History of Rome: Arch to Part II

It's hard to take time to post everyday, but I did promise. I've had a bit of spare time at work this morning (yes, I'm working at B'lowfish and it's b'lAWESOME), so I thought I'd update with this bridge (or arch) for part II of the Rome trip. I hope it sufficiently whets your appetite, or wets your pants, until I can do it proper (or do it dirty).

NOTE: This article was written using a British version of Word. Please ignore any irregular spellingz.

Moving on… inside the aeroporto was a stern-looking driver sternly awaiting our arrival, compliments of Eugenio. If the driver we had on the Amsterdam trip bore any resemblance to Jason Stratham from The Transporter, it would be that of Jason Stratham’s illegitimate, thrice removed, quirky uncle in comparison to our new driver, the Italian Job, who ripped through the streets, sparing no mercy for traffic laws/signs/lanes, nor pity for other drivers. The ride went by rather quick as we raced through the night, serenaded by the soothing Italian sounds of Usher and Ne-yo while clutching the ‘oh shit’ handles around the perimeter of the van to prevent serious concussions. As we entered the streets of Trestavere, a sort of Roman suburb across the Tiber River, I peered out the window and absorbed the dirtay-like inner-city surroundings as the van filled with hushed murmurs of “please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” And then we stopped.

The First Meeting of Eugenio: Poised on the sidewalk next to a red-clad, petite yet very curvy, Staten Island/Roman hybrid female companion, a smiling, gum-snapping, night time sunglass wearing Eugenio was eager to greet us (so he could immediately leave his socks on and get back to bidness, or so it seemed – if you know what I mean). After checking out our floral pattern regurgitated, Brady Bunch shag-pad with Eugenio, who gave me numerous handshakes and chest punches during the tour, we set off for a desperate yet wonderful 11pm Trestaverean dinner.

Walking out of the courtyard and turning onto the street, we passed several teenagers who were too busy defacing the side of our building with graffiti to look up and say “buona sera.” We talked about how some of us were (upon first impressions) less than pleased by staying in a shady part of the city, but I attributed the shadiness to the fact that it was night time and the sun was not up yet. Finally we discovered a savoury saviour of a trattoria, stolen away within a nook of a side street. Traditionally decked out with dark lit stone walls, a single, aged waitor, red and white checkered tablecloths, and completed by a Lady & the Tramp-esque ambience, we were convinced we had found the right place. Then, after asking if we wanted anything to drink –to which we responded yes and nothing more– the waiter shuffled off and came back with two bottles of house wine (€4 each). Now we knew we found the right place. Then we ate… bruschetta, pizzas, pastas, and we thought “what would we have ever done without finding this place.”

After the best meal we’ve had since leaving the U.S., we strolled down the cobblestone streets and piazzas of Trestavere, seeping through locals. Then, very late, as everything closed up for what was left of the night, we made our way back to bed (& breakfast).

History of Rome: Part I

Rome... the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Dan/Julian/Leanne/Mike/Matt/Nick. Its continuing mission: to explore strange new countries, to seek out new food and new forms of alcoholic refreshment, to boldly take compromising and lude pictures where no one has taken compromising and lude pictures before.


Where do I begin? I guess the beginning is a good start. After a few sleepless nights chock full of writing papers, studying, procrastinating, Starbucks Banana Caramel Coffee Frappuccinos with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso, and anticipation, the final final exam was finally- actually, the beginning isn't a good place to start. Let's establish a prologue.

For some students the days leading up to the final final exam were coated with anxiousness, frustration and uncertainty; for me the time basically constituted apathy until a major problem in our Rome travel arrangements required me to contact our inn keeper and use two years of broken high school Italian to figure out the deal'yo. From then on my days were peppered with a sweet sprinkling of Eugenio. Eugenio, keeper of keys for the bed and breakfast we planned to stay at, had accidentally overbooked our lodgings and, as a courtesy, put us up in another b&b. Of course this just would not do, so I told Eugenio we were "very happy to be sleeping with him, look forward to hold you on the 22nd." Anyway, despite the language barrier, Eugenio must have understood what I was saying because he bumped a group that had made earlier reservations, and called/emailed and text messaged me 5 times (through each form of communication, respectively) per day for the three days leading up to our arrival in Rome (and a basis of 1 call/3 text messages thereafter, while in Rome). So, segueying back to the beginning of the story, our collective excitement to meet Eugenio (and, for the others, observe Eugenio's reaction upon meeting me) carried us through tough times.


Where do I begin? I guess the beginning is a good start. After a few sleepless nights chock full of writing papers, studying, procrastinating, Starbucks Banana Caramel Coffee Frappuccinos with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso, and anticipation, the final final exam was finally finished forever (fuckin' flowery flavorful fuck yea I love alliteration). Next stop (after the Tube/the bus/the check-in/the frisk/the boarding/the take-off/the landing): Rome. But first... find Julian's keys. To make a long tangent very short, Julian's lost keys (hidden beneath his bed covers) were finally discovered after Matt used the serrated kitchen knife to cut a hole through the back of Julian's locked closet, so that we could retrieve Julian's passport.

Before I continue, let's meet Leanne. Leanne, whom you may remember from Team HMV, joined our group of flunkies about two weeks ago. She is from California (and Hawaii) and goes to school at the University of Michigan. Over our trip to Rome Leanne assumed many positions, one of which being Team Mom - in other words, Kathryn, she has replaced you; but don't be upset, it was only because we were lacking a dominant female figure who can lead our collective indecisiveness. Anyway, prior to the penetration of Julian's closet... Dan and I were telling Leanne what she had just signed up for: namely our frequent tardiness and record of just barely arriving at the gate before missing the flight. Ironically, this time... we actually missed the flight.

Let me break you off with a bit of knowledge about Ryanair: they Ryanstink (no offense, Ryan). After being informed that we were only 35 minutes early, and not 45 minutes early, Dan/Julian/Leanne/Mike/Matt and I paid a double whopping 40 pound fine, with cheese. We were put on the next flight to Rome, no big deal.. oh hey, aren't those girls on the BU program? Yea.. yea they are, they're going to Rome too, on the next flight - oh wait, no.. no, they're not, because Ryanair just gave us their spot (and they are only 35 minutes early) - boo-yea!

The Rise of Rome: Let's forget about the whole boarding issue for a minute, and reflect on the extremely low, haphazard landing. Like something out of the Twighlight Zone, Matt and I, the only two from our group sitting by the wing, happened to notice how unnecessarily close to the ground we were flying; so much so, that the end of the wing was grazing the short golf-course-green grass before the black stretch of runway. Finally, touch down. Being 'that guy' that I am, I started the 'slow clap' in relief. Joined by Matt we quickly gained a substantial following - until the captain addressed the cabin over the loudspeaker: "::static:: Please don't clap. We are all aware that we have successfully landed."

Walking off the plane onto the runway, we then took the airport trolly for a journey like that of an Austin Powers movie (from the plane to the door of the airport, literally 20 feet away - yes, I'm completely serious, in fact this is probably the only time I've been 100% truthful without any embellishment of such a trivial detail... I'm just kidding, I wouldn't lie to you - I'm proud of the fact that these stories require little to no elaboration).

Hey, you're still reading... either you have nothing better to do or are willing to put up with all this nonsense just to find out why Rome was the best trip we've ever taken...

To be continued (Thursday, June 29, 2006)

Digital Wednesday/Triumphant Thursday/Funny Friday, June 14-16th

I know, I know - thanks for asking again: what could I have possibly been doing all week in place of keeping up with the blog? I hate being repetitive but I can't tell you enough how surprised and glad I am that you guys are semi-interested in checking up on us, and that those of you who are employed by BU have chosen the blog over away-message-checking as your number one source of work distraction (you like to sing, 'rep' New Bedford, wear dress shoes and an ample amount of denim - you know who you are, Mastey). Anyway, it's great to see that the blog is becoming more popular and gaining interest from others on the internet. I got an email this Thursday from Ma$e, acclaimed Bad Boy Records turned G-Unit rap icon and born-again Christian, who was also wondering what we've been up to since our return from Amsterdam. Below I have reproduced his message:

Dear Nick,
How's London? What have you guys been up to since you got back from Amsterdam?
If you had twenty-four hours to live just think
Where would you go?
What would you do?
Who would you screw?
And who would you wanna notify?
Or would yo' ass deny that yo' ass about to die?
Love,
Ma$e

Thanks, Ma$e. Well, without going into too, too much detail, I'll try to break the past week down right quick.

Monday through Tuesday was spent literally and figuratively running the cm521 Marketing gamut. Traveling all over London searching for the City Business Library, and after asking every knowledgeable person/cab driver/police bobby where the Library was, I found myself lost for the first time since we arrived in the UK. After 3 hours I began to get a little anxious since I knew the library would close soon. Eventually I found the library 15 minutes before closing. Needless to say, I wasn't able to record all the research I came to pick up. With 3 minutes left before closing, the librarians conspired and turned both the copy machine and library lights off on me after I clearly said I "only have 18 pages left to copy."

Wednesday: Somehow Leanne, Tabitha, Nicole, Matt and I (by our powers combined, we are team HMV) managed to cram 3 weeks worth of marketing, promotional planning and advertising into 2 hard days of work. On Wednesday, dressed up in our smart clothes, we gave an exciting and fun 30 minute pitch for our client, HMV, the leading music and DVD retail superstore in the UK & Ireland. After a couple hard days of work and a few sleepless nights, we had finally reached freedom (except for the 2 papers, 2 finals and presentation I have due next week). We were very excited with a job well done so, after going home and eating a huge feast, we went out later that night.






First stop was Kavanaugh's to meet up and rendevous in a very Ocean's Twelve-ending fashion. After a few pints we headed over to the Mullet-Bar, the Zetland Arms, which is a bar operated by scary, confrontational, no-nonsense lesbians with mullets (not that there's anything wrong with mullets). In fact, we dropped by the Zetland Arms last week when, after last call, one bar tender came over to our table, took Matt's pint from him and poured it out.

The bar has a great selection in local beers - including the one I ordered for Dan, which tastes just like vinegar. Dan really enjoyed it. Leanne, Tab, Nicole, Matt and I cheers-ed our better tasting drinks a few more times and called it a night. Congratulations HMV, we did it baby! (I don't even know what that means..)

Thursday: After catching up on all the missed sleep from the previous week, we headed out to the pub for the England v Trinidad 'n' Tobago game. I have to say, although a frequent occurence, watching an England World Cup football match at a local pub in London is the best way to spend a Thursday afternoon. The Guinness was extra cold; the bar was extra crowded and extra smokey; and the game was extra exciting. Finally scoring in the later half of the second.. half.. England finished up the match 2-0 in an action-packed victory.



At night Dan, Julian, Leanne, Matt and I hung out in the room then headed over to Piccadilly, to O'Neil's. Somehow we got in without paying a heavy cover charge (5 pounds, yea that was a joke) and went upstairs to the third floor. As we reached the third floor landing, the doors flew open and 4 guys came crashing down in front of us, grappling and brawling. Trying to separate ourselves from the very close, very violent fight, we stepped around and walked in. The third floor was playing the same dance music as the other two levels, but it soon changed over to an awesome band with a big, sweaty front man. The band played crazy covers and had the entire pub jumping. Matt and I rushed the stage and spent so much time at the front that we were given the mic to sing part of a song (Londoners seem to be obsessed with Kaiser Chief's "I Predict a Riot," consequently we hear it all the time and know the words). After the band sang its last song, the dance music came back on.

Matt and I stuck it out and met up with Emma, who is going back to the US next week. The dancing got very intense, and after a couple of stuffed animals stopped dancing and started doing some really raunchy things on the dance floor, we decided to check out the 2nd level of the pub. Then Matt and I went to the WC where we noticed exactly how seriously they take football (soccer) across the pond - they practice bending it like Beckham in the bathrooms (see picture of urinal).

On the way out we decided to smuggle some really sweet Heineken glasses by hiding them in our pants; mine was in the front thus greatly contributing to the massive bulge you see in the picture we took with the band, who we happened to meet outside on the street. The band was really appreciative of our support and taking over for them/singing (just kidding) and told us to email our pictures to them.


Now very late, and very hungry, Matt easily persuaded me to get a large, filling sausage and onions (no innuendos please)from one of the infamous London sausage vendors. Thanks, Matt, all that did was make me even more hungry. So after the sausage we went to Burger King.

Friday: Very briefly, Friday we went to the Comedystore - an awesome comedy club. After hanging out around Covent Garden with Kadie (who is stilly nannying) and getting some fish & chips, Dan, Julian, Leanne, Mike, Matt and I headed over for the midnight show, where we met up with Emma again. The host and all the acts were phenomenal. All acts were exceptional... except for one TERRIBLE American. I laughed for 2 and a half straight hours, minus the period when the American guy was on stage. Apparently not having any material or forming any jokes is acceptable as long as you relate everything to a statement about how you hate America or why America is ____ (fill insult here). Well, as we told the host earlier when he was picking people out of the crowd - we were, in fact, from America. So in the midst of dead silence (this guy was really awful, nothing he said was remotely funny), faint shouts of "shut the fuck up and get off stage" were stirring, oddly enough, from the area in which Dan and I were sitting. Anyway, I was just really annoyed that the guy was wasting everyone's time - and in a great demonstration of international unity, our fellow British and Australian audience members joined in until, finally, the guy walked off.

The other comedians were so good they totally brought the crowd back and redeemed the lack of comedy put forth by the tool who just got off stage. Afterwards we grabbed sausages (that's still not funny) and jumped on the bus back to The Crofton.

AmsterDAM.that.was.a.great.weekend... June 8-11th

Waking up extra early on Thursday after a long.. long night of pub crawling was challenging yet vital for a weekend full of great beer, clean boxers and the Dutch. Bearing this knowledge, I spent the 30 minutes before class on Thursday morning in a trance, balling up a few articles of clothing (a considerably insufficient amount for traveling in any country except Europe) and collecting essential traveling implements (passport, tooth brush, camera, turkey sandwhich).

Immediately following class, Dan, Julian, Matt and I jumped in our preordered taxi and headed to Heathrow (Mike came later due to afternoon class). We were surprised at how easygoing (perhaps I should call it "efficient") the check-in and security process is compared to the U.S., having literally walked through the different checkpoints with little more than a glance at our American passports. I, however, am always the sketchy one, and was therefore "randomly selected" (yea, right) for a new screening process. Luckily, the guards were gentle with me. After standing in front of a large full-body x-ray machine, the guards instructed me to skip the entire line and move directly to the departure area - me: "Do not pass GO; do not collect $200!" The guards, the woman I skipped and the girl near the duty-free counter, no one found that joke funny (and most likely neither do you).

The flight was very bumpy and over quickly (kind of like sharing a bed with Dan/Tim/Al and James in the Domincan Republic during spring break, just kidding). We arrived in Amsterdam around 4pm to beautiful, progressively hotter, sunny weather that lasted for the remainder of the trip. We were driven to our hotel in one of the millions of brand new Mercedes Benz'z taxis that grace the Holland highways. We made it to the hotel in record time thanks to our well dressed, Bulgarian driver, whose appearance in a black suit and tie contributed to and furthered my mental comparison of our auto-voyage to a scene from the Transporter, starring Jason Stratham.

Our hotel, The Beufort, was the most awesome crap hotel each of us has ever stayed in. Not quite a crackhouse but not much more than a hostel, the hotel featured itsy-bitsy spiders crawlin' up the water spout in the bath tub, a one-man rotation of sleeping on the floor due to lack of beds (in total there were 5 of us), an imaginary air conditioning unit that was seemingly stuck on the setting "hot as balls," free continental breakfast that was never out when we came down in the morning to eat, and a bathroom that flooded like the colosseum everytime we took a shower (together). I have no complaints about the hotel; I thought staying in The Beufort was the best way to jump feet first into the proverbial shoes of the average down-on-his-luck Dutchmen as the hotel accomdations provided an excellent chance to really immerse myself in that culture.

Now that we had settled, what was there to do? Amsterdam is notriously known by many as the sex/drugs/wooden clog capital of the world. If, however, you do not frequent coffee shops (wink, wink), are not keen on eating baked goods like brownies and space cakes (ahem), hate milkshakes and bon bon's (eh? eh?), and can't stand the taste of mushrooms... I assure you Amsterdam has much more to see and experience (besides the Red Light district). It's called: Heineken.


Turns out Amsterdam is also a really beautiful city. With the help of an extremely boring boat cruise, we were able to take in all the aesthetics Amsterdam has to offer: the great architecture, regal scenery, bustling squares where you can sit around and hang out, a series of canals that dissect the city, and lavish parks full of green grass, ponds with very friendly ducks and well kempt shrubbery (yes, I used the word shrubbery). But, if you continually read this blog then I know you have no interest in reading about stuff like that; nor do you care about the amazing artwork on display at the Van Gogh Museum and the Rembrandt & Caravaggio exhibit, both of which I was admittedly eager to see. So let's get back on topic:




The Heineken Experience. Whilst on the prowl for the mecca of my Dutch pilgrimage, the Heineken Factory, the anticipation in my mouth and stomach was getting the better of me. Walking along underneath the hot sun, I had to squint to look up and into the distance where I thought I saw the letters "ineken" peaking out atop a big brick building on a curvy street. Sure enough it was, in fact, the Heineken factory. Like little kids in a candy shop we hopped and skipped through the first floor of the self-guided tour. After taking in the rich history and spending more than enough time watching a wall of all the past Heineken television commercials, I followed everyone else up the green neon-lighted stairway to heaven. Bouncing from room to room, chasing the aroma of hops and barley, we were eventually ushered into a dark room which was the stage for an interactive ride where you follow the life of a Heineken bottle from its conception all the way through to its demise in da' club (or on the couch or back deck of 87 Gardner). After the ride finished, the doors were pulled open to reveal the factory's old distillery room and a bar in the loft above the room. After a break from the tour (and a few complimentary half-pints) we continued on our merry way.


Finishing the rest of the tour (which was awesome), we came to the second and last bar. We hung out for a bit until the bar tenders refused to accept our tokens and asked us to leave because they were closed and we were clearly exceeding the estimated amount of time one has in the last part of the tour. The tokens I'm referring to are provided upon purchase of a ticket to the Heineken Experience: one token is given for the 1st bar, two are given for the 2nd bar, and one is given for a Free Gift! We, however, had acquired extra tokens from girls we met on the street, thus we had all intentions of spending as much time at the second bar as we could.


Speaking of Heineken (which I used practically as a substitute for water throughout the trip - much like the British did with their Indian colonies, because beer is easier to preserve and survives a lengthy voyage much better than fresh water), I'd like to present you with the running debate during our time in Amsterdam: does Heineken in Holland taste better than Heineken in, say, the U.S.? Do the Dutch brewmasters use a separate process for the beer that stays within their borders and those of their friendly neighboring countries? Even within the Netherlands, does Heineken Ice draft taste any colder than regular Heineken draft? Who was the Notorious B.I.G. and is he really dead? Can you tell which is fact or fiction? Or is it simply beyond belief?






Now, I didn't just sit around and revel in the masterpiece that is Heineken beer all day - I also got to EAT! Yes, EAT whole meals of food! It was phenomenal. Unlike England, Amsterdam offered a large number and wide variety of different cuisines and simply edible food. From Dutch Pancake Houses to Mexican/Italian/Greek/Thai restaurants and Steakhouses to old school take-out Chinese food (Featured: Wok to Walk, much like a Chinese stir-fry wok version of Qdoba, mastering in the various Chinese styles, we had between one to two meals here per day). In addition to these fine selections, there was plenty of late night waffle and ice-cream snacking, not to mention the last night's trip to Burger King, where a very, very hungry and ashamed Nick ordered an XXL Big King meal and an ice cream sundae... quite possibly the most satisfying meal of the trip.

If restaurants don't directly french-tickle your fancy, there was, obviously, the Red Light District. Unfortunately one cannot take pictures in the Red Light District so you're gonna have to take my words on what goes on there (from my perspective, anyway). You've just read about all the great food we finally had the chance to eat, but you may have noticed I didn't mention anything about bananas. I love bananas. You know I love bananas. I know you know I love bananas, and you know I know you know I love bananas. Bananas with peanut butter, bananas in oatmeal or ice cream, bananas sliced up in a bowl of cereal, bananas in pajamas coming down the stairs. The one way I do NOT like bananas, however.. is inside a Dutch stripper in the Red Light District. This is why I was very upset everytime I passed the BananenBar, where we were offered not only to watch, but participate in the destruction of poor, innocent bananas (and wax candles for an extra price). Shame on you people.

So, yea, it's pretty dirty. And I don't just mean "dirty," I mean full fledged "dirrtay." In addition to the women standing pressed up against the floor to ceiling windows, lit only by red neon lights, knocking against the glass to get our attention, we often encountered men who insisted upon calling me "Charlie." I finally built up the courage to tell one said gentlemen that my name was not Charlie. After a very awkward and confusing conversation, the man rather rudely informed me that "Charlie" was code for coke, ex or any various type of hard drug. I was very taken aback, and after I said no thank you/walked away, it suddenly dawned on me why all those guys were following me around calling me "Carlos" when we were in Acapulco over spring break.

Anyway, there's a lot to see - too much to see, in fact - just by walking around the streets of the Red Light District. Sticking mostly to bars, while accompanied by Dan, we discovered some very elegant little places. Our favorite, where we all hung out Saturday night with some dudes from the BU program who we happened to meet in Lidseplein, The Hole in the Wall, was an Irish pub (of course) with friendly service and great outdoor seating where it was still possible to watch the World Cup soccer games. We also found our way into: a smokey, dive bar occupied mostly by underage Dutch girls (no, that is not entirely as cool as it sounds); a "70's 80's Bar" where they had a DJ who played great classics like "Whoop, There it is," "Grindin'" by the Clipse, and other monumental Hip-Hop and Reggaeton songs from the 90's...; and, how could we go without, a Kareoke bar.

Exploring is the best part about visiting any new country or city. But walking around in Amsterdam in general, forget sight seeing, is a hindered process due to the 600,000 bicycles owned and operated in the city (no joke, everyone rides a bike, literally everyone, and sometimes two at a time). It is impossible to walk 5 feet without the threatening "ring-ring" of the bike bell screaming at you from behind. There are special bike lanes between the sidewalk and the street, designed specifically for cyclists and scooter/moped users. Even if you figure out how to cross the street you are still very susceptible to being plowed from behind (crossing the street required a brief adjustment period because in Amsterdam cars drive on the right side, the correct side, of the road - and we are now accustomed to doing the opposite of our instincts when crossing the street in London).

The departure on Sunday morning was early, 8:20 am. Waking up early (6ish) in Amsterdam is even more confusing than London as the sun sets around 11:15pm and is up around 5:30am. After a solid hour of sleep on a comfortable wooden, Dutch floor, I got up with the rest of the gang and set out for the airport. After a good nap in the airport, and a good nap on the plane (which apparently was taxi-ing around for a spot in Heathrow for two hours), we took a shuttle bus to the tube - which, of course, had to let us out 7 stops early regardless of the full out-of-zone fair we had to cough up. We then had to walk several miles in the now prevalent English heat and sunny weather, which we are not complaining about despite the sun burn received by some of our travel partners (namely Dan Agar).

Sunday Bath-ing, June 4th

We woke up Sunday at 8AM tired and sort of smelly, so we decided to do what any Roman would do - go to Bath to indulge in the secret and mystical healing powers of natural spring waters, and to get naked and scrape olive oil off one another's backs.

The Celts believed the natural hot springs found in Bath possessed supernatural powers, and the town became the place of worship for the deity Sulis, life-giving Mother goddess. Like the rest of the known world, the Romans invaded and conquered the land, preserving the town as well as the adoration for the goddess Sulis (identifying Her with Minerva, hence Sulis Minerva) by constructing temples and intricate bathing complexes. If you know me, you know I heart Roman civilization and the Latin language (which I no longer know because I am a puerum molsetum). Anyway, Bath eventually became the site of British aristocracy, famous residents such as Jane Austen, and major movie productions like Vanity Fair (starring Reese Witherspoon) and Pride & Prejudice (starring Keira Knightley - who we, unfortunately, did not meet on the day's excursion).





The beauty of Bath is the city itself; with amazing architecutre and serene, lush landscapes, every step through the city brings you through different folds of history. I've always loved the city because it is so timeless and untouched - I visited Bath after graduating high school in 2003 and the town hasn't changed one bit.



Anyway, after touring the bath houses (which are awesome) Dan, Julian, Matt, Mike and I went upstairs for a taste of Bath water (not like soapy Bert & Ernie bath-water; more like bubbling warm water with a strong taste of sulfur, a hint of fluoride and a pinch of salt). The water is a bit hard to get down so, like most beverages in this country, we decided to chug it. The water is pumped up 22 miles from the ground through a beautifully decorated fountain, in a grand dining room where you can stay for breakfast, lunch or dinner. The decor is complimented with the sweet ambience set by our friend, the McDonald's High Kensington Street Pianist.


After exploring several different, interesting streets and taking in more scenery, we grabbed a pint at the Boatery Pub (the same pub I grabbed a pint/fish&chips with David "Sam" Sarch, the Scourge of Singak and Pat Costello in 2003) and sat by the river. We slowly made our way back to the bus, where I was greeted by the sassy wank of a bus tour guide who deserves a paragraph of his own:

The story of the tour guide starts off at a rest stop somewhere near Swindon (the setting for Ricky Gervais' The Office, the hit BBC show). After Dan, Matt and I constructed very large, very expensive and very delicious breakfast sandwhiches (eggs, beans, sausage, bacon and hashbrowns on a roll), the bus driver walked up to me and gave me a pompous scolding for being late for the bus - which I was not yet late for. Once on the bus, well.. I do have the uncanny ability to fall fast asleep within minutes of being on a moving vehicle (I awoke to the entire boat cruise pointing and laughing at me for drooling all over my sweatshirt last week). I prefer to look at this more as a talent than an offense to my peers and hosts. The tour guide, apparently, views it as a transgression of his guiding skills, as he chose to single me out over the loud speaker and compare me to a zombie from George A. Romero's Land of the Dead. Again, I awoke as the butt of my fellow passengers' hysterical laughing.


So, after what felt like ten minutes after leaving Bath, I awoke in Avebury. The main attraction in Avebury is a series of rocks arranged on neighboring fields in a large circle (much more spread out but similar to Stonehenge), forming the largest stone ring in the world. Unlike Stonehenge, however, you can go up to the rocks, hug them, love them and pick them up (not really). Two of the largest stones are said to lie on the same electromagnetic line as the Pyramids of Giza, and possess some pagan powers. Dan, Julian and I ran between the stones - holding hands, of course - and survived. Dan and Julian then posed near what is called "the devil's chair," on the backside of the larger stone. I opted not to sit on the devil's chair for fear of the local legend that one who sits on the devil's chair for 9 months will conceive - and I CANNOT get pregnant right now.

Then we discovered the most popular enchantment in Avebury: the nearest and only pub, the Red Lion. After getting a couple Old Speckled Hens with Matt, and sitting with Dan, Julian, Mike and the bus tour guide (who did not finish his beer) we were forced to sprint back through the bright green fields as we were almost, again, late for our bus departure.

In the evening Matt and I met up with my friend from home, Kadie, who is staying in London for the summer under very unlikely circumstances. The UK is regarded very highly in the international nanny and au pair circuit, boasting such reputable stars as Supper Nanny and Nanny 9-1-1. Paradoxically, Kadie (whose record includes 10+ years of babysitting experience, lifeguard and CPR certification, swim instructor license and an aversion to cigarette smoking) was recruited via the Providence College student newspaper for a position as head nanny-mistress for the rich Chelsea parents of a 2 year old girl. Anyway, after a week and a half of being stuffed up with a toddler, and little-to-no other human interaction, Matt and I seized the opportunity as a great excuse to go grab a pint.


Afterwards, Matt, Kadie and I returned to The Crofton and joined Dan, Julian, Mike and our friends Jaime and Jess (who also go to BU, but we did not meet until London) on the 3rd floor for the first ever legit (official) Crofton beer pong exhibition. After beer pong, or Beirut for those of you who think you are cool, we played Kings as an excuse to tap into the 2nd case of Carlsberg that we bought for, what I explained to the liquor store clerk was referred to back home as, "mad cheap."