gcb: Australia attacks!

After fighting our way into the hostel in Edinburgh past an unruly, drunken, but friendly rugby team (this was late afternoon), Grizzo and I checked in, dropped our bags, and went in search of a meal. We were immediately pleased with Edinburgh's lovely old town and generous supply of vegetarian dining options, of which we availed ourselves in some lovely old courtyard. Then we retreated to the hostel to run some laundry and do some blogging.

It was a good plan, and it started out well. I was sitting in our room in my shorts, button-down, and flip-flops with my laptop in front of me. Grizzo was showering. There were 3 other people in the room. The two girls from South Australia who were traveling with about 10 pairs of shoes between them were no threat to distract me from blogging with conversation. The third person, however, was Clint.

Clint, coincidentally, is also from South Australia. He did not share his countrywomen's disdain for the region or inability to make conversation, though. Clint had a more than healthy dose of gregarious Aussie charm, and while Grizzo and I waited for our clothes to dry, he regaled us with tales of various heights, mostly related to travel, and none of which can be repeated here.

Once my only trousers were finally dry, we headed out on the town with ol' Clint. He watched us go after our first drinks with our usual gusto and told us that he was a lightweight and would never be able to keep up with us. 4 hours later, Grizzo and I are ready to crash as Clint is buying us entry into a club, forcing us to join him, and shoving shots of Jägermeister (which we both despise) into our hands.

When we finally stumble off to bed, Clint is still at the club. When we wake up in the morning, he's already out the door checking out the castle. I'd like to attribute his resilience to greater youth, but he was 27 just like us.

But I've had to skip over an important story here. The setup: our dorm room was shaped like a U. On the left tip was the door, on the right tip was a door to a restroom. My bed is near the left tip. Also, for those who don't know this, it should be noted that I have a freakishly small bladder.

About an hour after we return from the club, I am woken, barely, by my screaming bladder. I'm still a bit drunk, very hazy, and in an unfamiliar place. But I have a great sense of urgency that won't go away. So I jump off my top bunk in nothing but my boxers and scramble out the nearest door, down to the next floor, and into the shared restroom there. Once my raging sense of urgency has dissipated, I head back to the room.

Which has a key-card lock on it. My card is in my jeans. Inside.

I scramble down 3 flights of steps to the lobby and find a hostel employee sweeping up broken glass in the hostel bar. He glances up at me, probably looking more than a little crazy and sporting white boxers and bare feet, smiles amiable, and says, "Left your key behind, eh? Been there."

It actually takes me an extra trip up and down the stairs, as I tell him the wrong room number the first time he programs my card. I slept with the card in the elastic of my boxers, just to be safe.

If anyone read that story and wondered, "Why didn't you just use the restroom attached to your room?"... I sympathize with your curiosity.