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.