By now you are well aware that I employ my own particular brand of logic, and so I’ll let you speculate as to what led me to choose the following sequence of flights; Boston to Washington, DC, DC to New York, New York to Paris, Paris to London, and London to Edinburgh, and, wait for it.... Edinburgh to Dublin instead of simply taking one direct flight from Boston to Dublin.
I met Chastity at the central train station. She had just toured the University she would end up attending, St. Andrews, and she was a-buzz with bawdy stories of her visit.
"That poor school doesn't know what it's in for," I said.
“Boys! You’ve been singing all night!” A weary-looking headmaster cried. “It’s time to go to sleep!”
Back in the bunkroom, Old Buzzsaw was going strong.
I tried for a valiant half hour to drown out the racket with my iPod, and I was just on the verge of sleep when the battery died.
“Merde!” I bellowed as the barrage of grunts and exhales assaulted my ears once more. There was no way I could stay in the room with this, let alone sleep in it. Grumbling, I rammed the prongs of the ipod charger into a nearby socket, and stalked downstairs, where things had gotten considerably more festive in my absence.
Various groups of people were milling about, finishing off the remains of our feast along with wine and beer from the kitchen.
Etienne had produced a guitar, and was strumming chords in the common area. He had an appreciative audience gathered around him on the floor and nearby couches, and they nodded their heads as Bruno kept time on the tambourine.
The English schoolboys were still singing. They were also bare-torsoed, and covered in what appeared to be Nutella.
“Yeah, you missed the fight where they decided to take off their shirts and smear it all over each other,” Chastity said as I sat down on a couch next to her and Armen. She giggled. “I helped.”
“I’m sure you did,” I said.
Soon the singing boys realized that they could join forces with the music-making going on in the corner, and before long there was a full-fledged sing-a-long taking place, with voices of every different accent, pitch, and caliber rising to join in a sampling of well-known English folk songs, such as “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,” and “Home, Home on the Range.” Even those who had no idea of the words or language joined in, and Chastity and I had to take frequent breaks in which all we contributed were fits of giggles.
The French people had returned from what had clearly been a successful night out. They reeked of wine and cigarettes and were bouncing around the room in various states of undress, jostling each other, cracking jokes, scrambling for toothbrushes. Only once they settled down a little did they first notice the snorer.
“Mais qu’est que C’EST?” One demanded.
“C’est horrible! C’est un monstre!” Another said.
“It sounds like the village freight train!” said the third.
Around this time was when they noticed that I, too, was still awake, and they enlisted my help in ending the cacophony. Pretty soon we were having a grand old time tossing balled up socks into the corner, but once my supply was down to one crucial pair I conceded defeat, putting my head to the pillow and turning up my ipod as loud as it would go.
Not five minutes have passed when I feel an insistent tapping on my shoulder. Groggily, I prop myself up, pull the earphones out, and look around. It’s one of the Frenchmen. He’s clutching a large white pillow and motioning for me to push over.
“Pousse-toi!” He whispers, waving the pillow to indicate which way I should go. “If you push over there will be enough room for us to sleep head to toe!”
Bleary-eyed, I regard him as I try to think of something sufficiently witty to say. Finally, I settle on... “QUOI?”
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” He says, patting me on the shoulder with a parting giggle before trotting back across the room.
Oh, the men you meet in hostels.
The following night brought with it a new group of faces, and one of them I liked. He was a young Frenchman with a bit of a goatee, and he was tall and thin and elegant. I accompanied him outside to the porch and pretty soon I was getting marriage propositions. As we know, the second the pursuit is over I begin to lose interest, and so I was back-pedaling my charm when we were joined by a stout American with a six-pack.
"'Sup?" He said, letting out a burp and lowering himself heavily into a chair beside us.
Suddenly the Frenchman looked a lot more enticing.
