smoke at every meal. He usually says something along the lines of, "You no drink wine, you no drink coffee, you no smoke. You are a poor man." But i digress. So we were sitting at the table and Jacques looks to Brendan and he looks as though he is trying to tell him something and he tries to say things but all that comes out it is broken indiscernible English. Finally Jacques gives up trying to say what he wants and leaves the room to retrieve a visual aid. he returns with a CD case and shows Brendan the back of it and points to the picture of Garfunkel and says "This is you!" and then proceeds to let out his large infectious laugh. This is the picture, so guess which one is Brendan.Jacques also named Brendan Water Monger because of Brendan's lack of drinking alcohol leaving water as his only option at meals.

Now as for Glenn, he has a much shorter story. I was trying to explain the face that Glenn gets after too much alcohol. It is hard to explain, but it is kind of like he's very content with something he just did. Like he did something slightly funny, but not funny enough to provoke all out laughter, just a nice smirk on his face. It appears that his head is to heavy for his neck to support. His eyes randomly shift and focus from point to point but never seem to acknowledge one certain thing. He just looks really drowsy, like he smoked a brick of weed. The Best Term I could come up with was Goo Face. It's something the whole group hates to see, but Glenn has been known to drink a bit of alcohol in his day. I would honestly rather fuck a badger with AIDS then see his shitty goo face but its a burden we must all bear. Here is the best example i have ever seen.

Peddled to the Corner

This is the saga of the bikes.

It must be told. I regret the expenditure greatly, however, I hate to admit that is was a vital part of our journey.

When we landed on French soil we had one mission-to get to Paris. We arrived in Le Havre on a Saturday I think and we need to be to France by the following weekend in order to meet up with Alice. We figured that in the time between we would slowly make our way to Paris, enjoying the towns and cities along the way. For some strange reason, the majority of our group saw the available transportation (trains, buses) an invalid option. They wanted to buy bikes.

Then something terrible happened. They actually found a bike store.

If you ever visit the Le Havre Go Sport branch do me a favor and damn them all for their sales tactics. A seemingly friendly man who spoke little English immediately descended upon us, his ignorant prey. We were idle dolls stuffed with money, the seams of which were his to tear apart. I knew from the beginning that bikes were a horrible idea, but everyone else insisted that they would be perfect. It was quicker than walking and that way we could make our way to Paris at a leisurely pace. I protested endlessly, but it was in vain. The other four were convinced, and I knew that I had no choice but to give in and buy the bikes. I was tired, hungry, and my will was weak. The only thing I could get from them was one hour to walk around the mall and make my decision. I was stalling and I knew it was worthless. We came back to the store and the employees continued to talk up the bikes, assuring us that we could ride them to Paris.

Here I must diverge from the story slightly. When we first presented the idea of riding them to Paris to the man at Go Sport he said something along the lines of "Oh yes, you ride to Paris", and presented us with a promising thumbs up. Every single other person who heard about this idea was convinced that we were idiots. They were right. Now, back to the story.

One by one they tuned up our bikes, which were to costs 160 euros each (roughly 220 USD). And one by one Joel, Brock, Adam, and Glenn wheeled them up to the counter, gladly slapping down their plastic payments and walking out with smiles on their faces. I dragged my feet, stumbled my tired ass into the store and put my hands on the handlebars with a frown on my face. I knew it was a bad idea, but I could do nothing.

The worst purchase of my life

After all was said and done we said goodbye and saluted them with many "merci's". After watching me stumble around the store the salesman felt the need to impart his wisdom to me "no more drink, is bad for stomach". I'm sure his incorrect image of me being drunk was enhanced by my having to carry Joel's newly purchased wine bottle around in a plastic bag. The salesman did not understand the irony of calling me drunk.

By this time we had alerted many people in the mall of our presence, they sat on the benches watching the stupid Americans with their shiny new bikes wondering what the hell we were doing. I wondered the same. We dragged them out of their, clumsily lugging them up the escalators, then finally took off, to Paris apparently.

So naive

I will admit that I was briefly optimistic about the bikes when we began riding them. That feeling was quickly extinguished by the time we made our slow departure from Le Havre. People gawked all along the way, making faces and heckling as we went through the shadier parts of town. One young man yelled at us in French, then quickly switched to English.

Young Man-What are you looking for?

Me-What's that?

Young Man-(mocking tone) What's that?

I hate that Young Man, but it some cliche poetic way his inquisition summed up this odyssey.

My bike chain broke. We(Joel) fixed it. Progress was slow. As the day began to fade we knew we needed to find a place to sleep, but we were still in the outskirts of Le Havre with houses surrounding us. We rode uphill to where the forest was and eventually found a spot that seemed safe. We quickly wheeled our bikes up the hill and hid them behind a tree, then stole off into the thin forest to take our packs off and rest.

We sat for a few minutes until we were startled by the frequent sound of mopeds and four wheelers buzzing around. As it turned out we were right next to some forest road that was obviously frequented by such vehicles, they zoomed by every couple of minutes, each time we would duck right by the road, praying we weren't discovered. At one point while driving by they stopped right by where we were for about thirty seconds, and we were sure we had found.

In order to try to lessen their anger, Joel and Glenn left to go find those who had seemingly captured us, hoping to play the hopeless wanderer role and beg for a place to stay. Apparently though they hadn't actually seen us at all, but they did tell us that was OK for us to camp there, although only for one night. Also, they told us we were crazy for trying to ride bikes to Paris. So we set up camp, tents and all and slept well for our first night in France.

The next morning we woke up at about 11 and didn't get out of there until about 2. We rode in the wrong direction a couple of times until finally making our way down the hill and posting up at a roundabout. Here it was decided that we would wait until night to ride our bikes, as the highways would be way to crowded on the day. I thought that this too was a bad idea, but the majority ruled and there was nothing I could do. We enjoyed the small town all day long until night came (around 9) and we were on our way.

We rode for many kilometers. Five retarded Americans with gigantic backpacks whizzing through the night on their shiny Go Sports. The rain came and went intermittently, mostly sticking to a bearable drizzle. We finally made it out of Le Havre, with hopes of making it to Bolbec, the next non-village, by the next day.

Here I must stop again. As we left Le Havre, every sign we saw still insisted on pointing us to Le Havre. I am fairly certain that some French ordinance mandates that every road sign in France must point to Le Havre. No matter where you go, for many miles you will see signs to Le Havre. Do not follow them.

After much riding, and uphill pushing we finally arrived at the next town, a medium sized village called St. Romain. We were exhausted. We coasted down the hills until we found a church that we deemed a proper resting place. Everyone collapsed, setting up shop in front of the church. They rolled out pads and sleeping bags while Glenn and I walked around to have a look at St. Romain. After our short walk Glenn went to sleep in front of the church and I stayed up. We agreed that in one hour we would awake the others to continue our journey.

We rousted them, they slowly collected their gatherings and we once again rode. Joel was tired from the beginning and pessimistic about further riding during the night, but I was convinced we could do it. I was wrong. I was full of shit. Bolbec was "only" 8 kilometres away.

We peddled in the drizzle for about two kilometres when we all realized how tired we were. We pushed our bikes further and further until we found a "good place to camp". It was where a road diverged from the highway and there was a large arrangement of flowers and bushes that we could sleep behind.

This was the worst night of my life.

Earlier that evening, Satan struck a deal with Neptune. They agreed to collaborate in relocating all of the water from the seven seas to the skies, and dumping it upon us in one night. The rain was unbearable. It did not stop. There are only so many ways I can describe it. I did not sleep at all that night. I sat up straight on top of my backpack with my rain jacket on, watching the entire country of France become soaked. The night was also incredibly long, it stretched on as I prayed to see some hint of daylight. This night was not like a night of camping when you get soaked, because you know even then that you will hike back down and get in a car, go home and take a hot shower and wash your clothes. We were thousands of miles away from home, on the side of the highway in France.

Please kill me

By the grace of God morning came. Everything was soaked. We had to make the decision between moving on to the next town or going back the short distance to St. Romain. Thankfully, we chose the latter. We pushed our bikes all the way back, our sopping backpacks weighing us down; confused locals staring at us. Finally we posted up at the same church, absolutely drenched and unsure of what to do next.

All we knew was that we needed a hotel room. One needs such a thing after such a night. There was only one in town and it was booked for the next fifty days. Funny now, but terrible news at the time.

It was at this moment that we all knew what had to be done. We needed to get rid of the bikes. I wasn't even interested in gloating about the blunder they had pushed upon me, I just knew that I never wanted to see that hellish machine again. So there at the church we heckled passersby, Glenn utilizing his limited French to offer new bikes for sale at the low low price of ten euros. That is how desperate we were.

Nobody wanted to buy them. They just wanted to know why we were selling them for ten euros. Why did we try to ride to Paris? I didn't know why. While we sat at the church with our pitiful sales pitch a man, presumably a priest, arrived on his way to work there. Glenn pleaded with him, but he was confused and not in the least bit interested in the bikes. This young man seemed fairly amused and kept looking around like the whole thing was some practical joke.

He left us, he had to go work, and we sat there with the five bikes around us. We all knew what was next. We had to leave them there. 160 euros down the drain. One of the bikes was the brunt of our rage as a couple of us smashed the tire and threw it on the ground. We said goodbye to the bikes and left them in the alley, hoping to never see them again. We walked to a bar, sat our stuff down, and Glenn began to inquire about how to get to the next town along the road. A helpful man gave us a ride to the bus stop where we sat, shivering, glad to have the bikes safely in our past. Glenn walked around some more, returning with the familiar shit eating grin on his face, riding one of those bikes. He said that when he walked down to fetch it the priest was looking at the bikes, Glenn told him we would be back in five minutes to pick them up.

Of course, we never went back.

A new home

Glenn parked the bike, trying once again to sell it at a hot price, but his efforts were useless. A couple of minutes later, some city workers came by and asked if the bike belonged to any of us. We said no, and they carted it off on their truck. After much waiting the bus finally came and we rode to the next town, Bolbec, where we immediately found a hotel and got two rooms for the night. All of our clothes smelled horrible, one shirt of mine so gross that I threw it away days later due to the mold that had grown on it. Sitting in the hotel room we were sure that the saga of the bikes was complete.

A funny thing happened the next day.

We were slowly figuring out how to make our way to the next town, sitting on a bench and procrastinating about walking to the bus stop, which was half a block away. There we sat as a car drove up across the street and parked. Out of this car appeared the priest from the day before. He had clearly come to the bigger city to utilize the post office, and by bizarre coincidence saw his friends who abandoned the bikes a day before. He smiled and flashed us the thumbs up, apparently happy with his new found gifts. May he make better use of them than we did. And thus, the saga of the bikes was complete.

Kinda Hard Being Snoop D O Double G

Long ago, when we were still in Le Havre, we were enjoying a quiet meal of the usual baguettes outside a local supermarket. While we were minding our own business a couple of locals teens approached us and began babbling in to us in French. They soon learned they we were American and one repeatedly insisted that he was Calvin Broadus himself. He would wave his hands and say "Snoop Dogg!" but in this odd way that shortened the vowel sounds until they were almost non existent so it was more like "Snep Deg", he was also adamant about the phrase "Shet m' neggas".

Native of France

After all of his bouncing around and impersonation he started pointing at a cigarette in his hand, dubbing it "the shit" and "Snoop Dogg". He then proceeded to pull out of his pocket a large brick of hash, offering it to us for only 50 euros. Of course, we declined.

Ballin'

Me chillin' with Samus in Le Havre

The Harbor is Yours

When we left England from Portsmouth we ended up spending all damn day sitting at in the ferry terminal because for some reason Glenn and I booked our tickets for 11:30. The time went by relatively fast, but Glenn got kinda bored and decided to down his two pound(as in money) bottle of wine.

Now if you have spent some time with Glenn you know that when he downs a bottle of wine he gets two things:

1. Purple teeth and lips
2. Really shitty ideas

As our departure grew nearer Glenn convinced himself that it would be beneficial for us to try to sneak onto a different ferry line that was going to a different destination. He vehemently spewed the wonders of this plan, he insisted that if worst came to worst we would pretend like we had made an honest mistake and wait for our real ferry. Also, the different destination, St. Malo, was apparently really nice and closer to Paris than Le Havre.

I was the main detractor from this plan and I struggled to shoot it down as he slowly gained the half-assed support of the others. It really sounded like they were going to commit to that shit. Once again, he had the wine in him so he kept saying things like "St. Malo is closer to France" which Adam paraphrased well as "France is closer to France than France".

For some reason he eventually gave up the idea and it seemed that things were going to go as they were supposed to. I picked up Joel's gigantic map of Europe to check just how far away Le Havre was from Paris. I also checked out where Glenn's fantasy destination, St. Malo was.

Just look at the fucking map.

All My Baby Pictures

How big do you want your ice cream?

One Saturday about a week before we left for this journey I ran into Robert's father downtown at the farmer's market. He was asking us about the trip and he referred to Adam as "the baby faced one". We had been taunting him, about this for a couple of weeks when we arrived in London, where we learned that he is internationally known as a babyface.

One night while we were wandering around town a black man approached us asking for cigarettes. He was sure, due to my manly physique, that I was probably the rugged smoker type. He was not convinced about Adam.

Black Man- I no ask him, he babyface. You all the same age maybe but him babyface.

He was right on both accounts.