Just plain crazy

Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
Trip End Ongoing

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Flag of Colombia  ,
Saturday, March 10, 2012

The hostel thrives with activity by the time I surface in the afternoon.  I'm willing to bet my bed is in the worst place imaginable, right by the door to the hall, right by the main entrance.  My alarm clock has been a cacophony of different accents and laughter, giddy squeals from girls and haughty chuckles for boys.  I've contemplated storming out in my smalls and giving them what for, which I would do if I didn't have a t-shirt sun tan and I was a considerable distance from a six pack.

The atmosphere builds for an electronica night in Zona Rosa.  The hostel has rarely been this full, and for once it appears to be a decent girls-to-boys ratio.  I say decent, it's still at least four-to-one, but it's getting better all the time.  My odds are improving. 

I've managed to fall in with a trilogy of like minded English lads who seem to share my passion for booze, pool and shooting women.  Sorry, shooting pool and women.  It beings a typical boys night but I've never really considered myself 'one of the boys'.  I'm not a larey drunk, or crude and suggestive towards women.  When a pretty girl walks past she'll turn my head, but I won't make lude comments or lick my fingers with a possessed look on my face.

Yet there has always been something of the chameleon in me.  Depending on my companions, I will change to suit the social situation.  It's saved me once or twice in Glasgow too.  Finding myself in a bit of hot water with a few hoodlums, shouting "look at the tits on that" has endeared me to otherwise violent delinquents and possibly saved me from a doing.  Perhaps its the dying remnants of the actor that feels the need to tread the boards one final time.

Not to say these fellows are akin to such scally's, not in the least; they're thoroughly nice chaps all.  But after matching them for beers in the hostel, I'm more than slightly concerned when we visit a shot bar early in the evening.  These places are more than just lighting a sambucca on fire,  they're not for the faint of heart.  Three crazy shots each, with each of us choosing our own poison.  Now I won't name names, particularly when it comes to people I like, but lets just say it wasn't me that projectile vomits onto the floor by the bar, and it wasn't Nick who leads the charge to the door without breaking stride.  And it wasn't Jim who...oh no...it was Jim.

Speaking of not breaking stride, on we march to the club, with Jim raring to go and feeling a hell of a lot better than he did ten minutes ago.  Much to my great delight, it appears that the entire hostel world has descended upon this club to dance the night away.  There's clearly something to be said about decent electronic music, and nothing to be said for reggaeton.  Because reggaeton is crap.

As is my usual want I nearly talk my way out of my date.  I'm still not convinced I haven't talked my way out of it.  Hana and her friends arrive shortly after and I'm already plenty of shots in.  I must utter some amount of mince for a fair while.  Then it all gets a little hazy.

 I'm told on a scale of one to ten, with ten being yes and one being no, the chances of getting a kiss are two.  Why I asked that question I do not know.  Why it was a 'two' I don't know either, I'm not that bad looking and I was wearing a nice shirt.  It's like I just yearn to push the self destruct button and see just how fucked up I can make the situation.  Writing this and in useless hindsight I'm actually attempting to kick myself in the head.

It's another 10am finish sitting in a friends room talking nonsense about nonsense.  With one girl present, it's like Daniel(la) in the Lions den.  Some of the unsubtle, blatant and downright disturbing attempts to get her affections are beyond belief, so much so that even I can't bring myself to write them here.  Then the door opens and someone runs in with a drawer in his hand, attempting to smash it over a guys head.  After being wrestled to submission, he's thrown out, only to return later and bang on the door.  At 9am, blinking in the daylight and with an attendant beside me cleaning the pool, I'm negotiating with a guy standing in the bushes holding a broom.  Honestly I couldn't make this stuff up.

When the beacon finally calls me home I naturally attempt a good night kiss.  Not with the guy holding the broom.  Her name is Julia.  I'm told she doesn't do it when she is this drunk.  I take my guitar and my tail between my legs and crash out. 

People in glass houses shouldn't throw parties.

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