My Travels: Wales

Lesson 54: Just don't go to Wales

I signed up for this overnight trip to Wales based on false pretenses that we would drive out to Wales, go horseback riding, and come home. Wrong. They took us to every stupid redneck village on the way there. The country has absolutely nothing going on. Their most prized possession is their town dedicated to second-hand bookshops. Hardly worthy of my time.

Lesson 55: If you do go and plan on going horseback riding, bring painkillers

I'm still in pain from our 5 hour ride, if you can even call it a ride when you walk at a mile an hour pace on a slowly dying pony. It probably could have gone faster if I gave the horse a piggy-back ride and walked the whole way. Absolutely miserable. To make matters worse, on the bus ride home, I was stuck sitting in the middle seat in the back row of the bus--the death seat if you will. Basically, if there wasn't a seatbelt and the bus were to stop short, it would be me that would have flown the 15 feet forward and through the windshield to my untimely death. Luckily for me there was a seatbelt, but the lack of seat in front of me ensured that I didn't have anything to brace myself on when the bus driver would stop short of hitting some old woman crossing the street...an occurrence that our bus was quite familiar with.

And to make matters even worse, one of the two girls who had been chatting up their friends and their parents and their extended families somewhere in Iran during the entire bus ride there and back puked when we had just 5 minutes left on the bus ride. The least she could have done was given us a bit of a heads up that she felt like she was going to blow chunks. I didn't know that people are capable of non-alcohol related vomiting. Kidding.

Still though, painkillers would have made the entire ride just a bit more pleasurable. Not necessarily anything too hard. Maybe a half of a vicodin. Or a xanax. Or even a tylenol with a smidgen of codeine. Anything that would have made me unaware that I was wading through regurgitated Welsh food when I was exiting the bus.

Day 18

Lesson 52: Screw Kevin Costner, The Fabes is the best bodyguard

So within the first few days of being in London, one of my roommates told a story of her friend who was abroad in London who got mugged at the ATM, or "cashpoint" as they call them here. I nodded and smiled and listened to her story about her friend who was probably just drunk and/or retarded to not know what was going on around her. Anywho, a couple hundred dollars went by in the next couple of weeks, and during those times I never feared for my life or the safety of my checking account. Until this one time...

One night my flatmates and I ventured off to our favorite little pub on our street, The Cock (yes, that's what it's called. and yes, I giggle like a schoolgirl every time I say it). The Fabes had been texting with Santa (see Lesson 24) and he invited her to come out with him. Being the gracious friend that I am, I offered to accompany her on this non-date in case he was a creep. However, my wallet was feeling quite thin, and seeing as I would be unable to work the streets for a couple extra quid before we went out, I decided the ATM would be my next-best option. We finished off our pints and headed for our closest Barclays, as not just any cashpoint would suffice lest I be charged tens of dollars in fees...no thanks. On our way there, The Fabes and I were discussing our defensive strategy at the ATM since it was getting quite dark at the time. Then it happened.

I slipped my card in, and just as I finished entering my PIN these two--to be as PC as possible--non-native Englishmen came up behind me and Fabes and started throwing newspapers at us. My protective instincts came in as I kept both hands planted on the sides of the ATM--elbows out and ready to kick, blocking any access to the keys and thus my precious savings as The Fabes boxed them out and we both screamed NO! NO! NO!!!!!

I think they learned their lesson. No one, and I mean NO ONE gets between a jew and her money. No one.

Lesson 53: Pizza should not crumble

Once we recovered from our ordeal and made our way to meet up with Santa and his little helpers we ended up having a pretty fun night. Luckily for me, the little helpers must have still been in the Christmas spirit, as I didn't end up spending any of my money on drinks (and I wasn't even dressed that sluttily!). 2 glasses of white, 1 glass of red, 3 vodka tonics and a pint of Guiness later, I decided that the beer goggles just weren't strong enough to make the guy who had been hitting on me for the past 45 minutes look attractive, and determined it was time to bail. I grabbed The Fabes who had already ditched Santa to dance with the 50 year old owner of the bar and we bolted. On our way to the main drag to find a cab, we walked past a stand with none other than the American go-to late night food...pizza. I was finally satisfied that I had almost sacrificed my life at the ATM earlier in the night just so I was able to purchase none other than the fine delicacy of a slice of pepperoni pizza. I handed the strangely hairy man my money, and probably would have cut off my left foot had he asked me for it. I grabbed the slice out of his hands and went to town on it like I was one of those starved Ethiopian children in those commercials with the flies landing on its cheek and the protruding stomach. I folded it in half as any New Yorker would, only for it to completely crumble and fall apart. Just as I finished scraping the last bit of cheese and tomato sauce off of my shirt and into my mouth, I noticed Santa's unattractive helper coming towards me. I grabbed The Fabes and hailed a cab and we were out of there. We made it back to my flat just in time for me to make it to the bathroom. I blame the pizza. It's just not natural for a pizza-like substance to crumble in that fashion. Maybe cornbread or some other crumbly-like bready food...but not pizza. It was offensive. And I don't appreciate it.

My Travels: Dublin

Lesson 49: Don't Talk Back To Drunk Eastern Europeans

My roommates and I were on our way to catch the bus to take us to the airport at 3am, when a guy on the same flight as me and my friends (note: I did not say my friend) happened to talk back to some drunk Eastern European men. Big Mistake. The men didn't mean any harm at first. Me and two of my roommates had walked past them with our rolly suitcases and massive backpacks when they said to us "Where you ladies going with these guys? You'd have more fun at mine," to which this non-friend of mine (who was for some reason drunk) replied with something along the lines of "go fuck yourselves." Everyone continued walking in their respective directions and we finally found our bus stop. Ten minutes later, the two guys reappeared looking for a fight. Luckily for us, my roommate's boyfriend was with us, and is actually a professional jiu jitsu fighter. Not that we needed him to protect us or anything...because if you haven't already bought your tickets to my gun show yet, my biceps and triceps speak for themselves. Jokes aside, me and my spaghetti-arms were ready to pop a cap in some ass.

Eventually they went away, but not before I saw my whole life flash before my eyes, assuming an Eastern Promises bathroom bloodbath was about to unfold.

Lesson 50: Dublin has the best burger joint so far (aside from Burger King, obviously)

Step 1: Get that dry ice packaging stuff that the Harry & Davids stuff always comes in

Step 2: Purchase flight to Dublin from RyanAir

Step 3: Go to Bobos.

Step 4: Get 2 Dubliners.

Step 5: Eat 1 Dubliner

Step 6: Package other Dubliner on dry ice stuff

Step 7: Send package to me, as well as a thank you card and any cash donations that you feel I deserve for introducing you to the best burger ever.

Lesson 51: Hold the railing

At one of the bars on our New Europe pub crawl in Dublin, I befriended one of the bartenders. Clearly my eyes (or my pushup bra) have some sort of magical power that just grasps the attention of anyone in the service industry, most of the time to my benefit. I ran out of drink tickets quite quickly, as you would when the size of shots in Europe are 25ml as compared to the generous 1.5oz I'm used to in the states, and they were watered down. However, the powers of the Victoria's Secret "Very Sexy Ultimate Pushup" noticed I was in need and came to my aid. After a few more complementary drinks, it was time to head to the next bar. As I made my way towards the stairs, I was careful to avoid the puddle of god-knows-what that was in the middle of the floor. I dodged it with accuracy. Given I was wearing 4-inch heels, my stability and precision were that much more impressive. I made it down the first section of stairs flawlessly, having taken on each step very slowly. Once I got to the second section I figured, oh what the hell, I made it down the ones before, I can do this with ease. False. With just three more steps to go, my right heel got caught on the edge of the stair (you know--on those things that are meant to stop you from slipping). I tried to catch my balance with my left foot, only to have that one get caught on the exact same "safety" feature on the step below it. Fuck. My. Life. I fell right on my knees and essentially face-planted. Luckily for me, the complementary shots made me unaware of the massive welt-like bruise setting up camp on my left knee.

My Travels: Amsterdam

Lesson 45: Always do the New Europe tours
We discovered through our hostel that there are these tips-based free tours that are given in most touristy cities in Europe. They take you all over the city and tell stories that may or may not be true...but I couldn't really care because they're usually entertaining. What's even better is that this company also usually does Bar Crawls, and if you do the tour you get a discount and free shots at the crawl. You also get a pretty sweet t-shirt that says "I survived the Amsterdamned Bar Crawl." I actually didn't though. Luckily for me they gave me the t-shirt at the first bar because after about half of the bars, I got distracted by Burger King and had to give in to the cravings for my go-to Whopper with cheese, no onions...god forbid if there are onions on that burger there will be a scene, and it will not be pretty.

Lesson 46: Don't takes pictures of the hookers
So the hostel we opted to stay at was right in the heart of the good ole "red-light district." Seeing as I can basically recite the entire movie Eurotrip, I did have a general idea of what goes on down there...simple dutch bakeries, Club Vandersexxx, and the likings. Call me naive but I just did not realize how legal prostitution is there. I always kind of assumed that shopping for a hooker would be like shopping for a good fake Louis Vuitton bag in Chinatown...(kind of frowned upon but everyone does it so it's totally okay, you just have to know where to go). Despite my ever-growing knowledge of Eurotrip, I was not mentally prepared for the "how much is that hooooooker in the windowwww??"-esqe showcasing of half-naked women between the ages of 18 and 84. Well, after the tour we did our first day there, my friends and I were taught this lesson. The hookers, despite the ever-revealing nature of their profession, like to remain as anonymous as possible, which is why they don't like pictures being taken of them. If some tourist who just can't get enough decides to go against this unwritten law and photograph one of the hookers, he will most likely be chased by said hooker and have a cup of mystery liquid thrown on him. If he's lucky, it'll just be water. Otherwise it will most likely be urine....(maybe luck isn't the right word here, maybe some people are into that... I don't know....whatever floats your boat). All I'm saying is, I witnessed it from the window of my very own hostel, and it does not look fun.

Lesson 47: Fuck with the creepers
On our second night out or so, a decent looking guy starts talking to me. He said he was from California but was acting extremely weird. He offered to buy me a drink, and I gracefully accepted--watching every move that he and the bartender made whilst my beer was being poured. While we were drinking, he started having the same exact conversation we had already had...how old I was, where I was from etc. Something was clearly off. After a quick run to the bathroom, I returned to find that this guy had bought be another drink. I told him that I was good and that I didn't want another beer, but he was very insistent that I drink it. Something was clearly not right, so when this creepy dude turned away from me to sneeze, I switched our drinks. After a few gulps of that beer and another repetitive conversation, the dude went comatose. I shit you not. His eyes sunk and his face went blank. Jokes on you creepy roofie man.

Lesson 48: Airport security in Amsterdam is seriously slacking
It is now clear to me why that Nigerian chose to fly out of Amsterdam. Airport security there basically does not exist. The sexy airport security guy was too busy eye-fucking me and my friends to notice that one of them managed to accidentally bring a couple of joints back with them. Woops.

Day 17

Lesson 43: Bring more high heeled shoes to London

So back in the states, I usually have this problem where I tower over roughly 87.2% of the guys. It could be that because in my heels of choice I'm over 6 feet tall, or it could be because I go to a school where a large percent of the population are short Jewish boys who all come from the tri-state area which has caused me to believe that there's something in the water there that has been causing the male population to continuously become shorter and shorter. Across the sea, over here in Londontowne, boys are taller. And damnit, I like it. I finally get to wear my dead sexy hooker heels and 5" boots without feeling like I'm walking down the street with my chest at direct eye-level of the boys. I'm only regretting not bringing more of my sexy ass shoes with me (mom can you buy me some new ones for when you come?? size 8.5, thanks).

Lesson 44: While London may be a fashion epicenter, some people still struggle

I've seen more people than I can count on my fingers wearing Sketchers Shapeups. Major fashion fuckups.

Day 15

Lesson 41: If you have a choice, don't go to London Met, part I

So I take classes at two different universities-- I take 2 Maryland classes with Maryland professors at rented space at Birkbeck College, and then I take 2 classes through London Metropolitan University, aka community college. At first I really didn't think anything of it--why would the University of Maryland have a partnership with a school that wasn't as well-respected as UMD is?? Seriously...why? I was talking with a girl in one of my classes and she actually said to me: "Why did you come here? This uni is a disgrace!" I didn't really know what she was talking about until I was waiting to go into another one of my classes with a different girl and the following conversation ensued:

Girl: So where are you from?

Me: New York

Girl: Like the city?

Me: A little bit outside the city on Long Island

Girl: Ugh you're so lucky! I've never actually made it to New York but I have been to New Jersey, but I know New Jersey is no longer a part of New York

Now I know I'm really in no place to make fun of British people considering a majority of them probably know more about America than Americans do about Britain, but either way I still found it difficult to not laugh in this poor girl's face. I managed to just nod and smile and not embarrass this girl in front of her friends for thinking that New Jersey had seceded from New York.

Lesson 42: If you have a choice, don't go to London Met, part II

The London Met campus where I have my classes is just around the corner from Brick Lane, and I'm 99% sure that if you walked into any of the stores nearby, they would accept Rupees as a form of payment. Nothing against that culture or that community, and I understand that the abroad experience is supposed to immerse you in a different land with a different culture, but I SOO did not sign up to study abroad in Bombay.

Day 13

Lesson 39: Never hesitate going to Church

So for the second weekend in a row my roommates and I went to Church. I was a little hesitant at first to be going two sundays in a row just because I don't want to overdo it and have it lose its appeal, but it seriously just gets better and better. This time I went dressed as a Native American--initially I was going for Pocahontas but since I didn't have a racoon or hummingbird and every person I asked to be Grandma Willow refused, I figured a generic Native American would have to suffice. I guess I should use the term Native American loosely, considering my costume consisted of a simple brown dress with a tan leather belt, braids with a feathered headband, and my fringed "Pocahontas" boots. Needless to say I turned a few heads. It could have been because my dress was so short you could see my small intestines, or it could have been that the Brits/Aussies (Church is an Aussie bar) didn't know what the hell I was supposed to be, considering they don't have Native Americans in the UK. No matter what it was, I enjoyed the attention.

Lesson 40: I am in fact a celebrity

At Church there is this large tv screen showing people in the club. Upstairs in the club there is some clever person working with the camera people to make witty comments about the people being shown on the screen. For example, a friend of mine was zoomed in on and he was given the caption of "lurker." Of course I was zoomed in on. They froze the shot and outed me as being jailbait. I was infuriated!!! The bastards ruined any chances I had of meeting anyone. The cameraman did seem to love me though--I made it onto the screen a few different times. During my post-Church McDonalds meal (which was just around the corner from the club) someone came up to me and told me I was basically a celebrity for being on the jumbotron so much. Well duh I would be on the jumbotron--who wouldn't want to stare at a 5x sized picture of me???