Nice: I am so much hotter than her but, whatever.

When a hostel has been rated in the world’s top ten hostels five years in a row,
has unparalleled customer ratings and describes itself as “elegant and sociable”,
checking in for six nights is an exciting prospect. Especially when they also offer 18
different cereals for breakfast – eighteen! Villa Saint Exupéry – I cannot recommend
this place enough. C'est magnifique! To get from Annecy to Nice, we had to catch a
train to Toulon, another train to Marseilles and a final train to Nice. With stopovers, it
made for a very long day of travel. When we finally pulled-up in Nice, we sought out
a pay phone (yes, these do still exist) as we had been instructed to call the hostel
upon our arrival so they could direct us from the station. I said ‘bonjour’, to which an
Australian voice answered, ‘Hello.’

‘Oh! You speak English.’

‘I only speak English. I don’t speak French.’ She gave us directions to catch the
tram to a certain point and told us someone would be there to meet us and drive
us the rest of the way. The person driving the van was also Australian as, it turned
out, were 95% of the staff. When we arrived at the hostel itself, the girl who talked to
us on the phone checked us in. From Sydney, she came to France to “experience
a new culture”. And boy, oh boy, did it sound like she was experiencing it to its
fullest. On living in Nice: ‘Yeah, it’s okay. I haven’t really seen much.’ On learning
to speak French: ‘Nah. I can’t be bothered. I mean, like, what’s the point? Everyone
here speaks English.’ On the hostel: ‘It’s really great because we’re practically all
Australians who work here, so we can just, like, hang out with each other and just,
like, do Australian things.’ Wow! You must be, like, culturally exhausted with all that,
like, French culture coming out of your ears.

After we’d done all the paperwork and heard some more fascinating tales of French-
living involving doing Australian things with Australian people, she led us to our
room. When we’d booked in, all that was available was a female dorm of 20 but,
in some major stroke of luck, we had two beds in a smaller room at one end of the
dorm which even had its own entrance. This room had five beds, two of which were
already occupied, one of which had its occupant seated on it. Sarah, American, was
travelling with her friend who had gone off to St. Tropez for the day. They were doing
a bit of European travel before heading off to South Korea to teach English. ‘Have
you been here long?’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Oh, I meant here at the hostel.’
‘Yeah. Six weeks.’ Saywhat?!
‘Six WEEKS? Why so long?’ 

The answer was extensive, but the condensed version was that her and her friend were in Barcelona when her bag – containing her wallet and passport – were stolen. ‘And this was six weeks ago? You still haven’t got a replacement?’
‘It was about seven or eight. We stayed in Spain for a bit longer and then came here.’
‘Why are they taking so long to send you a replacement? Surely they can organise
something temporary for you so you can keep travelling?’
‘I haven’t organised one yet.’
Of course not. I imagine organising a new passport when you’re travelling on a
different continent would get buried under the sea of other terribly important things
you’re doing. ‘So…why not?’
‘Well the reason we came to Nice was because we thought there was a US
Embassy here. But there’s not.’
‘Surely there’s an embassy in Barcelona? Or a Consulate? There would have been
somewhere in the city you could have gone for help.’ Because, you know, that would
have been a bit easier than travelling to France given that you were in Barcelona and
all. ‘Well I just didn’t really trust anyone in Spain after it had been stolen. So I thought
I’d wait until I got to France.’
Yes, I imagine the staff of the US Embassy is incredibly corrupt. Good thinking! ‘Where is the closest embassy?’
‘Marseilles.’
‘Well that’s not too far from here.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve heard it’s really dodgy there, so I don’t really want to go.’
‘…’

The conversation progressed from there and we told her about our Roman mugging
and the creepy guy at the hostel in Rome by the Sea – a story which, we later found
out, was completely misinterpreted. After we escaped, we had a quick wander
around the place which was as amazing as it read online. A converted monastery,
it was an incredibly impressive building, surrounded by lovely gardens. The bar was
going off, but it had been a long day so we called it a night in anticipation of two big evenings ahead.

The next morning we awoke early, the excitement of 18 different cereals enough to
get us out of bed and showered before anyone else in the dorm had stirred. Our aim
was to try all 18 cereals over the duration of our stay. We tried at least fourteen of
them on that first morning: muesli, muesli with chocolate, granola - I even tried Fruit
Loops for the first time in my life. We spent the morning being touristy, strolling along
the Promenade des Anglais and taking in the views from Colline du Chateau. After
sharing a meringue for morning tea and not-sharing mozzarella baguettes for lunch,
we happened across the world’s greatest ice-cream. The flavour was phenomenal,
the texture amazing - seriously, I could wank on about this ice-cream Matt Preston-
style for the next half-hour. Instead, I will channel Molly Meldrum and suggest that,
if you are ever in Nice, do yourself a favour and find L’Art Gourmand - you will not
regret it.

These light up at night and look spectacular. Unfortunately, I was never in a position to photograph them.

Tourists.

With plans for two nights of hardcore partying, we decided that we owed it to the
tourists and locals of Nice to look our very best. This involved new clothes and
makeup and, as luck would have it, two of my three favourite European stores stood
next to each other on avenue Jean Médecin – aka, the Main Drag. H&M was first-
up, as we hunted for Mediterranean-friendly outfits. While I was exceedingly tempted
by the organ-constricting black pleather dress I had tried on for LOLs in Florence,
it was un peu cher (a rip-off). That, and it made me look like a strumpet – and the
French are nothing if not classy so, on the off-chance I was to bump (into) Gaspard
Ulliel or Vincent Lecoeur, I wouldn’t want them to mistake me for a courtesan. (I’ll do
it for free, gentleman.) Instead, I found a pair of tight black skinnies and a pink sheer,
lacey top, while Kaitlyn purchased a cute little skirt.

From H&M we made our way to Sephora. Sephora is make-up heaven and, during
a fateful excursion to Sephora on the Champs-Élysées as a little girl, it became the
setting of my first meeting with purple eye-shadow, a love affair which is still burning
as passionately as ever. Many amethyst, fuschia, violet and wisteria shades have
come and gone from my life, but it is Sephora’s heliotrope-hued crayon to which I
will pledge my undying love and allegiance. When Isaac Brock comments on how it
makes your “gorgeous” eyes “explode”, there’s really no going back. So I stocked up,
added a sultry, smokey eggplant to my collection, and we made our way to the bus
station to visit Èze.

New purchases. 

A forty minute bus trip from Nice, Èze is a small commune on the French Riviera. It
is a small medieval village set on cliff-top 400-odd metres above sea level, looking
out over the Mediterranean. It’s a labyrinth of narrow, snaking cobblestone paths.
The town is renowned for its Fragonard and Gallimard perfume outlets where you
can observe the production process, as well as for the Jardin botanique d’Èze which
is famous for its collection of cactuses and succulents from around the world. Most
impressive off all is its breathtaking views of the Mediterranean: on a clear day it
is said you can see Corsica. We gave the gardens a miss as, coinciding with our
arrival, was the appearance of a large group of middle-aged American tourists from
a cruise ship who were all making their way up there. We know they were from a
cruise ship because at least 20 of them loudly pointed out their cruise ship in the
water below, including one woman who painfully grasped my shoulder and proudly
indicated to the ship, talking at-length about its onboard facilities. Apparently, she
misinterpreted my facial expression as one of giving a shit. So we left them to invade
the “jar-dean beau-tanic der ease” and instead made our way to the Church of Our
Lady of the Assumption of Éze.

Somewhere down there is the cruise ship. 

We caught the bus back into Nice and then the tram up towards the hostel. Rather
than wait for the van to make its way down, we decided to buy some ice-cream and
walk the short distance ourselves. We selected a box of Mars Bar ice-creams and
we were so distracted by their brilliance, we completely missed the turn-off to the
hostel. It was quite some time before we realised we’d missed our turn-off - I’m not
certain, but it’s quite likely we had crossed the border into Italy. Kaitlyn was freaking
out because we were walking so much and I was freaking out because time was
ticking away, precious time that I required all of in order to hot-up. Eventually we
made it back to the hostel, but we only had about half an hour until Happy Hour
started and, dammit, if I wasn’t going to be there at 6.00pm on the dot to make the
most of the cheap cocktails. In retrospect, it probably would have been beneficial for
Kaitlyn, at least, to miss the first 60 of Happy Hour’s 120 minutes.

We made our way down, immediately taking up residence at the bar itself. There
were several €3.00 cocktails to choose from which I thought was going to be an
impossible feat. Usually, I do what any smart person would do and select the
strongest one on offer, but all of them appeared to be heavy on the alcohol. Then
I noticed that the “Hot Passion” contained amaretto. Sold! The barman was – no
surprise – Australian, so we sat and chatted to him throughout our first cocktail. He
was an attractive man, with delicious shoulder and back muscles, displayed ever so
nicely in his navy blue singlet. We were soon joined by two American guys, Teddy
and Nicco. Kaitlyn’s second cocktail, a “Tooti Fruiti”, evaporated before my eyes, so
we decided we should probably order some food. Our pizzas arrived at the same
time as our third cocktails (“Midnight Mojitos”), so we migrated down to a table with Teddy and Nicco who were also dining on pizza.

A combination of our good looks and infectious laughter led our group to quickly
establish itself as the popular table and soon, people were falling all over themselves
to join our little party. The first to take a seat were Michael and his guitar. Canadian,
I came to the conclusion from listening to his tales that he was backpacking around
Europe and forcing his music on all he encountered. (Michael was very talented and
had a lovely voice, but we soon discovered he had a limited repertoire consisting
of Incubus, Oasis and Incubus.) Soon after Michael and his guitar’s arrival, two of
his friends came and sat down too. One of them was mute and the other seemed to
fancy himself as a bit of a Brian Epstein, going on and on and on about his “plans”
for Michael’s “career”. Three cocktails in, Kaitlyn was already coming out with some
classic one-liners, so I went upstairs to fetch my phone in the hopes of recording
some. While I was up there, I came across Sarah with whom the night before we had
made plans to have a drink. She was sitting up on her bunk with her computer and,
when I asked her if she was coming down for a drink, she said she couldn’t because
her friend had gone off again, taking all of their money with her. With drinks being so
cheap, I hardly minded shouting her one or two, so I encouraged her to come down
and join the fun.

Minutes after I returned, Sarah appeared in the bar. Kaitlyn and Sarah both wanted
wine and, upon finding out a bottle of wine was only €4.00, it was decided we would
get a bottle to share. I distinctly remember saying to Kaitlyn that such cheap wine
was sure to be stocked-full of hangover-inducing preservatives. She didn’t heed my
warning and the bottle was purchased. I went to introduce Sarah to Teddy, Nicco,
Michael, Brian et al, but she knew them all, as well as almost everyone else in the
bar. She went around the room pointing people out, telling us who was with who,
who was sleeping with who, who had had threesomes with who – I guess that’s
what comes from spending six weeks in the same hostel. She was in the middle of
telling us which staff had hooked-up with each other, when another girl approached
us. ‘This is my friend Rebecca.’ Rebecca greeted us by pounding the left portion of
her chest twice and then flashing the peace sign. This will henceforth be referred to
as the “pound-pound-peace”. ‘You must be the girls Sarah was telling me about last
night. It’s nice to meet you.’ *Pound-pound-peace*.
‘Nice to meet you too.’ And it was. Then. Things change.

It was getting quite loud at this point, and not just Kaitlyn. Michael really wanted
to play his guitar for us all, so we headed out to the gardens, Kaitlyn insisting on
buying another bottle of wine on the way. It was as we made our way out the doors
that I realised just how drunk she was. Michael started playing an Incubus song (I
was told it was called “Drive”), to which Kaitlyn shouted out, ‘THIS IS SHIT. PLAY
SOMETHING I KNOW.’ Michael finished his song, but then attempted to execute
her request, asking her if she knew Oasis’ “Wonderwall”. ‘OF COURSE I F@#%ING
DO.’ And so they began. I say “they” because, even if they weren’t singing in time,
or singing the same words, it was still very much a duet. Also, in regards to Kaitlyn,
I use the term “singing” loosely. Very loosely. Michael had a really great voice,
although it was hard to make out over Kaitlyn who was not only butchering the
delivery, but also the lyrics, leading everyone to question whether she did know the
song. Her first verse went a little something like this:

'TODAY WAS GONNA BE DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA YOOOOUUUUU
BY NOW THE WEATHER ON THE DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DAAAAAAAAA
DA DA BELIEEEEEEVE THAT DA DA BODY DA DA DA DA DA – YOU’RE
SINGING THE F@#%ING WORDS WRONG. CLAIRE! HE’S SINGING THE
F@#%ING WORDS WRONG.'

She spent the chorus and the first half of the second verse yelling at him and
chastising him for singing the song incorrectly. By this point, they had amassed
quite a crowd which was eager to hear her so, fortunately, she launched back
into “singing”:

‘I DON’T BELIEVE THAT ANYTHING SOMETHING ABOUT DA DA ABOUT YOU
NOW.
AND ALL THE NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
NA NA MANY THINGS THAT I NA NA NA NA NA NA
NA NA DON’T KNOW HOOOOOOWWWWWWW
BAAAAAAABBBBBBY, YOU GONNA BE THE ONE THAT SAVES MEEEEEEEE
BUT AFTERALLLLLL – I KNOW THIS ONE LINE – YOU’RE MY
WONDERWALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL.’

‘Hey! She got one,’ Teddy observed. ‘Now, can you get her to stop?’
‘Probably not.’
‘I SAID MAAAAAYYYYBEEEE - MAYBE YOU SHOULD PLAY SOME F@#%ING
WOMBATS.’

She gave up at that point and came over to us. ‘That guy is F@#%ING hopeless. He
should play some f@#%ing Wombats so I can f@#%ing sing along. I can’t sing that
shit.’
‘Are you sure you can sing at all?’
‘I will have you know I f@#%ing sang in the Opening Ceremony of the f@#%ing
Olympics.’ She was met with laughter. ‘SHUT UP. I F@#%ING DID. I was in the
Opening Ceremony of the 2001 Sydney Olympics.’
‘The 2001 Sydney Olympics?’
‘Yeah. The ones in Sydney, douche bag.’
‘In 2001?’
‘Yeah!’
‘You don’t mean 2000?’
‘No. 2001. I was F@#%ING there. I would F@#%ING know.’ I felt the need to back
Teddy up here. ‘They were in 2000.’
‘F@#%ing WHATEVER. It’s not like you two sang in them.’ No, but at least we know
when they were. Teddy said to me, ‘She didn’t actually sing in them, did she?’
‘Yep. She really did.’
‘No way?!’ I could understand his surprise following her performance. ‘You really
sang in them?’
‘I had to sing with that f@#%ing slut, Nikki f@#%ing Webster. And our song had
movements for deaf people and shit. So we did more than her, because we had to
sing and do hand gestures at the same f@#%ing time. All she had to do was wear
that slutty dress and somersault through the air. Whatever.’
‘So you really sang in the Olympics?’
‘YES! I’ll f@#%ing show you our routine.’ She then proceeded to perform “Under the
Southern Skies”, complete with the “movements for deaf people and shit”.

As she was finishing up, she noticed a guy sitting over with a group of people. ‘He’s
hot. Don’t you think he’s f@#%ing hot?’ She went over to talk to him and as
Teddy went to get another drink, Sarah’s friend Rebecca took the opportunity to
pounce. ‘Sarah told me.’
Oh! Hi. ‘Sarah told you what?’
‘It’s okay. She told me. I understand.’ *Pound -pound-peace*.
‘Understand what?’
‘She told me what happened to you in Italy. I just wanted to let you know that if you
want to talk to someone about it…’
‘Oh…you mean in Rome? The mugging? It really wasn’t a big deal.’
‘No, I mean the other thing.’
‘What other thing?’ I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.
‘The rape.’ I still had no idea what she was talking about.
‘The rape? What rape?’
‘Your rape.’ She grabbed my hand. ‘It’s okay. You can talk to me about it. I
understand.’ Before I could say anything else, Kaitlyn came bounding over. ‘HE’S
F@#%ING SCOTTISH!’
‘Who’s Scottish?’
‘The hot guy. SCOTTISH. Scottish like Archie f@#%ing MacDonald and Gerard
Butler.’ She disappeared again. Unfortunately, Rebecca didn’t disappear with her. ‘I
really think you need to talk about it.’
‘Listen, I don’t know what Sarah told you, but I wasn’t raped.’
‘I have a lot of experience with this. I promise you that talking about it makes it a lot
easier.’
‘Listen….’ She cut me off before I could get any further.
‘I was raped.’ *Pound-pound-peace*

I hadn’t been that stuck for words since I first met Yeast Infection in
Kraków. ‘Ummm….’ Fortunately, I didn’t have to form a coherent response, as
she then launched into a very detailed re-telling of her own assault. When she’d
finished, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that” didn’t really seem
appropriate. I was also very keen to reiterate to her that there had been some kind of
communication break-down between her and Sarah. ‘I appreciate you coming over
here,’ a complete and utter lie, ‘but there really isn’t anything to talk about. I’m not
quite sure why Sarah has told you that, but I promise you I wasn’t raped. A guy got a
little creepy, but that’s it. Nothing happened.’ She was freaking persistent.
‘I denied it for a lone time too.’ Kaitlyn took that time to reappear.

‘HIS NAME IS CRAIG. CRAIG LYNN!.’
‘Hot Scottsman?’
‘Yeah! Do you know what this means?’ I didn’t, but I ventured a guess anyway. 
‘That he’s even hotter?’
‘No. If I marry him, my f@#%ing name will be Kaitlyn Lynn. Kaitlyn – Lynn.
Kaitlynlynn. Kait-double-lyn.’
‘That is…..unfortunate. Still, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How about you
introduce me to Mr Lyn?’ I was hoping this would provide me with a quick escape out
of the horrible conversation with Rebecca. She, on the other hand, wasn’t prepared
to let me go that easily and grabbed tightly onto my arm. ‘We’re not quite done here,
Kaitlyn, but I’ll send her over to you as soon as we are.’ I was very done by that
point.

‘It’s Rebecca right?’ She merely nodded and pound-pound-peaced. ‘I’m not quite
sure how else I can say this to you: I was not raped. Wasn’t assaulted. End of story.’
‘Denying it isn’t going to make you heal any faster.’
It’s not going to make your broken face heal any faster either. ‘Listen, I’m going to
go now.’ And just when I thought the conversation couldn’t possibly get any more
awkward, ‘I was molested as a child.’ Again, I didn’t know what to say. “I wasn’t”
didn’t strike me as the best response. I also didn’t feel like that was the best time to
make a hasty retreat. Not that I could, because she latched onto my arm again. ‘I
know what it’s like to be embarrassed about it, to feel ashamed. But when you’re
ready to talk, you come and find me. I’ll be waiting.’ And with a pound-pound-peace,
she was gone.

Not five minutes later, the contents of the bottle of wine I was holding were gone
too. After chatting a bit more to various people, I found Kaitlyn over at the computers
with two girls. As I got closer, I could see she was showing them clips of Archie
MacDonald. ‘These girls don’t know who Archie MacDonald is. Can you f@#%ing
believe that?’ I left her there harassing them but, soon afterwards, she came up to
me in tears – actual, literal tears. ‘What’s wrong?’ Her first attempts to tell me were
unintelligible. Eventually, she managed to stutter out, ‘That slut has stolen my man.’
‘Craig Lynn?’
‘Yeeessssssss,’ she howled. I looked over to where she was pointing and Rebecca
was sitting down at a table with Craig. There were also several other people with
them; something I pointed out to Kaitlyn in the hopes it would calm her down. It
didn’t. ‘She’s probably f@#%ing them all. SLUT. He was MINE. And she just walked
in here and threw herself all over him. I am so much hotter than her but, whatever.’
This final sentiment was something every single person in the bar heard that night.

For the next hour, every time I happened upon Kaitlyn, she was bailing somebody
up, calling Rebecca a slut and slurring out to them, ‘I am so much hotter than her
but, whatever.’ At one point I found her sitting alone at a computer, YouTubing
Archie MacDonald and Gerard Butler. She’d moved on from inconsolably upset and
was now bitter as all hell. ‘That girl is such a slut. I am so much hotter than her. But
whatever.’
‘I don’t think that anything is actually going on with them.’
‘Ha! Just look at them. I bet they’re hooking up right now.’
‘I am looking at them and they’re really not.’
‘They totally are. I know it. I am so much hotter than her but, whatever.’

I’m not entirely sure what I did immediately after that other than drink more, but I
remember not being able to find my camera, only to have one of the girls Kaitlyn
had been pestering with Monarch of the Glen clips pointing out it was right next to
me. Then I remember Rebecca making eye contact with me from across the room
and making her way towards me. I didn’t hate her quite as much as Kaitlyn did
at that point, but I was hardly a fan, so I jumped up and spent the next half hour
avoiding her. The conversation with her had generally soured my mood and I was so
exhausted from trying to elude her, I decided to call it a night. I found Kaitlyn over by
the computers with the same two girls again, this time making them look up clips of
Chuck Bass. ‘I was just telling these girls about that slut over there, stealing my man.
I am so much hotter than her but, whatever.’ And there I left her, loudly proclaiming
her superior physical desirability to everyone passing by.

I woke up the next morning just before seven, only to discover Kaitlyn’s bed empty
and obviously not slept in. I checked the bathroom and then my phone in case she
had messaged me. I had a quick shower and went downstairs in case she was there,
then ventured outside into the gardens. It probably sounds stupid, but I started to
panic a little bit. I tried messaging her but didn’t get a response. I was sitting on my
bed wondering what to do next when she came through the door looking more than a
little worse for wear. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘No you haven’t. I sent you a message.’ She didn’t seem to be cognizant of my
concern.
‘Yes, I have and no, you didn’t.’ She picked up her phone.
‘Oh, yeah – it didn’t send.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘I woke up in a hammock.’
‘A hammock?’
‘A hammock.’
‘A hammock outside? What were you doing in a hammock?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember anything. I need a shower. I’m hungover as f@#%.’

When she came out of the shower, she actually looked worse. I left her getting
changed while I went down to breakfast. I ate, ate some more and, 45 minutes later,
she still hadn’t appeared. I went back up to the room to find her fully clothed and
passed out on her bed. Apparently what happened is this: after I left her to go down
stairs, she started to dress but then realised how crap she felt. Deciding to take a
Nurofen but, having learnt her lesson in the past about taking them on an empty
stomach, decided she needed some food first. Thinking she couldn’t possibly make
it downstairs to do this, she started looking around the room for something, when
she remembered a box of flatbread we had was under our bunk. She got down on
all fours and peered under, finding the box had been knocked over and the bread
scattered all over the floor. Apparently she grabbed a piece from the floor and, with
a quick check over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking, popped it in her
mouth. On her hands and knees, her modesty protected only by a towel, she ate flat
bread off a dirty hostel floor. She referred to it as the “lowest moment of my life”.

I left her to sleep for a bit and went back downstairs – between us we were paying
for two breakfasts, so between us we were going to eat two breakfasts. About an
hour later, I went back up and she started to stir. She was green, a kind of pistachio
colour. It didn’t really suit her. Suddenly Rebecca appeared, her presence probably
making me look a little pistachio also. *Pound-pound-peace*. ‘How are you doing,
sweetie?’
‘Fine thank-you.’
‘You feeling okay this morning? Did you have any nightmares?’
Yes, about you. ‘No, no I didn’t.’
‘Good.’ She walked out again. I looked over to Kaitlyn who was squinting down at
me with one eye and couldn’t resist. ‘You are so much hotter than her but, whatever.’
It took a few seconds, but then bells started ringing for her. ‘Oh my God. Kill me
now.’

Kaitlyn decided she was feeling well enough to venture into town, so we got our
things together and headed out. As we approached the entrance, I could hear music.
Incubus, as I was now able to correctly identify (something which still doesn’t sit well
with me). There was Michael strumming away, Brian looking on like a proud, money-
hungry parent. I’m actually surprised he didn’t charge us to watch. We caught the
tram into town, but it didn’t take long for Kaitlyn’s complexion to turn asparagus. As
wretched as she was feeling, she had no hesitation in accompanying me to L’Art
Gourmand and ordering some frozen confection for herself. We walked down to
enjoy them by the water, taking the opportunity to dissect the events of the night
before. I was able to fill her in on my uncomfortable conversation with Rebecca,
the details just adding fuel to her fire of hatred which she was already struggling
to contain. ‘That slut really said all of that? I knew I hated her. And I am way hotter
than her.’ Despite her best efforts, she was still in the midst of hangover hell, so we
headed back to the hostel so she could take a nap.

Kaitlyn slept the better part of the afternoon away, while I spent it writing postcards,
all the while remaining on guard to be able to adroitly pack up my things and assume
a fake-sleeping position in case Rebecca appeared. Kaitlyn wasn’t sure she was
ever going to drink again, but I was very much looking forward to my own opportunity
to wake up in a hammock after sunrise…and maybe eat flatbread off a dirty hostel
floor. Just as Kaitlyn was getting out of bed, the two girls who had been humouring
her with YouTube clips of Archie MacDonald the night before came into the room.
One of them said to her, ‘How’d your night end up? You are so much hotter than her
but, whatever.’ Kaitlyn relayed her “waking up in a hammock” anecdote, and the girls
continued on into the other part of the dorm. When they were out of earshot, she
leaned over to me. ‘Who are those girls? Do I even know them?’

We had significantly more time to get ready that evening, so we took great pleasure
in long showers and extensive stints in front of the mirror getting ready. I even
decided to bring out my Slut Dress for the first time since Berlin. Slut Dress is so
named, not because it is particularly tasteless but because, with its constrictive
material rendering a bra redundant and a zip down the front, it is unquestionably the
sluttiest thing I own. (Slut Dress is also occasionally referred to as Lucky Dress, a
name which was still applicable the next day.) We were in the bathroom partaking in
our “getting ready ritual”, perfected duets of “Mother Lover” and “3 Way (The Golden
Rule)”, when the Archie MacDonald girls came in. As they were getting ready, we
started chatting. India and Cheianne (who looked just like Ellie from MasterChef)
came from Melbourne. We laughed a bit about the night before, and then we were
ready to head downstairs. I felt that the extra time primping was worth it as I was of
the opinion I looked très chaud (very hot).

We timed our arrival to coincide with happy hour again. Sitting up at the bar, I started
off with a “Midnight Mojito”, Kaitlyn opting for an orange juice as the mere thought
of alcohol was making her gag. Two Canadian guys came up to the bar and started
chatting with us. They were nice enough guys, but the conversation was prosaic
at best, certainly not deserving of my attire, and we were relieved when they left
to go and eat. As I was deliberating over what to order for my second drink, two
more guys came up to the bar and started chatting with us. From a visual (some
may say “vain”) standpoint, I deemed them immediately worthy of Slut Dress. New
Zealanders, Henry and George’s banter also justified a spell with my Robe Salope
so, when our respective pizzas were ready and they invited us to join them on a
table, we did so without hesitation.

I hadn’t even finished my first slice of pizza when Michael’s guitar made its evening
debut. It was Incubus again. Kaitlyn was hoping that, after eating, she might be able
to stomach a drink or two. I offered her a sip of my cocktail to test the waters, and
she nearly started heaving all over the table. At least that would have momentarily
drowned-out Michael’s rendition of “Champagne Supernova”. It didn’t matter that
she wasn’t drinking, as Henry, George and I were drinking enough between us for
four people - for eight people, even. Sarah and Rebecca came over and invaded our
table momentarily mainly, I think, because they were freaking out that there were two
people in the hostel they didn’t know every intimate detail about. They spent a few
minutes quizzing Henry and George on everything from their nationality to their star
signs and five year plans. I spent most of the exchange terrified that Rebecca was
going to start questioning me about my “assault” again, something I especially didn’t
want her to do as I quite fancied Henry and his luminous azure eyes. Thankfully, the
two departed before any bullmerde counselling could take place.

The €1.00 beers (and cokes) kept flowing, until it was eventually decided we
could go into town and hit up a bar called Wayne’s, an apparent institution in Nice,
according to all of the hostel staff. Kaitlyn, however, failing to feel capable of doing
anything which required her to stand for more than ten seconds, decided to have an
early night. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but the three of us were joined by
Michael and two girls I had not ever seen before who had a 6.30am flight out of Nice
and were pulling an all-nighter. We made it to Wayne’s and, while I can assure you
the place indeed lived-up to the hype, I can’t provide you with any of the specifics.
Much fun was definitely had, and the fun continued when the six of us went back to
the hostel together in the early hours. This is where the clarity of events diminishes
even further for me. I somehow got onto the topic of the cinematic tour-de-force that
is The Room, spending what I think was a significant period of time waxing lyrical about it. 
I must have felt the need to prove how brilliant it was, because the next
thing I remember is sitting with Henry, YouTubing clips of it, much the same way
Kaitlyn had the previous night with Cheianne and India. This could have lasted five
minutes and it could have lasted two hours, I have absolutely no concept of the time
whatsoever.

When Michael started playing his guitar, Henry and I took our leave. If I thought
things were hazy before, I am completely blind about what happened next – probably
because I was completely blind drunk. This is what I do remember: Henry and I left
the bar and headed to his room (not like that, people, just as a place to get away
from Michael’s incessant musicianship). George and he only had one key between
them, and George had already gone up to the dorm. Henry knocked on the door and
we waited a minute…and this is where I lose time. Again, how much time I cannot
definitively say, but I certainly lost the twenty-or-so seconds it took for the two of us
to go from standing outside the door knocking, to being up against the wall on the
other side of the hallway knocking lips. Suddenly, there was a clearing-of-throats.
Not either of our throats. Turned out George hadn’t made his way back to their room,
nor was Michael still playing his guitar downstairs. The unexpectedness of their
appearance quickly became mortifying, when I followed their gazes down, only to
notice that the zip of my dress was no longer zipped up. Nor were my arms in the
armholes. Let’s just say it’s lucky I look good in red, particularly dark shades of bright
vermillion.

The next morning I crept back into our dorm (not like that, we had merely fallen
asleep watching The Room), only to be pounced on by Rebecca. ‘Are you okay?
You didn’t come home last night.’
No, mum, I didn’t. ‘I’m fine.’ Piss off.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ *Pound-pound-peace*. Kaitlyn’s head peered down from her bunk.
‘Just read your message.’
‘What message?’ She grabbed her phone and started reading.
‘Kaitlyn. I am back at the hostel. See you at breakfast.’
‘Didn’t want you to worry.’
‘So…where have you been?’
‘Put it this way, not in a hammock.’

I was, no surprise, hangover-free, but Kaitlyn was still feeling a little bit tender.
Nevertheless, we had more ambitious plans for the day, heading to Monaco. Monaco
is as pretty as it is pretentious. It smells of money – something, as backpackers, we
don’t exactly exude. The first forty five minutes of our visit was spent trying to find a
bathroom for Kaitlyn, the lack of public restrooms in Monaco tantrum-inducing. ‘For
f@#%s sake. I thought everyone here was f@#%ing loaded? If they’re so f@#%ing
rich, how can there not be any f@#%ing bathrooms anywhere? Jesus Christ.’ After
our commode chase, we spent the rest of the day wandering around the streets,
checking out the infamous Monte Carlo Casino, wandering the streets lined with
designer boutiques and generally feeling like frauds. The first highlight of the day
came when two men went zooming around the streets in this miniature little eco-
friendly car, menacingly (well, as menacing as one can be in a miniature eco-friendly
car) weaving in and out of the Ferraris and other ostentatious vehicles. It doesn’t
sound very funny, but I assure you it was hilarious – a classic case of “you had to
be there”. The other highlight was McFlurry’s at McDonald’s. Before you criticise,
we would had sampled something more Monégasque had we been able to afford
anything.

Not everything in Monaco is classy.

We got back to the hostel in the late afternoon and took the opportunity to do a bit of
a Facebook photo upload. Cheianne and India were on the computers too, the four
of us sitting there chatting about our night. At one point, Michael appeared. I had not
seen (or, surprisingly, heard) Michael since Michael had seen a lot more of me than
either of us had ever bargained for. He came straight over to me. ‘Hey! How’d your
night end up?’
‘Good…..’ I was unsure if he had no recollection of events, or was the
world’s greatest actor and diffusing any possible awkwardness with a brilliant
performance. ‘Man, I really don’t remember much. I remember coming back here
and playing my guitar for a bit. Did we all come back from town together?’
‘Yes, yes we did..’ I came to the conclusion that he really didn’t remember anything.
Excellent.
‘We all sat down here for a bit, didn’t we?’
‘Yeah. Then we all went to bed.’
‘Cool. Yeah, actually I remember…’ He trailed off and studied me closely, like he
was trying to remember something. Then his eyes widened almost comically and he
turned bright, bright red. Yeah, he’d remembered. ‘Oh my God. I am so, so sorry!’
I had no idea what he was apologising for. ‘Pretty sure I’m the one who should be
sorry.’ He just stood there and kept staring at me, and not just at my face. I actually
wished he would pick up his guitar and start playing some Incubus.

We’d been there maybe an hour when a guy came and sat on the other side of
me. ‘Hi, I’m Billy.’
‘Hi Billy.’ When I watched Billy log into Facebook and saw his email address was
billy-something-or-rather-69@hotmail.com, I made some quick, basic assumptions
about him…assumptions which turned out to be completely correct. From the story
about him getting caught on security cameras having sex in a hostel corridor, to
his generally abrasive personality, Billy was an A-grade asshole. His monologue
was full of hilariously horrible one-liners, my favourite being ‘My dick was so hard, I
could have hung my backpack from it – you could have hung off it and used it like a
monkey bar.’ He was Canada’s very own answer to Yeast Infection. Despite his best
efforts, Billy was unable to ruin my appetite, and we decided it was time for dinner.

Cheianne and India were heading down at the same time we were, so the four of
us sat at a table together and started chatting more in-depth. We hadn’t been sitting
there very long when Sarah came and joined us; thankfully Rebecca was nowhere
in sight. At one point, India alerted Kaitlyn and me to the presence of this uber-
weird family. There were about eight of them and they were the weirdest mix of
ages and races; there seemed to be one mum and two dads, a random 20-year old
Asian girl who could very well have been a call girl…it was just incredibly weird. We
spent quite some time speculating on their situation, which somehow led Kaitlyn
and me to discussing our habit of nicknaming people, starting with the fact we had
been calling Cheinanne “Ellie”, although conceding that was definitely the nicest
nickname we had bestowed on anyone - arguably the only nice nickname we had
bestowed on anyone. It turned out the girls were fans of the nicknaming game as
Chei enthusiastically explained. ‘We do that too! There’s this one girl we’ve been
calling Flashdance…’ India interjected with a warning tone.
‘Chei.’, but it wasn’t heeded.
‘…because she wears these horrible 80s clothes.’
‘Chei!’
‘Shorts and leg-warmers….just ugly, horrible clothes. And she…’ India was a lot
firmer this time. ‘Cheianne! Stop it!’ Chei looked around the bar quickly.
‘It’s okay! She’s not in here.’ She confidently continued. ‘Anyway, Flashdance…’
‘Chei,’ she said very pointedly, ‘just shut up.’ She looked at me for a split second
and, for a minute there, I had this horrible feeling I was Flashdance. I started
mentally going through all of the clothes I had been wearing, quickly realising I
don’t even own a pair of legwarmers. Cheianne looked to her left where Sarah was
sitting, her face quickly adopting an “oh shit” look. Then it dawned on me, Sarah
was Flashdance! And they were so right. Even that night she was dressed in what
looked like costumes from the set of Degrassi (the original). Luckily, Flashdance was
too stupid to catch-on, sitting there completely oblivious to what had just happened.
Honestly, she was so dumb, it was unfathomable to think that the sperm which
created her had beaten out 500,000,000 others.

Not long after that, Flashdance got up to get a drink, leaving us to laugh about what
had just happened. Chei started, ‘Oh my God!’
‘That was hilarious!’
‘I was trying to get you to shut-up, but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘I’d forgotten she was there. I knew she was there, but I had forgotten it was her.’
The whole situation reminded me so much of Kaitlyn and me – Kaitlyn saying
something stupid and digging herself into a hole, me doing everything possible to
stop her before she buries herself alive. I shared this sentiment. ‘You two remind me
a lot of the two of us.’ Kaitlyn reinforced this somewhat when it became apparent she
didn’t realise what had happened. ‘Sarah is Flashdance.’
‘Oh.’ It took a second. ‘Ohhhhhh! Oh God! That is so true!’ I looked over at India.
‘See? This is what I mean. Anyway, Flashdance is so stupid she doesn’t know you
were talking about her. Have you met her friend?’
‘You mean…’ India did the pound-pound-peace. ‘Her?’
‘YES!’ I then told them all about my experiences with her. Kaitlyn went up to get
something from the room and, when she got back, I made to go up as well. ‘Be
careful. Rebecca,’ *pound-pound-peace*, ‘is sitting up by the door there.’ 

I didn’t have the energy to deal with her, so I walked the long way, going through the
door right near our beds. I opened the door only to have Rebecca throw herself at
me, hugging me like a long lost friend. Then, the most amazing thing happened.
Letting go of me, she indicated between the two of us, ‘You and me? We have a
connection.’ *Pound-pound-peace* ‘rape buddies.’ I am known for having above-
average hearing but, just in case I had misheard her, I asked her to repeat what
she said. *Pound-pound-peace* ‘Rape buddies.’ This. Actually. Happened. I didn’t
utter a single word of response, instead turning around and rushing straight back
downstairs . Flashdance was still at the bar, so I was able to go straight up to the
girls. ‘You will never believe what just happened.’ And so Rebecca became *pound-
pound-peace* RB.

The next day was our last day in Nice and we needed to organise our train to
Barcelona the next day. We headed to the train station first thing so we could get
that out of the way and relax. What should have been a simple, ten minute exercise
turned into a half-day of running around as, long-story-short, trains between Nice
and Barcelona apparently only run on alternate days (the next day not being one
of these) and the people at the train station assured us there was no possible way
we could get there by train. While we doubted this was true, we were told our best
bet was to go by bus. We spent several hours tracking down the place to book the
bus (note: this is not done at the bus station, because that would make far too much
sense), then having to go back to the train station to book a train ticket to get to
Toulon to catch the bus. The bus turned out to be the better option as, rather than a
12 hour journey with three changes, the bus left from Toulon and was an eight hour
journey with no stops. We spent the rest of the day wandering and having one last
ice-cream. We randomly bumped into Chei and India in the city who were back from
Monaco, the four of us heading back to the hostel.

We spent the evening down in the bar having dinner together. The girls were
heading to Barcelona the day after us and booked into the same hostel that we had,
so we planned to meet up there. Michael was playing his guitar, Flashdance and
RB were wandering around the tables giving everyone massages, the hybrid-family
were sharing an intimate family dinner in the corner, the hot barman was putting on
a gun-show behind the counter...our final night was going swimmingly. Then Billy
appeared. ‘Hey girls!’ He was met with a chorus of apathetic responses. Just like the
evening before, he offered up a range of ludicrous anecdotes and quotes. The best,
though, was this: ‘So, have you guys synced-up yet?’
‘What?’
‘Have you guys synced-up yet? You know, your periods?’
We all momentarily hesitated thinking that he couldn't actually be serious. ‘Ummm…no…’
‘Oh. Well, when girls spend a lot of time together, eventually their – what do you call
them – cycles? Yeah, their cycles sync-up. But don’t worry, it’ll happen eventually.’
How this guy was making it through life without regularly having the crap beaten out
of him, I will never know.


Oh, Nice! You were wonderful and you will be missed. *Pound-pound-peace*.