Pub Crawl Fail
Pub crawls 7, Grace 0.
The first pub crawl I ever attempted saw me end up dreadfully intoxicated, sitting in Hungry Jack’s eating a Whopper. I was vegetarian.
The last pub crawl I attempted was on Halloween in San Sebastian, and was a tad more successful. I passed out in the early hours of the morning on the wrong floor of our hostel building, in front of the wrong apartment. My key and vampire teeth were lying next to me and my face was covered in fake blood. I had managed to take my boots off and line them up perfectly at my feet before collapsing unconsciously. Impressive.
The concept of meeting a group of travelling youngsters who also enjoy getting inappropriately annihilated, starting at one bar and drinking all over a new city sounds like a ingenious idea in theory: free drinks, free shirt, nightlife orientation and backpacker babes. But let’s be honest, only point one of people make it to the second bar.
In London, I endeavored to conquer the 1 Night Out and was found staggering the streets of Leicester Square with a giant vagina on my back and crude messages involving impossible sexual scenarios and distasteful “yo mama” jokes scribbled over my free tee.
In Lisbon, I had my bag stolen with all my money, ID and bobby pins. I vaguely remember making the third bar, which is my all-time record. Then the night got weird.
Blurry visions of making out with a dude who whispered in my ear, “Let’s make this the best night of our lives,” still gives me shivers. I felt his hot, yeast-infused tobacco breath on my face and of course decided to agree with him.
In my head, I thought we had danced on tables and eaten kebabs while watching the sunrise over the harbor. In reality, I rocked up to our hostel at 10am. We had gone out at 6pm the previous day. What the fuck did I do for 16 hours?
The uncanny thing is, I still manage to pick up. Which absolutely perplexes me, as I am in no state to be even slightly attractive. Unless you think a gal who can barely stand with red lipstick smudged up to her eyebrows is a mega catch. Then I’m all yours, hunk.
I know one day soon I will learn to control my alcoholic consumption, and will take on a pub crawl full swing. I will be invincible, going to every bar and dancing and singing and partying ’til dawn. And when I am tired and my feet hurt, I will return to the hostel, have a shower, get in my PJs, consume a glass of water and slip into bed.
But for now, I hate myself for using this, but I think the term YOLO perfectly sums up how I feel about partying. Go hard or go home. Bitches.