Getting By

This post is a few days late, but I’ve been unable to decide on the best means of relating the events of my last Olympic Beijing Day. I toyed with the idea of a mini-series-esque approach, several different episodes spanning a week or so of posts, relating backstory and perhaps an intricate sub-plot or two, but that would require far too much fictionalizing on my part. And I’m obviously not that creative. Nor am I lazy.

In the end I decided on the following, a vaguely serialized story that should, I hope, be humorous in its high drama, excitement, and human interest:

After watching the Redeem Team beat Spain for the Gold Medal in what turned out to be a fairly competitive game, I raced home, dragged out a massive chunk of cardboard, and made the biggest, “Student Needs Tickets Please,” sign ever. Well, that I’ve ever seen at any rate. I went to the entrance of the Olympic subway line, the one that runs into the Olympic complex, and posted up, being sure to ask a volunteer if it was cool that I stand there. Two things happened in quick succession: people started laughing and taking pictures, and my arms immediately started to hurt. The former I am accustomed to, but the latter was a surprise; in retrospect, my sign was too big, and made the wrong way – I had put the flaps on top and bottom, so that my arms had to stretch even further so as to be grabbing onto a piece that wouldn’t flop around. On top of all this, it was rather windy which, given the size of this piece of cardboard, and its daunting size, created a large amount of drag.

Soon a small group of Russian-Chinese girls walked up to, and started talking with, me. They too were looking for tickets, and started to help me hold up my sign. Now, ordinarily this is something to be avoided – people coming to give you a ticket, are instead enticed to sell one to the people actually interested in paying, and, really, you can’t blame them. But, despite the fact that these girls weren’t exactly cute, Russian is, in my estimation, a sexy language, and so I let it slide.

Weakness, your name is man.

And so as to avoid tears of bitter sorrow, disappointment, impotent rage, and, well, comedy, I’ll put it bluntly: one of the Russian girls got a free ticket from someone who saw my goddamned sign, and made a beeline for us. He even did a cute little bow when he gave it to her. !@#$% wasn’t even that good looking.

Of course, after that one, small bit of luck (for that cherry picking wench) things started to sour.

Sunday, August 10th

After watching a preliminary round of Women’s Artistic Gymnastics (which I got into for free because a nice Chinese woman, whose husband couldn’t make it, gave me a free ticket), I wandered around the Olympic Greens trying to trade pins. Success was relative. What I did gain from those aimless wanderings was knowledge of the USA vs. China basketball game commencing later that night. So off I went, trusty chunk of cardboard in tow.

Sequence of Events

• I get to the venue’s main entrance, and find a good spot to hold up my sign (read: area through which a large volume of pedestrian traffic would be passing
• I hold up my sign
• I hold back outrageous amounts of laughter in the form of embarrassed grins as a semi-circle of people, near 50 or so, immediately forms around me
• Plural people want to take their picture with the token white guy and his goofy sign (still lacking the Chinese characters of 学生需要票)
• I try to move directly in front of the entrance; volunteers yell at me and I yell back good-naturedly until I realize they aren’t joking, and move back to where I was. About 50 feet away.
• It starts to drizzle, people are laughing at my sign
• Volunteers offer me rain jackets, I politely refuse
• It starts to drizzle harder, people still laughing at my sign
• Volunteers offer me rain jackets, I politely refuse…but keep one for my backpack
• People continue to take pictures with me, holding up peace signs and acting Asian
• First news crew comes by, interviews me, goes away
• Rain becomes a steady, but still somewhat light, downpour
• Volunteers offer me rain jackets, I politely accept one and put it on
• I discover that the rain jacket is accomplishing almost nothing
• Friendly old woman starts talking to me and, in my broken Chinese, I communicate that I have no money whatsoever
• I exchange small talk with other foreigners trying to get tickets, no one seems quite as at ease as me with my sign
• More news crews come by, interviewing me; mostly Chinese, but at least one Italian and a Russian mixed in for flavor
• Various people offer to sell me their tickets, but I politely decline
• I realize that the rumor of over $1,000 per ticket is true
• My hopes fall
• People continue to take their picture with me
• My hopes rise
• Crowd slowly disperses
• My hopes fall
• Rain increases into a steady, medium-strength downpour
• My sign begins to disintegrate, cardboard peeling away from cardboard
• I get interviewed for sportsbusinessjournal.com (interview still not up), trade pins with the guy
• Meet cute girl; shame she went to Stanford
• Try to look forlorn as rain becomes harder - and that meant in the sense that the pollution was, quite literally, actually making the rain pellet-like. Volume was unchanged.
• Game not for another hour and fifteen minutes
• I’ve got no chance of making it to my favorite dumpling place to watch the game unless I leave now
• My sign falls over, limp and dejected, like something…well…like something limp and dejected
• Go find cute Stanford girl
• Tear up sign, with love
• See someone get a free ticket
• Shrug my shoulders
• Rain becomes a torrential downpour, redefining the phrase, “Really, really, ridiculously wet-looking”
• Realize that that’s a rip-off of Zoolander
• Go to dinner with cute Stanford girl
• Enjoy the game, the dumplings, and, despite expectations, the company

Life is hard, when you’re begging for tickets.

Prerequisites:
• Cardboard box
• Dark, preferably black Marker
• Pencil (Necessity dependant on Artistic Integrity)
• Approximately 30min (Dependant on Artistic Integrity)
• Absolutely no shame, a pitiable smile, and strong, or at least durable, arms

Preparation:
• Tear off a sizable chunk of cardboard, bigger the better (but heavier!)
• For neatness in the next step, sketch out the words, “Student Needs Tickets Please” on the cardboard (Dependant on Artistic Integrity)
• Color/black in the sketched out words (or just guesstimate and skip the previous step – not something I’ve been able to do successfully)
• Add local language (Optional)
• Bus/Taxi/Subway to desired venue
• Find entrance
• Find place to stand
• Unfold sign
• Raise sign up in the air
• Look miserable, maybe laugh self consciously now and again, ignore the growing ache in your arms
• Ponder the meaning of life
• Continue holding the sign high up in the air, despite increasingly painful burn in your shoulder region, and possibly the part of your brain that holds Pride
• Ponder the meaning of life further
• Repeatedly tell people that, as you are a student, you. Have. No. Money.
• Get a ticket for free from someone who has an extra, see event, party like a rockstar
o Alternative: if no ticket was obtained, do something else. Like go shopping. Or whatever.
• Wrap funny stories of people you met while holding up your sign like a blanket to ward off the shame of begging
• Realize that it’s actually fun to do it, and try again tomorrow

Opening Ceremonies were, I’m told, a rousing success. Granted it took a couple of hours to get home for most, that’s to be expected with a stadium crowd of 90,000 or so, and who knows how many people on the streets just watching the fireworks and lights. I spent the night in the Austrian House with some friends getting pleasurably drunk on free wine and eating free catering. Danke, meinen freunden.

And, apparently, the road race is always the first day of the Olympics. Fortunately for me, I did not have a massive briefcase sans wheels to lug up a hill like I did in Athens, and our apartment inaccessible by taxi. In fact, I was able to just stroll down the street, munching on an apple.

Pin trading remains slightly elusive. Few people on the streets have pins, which is aggravating, but plenty of volunteers around the venues sport lanyards with the small pieces of metal judiciously applied. And, in the discount markets of Yashow and Silk Market, workers go ga-ga at the sight of a tie full of pins. They practically assault you in their desire to see the pins up close. In fact, I’m pretty sure I had a few stolen by some of the overzealous workers who simply neglected to ask when taking a pin off of my tie. Alas.

The Chinese, as it turns out, are a curious bunch. In Athens I was responsible for garnering tickets by holding up a sign that said, “Student Needs Tickets Please,” and looking miserable. The number of tickets I had just handed to me was, and remains, astounding. I’ve managed it once here, getting into Artistic Gymnastics because a Chinese woman’s husband couldn’t make it, so she brought me along with her and her daughter. Unfortunately, standing for two and a half hours in the drizzling, or pouring, rain, did not generate enough pity to get me a free ticket to the USA vs. China basketball game that same night. I was, however, interviewed no less than 6 times, offered 4 or 5 rain jackets, one of which I finally accepted, and brought under the maternal wing of a grandmotherly old Chinese woman who, presumably, was telling the crowd that came and went what my story was. She didn’t really get it that I didn’t want to stand under her umbrella. She definitely wasn’t Rhianna.

Overall, the Olympics seem to be genuinely working. I mean, there is still horrendous pollution, people vacillate between nice and stiffly informal, depending, and authorities either interpret the rules to the letter or ignore them completely. For instance, I was allowed to stand about 50 feet away from the entrance to the basketball venue, but not 5. I guess that makes sense; I mean, they just don’t want any “Free Tibet,” or signs of similar persuasion floating around.

Hey, maybe China can pull this off. Too bad the pollution is still bad.

Screening for the 2008 Olympic Opening Ceremonies is projected to take four hours. The placement of anti-aircraft batteries around the Nest is no secret, while miles of fencing (paradoxically plastered with the “One World, One Dream” slogan), and pervasive security forces make casual strolling through the Olympic Greens impossible without accreditation. Staring up at the hodgepodge combination of steel beams making up the main Olympic stadium, more net than Birds Nest, Yalcin only sighed, whispering, “This isn’t the Olympics. Das ist scheisse, this is shit…This is Alcatraz!”

A Gymnastics competitor in the 1960 Olympics in Rome, Yalcin Özer has been to every Olympics hence, excepting the 1980 Olympiad in Moscow. Fourty-eight years, twelve Olympics (and that’s assuming he meant just the summer Games), and who knows how many events attended later, he has traveled 15,000 kilometers on a motorcycle to be in Beijing for the Games. And all he can say is, “Das ist scheisse.”

This kind of reaction makes me wonder how successful the Olympics could possibly be. With security measures that stringent, there is little to encourage a Western presence. Indeed, while Yalcin and I where meandering about the outskirts of the Bird’s Nest, not a single Westerner could be seen. Everywhere we looked it was Chinese. Now, is this a bad thing? Well, honestly, yes.

This is China’s opportunity to present itself to the world, something they haven’t really been able to do in the past. And while everyone knows China is a rising superpower, with a burgeoning industry and groundbreaking economy, this is the first chance the Middle Kingdom has had to show the world that they have, to put it in terms of a debutante, arrived. If there is no western presence, or a confined one, what sort of pronouncement can China possibly make?

Let’s just cross our fingers and hope they don’t step on any feet. Or rather, they avoid the important ones.

Articles of Interest:

China’s Agony of Defeat
The Most Politicized Games Since Berlin
Calling China’s Human Rights Bluff

A little over a year ago I was studying Mandarin in Beijing.  There were days I would walk out of my apartment complex in the student district and, thanks to the dense smog, not be able to see across the street.  In fact, I did not realize that there were mountains around Beijing until almost three months after I landed.  Blue-sky days were not something to be celebrated: the sun scorched the air, creating a furnace that was trapped by the still-present layer of pollution.

If you’ve ever been to Beijing, or are here now, you know what it’s like.  As early as a month ago, China had yet to pass its air quality control tests for the 2008 Olympics.  But really, why does that matter?  What, really, can the IOC do if China fails?  Cancel the Olympics?  Tell the athletes, who have trained for years, their entire lives, for these two weeks, to pack up and go home, that sorry there won’t be an Olympiad?  Hardly.  And with China’s stringent security measures, the absurd visa situation, and censored information, how successful can the 2008 Olympics really be?

I came with the intention of trading and selling Olympic pins, a vaguely entrepreneurial activity my brother first started doing in 1996 and that I joined him and my sister for in 2004, in Athens.  Will I get in trouble for it?  Possibly.  The Chinese could view it as stealing business from the officially licensed vendors, even though I’m pretty sure none of them have Athens, Salt Lake, Sydney, and even older pins for sale.  Either way, I’ll be on the ground, and talking.  So…this blog has a new purpose.  Olympic reporting.  That’s a sport, right?

Lack of posts recently, I know.  Been backpacking around Thailand, and finding time to sit down and compose something masterful ain’t exactly easy.  In a week and a half or so I’ll be back in Beijing, with a bit of stability and my own laptop, so expect posts around that time.

Until then, keep on keepin’ on.

As I sat on the second floor of the bus, rushing north towards the Iguazu National Falls, sipping on my champagne and puffing on my cigar, in my red velvet smoking jacket, with my feet propped up on a fluffy ottoman, I realized that perhaps I was taking it too far.

So, sans jacket, ottoman, and cigar, I, in all seriousness, reflected on how hilarious Argentina could be.

When I bought my bus ticket to go north, an 18 or so hour journey, I expected the usual premium Argentine treatment: meals, movies, reclining chairs, etc. When the woman behind the desk asked me if I’d like to upgrade to the second level for a measly 8 pesos, approximately $2.50 at the time, I figured I was paying for the improved view, or something.

At first, I was entirely correct in my assessment. We were watching movies, had meals a la airplanes, and the view was better: a bit higher up, a bit less rushed, you know.

Of course, when the, for lack of a better term, waiter came after about 5 hours and asked me if I would like some champagne, I had to seriously resist the temptation to ask, in an atrociously fake British accent, “Please, sah, may I have some more?”

Preface: What you are about to read is entirely true and, almost word for word, entirely accurate. I was in China, to leave off of South America temporarily, for a second gap year, studying Mandarin Chinese. The following happened over New Years 2007-2008.

I left my ATM card in the ATM, and did not realize it until several days later. The minute I discovered my mistake I made several frenzied phone calls, most notably to my bank, while talking online with my father. Ended up arranging for my bank to send me a new card, thereby canceling the old one, and for my father to send me an Ikobo Credit Card and a bit of cash money that I could exchange. I was very, very careful about spelling out the address to Navy Federal Credit Union, my bank, and made sure they knew exactly where this vital piece of plastic was being shipped. Tick-tick-tick goes the clock, the weekend passes, January 8th arrives. My Ikobo Card, the cash money (thanks, dad, you’re a rockstar), and my NFCU Check Card PIN number arrives. No card. Okay, fine. I call Navy:

“No problem sir, the card usually arrives a couple of days afterwards. It should be there by…the 10th, if FedEx’s site is right.”

FedEx? Oh, crap. A sinking feeling penetrates my stomach as I recall with vivid clarity the Brazil Incident 2006 (explained more fully later).

“Umm…okay, cool, but now I need to have the package held at a FedEx facility, since I’m changing addresses. Can you do that?”

“No, sir, we cannot. You would have contact FedEx directly to arrange that. Their number is +861064648855. Is there anything else we can help you with?” etc. etc.

FedEx: “No, sorry, we cannot hold the package without permission from the sender.”

NFCU: “No, sorry, we do not deal with FedEx.”

FedEx: “No, really, we cannot hold the package without permission form the sender.”

I guess things kind of came to a head when they tried to buy me a prostitute.

Wait, let me backtrack.

After meeting up with my sister, and traveling with her for a few weeks, I ended up spending a few months in Buenos Aires working on my College Application essays, those good ole “Personal Statements.” I was staying at a hostel the entire time, Tango Backpackers, and it was right close to this neat little cafe. I had my sister’s computer, so I’d go down there every day during the week, order a tea, and get to the writing. After a few hours, I’d order a warm brownie with a scoop of ice cream on top (mm-mmm good), and that was my habit. It got to the point where I would walk in, and the waitresses would bring me my tea, and then a few hours later my brownie, without my even having to get a menu. Talk about consistency.

So when Mendoza, one of the hostel workers, stood up on a table during the weekly rooftop barbecue, and asked everyone to chip in a few pesos to by yours truly a “working woman,” it having come out that I was, at that point, a virgin, I knew that things had become far too consistent for a traveler to abide by.

If there is one thing I do know, it is this: patterns can be comforting, and easy, but falling into a routine can be treacherous for a backpacker. I’m glad I stayed in one spot for the purpose of writing those essays, not that I really dedicated myself too hard to them (only got accepted to one out of the five places I applied to, heh), but having the same daily ritual was, in retrospect, a drag. So, within a week or so of that dinner, I jumped ship and went north to Brazil, land of sketchy ghettos, mostly beautiful women (in skimpy swim suits), and monotonous food.

Besides, they only managed to raise about $3.00, a stick of gum, a cigarette, and a condom.

It’s the name of a card game, folks, relax. And by card game I mean it is the most ubiquitous game you will find while traveling. Everyone knows of it, if not by “Shithead,” which is the most common name. Game play remains consistent across countries, but specific rules may vary. I’ll try to include all of the variances I am familiar with, but will avoid talking strategy. Leave that to experience.

Objective: To not lose. Winning doesn’t matter, you just don’t want to lose. Loser is dubbed, “Shithead,” and generally becomes the group’s go-pher until the next game is resolved (optional).
Players: 3-8 (3 is almost too few, 5 is probably optimal, and 8 can get distended)
Cards: 1 regular 52 card deck with 5 or less, 2 otherwise

Set-up:
A) Deal three cards face down to each player. They do not look at them, but simply arrange them side-by-side in front of them
B) Deal three more cards to each player, and place them on top of the previously dealt three
C) Deal three more cards to each player, and these three constitute, “The Hand.”
D) Players now have the option of swapping cards in their hand with the three face up cards, that everyone can see, generally trying to put the best/most useful cards on the face-up piles. Exactly why is explained later.

Playing:
A) Player with the lowest, non-special card goes first. This will be either a 3 or a 4, generally, and whomsoever throws down first goes first.
B) Play then proceeds clockwise, with each player having to play a card (or multiples of one number) that is equal to or higher than the previous card, unless special rules apply. Ace is high card.
C) Every time a player is below three cards, he or she draws a number of cards from the remaining deck that will put them up to three.
D) Play continues like this until the deck is gone. Once the deck is gone, players with no cards in their hand may begin playing from the three face-up cards in front of them.
E) Once all three face up cards have been played, and a player still has no hand, he or she may begin blindly playing the three cards that are face-down in front of them. At this point, luck is fairly significant.
F) If at any time a player cannot play a card, he or she picks up the entire stack of cards, and uses them as his or her hand. Note: players with hands greater than three cards need not draw from the deck until they have less than three cards.
G) The last person with cards remaining loses, and is dubbed, until another game or further notice, “The Shithead.”

Special Cards: Some cards have special rules, or “abilities,” attached to them, as noted herein. Note that not all special card rules need be used, but, generally speaking, 2, 3, 7, and 10 are played as special:
2 – Resets the entire stack, starting at 2. Any card can subsequently be played. A 2 may be played at any time, regardless of what is currently on top of the stack

3 – Invisible. Can be played at any time, on top of any card. The next player has to beat the card beneath the three. Note: if it is another three beneath the three, the next player just has to beat a three.

7 – The next player has to play a card below a 7. 2s, 3s, and 10s may still be played.

8 – Skip. The next player is skipped. Multiple 8s skip multiple people (2 8s skips 2 people, etc.)

10 – Burn. Burns the stack, getting rid of every card currently there, removing them from the game, and allowing the player that used the ten another turn. May be played at any time, on top of any card, including seven.

Jack – Reverse. Switches order of play.

As was mentioned in the Set-up section, players have the option, upon receiving their three face-down, three face-up, and three in-hand cards to swap between the face-up and in-hand cards. Use the above special rules to determine your strategy.

Variant Rules: Optional rules that may but do not have to be used:

Four of a Kind – If at any time there are four cards of a kind on the stack, the stack is burned, all cards in it are removed from play, and the player responsible for completing the Four of a Kind goes again.

Instant Play – Not a rule I like, but I’m non-partisan, honest. Using this rule, if at anytime someone plays a card that you have in your hand, you can instantly lay down said card on top of the stack. Play then resumes as if you had taken your normal turn, not the person who first laid down the card. (Ex. A plays a 4, C has a 4, C plays said 4, play continues with D, skipping B)

Completing a Four of a Kind Instant Play – Akin to the aforementioned rule, this allows a player to instantly play if and only if he or she is able to make a four of a kind. Play then resumes as if the player had in fact finished a four of a kind on his or her normal turn, with them taking another turn. (Ex. A plays two 4s, C has 2 4s, C plays both 4s, burns the stack, takes another turn, and play moves onto D, skipping B)

And that, as they say, is that

Edmund Wilson, some important person who did some important thing, once said, with a great deal of pomp and importance, “no two persons ever read the same book,” (BrainyQuotes), something to bear in mind as you go traveling. Not only do you need something to whittle away those long hours on the bus, but books are also a great bridge between strangers, especially when it comes to trading well-used tomes.

Indeed, some hostels have a 2:1 trading ratio, demanding that you give them 2 books in return for 1 of theirs. Or, you can buy them at “discount” rates. As well, some even have a grading system depending upon the books “popularity,” often an objective measure, it’s condition, and whether or not they have it. Particularly valuable items include Lonely Planet travel guides, brainteasers, and Harry Potter. In fact, books are such a pivotal part of traveling that I no doubt will be mentioning them several times throughout the course of this journey. Just to emphasize it.

In Brazil, skipping ahead a bit, I stayed in a Hostel in Natal where I picked up a book called, “My Family and Other Animals,” by Gerald Durrell. The book itself was good, the story of a boy dealing with an eccentric mother while living on the Greek Islands. But what was really interesting about this particular volume was meeting the person who had left it at that Hostel, a month later, and 500-someodd miles away. I was rereading it, he saw it, and the rest, as they say, is obvious. We struck up a conversation, and ended up hanging out for a few days.

Traveling really makes you appreciate that the world is a small place.

If you’re white, this applies to you. If you’re black, this applies to you. If you’re yellow, this applies to you. Basically, no matter your race, ethnicity, or genetic disposition, if you are not Latin American this applies to you.

Understand that, indubitably, you are a foreigner. Locals will often hail you with a gusty, “¡Hola Gringo!” while at the same time proffering some maté, a traditional drink. Or, alternatively, the guy at the bar that was macking on your female companion, significant or not, will say, “¡Hijo de puta, Gringo!” when you casually interrupt his romantic advances. The second is, perhaps, a bit less friendly.

Largely friendly, though, ‘Gringo’ is generally applied to Americans. This traces back to the Mexican-American War where, according to legend, Mexican soldiers would say to Americans, dressed in green, “Green! Go!” when telling the intrusive whiteys to get lost. Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. True story or not, we are the Gringo.

So don’t take offense to it. Embrace it. Accept the fact that, the continent of South America-over, people are going to call you a “Gringo.” But make it perfectly clear that you are not only interested in learning about the culture and people of whatever country you’re in at the time (and you should be, South America has more cultural eccentricities and amazing-tudes that you’d be a fool not to be curious), but also do not want to be the typical American, brusque and obnoxious. And you don’t want to be.

It was precisely when I truly embraced being a Gringo, it only took a couple of weeks, that my enjoyment of South America simply sky-rocketed. To remember this for all eternity, I had a shirt made, plain black, with simple white letters that said, “100% Gringo.”

I’ve never danced with so many hot Argentine girls at the same time as when I wore that shirt to a club in Buenos Aires on one of my last nights in town.

“At the beginning of the eighteenth century, a word came to prominence with which it became possible to indicate a specific response towards precipices and glaciers, the night skies and boulder-strewn deserts. In their presence, we were likely to experience, and could count on being understood for later reporting that we had felt, a sense of the sublime.”

Alain de Botton’s words, from The Art of Travel, hint at an experience that is profound, exhilarating, mind blowing, intimidating, and terrifying. All at once you are amazed by how vast something is. The ‘sublime’ is beyond mortal comprehension, it is nothing that can be fully comprehended, only perpetually pondered.

My first encounter with the sublime was in the Recoleta Graveyard in Buenos Aires, Argentina. A graveyard, not the precipices or night skies of de Botton, although these would have their time, but a repository for those no longer amongst the living. Stepping into the complex is like entering a city in miniature: mausoleum after mausoleum line cobblestone streets, a pell-mell collection of Avenues and Broadways that would make any city engineer cry. This is the final resting place of the rich and famous of Buenos Aires, a testament to their family’s wealth, power, and pride. In darkened corners stare small cherubs, wizened smiles turned grimace by the relentless press of time. August eagles (or are they vultures, swooping lazily here and there, waiting the opportunity to pounce? ) soar mightily atop fractured columns, majestic marble archways crumble almost as you watch them, and door after door swings unhinged, dark portals leading to stairwells that seem to beckon passersby into the world of the dead.

Yes, the Recolata Graveyard has seen better days, but the reverence, the timeless care that has gone into constructing this Necropolis is evident in every marble bust and gold enameled plaque.

And while the city streets are but a stone’s throw away, walking through those hollowed lanes induces a silence that is at once all encompassing, and comforting.

I could probably just leave it at that, but for the sake of a good story, I’ll adventure bravely onwards.

My brief stay at Milhouse was defined mostly by two liter bottles of Quilmes, the local brew, scattered around the hostel in totally logical places. Bathroom stalls, stairwell banisters, and pool table pockets were popular places. In fact, one night drank them out of beer. Like, they had none left. I came down the next morning and there were at least 100 bottles scattered about. Between 20-30 people, that’s a fair amount. I mean, a very fair amount. But it was glorious, and definitely the kind of party you remember for years afterwards. Obviously I did. Do.

Unfortunately, I cannot say that I drank more than one or two. Given that I was a weak, inexperienced American, my tolerance was…negligible. In fact, it was almost non-existent. I was definitely “that guy,” in High School or, rather, preferred to do my own thing. Point in case: my first Long Island Iced Tea ever was, I feel, quite strong, an opinion that one of the plethora of English Guys did not share; he added more vodka, sampled it, and told me, with a smile and a pat on the back, that it was now, “spot on.”

Soon after finishing it, I had to relieve the contents of my stomach into an out of the way trashcan, or end up trashed, man.

I want young Americans to draw three things from this: 1) drink. A lot. Get the drunken binging out of your system before you hit college. I was ever so much more able to cope at frat parties my first semester, and I attribute it to two years drinking while abroad. 2) don’t be afraid of the, “puke and rally.” Sometimes, it just makes sense to go force a quick throw up. Ewww, gross, but it will save you from a vicious hang over and a morning of regrets. And 3) good times come more easily with alcohol. Even if you don’t drink, learn to at least sip a beer or cocktail while hanging out. Everyone will think you’re that much cooler.

Oh, and 4) learn to accept the fact that, unless you were a huge partier in High School, almost everyone you meet abroad, even kids your age from different countries, is going to be able to drink you under the table. And they’ll be quick to point it out.

I once tried to go drink for drink with a German guy, something that was not only expensive, but also painful. I spent the entirety of the next day sitting around the hostel, miserable, while he was enjoying the beach and getting some sun.