Danksgiving

So my Thanksgiving was not a typical one this year. It began at about five o’clock at O’Shannon (No, I don’t think they know it should be O’Shannon’s) with this girl Kate. We were working on a presentation in the library but couldn’t concentrate because it was really, really loud, so we went to a bar. (Seriously, you guys should try studying abroad; they have very different ideas about education.)

We finished our project after a couple of rounds just in time for me to sprint home and change before the big school dinner. And get blazed with my roommate. We were supposed to meet up with another girl, Anna, real quick so we smoked on the way, …on the street, …in the middle of public.

We thought about robbing somebody, then, decided not to.

It was raining pretty hard by the time we got to the Hotel de Ville, (it hasn’t rained here in over three months so we were totally unprepared) and we jogged the rest of the way to dinner. Dinner was in a room dubbed “the other cave.” Our student lounge (of sorts) is in the basement of the main building which used to be a catacomb—seriously, the main building used to be a church—and everything is always dusty because the walls are literally crumbling, hence cave (it would be cooler if we called it the ‘batcave’ but nobody here listens to me anymore.)

This room, also cave-like in appearance (thus ‘other cave’), was decorated in the cheesiest of brown and orange decorations but more seriously there was only one bottle of wine for the entire table of six—cheap fuckers.

We tell everyone that the three other seats are taken.

Dinner only improved with the arrival of the first course: Coleslaw, and boy! nothing says Thanksgiving like coleslaw. Just a big plait of coleslaw. yummmm. I took a heaping forkful into my mouth and realized, that I really don’t like coleslaw. My stomach churning I whipped out my hand to grab my glass of wine right in time to witness a piece of the ceiling sploosh into my glass.

I couldn’t believe it either.

After finishing off the glass, I start in on the cat food they tried to pass of as stuffing. That was about when I realized that I had stepped in dog poop earlier that evening and no, that was not the smell of the main course. The realization neither bolstered the consumption confidence of my colleagues nor the recognition that I had actually started taking showers again.

After tearing into a remarkably tasty turkey we were served a piece of piping hot pumpkin pie, with whipped cweam. A few minutes later, after my plait had been emptied, I walked over to the catering table and demanded to know why our table hadn’t been served yet. We all got more pie.

I miss America.