Note from present Dan: The following happened on the same evening as the previous article. However, I felt it best to split the day into two sections, as my life/death contemplations earlier in the afternoon didn’t seem to mesh very well with the vomiting and aggressive dry humping that occurred later that evening.
After my small revelation atop the Arc de Triumpe, I’d planned to spend my last night in Paris on the steps of Montemartre, and around 6pm I headed there with a bottle of wine. Mirroring my first evening in the city seemed like a nice way to end the trip. I sat on the grass beside to the steps, away from everyone else, because it was too noisy with everyone playing their own music and shouting over one another. A gaggle of reggae types had brought a bass guitar along and were bobbing together to a plump bass line, while a few steps higher there sat a gang of thick-foreheaded tracksuits with gold chains who were playing some hyper-intense gabba shite.
I spent an hour or so there before I got bored with all the blinking lights and clinking glasses. I decided that I didn’t want to end my time in Paris alone; I’d already done enough moping. I determined I would head back to the hostel and find the Canadian girls.
They weren’t in the dorm when I got back, but I sat and read my gloomy Kafka on my bunk (the world’s most morose, morbid, melancholy, miserable, moody and macabre travel companion by the way, why oh why of all the books in all the world did I choose yours, you black-humoured nihilist maniac, I’m supposed to be getting over my ex and having a blast across the continent but my only company is a book full of stories about ghastly execution contraptions and starving circus performers and caged talking apes and giant cockroaches and hateful father figures all sprinkled with sexual repression, and yes you’re brilliantly clever Mr Kafka, but wow, there really is no wonder I am going mad on this trip, good grief)
and it wasn’t long before the Canadian girls poured into the room, back from their day’s adventures. We got talking, and they produced parallel bottles of wine. After an hour drinking in the room, I asked if they fancied heading downstairs for a couple in the heaving hostel bar, and they agreed – with a slight hesitation. I said it was no big deal if they were tired, but they blushed and laughed and assured me it wasn’t that. Sarah and Rosa had some mysterious task that they needed to complete, and were reluctant to tell me what it was.
As we headed downstairs, Aish told me on the sly that they had a challenge between the two of them to make out with a guy in every country they visited on their travels. I suddenly felt guilty for accompanying them, as my presence might cramp their style in the bar. It then occurred to me how ridiculous that sentiment was, and that I am, in fact, a man, and therefore surely a viable candidate. Being in a relationship for a long time makes you all but asexual, it seems. Despite this gleaming window of opportunity, I didn’t feel remotely ready for such things, and therefore relegated myself to the role of gay best friend.
Instead, then, my evening consisted of chatting to Aish and Rosa, playing a spot of beer pong, and white boy half-dancing. As I settled into my new role as team eunuch, the girls employed me as their pretend boyfriend to stop the unwanted advances of literally every other guy in there. By 3am, when empty shotglasses were strewn thick across the sticky dancefloor, every single male in the place had forsaken all decorum and poise. As one, the assembled man-folk gradually morphed before my eyes into deviant creatures halfway between shark and boner.
Swarthy males, swarthy males everywhere, prowling the dancefloor in search of a mate, eyes swivelling, spotting one of the Canadian girls and dancing cock-first towards us, lips peeling back in drunken approximation of a grin. The girls moved me around like a prop, continually repositioning me directly between themselves and the nearest thrusting hard-on. In fact, I shall describe the chaos with a haiku for you.
A Haiku: The Dancers
Three buttons undone
Sweat patches under armpits
All God’s lonely cocks
Hostel bars might be the horniest places on earth. I don’t know how I feel about hostel sex. I’ve stayed in dozens of hostels but nobody has ever shagged above or below me – at least, not as far as I’m aware. To be honest when I’m travelling I’m usually too hammered to realise anyway. Would I have sex in a dorm room? I’m not sure. The pressure of pleasing one person can send me loopy. The pressure of pleasing a partner with an active, hateful audience, all wishing that you would just hurry up and prematurely climax so they can stop listening to your arrhythmic humping and get some sleep? I shudder to think.
The Canadian girls did get their kisses eventually, one from a tanned Argentinean guy, one from a bony Frenchman. However, neither male seemed content with a smooch, and consequently we were orbited by them for the remainder of the evening.
I went to bum a cigarette off a French guy because I was bored of being a knob repelling ping pong paddle, and I left the girls to be overrun the Lynx Africa hordes. I tried to go for a piss at one point, but found that somebody had aggressively vomited into the urinal and filled it to the brim. If you’re a girl and you really want to get shagged, and you don’t particularly care who by or if your man has petrified cuboids of vomit in his beard, let me tell you: this hostel is the place to go.
I hit the hay around 5am. Was gunna stay up in the dorm and chat with the Canadian girls for a bit, but I fell asleep fully clothed while they brushed their teeth. I’m assuming they came back ready for the after party and found me out cold, mouth open, straining for breath, drooling, and thought it best to leave me be. Such is life.
Drink, Play, Loathe – Day 4, Barcelona