A few years ago I was backpacking around Europe with my best friend Goshie and we found ourselves in the beautiful sea side town of San Sebastian Spain. This was around two days since we had been in Paris and Goshie had turned to me and asked
“Where should we go next?”
“I reckon we should hit Spain!’ I replied
“Fuck that, we’re not flying to South America!” he whined.
Goshie and I have been best friends since the day as twelve year olds we were forced to sit next to each other on the first day of high school. At that time his little sister was just learning to talk and we would take time teaching her the names of famous skateboarders, now we attempt to use her for access to nimble young twenty year old girls just starting to walk down the electric walkway of a university aged sexual awakening.
When choosing best friends in pre-pubescence there are few things you think about other than how accessible there backyards are via bike, how advanced their video game collections are, how responsive they are to poorly crafted racist and gay jokes, and their ability to rip out a fart at the perfect time. One thing you do not think about is how their sleeping patterns will affect your ability to enjoy the great wide world.
Goshie, you see, is a snorer. He is the worst fucking snorer imaginable. His average night’s sleep sounds about the same as a teenage boy who gets curious about what it would feel like to stick his dick in the waste disposable unit. I’ve slept in the same bed with merely three people more than once, and he is one of them. I have slept in the same room as this guy a couple of hundreds of times. The longest romantic and sexual relationship I have ever had? About forty days. Fate is great! (oh that’s actually been expanded since I first penned this, wowser, grrr).
So we were in ..Spain.., sharing the spare room of an old ladies house with a French man, a guy from ....California.... and two beautiful young Swedish girls, when Goshie decided to cook us all pasta for dinner. After stuffing ourselves full of pasta, it was time for me to hold up a deal Goshie and I had agreed upon months earlier, he who cooks relaxes for the rest of the night and tries to impress any Scandinavian girls in the hostel with his Australian accent, where as he who does not cook but does eat is in charge of the dishes.
Only on this particular night we had been getting into the cheap Spanish wine at the same time and our heads were already buzzing, and we had been socializing, and we had plans to party till one of us passed out in a random back alley that night, so I piled the dishes high in the sink, like a dripping red leaning tower of Pisa, ran the water over the catastrophe zone until the sink was full of water and floating pasta bits picked out of people’s teeth, and I decided to take care of the dishes in the morning.
Ok, so at five in the morning the following day I wake up and remember something, the old lady who owned the house’s only rule – “keepa thingsa cleana or kicka outa!” (and I apologize for the stereotypical border line racist accent) I had a sink full of dishes, and I am not a clean freak by any nature, or even a daily clean underwear wearer if I am being honest, but I am a loyal man, and I did not want to get any of my friends kicked out of the hospice. Well to be slightly more honest, the two Swedish girls were both quite attractive. The day before we had all been on the beach with them in bikinis, and one of them demonstrated just how skinny she was (in a good way, not a sick anorexic way) by nesting her bikini waste band over the top off her two protruding hip bones, leaving a good inch deep gap between bikini material and skin right at the beginning of her well manicured public hair. So it was that the three of us boys spent the best part of the day surrounded by plenty of topless Spanish girls and tourists, as well as our eighteen year old Swedish friend giving us a literal doorway onto the next logical goal when leering at women. We all got sunburned backs and the sun never saw our fronts. When you are in board shorts and have no shirt on there is no other way to hide what you are really thinking other than burying it in the sand! We all also made plans to attempt to spend some time perhaps an inch or two further down her landing strip, and in a predawn alcohol fueled paranoid haze I was quite sure that getting her kicked out of her accommodation would not help me get any part of myself inside of her.
Anyway, I needed to clean those fucking dishes or I may not get the fuck I had been coveting for days, so I climb out of bed, feeling awful, about to get my hands into a pool of rich tomato flavored water. Only I did not find a pool of water with floating dishes, the water had drained out, and the left over pasta was now caked over all the dishes. Turns out we must have had more leftovers than I had thought; now I might get in trouble for not saving them for breakfast too, when backpacking on a tight budget, throwing out perfectly good food is very much frowned upon. Every movie which has a character who is an alcoholic has one common scene, the one where the protagonist goes searching through his horde of bottles trying to find one that still has some booze swimming at the bottom. This scene fucking sucks, because it is not true, alcoholics don’t leave half a bottle of piss lying around, they drink that shit, they are alcoholics! Well backpackers and food are nothing like that, but I have always wanted to whine about those scenes and thought this was as good a time as ever.
Unfortunately I could not find a fucking sponge or cleaning utensil anywhere, so as I dug into the sink to pull out spaghetti and sauce covered plates and pots, it dawned on me that I was to be cleaning these fuckers with my hands, and it was going to take some time. So I had to fucking scrub these things with my fingers, pressing hard to acquire some friction. I had to pick off dried up bits of onion with my fingernails, and scoop out deeper chunks of food congregating in deep pockets. It took a long time and I was not having the slightest bit of fun, but it was my job and I got the place looking clean enough, rinsed off the last memoirs of dinner from my hands, wiped them dry on my dirty boxer short covered ass, and climbed wearily back into bed.
Although before I was able to drift back to sleep the snoring next to me ceased for a moment. Then I heard Goshie whisper across at me “are you awake?”
“Sort of” I whispered back
“Hey don’t go near the sink, I had the worst spew in there when we came home last night!” he said back with a chuckle.
Oh I never did get to have sex with either of the Swedish girls either, although Goshie once talked them into a backyard wet t-shirt competition at a time when I wasn’t around. That bastard. And he didn’t even know Spain was in Europe!
Goshie is now a super talented fishing journalist by the way, look him up if you want to know how to catch huge fish from the rocks!