Back in 2009 I spent my parents’ money and went backpacking in Europe. It was more of a 12-nation bar crawl then an actual adventure, but at 20, I wasn’t really looking for a soul-searching experience, just booze and boys. I was with my two besties, Alissa and Stephanie, and one of their cousins, Nick. Nick was 25, a primary school teacher, and a total pussy. He was forced to come with us by his parents in order to protect his much younger, female cousin. When I met him at the airport for the first time he puffed out his chest and shook my hand like a man. He dressed like a Dad and talked like an accountant but I soon discovered that he cried over everything. He cried when he was cold, he cried when he was scared, he cried when the train was late, and worst of all, he cried when you called him out on crying.
He was the worst kind of boy, the kind of boy who calls himself a man but probably hates all girls. Nick was your typical “girl’s don’t like me because I’m too nice” guy. This meant that every time a European girl rejected his baseball cap, brown belted, jeaned ass, he cried and called her a slut. He also wrote in his “journal” constantly and ate one block of cheese per day. I learned a lot from Nick, but mostly I learned how to travel with a complete and total wuss:
Never try to read their diary. Nick loved his diary. He wrote in it for hours each day and he even kept it locked up, much like a small girl. I think it was the lock that made it so much more desirable. It was three weeks into our trip before I decided I was going to read it. I know it’s really bad to read other people’s diaries but I’m nosey and it was right in front of me. I also have no self-control and can’t keep a secret to save my life so it was inevitable that I snooped. Finally on a train ride to Austria, my opportunity had arrived. It was on the seat next to sleeping Nick. He was passed out snoring, so I snatched it. Needless to say he woke up, caught me fiddling with the lock, threw a temper tantrum and cried himself to sleep hugging the journal. He never let go of that thing again. Reading Nick’s diary is now my main goal in life.
Never call a cry baby names. We were just outside of Rome one night when we went to a local bar. My relationship with Nick had deteriorated considerably after the diary debacle so we weren’t really speaking, we were simply grunting, rolling eyes at each other, and talking shit behind the other’s back. Enemies aside, we all went out together that night. We entered the bar where there was a gaggle of 16 year old girls, all beautiful, all Italian, and all jailbait by American standards. As Nick was a self-entitled brat, he walked right over to the prettiest of the bunch and started grinding against her ass. She got scared and ran away with the gaggle protecting her, he cried, I called him creepy, and then he cried harder. He drank for the rest of the night alone in a corner.
Never travel to Naples with a cry baby. Nick didn’t seem understand backpacking because he grew up in a sheltered in a suburb of Orlando. Being both an idiot and a novice, he brought a wheeled suitcase for his backpacking adventures. He also brought three different guidebooks, a baseball cap, and a Chelsea football jersey (to try and look European). Unfortunately, one night we arrived in Naples past dark and couldn’t find out hostel. As everyone knows, the bad guys come out at night so Nick became anxious. With no hostel in sight and 10 PM approaching, his solution was to sit on his suitcase, guidebook in hand, and cry. We had to hightail it back to Rome that night because Nick was uncomfortable in Naples.
Never mock the movie EuroTrip to a cry baby. Nick was convinced that our adventure would pretty much be an exact reenactment of the 2004 film EuroTrip. He became upset that he didn’t trip harder in Amsterdam, that he didn’t break into the Vatican in Rome, and most importantly, that he didn’t end up with a beautiful German girl. After each city failed to reach his Hollywood expectations, he wouldn’t cry, but he’d moan about it until we reached our next destination. After he returned stateside, he posted a long blog entry about how Europe wasn’t nearly as awesome as the movie had portrayed. No one commented.
Never leave a cry baby out in the rain. One of our last stops was in Oban, Scotland. It was July by this time, but as we were in Scotland, it was raining and cold. We had set up our tent the night before in a small campsite about a mile from town. Now I hate camping more than anything in the world, it seems that camping is a sign of devolving and that’s just not something I am interested in. That being said, I got involved. I helped set up the tent, I helped make a fire, and I drank crap beer. Nick on the other hand, sat down on the grass and ate a block of cheese. He then went to bed promptly at 11PM. At 5AM it started to pour and our tent began to flood. The girls and I packed up the tent, struggling against the elements, but since Nick didn’t like rain he ran to the car and sat shot gun instead. When we finally packed up and joined him he was already sleeping, warm and snuggled in the car. I smacked him on the top of the head. We haven’t spoken since.