I love movies. No matter what’s happening in my life (or isn’t), when I step into that dark, hopefully comfy theatre, I’m able to escape, decompress, and walk out inspired in some way, no matter the film. Maybe it was a line, a majestic landscape, a smile, a sweet rack, or just a wonderful, life-affirming experience. There isn’t an art form that hits me as hard and fast as movies. I see a lot of them, I “write” about them, and can’t get enough of them. But I have gaping blind spots in my movie knowledge, including foreign films. I don’t have anything against them; I know I’m ignorant (does that help my case?), but who has the time? I know hardly anything about Italian cinema, besides knowing that Federico Fellini is a God, and that Dario Argento and the giallo movement profoundly influenced American horror. I have a feeling that’s going to change.

Enter IL SORPASSO (1962) this past Tuesday evening.

Very rarely these days do you get a chance to stumble into a movie theater without expectations, or knowledge of the plot, actors or behind the scenes squabbles. I highly recommend doing it, if you’re able. That was the rare opportunity I was given when I purchased tickets to IL SORPASSO earlier this week at the Silent Movie Theatre (or the Cinefamily). The film has mostly been lost to American audiences, but thanks to a lovingly crafted DCP (digital cinema package) restoration of the print by Janus Films, IL SORPASSO has been given another shot.

In Cinefamily’s monthly newsletter, IL SORPASSO is hailed as one of the greatest films OF ALL-TIME, the kind of hype that normally falls flat on its face. That recommendation got me into the theatre, but I had no idea what, really, to expect.

What I got was a riotously funny, rousing buddy road movie that felt as real as it likely did in 1962 when it first came out. The film comes from writer-director Dino Risi, branded (rightfully so, I’d wager) the “maestro of Italian film comedy.” Immediately, you realize Risi has a gift for slapstick, free ranging dialogue, staging scenes, particularly those in a car. Risi is most familiar to American audiences because he was nominated for an Oscar in 1974 for his Adapted Screenplay of PROFUMO DI DONNA, or the original SCENT OF A WOMAN (with Vittorio Gassman instead of Al Pacino).

IL SORPASSO has the flimsiest of set-ups, but it works perfectly. Bruno Cortona (Vittorio Gassman) cruises around Rome, a shell of its former self due to the Holiday (whatever it is, it doesn’t matter), shops and restaurants closed, the hustle and bustle that Bruno thrives on conspicuous in their absence. He can’t even access a pay phone. Bruno stops, randomly, in front of an apartment building, where he meets Roberto Mariani (Jean-Louis Trintignant, who was most recently the male lead in AMOUR), a young, shy, introverted law student.

Roberto invites Bruno up to make his phone call, despite his conscience telling him not to (a running gag throughout the proceedings), and then he can never get rid of him. Again, the phone call doesn’t matter: whomever he’s trying to reach is never reached, and it’s just a reason for Roberto and Bruno to meet, and for the wacky, weird and hilarious adventure to begin.

I say wacky because of the tone, and the bombastic, booming soundtrack that trumpets throughout (it’s one of the greatest I’ve ever heard, my favorite song is below). But IL SORPASSO isn’t zany because of its high stakes, bizarre hijinks. It never feels anything but authentic, as Bruno and Roberto don’t end up in RAT RACE or a HANGOVER movie. They meet Roberto’s extended family, they learn about one another, they try and fail to pick up chicks, they sing, they dance, they (maybe) become friends. But the tension never leaves. Is Bruno a con man, or nothing more than a lout who makes Roberto pay for things? Was it really a coincidence that Bruno found himself at Roberto’s apartment? Is Roberto playing an understated, lonely character, hoping to spring a trap on Bruno? Are they actually becoming friends, or do they can’t stand each other? It’s both, perhaps all of these things, and it’s gripping. In many ways, I think seeing IL SORPASSO now, after decades of road trip movies and topsy-turvy relationship dramas that inevitably inform your expectations, is likely even better.

IL SORPASSO is one of the best road trip movies ever precisely because there’s no destination in mind, at least not geographically speaking. Bruno wants fish soup, but really, he wants someone to eat fish soup with, he wants company, and a sounding board for his ridiculous observations and statements about the world. Bruno is all over the place, a fun-loving drifter, while Roberto studies alone in his apartment, daydreaming about the lovely girl across the street. They’re opposites, but both equally as lonely and desperate for someone else in the world, even if their whole day trip turns into something far more than that.

You know from the start something bad is going to happen, yet it’s abrupt, shocking and tragic when it finally strikes. It’s all in the title. IL SORPASSO translates to “overtaking,” which, on the surface, refers to Bruno’s dangerous driving habits. He’s always speeding, always passing cars (his annoying and hilarious car horn is practically the third biggest character), never taking the time to appreciate where he is, or what’s around him. This becomes all too clear when he learn about his family life, or lack thereof. “Overtaking” can also refer to unexpected misfortune, which is exactly what we’re prepared for in the opening credits. It’s a rare tone and expectation for such a funny movie, making it that much deeper an experience.

There are even babes.

Vittorio Gassman is absolutely incredible, a comedic tour de force, rattling off ridiculous jokes like an Italian and far more attractive Vince Vaughn. It doesn’t get more over the top than his Bruno character, but he’s never anything but charming, and you can’t help but want to be just like him, as Roberto eventually succumbs into believing as well. Jean-Louis Trintignant is no less magnificent, but on an entirely different wavelength. He’s almost an observer, an audience stand-in, his monologued thoughts giving us insight into his mental state, because most of the time, we’re unsure where he stands, or what it is he’s thinking. He’s a chameleon, almost creepily so.

The innumerable driving scenes are impressively shot. You wouldn’t expect to feel uncomfortable, or feel claustrophobic while watching two dudes drive around a cramped automobile in a movie made in 1962, but you’re wincing along with Roberto as Bruno cuts corners and passersby. Dino Risi’s film doesn’t cut any corners, however, and the result is a masterpiece.

Tonight, April 10^th, is your last chance to catch IL SORPASSO in theatres at the wonderful Cinefamily on Fairfax in West Hollywood. The last encore performance starts at 7:30 PM. Don’t miss it if you have the opportunity to see it!

Oftentimes, I’m on my own, and that’s fine by me. If I waited for my friends to do something, or only did activities that appealed to them, I’d likely never get out of the house. Ever since I crumpled my acceptance form to the University of Washington, merely 15 minutes away from home, and took on the sojourn to an unknown, tiny town in upstate New York for college, many of my best times have come from my willingness to do exactly this. To just go, and see what my whims or instincts, or Yelp’s, Guy Fieri’s or Rick Steves’ instincts, will carry me into.

This random Saturday (Feb. 8th) in Los Angeles was one such day. I had a meeting for work (that I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time), and found myself in Hollywood on a sunny, glorious afternoon with nothing to do. The kind of conundrum people in Boston and NY wish they had right now.

I could bus back home (I’m one of the only LA residents who actually uses the infrequent, plodding and frustrating Metro system), or I could walk.

A lot.

Because I didn’t really bother zooming in on the Google Map of my phone, and because I had all the time in the world (a wonderful feeling), I decided it was time to make a Joss Whedon-tinged pilgrimage, and see what happens. That led to a roughly 4.3 mile jaunt down Vine (then Rossmore), then east on Wilshire, arriving at 4121 Wilshire Blvd, hoping this location still existed.

En route, I basically stumbled through one of the richest parts of LA, including past the infamous El Royale Apartments (above), erected in 1927 by William Douglas Lee, and keeping people erect until today. Check out the view and the inside:

Here are some other neat, massive apartment buildings likely filled with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s illegitimate children. Is it me or does the first one kind of look like an insane asylum, or a corporate building owned by Max Schreck or something? The day time maybe doesn’t sell that thought.

I sped past the Wilshire Country Club, keenly aware that I was the only one walking around (and not in a luxury vehicle). I also realized that I probably shouldn’t be snapping pictures at private homes, especially since many of them have legitimate security guards watching the house 24/7. I did anyway. Here are a few places I’d settle to live in:

For whatever reason, my recurring daydream involved bumping into Seth Rogen and smoking a blunt with him. I don’t even smoke. Not sure why it didn’t include a hot older woman who was antsy at home, like a Michelle Pfeiffer type. But I’m weird.

I also imagined actually living in a house like these, and while I liked some of the architecture, even if I could ever afford it, I just don’t think LA is where I’d want to live. Of course, if I ever find myself in that position, I’d likely sell out faster than I’d last during a sexual experience with Jennifer Garner (circa ALIAS days).

If this photo wasn’t taken from an iPhone, maybe it’d look more impressive. This is the view from Wilshire. Can it get any more Hollywood than this picture? Well, add droves of tourists, an empty tour bus, a hot dog stand and a dude dressed up as a Transformer, and you’d pretty much have it.

But enough of this shit. Finally, after a long ass walk, I reached the Hyperion Hotel, the sweet exterior location of Angel, Cordy, Gunn, Fred and Wesley’s base for seasons 2-4 of ANGEL.

BEHOLD!

The base was described by production designer Stuart Blatt as “an old hotel, something [the writers] could use to evoke the past of Los Angeles and some of Angel’s history, something kind of creepy and spooky but not too dark because they didn’t want something depressing…” It certainly fit the bill, and became the most iconic location on the show, aside from Cordelia’s chest. Clearly it stuck with David Boreanaz, as the hotel was even mentioned in a season 2 episode of BONES. It also got talked up in another Whedon classic, DOLLHOUSE.

In 1999, the apartment building, the Los Altos Apartments, was listed on the National Register of Historical Places. It was built in 1925 and was used as a luxury apartment and hotel for Clara Bow, Bette Davis, Mae West, Douglas Fairbanks and a little guy named William Randolph Hearst. I mean, they’re no Angel or Fred, but impressive nonetheless. AND YOU CAN STILL LIVE IN IT. RIGHT NOW.

While I was there, soaking all this in, a guard popped out and asked if I lived there. The guy’s either an idiot (I was a sweaty dude wearing a backpack taking pictures), or more likely, was using this question to get me off the property. I left pretty soon after, instead of staking the bastard, or claiming that I used to live in the house….fifty years ago. Either way, the nerd inside me was tingly all over during this experience.

If you want to live in such esteemed company, it’s only $1,850/month for a studio. A 2 bedroom apartment could be had for up to $3,600/month. What a steal.

I thought about turning around and going back the way I came back up to Hollywood, but thankfully I wasn’t a moron, and wandered toward Koreatown (or K-Town, if you think that’s cool to say).

In the heart of it, it appeared to be only hair salons and restaurants. My afternoon’s success called for one thing: BEER.

And that’s when I stumbled upon one of the best places to get beer and fatty foods in LA: Beer Belly.

Beer Belly is one of those “nice” places that serve craft beer and “classy” ways to ingest macaroni and cheese, pulled pork and french fries. I love these places, even if they’re overpriced.

I had the Duck Fat Fries, served with Raspberry Mustard (awesome), their “Frankenstein” ketchup (maybe even better) and a couple great beers. The fries were far too salty, but still fantastic, though I couldn’t help but want more duck than the duck skin cracklins and the duck fat oil the fries were drenched in. That probably means I’m getting Death by Duck next time, which is the duck fat fries with duck confit on top. Holy hell.

Their beer menu changes daily (the bathroom had a chalkboard advertising a keg opening on a Sunday, with deals occurring until the keg ran out), and after sampling a watery Irish Red from TAPS (of Brea, CA), I settled on the Holiday Spruce Ale from Craftsman Brewing Company based in Pasadena. As one might expect, it was like sipping on a Christmas tree, and that somehow translated into me calling it a smooth, easy drinking beer in my notes. I need help.

I followed that up with Modern Times’ Lost Horizon, a double IPA from the holy land that is San Diego. The beer itself was on the verge of being one of those IPA’s that’s just hoppy as hell because it’s supposed to impress you, without much in the way of flavor, but it skated by that potential catastrophe, thanks in large part to smelling like happiness. For more of my thoughts on beer, check out Untappd.

Beer Belly would’ve demanded future visits if only for the beer….but the food. I must try their Grilled Cheese, which has 4 kinds of cheese (Asiago, Gruyere, Cheddar, Goat Cheese), topped with bacon and a heaping portion of maple syrup. I could smell it all over the place, which made me hard and disgusted at the same time.

Bree, my delightful server, also recommended the Buttermilk Fried Chicken and the beer & chipotle braised short rib. I almost came on the spot, and somehow managed to resist ordering EVERYTHING on the menu. They have deep fried pop tarts, people. Bree also bought my second beer for me, so I was in love/tricked into tipping more to make up for the “savings.” One of my other notes about the place: “I want to be inside all the waitresses.” Real classy Andy. Beer Belly rules.

Before I had settled upon Beer Belly, I discovered another place for future reference. While I said earlier I’m fine going almost everywhere alone…this demanded company. This demanded a whole night dedicated to its revelry. This demanded Leonardo DiCaprio. Check out…

CAFE JACK. I don’t know where to begin with this place. It’s been themed after the TITANIC since 2007, merely TEN years after the movie came out. But that’s better than never to put a kitschy boat in a sketchy parking lot, where one buys coffee and sushi (they have a “Jack and Rose” sushi roll). It’s gotta be a stop on a Bachelorette party, or an ironic date with a game partner, or a place to get plastered at. It need to be on everyone’s itinerary.

The reviews are mixed, as one might expect, but that hasn’t deterred me from telling everyone I know about this place, in hopes that it can kick off a bizarre bar crawl.

With a spring in my step, I walked past Biergarten, then turned around and stared at the bar for a moment. I wavered on whether or not to grab another beer, or continuing on back up to Hollywood (I had an improv show to go to)…but it was that kind of day, and I sauntered in after a few moments hesitation. Plus I past this guy, who made the decision for me:

No idea.

Within moments, I realized that while trekking up Western, I had stepped in pungent dog shit, and I mistakenly brought it in with me to Biergarten. I quickly ordered a beer, and then stomped my entire body on the parking lot outside, rubbing my soles against the grass, to no avail. From there, I went to the bathroom and wiped the poop off of my shoes with paper towels, while the server was confused if I was staying or leaving. I still haven’t been able to get all of the poop off those shoes.

Needless to say, it was a fantastic entrance to a bar, let alone a Korean/German hybrid sports bar with one of the better beer menus I’d seen in LA. They have German fried rice, drunken chicken, and peanut butter sliders, apparently, but this was a beer-as-dinner sort of day.

I went with the Hop Tanker, a 9% double IPA, and it felt like heaven. If heaven gives you a hangover, an empty wallet and was from El Segundo. It had some great citrus and fruit on the tongue, while still remaining a kick in the pants.

Because I’m an idiot (and brilliant), I tried The Dudes’ Brewing Company’s Juicebox Series: Blood Orange, based out of LA (seen above). It was strong, overly sweet and thick, like the Big Lebowski fanbase, but it also kind of tasted like sweat. I was not a fan, but there wasn’t anything that I disliked about the concept.

Then I was off, to make it up to Hollywood. I got there in plenty of time to spare for the Doctor Who themed improv show that awaited me at iOwest (alumni from the entire iO program include Pete from 30 ROCK, Stephen Colbert, Andy Dick, Chris Farley, Tina Fey, Dave Foley, Neil Flynn, Jon Favreau, Dave Koechner, Lutz, Jack McBrayer, Seth Meyers, Tim Meadows, Amy Poehler, Mike Meyers, Danny Pudi, Key & Peele, Vince Vaughn, Jason Sudekis, Adam McKay, Eric Stonestreet, Glenn from THE WALKING DEAD and many more).

You know what that meant: more beer. Next up was the Blue Palms Brewhouse, another pub with a great beer list, including two of their own (brewed by Firestone Walker).

I started off with the aptly named Blitzen (from Faction Brewing of Alameda, CA), which was what made the Doctor Who Live! so much better than it really was. My quote for the beer: “Hell yes this is dangerous and hell yes I want all of it inside me.”

I followed it up with one of their own beers, the Blue Palms IPA, which was as bland and lame as any IPA you’ve ever had. Firestone apparently doesn’t care when there name isn’t on it. It was impressive that I could even distinguish anything at this point, but the bucket of salty pretzel balls surely helped (a bucket of salty pretzel balls ALWAYS helps, even if they burn your hand off). I was told to order the Truffle Burger next time I was there.

(Note: the next day I would randomly find myself back at the Blue Palms Brewhouse, and sampled their esteemed Truffle Burger, which was as rich and over-the-top as you might’ve expected. Not sure how much I truly loved it, but it was great.)

I found this hilarious at the time, and still do.

I finally arrived at iOwest, where I believe I had another beer while waiting for the show to start (because it was late), and talked football (GO HAWKS) at the bar with a couple folks, including a Minnesota Vikings fan and (gasp) a woman (no idea what team she was into).

I’d be lying if I said I internalized most of the show, but I still had a blast, and enjoyed the festivities, likely more because of the concept than many of the jokes. Crafting a new doctor, new companions and getting a different time period or locale every show highlights how the real show has lasted 50 years, and how an improv show based on it can last just as long.

Perfect photo for a caption contest.

Afterwards, it was time for another beer. Kidding: I took the bus and went sweet sleepy time. But before I did, I took a picture of the most important star on Hollywood Blvd:

During the fateful first get together of the Writer’s Meeting in Burbank (a group now forever known as “Hear Me Out, Bro!”), one of my friends brought up the film A FIELD IN ENGLAND.

I had heard of the movie, as it played at the Beyond Fest, which means one thing: it’s weird as shit. Aforementioned Writer Friend confirmed this, when he said he went to a screening and was offered shrooms by someone else in attendance. He declined the offer, never having taken shrooms and wisely resistant to experimenting for the first time in a public venue.

For a couple days I just thought this was an amusing anecdote. Then, on this particular Thursday night (Feb. 13th), faced with the possibility that I may never get the chance to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND in its proper venue, it was the only thing I could do without tearing off my apartment’s wallpaper. My apartment doesn’t have wallpaper; that’s how dire a situation it was, exacerbated by this trailer:

A FIELD IN ENGLAND was ending its run at Cinefamily‘s not-so Silent Movie Theater, an awesome local theater recently renovated and under new ownership (with JGL, Phil Lord and Michael Cera on the advisory board), playing both the classics (like Chaplin-era classics) and new, trippy films like Ben Wheatley’s newest. Not only would I miss out on the chance to see this bizarre movie about a few 17th century British civil war deserters in theaters, I’d be missing a chance to see it at the Silent Movie Theater, on one of their comfy couches that take up the first few rows, AND, I’d miss the possibility of seeing a psychedelic movie on psychedelic drugs. So, I made sure that didn’t happen.

I’ve done shrooms once, and it was alternately one of the best and worst moments of my life, but it also revolved around an (admittedly obvious) movie: PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. For a couple hours, I was one of James Franco and Seth Rogen’s pals, along for the ride, kicking out the windshields and giggling with them.

Then, I was forced to endure the movie a SECOND TIME (I couldn’t move from the couch; the only thing I managed to do was rub the hardwood floors lovingly with my feet), and that led to vomit, massive embarrassment and darker thoughts than I’ve probably ever had. I wanted to go to the hospital, or bang my head against the toilet to blissfully pass out for a little while. I was prepared to live the rest of my life in a psych ward in a straitjacket, with my parents looking down at me in disappointment. Miraculously, friends and WALL-E managed to drag me out of the darkness and into the light of the stars.

Having had this experience, I felt like I was ready for A FIELD IN ENGLAND, and thought the movie would be better for it.

I hopped on the bus, and arrived way too early. I purchased my tickets and walked around Fairfax, determined to squeeze out even more fun into this evening. After a Yelp search and a few circles around the block that likely made another moviegoer believe I was chasing him, I ended up at…

The Dime. The place is exactly the dive one wants at about 1:38 AM. At 8 PM on a Thursday, there was about 4 people in the bar, and the tiny space felt darn right huge and comfortable, a feeling never shared after 10 PM. From my painful conversation with the hot bartender, I learned that the Dime had DJ’s every night (every night). I also learned that a dive bar in LA means $9 well vodka drinks. The Dime is not the right name, though it does have one of those old-school cash registers:

The vodka soda at least was strong, and it readied me for the mindfucks to come.

Unfortunately, no one offered me shrooms. I don’t know if I didn’t qualify, if Shroom Dude wasn’t in attendance, or if my writer friend just happened upon a miracle (and wasted it). Until I arrived there, it seemed to me like it was a veritable certainty, as if my ticket entailed I receive a handful of smelly, awful tasting psychotropic drugs.

Alas, it was not meant to be (or perhaps thankfully, judging from my only other experience), and I think the movie was worse for it. I had no idea what was going on, and while I know that was the point, I feel like I just wasn’t on the same plane of existence with the characters, the filmmakers or the writers (Amy Jump and Ben Wheatley). This movie demands another frame of mind and a lack of sobriety, and I celebrate it for that. It’s essentially MONTY PYTHON meets David Lynch and Ingmar Bergman.

Even so, it managed to be hilarious at times, and if you desire random penises and other disturbing images of violence, sex and god knows what, wrapped around by an absorbingly eerie score, A FIELD is for you. There’s even a scene where one of the soldiers is literally choking on mushrooms, and I can’t imagine this movie puts you in good, magical happy trip land based on its fucked up content.

While I was disappointed by the movie and the experience as a whole, I’m glad I went for it. I could’ve stayed home and caught up on AMERICAN HORROR STORY, but instead, I tried to live out my own episode. These are the kinds of things I’m in LA for; these are the kinds of things we live for. I’d rather go and experience the weird, than for a moment regret I didn’t.

I also ended up getting a business card out of it for an event planner who once raised money for charity by traveling across the world wearing only a Tuxedo. Yes, the guy rules.

To figure out how to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND, check its website. Its apparently on demand, available on DVD and Blu-Ray, and during the summer of its release, you could’ve seen A FIELD IN ENGLAND…in a field in England. That would’ve been everything.

Europe is gonna love me.

But, let’s not be too hasty. I’ll rewind a little bit. My name is Andy Greene, though I’d be shocked if any one actually reads this blog who didn’t already know that. After graduating to much fanfare at Ithaca College in 2010, my plan was to save money and write screenplays in preparation for kicking LA’s ass. It’s almost 2012, and I think I’ve written 12 pages of various projects, worked as a bus boy, waiter and teller, discovered a few excellent porn sites (xvideo, what up) and disappointed/shamed family and friends by blowing over a .20 while driving my family’s minivan in route to my grandmother’s house after my only night out in Lake Tahoe. So…I think I have the tabloid part of Hollywood life down, at least.

About a year after graduation I shifted gears (soberly) from going to LA completely unprepared to continuing to save money for a trip to Europe. I’m not entirely sure what I hope to accomplish in my travelling, but I knew there’s gotta be something out there, and that if I can’t write or be inspired by any of the gorgeous and annoyingly historic sites I’m about to see, then I can cross off being a writer for awhile. For awhile I’ve thought that life should be about living it, having fun, meeting new people, falling in love, trying new things and not working 9 to 5 enduring the daily routine, so it’s ironic that I worked at evil Bank of America to support these goals (mind you I’m technically on a six month leave of absence so, ahem, I love BOA).

Besides, I’ve found that I like to write about what’s happened to me, and well, here’s the result. This blog, with the help of Barrett WS himself, will at the very least keep my parents abreast of what nationality the breasts I’m sampling are, and if that didn’t do it, will scare most of my family and friends away with my embarrassingly raw honesty and will insure my single-dom for a very long time. Anyways, back to the trip.

The woman checking my bags (a Kelty day bag courtesy of Bank of America points) warns me about buying a one way ticket into London. She tells me to be prepared, and have better answers for her questions than I did. Note: this is blatant foreshadowing for those that watch MTV.

After an eerily similar goodbye to my parents to when I first went off for Ithaca, I was on the plane, nervous, petrified and at least half erect for what’s to come.

In all seriousness, the trip, in fact, did immediately pay off. The second I closed my eyes, ideas came for writing about my trip, about this blog, about Back to the Future 4 (where I’d play Michael J Fox’s/Marty’s son) but for various reasons it’s taken me awhile to begin chronicling my adventure.

I fall asleep before we even take off and despite expelling my bowels prior to boarding, I have a pang in my loins indicative of my college drinking years. What happened to my bladder? I feel like Bryan. It’s gonna be a long flight, and hopefully, a long journey.

Don’t international flights offer free booze? I was under the impression that they do. That’s codswallop; at least on Icelandair. I use the last of my U.S. cash to order an Icelandic beer named Tuborg which I think the old gentleman (who turns out to be Danish) recommended. It tastes like Heineken.

The rest of the flight is a kaleidoscope of Icelandic music, Ashton Kutcher films and neck ravaging airplane sleep. Aside from his good looks, I now know why our boy has such a big career. He does gangbusters overseas.The old Danish guy next to me watched No Strings Attached TWICE (to be fair his head fell forward during one of his naps which fast forwarded through the whole thing and I don’t think he knew how to work the screen) and finished the flight off with the first half of What Happens in Vegas. Two little known facts: Lake Bell is in both of these movies, and Ashton Kutcher movies look great on mute.

I’m very random, and get used to this, because fuck organizing, that’s why anyone can be a blogger (that and it’s easy to do drunk), but my first epiphany. My new goal in life is to have been to every place listed in Jlo and Pitbull’s iconic collaboration On the Floor. LA, NY, Vegas, done. Africa, Ibiza, Brazil and Morroco yet to come, but instant gratification: when I land I can cross off London.

Anyways (my 3rd favorite word), I land in London and it’s go time: customs. I am called to the lady furthest on the left, but after our favorite backpacker who got facebook friends took 9 seconds and a laugh to get by the older bespectacled gentleman in front of her, I stop by him. I made a huge mistake.

He asks me how long I’m in London, where I’m staying and going, and when I’m flying back. He wants to make sure I’m not bumming around Europe, not looking for work, not a terrorist. Fair enough. Well, I can’t lie, so I say I don’t have a return flight because I wasn’t sure what airport I would be flying out of because I bought a Eurail pass through Europe, etc. etc. etc. It sounded way less smooth than that and he not so kindly pointed out that London detains the second most Americans at the airport than any other country in the world. Gulp. He grills me for more information, and since my plan was to have no plan (smart move, Andy), I pretty much crumble. I explain I want something to write about, and well, he responds that I might receive that, just not what I want, which is exactly what I was thinking. He also makes a comment after I said I was going to have an adventure and fun, that he wasn’t having any of that at the moment. He asks me to sit down for a moment. I’d been in London for an hour, and it might be my last. The trip may not even happen. I’ve heard of (hell, I’ve had it on occasion) premature ejaculation but this shit is ridiculous.

The chap comes back, because you have to call British people something loopy, and we go to search my bags. He sees I’m backpacking, and I think the first time I received any points in my favor was when he asked me what was in the bottom pocket of my backpack and I said “I believe condoms and sandals.” He checked, laughed, and said it was good protection for Europe. And he meant the sandals. But he wasn’t convinced, and when he asked me what my budget was, I responded, and he wanted proof. I didn’t bring with me a receipt, which take note, is VERY helpful, so we went to an airport ATM to see if they would show my balance. I was bleak at that point, but fuck yes, the numbers I said I had showed up, and after waiting another few minutes, he stamped my passport, and I was in.

Fuck. It was an omen for things to come.

Next time on The Wanderer: Andy gets lost. A lot. Andy gets screwed. A lot. And not in the good way. Andy wants to go home. Andy likes typing in the 3rd person.

Before I sign off, I’d like to thank Barrett for putting together this website. Mind you, I’m writing this blindly. It could be an ugly fucking chut of a website, but then again, that’d fit. But seriously, any satisfaction derived from this blog wouldn’t be possible without Bear-it’s kind contributions.