All I have seen so far is that this blog posted a first post that says HELLO WORLD. Well that is the gayest thing I have ever seen.
But hello everyone that would ever try to read this. I have no intention of posting my comments to the world. Most people would abosulutely hate me.
Actually the only reason I am posting under this adresss is some motherfucker took my name. Fuck you other MarstonSmith, you cellist playing asshole. There’s also a hockeyplayer with the last name of Marston-Smith, but his parents must have been from San Francisco, and obviously all other Marston Smiths are lame-asses.
Yet I am the third-m0st popular Marston Smith by Google standards, so I have been forced into a life of anonymity, of disrespect, and of pure absurdity. My name has become Chance Stephens for this blog.
But right now my name is still Marston Smith, as most ladies in Valencia have never heard of the cello or hockey. However, I must always repronounce my name as “Marston, como MONSTER” here. It is funnier than when I said it when I was 16 and spending the summer here and used the exact same line. But the prior sentence is also funnier than anything else I couldwrite because I am now 23 and my maturity has notchanged.
So I will give a quick recap of my travels. I literally had to run to every plane to get here. Tripp dropped me off in Dulles and it took retardedly long to get through security, bag check, and the shuttle to gate C, leaving me 4 minutes afterward to run to my gate. I threw up in the plane bathroom before we took off, so that made things easier, except for the person sitting next to me.
On the plane ride to Frankfurt, Germany I watched the movie “The Goods” and then instantly went to sleep. The last thing I remember was listening to a Katy Perry song on audio, she always puts me to sleep. My brother says that the best way to go to sleep is by listening to the book Twilight on audio. I tried and wanted to kill myself before actually shutting my eyes. Vampire attack!
But I made it to Frankfurt and they checked me into the EU. This took forever. Even though Germans are quite efficient. I had 45 minutes to board my plane to Barca and boarded it in 48. but still made it.
Barca was the easiest flight ever, but I had somehow lost my ticket from Barca to Valencia (I’m positive that United didn’t give it to me), but it was easier than I thought to get a ticket in my name at the gate. All you have to do is say you are a correct name boarding the flight, and then hold up a box-cutting device.
That airport (and it is a very cool airport if you ever go) was the first time I have eaten a bocadillo de iberico sandwich. And it was awesome. Right when I got here, in Valencia, we went to a supermercado called Superbrava and my brother and I got a shitload of bocadilloiberica stuff. I’m pretty sure that’s all I’ve eaten for food so far here.
Oh, and a black dude literally decked me with his bike while I was looking for our apartment once I got in Valencia, but it made an old woman give me directions to the right street; otherwise I would have been lost forever. And his bike got fucked up. Lo siento. Awesome.
So I got here that night and we did nothing. Except go to Superbrava. But I’m sorta still on east coast time and couldn’t sleep, so I finished my first book here, something by a guy called Tucker Max who I revile, but I can’t help but say it was fun reading. I finished at 7AM, and for some reason none of us woke up until 4:30 pm. Scott and Watt still have not seen daylight on this trip? How is that possible?
When we ventured out at 715 we had three objectives: 1. get a power adaptor at “El Corte Ingles”, 2. Rent a car for tomorrow, 3. Sign up for a pub crawl.
El Corte Ingles was a ridiculous experience. We went to the first Corte Ingles, right across from where I had goneto school in the verano of 2003. We went up all five escaleras only to findout it only had gay looking clothes. And kinda gay looking people. The security guard told us there were three other El Corte Ingleses on that street. That weren’t as gay looking. Thats like having three Walmarts within one kilometer. Sam Walton is smarter than all of Spain, in terms of positioning, but El Corte Ingles is still better and more popular. We skipped the second Corte, and at the third we went straight up to the fifth floor, which we just called the vibration machine floor. Our strategy for the night became to hit on the salesgirls of these vibratory products. The first product we tried was meant to take wrinkles “arrugas” out of your face by giving you electroshock therapy. Watt tried it first and started crying. I tried it soon thereafter and wanted to start crying, but held back. Scott got her number, because he is the only one who can speak spanish, and has good spanish game.
On a side note, our gameplan here is to have girls call us. Watt randomly got a prepaid phone and has 22 minutes on it. We listened to 17 minutes of that in background music today while he was trying to track down his camcorder, which is gone. However, you don’t get charged minutes here for calls you receive, only the ones that you make. Our plan is to have girls call us. And the three of us all give out one cell phone number. So far it might’ve worked?
But I’m getting ahead of myself. So facewrinkle girl is loving us, but then we turn around to plataform vibrator girl. This fucking exercise machine is literally a platform that vibrates. It’s weird to stand on. Maybe it works the core? It costs 955,00 Euros. Scott knows spanish and works some awesome game, so she wants to come out with us. We unite the vibratory competitors, who we discover had not been friends, or even really talked to each other, previously. They stand three fucking feet away from each other every day. And both love and promote vibratory products. The irony almost brought me to tears. Again.
They have our numero and want to meet us at at 1230 at some metro stop. OK sure we say. We go get the adaptor from the second ELCORTE, and then go to the estacion de tren to find a good rental car, objective 2.
Now this experience wasn’t particularly interesting, and the end result was that we have a rental car for four days, 1.000 kilometers, and have one driver, who we named Walter Lefew Smith, Jr. And we got a manual car because it is three times as cheap here. None of us have ever driven manual. We got some kind of insurance.
The renting ending up taking 1.5 hours, because while we thought she was typing down the information for the car, she thought we were sitting indian-style on the floor trying to make a decision. This was the most ridiculous miscommunication I have ever seen, and it literally wasted a full hour of indian-sitting. I should really learn spanish.
So we got back to our apartment at 10 and got ready for this pubcrawl that started at 1030. I’ll give you this story later, but it was awesome; I got back and started wrote this blog, Watt still isn’t back yet. Good times. I think we will be in Alicante tomorrow. We are going to keep travelling south until we get to Tangier, Morocco.
Yes, I am going to Africa. A day ago I would’ve never guessed this to happen, but I think this will be an incredible adventure. The three of us will be travelling 812 miles south over four days, none of us knowing how to drive stick shift, eventually arriving at the Strait of Gibraltar, and then crossing it into a continent I never thought I would step foot in.
I guess I just seek warmth. Wish me luck!