Tales of the Spanish Girls

There were a few months from 2012 to 2013 when I traveled with a group of Spanish girls. I met them through a German friend of mine and it always impressed me how they could stand to travel together for longs periods of time. They were five. Three sisters, each half-Spanish, half-Saudi (a very attractive combination), one of their Spanish friends, and a Colombian girl who lived in Spain. Five girls traveling together for months through some of the dirtiest places on Earth.

I was impressed, and I can thank them for a few things I gained and forgive them for the rather rude/curt way I was ungraciously expelled from the group. I’m being a bit factitious by saying “expel”, but not by much. But anyway, I picked up a few good songs from them, most notably the heartbreakingly lovely, “The Devil’s Tears,” an excellent song which I still enjoy as much now as I did when I first heard it a year ago.

When we had our “falling-out” I was angry and hurt and I ran home (And by run I mean getting a ferry at 7am, then riding a bus for ten hours, then walking back to my friend’s apartment where I was staying), madly scribbling words in my notebook and stabbing out insults and distortions for my own benefit. I was angry and I felt used, but by the time my bus dropped me off into the backpacker’s district of Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City), Vietnam, I was already feeling better. And after a night of getting drunk and running around the city with my friends, I woke up early the next day, published my “tell-all” on my travel blog, and I felt completely content. In case you are wondering, my travel blog is entirely on this site under the “Holidays” tab at the top next to “Work Samples.” If you do not see it there, it is because I have hidden it since I am trying to censor myself more and it is much more vulgar and poorly written than the rest of this blog (this is where you say, “But, Dom, everything on here is vulgar and poorly written!”).

It will come back someday soon I am sure, just keep an eye out for it.

Anyway, I threw up my words and I expunged any bad feelings and that was that. And now I only have positive memories and mementos from the girls and the other traveling partners (two South Africans, and a German or two). Well, actually I still think that one South African is an asshole (he is), but it doesn’t really matter that much anymore and he doesn’t occupy any more than a modicum of space in a deserted corridor of my mind.

Rhine (my last ex-girlfriend for my new readers) and I ran into the South African when we visited Nha Trang, a beachside city in Vietnam, before I returned to the States. We were wandering down the street, aimlessly, when this big, hairy South African guy comes up and stands in front of me. Fuck, and I’m not trying to be an asshole here or pretend like I don’t know his name when I actually know his name, but – Fuck! I can’t remember his name! It was like Ash from Pokemon or something. So, we’ll call him “Ash.” So, Ash comes up to me and just stands there for a second before his face breaks out into a smile. And I’m looking at him, staring at him and wondering why this guy is just staring at me and smiling. Suddenly, it dawns on me who he is (I have a remarkable ability to both intentionally and unintentionally forget things) and we get led over to a nearby bar where he is drinking with a big group.

It was one of those bars with extremely loud, crappy techno and extremely expensive drinks and lots of dumb white travelers trying their best to act even stupider than they actually are. These are the kinds of bars I hate, unconditionally, but if I am with friends then at least it is bearable. But I was not with friends (other than my GF), I was with a big group of sloppy drunks. A big group of the worst people. And when you are in one of these terrible moods, nothing is going to snap you out.

So, I was sitting there, clutching my fucking expensive beer, talking to no one except my girlfriend, glaring at anymore who dared to address me, and basically trying to out-asshole the assholes. I thought I could get them to hate me, but every time I opened my mouth to say something terribly racist or retarded they laughed and cheered and applauded like I was the second coming of George Carlin. These terrible people. They won’t even get mad at me when I am clearly being an asshole. And like a lightbulb turning on over my head, I realized the stupidity of the situation. I wasn’t doing anything to them, I was just causing myself to have an aneurysm over nothing. And fuck that. So, we left and went home.

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