Today is Thursday. Thursday is the day I haul my gigantic hockey bag around Hamburg in 85 degree weather to find a hostel.
My bag's big as in Atlas's stone big. When it's slung across my shoulder, I feel the pain of poor Atlas. The freakish humidity today makes me think I've landed in some giant German's armpit.
I know it's time to go out and get cultured, but I'd rather not have my gear get nabbed while I'm out. Since my landlord bounced to Berlin, I'm left to sweat and scramble about the city.
Fortunately, Emmet, the director of the school here hooked me up with Hotel Blanco which is less than a mile away from both school and the apartment. At 40 Euros for a night, it's over my 25-30 Euro goal Mr Seth Bearcat told me to shoot for. Normally I would opt for a cheaper spot, but it's my birthday and I'll squat where I want to.
Speaking of getting cultured, I've come around on black olives. They were in my mini sized salad on the flight from Chicago to Dublin. All my life I've hated these leach look-a-likes. They pump out an acrid odor and feel like a slug. The taste always made me cringe.
I don't know what happened. Perhaps it was the excitement of flying to a foreign country. It might have been the plastic carton presentation of the aged salad leaves. Whatever it was, I loved the olives. They blew my mind all over the seat, window, and left side of my 300 plus pound plane buddy whose beige, crooked smile of rotted teeth inspired me to start flossing again.
I'm sure I'll have more to say once I land a squat in the new hotel Blanco.
Hotel Blanco. Where foreigners go to celebrate getting older.