I am home!

I am home safely and already sunburned! Go Arizona!!

Anyway - The Weekly Brit will continue until I finish my stories! I've got something for all of the backpacking destinations and a few stories from once I got back to England. Not sure when the next one will be though. I'm heading to Tucson tomorrow to HOPEFULLY secure a place to live next year - as well as pick up Bread and see Rachel.

But - that's just tomorrow... so, sometime AFTER tomorrow Saint Patrick's Day Part 4 will run!

"Fingertips" & "Mona Lisa Chicken Dinner"

Hello readers,

In the blog I've spoken about both of the short stories I've written this semester, "Fingertips" & "Mona Lisa Chicken Dinner."

Unless you're JD Salinger - who supposedly has written 15 novels that he refuses to have published on the grounds that he knows they're perfect and doesn't need anyones opinion on them - the main point of writing is to have your work read. So, I'm making these two short stories available!

To receive a copy via email, please send a request to maximumbandit@gmail.com and I will email you a copy.

-Dave

LONDON - Saint Patrick's Day - Day 3

Dom’s band brought in such a crowd at Madden’s the night before that they got invited to play again the next night. Instead of following and going to the same bar for the same party a second night in a row, I got in touch with my buddy Dave who I had stayed with in London in the past. We agreed to meet up in SoHo and go out for dinner and a few drinks. I told Dom I’d meet him back at his house later that night – he said he’d wait up and make sure I got back alright.

I took the tube from Dom’s house to Piccadilly Circus and met Dave in front of the giant McDonalds. From there, we went to one of his favorites, Waxy O'Connells and over a beer or two we talked about his upcoming graduation and career options – among other things. That is, until he got a text message.

“So uhh – I was talking to this girl earlier to see if she was free tonight… and she said she wasn’t – but she just texted me and said her plans changed and she’s free – mind if she joins us?”

And so we became three.

This was Sunday, the night before real Saint Patrick’s Day. I met him right around 10pm and asked him what time the tube would stop running, so I could make sure I’d get home okay. He said it should close around 12:30 or 1 a.m. Good enough for me. Plenty of time.

Dave’s lady friend meets up with us and he suggested we head to a bar named “Ain’t Nothin but Blues Bar.” Live music every night – fancy people and expensive beer – sounds like a plan!

Despite the £4 pints, the place was really, really cool. It was a small venue but packed – even from the back we were no more than fifteen feet from the band. People were dancing and partying – wearing silly Guinness hats for Saint Patrick’s Day – the singer proclaimed that Saint Patrick was the patron saint of cheap beer – it was a blast. I stayed until their set was over and then decided I needed to get going so I wouldn’t miss the tube.

I stepped outside and looked around. We’d been to a bunch of different places before there, and I didn’t really have my bearings. There were a few taxis waiting outside. One of them waved me over.

“Where you trying to get to?”

“Woodside Park… how do I get to the nearest tube?”

“Tube’s closed, mate,” he says. I look at my watch.

“It’s only 11:30!”

“It’s a Sunday – tomorrow’s a holiday. Tube’s closed.”

I look at him blankly.

“You said you need to get to Woodside Park?”

“Yup.”

“That’s far mate, real far. I can give you a ride there for £200,” he offers.

For the record, this converts to $400 US dollars.

“That’s very nice of you – I have £7 in my pocket. Will that do?”

“Okay okay – I can do it for £150.”

Everyone likes trying to rob the Americans.

“That’s still very nice of you… I have £7 in my pocket…”

“£125?” he tries.

“Look man, I’m not bluffing. I’ve got £7 in my pocket – is that going to get me home or what?”

“Nah man. £125.”

“There a bus stop nearby?”

He points me in the direction of darkness – basically keep going straight and hang a left at the homeless person.

I figured at this point I wasn’t going to be home by the 12:30am I had told Dom. I pull out my phone and dial his number.

“We’re sorry – you have insufficient funds to place this call.”

My heart sinks.

I enter the code into my phone to see how much funds I DO have. £0.11: there is a God. This is EXACTLY enough to send one text message. Outgoing calls and texts cost – incoming everything is free.

“Dom – call me. I’m out of credit – kind of lost - and the tube is closed.”

I pop my phone back in my pocket.

The cab driver might have been trying to screw me over and pay off his mortgage on one sucker-American, but he gave good directions in the face of defeat. I got to the bus stop and wait for a few minutes, alone, before a bus pulled up.

“Will this get me to Woodside Park?” I ask the driver.

“No man – no that’s REAL far away!” he says, laughing.

“Yeah… yeah I know… do you know how I can get there?”

“Yeah man… take this to Trafalgar Square – get off there and take the N20 all the way up to Woodside Park.”

I swipe my travel card – and so far the only thing that hasn’t gone wrong on this expedition is that there’s plenty of money on it for me to get home – and even get lost on the way there.

Still no call from Dom.

Trafalgar Square is two stops up. I get off my bus on the east side of the square and see an N20 departing from the west side. I walk over and check the schedule. The bus leaves every half hour – good enough. London’s transportation has a helpful feature where they tell you exactly how long it’ll take to get from one destination to another. Trafalgar Square to Woodside Park? It says 2 hours. I have a half hour to kill – and I realize that there is something I need to do before that 2-hour bus ride starts… I’ve gotta pee!

I start wandering around Trafalgar Square in front of the National Portrait Gallery and realize this isn’t going to be easy… security is everywhere. But – security work here – and if they have to patrol all night – they’ve got to pee SOMEWHERE, right?

“Hey man – there a toilet around here?” I ask one of the guys in a yellow jacket.

“Uhh – well, you could climb up on one of the lion statues and try and make it into the fountain,” he said.

“Uh… any other ideas?” I ask, laughing nervously.

“Not a thrill seeker – eh? Well…” he said, leaning in closer, “if you go down that little alley way there are some nice dark corners…”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Look mate – you ain’t been in London if you haven’t peed on the Portrait Gallery,” he said. One of his colleagues hears this and starts laughing 10 feet away.

I followed his directions – his instructions – and sure enough there WERE plenty of dark corners. Mission accomplished!

As I headed back to the bus stop, the guard who had been circling the fountain sees me walking by and shouts “Hey! Yeah? Yeah? Everything cool now?”

I nod my head, shoot him a thumbs up and say, “Thanks, mate!”

I check my phone again – still no call from Dom.

The bus finally pulls up. I tell the driver where I’m trying to get. He confirms that this bus WILL get me there and it WILL take exactly two hours. I ask if he can give me a heads up when we arrive – he agrees. I didn’t really believe that he WOULD, but after he made sure I got where I was going – I found that if you ask a bus driver ANYWHERE in Europe to let you know when you’re “there,” wherever that is, they’ll help you.

Two stops past Trafalgar, Neil Diamond’s voice comes booming out of my cell phone – chanting the anthem of Red Sox Nation – finally: Dom is calling.

I tell him the situation.

“The night bus is a blast, mate! You’ll make friends with someone and the two hours will fly by,” he tells me.

And so it was. Two stops later, at Tottenham Court Road Station, on steps a really cute girl who comes over and asks “anyone sitting here?”

“No, go right ahead,” I tell her. She looks at my UEA hoodie.

“What’s an American in a UEA hoodie doing going to North-North London at this hour?”

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Katie.

Katie is getting a Bachelors of Fine Arts in Theater from a university in London. She’s done a bunch of stage theater but is more interested in television. She also does vocal performance but tells me she doesn’t think she can make a career at it. My art-high-school dork alarm starts blaring. I’ve made a friend.

I very modestly brag about a few of my art-school accomplishments, such as singing at the Tempe Music Festival on the same day as The Counting Crows. Apparently, this is her favorite band.

Score.

“You have very kind eyes – I could tell you were an artist when I first saw you, that’s why I sat down with you,” she tells me.

She asks me what I’m studying at UEA – I tell her creative writing which gets the same gasp/squeal as The Counting Crows.

She asks what kind of “stuff” I write. Despite loving to talk about writing, I hate getting this question. First of all, if I answered it truthfully I’d have to include term papers, emails and random messages I write on people’s Facebook walls – because that’s ALL writing. I’ve always felt like if it’s simple enough to explain concisely in conversation – why would you bother writing it down? Of course – this answer would kill a conversation real fast and make me look like a dick so I gave her my “thoughtful” copy/paste answer that I’ve been practicing for years.

“I like writing about human relationships. The psychology of human interaction is fascinating and tend to write situational fiction, primarily about getting through conflicts.”

In laymen’s terms, this translates to “I like writing about things happening to people...”

Someone looking for a longer answer will realize I haven’t actually said anything and ask a follow-up question, where as someone who just wants to show polite interest will nod their head approvingly and tell me it sounds interesting. She followed by asking who my favorite author is.

We get back onto acting – and I ask who her favorite performer is.

“Jerry Seinfeld,” she says.

“You know… my grandmother lived in the same little-old-lady home as his mom,” I tell her.

Really? Did I just try to brag about that? Wow… way to go, Slick Bandit.

She didn’t skip a beat though, we kept chatting and telling stories about our various artistic endeavors. I tried to remember a monologue I preformed my senior year of high school – got through the first few lines and then made up the rest of it.

“You should go to auditions! You’re so good!” she said excitedly, slapping my arm.

“Nah – I think I’ll stick to writing.”

“Well, you are a man of many talents,” she tells me, looking out the window.

“This is my stop,” she says. I look at my watch and realize mine should be in the next few minutes too.

“Come find me when your name is in lights – okay Mr. Writer?” she says and then lays a HUGE kiss on me.

“Okay…” I say, surprised and a little dazed.

Sure enough – my stop was the very next one. The bus driver stuck his head out of his little window and says “Hey you – this is you!” and I make my way back to Dom’s house.

I tell him the entire story, he and his brother laughing along the whole way.

“I told you you’d make friends on the night bus.”

Going home in 16 days

Before I begin with Saint Patrick’s Day Part 3, I’ve got a few other things on my mind.

I’m coming home in 16 days… I think this is the most mixed feelings I’ve ever had about anything – in fact it might redefine my view on what having mixed feelings even means.

I’m glad to be coming home. I miss my friends, my family and the familiarity of being home… I was up working on some writing a few mornings ago and actually went onto UofA’s website and watched the sunrise over the campus via their webcam. Seriously? Who does that? Well, me…

These 5 ½ months are very rapidly coming to an end… which is just so weird – in my very first post I was writing the night before leaving about how it felt like it was never going to happen – like I couldn’t possibly imagine what England was REALLY like.

It’s a place. Everywhere is just a place. But before I came over here I really expected it to be like another world. People live here, people work here – people are people here. People are still people everywhere. Big cities are big cities anywhere on the planet, which really first hit me as a belief and a knowledge in Edinburgh as I walked past a construction yard, graffiti and a traffic jam.

I’ve made friends here. It’s not the culture, the food, the fact that you can go to a pub at 11am after a big test and find your entire class in there - it’s not any of that I’m REALLY sad about leaving – it’s the friends I’ve made. THAT’S what I don’t feel ready to leave… because in all reality, I’m never going to see most of these people again.

I guess that’s all I have to say on that… I've started working on the next installment to Saint Patrick's Day but am not in the creative writing flow right now. It'll be up soon.

LONDON - Saint Patrick's Day - Day 2

The next day Dom’s other band, The Screaming Bluejays, practiced most of the day. They’re wicked good. They were practicing for a gig they had the day I was scheduled to leave for Scotland, so it was cool to hear them play. But, the Gaelic sounding named band had another gig that night as well. This time at a pub called Maddens in East Finchley (North London.) The gig wasn’t set to start until later that night but it was the last day of the Rugby Six Nations so we headed over at about two. The six nations is like the super bowl of rugby – though they also have a world cup. As Dom is a rugby player – he was stoked about it. I was too, as I’d never really gotten to watch a rugby match.

Let me just say – rugby kicks ass. They have two different types – Union and League. When we silly Americans think of the bloody rugby with biting, kicking and hair pulling without pads, what we’re thinking of is Union. (Apparently though, biting, kicking and hair pulling are all illegal.) The closest sport to union rugby I can compare it to is ice hockey. The clock starts – everybody goes. You kick ass and fight hard to score. When you score, the clock stops until everyone can make it back to the center of the pitch and the process starts all over again. It is NOTHING like American Football, except for the fact that it is played on grass and the ball is of a similar shape. Those are the only two similarities. (Rugby League is what NFL football came from.)

Though I’m sure there are just as many intricacies to rugby as there are to baseball, it was still really entertaining to watch even without knowing the strategy and statistics. We had a blast watching, yelling and cheering. Wales won the championship… I don’t remember if Dom was pleased about this because depending on his mood he tells people he is either Irish, Welsh or English… so who knows, he could have been simultaneously excited and sad. Two parts sad, one part happy? Maybe!

After looking through some of the photography I’ve done, Dom asked if I could bring my camera along and shoot some good photos of the band playing – which I was happy to do. They had quite a crowd going by the end of the set. Near the end, with my camera still around my neck I went up to the bar for a pint and a really big guy comes over and says “Hey photographer! What are you drinking?”

“Oh – thanks! I’ll have a Carlsberg,” I tell him.

“No. You’ll have a Carlsberg and a double scotch!”

“…”

Man, English people are nice.

I don’t remember what his name was – only that he was a bond trader and he apparently made a lot of money that day.

One of this guys friends saw us talking and comes over to say hi.

“Are you buying drinks for an American again?” he asks, laughing. Apparently this guy is fond of us Americans.

So, after I finish my two drinks, another round of Carlsberg and scotch is handed to me. I can see that this is very shortly going to be a disaster, but also see an opportunity.

Midsong I go tap on Dom’s shoulder. He looks up at me with the bagpipe tube still in his mouth.

“These guys are buying me drinks just because I’m American and they want to get me drunk… any drink I put down on this table is for the you guys… k?”

Dom nods. James on the fiddle has heard this as well. He grins.

I put my scotch on the table and go back to the guys who have decided I’m entertaining because of my accent.

“So where in America are you from?”

“Arizona.”

Bond-traders eyes light up.

“Like… like that song? Like that song that goes ‘I’m standing on a corner in Tucson Arizona!’ there?”

“Winslow Arizona.”

“What?” he asks.

“Standing on a corner in WINSLOW Arizona.”

“Well, is that where you’re actually from?”

“No, I’m actually from Tucson but that’s not the lyric.”

“Well if you’re from Tucson then that’s the lyrics!” he proclaims and starts singing The Eagles at the top of his lungs.

“Five double scotches!” he yells, pointing at the girl behind the bar.

“So, if you’re from Arizona, was the grand canyon like your high school hangout?”

Clearly, the bond trader doesn’t want the answer to be no to any of his questions.

“Yeah, we go there sometimes… it’s not a bad hangout.”

“Have you seen the movie Superbad?” he asks. If you’re unfamiliar, Superbad, being true to it’s name, was one of the worst movies ever. It was like American Pie mixed with Napoleon Dynamite - except with none of American Pie’s nudity and none of Napoleon Dynamite’s humor.

“Yes… I have,” I tell him, absolutely knowing where this is headed.

“Dude, you’re our McLovin!” (an arbitrary reference to the movie.)

One of his friends hears him say this and comes over and agrees.

Bond trader starts singing again. “All the way from the USA – McLovin! McLovin!”

This was probably chanted about 600 times in the next few hours. Most of them usually ended with me being handed a drink that I dropped on the table.

As Bond-Trader drank more, his focus shifted from getting ME drunk for his amusement to getting himself drunk for mine.

I was talking to Dom for a moment, and just like my cat, Bread, this guy had to do something dramatic to get my attention back.

“McLovin, look!” he shouts. Both Dom and I turn and look. Bond-Trader ripped open his button-up shirt, sending buttons flying, poured a tequila shot down his chest and lit it on fire.

“MY CHEST HAIR IS A VOLCANO!” he shouts. My jaw drops, Dom starts laughing.

“Come on guys, you should try it! McLovin, you’ve got chest hair, don’t you?”

“No. None at all.” (Oh, the beautiful art of lying.)

“That’s a shame. It’s fun!” he says.

“Did you already finish your scotch, McLovin?” Dom smirks, as he and James are in possession of the last two drinks this guy has bought me.

“Yeah man! Can’t you keep up?”

This guy easily weighed 245 pounds. I said this and he looked like I’d just kicked his puppy.

“I can’t keep up with an American… you should feel proud of yourself.”

I wandered off to the bathroom at this point. When I came back out there was a tray of 30 shots sitting on the table.

“What the hell are those?” I ask Dom.

“Sambuca – he bought them for the band… seems you both got the same idea about sharing,” Dom tells me.

I’m going to pause here to address the morality of this situation. Yes, we were kind of taking advantage of this drunk guy. HOWEVER, someone smart enough to make a successful career as a bond trader should be smart enough to know their limit – and smart enough to keep their credit card in their wallet. If they’re going to choose to drink to the point that their financial-good-judgment disappears, I’m certainly not going to step in and act as the voice of reason on their behalf. That’s what friends are for, not strangers.

Bond-trader asks Dom at some point if scotch is my favorite drink – because he wants to get me my FAVORITE drink in the world. Dom tells him a sapphire and tonic with a lime will win me over.

“I got you your FAVORITE!” he says as he hands it to me. I nod approvingly.

One of bond trader’s friends asks me at some point if I’d like to come outside with him for a smoke. I turn down the cigarette but tell him I’ll come hang out with him.

“What’s your real name again?” he asks – sounding sober – which is refreshing after talking to someone who has drunk himself into the preoperational stage for the last hour. He asks the normal questions – where do I go to school – what am I studying. I ask what he does for a living.

“It’s really boring – I work in publishing,” he says. He picks up on my excitement as I immediately ask “with who?!”

I won’t go into the details because – to most people – this WOULD be a really boring conversation, but as I’m hot to get a job with the Random House Publishing Group, I grilled him with as many dorky questions as I could imagine.

Bond trader came running outside to find us some point later.

“McLovin, I jut bought your friends a presents and I want you to have my sweater,” he says as he loosely ties the sleeves around my neck.

“Wear it as your cape, McLovin! McLovin cape – forever!”

He runs back inside.

“Does he do this often?” I ask publishing guy.

“Yes. He likes bars with Americans in them like most kids like pet stores. It’s really kind of embarrassing.”

I head back inside to find out exactly what it is that he’s bought for my friends.

I kid you not. Three $160 bottles of champagne. Dom, Miriam and Shamus each took one home.

“Hi Dave,” an attractive woman says at one point.

“Hi…” I say.

“I’m Bond-Traders fiancé… would it be too much to have his sweater back? He’ll want that for the walk home.”

I laugh and take it off and hand it to her. She goes back to her table with her friends and I sit back down with Dom. Without fail, five minutes later Bond-Trader is back with the sweater.

“I’m sorry Cindy took your cape – she’s not usually this much of a bitch – I told her it’s yours now and she shouldn’t steal. I’m sorry. Would you like another drink?” he asks, patting my head. I tell him “No thanks, I’m good” which he heard as “Yes please, I’d like another sapphire and tonic with a lime.”

I try and tell him to keep the sweater, I don’t need it but he INSISTENTLY demands that it is mine now, and he “wants nothing more to do with it.”

It’s about 3 a.m. at this point and time for us to head home.

“McLovin, next time I’m standing on a corner in Tucson Arizona – we’ll go to a bar again – and you’ll wear your cape. Okay?”

Deal.

So with a designer sweater that doesn’t fit – and three expensive bottles of Champaign – we all climb onto the night bus and head back to Doms.

Dom playing the pipes.

Dom clapping along to a Shamus solo.

Dom singing "Dirty Old Town"

Shamus on the guitar.

Shamus playing the drum that I mentioned in my previous post.

James on the fiddle.

Miriam on the flute.

Shamus and Miriam.

From left to right: Bond Trader (probably chanting "All the way form the USA"), Me, Friend of Bond Trader, and guy trying to get free drinks from Bond Trader

From Left to Right: Bond Trader, Publishing Guy, Friend of Bond Trader

LONDON - Saint Patrick's Day - Day 1

Okay – so before we get down to business, this conversation just occurred:

Sam: “Susan, you don’t have a soul.”

Susan: “That’s not very nice, Sam.”

Dave: “Yeah Sam, don’t be a dick. I’ve seen Susan’s soul before – it was that time a couple of weeks ago when she got really drunk in the kitchen, smeared peanut butter all over her door and then fell asleep in front of my bedroom door… yeah it was kind of just hanging out…”

As of yesterday at 2:17pm GMT, I am finished with my studies here at the University of East Anglia. I’m psyched to be done with the hard work part, but also glad I get three more weeks of time in the is country to relax and spend time with the friends I’ve made over here. Everyone in the dorm has different schedules for coming and going – but someone fun will be here until the day I move out. Pat is coming on June 4^th and my friend Dave from London might come spend a weekend here.

And now, ladies and gentlemen – the moment you’ve all been waiting for – stories of backpacking!

This will be divided up into many posts over the next few weeks. It will be broken up by country. Some countries will be broken into segments – some segments broken into atoms and atoms into anti-matter!

Yeah: exactly. We all know I’m not really planning that far ahead. I mean, for Gods sake, I went to France by myself and barely knew how to say, “Do you speak English?” in French.

Oh, but that story is to come! Not today, because today we start in London. We’re going all the way back to Saint Patrick’s Day.

The five days of Saint Patrick’s Day.

I will come right out and say some of the Saint Patrick’s Day celebration memories are a bit jumbled. That is not (purley) because Saint Patrick’s Day is pretty much a celebration of beer, but – well, YOU celebrate the same holiday five days in a row and see if after two months you can remember what happened when.

I headed into London on the 13^th of March for my first leg of the trip. I was staying with Dominic in London. His parents were in the Lake District on holiday. Dom and his brother Sebastian were going to be meeting them later in the week but for a few days they had the house to themselves.

The reason I was there on the 13^th was because Dom’s band (whose name I can’t remember… it’s something Gaelic) was invited to play at the American Embassies Saint Patrick’s Day celebration in London. Dom being the class act of a fellow he is invited me to join. It was wicked cool – the embassy on Bond Street is a no kidding around military complex. That shouldn’t have surprised me but I’ve never been in an embassy before and I’d never actually thought about it. Metal detectors, bomb sniffers, rubbing us with tissues and putting the tissues in machines to see if there were drugs on our persons – it was intense. That had to put all of the instruments through the airport style x-ray machines and being just as shy as I am, Dom asked the guy running the machine if he could come look at the screen and see what bagpipes look like on the inside. The guy was very nice and let us. (Usually the band isn’t too much of a threat.)

Lots of hot shit people were there. I’m not quite enough of a politics dork to identify senators just by looking at them but I’m assuming the guys who were sipping their cocktails with armed Marines standing behind them giving passers-by the evil eye were pretty important. I went into the rest room at one point and heard this bit of conversation occur while I peed.

“Hey Jim, I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Yup. Kinda tired. I was in The War Room at 8 this morning and now I’m here.”

He was wearing a badge that had his name on it but I didn’t want to try and peek at it for fear of him thinking I was peeking at something else, and then going to find one of his Marine friends.

Dom’s band consists of him on bagpipes, James (who is 19 like Dom) on fiddle, Shameus (James’s dad) on guitar/drums/anything that needs to be played, and Miriam (16) on flute. I got to help set up and do sound check. Unfortunately, a bunch of jet lagged senators, cabinet members and diplomats boozing on foreign soil don’t make a very good crowd for anything – especially a band. There was a bit of dancing near the end, and I’m PRETTY SURE I saw Michael Chertoff dancing to “Sexy Back.” (No, I’m not calling his secretary to see if he was present. That would make this journalism – which it’s not. J)

Another invite to the celebration was a group of Irish step dancers who came and preformed after the band was done playing. They of course did the running out into the audience and conscripting unwilling diplomats to come dance with them on stage which was greatly amusing. The whole evening was good fun. I have very limited pictures because I did not have camera clearance. I’ve got a few pictures from some people who did, which I’ll post below.

This really shouldn’t have made me as excited as it did, but they had Sam Adams at the embassy bar. Nothing sooths the homesickness like the sweet nectar of home! They didn’t have the Octoberfest brew (ya know… cause it was March) but they had the Boston Lager and the Winter Lager which was more than I could have asked for. I was stoked. Not only was I stoked, but I later found out that the man who served me my Sam Adams was the head of security for the entire embassy. Apparently when you do too good of a job making sure nothing bad happens – you get to bartend until something hits the fan.

Dom had far more beer than I did on night-one of Saint Patrick’s Day. We’ve never actually discussed this system but I’ve noticed that we both gauge our intake levels on how much the other is drinking – so there’s always one of us in good enough shape to keep an eye on the other and make sure everyone gets home without incident. Granted, this might not have been very smart on Dom’s part because not only did I have no idea where we WERE but also I couldn’t have found my way home if my life depended on it and I had a GPS in my hand… well maybe that’s not true, but it was my first time in Central London for sure.

I’m not sure the relation, but at one point someone’s little cousin named Natasha, who was 12, came over to our table and started talking to us. At 12 years old, this little girl was wearing a shirt that said “All the cute boys are gay.” Who lets a 12 year old wear that? Honestly!

Anyway, this little hellian at one point steals Dom’s can of cider, runs away and then comes back about 10 minutes later.

“What did you do to my cider?” asks Dom.

“You won’t drink it if I tell you,” she says.

“I promise you if you tell me what you did to it, I’ll down it in one gulp.”

You’re kidding, right?

“I filled it with toilet water,” says Natasha.

Dom looks sad.

“Don’t be a moron,” I say.

Occasionally Dom says realllly dumb things when he’s drunk that everyone remembers and repeats over and over until it stops being funny. So far, none of them have stopped being funny. Okay, take it from the tops!

“I filled it with toilet water,” says Natasha.

Dom looks sad.

“Don’t be a moron,” I say.

“No! No! You know what Dave? I – I am a – a man of my word! I’m a man of my word! I’m a man of word and I promised Tash that if – I promised that she would…” and DOWN the hatch it went.

The only thing I could do was shake my head and laugh hysterically.

“You’re going to get Hepatitis-C, Dom.”

“What’s that?”

I’ll spare all of you out there who are legitimately worrying about the outcome of this incredibly bad judgment. Natasha found out that Dom was really, really worried he was going to die and later told him that she had actually filled it with water from the sink.

Personally, I still would go get a Hep-C test… but personally, I also wouldn’t drink a cider can filled with toilet water… but that’s just me… and me? I’m a man – I’m a man of my word!

Anyway, we left the American Embassy shortly after this. Dom and Shameus were pretty toasted, so I followed closely behind James, as it was his house I was to spend the night at. (Apparently Dom’s parents hadn’t left for the lake district yet.)

At some point, Shamus gave Dom a drum. It was a hand held drum that you play standing up and bang on it with a small stick. I don’t remember the name of it but you get the picture. It was a drum. James and I are sitting on a bench in the tube station talking to each other when Dominic runs off with the drum. Dom’s a big boy, he can handle finding his own way home if indeed he’s run off somewhere. But he hasn’t.

No, because a moment later James and I hear a loud voice boom from across the tube station.

“Who wants to see me take it out and give it a good whacking?!”

Dominic is standing there with his hand in the drum bag, threatening to take out the drum stick. Granted, his drunken mannerisms made it clear that this was an intended sexual innuendo and he wasn’t about to flash someone – but it was late and the tube station was crowded…

“Pretend we’re not with him,” James says.

“Yes. He does this all the time,” he tells me.

“Really?” I ask.

“WHO WANTS TO SEE?!?!?”

“Okay…” I say, chuckling.

James and I watch Dom go harass poor sober people in the tube station as Shamus actually HAS taken the drumstick out and is giving it a good whacking. Unfortunately, because both James and I wanted to see it happen – Dom did not get arrested – or even scolded. So, other than Dom making more noise than normal, we got back to James’s house safely.

Dom told me ahead of time that “English people” don’t use heaters like us Americans. They ask if I want a blanket before I go to sleep on the couch – I take one and everyone looks at me funny.

“Okay, well, you know where they are if you need more in the night…”

I woke up a few hours later and in the darkness could see nothing except a long trail of my breath coming out with every exhale. Yeah, they sure as hell DON’T use heaters like we do – and by that they mean they don’t use them AT ALL.

Dom and I at the American Embassy.

Backpacking Adventures Starting May 25th

Hi Everyone.

Maggie and Marja just got here - so obviously I'm keeping this brief. They're leaving on the 21st, I've got my last final on the 23rd and then some alone time in Norwich until June 8th. The first installment of my backpacking adventures will be posted May 25th!!! Probably nothing substantial until then.

-Dave