My bunk companion has left, only to be replaced by more French people. I have a funny feeling the Hostel are trying to group neighbouring countrymen together in order to spark conversation or something. I'm suspicious.
I actually went out for a drink with French man number 1 and he turned out to be a real nice guy. He was on a journey from Montreal, down through the states to Mexico City. He had squirrelsome features and a keen ear for Jazz.
We wandered through the night together in search of Music and painfully hip places to drink. Before we landed though, i ate falafel. And it was nice. He had Greek salad. And it was big.
We talked about Jazz together and exchanged artists/recordings that should be heard, and in between this we spoke about Sarkozy and what a prick he seems. We encouraged each other to smoke cigarettes at high speed and by the time we reached the Village I was ready to pass out with nicotine poisoning.
At the first bar, I sucked down the people as violently as my cigarettes, my eyes flitting from face to face, grabbing snippets of conversation, whilst trying to work out what the fuck was happening on the football field. American football field that is. No clues found in a pile of bodies. No sense seen in throwing a ball forwards either. That's cheating.
We concluded the evening with a worthy surprise, taking some stairs down to a cellar bar that opened up to reveal pool tables, ping pong, beer a plenty and a six piece gospel outfit. We bought cold cold beers and sat to watch short fat ladies with hella lot of soul belt out some praise. I loved it. The crowd within this joint were a friendly bunch, loads of clinking glasses and instant recognition for the accent, something which hasn't tired.Yet.
My French comrade and I got well into the groove of the place, until he abruptly left, with rosy cheeks and an interesting swagger out the door. I stayed for one more, spoke to two sickeningly abrasive English girls about nothing, and then followed suit, swaying onto the subway.
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