Thursday, August 28, 2003
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
Friday, August 22, 2003
Backpedaling old man
Eric allows that maybe not all the food there has beans or peas, and even if it does, it's possible I could just ask for them on the side. I'm glad to hear it, because I'd have to smell the vomit too.
Eric allows that maybe not all the food there has beans or peas, and even if it does, it's possible I could just ask for them on the side. I'm glad to hear it, because I'd have to smell the vomit too.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Mean old man
Eric is on an extended campaign to convince me that all food in London has either peas or beans in it. He'll get his when I get hellaciously drunk on the ferry and throw up in his lap.
Eric is on an extended campaign to convince me that all food in London has either peas or beans in it. He'll get his when I get hellaciously drunk on the ferry and throw up in his lap.
Here's what I have:
Plane tickets.
A passport picture in which I am grinning maniacally.
A hideous backpack that buckles across my waist. The guy at Whole Earth Provision described its color as "vitamin yellow." Whether that refers to the actual vitamin pills or the eerie glow of your urine after you take them is not clear.
Maps.
Fistfuls (yes, fistfuls!) of printouts.
Comfortable walking shoes.
Only the vaguest and most abstract idea of where I'm going, despite an itinerary that's been analyzed to death, resurrected, and then analyzed again.
The ability to say "My name is Joolie," and "Please, Mr. Beefhead, where is the beach?" in French.
An unpleasant, creeping suspicion that I am a massive dork. The bad mouthbreather kind.
Plane tickets.
A passport picture in which I am grinning maniacally.
A hideous backpack that buckles across my waist. The guy at Whole Earth Provision described its color as "vitamin yellow." Whether that refers to the actual vitamin pills or the eerie glow of your urine after you take them is not clear.
Maps.
Fistfuls (yes, fistfuls!) of printouts.
Comfortable walking shoes.
Only the vaguest and most abstract idea of where I'm going, despite an itinerary that's been analyzed to death, resurrected, and then analyzed again.
The ability to say "My name is Joolie," and "Please, Mr. Beefhead, where is the beach?" in French.
An unpleasant, creeping suspicion that I am a massive dork. The bad mouthbreather kind.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Bye forever in two weeks.
