My great European adventure has at long last run its course. I knew things were done when I overheard a Cincinnatian telling an Italian how amazing Cincinnati was on the flight home. I actually lol’d and the guy gave me a hurt look. Sorry that was rude of me. Anyway now that I have some time to think and reflect on my experiences abroad I offer you this final conclusion to Bretzel Abroad…
Without sounding like that kid who’s dissatisfied with everything because his/her life in Europe was sooo much better, I would like to acknowledge some of the things I’ll miss about studying abroad. First off I would like to address the girl in the elevator that one time who I didn’t speak to, but said, “Ok, well see you later,” when she got off on the third floor. I don’t know you and our interaction confuses me to this day. Also I would like commend the workers of Carlsberg: not only do you produce the greatest cheap beer of all time, but you have the balls to go on strike when the higher ups try to prevent you from drinking on the job. Lastly I will miss all of you creepers. You guys are everywhere and I respect your tenacity.
But for real the best part of studying abroad is meeting new, interesting people. Starting over is never easy and I would like to thank my flatmates for welcoming me into their group as the token American. We laughed together, cried together and got Dave really drunk together. Flat 38 for life. Then there are those Americans who were always down for Tuesday night at Sports Café, Wednesday at the Walkabout, Thursday at Ministry of Sound and Friday at Penthouse. Thanks to you all as well. There’s also the new Georgetown friends I made in London. I look forward to drunkenly recounting America Night I, America Night II and Ruth’s love for Evan next fall. Then there’s the visitors: Erik, Matty C and Richie. Matty C you were by far the lamest of the three. YOU DIDN’T GO OUT ON YOUR 21st!!!!! But I forgive you. Lastly there are those other special people. Neither American nor British. Mostly I’m just thinking of Wissam and Marilena, but I’m sure there are others. Thank you both for being so awesome. Wissam taught me all about falafel and kebab. And Marilena convinced me that “Greek lovers” (old man, young man relationships of ancient Greece) were no big deal.
The Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Coliseum, etc. will all be around for me to visit again (hopefully), but for one amazing semester all of our lives crossed paths. As Wissam told me, this is just the conclusion of one stage of life and now it’s time to move on. I wish you all luck and I hope I’ve been able to enrich your lives as much as you’ve enriched mine.
As for you, the readers: thanks for your encouragement over the past couple of months and I hope this blog has made you chuckle at least once or twice.
I started a blog entry as soon as I got back from my trip to the Continent, but never finished it because I had to write three papers. Here's what I wrote. Sorry that it's not finished...
As many of you might have noticed from the sudden influx of newsfeed events on your Facebooks relating to me, I just got back from a ten day vacation to Paris and Italy. I apologize for making your lives in America feel so boring. Now I kept a journal during my travels to remind me of everything I did, but let’s face the facts: you don’t care that I saw the Eiffel Tower at night. Oooo lah lah it was magical et cetera! I’m four months too deep to start a travel diary. You expect the dirt and that’s what I plan to give you. Four college guys can’t go to Europe and not get into trouble right? Righto.
Part 1: Hey do you speak English?: Paris, France
In Paris it rained and was cold. The Louvre and Musee D’Orsay were cool. I froze my ass off outside attempting to sleep outside the airport. The end.
Part 2: One hot night in Rio: Erik in Cinque Terre
After Paris I spent a solo day visiting Milan and Turin. Milan is a dirty, dirty city with nothing to offer except the Duomo. Turin, aka Torino, is nice but has little to offer the average American tourist. From Turin, Dave and I linked up and headed to a place called Cinque Terre. Cinque Terre was my grandfather’s favorite place he visited in Italy last summer so I figured I’d check it out. The name means ‘five lands’ for those of you who aren’t fluent in Italian. Dave and I were staying in the first ‘land’ known as Riomaggiore. Upon our arrival we took a nice hike along the coast and down to the water. I told Dave that I wanted to take a picture of him near the sea and instructed him to get closer and closer to the waves, hoping that he’d be swept away. Unfortunately he caught on to my plan and I was merely left with a nice picture of him with Rio in the back drop. Shucks! From there we continued our journey and discovered some caves! Omg! Once we returned to Rio I hit up an internet café only to realize that Erik was just down the sidewalk Skyping the night away at the train station. For those of you who aren’t consistent readers please go back and read ‘America Night’ so that you can understand the special relationship between Dave and Erik. I think the first thing Erik said when he saw Dave in Cinque Terre was, “Oh shit. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Sparks flew, trust me I was there. Dave and Erik were reunited and a bottle of wine cost 2 Euros: magic was bound to happen. And magic happened indeed. We ate the best pesto pasta to ever grace my lips and I met someone who went to high school with Reback. Crazy sauce. Reback I don’t know if you read this blog, but your boy said you, “pulled mad tail in high school.” I didn’t believe him. In addition to Reback’s h.s. friend we also met Lara, the Aussie, and Al’bear, the Italian/French guy, both of whom were extremely nice people.
We started our night by heading to the Via dell’Amore, aka the Road of Love, where we hopped the fence and drank wine on the rocky Italian coast. The night before Erik had two hotties from Chi-city out on the rocks of Via dell’Amore and they made sea glass, whatever that means ; ). There was no sea glass this night unfortunately, but instead good conversation…well until we started talking about politics. I can’t even begin to describe the number of times I’ve been asked by foreigners, “So you love Obama right?” The answer is no. I don’t love Obama. I like to date a person for at least three or four months before I make a confession of love. Obama is a nice guy, but I’m not really into smokers. It drives me crazy that people are on his d all the time, especially people who can’t name more than one Republican (Sarah Palin). Which brings up the next plot point in this story: Erik loves Sarah Palin. They have the Alaska connection and normally Erik loves to talk about her (side note: Erik loves the sexy former governor but realizes she’s a crap politician). However on this particular night he opted out of the political convo and decided to go drunk night rock climbing. I told myself after Freshman year that I was done worrying about drunk people and I tried to remain composed. Having said that, it was pitch black and I had a bad feeling Erik was going to fall to his death. Luckily he didn’t. Dave stepped into the sea though when he went to relieve himself. There’s nothing better than cold squishy socks right Dave?
...That's all I had. Here's a short summary of the rest of the trip: we closed down the bar in Cinque Terre and Erik disappeared. The next day his laptop, hat and chapstick were all gone. In Florence I made a fool of myself and lost three hours of my life. Ask Richie or Dave for the details but I came to throwing up in a trash can back at the hotel. Fun times. Lastly in Rome we went to an ice bar with my friend Amart. The next night we went on a sketchy bar crawl. There were so many creepers there and Richie got a drink thrown all over his shirt.
Imagine a place with no Walmarts, Chucky Cheeses or bald eagles. A place where a WOMAN’S face is on all the money! A place where underwear is called pants and guns don’t exist. Don’t freak out, you’re not in hell… just England. For almost three months now, I’ve felt deprived of the many luxuries I used to enjoy back in the States. The fact that I say “back in the States” all the time disgusts me. I’m disgusting. Anyway there are certain things American college students all love: alcohol, thinking they know everything, backpacking through Europe and drinking games which ties into the whole alcohol thing. I’ve had plenty of alcohol since I touched down in London-town (yes I just quoted Estelle) and I know that I know everything (that’s a given). As for backpacking through Europe, I’ve been to Amsterdam and I’ll be hitting up France and Italy in two weeks. Life seems pretty complete right? Wrong! Where are the drinking games????? How am I supposed to pregame without any games? What’s all this nonsense about talking while drinking? I don’t like it. At all.
For all of my European readers I’ll explain to you why Americans love drinking games. First off, it’s a way to impress the ladies. Nothing says I’m husband material like chugging beer and successfully flipping a plastic cup onto a table. It takes skill, patience, dexterity, tolerance, etc. And I’m not excluding the ladies here. There is nothing hotter than a girl that dominates the flippy cup table or dare I say it…a girl that’s good at beer pong. Gasp. I haven’t seen many, but when I do they’re always keepers. Secondly, drinking games are a way to impress your bros. Being able to drink more than your friends automatically makes you better than them. It’s just a fact. For example, when I was at OSU (Ohio State University and no I’m not going to at the “The” because you’re not some elite boarding school) I played beer pong against two of my close high school friends. To protect their identities I will call them Seaniqua and Dede. I don’t remember who my partner was, but that’s not important. The game commenced and I can’t lie to you guys: I’m not the best at beer pong. I know. It explains my current situation with the ladies. As much as that hurt to admit, it is an essential part of the story. Team Voldemort (that’s what I name my team because it honors Harry Potter and The Office) was off to a bad start. It was hit and mostly miss. I felt like I was in the early stages of a game of Battleship. I tried to mask my guilt my drinking more so I could use the, “I was a lot drunker than you!” excuse. But as the game progressed I noticed something peculiar. I asked, “Seaniqua, have you made any cups???” He replied, “lsdkfjasldkfj Uhhhh. No,” and looked away. AH HA! Needless to say I lost the game, but Seaniqua didn’t make a single cup and that my friends is just embarrassing. I now know that Dede is a better person than I am because he single handedly beat Team Voldemort and I also know that I am better than Seaniqua because I at least made a couple cups. That was a long detour, but I hope it makes things clearer. Thirdly, drinking games justify binge drinking. Normally waking up at 8 a.m. and chugging beers would be frowned upon by society. But for us college kids that’s just Homecoming or St. Patrick’s Day or Georgetown Day or Chinese New Year or a snow day. Fourthly and most importantly, DRINKING GAMES ARE FUN! Fact.
You might be asking yourself, “Brett why do you continuously blab on and on in that annoyingly sarcastic tone??? What’s the point? Why am I wasting my time reading this instead of listening to my lecture about Thomas Tallis in Sacred Music class?” Exactly, if you’re learning about Tallis stop reading immediately. If not, I will get to the point. As I often do when I feel I’m losing control of my life I try to do something interesting. A certain individual used to call me Mr. Spontaneous behind my back as if it were a bad thing. I say nay. Being spontaneous isn’t so bad. And with that in mind I decided to bring drinking games to the UK. It wouldn’t be easy for there are no plastic red cups at Sainsbury’s nor are there ping pong balls sold at liquor stores. I had quite the hill to climb, plus I had to entertain a guest named Eric (I changed his name to protect his identity as well). As things turned out Eric entertained me more than I entertained him. So thanks Eric. The date was set (Feb. 25) but I needed a name for the event; something with pizzazz that would get the point across. I settled on AMERICA NIGHT. I think the point was made. With a few clicks of the mouse I sent out invitations to all my King’s friends. I’ve got around 70 or so because I’m super popular and whatnot. Three RSVP’d: Eric who was staying with me, Dave my flat mate and me. I can count as my own friend so back off.
After half a week of obsessively checking Facebook to see if anyone, ANYONE else RSVP’d, the night had arrived. I contemplated cancelling America Night, but ultimately I felt quitting was un-American. Why else do you think we’re still in Iraq? I sat in the kitchen with Dave and Eric. Dave was practicing flip cup so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself too bad. Poor Brits. They live on an island and eat pasties. Buzz buzz buzz. Pause. Buzz buzz buzz. Omg my pocket’s vibrating!!!! It was Paul who had decided to come and he was bringing some friends! Huzzah! I don’t need to repeat the whole onamonapia of my phone vibrating so I’ll just tell you that Ruth decided she was coming too and she brought her red-headed quasi-Canadian friend who was visiting for Spring Break ’10. As a side note the first time I met Ruth’s friend she said, “So you want to have a kid before 22?” You can imagine my shock. I only had 10 months left before turning 22 and if this were a legitimate goal I was slacking big time. Turns out Paul had been feeding her lies all night. So thanks Paul. Anyway people started showing up pretty late into the evening, but we got a nice game of flip cup going. I must say seeing foreigners play flip cup is quite entertaining. Surprisingly Marilena, who is from Greece and has never played flip cup or flip cub as she calls it (Wissam lied to her), was awesome at it. Sadly I can’t say the same about Somerset’s finest, my flat mate Dave. He proved to be the weak link in the chain if you know what I mean. Just kidding Dave! I know you’re getting all jazzed up reading this. Truth is Dave held his own on the flip cup table and I commend him for it. Overall it was a very fun pregame, but since everyone showed up super late we only played three games before heading out to a club which would scar Dave for the rest of his life. A club named Punk. The original plan was to head to Leicester Square for a night of dancing at Salvador and Amanda’s. However, Paul’s friend wanted to go to Punk and he was the guest so we hopped on a double-decker bus and headed into the bowels of central London.
I think it’s fair to suggest that my first impression of Punk set the scene for the rest of the night. It was one of those shady hole in the wall establishments where anything could happen. Outside there was a bouncer, a woman collecting entrance fees (£5 not bad) and a drag queen. Wait what? A drag queen? Ok now I was definitely intrigued. He/she was passing out flyers if my memory serves me correctly. Most of the clubs I’ve been to in London are fairly well known. The demographic usually consists of college kids and really creepy Indian dudes. It’s hard to describe the creepers here, but they dress and style their hair like guidos. However they’re not jacked nor are they from the Dirty Jerz. I was glad to be finally free from the hot, smelly, sweaty and overall sketchy clubs I had grown accustomed to. I paid my entrance fee to the nice lady, made Eric check my coat and then descended into the wondrous world of Punk. As soon as I walked into the main room I made a beeline to the bathroom because I have a ridiculously small bladder. I used to pee on average five to six times before every cross country or track race and when I first saw those commercials about enlarged prostates I seriously contemplated consulting my doctor. That’s beside the point though. The real problem was that when I exited the bathroom I realized what a tool I was for wearing a button down milk toast shirt. Everyone around me was dressed…well like they were at a club called Punk. The girls had haircuts like boys and the boys had haircuts like girls. I saw girls dancing with girls, boys dancing with boys and girls dancing with boys. It was a good mix and I definitely wouldn’t call it a gay club. Maybe a bi-curious club would be a more accurate term. I was unfazed. If anything my experience at Georgetown had prepared me for such a situation. God knows how many times I’ve shown up to a Gtown house party only to open the door and see some dude on dude grinding. Actually that’s an exaggeration, it’s only happened a couple times. Georgetown has too many closeted homosexuals for there to be a lot open grinding. There’s just a lot of gay sexual tension everywhere. And with that said there was nothing closeted about Eric’s reaction to Punk. He decided to play match maker and wingman. If you know Dave I recommend you ask him about his experience at Punk or ask him about Eric in general. He gets flustered at the mention of either and I don’t blame him. I believe what Eric told him upon entering the club was something along the lines of, “Your goal tonight is to hook up with one boy and one girl.” Do you see why I called Punk a bi-curious club?
It’s difficult to explain everything that went down at Punk. It was definitely one of the most fun nights I’ve had in London and I think that even if some people didn’t have fun, they’ll definitely remember the night for a long time. I know some of the more conservative members of our troupe were mildly disturbed by the Punk experience to say the least. The reason I hesitate in spilling all the details is because I’m riding the fine line between telling a good story and embarrassing people. Therefore I will focus on Dave and Eric because they were the most entertaining and will most likely be flattered by all the limelight I’m giving them. If you couldn’t tell from Eric’s comments earlier, Dave was in for one heck of a night. Eric was harassing him to dance with girls that I’d never even dream of asking to dance. The problem is that Eric is possibly the most confident person I’ve ever met in my life so it’s easy for him to suggest asking a Swedish model to grind. In fact the night before America night we were at the Waterfront (King’s College Student Union’s bar) and Eric pointed out a girl to me. “What do you think?” he asked. “She’s cute,” I replied and since I wasn’t drunk yet, she actually was. “You should go talk to her,” Eric suggested. Hmmmm. This would be a plausible idea except she was sitting with, I kid you not, at least twelve other girls. I saw the scene play out in my head: I finish my snakebite, walk over, interrupt the conversation they’re having about the pillow fight they had last night in just their pants, all thirteen of them look at me, I lean awkwardly over another girl and say, “How much does a polar bear weigh?”. Embarrassed she says, “I dunno…,” and I respond with, “Enough to break the ice. Hi I’m Brett.” My older brother told me that one a long time ago. I assume that’s how he won over his new gf in St. Louis. However I don’t know if British people even know what polar bears are and I didn’t see this scene ending well for me. I sympathized with Dave on this one. Approaching girls at clubs is a hard thing to do. And to be fair to Eric he is by far the best wingman I’ve ever had. He was just trying to help Dave. I remember looking over in amazement at seeing Eric dancing near this tall blonde beauty. I talked to him about it later and he revealed that she was too hot for him to ask to dance directly. I agreed. That’s the only time I’ve seen him falter. We all continued to dance and pay ridiculous prices for Beck's and... yeah it was fun.Once the club started to become deserted we walked home, attempted to chat roulette (it didn’t work thank God) and then went to bed. I definitely recommend going to Punk at least once in your life. Twice might be a little much and thrice would confirm all the suspicions your friends have about you. I'm not judging though. You definitely learn a lot about people when they feel extremely uncomfortable. Agreed? Agreed. And that is the true lesson of this story.
