Now that I am back to the land of Chipotle and department stores, I need a new platform to shamelessly talk about myself. Follow my new blog!!
http://zogonewild.blogspot.com/
http://zogonewild.blogspot.com/
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The St. Petersburg Metro for Dummies-- Russia Part 1
Sooo last week I went to Russia.
It was an optional school trip, and somehow DIS managed to convince 36 students and 4 teachers that it would be a good idea to haul out to the outskirts of Siberia in the middle of winter (by the way-- did anyone else know that Siberia was a real place??).
We started in St. Petersburg. The first night of our trip, people had the option to pay to go to the ballet or to go to a bar. Considering I am bored easily and bordering on bankruptcy, I chose the latter. My friend C. and I tried 3 different places before we finally found a Hookah bar that agreed to seat and serve Americans. We ended up sitting with three boys from our program who we had never laid eyes on. We felt super awkward, so we got drunk.
By the time we met up with the rest of the group to go to dinner, we were hammered. We walked into the restaurant and were welcomed with plates covered in multi-colored combinations of fish and mayonaise... our two least favorite foods. And vodka shots. At this point, C. decided to start finger painting with the mayonaise and flinging baby shrimp at me from across the table. We were really making good progress with our new boy friends. Luckily, the boy next to me (with whom I had been going shot for shot with ...) took this opportunity to buy three rounds for our chaperones. They were blacked out within the next 8 minutes.
After two hours, six shots and ZERO food, we stumbled out of the restaurant to embark on our first ride on the St. Petersburg metro. Our chaperones wanted to give us a tour of the metro as a group in the hopes that we would figure it out and be able to use it on our own during the few days we were in the city. Our behavior during that first night shattered those dreams pretty quickly. Before being abroad, I had never taken public transportation in my life. Now, I can proudly say that I have mastered public transport in 7 different cities. I do not consider St. Petersburg to be one of these cities.
Somehow, C. and I got "distracted" and ended up at the back of the group with two of the boys. Apparently we were supposed to switch trains, but none of the four of us ever really got the memo. We ended up riding around for 45 minutes until by some stroke of miracle, I figured out how to get us home. That's right. Me. I take full credit.
When we finally made it out of the metro, the boys were so excited that they tackled me to the ground to say thank you. Like -- actually tackled. I have bruises. I spent the rest of the night bitching about a "concussion" for attention, which didn't really work. Especially when I tried to tell my teacher it was the brain damage, not the alcohol, that caused us to get lost.
Russia- 1 Zo- 0
It was an optional school trip, and somehow DIS managed to convince 36 students and 4 teachers that it would be a good idea to haul out to the outskirts of Siberia in the middle of winter (by the way-- did anyone else know that Siberia was a real place??).
We started in St. Petersburg. The first night of our trip, people had the option to pay to go to the ballet or to go to a bar. Considering I am bored easily and bordering on bankruptcy, I chose the latter. My friend C. and I tried 3 different places before we finally found a Hookah bar that agreed to seat and serve Americans. We ended up sitting with three boys from our program who we had never laid eyes on. We felt super awkward, so we got drunk.
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| Welcome to my nightmare. |
After two hours, six shots and ZERO food, we stumbled out of the restaurant to embark on our first ride on the St. Petersburg metro. Our chaperones wanted to give us a tour of the metro as a group in the hopes that we would figure it out and be able to use it on our own during the few days we were in the city. Our behavior during that first night shattered those dreams pretty quickly. Before being abroad, I had never taken public transportation in my life. Now, I can proudly say that I have mastered public transport in 7 different cities. I do not consider St. Petersburg to be one of these cities.
Somehow, C. and I got "distracted" and ended up at the back of the group with two of the boys. Apparently we were supposed to switch trains, but none of the four of us ever really got the memo. We ended up riding around for 45 minutes until by some stroke of miracle, I figured out how to get us home. That's right. Me. I take full credit.
When we finally made it out of the metro, the boys were so excited that they tackled me to the ground to say thank you. Like -- actually tackled. I have bruises. I spent the rest of the night bitching about a "concussion" for attention, which didn't really work. Especially when I tried to tell my teacher it was the brain damage, not the alcohol, that caused us to get lost.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Milan LOL
Everyone has a travel horror story. Until this month, mine was the time when my boyfriend broke up with me 45 minutes before I boarded a 15 hour flight to Egypt. I was so hysterically upset that my mom force fed me 3 ambien and a bottle of Pinot to shut me up. This backfired when I started hallucinating while I was watching Wild Hogs in Japanese for the third time in a row. I thought the flight attendants were trying to traffic me, which was awkward. And super embarrassing for my family and everyone else seated in first class. Sorry mom! (but thanks for the drugs.)
As bad as that was, it does not begin to compare to my trip to Florence last month. At the beginning of November, 4 of my friends who are studying at the Georgetown villa in Fiesole came to visit me in Copenhagen for Sensation White. The concert was an adventure, and the next morning we all woke up feeling like hell. That morning also marked the beginning of DIS's two week break, so I had planned to fly back to Florence with the Villa girls before I went on to Barcelona and finally Russia. The cheapest flight we could find actually went into Milan, which is only a 45 minute train ride from Florence. What we didn't realize, though, is that the last train left from MILAN/MARIPOSA (a name I will never forget) at 8:15, and our flight landed at 7:45. We knew it was going to be a crunch, but none of us were very concerned-- we had gotten a little too used to the study abroad mantra of "we'll figure it out."
When the flight landed, we ran down to what we thought was the train (with 10 minutes to spare!), and realized that it was only an airport shuttle -- the actual train station was 35 minutes away. We hopped on and headed to the train station, still maintaining that we would "figure it out," and got to the station at 8:23. There were no trains until the morning -- we were officially shit out of luck.
At this point, the girls from the Villa began to realize the gravity of the situation and started to freak out. They HAD to be back for classes the next morning. It was time to get creative.
Someone jokingly suggested that we rent a car and drive to Florence, which somehow went from "viable option" to "best idea ever." Everyone was on board, except for my best friend who may or may not have been in tears over the fact that she would have to be in a car for 4 hours with me behind the wheel. While she went to go call her family and tell them how evil we all were, we devised a plan to drug her and throw her in the trunk-- we legitimately considered crushing Ambien into her Diet Coke. She may have actually been onto something about us being bullies.
Finally, after MUCH discussion, everyone had agreed to drive. The train station was (of course) out of rental cars, so three of the girls took a taxi back to the airport to try and get one there. The person in front of them in line took the last Automatic car, and like most 20 year olds from the North East none of us know how to drive a stick. My friend Casey, God bless her, actually attempted to learn in the parking lot, but that obviously didn't work out.
By the time they got back to the train station, without a car, it was 1:30am. We were all miserable and exhausted, and had resigned ourselves to the fact that we would not be getting back to Florence until the morning. We walked into the first hotel we could find and asked for a room. The man at the front desk told us that we could give him 15 Euro each for a room, as long as we promised to be out by 6am (our train was at 6:15). Because none of us are very familiar with illegal activities in the European hotel industry, we thought this guy was doing us a real solid. It wasn't until we (happily) forked over the cash and he told us that we had to go up one by one to avoid the security cameras, did we realize something was sketchy.
I was the first to enter the room, and the image I was met with is one that will stick with me for the rest of my adult life. The bed had not only been slept in, it was absolutely filthy and covered in stains. The bathroom was soaking wet, and had blood spatter and towels all over the floor. It looked like a scene from a horror movie. Three of the girls (one of them who has a severe irrational fear of bed bugs) took one look at the place and decided to sleep in the train station among the hobos. Seriously -- they almost got arrested for loitering. The rest of us slept on the floor, on top of our suitcases, in full winter jackets.
It was far and away one of the worst nights of my life, but somehow we survived and made it back to Florence the next morning-- with an amazing story and a good excuse for a mimosa.
As bad as that was, it does not begin to compare to my trip to Florence last month. At the beginning of November, 4 of my friends who are studying at the Georgetown villa in Fiesole came to visit me in Copenhagen for Sensation White. The concert was an adventure, and the next morning we all woke up feeling like hell. That morning also marked the beginning of DIS's two week break, so I had planned to fly back to Florence with the Villa girls before I went on to Barcelona and finally Russia. The cheapest flight we could find actually went into Milan, which is only a 45 minute train ride from Florence. What we didn't realize, though, is that the last train left from MILAN/MARIPOSA (a name I will never forget) at 8:15, and our flight landed at 7:45. We knew it was going to be a crunch, but none of us were very concerned-- we had gotten a little too used to the study abroad mantra of "we'll figure it out."
When the flight landed, we ran down to what we thought was the train (with 10 minutes to spare!), and realized that it was only an airport shuttle -- the actual train station was 35 minutes away. We hopped on and headed to the train station, still maintaining that we would "figure it out," and got to the station at 8:23. There were no trains until the morning -- we were officially shit out of luck.
At this point, the girls from the Villa began to realize the gravity of the situation and started to freak out. They HAD to be back for classes the next morning. It was time to get creative.
Someone jokingly suggested that we rent a car and drive to Florence, which somehow went from "viable option" to "best idea ever." Everyone was on board, except for my best friend who may or may not have been in tears over the fact that she would have to be in a car for 4 hours with me behind the wheel. While she went to go call her family and tell them how evil we all were, we devised a plan to drug her and throw her in the trunk-- we legitimately considered crushing Ambien into her Diet Coke. She may have actually been onto something about us being bullies.
Finally, after MUCH discussion, everyone had agreed to drive. The train station was (of course) out of rental cars, so three of the girls took a taxi back to the airport to try and get one there. The person in front of them in line took the last Automatic car, and like most 20 year olds from the North East none of us know how to drive a stick. My friend Casey, God bless her, actually attempted to learn in the parking lot, but that obviously didn't work out.
By the time they got back to the train station, without a car, it was 1:30am. We were all miserable and exhausted, and had resigned ourselves to the fact that we would not be getting back to Florence until the morning. We walked into the first hotel we could find and asked for a room. The man at the front desk told us that we could give him 15 Euro each for a room, as long as we promised to be out by 6am (our train was at 6:15). Because none of us are very familiar with illegal activities in the European hotel industry, we thought this guy was doing us a real solid. It wasn't until we (happily) forked over the cash and he told us that we had to go up one by one to avoid the security cameras, did we realize something was sketchy.
I was the first to enter the room, and the image I was met with is one that will stick with me for the rest of my adult life. The bed had not only been slept in, it was absolutely filthy and covered in stains. The bathroom was soaking wet, and had blood spatter and towels all over the floor. It looked like a scene from a horror movie. Three of the girls (one of them who has a severe irrational fear of bed bugs) took one look at the place and decided to sleep in the train station among the hobos. Seriously -- they almost got arrested for loitering. The rest of us slept on the floor, on top of our suitcases, in full winter jackets.
It was far and away one of the worst nights of my life, but somehow we survived and made it back to Florence the next morning-- with an amazing story and a good excuse for a mimosa.
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| If you are asleep on the floor of a train station, people will probably assume you are homeless. Especially if you look like this. |
Monday, October 24, 2011
Things I Love About Copenhagen- BABIES!!!!
Last January, I became an aunt. My nephew is named Maxwell Stanley, and is the cutest damn kid I have ever seen. I am literally obsessed with him, and can't wait to be the cool grown up who lets him do all the things his parents won't. My sister, who is one of this blog's two followers, has no idea what she's in for. Hi Cathy!!!
Because I have to be away from the love of my life for four months, I have to settle on the babies here to fill the void (does that sound creepy? is this post creepy? whatev.). Lucky for me, they are EVERYWHERE. They are all blonde and precious (though they are no Max Stan.)
And the best part? They are left unattended.
A few years ago, a Danish woman was arrested in New York City for leaving her infant alone in íts stroller outside of a coffee shop. People were outraged at the lady's negligence, but she had no idea what she did wrong. BECAUSE THAT IS TOTALLY NORMAL HERE!!! Every day I walk down the street and see babies wrapped up like little babushkas just chillin in their strollers. They are so cute! I want to take one! How do people not just scoop them up and take them home?? I legitimately only came abroad here because I thought I would be able to get a free baby. Would anyone in the O street house be down? Leave me a comment if you have a hair color/gender preference.
*no babies were harmed in the making of this post
Things I love about Copenhagen- 7/11
I like to think of myself as having pretty healthy eating habits. Well, until I get drunk. Once, last year, my roommate came home to find me asleep in her bed (still covered in body paint from a theme party) with a half eaten pot of pasta on the floor of our closet. She was pretty upset, but not nearly as mad as the time she came home and saw that I passed out before I ate my pasta... without turning off the stove.
In Copenhagen, my regard for nutrition has become completely obsolete. I actually can't remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit, unless you consider Absolut Peach to fall into that portion of the food pyramid. The market we use is horrible-- I once walked in on a Monday afternoon to find that the only "fresh produce" they had was garlic cloves. No thanks -- I'm trying to secure a Danish boyfriend.
Luckily, we have 7/11.
In America, I would never be caught DEAD eating something that came from a gas station. Don't they serve like, corn dogs and churros? For like, a dollar? But here, it has become a total obsession.
Wine? Ice Cream? Condoms? If you need it, 7/11's got it.
Every morning, I stop at one of the four 7/11's on my block to grab a cup of coffee. Do not be mistaken-- the coffee is not good OR cheap. It tastes like secondhand cigarette smoke and costs $5. And there is no splenda. But somehow, my day seems incomplete without it. It's a total addiction-- sort of like shoes or cocaine. They also have some cappuccino flavored frozen thing that comes out of a slurpee machine, but my iced coffee craving will never be worth the 5,000 calories that that mess would cost me.
If I'm feeling skinny (or hungover), I will add a croissant to my morning order. Denmark has some of the most amazing bakeries in the world, yet the most delicious pastry I've tasted here costs $2 and comes from a convenience store. Go figure.
As much as I hate American 7/11's, one of my dad's and my favorite activities at home is to go into a gas station and examine the selection of diet sodas. We both always end up with Fresca, but it's sometimes fun to pretend we'll venture out and try Diet Cherry Cream Coke Zero or something. Here, there are thousands. And they are all European-- which is cool, but dangerous because it is impossible to tell which are calorically evil. I usually go for something called "detox water," as I can't remember the last time my body hasn't felt totally toxic.
As amazing as 7/11 is during the day, it is ONE MILLION times better late at night. On the way home from the bar. Some of my various choices have included a bacon wrapped hotdog, 3 slices of pizza (don't judge me, there was a promotion), a chocolate croissant, and a lemon donut (it was pink, which is obviously why I ordered it, and was completely disgusting). Like I said, I sort of have a problem with drunk eating.
And so, I must say, Thank Heaven for 7/11. The place literally has everything, and it all looks so beautiful under the fluorescent lighting. Just don't let the pink donuts fool you.
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| Really. You don't know what I'm capable of. |
In Copenhagen, my regard for nutrition has become completely obsolete. I actually can't remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit, unless you consider Absolut Peach to fall into that portion of the food pyramid. The market we use is horrible-- I once walked in on a Monday afternoon to find that the only "fresh produce" they had was garlic cloves. No thanks -- I'm trying to secure a Danish boyfriend.
Luckily, we have 7/11.
In America, I would never be caught DEAD eating something that came from a gas station. Don't they serve like, corn dogs and churros? For like, a dollar? But here, it has become a total obsession.
Wine? Ice Cream? Condoms? If you need it, 7/11's got it.
If I'm feeling skinny (or hungover), I will add a croissant to my morning order. Denmark has some of the most amazing bakeries in the world, yet the most delicious pastry I've tasted here costs $2 and comes from a convenience store. Go figure.
As much as I hate American 7/11's, one of my dad's and my favorite activities at home is to go into a gas station and examine the selection of diet sodas. We both always end up with Fresca, but it's sometimes fun to pretend we'll venture out and try Diet Cherry Cream Coke Zero or something. Here, there are thousands. And they are all European-- which is cool, but dangerous because it is impossible to tell which are calorically evil. I usually go for something called "detox water," as I can't remember the last time my body hasn't felt totally toxic.
As amazing as 7/11 is during the day, it is ONE MILLION times better late at night. On the way home from the bar. Some of my various choices have included a bacon wrapped hotdog, 3 slices of pizza (don't judge me, there was a promotion), a chocolate croissant, and a lemon donut (it was pink, which is obviously why I ordered it, and was completely disgusting). Like I said, I sort of have a problem with drunk eating.
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| Gourmet Snacks |
And so, I must say, Thank Heaven for 7/11. The place literally has everything, and it all looks so beautiful under the fluorescent lighting. Just don't let the pink donuts fool you.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Zoe Goes on Birthright
People tell me all the time that I am "exotic" looking. Personally, I think it is a nice way of asking if I am a minority. But it's not all bad-- my "unique look" (read: nice way of saying ugly) helps me blend in in many different cultures. In Egypt, the hotel staff spoke to me in Arabic until the Hookah I was smoking caused me to hallucinate and cry about being sold into Middle Eastern sex slavery (um. what?) and they realized I was American. In Providence, the man at East Side Pockets used to give me free Baklava because he thought I was Armenian (I never had the heart to correct him). Now, when I go to the bar, people often ask me what ethnicity I am. I tell them if they get it right, I will buy them a drink. In three years, I have yet to buy someone else a round. Or one for myself, for that matter. In the past week, I have been asked if I was Israeli, Spanish, Brazillian, Lebanese, Asian or Canadian... I am none of these things.
This weekend, I decided to take a vacation to one of my many homelands: Istanbul, Turkey. I somehow convinced three of my friends to come with me by telling them we would be able to go to the beach. It was 40 degrees and rained the whole time. Finding flights was a nightmare, and we were pleasantly surprised when we got to the airport and found that Pegasus Airlines had an actual plane, not a fleet of flying horses. When we finally landed, there was a lot of confusion about where the hell we were. Europe? Asia? The Middle East? I actually still have no idea. Once we got through customs (which was identifiable only by the white 8 1/2 x 11 cardboard sign that said "VISAS $20" in black permanent marker), we were met by a driver holding a sign with my name on it. I have never felt so famous.
The next morning we woke up and went to the Grand Bazaar, where we quickly became very popular. The men were extremely aggressive, and kept shouting at us to ask if we were "Charlie's Angels, "The Spice Girls," or, my personal favorite, "Angels from Paradise." Is this what the rest of the world knows about American culture? The vendors also obviously all stopped me to ask if I was Turkish. The whole thing made us all pretty nervous, and we pretended we either didn't speak English or were from Canada, which apparently they are far less interested in than the USA. Later, we went to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Of course I was dressed "inappropriately," and was asked to put on a head scarf, shoulder wrap and floor length skirt. Typical.
After dinner, we went to a hookah bar near our hotel. This experience was better than the one I had in Egypt, but only slightly. The manager repeatedly offered us drinks with "special ingredients," and called us racist when we declined. Um no thank you Mustafa, I'm not really in the mood to get roofied tonight. But it's not because you're Turkish. One of the girls tried to explain to him that we were not racist because we came from the most diverse country in the world: the USA, which was extremely awkward because we told him we were from Canada. At this point, I tried to remedy the situation by convincing him I was Turkish-- and it worked. He brought out his guitar and serenaded us to "ONE" by U2, and offered us a free meal if we ever came back. It was time to get the hell out of there. On the way home, we bought Shwarma and were proposed to with a bouquet of Parsley by the cashier.
My parents arrived in Istanbul on Saturday morning, and I decided to blow off my 2 star vacation for their 5 star one. This also marked to commencement of the game: Where is Daddy? My dad has recently gotten realllly into photography, and often gets distracted and left behind for the sake of the cause. He also makes us pose every time he sees something remotely interesting, to the point where my face starts to hurt from smiling after an hour. The game was especially fun in the Grand Bazaar, which has 4,000 shops and 400,000 people. Eventually I ran away and drowned my frustration in Turkish Delights. At least we got some good pictures out of it. And some new jewelry.
On Sunday morning, I had a Turkish Bath in the hotel spa. Considering my shower in Copenhagen is literally on top of my toilet, this was a real treat. When I scheduled my appointment, I assumed it was going to be like a massage with some light exfoliation. Not at all. A Turkish woman literally took me into a room and gave me a bath. I laid down on a huge marble slab, wearing what might have been a loin cloth, and she poured huge buckets of water on my face and scrubbed me. The happy ending came when she washed my hair. With Pantene. The whole thing felt like a combination between a human sacrifice and a sexual assault.
Betweeen being repeatedly called beautiful, openly offered the date rape drug and getting borderline molested by a massage therapist, I guess my "unique" look really works in Turkey.
And just to clear up any confusion -- I am: Polish/Russian/Lithuanian/Irish/French Canadian/Native American. I think.
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| This is irrelevant, but I look tan exotic and skinny. |
This weekend, I decided to take a vacation to one of my many homelands: Istanbul, Turkey. I somehow convinced three of my friends to come with me by telling them we would be able to go to the beach. It was 40 degrees and rained the whole time. Finding flights was a nightmare, and we were pleasantly surprised when we got to the airport and found that Pegasus Airlines had an actual plane, not a fleet of flying horses. When we finally landed, there was a lot of confusion about where the hell we were. Europe? Asia? The Middle East? I actually still have no idea. Once we got through customs (which was identifiable only by the white 8 1/2 x 11 cardboard sign that said "VISAS $20" in black permanent marker), we were met by a driver holding a sign with my name on it. I have never felt so famous.
The next morning we woke up and went to the Grand Bazaar, where we quickly became very popular. The men were extremely aggressive, and kept shouting at us to ask if we were "Charlie's Angels, "The Spice Girls," or, my personal favorite, "Angels from Paradise." Is this what the rest of the world knows about American culture? The vendors also obviously all stopped me to ask if I was Turkish. The whole thing made us all pretty nervous, and we pretended we either didn't speak English or were from Canada, which apparently they are far less interested in than the USA. Later, we went to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Of course I was dressed "inappropriately," and was asked to put on a head scarf, shoulder wrap and floor length skirt. Typical.
 |
| #worldsbestjew |
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| Just some galz offending some Turkish people |
My parents arrived in Istanbul on Saturday morning, and I decided to blow off my 2 star vacation for their 5 star one. This also marked to commencement of the game: Where is Daddy? My dad has recently gotten realllly into photography, and often gets distracted and left behind for the sake of the cause. He also makes us pose every time he sees something remotely interesting, to the point where my face starts to hurt from smiling after an hour. The game was especially fun in the Grand Bazaar, which has 4,000 shops and 400,000 people. Eventually I ran away and drowned my frustration in Turkish Delights. At least we got some good pictures out of it. And some new jewelry.
 |
| Next, we will harvest your organs with a rusty butter knife. |
Betweeen being repeatedly called beautiful, openly offered the date rape drug and getting borderline molested by a massage therapist, I guess my "unique" look really works in Turkey.
And just to clear up any confusion -- I am: Polish/Russian/Lithuanian/Irish/French Canadian/Native American. I think.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
British Princes
I have to preface this story by saying it has always been my dream to ride on the back of a motorcycle with a European man-- I blame MK+A for giving me unrealistic expectations.
On our third night in London, my class went to some trendy film festival, and about half way through I realized there was a very attractive man sitting behind me. He kept making comments about how ridiculous some of the films were, and me and my vodka/soda were giggling flirtatiously in response. At intermission, he asked if he could borrow a pen. He then proceeded to make the pen disappear. Along with a few coins. Magic tricks? This should have been the first red flag, but he was so, so beautiful. And that accent! To die for. As if this wasn't enough to send me spiraling, he is Greek, and based on my history I'm pretty sure Greek boys are the closest thing I have to "a type." After the films were over, he asked my friend T. and I to stay with him at the bar. We politely declined, saying it would be too expensive to take a cab back to the hotel after the tube closed at midnight. He then offered us a ride on his motorbike. It only took 8 words for him to become 400x more attractive. It was raining, but I wrote my phone number one a napkin and told him I was going to take him up on his offer the next afternoon.
On Thursday night, it seemed that this dream was about to come true. As one of the 5 brunettes in Denmark, I am not exactly popular with the male population. They tend to be more into the blonde hair/blue eyed crowd (sound familiar, Georgetown??). But in London, apparently, I am a star. This could be attributed to the fact that abroad weight has put me up a cup size, but I'll take what I can get.
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| Bitch. |
Flash foward to 11am, and the man who I was convinced was going to be my new boyfriend texted me inviting me for drinks. At this point, I was sure I was going to have to drop out of school and move to London to start planning our wedding and working on my British accent. That night, we finally found him at a bar called O'Neals around 11:30 (I was an hour late because of a Frozen Yogurt stop). He was far less hot and far more clingy than I had remembered. And those magic tricks? He apparently performs them nearly every day. At children's birthday parties. Whoops! Needless to say, there was no coming back from that. No way in hell was I getting on the back of a motorcycle with someone who dresses as a clown for a living. I guess Lizzie McGuire, Mary Kate and Ashley and Amanda Bynes all have better luck with European men than I ever will.
The night was not a total failure. After we left the bar in an attempt to ditch the clown, we found ourselves on the Tiger Tiger dance floor with the entire British marine corp. Tequila shots anyone??
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| Supporting the troops the best way I know how. |
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