Let’s all remember who you are reading about here. We are three accountants who live in beach houses. So this is about has bad ass as it’s gonna get. Did we get arrested? Of course not. Did we actually even have the police called on us? Well, no. But we almost did. Typically the most exciting part of my week is a new on-demand movie. So just humor me and my story of how Steph, Katie and I almost became Sardinian outlaws. Let’s start at the beginning…
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
When I last blogged, it was the night before and we had been told there was no room on the boat tour. But I’m nothing if not stubborn. So the plan for today was to head out and see if we can’t get ourselves on a boat. Any boat. Well, any boat with less than 20 people. That’s my max…and I think even that is generous. First thing is first, we need beach towels. Reception sent us down to the pool to get towels from the lifeguard. Who was nowhere to be found. After a 20 minute wait for the lifeguard to show up (can you see me cringing here? Nothing I hate more than a needless wait), Steph yelled at the receptionist who then just gave us the towels that she had at her disposal the entire time. Because that makes sense. We drove down to the port and Steph and I went around to a few booths to ask about boat tours. We got the news we were expecting – only boat tours available have 70 people on them. I would end up tying myself to the anchor and jumping by the end of the day, so that wasn’t an option.
Then we came across the “Rent your own boat” stand. That is where we realized, we don’t need a tour. Or a driver. Because we have Jorgie. And Jorgie could drive a lawn mower to the moon. She would actually probably try if it would shut me up. Hallelujah, we are saved! One boat for the three ladies from ‘Merica please! Now I know what you are thinking – that renting your own boat without a skipper is a bit much. But we are talking more like a dinghy here. A small boat with inflatable sides. I have no idea what the correct nautical term is so just look at the damn pictures. After a 60 second tutorial from a sleezy Italian guy, we were off to the Maddalena Archipelago for the day. No other passengers or grown-ups to hold us down. Our crew consisted of just Captain Jorgie, First Mate Steph, and Gilligan (me). We blasted the Jammy Pack and attempted to follow the shitty map given to us to the “beaches” along the first island. The reason I use quotes there is because what they call a beach is actually a “cove”. With a little sand. But perhaps the word “cove” doesn’t translate into Italian. We were also told to go to one “beach” called “Little Tahiti”. It was little, but Tahiiti it was not. We actually drove right passed it while searching for it. I’ve never been to Tahiti either, but I can run a google search and tell you that one of these things is not like the other. I guess it’s like “the most beautiful beaches in all of Sardinia” that we went to the other day – everything is a superlative here.
We stopped for lunch in the town of La Maddalena on the main island, where we ate pizza and balked at how the Italian tourists can eat, drink, talk and smoke a pack of cigarettes literally all at the same time. It was like the Olympics of multi tasking, except instead of a medal they’ll just get lung cancer or heart disease. But thanks for playing! Then we were off to some of the other islands for the afternoon. We finally found some little beaches that actually deserved the name, and some of the crystal blue water we had been searching for. I even took a few videos on my go pro. Which I can’t upload to this blog because I’m too cheap to pay for “premium” wordpress just to keep you ass holes entertained.
We made our way back to our little port, filling up our gas tank before turning the boat in, as instructed. And here is where the drama begins. Sleezy Italian man came out on this little paddle boat to get us, and another guy that had brought his boat back, and take us all to shore. He picked up the other guy first – we will call the other tourist “Fuck Face” for reasons soon to be explained. When they got over to our boat, Sleezy Italian jumped out and checked everything. He then checked the propeller and said “looks good”, at which point Fuck Face said “oh no, wait a minute, look over there!” and decided to point out damage to the propeller. Damage that was already there, obviously. Captain Jorgie is very risk adverse and we never even came close to hitting anything. And so now we have a fight on our hands. Luckily, Steph and I have been to a few yacht weeks and are very skilled in the art of going fucking ape shit on people who think that we are meek women who can be taken advantage of. We’ve gotten out of paying for more boat damage than Captain Jack Sparrow. You almost have to feel bad for these people – they just have no idea who they are fucking with. Don’t forget, we are sand-in-ass girls. You don’t fuck with a chick who has sand in her ass. You fuck with the ones who have pretty hair.
What ensued was quite the scene. Basically, Steph and I unleashed all American hell on these people. Then Fuck Face steps in and asks if he can just get his deposit back first and they can deal with us later. Please keep in mind, this was all Fuck Face’s fault in the first place. But god forbid he should be inconvenienced. So you’ll understand why I was immensely pleased when they told him that his boat had the same damage! Now it’s extremely obvious that this is the game they run on tourists. We just needed to recover our EUR 100 deposit and get Steph’s passport back. Sleezy Italian man got scurred and ran off back into the water, leaving his bitchy little accomplice to do all the fighting for him. Great. One down. I was doing some mental calculations to determine if I could bitch slap this chick, grab the passport, and run to the car before being caught. But a foot race is not where I excel, so best to stick with what I’m good at and fight the good fight. Meanwhile Steph was thinking of ways to drown Fuck Face. The Italian Bitch and three American girls were at a standstill. So she told us she would have to call the cops. We told her please do…we would love to report this little scam. We’ll wait as long as it takes. She didn’t call the Police, she called her boss. Bluff called. She folded. So Italian Bitch wrote down Steph’s name and passport number and said that she would be getting a letter from the beach hut’s attorneys. Ooooooooh, shaking in my boots. Gonna be kind of hard to mail that letter without her address though honey. Just saying. With the passport and deposit returned to us, we walked off victorious. But not without verbally slandering the beach hut to any tourist that would listen on the way out.
We stopped at the market on our way home for some wine – I think we can all agree that the Mean Girls earned a drink today. I was feeling oddly stress free – nothing relaxes you like bitching someone out. We went back to our hotel to lay by the pool for the last few hours of sunlight. If there is one thing out hotel Patrons have going for them, it’s that they respect the towel on the pool chair. You would be shocked how many people don’t. And do you really want to live in a world where you can’t reserve a good spot by the pool with a towel 10 hours in advance? I sure don’t.
We went back to the Copacabana for dinner to our usual table. And guess who is sitting at the table right next to us? That’s right, Fuck Face, in the flesh. We didn’t see him last night because he made his girlfriend go to dinner alone. He also left her at the hotel all day while he went out in a boat. Are you starting to see the picture I’m painting here? Fuck Face really is an international douche lord of the lowest order. We have some other fun couples staying at our hotel. There are the Emphazema Twins, who spend their mornings smoking on their patio (directly next to ours), their afternoons smoking outside the hotel, and their evenings smoking god knows where. We have estimated that they spend at least a third of their entire lives on a cigarette break. Who the fuck has time for that?! Then there is the old couple, who’s skin looks like leather and is at the pool from 8am to 6pm every day. All day. Obviously they are awesome. The rest are your typical Italians who spend three hours at lunch talking. And by talking I mean screaming so loud you sit there waiting for someone to throw a punch until they all start laughing.
Okay, so this probably wan’t as exciting as you were expecting. But it’s the closest I’ve come to getting arrested since the “Fake I.D. and Public Intoxication” incident of 2005. Oh wait…no. That’s not true. I’m forgetting about the “Homeland Security Breach of 2008”. Ok, so I get in trouble more that I thought. Have your fake lawyer send me a letter.