On Another trip to Greece (with some stops along the way)

Planning this trip was a shit show. Flights to Europe skyrocketed with fear of COVID at an all-time low ... the great liberal exodus. Toggling and refreshing Google Flights tabs for a variety of different cities became a part of my daily work routine. I knew I wanted to get to Amsterdam sometime in the first weekend, head to Portugal for a bit, make a pit stop in Greece, but was open to flying into just about anywhere and then sorting it out. This went on for weeks...

Toggle. Refresh. Toggle. Refresh. Toggle ... You get the point; I hope.

On one such morning, after watering my office aloe plant, I hit refresh for London for the 2,000th time and BOOM; it dropped $300. In the words of Joey Tribbiani, "London, Baby!"

After a quick share of my upcoming destinations with the person who was most likely to lead the search in case I was taken, I was off to London, hoping that there would be no delays as my flight from London to Amsterdam was bought separately ...

After an easy switch in London, I texted Scott with a "be there before you know it" type of text to which he replied something to the effect of, "you remember Brexit, right?"

Fuuuu...

Yeah, so, customs in London AND Amsterdam. Thanks a lot, Boris.

Saying that Schiphol Airport was understaffed is an understatement (more on that later). There was barely ONE customs agent. About an hour into my slow winding shuffle, a second and third showed up, and hundreds of us cheered.

Following the minor delay, Scott, Kevin, and I headed to Utrecht to their friends house for some day drinks that turned into evening and night bar hopping. Big fan of Utrecht - about 25 minutes away via train. Some photos below of the city and the day.

Second and final day in Amsterdam was everything I had requested to a T: a full boat day. The canals get a bit packed on the weekend in Amsterdam, so we headed down the Amstel, stopping along the way for, you guessed it, Kroketten. I don't really eat fried foods, but man oh man, these are all I want for every meal while I am in The Netherlands.

Scott and I hit the rooftop that evening and of course ... FEBO !!!! Best way to end my quintessential Amsterdam weekend.

Airports in Europe during this time (June 2022) were nothing short of reprehensible, Schiphol being the greatest transgressor. I was warned that security lines could be up to three hours long. This did not compute in my head, especially since I had a 7:30am flight. I set my alarm for 4:30, thinking this was a bit absurd, and that I would end up just sitting at my gate for two hours.

I arrived at Schiphol at 5am, met by complete organized chaos. I asked a check-in agent if I should be worried about making my flight or not, and she laughed at me as if I could not see the marching mayhem before me. "Um, ya; I think you're good." When I say I barely made it; I mean I BARELY MADE IT. Every time I thought the end was in sight, it was just another room with more mazes, tents, stairs, side lobbies ... you name it. In my *over* two hours in line at Schiphol, I truly saw it all.

I was held at stairs, skipped in line (as in- many a person skipped the line in front of me, and I was too tired and sympathetic to make a scene); finally made it to security, and my bag got snagged. At 6:57am, with a 7:30am flight, it's not the best feeling to see your bag get flagged without knowledge of how long it's been taking them to search bags and zero idea of where the gate that you're meant to fly out of is.

But I did indeed make it, and if memory serves me correctly, I think I slept.

I landed in Faro only to realize that the "scheduled strikes" were upon us. Oh yes, the train strikes (correct, I knew nothing about them). MEANING: there were absolutely no trains from Faro to Lagos. Also meaning: every bus was overbooked (according to sources). Additional takeaway: Ubers and taxis—at this time—were exceeding $150. After asking around at the info desk, bus stands, taxi stands, I walked away more confused than ever, and booked an Uber into town hoping for some revelations upon arrival.

I went to the train station—because for some reason I needed to see for myself—to find that yes, there were strikes. Was there a line to complain about your current dilemma? Absolutely. But a line to get on a train to get the hell outa there? Nope.

A train from Faro to Lagos is an hour and a half to two hours (depending on the train). A bus from Faro to Lagos is an hour and a half to two hours (depending on the traffic). A taxi ... ? One hour. Again I considered ...

I had a plan though. One of the many people I had talked to—potentially "info" lady?—had said there was a bus I could try to make. So "try" to make it I did.

If it looks like a weird spot with a bunch of confused people in a semi-queue than you have deciphered the photo correctly.

I somehow, amidst the chaos, booked a bus to Lagos that was leaving in ten minutes. Got ticket. Bought Cappuccino. Pretended like I had a chance of falling asleep for about 30 minutes, then got my laptop out. Because ... oh yeah ... I had a week of work ahead of me! No better place to start.

Quick checkin at the hostel, slight stumble down to the bar below, order of wine (after which I realize I 100% needed more caffeine), and Monday at work was moving forward at lightning speed. My summary of the proceeding five days will—for your sake and mine—exclude (mostly) eight hours of each day.

The hostel that I stayed at—shout out to Banana Beach House Hostel—hosted a family dinner each night. €7 for each delectable dinner. Oh, and by the end of the week, if I wasn't done with work, they would just bring it to me with a beer. Dinner from night one:

As I do, I just started talking to the person closest to me—who also just so happened to be behind the bar—come to find out much later (probably on hour four when he pulled out a random stash of port wine?) that he was the owner, Jason. Next to me was this adorable couple, Claudia andddd (insert a Portuguese name). We sat at this bar for hours on hours. People came and went. Going out on the town. Going to bed. But here we sat—with me pushing back my bedtime each hour on the hour as I did not have to work until 1pm anyway. And so day one of "I'm really just here to work" went.

10am next day! Made it to what would become my favorite beach—granted I tried one other one during my stay and lamented the fact that I was not at Praia do Camilo.

Read my book. Met the lovely bartender who offered me his grandmother's fruit salad that he said she makes every morning for him to sell from his bar shack on the beach. Cute ... but nah. Had a little plunge —as I would each morning thereafter—and then on to my 1pm start time.

The evening before Jason had gone on and on to me about his cousin Harry. On this current day, Jason again went on and on about Harry. By the time Harry did arrive, I thought he was my cousin Harry.

Harry used to lead bar crawls in Lagos—about five years prior. Before Audrey, Astha, and I knew it (my new friends from New York that I met at checkin as I sat on my laptop next to the checkin desk and often was mistaken for staff), we were off on the bar crawl with Jason, Harry, & co.

Stop 1: Tiger Bar. We were met by shouts of, "Harry, you're back?!?" Cheap drinks inside. First time experiencing the gin&tonics in a goblet, which I miss dearly. I rated Harry throughout the tour, and I 100% forget my past reviews, so these new ones are the ones that shall be etched in stone for posterity. For a first stop? 6/10. It's a late night spot, and I actually liked that we were basically the only ones there (oh yeah, starting your night at 9:30pm in Lagos??? People thought we were crazy. Even on a Tuesday, most people don't go out until midnight or later).

Stop 2: Joe's Garage. When we arrived, we were among the first, which was just as I like it, because we had the—pause for effect—beer pong tables all to ourselves. Everyone expects the Americans to ROCK at beer pong. I sucked. Like it took my partner and I well over thirty minutes to finish ONE game. I think we LOST? Granted, the FAN was blowing our balls back towards us. I was embarrassed nonetheless. Had a grand time though. 8/10

Stop 3: Whytes. What. A. Bar. When you arrive before a certain time on a certain day—is it before 11 on a Tuesday? Thursday? Both? Unsure. But. You can roll dice for your drink. You have to order the drink first, but the bartender rolls the dice. If you beat them? Free drink. Audrey, Astha, and I all got free gin&tonics in goblets and I've never been more proud. 10/10. Also important to note that the gin&tonics always glowed in the dark from all of the black lights so we truly could not stop ordering them.

Stop 4: Black Cat. After my beer pong loss, no-one believed I was a true American, so I was urged to prove my American worth by partaking in a beer bong—something I have not done since college. OK, that's a lie. Not since Vietnam when I was also persuaded to prove my worth (but also, 'twas four years ago). I failed miserably. I had no recollection of the beer coming at me that fast and making me feel like I was drowning. Incessant laughter at my failure. Great vibes. 9/10

Stops 5, 6 &7: No clue, but email Harry! I'm sure he'll email you the spreadsheet of his Lagos Bar Crawl.

Wednesday: Got home at 5am from bar crawl. Up at 11am for Camilo beach (duh). Promptly fell asleep again as soon as I hit the sand. Was woken up by the water lapping at my feet. Moved further up the beach. Fell asleep. Repeat. And so my morning went until it was time to work again.

Cappuccino, views, eh food, work done. Home for family dinner. Out on the town because xyz staff person is leaving the city foreverrr. Gotta say my goodbyes! Great night out (somehow convinced Astha and Audrey to come), hit up Joe's Garage and Tiger Bar. I ordered a g&t at Joe's Garage, wanting a break from all of the beer I was chugging from losing beer pong games.

I handed the bartender €20 for my €5 g&t. She handed me €5 back. I asked where the rest of it was, and she said, "what do you mean? You gave me a €10."

"Nooooo I gave you €20."

Gets the manager.

"Please wait here while I check the CCTV."

Great. Now they think I am a thief. I wait for twenty minutes. No hesitation on my part ... until minute 18. Shit. Did I give her a €10???? Astha assuaged my fears as we waited. Manager comes back.

"Soooo ... here's your change and free shots. Our bad. You have no idea how many people try to pull that shit on us."

Me: "I accept these shots. You are forgiven."

On to Inside Out (good dancing but not worth the wait), not home too late this time around.

Thursday: Up and at 'em early(ish) to finally explore the town in the daylight. A bit of a different look. Shopped for the usuals: sunglasses, bracelets, rings, and fridge magnets, and then on to a new beach—Dona Ana—which was fiiiiine, but no Camilo.

After a bit of work at the hostel, I headed back into town for a working lunch. I went to a Rick Steves' recommended restaurant as I was looking for an authentic experience. Well. I got one. I must've ordered the wrong thing? I somehow ended up with a plate of dry meat and potatoes that I could barely swallow, and being someone that doesn't like to gag whilst in public, I left much of my meal untouched. When I asked for the check, my server / the owner / mother of the town, looked as if I had borne the news of her children's demise.

"Why don't you like my food?!?!? What did I do wrong?!?!? Are you OK? Why did you not eat my food?!?!?"

Me: "Oh, it was delicious. I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought."

Pause.

"I MADE BAD FOOD!!!! YOU DON'T LIKE MY FOOD!!!!!"

Me: "... so .... the check?"

She made me promise to come back so she could make food for me again that I would finish. I promised that I would with every intention of breaking that promise.

A fresh crop of travelers had settled in amid my absence, and I settled in at family dinner to make their acquaintance.

Who am I shitting. By acquaintance I mean best friends because within an hour I had signed myself up to lead a bar crawl into town. One night out with Harry and I thought I was the new king of the town.

Stops included, but were not limited to, Joe's Garage (LOL, did I go every night I was in Lagos???), Muchacha, and Three Monkeys.

After Three Monkeys, I left my bar crawl group in the hands of the town, and headed back "early".

Friday: Kayaking!!! This was an incredible morning excursion. In true European style, the guide told us to follow him and then moments before leading us to our possible deaths, he would say things like ...

"I think the tide is low enough to make it through this cave. But you must follow my lead, or you will tip, and there are lots of rocks. So. That would be bad."

"Watch out for the big tourist boats coming at you. They don't really care about us. So if you don't get out of their way, they will hit you."

Somehow, amidst my fear of death, I was able to capture some shots of the experience.

An hour to kill before work soooo back to Camilo! Found a secret tunnel this time that led to another part of Camilo—you can see the part of Camilo I had been going to behind. Cool.

I again visited my bartender friend in the bar shack. Handed him two Euros for a beer. As I walked away, I heard, "hey, wait!"

OMG. Does he want my number?!?!?

"You gave me two of something, but it's not Euros."

I take a look. Oh. I gave him two Peruvian Soles.

ME: "soooo I only have one Euro. So here is your beer back."

"I'm going to take your one Euro, keep this weird money you gave me, and call it even."

Not a bad deal after all (two Soles = 50 cents).

After finishing my last day of work, I was off to meet up with Olivia and Kate—friends from the night before—to celebrate the start of my vacation.

We ended our night at what I think is a bar called Old Admirals? Google Maps is just showing "Bar" which I just don't think is right. Regardless, for reference, it's on the same street as Tiger Bar; it's very old school, and it has incredible live music. Kate had been here before, and we wandered in for a drink and happily stumbled across live music. If you happen to be able to find this bar when you go from my detailed directions, I would highly recommend.

First day of vacation! Breakfast at the hostel with the gals.

And then off to do the cliff walk that everyone had been raving about.

Paid off my tab for the week, which—including dinner every night and an endless supply of beers for the full work week—came to a little above €60. Then off to Lisbon! Time to figure out what I wanted to do there ...

Checked into Home Lisbon Hostel. Dropped my bags. And off to explore this city on this Saturday night. After an enchanting wander, I ventured down an alleyway and stumbled upon Clube do Bacalau and had the best meal from my entire time in Portual.

It was simple. Steak with mustard. Rice and beans. I could not get enough. I think I got the name of the place right. If it's not that place, it is the other restaurant that is in that alley. Stay safe as you look!

Back to the hostel for "a quick drink" at the bar before heading up to bed. And just like that the remainder of my time in Lisbon was determined in the next ten seconds.

"Nice hat," said Rahi.

Me: "Oh. Thanks. Don't try to steal it like everyone else."

"Wanna go to Alfama with us?"

Me: "Sure!"

Also me: "Where is that?"

And just like that I met Noel and Ambika and Ian (the Americans) and Lukas and Benedict (the Germans) and Joelle and Eva (Dutch?) and many others. After grabbing a beer for the road, we were off to Alfama for the festival!!!

Now what was this festival for? I wanna say ... beer? Because all we did when we were here is go up to all of these stands and order shots and beer and then drink on the streets and meet all of these awesome Portuguese people that were also at this festival (soooo authentic experience, yes?)

Oh and it POURED. Some people tried to save themselves from the onslaught ...

But our crew? We embraced it man. And the straw hat? Gotta say. Came in handy, and I was drier than most. I kept calling Ian, "Dad," because he continually corralled our group, not wanting anyone to get lost in the ensuing hours. After staying up till 4am with him and Joelle, I realized his age, 21. Oh. Should I have been the one corralling people???

Sunday! Up at 10am for the walking tour. I've been on better tours ... Here's a photo that I took that I like because the tour guide didn't say anything THAT interesting (it was through the hostel, and now that I think back, I am remembering that I had to run to a "sister" hostel for the tour. Something that was not relayed to me the day before when I signed up for this tour. So. They called the other hostel as I ran over and asked them to wait. That was nice. But still. Eh tour).

Back to the hostel. Ran into Noel.

"Hey, wanna go to LxFactory with us?"

Me: "Sure!"

Also me: "Where is that?"

Out on the town we went for a little bit of shopping, a little bit of tram car (don't think we ever figured out how to pay for it), and some LxFactory exploration.

What is LxFactory you may ask? Well. It's a pedestrian street. And there's some restaurants and bars and shops along this street. You walk for about ten minutes and you have reached the edge of LxFactory. If you are someone reading this blog for recommendations on where to go, this is not one of them. But. Did we have a fab time? Absolutely. Found a rooftop bar. Then found a cool restaurant. And had a grand time. But not because of the location ...

We went to wait for the bus back, and upon remembering the 20+ minute wait for the ride there, I yelled a "peace out" and grabbed a bike (they have a similar setup to Citi bike in NYC with docks throughout the city). Stopped at some markets, rode along the water, and breathed in the fresh air, ever thankful to not be on a bus that I didn't understand how to pay for.

Upon my arrival back at the main square, it seemed like as good of a time as ever to do Rick Steves' audio tour of Lisbon—as my thirst for knowledge of the city was left unquenched after my morning walking tour. Within minutes, Rick recommended a glass from Wines of Portugal, so I grabbed a Vino-to-go and was off for an enriching experience.

Mid-tour, I ran into Noel, and I'm not sure if his comment to me was of admiration or judgment.

"Are you walking around Lisbon by yourself with a glass of wine?"

Me: "Um, I'm on a walking tour."

Found some great jewelry on my tour, and then back to the hostel for family dinner! Home Lisbon Hostel is known for family dinners made and hosted by Mama (owner of hostel). Alas the night that I chose to partake was her night off and instead we had a buffet style meal with unlimited drinks for, I want to say, ten euros. Sorry to have missed you, Mama, but I really was not upset.

Noel, Rahi, and I then headed to a Fado show. It is men and women (I think traditionally men, but times have changed for the better), singing sad songs about love lost. It really is quite beautiful, and you will absolutely get yelled at if you speak. I somehow managed and enjoyed.

On to Pink Street! Famous street in Lisbon for bars. Audrey—who I met in Lagos—met up with us for a night of *late-night talking*, *street sign dancing*, and *streets-of-Lisbon-sleeping*. Two of the above were done by me.

Next day? Sintra! Train confusion! Castles! Tuk-tuks! Cave exploring! A good, good day. Shout out to Lukas and Benedict for making it happen as Noel and I were worse than helpless and followed them around offering terrible solutions to non-problems.

I collapsed into bed after Sintra. Would you like to see my feet?

Gross. Couldn’t sleep. Time to finish walking tour!

The tour led me to—if I am remember correctly—the first ever Ginjinha bar(?) in Lisbon. Ginjinha is a popular cherry liqueur that, at 18% ABV, is 18% too strong (or too weak?). I would rather drink water. Or Everclear. Straight. Tourists do shots left and right of this stuff (maybe the locals do too, but I kind of doubt it). 

Bota Alta for dinner. Recommended by Rick Steves'. Not recommended by me. I could have done something wrong ... I have a habit of going to restaurants that are "known for something" and ordering the antithesis of what the restaurant is known for.

Noel and I recruited an American guy (who, if I remember correctly had just graduated high school, and I believe went by the name of Nathan or Nathaniel???) to go to Alfama with us after talking up the insane experience we had at the beer—or whatever—festival. There was no one in sight. NO ONE. Nada. But it was a nice little walk, and we got to say goodbye to the city and then go back to the bar at the hostel and take advantage of the cheap prices and great service.

Final day in Lisbon was reserved for Belem, home of the Jerónimos Monastery. And wooooow. What a sight. Little bit of a line. Worth the wait. Photos below. 

Another weird restaurant choice on my part ... like WTF is this???

Then bike home! This was a bit of an issue. Bikes kept dying on me. I kept having to work way too hard to switch out for a new bike. This was before I had the confidence to ride those motor scooters which were literally EVERYWHERE. 

Next stop? Athens (not Georgia)! I finally perfected how to easily comply with the "only one personal item" rule.

Landed in Athens and was transported to one of my favorite hostels: Athens Hawks Hostel. Greeted by a woman passed out on the stairs ... fiiine. It's fine. Offered assistance. Was told to "just go enjoy" myself on the rooftop bar, so I acquiesced. 

Next morning. A struggle to get up. Had kind of forgotten I needed to check out; if my memory serves me correctly, I didn't even shower?? Was going to be sweating all day anyway because, ya know, Athens in the summer ... I was also a tad sick (literally everyone I had been hanging out with in Lisbon had a cough). Heat and sickness make for a sweaty cocktail, but off I went to seize Athens once more. I shopped. I hiked. I grabbed drinks at my favorite spots. I drank coffee. I drank wine. I got my dolmas and my moussaka. But: Felt. Like. Shit. A good day? Yes. But Athens in the summer? Eh. Hit it on the off-season. Would recommend this hike I did though: Philopappos Hill. Great views.

My reason for going to Greece, and the inspiration for the whole trip actually? To meet up with my sister, Julia, and our friend, Liz, who were in Greece for the week. It was now time to meet them at the ferry headed to Hydra, an island close to Athens, but without the bustle of either Athens or the other popular Greek isles, otherwise known as ... a vacation from vacation.

Julia and Liz's flight was set to land at 5pm, and with the ferry from Athens to Hydra not set to leave until 7:30pm, this was a good plan. Until it wasn't. Until they CHECKED BAGS. A tale as old as time. Flight got delayed. Bags took ages to arrive. And then the fateful text from Julia, "So...we may not make it. Just got our bags. Google Maps says 7:45pm."

And this is when my confidence turned Herculean. I marched over to the ticket counter to ask if the ferry usually leaves on time. She looked at me incredulously.

"The ferry always leaves on time."

This did not dissuade me. It's her job to tell me that, I thought. The guys that work on the ferry will be honest with me.

I walked up to the boat as if to board. "So ... do you guys leave on time?"

"Yes, of course," the ticket man for the boat said.

"Ever hold the boat for people that are running late?"

Silence.

If anything, we now know that the Greeks hold prompt ferry schedules. 

Julia and Liz picked me up in their taxi, and we "settled" for dinner in Iroon Square and drinks on the roof at Athens Hawks Hostel. Please enjoy the seemingly photoshopped photo of us on the rooftop below.

Off to Hydra first thing the next morn!

Oh Hydra. We had high expectations; for our AirBnb, for the food, for the views, for the vibes. But Damn. This island showed us what vacation really is.

And what is it, you ask?

It is yoghurt and honey and fruit seemingly picked off the the tree moments earlier. It is almost getting lost every time you try to get anywhere, but never really because, well, there are no cars, and the streets are basically sidewalks, and as long as you keep walking, you'll arrive. It is water taxis that take you to whichever beach you please for the day, insisting you call them whenever you need a ride back. It is beers on the beach. Reading on the beach. Laughing on the beach. Sleeping on the beach. Being asked if you would please eat the baby fish with the mama fish. It is floating. And smiling. And knowing you got it. A vacation from vacation. 

Our evening in Hydra was brought to you by none other than ... Rick!! We bopped around to his recommended spots for drinks and snacks, after which we cascaded into the main event: the Rick Steves' walking tour of Hydra led by none other than the teacher we all wish we had in middle school ... Miss Julia Cummings.

After dinner with a view, we descended back to the port for an Ouzo nightcap. 

6:30am wakeup call for my ferry back to Athens! Julia and Liz had another full day of vacation from vacation in Hydra, but I was off to regular old vacation in London. Pit stop at Como Salon in Athens for a blowout. Guess I wasn't ready for vacation from vacation to end.

Flight delayed; time for souvlaki in Monastiraki Square—the one thing I had been missing.

I got to the Athens airport with so much time to spare. I chilled at the bar for a bit and upon making it to my gate realized that I should actually turn my two bags into one as they were checking. No one had yet boarded. The time was 3:03pm. Yes, that is the timestamp for this unnecessary selfie below.

Before consolidating, one must go through the regurgitation stage. Timestamp, 3:05pm.

An impressive six minutes later, all is consolidated. Timestamp, 3:11pm. 

I step out of the bathroom. My gate has been emptied. My 3:30pm flight has been boarded. 

I saunter up, proud of my one personal item magic trick I've just performed. 

Hand over my boarding pass.

"The gate is closed."

"WHAT???"

I'm met by a stare.

"That can't be. It's still 19 minutes until the flight is scheduled to take off. That means the gate should be open for another four minutes."

"Well. It's closed."

"Well. It's my only option for getting to London. Can you reopen the gate? It's not supposed to be closed yet." (yes, because I am the authority on how the Athens airport personnel should run the show)

GODDAMN this Greek efficiency.

Now they start to look frantic.

"Well. Why weren't you here?"

"I was in the bathroom." (taking selfies and throwing my every belonging on the floor)

*Lots of chatter in Greek*

Then. "We really can't open the gate after we close it. The flight manifest is final."

"I literally see everyone right past that glass door still waiting to get on the plane."

*Stare from them.*

*Stare from me.*

More personnel rounded the corner. Surveyed the situation. Typed things on the computer. Printed out a document on a piece of paper that was what seemed at the time to be a 70,000 foot long sheet of paper. Then WROTE my name in. 

"OK. Um. I got you on the flight?"

"Yeah?"

Timestamp for photo below, 3:17pm.

If only the caption for the below photo could read, "and I never made the same mistake again."

On to London, baby!

I met up with my friend Dan (if you remember him from my Peru blog) at Hostel One Notting Hill. This hostel has a 9.3 rating on HostelWorld.com which is, as any dumbass could tell, a phenomenal rating. Well. This hostel sucked. Allow me to explain.

At surface level, this hostel had it all. Multilevel; old, but charming; nice full tour by the staff; beer fridge; trivia; free drinks at trivia; great hangout space. 

I met up with Dan at trivia where I received my free sangria. I took one sip. I would pay to not drink this sangria. I switched to beer. That was not free. 

Let's peel back the next layer of this not-quite-as-sweet-as-we-originally-thought onion. The girl that was leading trivia was American. And then it became increasingly clear that everyone that worked at this could-be-fun hostel was American. Everyone (or my trivia team at least) bonded over their hatred and annoyance of the hostel workers. From the get-go, terrible at leading trivia, throw in the shots that they were taking for every answer that someone got right or wrong ... and it just got weirder. The hostel workers were all wasted and laughing and yelling about inside jokes while all of the people paying to stay in the hostel—at first looked on—and then moved on—which led to the utter demise of trivia. 

Once they realized no one was paying attention, they announced it was time for the bar crawl. Fun. Yay. Love a bar crawl. I was hungry and on the verge of hangry, so was a bit annoyed when it took them 30+ minutes to figure out who was going, where they were going, how they were going to get there ... I have no issue with the leader of a bar crawl being drunk. In fact, sometimes the best ones are. But you need to be a fun drunk that knows where they are going, otherwise it's not really compatible with the job requirements. 

They took us to the bus. 20 minute wait? Great. I'll get some shawarma. 

Call from Dan: "we all left."

Ok ... 

Rush after them. To the subway. They didn't even know how to get there ...

We get to whatever bar they were leading us to (I want to say that the name of it was Pink? but that can't be right), stand in line, chatting with our new friends. Get to the front. Are told to turn around and leave.

?

American "leaders" come up to us. "OHMYGOD were you guys acting like you KNEW EACH OTHER?" 

"Um. Yeah. One could say so."

"WHATTTTT. You can't do that!!!! They hate big groups. OHMYGOD this never happens. I can't believe you guys."

Blank stares from all of us. So. You are telling me. You brought a group from a hostel. Such groups are notorious for wanting to get to know one another. One usually needs to speak with those around them to get to know them. And none of these "bar crawl leaders" mentioned that we had to pretend like we were not in a group. 

So those of us that were staying at the hostel started to brainstorm where we could go next. The people that worked at the hostel???

"Why should we know? We're not from here!"

No backup plan. I hate Americans.

Dan and I kept suggesting that we go to the bar that was right in front of us, but we got a mix of stares and pushback so off we went to—if my memory serves me correctly—O'Neils. In SoHo. 

Were the Americans leading us? Ha. No. It was a mix of Dan and me leading 20+ people through a city that we are not from. Me, looking at my map and pointing, and Dan, giving quite an informative (bullshit) walking tour along the way.

We arrived. Security is weird there. They scan your ID and take your photo and charge you lots of money and steal your soul, but other than that. EASY. 

Had some good drinks. Finally. Danced the night away. 'Twas a good night. No photos whatsoever from this day as I was attempting to "not be a tourist." Frightfully good memory despite that I would say.

Next day! We switched to a hotel. Good riddance. 

Off to the Portobello Market—I think. Great shops. Live music. Good food. 

Next, off to meet up with my friend Georgia, also from Peru. She was not living in London at the time, but was there for a visit. The stars aligned.

Food at Kingly Court. Next stop. Cahoots! An old Tube station in SoHo. Cuuute. Great drinks. Thanks for the rec, Georgia.

On to a jazz bar that we waited wayyy too long for and was eh. Dan's friend—that we randomly ran into in Cahoots—told us to meet him at Piano Works bar. And off we went. A good night.

A good walk the next day: Borough Market, Tower Bridge, Tower of London. 

Dan was off to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert, and I settled in with a book for the remainder of my stay.

Off to Heathrow for the continuation of the "worst airport moments in Europe of 2022" saga.

I got there two hours early. I hadn't been able to check in online. They kept calling up people who had flights coming up to skip the line. Me, over the next 45 minutes, "I'm going to JFK, can I please check in now?"

"Not urgent enough. Stay in the back of the line."

Finally, I am deemed an urgent enough case. The check-in person told me my flight was boarding already, so that really calmed my nerves. 

Up to the security line, aka HELL. In Amsterdam, they had a way of constantly moving you and keeping you from seeing how many people were ahead. In retrospect, quite obviously to prevent a stampede. Well, at Heathrow, you could see how far back you were. The check-in person had told me, if I said I was on the flight to JFK, they would let me through. I told EVERYONE/ANYONE that would listen. No one cared. After another 45 minutes in the security line, I kind of get pushed in front of like five people (not helpful). It became ever apparent that I would be missing my flight. 

Enter the Big Burly Boys also going to JFK. I overhead them discussing their flight to New York and approached the team in an attempt to form an alliance. I pled my case. After discussing my proposal to join forces (I had absolutely nothing to offer but my winning smile which was more like a grimace at this point).

Big Burly Boys met my gaze and said, "follow us."

We barreled through to the very front of the security line, picking up ropes along the way. This is not my usual course of action, but the agents "in charge" were encouraging such behavior by letting anyone that wanted to get ahead, get ahead. I got glared at. Shoved. But goddammit. The Big Burly Boys got me to my flight (that I only made because it got delayed because they had no one to load the bags onto the plane).

What a great alliance. Hoping I won't need their services next time.