Rome Girl has a new project going where she wants to create a travel site that's full of alternative travel stories. In other words anything that doesn't involve the romance of a year in provance.
She's asking anyone who has a good story to send in submissions (you can just email me.)
In the meantime I thought I'd get the ball rolling with one of my own.
It's just a rough draft, and forgive me for that, but it will give you a sense of what she's looking for.
This took place when I was 19 and living in France for the first time.
When Casey and I got to Cannes it wasn't what we expected. There was blood in the air, sweat on the ground and a sense that most of the people around us were fakers, charlatans and pasty white asses that needed kissing, spanking or both.
There were plenty of drugs, but almost no hotel rooms and everyone knew that only rubes, suckers and method actors slept on the fucking streets. We'd brought black dinner jackets and bow ties with white shirts so we knew we weren't going to end up like the Iowa shitkicker girls who came for a good time but ended up blowing assistant grips behind the Sony Pictures tent in exchange for a business card that might or might not have the real phone number of a third assistant production director from Encino on the back.
I still had a brick of hash mixed with rubber that an Arab had sold me the night before in a park under the Pellier Mountain, so we lit up, said “fuck it” and hit the bricks moving in and out of every hotel lobby we could find.
After about three hours we hit pay dirt. A hotel manager had just thrown some dude out of his room for something involving small mammals, cocaine and a pissed off girl who thought that her new wounds would hurt her boardwalk trade once the Big Show opened the next day.
The dude rented us the room for what must have been three times what he normally charged. It took almost every dime we had, but we didn't care. Casey had a bottle of vodka in his backpack and I had at least two grams of hash left.
Who fucking needed food, when there was a place to light up?
Eight swigs of vodka and two joints later we went out and started wandering around. We dressed in suits figuring we might be able to con our way into the hospitality suites and nick a sandwich or two along the way.
We got even luckier than that. Within minutes we stumbled upon two Wharton girls we'd met a few weeks before. All we knew about them was that they talked a lot and always seemed to have money.
The girls started bitching about how there were no hotels room around. Opportunity was knocking and we opened the fucking door. We explained that for $100 each they were welcome to sleep on the floor of our pad. They'd been wandering the streets since noon and handed over the cash right away.
For that kind of coin we were gentlemen and carried their bags back to the hotel. The manager gave u s a dirty look, but he knew that we'd paid a premium, and we didn't have any weasels with us. Beyond that, if we had girls, we wouldn't be bringing in any black tranny hookers to scare off the white men.
Now, Casey and I were not dumb. We knew we had an opportunity and told the girls that we'd buy them a couple drinks and cut them in on the deal if they'd hang around the train station and help us talk other rich students into handing us cash to sleep on the floor.
By nightfall we each had about $500 in our pockets. We even rented out the tub.
Of course, cash is king and prices are high in Cannes particularly during the festival, so our $500 put us in better shape, but we wanted more. We wanted fucking income. Comprendre?
That's when we had THE IDEA.
The idea was this. It was fucking hot. When it's hot people like two things – beer and the beach. Cannes was already providing the beach, but the rich assholes sitting out there had to leave the beach and go to a cafe if they wanted a cold one.
We could solve this problem.
The next morning Casey and I walked nine blocks to the local supermarket and bought garbage bags and four six packs of beer for six franks a package. We went back to the hotel and put on our tuxedos.
Then we cleaned out the ice machine and walked down the beach with garbage bags full of iced cold beer. We sold each beer for 10 francs – meaning we made 53 francs on every six pack we sold. When the beer was gone we walked back to town and bought more.
Thank god the ice machines in France are efficient animals.
Such was our life for the next five days – we took the two single beds and did our best not to step on our sleeping tenants.
We made about 100 clams each par jour which we promptly blew at nightclubs. I don't think we ever really ate anything more than a baguette during the day, but we downed glasses of champagne and smoked gigantic joints while looking at starlets all night long.
That's my story, I'm sticking to it and you heard it here first, on the Q.T. and motherfucking hush hush.
Woke up this morning to what was, I think, the most perfect weather possible. The heat had broken, the sky was blue and it was neither too hot nor too cold.
I then sent on bids on potential jobs and was debating whether or not to start the new pussy book.
Then, Brunette Lesbian made the decision for me.
Since the breakup she's been living in the basement of the restaurant which has a bathroom and a small sink for washing pots and pans and not much else. She asked if she could use my shower and do some laundry.
Since I figured she'd want some privacy, I said "Sure," gave her the spare set of keys and told her to lock up when she was done.
I then went out into the sun and ran into Blond Lesbian who was on her way to meet Emma's Sexy Mom in the Place de la Comedie. I went with her and Emma's Sexy Mom bought me a citron presse and Blond Lesbian a cafe cream and we spent an hour and a half watching cute people walking down the street, gossiping and just in general being happy to be alive on this perfect day.
Afterwards I got home just as Brunette Lesbian was taking her clothes out of the wash.
I then spent about half an hour talking to Rome Girl online. She's excited because she's lost a lot of weight over the past week. I told her that was cool, but that she looked fine when she left. Is there any other response a boy can have?
When she signed off I checked my email and responded to questions from potential clients. Then, I met The Iceman for a quick pint before going to the supermarket because I was out of both Coca Cola and beer.
Came home, watched a few episodes of 24, made dinner and chilled out.