You should know by now that this entire blog is NSFW. But since this is probably the sauciest post of all, I’m putting everything after the cut.
Welcome to the second part of a whatever-number-part series about my family trip to the Azores. I sincerely apologize for the delay in these updates. My time so far in Lisbon can be described by the following gifs:
The day I arrived in Lisbon I met up with a friend whom I met when I was here three years ago. I was under the impression that we were going to have coffee and hang out for a couple hours. Then we started drinking wine and then two in the morning showed up and I realized that I hadn’t eaten dinner. Result: ouch. We ended up hanging out for the better part of three days. There was some beach and a lot of wine. But he finally went to the south for a few days so now I can be my own bad influence.
Day two in the Azores went like this:
It’s about time this travel blogger did some traveling. I returned from this trip no less than a week and a half ago. My excuse for procrastinating: my wifey came to visit immediately after and then I moved. I’m writing this now from a couple of friends’ place where I’m leaving my crap as I bang my way through Europe (we hope). I’m getting on a plane in six hours, but since I am so dedicated to the six of you that read this, I’ve carved out the morning to offer you all this inspiring nugget of useless information.
Also, please excuse the state of this. I probably won’t have time to edit and I’ve been a bad little writer this week so the quality of this is probably gonna be a bit rusty. Also I’m mildly delirious. (I should note there I initially wrote “delicious”. What a great Freudian finger slip. What a great name for a band! Or porno. SHOTGUN!)
I went way down south on a Monday with my friend Arthur and his friend Cindy* who was visiting from Amurrca. (Cindy is now my friend, too. I made her pancakes and we follow each other on Instagram. It’s real.) We initially intended to use BlaBlaCar, a car-sharing service that I’ve employed a number of times with great success. It tends to be cheaper, faster, and more comfortable than busses. However this time we had several hiccups and after making three separate reservations we gave up and took the train.
In the event you’re just joining us, this is how I feel about trains:
Most of the time I’ve spent on this blog thus far has been dedicated to setting up the email address, getting the fucking header to show up on the page, and installing the godforsaken icon for the browser tab. (Which still does not work!) Normally the process goes something like this: I try to do something. I can’t. I message my mother who is six time zones away and far more internet savvy than I am and say, “Mommy, I can’t figure this out!” Then she tells me what to do. I do it. It still doesn’t work. Then she says, “Give me your password,” and does it for me.
Consider this blog a last-ditch effort to make myself entirely unemployable. Perhaps if I deter enough hiring managers with my decidedly uncouth title, I’ll be forced to dedicate my life to writing or starve.
Who is Train Slut?
I’m an American solo traveler with two passports and an Interrail pass. (That I haven’t actually bought yet… minor detail.) I’ve spent the last four years in Spain and decided to mosey back stateside come September. As an epic last hurrah I’m going to attempt to visit eight countries in four-six(ish) weeks one locomotive at a time.
Why? Trains are the best form of transportation and my best writing is done on them.
How did I come to be Train Slut? Unlike most super heroes, my origin story is neither tragic nor supernatural. My parents are wholly intact and I’ve never been struck by lightning or bitten by a genetically modified spider. (To my knowledge, anyhow.)
My story is, however, complicated and slightly turbulent. I’ll give you the eclipsed version for now: