Old Man

Why shouldn't I resume writing in this dusty old online journal? Today I was sitting at a bar and I couldn't help overhearing the loud obnoxious rant of an old man trying to renew his zest for life by hitting on a young sheela about half his age. He was using new age words and getting touchy feely and after a while it started to seem like he might actually be successful. Unfortunately, I was already late for a movie, but I kept wondering how my life might change as I get older. Will I be like this old man who lurks in corporate restaurant bars trying to get a taste of youth by crassly harassing young ladies in a bar? Most likely not as I've already chosen the path of an embittered crank. What does one look forward to in life? If this man took as much enjoyment in the "simple" things we take for granted in youth, what can one expect to look forward to in the later years? Is it better to live young or to think old? It certainly shouldn't be thought of as an ultimatum. Maybe by living like a young person through the eyes of an old person one can have success. Perhaps if you lack traditional wisdom in old age it is only because you aren't showcasing your abilities to the right age bracket. If people your age find you boorish and unoriginal maybe you need to seek out those with less experience who are more apt to find your banter to be a form of wisdom. Either way, what's the point of criticizing an old man who is just trying to have a good time on a Wednesday night? I suppose his loud outbursts disturbed me and thus I found a reason to feel that he needed to be judged if only in my own head. I felt that I was having a good time, but I wasn't getting to talk to some pretty girls like he was. Is it because he has money? Fame? Well-endowed? Most would suggest that I'm just not considering the fact that maybe he is a charming guy and beautiful women enjoy him whatever his age might be. That could be true, but I don't see why the standard thought should be that my first impression of someone be a positive one. Isn't it still judgement even when the thought is a positive one? Why should I always have to assume the best in people? Simply thinking about these things doesn't make me a bad person does it? I think it means that I am considering what it is to grow old and nothing more. If I happen to come to more negative conclusions than positive ones that only means that...well I suppose I'll let the pattern continue and someone can make those same assessments about me.

Don't Read This. Hopefully I'm just getting back into things.

I'm a grouch. I'm a happy guy, but if you prefer to gripe about something I'll already have something in mind. It's not that I don't enjoy my life, my family or my friends. It's more that I seem to have this huge looming cloud of disappointment always hovering around me. It may not always be raining, but no one wants to be in the shade permanently. At brief moments I'll stray away from the cloud, but all I'm doing while I'm away is staring back at that cloud knowing that I cannot escape it only take momentarty breaks from it's cover. Why be a grouch? Why not just pick up the bible or work with animals? Why do I feel like I'm never going to be any different? Well I suppose it's because I'm too lazy to do anything more than ask myself these questions. A proactive person will ask, "What can I do to be happy?" and then do a number of things. He'll probably think of many different answers. He'll probably start with the dream type scenarios that are attainable, but highly unlikely because of how much luck and hard work would be invovled. This would be like saying, "I'll be happy if I get to travel and write for Lonely Planet. Or maybe I could be a famous basketball player. I'd like to start a chain of stores like Whole Foods." These are all great ideas, but you are then going to find yourself possibly unhappy if you don't get close to achieving them. Good goals are realistic and they are good because you can accomplish them. Bad goals are dreams because they only exist in your imagination. So I'm grouchy because all of my ambitions exist in my imagination. I won't learn guitar because I'm too good at imagining myself playing with Jimmy Hendrix in a super dome that is located on a space station somewhere near the moon. I can't just be content with what I have because my imagination is always saying, "but what about this? Wouldn't that be awesome?" Yes of course it would be awesome, but how the hell am I ever going to get anywhere near that goal? I won't because I ask myself that question. Gotta be more opptomistic, but dang it's hard. Maybe I'm just too dumb to be happy and I should go back to school. Are people in school happy? What about dumb people? Aren't there some really dumb and really happy people out there? What do they do to make themselves happy and on the other hand what do that makes them miserable. I can do the happy stuff and then at least be smart enough to avoid the miserable shit. Is it possible to juggle all of this? Maybe. I think I feel pretty comfortable with writing. It makes me happy. I already feel less grouchy than I did four paragraphs ago. It's been quite a time since those four paragraphs were written. I should write more and then maybe I'll feel better. At least I'll be improving at something. I feel like when I was originally writing this blog I was both happy and always coming up with better things to write about. I do remember though, that everytime I came across a blog like this one where I'm just babbling and trying to look for some kind of sympathy from whoever reads this, I just ignore it and say, "No one wanted to read that and after they did they only further affirmed that they weren't interested in my depressing diary logic. Can I wrap this up in a positive way? Sure. I guess I can tell you what I'm grateful for. I love the way that coffee first has a bitter tast to it, but by the end your mouth has adjusted to the taste and you've enjoyed your drink. I like the feeling of sweatpants and I think it's great when you are with someone else who is wearing them because then there is at least someone out there who agrees with what you are trying to do. I like just about everyone's smile. I'm glad when I see kids who are being cared for by their parents. I like when shoes click down a hallway and you try to figure out who is going to come around the corner. I like anyone who makes a living by being creative. I like people who know themselves well but still try to learn new things. People who wear helmots are brave. I like when I see someone still using a camera and not their phone. When I see people studying in a cafe I get jealous because their only job at that moment is to learn something. And I like seeing live animals.

Drunks

I might just be one. A drunk that is. And yet, somehow I'm able to find ways in which to legitimize my drunken personae. One easy excuse is that I work in the alcohol business and it is thus my job to drink. Drinking to the point of inebriation is simply one of the hazards of this profession. In the same way that a surgeon might make the wrong incision I might drink too much and have to apologize to my "clients" later. It is a demon that I must wrestle with on a daily basis.

The only way to bring perspective to this issue is to try to observe the habits of others and then compare their behavior to my own.

Some people drink to feel good. Some drink to feel bad. Some want to be able to talk to others a bit easier. Some would like to be able to cut a rug and not worry about how they look on a dance floor full of people trying to do the same thing. Some drink to have something to enjoy with their food. Others like to think that what they drink defines them. Others are defined by the fact that they always drinking. There are so many people who have so many different ways of drinking that it can be hard to compare oneself to another.

I’m lucky to have an advantage into observing the psyche of other drinkers because I work part-time in a wine and spirits store. Ok it's a liquor store. But we play classical music, so I like to think we are a step up. While I like to think that the majority of our clientele are of a certain high status we certainly get all sorts of unique visitors.

Some white collar folks come in several times a week. They could easily be classified as alcoholics, but it is harder to define them as drunks. They have the luxury of having more dominating defects. They find that Armani just isn’t putting out the stuff he did in the 90s. They might be the kind of people who look down at you for not shopping at Whole Foods. This could be that person who complains about the price of premium gasoline going up.

When one is a drunk he has no other problem greater than the fact that he must get drunk every day. Sure he needs to eat and he needs to sleep, but what he wants and what defines him is his desire for the drink.

At our store we have three different kinds of drunk juices. Everything in the store is fairly expensive (did I mention we are a FINE wines store?) except for three items: 1. Bud products 2. Karkov Vodka and 3. Canadian Mist Whiskey. Each item has its own little entourage who just can't get enough of the stuff.

The bud drunks are easy to spot. There is obviously a certain gait to which all drunks march, but you can always catch the bud folks because they have to walk all the way to the back of the store. This always upsets them. They saunter inside and begin talking immediately. They think that their engaging conversation will distract from the fact that I know they are drunks. Each bud drunk has that one conversation that he/she likes to have when he sees me.

One guy shows up every day in all Steelers clothing. Yellow and black galore. He talks to me all about the football I don't quite understand. I say vague things like, "can you believe that game?" or "they had better pull it together next season” or “well I just don't know what!" These stupid little mutterings are enough for him to believe that we are sports pals.

Another bud guy loves to come in singing. He somehow thinks it's even more fun to try to stare me in the eyes when he's doing this. I of course do not enjoy being eye contact serenaded so his visits are often very awkward. The fact that he'll sometimes come in two times a day makes it even worse.

Then you have Garry. Garry is as big a dirt bag as you could ever imagine. Our two reasons for eventually banning him from our store was his complete abuse of our "credit" system and the fact that he actually smacked his haggard girl friend with his cane the last time he was in the store. He’s a piece of shit people. One time he came in and asked if he could get an 18 pack of Bud for 5 dollars. Go ahead and make that analogous to any situation of yours at work and imagine how you might react. You'd probably want to slap him across the face and say, "that's not how shit works around here." …Or maybe you'd give it to him and that's why you'll never succeed in this business!

The Karkov Vodka drunks are a pretty interesting sort. If I had to be a low down drunk I would probably choose this route simply for the fact that vodka mixes with almost anything, it is relatively flavorless, and people can't smell it on you...that much.

One Karkov dude is the Russian. Now allow for stereotypes and it's obvious that he would pick vodka, but you'd think he'd have a more refined palate for his home land’s national drink. He'll come in multiple times in a week and go with the same rant. "I want won bottle Karkov. You know I want go Argonaut. Karkov is much cheaper there, but I come here for no walking much." Along with the big mustache and jorts I have to keep in my laughter every time he visits. He once came in three times in a day and after each bottle he seemed all the more excited to tell me about how he chooses our store over Argonaut. A class act indeed.

Another guy likes to pretend that he is a real sophisticate. He'll stroll in each time, put his elbows on the counter and stare at all the pints of cheap booze we have. "Hum, what should I get today? Oh I see you brought that in. That's great. Well let's see, oh ok, that's there, and well, I could try some of...oh no I don't really feel like that right now. How about...yes, how about a bottle of your Karkov please. Thank you so very much." He has never bought anything else in our store.

There are all kinds of bozos who come in simply asking, "What ch'all gots to drink fe cheap?" These people usually just go for a good old plastic flask of Canadian Mist blended whiskey. Ummmmmmm good!

My least favorite of the whiskey drinkers is this heavy-set woman with glasses and a starter jacket who comes in almost every night to get some CM. "A bit of the mist today?" I'll say. Or "Heading up Canada way today ey?"

She nevers bats an eye. "Hey uhhhh, can I have some of your Canadian Mist?" I try to delay this request because I know what will happen once I hand her that six dollar bottle. It is just as bad every time it happens. She reaches into her shirt and out of her nasty, hasn't been changed in weeks, bra she'll bring out six smoldering dollars. Nothing perturbs a liquor store clerk more than having to touch the heat emitting cash that just came from some scrubby ladies' brassiere. Yuck! She's managed to store small change in there before and once she even dug into her saggy boob-to-stomach zone to find a quarter long stuck to her skin like one might discover in a couch. Every time I have to go through this procedure it makes me a little queasier and I wish I could just throw the money out or burn it. At least I only have to go through this every day!!!! Ahhhh!!!!! SO NASTY!!!!!!

So for some reason, after four years of college, two years navigating the globe, and more years as a successful teacher, I find myself dealing with these people on a daily basis. I certainly hope it pays off and if nothing else I hope that I too do not become just another drunk.

My Broke Ass Car

It broke. My car just stopped working. It might sound normal but this has been happening since I bought that same car when I was fifteen years old. It was old then and it is ancient now. It's a 1991 Honda Civic. LX I might add. That stands for Luxury... xylophone.

I was so excited when, at that ripe age of 15, amongst hundreds of other beaters that were on sale at the glamorous dog racing track, we found it. It wasn't really shining, it didn't look flashy, it didn't have low mileage, but somehow I knew it would be mine. It would have to be mine because we could only afford something for $3k or less. I had no idea that I would come to still rely on its feeble abilities some eleven years later.

My high school years were sprinkled with little shitty moments in my go-kart. In the summer time I would drive around with friends fill the car with the delightful odors of feet, beer, and pot. As winter rolled along I turned on the half-assed heater that would then pump the combined smells right into the faces of those same friends. It felt like a humid locker room confined to a tiny little machine.

I got a lot of much needed exercise during the winter months. My car putted along pumping out a hot garbage smell for about a mile before it decided it could no longer take the stress of working. School was only about two miles away and yet I had to start my mornings earlier so I could anticipate my car breaking down half-way to school. It would chug, chug, chug and stop. I would recklessly roll, unaided by power steering, into whatever nearby neighborhood I could make it to. I then cursed the car several times, kicked it and walked the rest of the way to school in the cold. At the end of the day I always had to find someone to hitch with so I could find my car that would miraculously start after a few hours of rest.

It did this for several years and that was just how I lived. I became accustomed to driving as far as I could before my car simply stopped and I had to walk the rest of the way. The smartest thing I ever did was realizing that it was best to drive through neighborhoods because they had an abundance of parking for those who needed to end up on some random street corner.

The car hit its peak the summer of my senior year of high school when I was driving it to my work in the middle of nowhere. It was 6 am, cold and right before I started to nod off at the wheel I noticed a plume of black smoke pouring out of the hood and through the floor boards. I managed to reach a randomly placed shooting range where I parked in the gravel lot. The range was closed at the time so I had resort to fists and kicks to show my disapproval of my poorly functioning shit-box as I was by this time calling it. I had to walk the rest of the way to work until a hippy in a windowless pervert van picked me up and talked to me about how his favorite fruit was bananas. Thankfully it was a short ride. I left my car at the range for two weeks before they finally called me. These kind gentlemen went to the effort of finding my information from the license plate and calling me to come retrieve it. It was going to be difficult to rid myself of this cursed automobile.

I left for college and then was gone two years more and I was free of my car. In place of the old Honda I recieved constant insults about how I never drove and how I had no right to call shot gun when I was never able to offer shot gun to others. I was content to take this criticism because I knew that had my car been with me it would have only suffered further from the weight of my beer bellied friends. (Myself included.)

So instead it was to my sister that this heap of metal went. She was perhaps not the greatest caretaker for this car, but it seemed to work in the same off and on manner for her. The new symptom that developed during these years was that the key would become frozen in the ignition in the winter and so my sister would leave there all day. It was never once stolen.

It seemed that despite all the invitations no one wanted this car and so it was once bequeathed to me when I arrived home again. And so I still drive this Honda and it still continues to be a piece of crap. The fact is I need that little thing to keep working. While it may not look good and it certainly doesn't help with the ladies, it does, from time to time, get me places.

It is now sitting outside my apartment, broken, dirty and with a flat tire. It looks sadder than those commercials where Sarah Mclachlan sings about dogs getting beat up. I haven't taken it to the shop yet because I'm afraid that it is gone forever. At least when it's rotting outside of my apartment there's still some mystery as to if it will continue to piss me off for another eleven years. Otherwise, I might just have to grow up and make enough money to buy a real car. We shall see.

Marco Polo

I think I'm beginning to grow weary of my apartment building. I've been here for about two years and while I've certainly enjoyed some great times within these walls, I've come to find the oddities of the other residents quite unpalatable.

Recently, I've changed careers and I've found myself working in the evenings rather than the more typical 9-5 schedule. My mornings are spent doing what most in my position would do; I run errands, work out, paint pictures, trade stocks, and many other stimulating activities.

Sometimes, however, I will skip these activities, which often take me out of the house, and sleep in until 11 only to sluggishly mosey over to my couch to watch crappy movies on the netflix account I should have cancelled months ago. Quite honestly I've been doing that a lot more than the activities afore mentioned.

The life of a loafer can be truly wonderful if one is alone in his loafing. However, my apartment seems to be filled with weirdoes whose daily doings are something more than unusual.

Let's begin with the land lady. Her name is Andrea and she calls me Drew. Whenever I talk to Andrea she seems utterly busy. She always has some sort of major apartment project in the works.

This summer I woke up every day at 7 am to the pounding cacophony of the Mexican workers drilling holes into every single balcony in the building. On the first day I was excited to practice a bit of Spanish and I even thought about offering them beers, but after two weeks of the horrendous drilling noises I began to consider how easy it might be to simply push each one off the balcony in the hopes that at least he might be able to claim worker's comp.

This project then facilitated the painting of the newly drilled balconies by Driller Jorge's cousin Gustavo y los Amigos. These guys took even longer and for another two weeks I awoke to ranchero tunes only to stumble into the patio furniture inconveniently scattered around my kitchen and living room. It was a feng shui nightmare.

Her new kick has been remodeling the "lobby" of the "elegant" Marco Polo Apartments. The new floor tiles have a New Mexican orange rust look that contrasts delightfully with the black and white Swiss-villa-inspired walls. It looks terrible.

Her husband/boy friend/concubine/dude is an odd ball too. He's got long dirty hair, loves him some sweat pants, and he thoroughly enjoys reminding my roommate that his truck is, "the fucking tits man." Aside from that I don't know what he does except have crude conversations with people on a walkie talkie. No joke. A walkie talkie.

There's one guy who I always see throughout the day. It used to freak me out because I would sometimes see him in the laundry room and then only moments later he would be walking down the stairs towards said laundry room. These kind of things happened quite frequently and it wasn't until I was told of the existence of his twin brother that I was able relax and stop carrying my air soft gun with me to the laundry room.

These twins are really twiny. You can't tell them apart. I assume they are from some eastern European country because...well I have no justification, but they certainly have weird accents. All winter one of these guys, or both, who the hell knows, will do "spa" treatments where he sits in the sauna for an ungodly amount of time only to then run outside and sit in the snow. We're talking ass on the ground in the snow. I'm sure this contrast of temperatures is nice for the blood flow, but as a resident this guy or guys or whatever need name tags.

The crème de la crème though is the butt hole who lives right above me. I have never seen this dude, but I have to imagine that he is indeed fat. Probably the kind of jellyfish fat that will shudder on its own under the force of a strong breeze. He most certainly has thinning greasy hair and I can guarantee that his “around the house” outfit of a two sizes too short burgundy bathrobe and white motel slippers. As he strolls around the apartment I imagine that he ties the bathrobe but his gut is too rotund for the full coverage so he has about six inches of belly exposed down the center of his figure.

Now with that image in mind you might be wondering, "What are you talking about if you've never actually seen this guy? How do you even know of his existence?" Excellent question. It is not his appearance that bothers me but rather the noises he makes from above.

It is more infrequent now, but in the heat of the summer this guy would spend at least two hours each day just belting opera tunes. I mean, he really thinks he could be the next tenor. The best part is that he'll often accompany himself by playing a little piano. I don't know if he's just never learned to play or if his fingers are too fat to only push one key, but Pavarotti loves to play simple one handed piano tunes while he literally shouts out the lyrics to some of his favorite operas. I personally think he's a bit too liberal with his use of vibrato because almost every word sounds like he’s singing while falling down staires in a sleeping bag. This guy's talent from drawing out syllables would make a catholic priest sound like a fast talker. Sometimes it will take him more than a whole minute to belt out one sentence.

One time he invited some friends over and "performed" for them and I can only imagine that they were all sitting on his several items of mismatched furniture trying to point their eyes at anything but this guys exposed belly button just bursting from the crack in his robe. I imagine that he probably offered them some slices of white sandwich bread and perhaps some chocolate milk to accompany.

There are many more residents of the illustrious Marco Polo Apartments who freak me out but there simply isn't enough time. The only one I'll quickly mention is this dick who always seems to be in the elevator when I take it. I guess he maybe wants to be young again and he thinks that all guys my age talk like out of work porn directors. He'll say things like, "What the fuck man? How the fuck are ya? You see those fucking chicks outside? Shit man, those asses were ripe for the picking." To this I simply reply, "Maaa." I really don’t even know what to say. I like to think of myself as a pretty vulgar person, but when faced with an actual sleaze ball like this guy I rarely know how to retort to his explicit blabberings.

Now don't think I consider myself perfect. I'm sure people don't like the amount of parties and drinking that goes on in my place. I can guarantee that no one enjoys the volume at which I choose to watch my movies. And I'm fucking positive that everyone hates how I don't have a buzzer so my friends just scream at all the balconies until I come out and throw down my keys. But that's another story and this blog is about making fun of other people. Not me. You take care world.

Vino Baby!

It was a brisk early morning as I leapt onto the slowly moving bus. I had enjoyed a nice media luna and orange juice for breakfast and I was prepared to embark on yet another exciting journey. This new voyage would take me to some far away cultures, beautiful scenery, and the feeling that I had really taking myself out of my own environment. I was going to WINE COUNTRY!!!

The bus arrived promptly at 9am. It arrived, that is, to a small bench on the side of a dirt road. The bus driver indicated that this was indeed our stop and that it was time for us to get off and stop coming up to him every five minutes to ask if we had already pass our stop.

I leapt off the last step of the bus with an energetic zeal. However, I was quickly brought back to reality when a bustling town driven by the vino tinto and blanco commerce appeared to be just a small farming community where nothing was open. Oops.

We new that this was to be expected as the vineyards were all a bit spread out through the small town. For that we were going to need to rent bikes. Luckily, using my spanish wit and charm, HA!, I spoke to the local butcher to discover that we were in no way near a bike rental place.

As usual we decided to simply move our legs in search of someone who might know a bit more information that the blood soaked meat barren we had just met.

SIDE NOTE: While the people here are very friendly and always eager to help out a fellow traveler, I´ve noticed that most the people have no real idea what is going on or where they are or what things actually exist in their country. For that reason you just have to ask an average of 5 people to figure out something that could most often be delivered by one. I guess it´s a culture thing.

We walked and we walked and would you believe it? we walked bit more. We soaked up all the wonders of the charming town and spoak to the locals about our enthusiasm for their wine and their lack of enthusiam for the obvious cold that was seeping into every crack and weakness in our insufficient clothing.

After an hour of walking we did finally find a bike shop. It only took about 20 minutes to then stir the incompetent (we would later find out) employee of this fine rental shack. He gave us some some bikes and our free ¨drinks¨ which appeared to be gatorade bottles that way way have been from the 70s when the company first began. I don´t know if they think like wine all drinks are better with age, but I wasn´t about to test that.

Well, what would you know, I had a bike and some old gaterade and things were looking up. We picked a spot to make our first bodega visit and we were off.

We took a nice ride about 10 km down the nice tree shaded roads and I was excited for a day that would surely end in me being too buzzed in a place where I should have ¨respected my alcohol.¨ I could see great things on the horizon.

That was, until, BOOM! The pedal of my bike after a slowly withering struggle to stay on finally popped right off in the middle of the road. Luckily the bike was already crappy enough that I was riding rather slowly, so I didn´t fall too hard. I tried to fix it some how, but the bike had decided that it was broken and that there was no going back.

Of course the rest of the group slyly hid the irritating fact that their bikes were still shittily functioning just fine and now they would have to walk with me. I thought the solution would be simple as all we would have to do would be to arrive to the fist bodega, call the bike guy for a new bike, have some wine, and await his glorious arrival.

After that decision was made one hopeful thing happened and a mess of hopeless things occured. While taking my bike on a walk along the road I noticed some gentlemen working on a gate at the front of a resident´s house. I asked if they could help and what do you know, they had a full tool box and all the enthusiam needed to aid the idiot tourist who was obviously just beginning his day as the annoying drunk biker who had nothing to add to his town other than noise and car accidents.

He did what he could to fix the pedal and I thought all was saved. I was quickly brought back to a rather glib reality when the new problem arrived...the bike fell apart. The chain broke, the gears actually snapped off and the pedal fell off again. My bike basically said ¨Fuck you! I quit!¨ Oh did it quit. I knew right then that somehow this day was not going to be as easy as I thought it would be. But then, when is it ever easy. I wouldn´t be able to write these stories if life was always peachy, right?

We continued on the hopes that some bodega would be open for us to call the bike man while enjoying some vino, but vineyard after vineyard was closed Closed CLOSED! Crap.

What could we do but walk the 10 km back into town for the next 2 hours. I really thought that the day might be ruined and I irritatingly apologized over and over for something that was clearly not my fault.

Our first stroke of real luck hit when we arrived to the Cabrini Bodega. They were also closed, however the woman there not only called the bike guy finally, but they offered our first taste of some delicious Mendozan Malbec. It was great!

After the man arrived the day passed with the ease and delight I had hoped for that whole day. It was truly one of the best days I´ve had here in Argentina. We visited several vineyards, all very small, and we learned a lot about the cultivation of Argentine wines and how the process and culture behind it differs from wines in other countries. Ask me some time and I´ll tell you all about it. Not here though, because you´ve read enough and I want you, oh faithful reader, to take a break. Enjoy yourself, take a bike ride, have a glass of wine. Do anything you want to remind you of how great things are if you just maintain a healthy and happy attitude. Remember, there is no spoon!

Stank folk!

Roommates. Almost everyone has had some type of live in, roommate, friend crashing on the couch, or something to that extent. The difference is that usually you have the option to pick who it is you´re sharing your living space with. When traveling it´s not like that. At least, not when you´re traveling on dirt dollars and can only afford the bleakest of lodging.

I have stayed in some shady places in my life, but this recent location has been one of the most modest hostels I could have ever had nightmares about. Some things you might be able to agree upon would be the constant smell of cigarette smoke even though no one apears to be smoking in the hostel. That smell is even present when you´re sitting on the plastic toilet seat using toilet paper you can see through. Next, you continue to breath in the second hand smoke fumes while itchily walking over to the constantly damp and slippery shower with the see through shower curtain that is barely hanging on the pole. Ahhhh, now you´re ¨showered¨ and it´s time to go get a bit of shut eye. You lay down on your soggy bed and it feels like your skin is rubbing up against the skin of some other person. ¨Have these sheets ever been washed?¨ you wonder? Most likely not. So that´s the start, oh fellow readers, but more is to arrive when one considers the most enjoyable part of the whole experience: the roommates.

I first met our two delightful roommates when I was taking a most awkward nap at about 6 in the evening. You see, that morning I had arrived from a 23 hour bus ride and was feeling more than a bit disoriented and I was really in need of some sleep no matter the hour. Of course, once I had finally gotten to REM status these new people came in and disturbed my slumber. I attempted to be social, but I was inhibited by the fact that I had finally fallen into a heavy sleep coma only to be awoken 15 minutes later. I tried some social dribble and then decided that I was more grouchy than interested in getting to know people and I left to go to a new smoke filled room to read my book on a broken couch.

So that was the intro. Little did I know that while I would not speak to my roommates ever again, I would have many strange and uncomfortable experiences with my new bunkpals over the next two days.

That night I arrived home ready to get in an early night so that I could wake up for a day trip that was truly amazing. (Sure I could tell you about my beautiful ride through the Andes and my experience at one of the world´s largest salt flats, but I´d rather complain about these psychos.) I walked into my room and for once it didn´t reek of cigarrettes. Rather, the room was soaked in the most pungent stink of B.O. I have ever experienced. This English couple appeared to be about as smelly as a dead rotting moose on the side of the highway. Holy shit some stank!!!

Somehow, I managed some sleep despite the feeling of plague ridden rats crawling into my nostrils to then keel over and die inside of my olfactory system. However, I was awoken at some ungodly hour by these two bumbling doofuses. They bumped around and somehow infiltrated a bit a alcohol breath into the otherwise BO dominated cave and then they both left. Note: this hostel is very cheaply built and you can hear every tiny disturbance in the otherwise silent building.

What I heard next was something that took this couple into inconsiderate asshole overdrive. The sounds of passion went echoing throughout the whole of the hostel. That´s right, this couple was having steamy gross drunk sex in the bathroom which only a day later was covered in a newly pungent and black throwup. Yuck! After the passion came to an echoingly loud climax, the newly sweaty couple came into the room, made out some more on the bunk bed above me, and then passed out without putting on their bed sheets.

I didn´t see the couple the next day and that proved to be quite a pain in the ass too. The way our hostel works is that there is only one key for the room, which means that the last one out simply has to leave it on a hook in the main room. Not a problem right? Oh no, I got locked out of my room twice yesterday. Both times resulted in having to call the manager guy to come from his house to phyisically open the door who´s lock has only one key. Why the hostel would put all their faith in every random traveler is beyond me, but I guess I´m not in the biz.

After I finally got into bed again, these dicks arrived once again drunk and late and ready to make tons of noise and add extra stink to an already seweresque atmosphere. This time the girl passed out quickly which was nice only until 5 minutes into sleeping when she started to make some of the most bizzarre and gross noises in her sleep. The guy didn´t arrive for about 4 more hours and even then he crashed with all his clothes on.

When I woke up this morning both were in their unmade beds sleeping on old stained mattresses with all their clothes on. Do these people sound like pyschos or what??? Yes, they are. I don´t understand what is going through their heads at all. But...tis hostel life.

Luckily, thanks to my charming personality and my delightful command of the local tongue (Spanish) I was able to explain my utter displeasure to our hostel folk so well that they have decided to move me into my own private room at the same price. I will always choose to be a good person over an inconsiderate dickhead.