Saturday, October 3, 2009
Wow. Ten o'clock in the morning, and the skies are grey. Well that's fine, because we have a lot to talk about today. Think of this as part one in an ongoing series of messages about – not Brugge – but the hostel I'm staying in here, hostels in general, and perhaps a little bit about travel as a whole.
You see, I just stepped out of the shower. My hair, and as such, beard are still wet. I'm not prepared to step out into the somewhat-cold just yet, and as I'm out of reading material, I have nothing to do but talk to you my gentle reader.
So sit back, put your feet up, and make sure you are a comfortable distance from your computer monitor. You wouldn't want to strain your eyes. Because if you are an attentive reader, and I know you are, you will be here for some time to come.
First let us establish why I spell Bruges in so many wonderful ways. We dealt a little bit with this when looking at Kobenhavn and Copenhagen. But there I know how “we” spell it. Here – I'm not sure. Bruges, so many of us pronounce as rhyming with that substance that whores use – rather than pinching like a lady. However, here it's pronounced morel like the sound a dog makes right before it vomits all over your carpet. In my head there are a number of ways it could sound, and a number of ways that it could be spelled. So – it's just kind of a crap shoot when I type it out, roll the dice, so to speak.
I am surrounded by little girls (I say little – they're probably about 16, which would have made them eligible to be prostitutes in Amsterdam, so it's all relative, really. But through my lens, they are babies.) They are all typing away on their internets, which seems like an awful waste of money. Especially if you're paying by the half hour. And let us break down this price into something more relative, for – perhaps you think that two euro a half hour makes sense. This is two beers, from the hostels bar (we'll discuss this later as well) every half hour. By the time you have finished reading that message from mom and dad, and typed back you could be on your way to buzz-ville. Population: You.
Google offline mail is your friend. As is pre-typing all your messages, as yours truly is doing right now. Then it's just a matter of copy and pasting, and you're done. Time left over to spare.
So perhaps you're wondering why I don't just bite the proverbial bullet, with or without, butterfly wings – pay for my thirty minutes, and not have to wander aimlessly around town trying to find a signal all week.
And I will tell you why in my next post. It will me a multimedia assault upon your sense the likes of which few could ever have prepared themselves for!
But you, dear reader who is oh so curled up, I can only hope, in their sofa chair – either in front of their desktop, chair moved for late night WoW missions, or with laptop on top of them, warming their nether regions while slowly helping with population control, by leading to eminent sterility – will be able to contain yourself. For we are not quite done with this very introduction which you are currently reading.
I want to make it clear that my feelings about Brugge are not reflected in my feelings about the hostel, and the hostel industry. In fact I quite like the city (though it does have some problems, which I'm sure I'll ultimately address.) And I look forward to fully exploring it today. And, I find it only slightly depressing that I will, in fact, be able to fully explore it today. Still – that's the reason I have booked myself a day trip for tomorrow.
The final point I'd like to bring us to is that I do not hate Americans. I do not think all Americans are stupid. Nor do I think all High School students are stupid. It's just that – much like high school students – I can only assume that American's brains haven't quite finished forming yet. Ah ha ha ha ha! No I kid, Americans. I love you. You're great – we just can't let you out of your own county! Oh ho ho ho ho! Another joke. Another joke. But seriously, thank god you're doing most of the work for us, by building that wall around your borders! We he he he he! No no no – well that's not a joke, it's more or less a depressing reality.
But, it's true. I love Americans, I have spent, at least, a combined year of my life in the states. So that's 4%. That's not a small percent of a life. And I went to school there, back in the day. In the before times. The long long ago.
It just so happens that these particular people I am going to describe, and have been describing in the past, are Americans. I'm sure that Canadians at this age would be just as bad. (Oh no. Magnum PI just ended. What will be next... on JIM?) But none will ever be as bad as the Italian girls from the hostel in Copenhagen. Man – if one group of people needed a volume control it was them! Two AM is not the correct time to shout across the room, for twenty minutes, at your friends. Nor is seven AM for that matter. Someone needed to throw a shoe at them.
(For those wondering what is next on JIM, it's Who's the Boss. “Hold me closer Tony Danza!” Backwards in time. Backwards in time. Backwards in time.)
Ahh so with all that being said, we are about to engage the meat of our one way discussion. So just to recap:
-Half an hour of internet = two beer
-My feelings are less than delightful about this hostel
-Brugge is great, but teeny tiny
-Americans are super people
-The Italian girls needed a bloody volume control
-JIM is a wicked awesome t.v. channel (It's the episode where Samantha needs to get her first bra. It pains me that I remember this one. And why is Mona so creepy?)