...for this!?
Right, I know. It's dumb. I'm back in the OOh-Sah and wanted to write and there's a bunch of stuff I meant to write about but I forgot all of it so I'm just gonna copy and paste from Wikipedia.
For those of you who read as many online comics as I do and then click the links that they provide about whatever it is they wrote about, you've already seen and read this. For those of you who don't, it's amusing. In Zambia, there have been reports of teenage kids gathering raw sewage, fermenting it, and huffing it to get high. The drug is reportedly called "Jenkem". That's not the funny thing.
The funny thing is that Fox News and other media agencies propogated this rumor that kids in the United States were using it. This was, as far as most people can tell, false. One kid claimed to know how to make/use it, but he was lying. This is what he had to say for himself:
The boy, "Pickwick," in September claimed that the "Jenkem" displayed in the photos accompanying his trip report "was faked using flour, water, beer and Nutella." He also stated "I never inhaled any poop gas and got high off it [...] I have deleted the pictures, hopefully no weirdo saved them to his computer. I just don't want people to ever recognize me as the kid who huffed poop gas."
Ha.
I'll post some pictures soon.
-kevthane gas
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
A Final...
...Look Back.
(The last in a series of installments written sin internet and saved to Microsoft Word)
I am writing this from Dublin. I have been here for 3 days. It is a dirty city, I think there is a lot of art here. I don’t think I got a full impression of what it is like, but I have seen castles, art, and books. I also met people. I think it is less interesting to talk about the sights and how I walked around that it is to talk about something that struck me about the trip.
So I’ll talk about people.
For accommodations here, I tried “couch surfing”. I had tentative plans to attempt this in London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, but I no one was willing to take me in at the first two locations, and I have been left keys to a house in Glasgow by a nice man I met at the summer school. My second to last night in London, I sent out 4 messages to random people, praying to get a response. Within 20 minutes, a person named “Hal” had told me that he had other people over, but that if I didn’t mind staying around others, he would be willing to take me in. I told him that I would be ok with that, as long as I had a place to stay.
Fast forward through another night at the Hostel California and a long bus ride to Gatwick where mean airport security made me throw away my contact solution because I didn’t have a prescription for it. Then a flight to Dublin. Then a bus ride in Dublin that was very long and went through “suburbs” that reminded me of Guatemala more than anything else. Then I got to Dublin. 7 pm, plenty of time to find my host. I walked by a crowded event that was apparently U2’s triumphant return to Ireland, sold out three nights in a row. Then I tried to find the apartment where I would be sleeping. Couldn’t. Got propositioned by a prostitute. Went to an internet café, mapped the city, was no closer to finding it. Got pointed in the wrong direction to Rathmines (the neighborhood) 6 times, including once by a pair of police. It got dark. I took a cab. Drank in the bar below Hal’s apartment, couldn’t get in. Went to a late night internet café and made a call to the number I had. The reception was terrible, but I got someone. They said they’d be meeting me halfway between where I was and the apartment.
The person who arrived to meet me was not Hal. He said his name was Roger and that he was from Houston, Texas. This was certainly not where I expected my host in Dublin to live. When I asked about Hal, he told me that Hal had gone to sleep because he had to be awake early for his accounting internship. This was certainly not what I expected my free-spirited student of astrophysics to be doing. We arrived. I met Hal’s friend Steve and Steve’s girlfriend Jess. The two had been kicked out of their uncle’s house for sleeping in the same room. I asked if anyone else was in the house. Apparently, there were 2 Germans (I never met them) staying in a room down the hall. They were out seeing U2. Roger offered me some of Hal’s tea. He also offered it to Steve and Jess. We all had some. And stayed up talking, waiting for yet another pair of people, a pair of brothers from New Hampshire. 8 guests stayed in the house that night, none of them paid save for a few groceries or the odd bottle of wine (I brought some Spanish tempranillo from a grocery store).
I slept on a couch with no blanket, until someone (Hal) dropped on onto me at 6 in the morning. When I woke up, Roger offered me more of Hal’s tea, and some of his toast. I worried about it, but couldn’t say no. I was hungry. Roger asked if I’d like to explore with him for the day. So I did. And exploring with another person is more fun than exploring alone. But I couldn’t shake the strange feeling of palling around with someone whom I’d never met before. We talked like old friends, but consistently asked about details of the other’s life. We discussed home life, aspirations, relationships, other things. Roger was on the last leg of his European trip, where he started in Istanbul and ended in Dublin, without once staying in hostels or hotels. His accommodations were comprised entirely of couch-surfer hosts and We compromised on what sights to see and which ones we could skip. We also compromised on topics of conversation (Ireland and Texas are apparently similarly progressive regarding homosexuals (read: not at all), which made for a few uncomfortable silences when I was in groups). And I still had not met my host. Instead, I was shown the city by a fellow “surfer” who had also fed me, showed me where the bathroom was, and where I would be sleeping. Roger lost Hal’s keys and he and I drank beer while we waited for someone to get to the house. Upon hearing about his keys, Hal shrugged. He didn’t mention them again.
I met Hal that evening. He is 21 years old, brawny (he plays quarterback for the Trinity College American Football Team) and exceedingly friendly. He began hosting in August of 2008 and has hosted 50 people in his flat in the last month. He gets about 20 requests a day. Some says, he rejects them all, indiscriminately. Other days, he picks based on who he’d like to meet or who has read his profile (he picked me because I had my dog in my picture on the website). He prefers last minute, desperation messages, because he likes to feel like he’s helping someone who really needs it.
To this point, I have spent a grand total of 2.5 hours with Hal, who allowed me to sleep in his home for two nights. Yesterday, our time in the evening was cut short because he needed to call his girlfriend, who lives in Quebec (they began dating last month, when he let her stay at his house). This afternoon, we went to lunch. We graced the same topics that Roger and I had a day earlier, but then we arrived at the topic of couch-surfing. He described it as being a bit like a cult, which seems to be the general opinion of the enthusiastic. What I found most notable was his uncompromising belief that couch-surfing represents a long lost sense of community, where friendships can be forged and karma practiced in earnest. He told me that he has never had a horrible experience while hosting or being hosted. We discussed the horror stories that he has heard about and that I have read about, agreeing that it is much more difficult for a woman traveling alone than a man. Nonetheless, we marveled at the sense of familiarity (false or not) that the practice forces upon its participants. I left him at his internship, shook his hand, and assured him that if he ever needed a place in Athens, Georgia, I have him covered. That seems rather unlikely ever to happen.
teh confused.
-kevsurfer
(The last in a series of installments written sin internet and saved to Microsoft Word)
I am writing this from Dublin. I have been here for 3 days. It is a dirty city, I think there is a lot of art here. I don’t think I got a full impression of what it is like, but I have seen castles, art, and books. I also met people. I think it is less interesting to talk about the sights and how I walked around that it is to talk about something that struck me about the trip.
So I’ll talk about people.
For accommodations here, I tried “couch surfing”. I had tentative plans to attempt this in London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, but I no one was willing to take me in at the first two locations, and I have been left keys to a house in Glasgow by a nice man I met at the summer school. My second to last night in London, I sent out 4 messages to random people, praying to get a response. Within 20 minutes, a person named “Hal” had told me that he had other people over, but that if I didn’t mind staying around others, he would be willing to take me in. I told him that I would be ok with that, as long as I had a place to stay.
Fast forward through another night at the Hostel California and a long bus ride to Gatwick where mean airport security made me throw away my contact solution because I didn’t have a prescription for it. Then a flight to Dublin. Then a bus ride in Dublin that was very long and went through “suburbs” that reminded me of Guatemala more than anything else. Then I got to Dublin. 7 pm, plenty of time to find my host. I walked by a crowded event that was apparently U2’s triumphant return to Ireland, sold out three nights in a row. Then I tried to find the apartment where I would be sleeping. Couldn’t. Got propositioned by a prostitute. Went to an internet café, mapped the city, was no closer to finding it. Got pointed in the wrong direction to Rathmines (the neighborhood) 6 times, including once by a pair of police. It got dark. I took a cab. Drank in the bar below Hal’s apartment, couldn’t get in. Went to a late night internet café and made a call to the number I had. The reception was terrible, but I got someone. They said they’d be meeting me halfway between where I was and the apartment.
The person who arrived to meet me was not Hal. He said his name was Roger and that he was from Houston, Texas. This was certainly not where I expected my host in Dublin to live. When I asked about Hal, he told me that Hal had gone to sleep because he had to be awake early for his accounting internship. This was certainly not what I expected my free-spirited student of astrophysics to be doing. We arrived. I met Hal’s friend Steve and Steve’s girlfriend Jess. The two had been kicked out of their uncle’s house for sleeping in the same room. I asked if anyone else was in the house. Apparently, there were 2 Germans (I never met them) staying in a room down the hall. They were out seeing U2. Roger offered me some of Hal’s tea. He also offered it to Steve and Jess. We all had some. And stayed up talking, waiting for yet another pair of people, a pair of brothers from New Hampshire. 8 guests stayed in the house that night, none of them paid save for a few groceries or the odd bottle of wine (I brought some Spanish tempranillo from a grocery store).
I slept on a couch with no blanket, until someone (Hal) dropped on onto me at 6 in the morning. When I woke up, Roger offered me more of Hal’s tea, and some of his toast. I worried about it, but couldn’t say no. I was hungry. Roger asked if I’d like to explore with him for the day. So I did. And exploring with another person is more fun than exploring alone. But I couldn’t shake the strange feeling of palling around with someone whom I’d never met before. We talked like old friends, but consistently asked about details of the other’s life. We discussed home life, aspirations, relationships, other things. Roger was on the last leg of his European trip, where he started in Istanbul and ended in Dublin, without once staying in hostels or hotels. His accommodations were comprised entirely of couch-surfer hosts and We compromised on what sights to see and which ones we could skip. We also compromised on topics of conversation (Ireland and Texas are apparently similarly progressive regarding homosexuals (read: not at all), which made for a few uncomfortable silences when I was in groups). And I still had not met my host. Instead, I was shown the city by a fellow “surfer” who had also fed me, showed me where the bathroom was, and where I would be sleeping. Roger lost Hal’s keys and he and I drank beer while we waited for someone to get to the house. Upon hearing about his keys, Hal shrugged. He didn’t mention them again.
I met Hal that evening. He is 21 years old, brawny (he plays quarterback for the Trinity College American Football Team) and exceedingly friendly. He began hosting in August of 2008 and has hosted 50 people in his flat in the last month. He gets about 20 requests a day. Some says, he rejects them all, indiscriminately. Other days, he picks based on who he’d like to meet or who has read his profile (he picked me because I had my dog in my picture on the website). He prefers last minute, desperation messages, because he likes to feel like he’s helping someone who really needs it.
To this point, I have spent a grand total of 2.5 hours with Hal, who allowed me to sleep in his home for two nights. Yesterday, our time in the evening was cut short because he needed to call his girlfriend, who lives in Quebec (they began dating last month, when he let her stay at his house). This afternoon, we went to lunch. We graced the same topics that Roger and I had a day earlier, but then we arrived at the topic of couch-surfing. He described it as being a bit like a cult, which seems to be the general opinion of the enthusiastic. What I found most notable was his uncompromising belief that couch-surfing represents a long lost sense of community, where friendships can be forged and karma practiced in earnest. He told me that he has never had a horrible experience while hosting or being hosted. We discussed the horror stories that he has heard about and that I have read about, agreeing that it is much more difficult for a woman traveling alone than a man. Nonetheless, we marveled at the sense of familiarity (false or not) that the practice forces upon its participants. I left him at his internship, shook his hand, and assured him that if he ever needed a place in Athens, Georgia, I have him covered. That seems rather unlikely ever to happen.
teh confused.
-kevsurfer
Monday, August 3, 2009
The second in a series of...
...recollections.
Trapped in a hostel. Purgatory.
I’m writing two posts at once, partially because I’ve been pressed for time for the last week, partially because it was too difficult for me to formulate anything that even approaches what I felt when I left Oxford. In fact, I’m going to go ahead and write about what has happened more recently first, because I am still experiencing it and I don’t think I’ve settled on what to say about leaving the Summer School quite yet. I don’t know, but I feel like the quality of my writing tends to fluctuate wildly from day to day. Academic papers to e-mails, I think how good they are is almost totally dependent on my mood and physical state. As of now, I don’t think I am writing well, but I wanted to get this down on paper before I got too much farther on.
I am in London. My tourist activities aren’t really worth mentioning. I’ve probably walked 10 km, I’ve seen Big Ben and Parliament and Buckingham Palace. I’ve shipped a package to Jakarta. It is crowded and diverse. I have generally enjoyed my time, though choosing to go on a largely unplanned exploration of a place I have never been immediately following an intellectually and emotionally draining experience may not have been the best decision. I may relate other stories soon, but for now, the most interesting thing about my time in London has been one thing in particular.
I am staying in a hostel about 2 blocks from the Earl’s Court Train Stop in West-Central London. From the exterior, it is a very pretty building, situated near 4 or 5 two to three star hotels in a neighborhood that is crowded with tourists. There are 5 pubs, several cafes, a Burger King, a McDonalds, and a Starbucks all within walking distance. The interior of the Youth Hostel is big. Immediately after the entrance, reception is on the right and a row of outdated computers on the two walls on the left. The air is heavy with the smell of ethnic cooking and unwashed bodies. A series of complicated hallways lead to a staircase leading to several floors with fewer than three rooms on each floor. The layout is more akin to an apartment building than a hotel.
In my room, there is room for four beds, a sink, a dresser, and not much else. When I arrived, I was greeted by a tall Spaniard who nodded at me and left the room. I learned later that his name is Eric. Next, a small, portly man of about 45 walked in, he introduced himself as Patrizio. We chatted about empty things and I took a nap. I woke up to a room full of people. My last roommate is a Brazilian named Kauli. I exchanged the same pleasantries with those two, asking about their lives and about the ins and outs of the hostel. The first thing that I learned was that there are “things that bite you and suck your blood while you sleep.” Charming.
To this point, my expectations about the hostel had been as follows; full of 20-somethings, maybe some 18 and 19 year olds, from all over the world, staying for a couple of nights or a week on their tours of Europe or on holiday in London. Most of them would be well to do, but with limited travel funds; either students or recently graduated.
The only expectation that has been satisfied is the variety of origins. I’ve met two Italians, a man from south Africa, a Brazilian, a kid from Paraguay, and a couple others and a of couple of others. The median age is around 34. Everyone I’ve talked to has been here for at least a month. I’ve heard of short=term visitors, but I’m yet to meet any. About a third is employed.
Eric has been here for about 3 weeks. He arrived from Spain, intending to explore London for a short time. He says most days he explores various parks, reads, writes, drinks. Kauli had been here for a little over a month, give or take. He (along with 3 others I have met) says he is a “chef”. Apparently, he was employed as a line cook and married for the first 3 years he was in London. He and his wife divorced, he quit his job, and now he says he cooks for “private functions.” He failed to mention any of these functions while were talking. Patrizio has been at the Youth hostel for 3 months. Prior to this, he lived in another for a year and a half. He says he pays for it through savings. Asked what he does most says, he replied that he walks, he reads, he writes, sometimes he does drawings. He showed me a few in a small note pad, they were mostly 4 lines, about 20 words each. It was clear that English is not his first language and that love is a frequent preoccupation.
Each pays about 80 pounds a week for the privilege of sharing a single room with four people. I don’t know what their immigration status is in the UK. It appears that they each smoke a couple of joints several times a day.
What struck me most about the residents of Earls Court’s Youth Hostel are their reasons for remaining in a situation that they each complain about daily. Patrizio told me about how Kauli had announced his intention to leave the day before I arrived. Still, he was there to greet me on my first day. Patrizio says he’s wanted to leave for 2 years. He says his money will run out soon. When asked when he would leave,
Kauli replied,
“pretty soon, pretty soon”
Asked where he was going,
“If knew, I wouldn’t be here”
I asked him where he wanted to go. Patrizio interrupted,
“Nobody know. That’s why we’re all here. Nobody know!”
The Youth Hostel is not for Youth. It’s not a temporary place to live. People stay for months. It’s a sort of purgatory…a place people go when they are disappointed that London is not all that they imagined but they have no will or no way to return home. Nobody here likes London anymore. They talk about the pretty women, the temperate climate, but those I’ve talked to would rather be in America or Paris or anywhere else.
I haven’t slept well in the time that I’ve been here. I’ve been itchy, either because of the hard water in the shower, or because I’ve imagined little critters on my skin, or because there are actually bed bugs. The bed is uncomfortable. Last night Kauli came it at 3 with a bottle of wine in hand, he stood in front of Eric’s laptop playing some choice selections. As I recall it was mostly 50 cent, drum and bass, and Pink Floyd. It one point, he played “Horse With No Name” and “Hotel California” on repeat for about half an hour. I was particularly amused by the latter choice. The music played on until 6 this morning.
Despite everything described above, I’m glad I’ve sent this. The people I stay with seem to be very poignant examples of impetuousness gone totally awry. They all speak at least three languages. Eric, who studies Rousseau and Spanish wine guides as its beginning, Kauli, who apparently was quickly climbing the ranks at a popular restaurant in Rio as its middle, and Patrizio, who claims to have earned a degree and held a position that earned enough money to travel across North America and Europe as its late stages. I don’t know that these people are unhappy, but they certainly do not seem very happy.
This all seems to me to be a strong case for always having a purpose when traveling…not that everyone ends up this way. It just seems that the possibility would have been less likely had they had something that they came here for.
Happy Trails.
-kevpetuous.
Trapped in a hostel. Purgatory.
I’m writing two posts at once, partially because I’ve been pressed for time for the last week, partially because it was too difficult for me to formulate anything that even approaches what I felt when I left Oxford. In fact, I’m going to go ahead and write about what has happened more recently first, because I am still experiencing it and I don’t think I’ve settled on what to say about leaving the Summer School quite yet. I don’t know, but I feel like the quality of my writing tends to fluctuate wildly from day to day. Academic papers to e-mails, I think how good they are is almost totally dependent on my mood and physical state. As of now, I don’t think I am writing well, but I wanted to get this down on paper before I got too much farther on.
I am in London. My tourist activities aren’t really worth mentioning. I’ve probably walked 10 km, I’ve seen Big Ben and Parliament and Buckingham Palace. I’ve shipped a package to Jakarta. It is crowded and diverse. I have generally enjoyed my time, though choosing to go on a largely unplanned exploration of a place I have never been immediately following an intellectually and emotionally draining experience may not have been the best decision. I may relate other stories soon, but for now, the most interesting thing about my time in London has been one thing in particular.
I am staying in a hostel about 2 blocks from the Earl’s Court Train Stop in West-Central London. From the exterior, it is a very pretty building, situated near 4 or 5 two to three star hotels in a neighborhood that is crowded with tourists. There are 5 pubs, several cafes, a Burger King, a McDonalds, and a Starbucks all within walking distance. The interior of the Youth Hostel is big. Immediately after the entrance, reception is on the right and a row of outdated computers on the two walls on the left. The air is heavy with the smell of ethnic cooking and unwashed bodies. A series of complicated hallways lead to a staircase leading to several floors with fewer than three rooms on each floor. The layout is more akin to an apartment building than a hotel.
In my room, there is room for four beds, a sink, a dresser, and not much else. When I arrived, I was greeted by a tall Spaniard who nodded at me and left the room. I learned later that his name is Eric. Next, a small, portly man of about 45 walked in, he introduced himself as Patrizio. We chatted about empty things and I took a nap. I woke up to a room full of people. My last roommate is a Brazilian named Kauli. I exchanged the same pleasantries with those two, asking about their lives and about the ins and outs of the hostel. The first thing that I learned was that there are “things that bite you and suck your blood while you sleep.” Charming.
To this point, my expectations about the hostel had been as follows; full of 20-somethings, maybe some 18 and 19 year olds, from all over the world, staying for a couple of nights or a week on their tours of Europe or on holiday in London. Most of them would be well to do, but with limited travel funds; either students or recently graduated.
The only expectation that has been satisfied is the variety of origins. I’ve met two Italians, a man from south Africa, a Brazilian, a kid from Paraguay, and a couple others and a of couple of others. The median age is around 34. Everyone I’ve talked to has been here for at least a month. I’ve heard of short=term visitors, but I’m yet to meet any. About a third is employed.
Eric has been here for about 3 weeks. He arrived from Spain, intending to explore London for a short time. He says most days he explores various parks, reads, writes, drinks. Kauli had been here for a little over a month, give or take. He (along with 3 others I have met) says he is a “chef”. Apparently, he was employed as a line cook and married for the first 3 years he was in London. He and his wife divorced, he quit his job, and now he says he cooks for “private functions.” He failed to mention any of these functions while were talking. Patrizio has been at the Youth hostel for 3 months. Prior to this, he lived in another for a year and a half. He says he pays for it through savings. Asked what he does most says, he replied that he walks, he reads, he writes, sometimes he does drawings. He showed me a few in a small note pad, they were mostly 4 lines, about 20 words each. It was clear that English is not his first language and that love is a frequent preoccupation.
Each pays about 80 pounds a week for the privilege of sharing a single room with four people. I don’t know what their immigration status is in the UK. It appears that they each smoke a couple of joints several times a day.
What struck me most about the residents of Earls Court’s Youth Hostel are their reasons for remaining in a situation that they each complain about daily. Patrizio told me about how Kauli had announced his intention to leave the day before I arrived. Still, he was there to greet me on my first day. Patrizio says he’s wanted to leave for 2 years. He says his money will run out soon. When asked when he would leave,
Kauli replied,
“pretty soon, pretty soon”
Asked where he was going,
“If knew, I wouldn’t be here”
I asked him where he wanted to go. Patrizio interrupted,
“Nobody know. That’s why we’re all here. Nobody know!”
The Youth Hostel is not for Youth. It’s not a temporary place to live. People stay for months. It’s a sort of purgatory…a place people go when they are disappointed that London is not all that they imagined but they have no will or no way to return home. Nobody here likes London anymore. They talk about the pretty women, the temperate climate, but those I’ve talked to would rather be in America or Paris or anywhere else.
I haven’t slept well in the time that I’ve been here. I’ve been itchy, either because of the hard water in the shower, or because I’ve imagined little critters on my skin, or because there are actually bed bugs. The bed is uncomfortable. Last night Kauli came it at 3 with a bottle of wine in hand, he stood in front of Eric’s laptop playing some choice selections. As I recall it was mostly 50 cent, drum and bass, and Pink Floyd. It one point, he played “Horse With No Name” and “Hotel California” on repeat for about half an hour. I was particularly amused by the latter choice. The music played on until 6 this morning.
Despite everything described above, I’m glad I’ve sent this. The people I stay with seem to be very poignant examples of impetuousness gone totally awry. They all speak at least three languages. Eric, who studies Rousseau and Spanish wine guides as its beginning, Kauli, who apparently was quickly climbing the ranks at a popular restaurant in Rio as its middle, and Patrizio, who claims to have earned a degree and held a position that earned enough money to travel across North America and Europe as its late stages. I don’t know that these people are unhappy, but they certainly do not seem very happy.
This all seems to me to be a strong case for always having a purpose when traveling…not that everyone ends up this way. It just seems that the possibility would have been less likely had they had something that they came here for.
Happy Trails.
-kevpetuous.
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