Last night I slept on some fleas on a sofa in a hostel lounge room, but you know what? That’s OK. Honestly, that is fine by me because soon as I walked into the dorm room and heard the industrial vacuum-esque soliloquy of a snoring man who, had he been sleeping outside on the lawn could have sucked a passing plane from the sky and brought it to land on his face I thought no… No way. No fucking WAY am I sleeping in here with you. And the sofa it was.
So I paid $20 to sleep on some fleas in the cold lounge, next to two discarded beer cans, a plant growing out of a mixing jug and a broken game of Jenga. Here I am, annoyed and… well, a bit drunk, but still preferring it to the dorm room:
And then the hostel worker woke me up by singing. It was really loud, too. I couldn’t be annoyed with him though because singing is a sign of contentment and happiness and I know if I had to work in a hostel being orally abused by the repugnant snorts of a bunch of men imitating warthogs under filthy blankets I would do anything I could to make myself feel a bit better… but it meant I was awake really early and had to listen to his songs mix into the distant snoring, which sounded like a rhino dying slowly in a blender with some seagulls (because I am in Valparaiso, by the sea).
I know I sing a lot at inappropriate times, though… I mean, once I got told to stop singing by a guy I sat next to at work, which was highly embarrassing because by the time he mustered up the balls to tell me I’d been doing it for about a month with my headphones on (mostly to songs from musicals, accompanied by flamboyant hand gestures and eye movements) and I imagine he must have been holding his agony back for days, weeks even… probably jabbing himself in the bathroom every hour… maybe with one of those adrenaline pens you get if you’re a bit diabetic, just so he could face another moment in his cubicle.
Anyway, it was a lovely evening before all that. I went for some sushi with my friend and then to a bar in Via del Mar to meet some girls and we had some nice chats about travelling, which you tend to do when you’re travelling. The bar had a sort of vintage clothes store inside it, which baffled me because I’m not accustomed to fashion these days and I couldn’t figure out quite how to put a florescent yellow shoe on my foot, let alone why anyone would want to. I did see a lovely, long green woollen cardigan though. It was way too big.
When I tried the cardigan on I felt like a pencil draped in a gargantuan, ugly bathrobe, but when this gorgeous, voluptuous black girl I was drinking with put it on it was transformed instantly into a designer catwalk winner, spun from the emerald threads of a million mythical spiders and everyone ooh’d and aaah’d and said ‘oh that looks fabulous on you’ so I insisted she buy it instead of me. Which she did. And then I shivered all the way home in my fake Peruvian Columbia hiker’s jacket, which is plastic, grey and pink and makes me feel like a butch dog walker from Idaho who should quite frankly have a mullet and a weird, bulky husband called Keith who wears a hood when he has sex with me and insists on calling me Peter.
Anyway, I just thought I would tell you that.