Ok, so I dropped the ball a bit after Dublin.
I'm sorry.
It's just that it's easier to find a bit of time to write when you are traveling alone. Once you are with your friends and you say things like, "Hey I would like to blog for a moment." or "Is it possible for us to go see Wicked on the West End?" You hear responses like "Don't be a faggot we're going to the pub."
That said, let's kick it off.
Day 3: The curse of Ryan Air
"Is this weird?"
I'm looking at another American sitting next to me, patiently waiting for the Jameson Factory Tour to begin. It's 8:54 in the morning.
"Is what weird?"
"We're about to go whiskey tasting at 9am."
The tour guide slaps a hand on my shoulder.
"It's not weird mate, it's Ireland."
I kept hearing that, like all there is to do in Ireland is drink. Maybe it's true?
We go on the tour, they make a strong case that Irish whiskey is the best and only whiskey, calling Scotch and Bourbon shit. I didn't mind, happy to drink in their local propaganda.
From the Jameson Tour I made my way to The Guiness Factory Tour. 'Number one tourist destination in Dublin!' Perhaps drinking IS the only thing to do.
I was placed in a group of people attending an international tire sales conference. Yes they exist. A guy named Mike from Mike's Tires somehow scored a few extra 'free pint' cards and we spend the afternoon at the gravity bar drinking Guiness and discussing run flat tire technology, it's fascinating.
From Guiness I took a stroll to Temple Bar where I picked up an Elmore Leonard novel at a used book shop and a meat pie at a corner deli. One last pint at Dublin's oldest pub and I was London bound.
I hopped the bus for the '45 minute' bus to the airport and realized I hadn't even begun to think about checking into my flight.
I fired up my phone and pulled up my reservation.
RYAN AIR
DUB to London Standsted.
Must check in 2 hours before flight or boarding will be refused.
FUCK. Totally forgot about that.
5 years ago Jack and I found ourselves in Amsterdam, doing Amsterdammy things. We had maybe one too many space cakes, one thing leads to another, we miss a flight and spend 12 hours in shame at the Brussels airport. We had no money, no food and one Vanity Fair, which I'm pretty sure we ripped in half and split. To make matters worse, it was Jack's birthday, 21st birthday. We did eventually make it to Rome and black out at a bar, so don't feel too bad for us. But that i a story that proves Karma does exist. We traveled to Amsterdam with 3 and then promptly left our roommate there after his appendix exploded. (Different story for a different day)
Anyway, traffic leaving Dublin was the worst, I figured I would check in online. I downloaded the app, checked in to get my electronic boarding pass.
'Sorry, must have EU passport to check in online. Please proceed to the gate'
FUCK. I ran to the front and told the driver of my dilemma.
'Oh you'll be fine mate, they like to bluff that Ryan Air.'
No they don't man! I showed up an hour and 55 minutes before departure one time and they told me to go fuck myself.
'Oh, then I suppose you're fucked. No way we're getting there by 6.'
I had resorted myself to the fact that I was going to have to sleep in the Dublin airport and get the first flight out in the morning, blowing 200 Euro I didn't have on the third day of the trip.
By some sort of Irish miracle, the bus pulled into the airport terminal with 2 minutes to spare. I jumped off the bus and sprinted to the departures, frantically searching for the Ryan Air gate. I found it and bypassed the massive line, drenched in sweat and ran to a woman at the desk. It's 6 o clock, I'm going to London, it's exactly 6, I made it in time please print my boarding pass.
"Are you American?"
Yes.
"It figures. Proceed directly to the gate."
I boarded my plane, landed in some God forsaken airport 2 hours from London, got on another goddamn bus and finally at 11pm, I had made it to the UK. Never fly Ryan Air.
Day 4: I'm also just a girl, standing in front of a boy...
I woke up from my buddy's Chelsea flat and took a train into Kensington to meet my travel companion (who had never been to Europe) this was to be my only day of London sight seeing so we needed to squeeze a lot in.
First we went to Westminster to check out among other things Westminster Abbey where we viewed the tombs of England's old monarchs, and their old Governor Oliver Cromwell.
Fun fact, after Oliver Cromwell overthrew the monarchy and ruled for a while as a type of governor he was buried at Westminster Abbey. When the monarchy was restored, his body was dug up, dragged through the streets, hung on display for a while and then thrown in a ditch for the crows to eat. We've definitely gone soft.
After a stroll through Buckingham palace we went to Kensington Gardens to drink a few bottles of Rose. From there I made it to Notting Hill.
Now if you are unaware of Notting Hill, it is one of my favorite all time Hugh Grant movies. We made extreme attempts to recreate the scene with Julia Roberts at the book store and also the note card scene from Love Actually. But then we decided we were huge losers and decided to go drink with our friends instead. We did some more drinking in the rain in Chelsea, went back to Notting Hill for even more, and I ended the night locked out of my buddy's flat, sleeping on the steps...because London.
Day 5: Hoosiers in Paris
"I'm a bit hungover."
"Me too."
"Let's go look at dinosaurs."
After a brief visit to see a stegosaur at the Natural History Museum, we hopped a train to Paris.
Paris. Is. The. Shit.
In London, the open container laws are, ehhhhh. In France the open container laws are 'Fuck it!'
Upon arrival we went directly to the Eiffel Tower and pounded wine, using one of my shirts as a picnic blanket. (I should add, I wore a 30 liter backpack the whole trip and looked SUPER legit backpacker.)
For lunch, we tried a spot on Rue Cler (I'm told this is a cool spot) called Cafe du Marche, it was stellar, there was Rose involved. We went BACK to the Eiffel Tower because I cannot tell you how bad ass it is to drink in front of. There are even Algerians to sell you extra bottles of wine for like 5 euro if you sell out.
For dinner we went BACK to Rue Cler and this time met up with a real life French person. She took us to Cafe Central, there was more wine involved and this is when I start to lose memory.
After dinner, we went BACK to the Eiffel Tower because THAT MOTHERFUCKER LIGHTS UP AT MIDNIGHT AND THE FUCKING ALGERIANS SELL CHAMPAGNE.
I did a midnight champagne shower. My American friend was amused, the French girl, not so much.
Day 6: Highway to the Danger Zone
I spent the morning doing some Touristy bullshit by myself. I climbed the Tower, did a river cruise down the Seine, walked Notre Dame (most beautiful church in the world bar none) and cruised the Louvre. I even met up with my buddy Andy to crush a bottle of Bordeaux mid day as the Parisians do.
Got in an Uber late, almost missed my train (begged a woman at UK immigration to take pity on me) and I was back in London by 6.
At this point in the trip it is important that you know the tourist switch was turned off.
"Moeller get home. I got you a pair of aviators, a hat and a bottle of Tequila. We're going to the danger zone."
If you're wondering what Londoners do on Thursday nights? Well let me tell you, they dress up as their favorite characters from Top Gun and go see it in the park.
The girls from the Hilton (who were sponsoring the event) knew they were in trouble when our bag full of vodka and cigarettes split open upon entry.
"Are you lot going to behave?"
"Uhhh...TOO CLOSE FOR MISSLES I'm SWITCHING TO GUNS."
"Good god, please sit in the back."
Instead of asking for beers when we were empty we would radio the tower to request a fly by.
This why Americans are not well liked abroad.
After the movie, we threw a party at the flat and eventually went to a local pub that doubles as a hostel.
"Sorry boys. Pub is closed."
This young dick head from Latvia smugly grinned at the prospect of not serving us.
"What about that guy, you just served him?"
"He's staying at the hostel."
"One minute."
I fired up my phone and the next minute ordered us around of shots.
"What did I just tell you about..."
"Check your computer boss, just got us 4 beds."
Dumbfounded at how easily he had been hoodwinked, the young Latvian proceeded to pour us Jager Bombs until 3 in the morning when they ran out.
This is why Americans are not well liked abroad.
Day 7: The Gong
I woke up around 10, surprised to see that everyone in the house was still asleep. Alex, another house guest, had been scheduled to leave at 8am out of Heathrow.
"I packed my bags at 5am and then I decided I just couldn't."
I check in on Hunter upstairs.
"Called in."
Eric downstairs...
"Called in."
Juan and Andrew downstairs.
"NOPE!"
4 for 4, a clean sweep of hangover days...well we can't waste those now, can we?
My old roommate Hunter proposed we go to East London for the day because you can drink beer on the streets there. It was a compelling enough reason for me.
Alex said he didn't care where we went as long as we could acquire a gong.
"Like a thing you hit?"
"Ya man, like a fucking gong."
"Are you saying bong?"
"Look we can smoke out of it if you want, I just want a goddam gong."
We rolled to Shoreditch and the quest for the gong began.
Our first stop was a small brewery called the BrewDog, the purveyor of the somewhat famous Punk IPA. I approach the bar and ask what she would do if she were taking a hangover day in Shoreditch.
"I reckon I would go on a pub crawl. Hit these 8 pubs, and that should take you nicely into the night."
She scribbled on a little list and the crawl was on. One pint and one shot per pub. We braved a (standard) rain storm and made it to the end without major incident. Any time someone would start to bob their head a bit Alex would throw an adderall in their mouth. But sadly, we came up short on a gong. Finally Alex decided we should go for Sake dinner where he allegedly has a standing reservation.
First of all, I didn't even know standing reservations were a real thing, I just thought it was some bullshit made up in mob movies, but rest assured we showed up to Mr. Kim's in China Town on the West End and walked in. The couple before us was told 2 hours. Alex walked up and demanded a table for 6.
"15 minutes sir."
"Ya, why don't you make that 15 seconds."
Mr. Kim personally opened up a closed wing of the restaurant and delivered us 5 bottles of sake he'd been keeping on ice all day. I don't remember much of dinner but I do know that as we were walking out Alex looked at me and said NOW!
There it was, a gong sitting there in the lobby. No one appeared to be looking, I grabbed it and sprinted toward the street.
Andrew and Juan (flat mates) were hopping in an Uber, I handed the gong off to Andrew who escaped home with our prize.
Not ready to call it quits after roughly 10 bars and whatever the fuck happened at dinner we tried our luck getting into about 5 Leicester Square bars who laughed at our intoxication and sent us packing. We finally made it into one, but as soon as I slipped on the dance floor, it was over. We decided to call it a night. When we made it back to the flat, waiting for us on the front step was that fucking gong. We took it inside and rang it aloud, waking all the roommates and forcing them to drink with us until the sun rose.
Day 8: Golf Ettiquette
I've never been kicked out of more drinking establishments than when I was in London this past week, they just tend not to want to deal with any shit.
Saturday morning we kicked off the day with some beers and oysters at a farmer's market before deciding to buy a few liters of Fireball and drink them on a local putt putt course.
We get to the course and start aggressively swigging from brown bags while awaiting our tee time. Apparently this is frowned upon as we were strongly urged to take our party elsewhere.
FINE!
We ended up at an outdoor bar just south of the river called the Ship. Upon sneaking in our Fireball a large bouncer grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around.
"Hey!"
Fuck I'm caught.
"You aren't fucking KIWIS are you? We don't allow Kiwis here!"
Uh, no man...I'm an American.
"Oh? Yanks! Come on in lads!"
Strange racial discrimination in the UK.
After a couple dozen pints and we finished off the fireball, one of our crew passed out on the table mid-cigarette, we were told to hit the road.
Not ready to begin the night, we hit an early dinner at Texarkana for 3 lobsters, a crab, 2 racks of ribs and maybe a half dozen vodkas. Alex spiked the odd rounds with half bombs of adderall. Despite this, out of the 5 that started dinner, only 2 survived. It was time to go back to the pad and regroup.
We pregamed by taking shots out of the gong Stanley Cup style. My travel companion who had decided to stay in Paris a few days (OMG I LOVE IT HERE) finally made it back and brought some friends around.
We arrived at a place named Tonteria around 8pm. The bouncers didn't look too happy to see us, but we did have attractive females in tow.
"What are you lot doing here so early, you better be eating dinner."
"Drinks and apps sir."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"Uh, small plates and beer?"
"Fine, but 10 pounds for the guys."
Whatever man, we blew by the cashier and walked straight to the bar.
When we arrived there were probably 10 people there and a small train looping the top of what appeared to be a restaurant. Within 2 hours, the place was packed to capacity with a raging dance floor, bottles and circus performers everywhere.
Between the 5 of us we did 48 Jager Bombs (I'm bringing those back stateside) and then slowly started to get kicked out one by one.
I came out of my black out around 3 I was making out with one of the fire breathing girls that would perform whenever someone bought a bottle, but I was sweating so hard you would think I took all the molly. I realized I was the last man standing and had no idea how to get home. I figured it would be a good idea to eject myself from the bar. I wandered the streets until a young American woman took pity on me and walked me home.
"You really shouldn't lose your friends in a foreign country dear, it can be dangerous."
Oh, I know.
Day 9: Football or The Curse of Ryan Air Part 2
"Does anyone want to go catch a matinee of Wicked?"
Fuck you!
"How about we rent some city bikes and go for a cruise?"
Shut up fag, Chelsea plays Man City, we're going to the pub.
The sensible thing for an unemployed person on his last day would have been to pack up his belongings, maybe check out a couple last sights and get to the airport in plenty of time. Instead I merely said 'ok.'
We get to a sports bar, and Alex who has booked a flight every morning since Thursday and missed ALL of those flights has decided that he is FINALLY leaving today. But not before he drinks himself retarded so he can sleep the whole way.
It started with 3 of us at the Sports Bar in Marylebone. Then 4, then 5, 6, 7...then there were 8...drinking Punk IPA eating traditional Sunday roast...and of course Alex had the Jagerbombs flowing.
I look up as the game ends and holy shit...I really fucked up this time. My flight is in 3 hours, an hour and a half away. I am 30 minutes from the flat and not yet packed...with a dead phone.
One of the guys gets me an uber and a key.
"Go straight home, pack in less than 5 minutes and you might make it."
Of course I'm hammered at this point, my shit is all over the house and I am having a nervous breakdown that I am going to miss my flight to Dublin and in turn my 5am flight to the states.
I get back to the flat and furiously pack all of my shit into my backpack, cursing myself for not just going to see fucking wicked. The things that won't fit in my bag I throw away in a rubbish bin on the street while I wait for an uber. (An uber that costs $110 as opposed to the $10 bus I could have taken if I just saw fucking Wicked)
"Sir are we going to make it to Standsted by 8pm, my flight is at 10 and they won't let me check in if..."
"Eh probably not, but don't worry about that shit, they just bluff."
"No they don't man I was an hour and 55 minutes early once and they told me to go fuck myself!"
"Oh well then you're fucked."
Fortunately, this guy had a bit of urgency and sped to get me there by 8:01, I sprinted to the desk dripping wet and begged the woman to have mercy on me.
"Actually dear, your flight is at 10:05. You've arrived just in time."
Fuck, I had 4 minutes to spare, shouldn't have thrown away those shoes.
I worm my way through Standsted airport cursing myself for saving 20 bucks back in June when I booked. Always fly into Heathrow guys, it's not worth the perceived savings, they're going to get your money one way or another.
I go to a gin tasting at the duty free just to even myself out, I attempt to take a Xanax that Alex gave me for the flight, but instead it's an adderall which turns my anxiety up to a 10.
Why didn't I just go see fucking Wicked...
I say one last goodbye to London and it's off I go to Dublin for the night from hell.
Day 10: The Terminal
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't fly Norweigian Air, I thought. They don't do free drinks or food. I want a REAL airline, who will get me as fucked up as I want. I'll fly into Dublin so this trip can be 3 countries not 2!
Well whatever, Dublin was fine, but when I passed through Immigration at midnight I realized I had 6 hours to kill before boarding. What a nightmare. First I went to the pub until they kicked me out. Then I sought refuge at the 24 hour McDonalds where there were already 200 people sleeping in all the good nooks and crannies.
Did anyone know this was a thing? It's fucking crazy. I was out of Euro, I had a few pounds, but that shit wasn't going to help in Ireland. I also had a seeking suspicion that after my Sunday fiasco I was running extremely low on funds.
I saddled up to a trashcan and finished reading Out of Sight. Because due to the Adderall I was too wired to sleep. I catch word that my brother has broken his ankle in 3 places just before my iPhone and iPad die. (Because of course in the frenzy, I had forgotten to pack both chargers)
My plane is delayed and finally, smelling like absolute sewage I board around 8am. Because of the time zones, this 12 hour flight (which is full and I'm sitting next to an Ethiopian) basically lands at 10am local and never travels through darkness. I am awake the whole fucking time, trying to drink myself asleep but it's no use. I watch 5 shitty movies and land at LAX realizing I haven't slept now in close to 24 hours.
I schlep through customs where I'm questioned about a mysterious pill that falls out of my pocket at immigration. "It's adderall, I'm prescribed."
Nope it's the Xanax I tried to take. The guard pays little mind to it and welcomes me back to the USA. I catch a city bus back to Venice and arrive back to my apartment in Venice.
Somehow it is still fucking Monday, I realize I haven't checked my email all week because I am scared about my old boss yelling at me for something I fucked up before I left or my dad yelling at me because I'm out of money.
Instead I decide to shut it down and I sleep for 16 hours. I have some of the craziest dreams of my life. It's good to be home...I think.
Day 11: Depression
Tuesday I refuse to leave my room. I realize I have gone way over budget on this trip. Ferris Bueller's Month Off is going to be cut short.
I still don't have a flight to the midwest for the wedding. I don't have a fucking job. Oh my god, that suit I was supposed to buy for the groomsmen? I don't have it and GODDAMMIT, it's sold out. There is an angry email from my boss. I can't open it. I just can't. I think my life is over. I'm going to have to leave LA. I try watching TV or reading to take my mind off my impending doom. I'm such a fucking idiot. Why did I do this to myself? Back to bed.
 |
| At Top Gun. Not me, but about how I felt on Tuesday. |
Day 12: It always works out
My travel buddy said to me in Paris, "I don't understand how you do it. You live so close to the edge, but you never worry about. You always just say everything will work out."
Well when you play with fire, eventually you get burned but apparently I would live to fight another day.
First thing I did when I woke up was check the e-mail from my boss and accounting, assuming I am going to be brought up on fraud charges for my liberal use of the company card.
"Hey Dave, you reimbursed us with a personal check, can you send us a cashier's check instead? It's no biggie, just company policy."
Then my boss.
"I think he's gone for a month."
Another response.
"All good, whenever he gets around to it."
Score, I'm not going to jail...in fact I may even be in good standing at TNT!
Next order of business. Flights home. I should better stay in town as long as possible to try to interview...how about Tuesday.
One way to Chicago $59.
$59 are you fucking kidding me?
2 for 2.
I call J Crew's wedding department and explain the pickle I'm in.
"All good man, we've got one 44L and a pant that's 36/30 but you can get it tailored to fit. I'll overnight them to your parents in Indy."
This isn't fucking real, this is one of those dreams where everything goes right and then you wake up to realize none of it actually happened.
Tentatively 3 for 3.
I email an old boss.
"Hey, you know of any shows crewing up right now?"
I might be able to use someone for 8 weeks or so starting the 31st, let me know if you're interested. Also my husband has some shit going on this weekend if you want to work a couple days.
GAH THIS IS NOT FUCKING REAL.
I decide to take a celebratory bike ride down to the South Bay. It's my favorite ride in Los Angeles. I pull up to a stop light in Marina Del Rey. I'm wearing my standard Indiana kit.
"Hey man, are you a cutter?"
Without turning around.
"Haha, nope I was one of the villainous frat guys."
"We beat you."
I spin thinking I'll see one of the geeds that rode for the cutters and has been dominating the Greeks since 1979 since a guy in my fraternity ironically invented the team.
In front of me is a well built man in his 50s with a firm jaw line in impecable shape, he smiles at me as my jaw drops.
"Are you fucking Dennis Quaid?"
"Well my friends just call me Dennis, but ya. Look man, we're one short wanna hop on with us?"
I spent my morning riding to the south bay with Dennis Quaid and the owner of Helen's Cycles. We talked Breaking Away, Bloomington and the state of TV and film at the moment. He broke off at Manhattan and I continued south to my smoothie spot in Hermosa but before we parted he shook my hand and said "Good luck to you Dave, I have a feeling everything is going to work out for you."
I have a feeling he's right.
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