You know when you’re at McDonald’s post-clubbing?
Yes, yes you do.
Everyone pretty much looks like hell. Girls are walking barefooted with feet dragging across the filthy filthy linoleum floor, dudes are squinty-eyed and discussing the night’s triumphs and mishaps, and it is arguably one of the grossest places to be picked up at at the end of the night.
There’s always a few people who are still club-drunk and are laughing loudly, sputtering out their menu order with the coherency of a toddler, and are generally making a fool out of themselves.
That’s Winda and I, the morning after we’ve broken Fabrizio’s ancient key, missed our morning train to Florence, and are subsequently left wondering our purpose in life in an Italian McDonald’s. We buy 1 euro espresso shots.
We are so. Freaking. hHngover.
It is 9:00 AM in Rome — we had to leave Fabrizio’s apartment due to his checkout policy/we needed to get out of there ASAP before we broke anything else of his.
We are laughing-slash-crying because our heads hurt so much from last night’s escapades. We look like crap. We have our giant backpacks with us — of which is comedic in itself because our backpacks look like they could eat us.
Just to backtrack a bit, this was not our only drunk night in Rome. We also had the opportunity to party with some ridiculous Italians.
Lemme tell you the story.
We’ve set up at Campo de’ Fiori. We have our mojitos, our grape-flavoured hookah. We are basking. A group of Italian dudes at the next table motion towards us to join their table. We submit to their boyish timidness (derived from speaking in broken English) and yet, their Casanova calibre assertiveness. They literally move all of our stuff — our drinks, hookah, table, and chairs — to join their table.
Naturally, they begin introducing themselves. Here we have a lawyer, e-commerce specialist, accountant, and..
“Taxi driver!” They exclaim in unison, pointing out their most outgoing friend whom had initially approached us. He smiles sheepishly. They pause for a second, taking in his self-consciousness. “… And stylist!” They add with enthusiasm/thick Italian accents, pronouncing it stye-leest!
We chat. They are hilarious. One of them, named Francesco, has an amazing handlebar moustache — reminiscent of our friend Alessandro — and continuously strokes it. They talk about their jobs and the friends emphasize just how stylish the Taxi Driver-sash-Stylist is. They really want us to know that he is more than just a taxi driver.
The Stylist invites us to a club.
We get into a cab and head to a Roman club. In hindsight, was it a good idea to get into a cab with strange Italians? I’m gonna say no…
Bumpin’ is not the word I’d use for the club we’re at — maybe simply interesting. The Stylist turns out to be an amazing dancer. Really amazing. Winda steals his stylish hat. We booty bump with Francesco. The Stylist does the Harlem Shake a few times. The ratio between men and women at this club is way off.
I can’t really remember all the details of getting home, but we do. A cab takes us back to our AirBnb in trastevere and I remember him asking for a kiss instead of paying him in euros.
Hard pass, my friend.
Ciao, Roma! You were so good to us.
Sidenote: I come back again for another adventure later on in my Eurotrip — this second time we meet two Italian boys who ask us if we’d like to break into the Coliseum! God bless the Italians.
“You do NOT want to get political with me!” I’m screaming. Top of my lungs. Full force. I’m screaming, and I’m probably spitting all over my friend who is trying to calm me down.
My head weaves to the right of her face, so I can get a good look at my oppressor. She’s too quick for me and continues to mirror my bobbing and weaving so that I can’t make eye contact with this douchebag motherfucker.
“You do NOT want to get political with me!” I repeat, because clearly–he does not want to get political with me.
It’s 5AM on a Saturday morning, post-club, we’re standing in line to hail a cab, it’s misting out, and I’m embarrassing myself and my friends in front of large percentage of the city’s Danish youth. I am just raging at this giant Norwegian guy in the middle of the street–jumping towards his towering physique, flailing my arms in the air in all my fury, and just being extremely World Star Hip Hop-ish cray.
He had asked me in a very accusatory tone, “Why do you have to bring such an attitude to Denmark?” To which I was immediately offended by and when the yelling started.
“What the FUCK is that supposed to mean?” The East Van in me is awakened.
He subsequently calls me a racist.
In my drunken state, I transcend into this obnoxious know-it-all Canadian girl. “You want to talk about political correctedness? Let’s do it LET’S DO IT NOW!” I shout.
“Kaylynn,” this is about the fifth time one of my friends is clasping my shoulders. “Let’s go home, it’s not worth it. Ignore him.”
More shouting ensues, further angry drunken words are exchanged, and I continue to make a scene despite the cajoling of my friends. Someone tells one of my friends to shut the fuck up. Tempers flare. I am going to kill someone via heated political discussion anytime now.
One of the Norwegian Guy’s equally massive friends appears on my left, “We’re really sorry. We’re going to go home this way, and you and your friends can go home that way, and we’ll never have to see each other ever again.”
He’s probably genuinely hoping he never runs into us ever again. In hindsight, I can understand why.
I don’t remember what exactly happens next, but I somehow get shuffled away from the Norwegian Guy and his very tall friends, and we get into a cab. I vocally and very liberally express my hatred for the Norwegian Guy as the cab driver takes us back home to our dorm. What a fucking asshole. I complain the entire way home about my attitude. I complain about my attitude.
“Do I have an attitude problem?” I wail in the backseat of the cab.
I have no pictures from that night, but here is a picture of me when I’m not trying to antagonize strangers while studying abroad in a foreign country.
“That will be 80 euros,” the airline dude says nervously.
Airline Dude’s very sweaty brow is reflecting off the fluorescent lights hanging above us and his attempt at feigning any last ounce of authority is more or less transparent. Poor guy probably gets reamed at on the daily for telling people they have to pay 80 fucking euros for luggage. It is literally some Utter. Fucking. Bullshit Vueling is trying to pull here.
It’s 9:30AM and I’m standing in Budapest airport with the world’s dirtiest ponytail, reeking of pálinka (Hungarian fruit brandy), and half my consciousness intact. We’ve been milling around in lineups like cattle for the past half hour. If I wasn’t still drunk from last night, I would be gratuitously casting dark gazes, making snarky comments in my head, eye rolling at conversations I’m not invited to, and being an all around salty asshat. But because I’m still mildly intoxicated from last night, I’m just floating in a vapid daze. We got home at 5AM last night, slept for 45 minutes, then booked it to the airport.
It’s been quite the night with the Hungarians.
“80 euros?” I sputter in astonishment/in my barely conscious stupor.
“That is very expensive.” I say slowly, as if he isn’t already aware and because I’m really hungover.
I stare at him, “That is very expensive.” I assume I’m repeating myself because I’m currently lacking the brain capacity to say anything remotely comprehensible.
The lady next to me starts laughing at me. She’s caught an earshot my unintelligible efforts at adult conversation. If there’s impaired driving, this is impaired negotiation.
“Fuck,” I whisper exhale and hand over my 80 fucking euros for my fucking stupid ass backpack. This is what Winda and I get for thinking we could get away with bringing our backpacks as carry-on. This is what we get for fucking with budget airlines.
Last night was such a mess. We meet Hungarians. More engineers. They buy us a lot of pálinka and we are then subsequently required to shout “Pálinka!” every time it’s consumed. We get our asses handed to us in foosball–after grabbing Winda by the shoulders and looking her dead in the eye and saying, “Don’t worry, I’m really good.” I am not really good at foosball. We go to a lot of bars. Hungarians have a way of making just about anything into a bar–twinkly lights, patio furniture, overhead projector with the FIFA World Cup on display, miscellaneous food truck, a tiki-ish bar, et voilà. Then there are the infamous ruin bars which, imagine a dirty, old, crumbling abandoned building, add various types of garage sale furniture, hang a fishing net over the ceiling, and serve alcohol. We drink Somersby apple cider, and I am extremely pleased. We almost get taken to a random flat (keyword: almost.) Hungarians are kind of romantic–I get told my beauty is like stars in the night sky, that I’m a Hungarian princess, and that this guy would marry me if he could speak English. Winda gets a stalker. I get a guy who doesn’t speak English (not the same guy who said he’d marry me.)
Winda resumes her role as Monica Gellar and I’m Phoebe in that episode where Phoebe is dating a diplomat who doesn’t speak a lick of English, and Monica is dating the functioning translator. I say this multiple times throughout the night. Loudly. The guy I’m with just looks at me and smiles very often.
“Oh. My. God.” I say, about fifty times throughout the night.
We stumble less than gracefully through the front entrance of our apartment building at an ungodly hour and laugh loudly/regretfully at the ridiculousness that is our night. In hushed tones we both agree to not say bye to James because he sucks and our time to escape is now.
Next stop, the Eternal City.
The Incarnation of Snark Can Speak
“Hi, I’m James*,” he says. “I’m from Singapore.”
James lives with us. He has a very distinctive Singaporean accent, bangs so uneven they make you cringe a little, is tall and lanky, and dons a football jersey of an unidentifiable team (unidentifiable to me at least) as leisure wear.
“Oh, you’re watching FIFA?” Winda asks out of sheer affability.
“It’s called World Cup.” he replies matter-of-factly.
James is really not that bad–he doesn’t steal from us (which does in fact happen later on in our trip), lie to us, or eat our food–he’s just really annoying. Being embodiments of our country/before discovering what an Intolerable Troll he is, we are cheery, welcoming, and friendly. Although, Winda and I are generally very cheery, welcoming, and friendly (trust me, you would love living with us. We are nothing but delightful.)
We invite him for a drink and an explorative walk around the neighbourhood. We chat. We get to know one another. Winda and I giggle a lot, because we giggle a lot. We get the sense that the Intolerable Troll thinks he’s too smart for us due to our relentless giggling–which when you think about it, is quite the uneducated guess. He tells us about his intense mancrush on John Mayer–the dude waited like ten hours in layover to Heathrow just to see him for one night. I get slightly creeped out. After discussing his promising career in mechanical engineering, he insults Winda’s major majorly on our first night:
“You know what I think the most useless major in the world is?” he offers. I’m not sure if anyone had asked.
“Something in the liberal arts?” He seems like the uppity type that would think so.
“Business,” his voice drips with disdain. “The absolutely most useless major out there.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth to avoid laughing too loudly. Winda keeps her composure because she’s a classy lady, whereas I burst, “Winda studies international business!”
The Intolerable Troll gets somewhat flustered, as he’s just embarrassed himself in front of his new roomies. “Oh.. oh…”
“It’s okay,” Winda is polite–graciously forgiving–of his recent outburst. She doesn’t delve too far into his last comment because obviously he’s one of those hopeless elitist pricks.
Like I said, we are pretty friggin’ delightful. As the Intolerable Troll is traveling alone, we invite him on our excursions for the next day: breakfast, baths, a walking tour, and etc. He doesn’t like baths. Ooooh, quelle fucking surprise, didn’t see that one coming. He agrees to meet us at the communist walking tour. It’s all starting to make sense now.
Can I Just Live Here?
First of all, can I just live here? Just leave me behind in our second week of backpacking and let me revel in all the splendour that is poolside lounging–or when in Budapest, bathside lounging.
The baths are ridiculously ridiculously good-looking: an oasis of marbled perfection, Art Nouveau that feigns living in a different era, delicately staine glass, ornate mosaics, and the classiest of fountain statues. The atmosphere is basically my calling–relaxed, half nakies, the sweet sound of waves crashing (in the wave pool), some fine ass surroundings, and hot, hot heat. Budapest, you kill me slowly but so sweetly.
We are internally freaking out over just how palatial this place is, whilst being surrounded by Hungarians who do this on the daily. They’re sauntering about, all unfazed and ready to chill the fuck out on this hot summer’s day. Then there’s Winda and I ruining everything.
“I think there’s a cut on my foot,” Winda says for the 158th time. Symptoms of her particular form of OCD is being very much concerned with her feet. It’s special.
We’re sitting in the outdoor heated pool. It is super serene in here–cute old people are outlining the entirety of the pool, draped beside us in a languid daze, and bearing their tanned leathery skin to the heavens. There’s even the simulated sound of cascading water coming from...somewhere probably equally majestic as this entire establishment.
“Let me see,” Being the good friend that I am, I fully accept Winda for who she is. And I need her to stop talking about feet before I start hating her. So you can imagine my displeasure at what she does next.
She raises her foot in the air towards me. “You may kiss my feet,” she says jokingly and laughs.
Lo and behold, a circa 1997 (6-year-old Kaylynn and Winda) splashing war wages out between us because rude. We are in no survivors mode and are splashing the shit out of each other–as well as the previously unperturbed bath patrons encircling us–in the crazed way you would only behave in a girls versus boys water crusade. We really should be arrested for disturbing the peace.
Our pool fight eventually dissolves (after lots of girlish screams and Hungarian frowns), and we have to rush to make our communist walking tour. We contemplate staying and skipping the tour altogether, but James. We fucking have to go meet with James.
Because A Communist Tour Sounds Fun
We find James. We embark on the communist walking tour, and subsequently leave five minutes into it because the contemptuous vibes are cramping our style. We do a shit ton of walking despite not actually being on a walking tour. We drink out of public fountains because you can do that in Budapest. We visit the parliament buildings. We have Hungarian food (potato-ey as well). Winda nearly falls off an ocean edge and into a pit of rocks. We take a lot of pictures and indulge in Tumblr-approved novelties.
James conveniently reminds that our names are unconventional.
“So do all your friends have funky names too?” James asks.
Winda and I exchange glances.
“What do you mean funky?”
“Yeah funky like how?”
Clap your hands because James has reached the peak of his quest for self-actualization–he has fulfilled his identity as an incarnation of snark, the Intolerable Troll. With an onslaught on snide commentary during the whole damn day, remarks laden with condescension, and repeated belittlement of our enthusiasm…
We’re just so tired of his shit. God damn it, James. Winda and I exchange a telepathic agreement that we will no longer bless James with our simply delightful presence. We’re tired of your shit, James/will see you at home later.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the annoying.
Day 1: Touchdown in Icelandia!!!! Our Excitement Faces Imminent Death Upon Arrival
Our stopover in Iceland is less than 24 hours, so we decide to rent out a car and explore, as opposed to booking any real accommodations. Plus, Reyjavik airport is very far away from most of Icelandic civilization, and public transit isn’t really bumping on this island. So it’s 6AM Iceland time (we left Vancouver at 3PM), jetlagged as fuck, and we fast approach the row of car rental companies located in the airport. Budget tells us they have no automatic cars. It soon occurs to us that all of Europe drives manual. Our North American driving skills are futile here. Fuck.
We have both learnt how to drive manual maybe once or twice. Ish. In the true spirit of adventure time, we get ourselves pumped up because failure is not an option at this point. “LET’S DO IT!!!” we shout. We proceed to talk a lot of shit: yolo, bitch/ain’t no thang/hair flipping/discuss watching YouTube tutorials on how to drive standard, etc. and rent out a manual car. (Mostly because a manual car is half the price of an automatic car–we are talking about from $80 CAD in comparison to $160 CAD here.)
Anyways, we get into the car, and we’re like, “Yeah, we’ll practice in the parking lot. No bigs.” Things are OK for the first 5 minutes. We can move out of the parking spot–woo fucking hoooo! We can reverse–suck my dick, automatic! The ball is rolling, we are talking more shit while simultaneously flipping our hair, and then we accidentally get into the parking lot’s exit lane.
Oh my God. We stall about ten times. More than that. A line begins to form behind us. A line of angry cars that are beginning to honk at us. I try to calm Winda down (she’s driving–could you even imagine what would be happening right now if I was?), and go through the whole, “Deep breaths. Ignore them. Just keep trying.”
There’s sharp rapping at our window. It’s a shuttle bus driver, and he’s looking pissed. His brow is exceptionally furrowed, and horn rimmed glasses are nearly falling off his face as he begins to scream at us in Icelandic. “We’re so sorry!” we say, “Could you help us move our car?” He shouts, “MOVE!!!” says more mean things in Icelandic, and skulks off angrily towards the back of the line. Well, we are in a fucking pickle.
In the rearview mirror, we can see someone getting out from the car behind us. Fucking great, more Icelandic scolding. No, wait. He’s 16. He’s 16, and he’s now knocking on our window–telling us he can move our car. Yes. A 16-year-old eventually moves our car for us.
We are back where we’re started–in the safety of the parking lot–except now we are vair rattled after getting yelled at upon our first day in Europe. We see this guy laughing at us from afar (the Kind Icelandic Gentleman pictured below.) He is knee-slapping laughing. Homeboy is revelling in our misery. We wave him over, and he tries to teach us how to drive stick. No dice. We are hopeless. So. So. Hopeless.
Long story short, we accept defeat and trade our failure of a manual car in for a beloved, ever-so-familiar, automatic vehicle. “I don’t think anyone has ever rented this car before,” the dude at the car rental place says, as he hands us the keys. We pretend to not be humiliated.
Fun Things In Iceland
With the proliferation of Tumblr, the aesthetic beauty of the Blue Lagoon is relatively renowned across the Internet. I feel like the Blue Lagoon is Helen of Troy, and yes, the rumours are true, y’all–it is very, very beautiful out here.
We bathe. We use the wet clay in buckets available for impromptu face masks. We find rocks to semi-nap on because at this point, we are beginning to get too jetlagged to function. We make the mistake of submerging our heads in the water–silica clay is horrible in your hair; it takes days to get out, and meanwhile feels like you’re just wallowing in your own filth. We rehydrate. We go upstairs to what they call a relaxation room, filled with excellent patio lounge furniture, and silence. We end up falling asleep in the relaxation room. For. Three. Hours. We decide it’s probably time to leave.
What We Ate In Iceland Because There’s Not Much Else To Talk About
After sleeping, we venture through town. We go to Taco Bell because in Iceland, they serve whale and puffin (yes, those cute little orange-beaked penguin things. They eat them.) and it costs about as much as our car rental does. We have $3 CAD tacos at Taco Bell, which is an American blasphemy. $3 for Taco Bell? My clogged arteries are crying tears of hot sauce and faux sour cream. Ameeerica, they wail. America, they whisper-exhale.
At Least There Is Free Wi-Fi At Taco Bell
We sit in our car (our Octavia Škoda) in the Taco Bell parking lot. Our eyelids grow heavy. 15 minute nap? “Okay, but just 15 minutes.” We sleep for another 2 hours. In a Taco Bell parking lot.
We also have Icelandic hot dogs, because they are a thing. And because we can’t afford anything else.
Iceland, you were not my favourite.
In my mind, Vegas is where all answers are yes. Yes, food can be delivered to your room at all ungodly hours of the AM. Yes, booze is free (if you have a vagina.) Yes, feel free to get drunk as shit in broad daylight in front of children and their families–in fact, it’s encouraged. Yes, you can take a cab through the In-N-Out drive thru (which we took full advantage — thank you, State of Nevada!)
There were a LOT of yesses this trip, and a few no’s..
– Skipping long ass taxi lines out of sheer luck. Nobody objected because the guys who let us in were drunk out of their minds/so hilarious. (Otherwise, I’m nearly positive an angry mom would’ve reamed us out.)
– Receiving ALL your stuff back after you’ve left it in your hotel room AFTER checking out. This includes the money in your wallet, passports, all ID’s, iPhones, new Forever21 dresses.. The housekeeper fills out a form, and lists everything they’ve found.
Yeah, we dun goofed our second day (we had to switch hotels) and we were freaking the fuck out. I was digging through my giant backpack while having a belated birthday lunch, and my purse (filled with my entire life) was missing. Yes, I am an idiot. (!!)
In case you do lose your passport in Vegas, you’ll have to go to the nearest Canadian Embassy (4 hours away in LA) and overnight one over ($200). My girlfriends Google’d all that up in the midst of losing our shit/while I cabbed to Planet Hollywood by myself and sat in the Lost & Found for two hours–bless them.
– While I was in the Lost & Found, I learnt that some people often leave entire suitcases filled with clothes in their room after checking out, leaving the state for weeks on end, only to call back a month later.. (what the fuck?!)
– Friends finding bags for you to throw up in while waiting for your taxi after the club (my friend asked housekeeping and came back with a bag that said “Hazardous Materials” and the skull faces all over..how fitting!)
– Checking into your 5-star hotel in a crop top and cutoffs. You will get stares, maybe even shakes of the head, but the customer service is still exceptional because money talks.
– Being invited to the table right next to Tiesto’s DJ booth, getting to shake hands with him and telling him you love him, even if you may or may not listen to his music..
– Taking THIS photo in between throwing up in an empty Fiji water bottle and throwing up for the rest of the night in a washroom:
This is the result of having full control of a 4.5L bottle of Grey Goose vodka. I was literally pouring it into my friends’ glasses going, “Wheeee!”
– Getting so drunk to the point where I was holding a can of Redbull upside down, and did not notice until my girlfriend flipped it over, and was like “KAYLYNN!!!”
– Waking up to glitter all over the room/shower/a tribute to Katy Perry’s Friday Night
– Going in for a foot soak, only to overflow the tub with bubbles.. (I used up the last of our shampoo. Oops.)
– Bay Area girls! We met a lot of people from SF that weekend, and everyone was surprised (and to our luck, delighted) that we were Canadian. One girl even said, “I didn’t know there were so many Asian people in Vancouver!” Oooh girl.. there is.
– This photo:
– Bruises that come from nowhere (although this happens in every city):
– Belated birthday cake in a bed that’s not yours..
– Drive-thru via exasperated taxi driver for a double double animal style:
– If you’re going to be a loofah for Halloween, prepare to set aside at least an hour to puff up your damn costume.
– I know all guys lie in Vegas, but at least come up with a good one. This guy who would not leave me alone said he was from LA, worked as an investor at a reputable firm, and came down every single weekend to promote at the clubs in Vegas. Like y’all must be doing sooo well at your daytime job.. Another guy told me his name was Norway because he was born in Norway. That is like my parents naming me Canada. Like what. The. Fuck.
– Just because it’s expensive, doesn’t mean it’s delicious.
Vegas is SO many crazy things. It’s both insane and disorienting to know that only a few blocks of a city is made into such a consumerist spectacle, while the rest of the city is far less dazzling. So many yesses, and yes, women get a lot of free shit but it’s at the expense of being objectified..
My girlfriends and I promised each other that in a few years, we’re going to go back and get ourselves a liquor-laden table with bottles of Grey Goose the length of our legs. And we’ll be asking club managers to fish us the most beautiful men and women in the club..
Here’s to dreaming/talking shit!
I have a One Direction Erection–the huge, throbbing, and pulsating with passion kind. (A One Direction Infection is for the little ones.. big girls get the 1D Erection.)
I’m not going to go into the nitty gritty details of my fangirl obsession because 1) it’s annoying 2) it’s only slightly embarrassing that I stalked a group of five boys the same age as my brother 3) it would probably be the longest post of my life.
The concert was AMAZE. I have been to a handful of concerts, but it’s never been an artist I absolutely LOVE. Y’all already know I know 99.5% of their songs, and to be able to sing those songs in unison with a stadium chock full of people is BEYOND the beyond.
I can only imagine how it feels for them to stare back at the audience, listening to them sing along to every word they sing back..
These are my beautiful friends who came with. After watching me be near tears when I was without a ticket, and THEN seeing my full fangirl form before/during/after the concert–I am SO grateful (and astonished) they are still my friends. I was pretty much going through a multi-level meltdown the entire time the band was in the same city as me.
I’ve had so much backlash for being a fan of a Top 40’s boyband, but freal–sit down with me and I will tell you whatsup with One Direction…
Also they were giving out ice cream after the concert–it’s like they KNEW I was coming.
I may or may not have been double-fisting free ice cream.
And obvi, if you are friends with me, we got drunk after the concert and met a bunch of crazy people. We ended up rubbing this huge brown guy’s belly, meeting someone named Atilla [The Hun], and utilizing the Boris Theory for the first time. Um.. also, this guy introduced himself to me as Asshole, and said he’d give us his mardi gras beads if we flashed him–I am hoping (but not really) that he did not get beat up that night.
This is us post-bellyrubbing, but pre-dancing with two gay roommates.
And here is my fav member of the band being cute AF:
I’d like to think that Niall’s smile during his acoustic solo in “Little Things” was indeed in response to my “I LOVE YOU NIALL! MARRY ME!”
I should add that I wrote a paper on One Direction for one of my classes. And BOOM goes the dynamite, because I got an A-! One Direction always wins, y’all.
I’ve been camping before.
OK.. with schools, supervisors, and teachers and all that but I’ll have you know that I’ve done a camping trip that comprised of 8 hours of canoeing across the Salmon Arm (I might be exaggerating but it was definitely in the 6-8 hour ballpark.)
Anyways, this was the first time I’ve gone camping sans age 25+ chaperones. This time it was just my friends and I, and honestly.. I know next to nothing about camping except for you need a tent and a sleeping bag. And that a cot is a good idea.
Although, I do know that you can use Doritos for kindling (thank you, Tumblr.)
The second night, we were rained out. This mass of angry James and the Giant Peach-esque grey clouds hovering above our campsite spurred our suspense to level 100. Uh, who knew it could rain so hard for one hour? Everything was in complete mayhem for that one hour–we tarped our tent, Nicolle and I had to pack everything in our tent, load the camping gear in to the pickup, tarp everything in the pickup once the tent was taken down, etc–honestly felt like the apocalypse was upon us (which, judging by how poorly we reacted to the sudden torrential downpour, we would never survive.)
So here are some things I learned that weekend:
- bring two tarps–even if the first one is the size of a high school gymnasium
- you need two tarps–one for under and over the tent–because if it rains, water pools under the tent (so logical and smart, and why the fuck didn’t we bring two tarps?)
- Ellen Degeneres has saved us all (please refer to an Apple App Store and search “Heads Up”)
- tents aren’t waterproof
- citronella is holy
- three packs of bacon is not overdoing anything by any means
- floaties are integral
- the geese at Cultus Lake are most likely on a high-fibre diet
- fire ash does not take away from the wonderment that is s’mores
- you will need ice
- Doritos can be used as kindling…
- don’t steal anyone’s campsite parking because they will tell on you
- one word: gazebo
- don’t anger the park ranger because he takes his job very seriously
- red and white checkered table cloths would have been everything
- communal naptime should always be on the agenda
- don’t panic in times of panic
- In Hawaii, Jason and I laughed at how dangerous it is to ride in the back of a pickup truck. Especially since we were driving behind this especially melancholy-looking couple on a highway (they weren’t looking too happy as it had started to rain). But I realized how fun it might be to just lie there (on a sunny day), and watch the clouds pass by. It’s like lying in a field and staring at the sky, except now you’re the one who’s moving.
– The forbidden dress
– *In an australian accent* “I’m from Sydney—Melbourne, Sydney. And he’s my best mate,” “Nobody cares.”
– ”You can’t talk to us unless you can dance like Beyonce.”
“I’m gonna go now..”
– The monkey-in-a-tree hat
– Vannie standing with her legs apart for stability because I kept booty poppin’ into her
– The ledge—“I was watching you dance on the ledge and was thinking.. If she falls, she’s going to fall into the VIP then onto the floor under the table.”
– Sab’s hand
– The Australians
– “You go ahead and giggle your way through life!”
“That’s exactly what I’ve done.”
– “So I see your friend is gay.”
– “Can i please hold your left hand?”
“Oh my God, what is his hand doing out? Is he doing a magic trick?”
– When that Australian guy actually tried dancing like Beyonce..
– So much rum
– “I was ten and my glasses flew off, and I was blind for the rest of our trip so I’m never going on it ever again.”
“There’s a sign that says no glasses allowed, Vannie.” — about the roller coaster on top of New York, New York
– “You girls are just vain.”
“IF WE WERE VAIN WE WOULD NOT BE TALKING TO YOU. THIS IS US BEING FRIENDLY”
– “Do you have a table? My feet hurt,” — Vannie to a completely random stranger at Pure
– Dancing our ASSES off @ Tao
– The Champagne Incident
– Talking about Diplo: “That’s the kind of sexy white boy we need to find you,”
– Sab and I talking shit. Just so much unnecessary shit.
– Wanting to leave Pure to have our lesbian bubble bath
– The American girl’s birthday
– Riding the roller coaster on New York, New York, thinking it was kiddie shit, but really we started crying.
– Overflowing the jacuzzi tub with bubbles and water, drenching our entire washroom, and proceeding to have a bubble fight in the hotel room.
– “Is this a private table?”
*he sits down anyways*
– Serendipity’s frozen hot chocolate is the BOMB diggity
– “Oh, there she is. That’s the one. That’s nice, that’s niiiiice.”
– “Girl where you from? I know where you from.. you from HEAVEN.”
– “Girl what’s yo name? Is yo name TASTY?”
– “You girls are gorgeous.”
“What did she say?”
“She said no?”
– The Ivy League school boys
– “Haaapppy birthday!”
“Thanks… Here’s your shot.”
– Blueberry vodka
– “Have a shot!”
“No. I puked in my own drink last night, I think I’m ok.”
– Puking patron in my own drink and setting it down casually at the bar
– Singing “I got patron in my cup cause I puked it up!”
– WHERE ARE ALL THE SEXY PEOPLE?
– “Are you white?”
“Excuse me? Did you just ask me if I was white?”
“Yeah, and I bet you’re Jewish too”
“I AM jewish!”
– Vannie talking to a drug launderer and me screaming “NOOOOO” so loud, Sab had to cover my mouth
– Vannie and “older” men
– Yes, we’re actually Charlie’s Angels but an all Asian version and we’re here to fight crime…
– About to get into the shoe at Cosmo, casino dealer walks over and says “Girls… Get yo ass in that shoe and lets take a picture!”
– Drew Zilla
– Me kissing every female at Tao
– “All we did was listen to house music and One Direction because of Kaylynn.”
– “Yeah, he has no friends.”
2 nights later..
“He’s 5 people behind us.”
“With no friends.”
– Dinner and Cirque du Soleil
– the Diamond Lounge
– “His name is Jesus Ortiz!”
“That’s probably a fake name. I mean, look at you. You just said ‘Oh my God, his name is Jesus Ortiz.’ “ — and that night, Jesus Ortiz showed me his ID, proving that his name is indeed Jesus Ortiz.
– Jesus Ortiz is actually the nicest man ever
– *smiling* “What did he say?” “I have no idea” — this every night
– Almost missing our flight because we were playing slots @ the airport. Got yelled at by the guy who lets people on at the gate. We are obviously future Diamond cardholders
– Dragging 5 gallons of water from Walgreens back to our hotel
– Ashley, Serena, and Anna
– Vannie objectifying men who objectify us:
“HEY! YOU’RE CHINESE. YOU’RE HOT”
“HEY, YOU’RE WHITE AND I KINDA WANT SEE YOUR SIX PACK BUT I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HAVE ONE”
– “Oh my God, like look at her dress, she didn’t even cut those strappy thing you use to hang it on store hangers,” — us talking shit, who do we think we are?
– “If he looked that sexy last night, and this ugly in real light.. I don’t even want to know how we look.”
– Pink’s chilli cheese dogs are life itself
– Hating the MGM Grand just sooooo much. Sooo much
– Stealing M&M’s from the M&M Factory because it’s a conspiracy
– “Evening, y’all!” — Southern accents are the best.