The past two and a half days have been eventful but sporadic, so I’m going to do what every shitty writer does when he doesn’t feel like crafting a legitimate narrative: make a list with no apparent order or reason (listicles, bitches! Shout out Buzzfeed for dumbing down the American population enough to make this an almost acceptable form of journalism).
- An Argentinian guy stayed in the hostel for the past two nights. His name is L’Arturo, thus proving a previous theory that adding a random letter to the beginning of any name makes it at least 10% better.
- L’Arturo taught me how to say so many wonderful things in Spanish. These included phrases ranging from “Go fuck your mother’s sister” to “If you continue to break my eggs, I will throw you off a building” (they sound better in Spanish, I swear.) But my favorite, and by far the most lasting, phrase was a sexual innuendo in which he tells a potential paramour that he wants to “show you the rat.” It sounds weird in both languages. But it was consistently hilarious hearing him say it.
- I have had many interesting meals. But the one that stands out most was a 3 course meal from today that included a spicy spaghetti that made my eyes water for an hour and a minestrone-type soup except the broth (?) was a dope ass red pasta sauce. These were obviously accompanied by wine.
- There is a Ukrainian girl staying in the room. She kinda sucks. And she’s been trying to sleep with me since I got here. This may stem from my refusal to wear a shirt, but it’s not my fault our fucking air conditioning doesn’t work. She leaves tomorrow. Thank God.
- L’Arturo kept wanting to show his rat to girls at a club, so last night I obliged him and we made the trek out to a place called YAB (I really don’t know. Please don’t ask). I hate clubs. They are repugnant places with literally no redeeming qualities. I’ll save you the rant, but I have a wealth of reasons for this opinion. Anyway, YAB (I don’t know if it’s pronounced alphabetically or sounded out) did nothing to change my opinion. We walked up to the place and got in the back of a relatively short line behind some teenagers chugging a bottle of cheap peach vodka. It was 40 degrees outside and I, as a New Orleanian, was not having it. The line continued to grow, and as we looked around, we realized that we were almost definitely older than everyone around us by at least 3 years. The line didn’t move for 30 minutes, and at that point I tapped out. There was no rat showing to speak of.
- They have an Irish pub around here that has been an acceptable backup on consecutive nights. I very much want to marry one of the waitresses. Guinness is good in all countries.
- (I apologize for the selfie. I don’t condone this type of behavior at all. But L’Arturo’s inherent dopeness needed to be memorialized.)
- Of all the people I’ve met, I have formed the closest bond with an unlikely source. There is a park a block away from the hostel that I frequent in order to read in the beautiful weather. Every day for the past three days, an old Italian lady has come and sat on the other end of the bench. We smile politely at each other when she sits down and we sit silently unless she is greeting one of her many friends as they stroll through the park. As far as I can tell, she speaks no English. When I get up to leave, I manage a “Buonasera.” She beams and responds in kind. I love her with all my heart.
- Lastly, buonasera is the coolest greeting/farewell phrase in any spoken dialect (you may argue that I have no way of definitely saying this because I barely speak one language, much less all of them. To you I say: If you continue to break my eggs, I will throw you off a building). The phrase means good afternoon in English but that doesn’t really translate to the actual utility of the word. It has a rhythm and a feeling of warmth behind it that is hard to explain. Bottom line is that I’m definitely exporting buonasera to the US when I get back.