Today I stepped out into London as a tourist- aimlessly milling about, seeing where it takes me- a lot like a commercial for feminine hygiene. I found myself in Camden Town, there is a street called market stables, where old stables have been made into retail shops and throngs of the worst people go to smoke while they mill about. It felt like the Jersey Shore of Europe... I have never seen the show, but virgins haven’t had sex and they tend to know what it is.
I’m walking down the street, weak with hunger, when I pass a green cafe. It’s advertising all organic food, smoothies, salads and I am so relieved that I will be eating something nutritious. It’s packed with people, so imagine my surprise, when I go to join them only to be denied access by an extra from a Guy Ritchie film.
“Can’t come in here,” he snottily declared “why not?” I asked, looking at all the other people smiling with privilege. At this point, he must hear my accent and he softens a bit “we’re filming,” he explains while pointing at the spot light. He probably heard me speak and realized that I must have thought it was a book signing because in America- we have back lots to film, so we don’t have to ruin my FUCKING LIFE by occupying the only healthy option in a 3 mile radius. I ended up having a vegetarian chinese dish- ‘wif shicken’ (I found a couple stowaways).
I have had the worst gas since. I farted in the Tube station and it was so loud Bobbies pulled out their buttons and ran at me. Luckily, I had a cake with me, so I threw it and we all had a good laugh. No sound though, just old music... London is weird.
So, to Summarize the title of this post. The worst part is having an enormous poof trapped in my tum tum, that I cannot bring myself to expose Barcelona to. The best part was answering Paris when she asked me “what is douche bag?” In French a ‘douche’ is a shower. In America it’s “women are uncomfortable with them selves, so they use these to date these.”
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