#i have been so spoiled by the mountain west its like my fucking third eye has been opened

[randamhajile]

I hate NY so fucking much. Nothing functions out here anymore. Doing literally anything is a fucking nightmare, and an expensive one. It doesn't matter where you're going or what you're doing, getting there is a miserable unpredictable experience and once you're there pray to God nothing goes wrong. I have so many fucking horror stories from the last 4 years. Hate hate hate hate hate

[chameleonspell]

186: boundaries

The mountains of northern Vvardenfell were an unforgiving place, riddled with caves and gouged with deep, volcanic trenches. The latter, known locally as foyadas, were perilous to navigate, their steep sides granting travellers no escape from swooping cliff racers or marauding kagouti packs. No escape from the impressive acoustics, either. "Sixty-third came a Bosmer whore, toothy and stout, What goes in a Wood Elf's mouth doesn't come out! Sing ohhh, the loves of Boethiah! The ninety-nine loves of Boethiah!" It was only their second hour of hiking since breaking camp, but Iriel was already pondering self-targeted Silence spells, or, failing that, the sound-muffling properties of shalk resin.

"A Hist, twenty-eighth, spread its roots for a view, At least, that's what we think it was trying to do! Sing ohhh, the loves of Boethiah! The ninety-nine loves of Boethiah!" More than getting beetle-gunk permanently lodged in his auditory canal, Iriel was afraid of being passive-aggressive and spoiling the mood. Julan was in the kind of high spirits he usually only reached with the aid of at least four bottles. That said, Ire's tolerance had limits. "The fourteenth was a Sload with reversible tube, The thing about Sload is, you never need--" "You sang fourteenth already!" Ire couldn't keep the anguished betrayal from his voice. Julan glanced over his shoulder. "Did I?" he remarked blithely. "Yes! I've been keeping track! But it wasn't a Sload, it was something lurid about a Khajiit who was flexible enough to reach any part of his anatomy with his tongue." Iriel sucked in his cheeks, suddenly pensive. "I'm beginning to understand why Dro'Zaymar didn't require my company, that night in St Delyn." "Huh?" "Never mind. Are there really ninety-nine verses?" "'No, of course not!" "Oh, thank Mara." "There's far more than that, because if you run out, you make them up as you go along!" As Iriel closed his eyes and moaned, Julan gave him a condescending look. "Ire, you say filthier things than this all the time." "I know, but with these awful tavern songs, I'm always waiting for the next 'hilarious' thing that'll hit me somewhere it hurts. Humour like this depends on using other people for its punchlines." "Look, the one about the Nord girl with the plaited moustache I got from Sottilde, so--" "I don't care!" "I skipped all the verses about Altmer!" "I've already composed them in my head via guesswork, and upset myself, so you needn't have bothered!" "Lighten up, Ire. I sang the bit with the Dunmer who married a guar, didn't I? Nobody's safe with this sort of song." "Let me try one, then." Iriel chewed his lip for a while, then sang: "An Ashlander maid, sacred clit-rings on show, They have twelve words for 'fuck me' and no word for 'no'." To his satisfaction, Julan's face immediately darkened. "That," he said, "was over the line." "EXACTLY!!! Because you know where that line is! Stop pretending you do for everyone else!" Julan threw up a hand. "OK! Fine! Let's sing your one about the dead baby in the pond again, that'll keep our spirits up!" Iriel watched him march on ahead, skipping over rocks in his path, already humming the opening strains of The Kwama Miner's Daughter. Perhaps there was nothing extreme about Julan's cheerfulness, Iriel considered. Perhaps anyone would appear cheerful in comparison to himself, and the creeping dread that tugged, tar-like, at his heels with every step. His spirits require no support, while mine are beyond salvaging. What are we doing? What am I doing? What am I letting him do? "You're certain we're in the correct foyada?" Iriel ventured, when they stopped at midday to eat. He knew Julan's answer would be 'yes', regardless of truth, but that was why he'd asked - a desire for reassurance at any price. Every grey, lava-bitten channel snaking down from Red Mountain looked identical to him. "Of course!" Julan, grinning broadly, began indicating landmarks with a stick of scrib jerky. "I've spent my life in these mountains! Those pointed rock spires down there are Airan's Teeth, so this is Yamus bel-Shannarai, the Valley of the Wind. It's obviously the 'teeth of the wind' that stupid riddle was talking about." Ire allowed himself to be reassured. It was true, they were only a couple of hours south-west of the Grazelands, and from there, it was only a few more miles along the coast to the summer location of Julan's mother's camp. To Iriel's relief, Julan had expressed no desire to visit. "I've never heard of any secret shrines to Azura around here," he was saying. "I'd have thought Mother would know about it. But I guess that's why it's secret." He rolled his eyes. "Sheogorath knows why that wise woman had to make it a whole stupid riddle. We passed the test, didn't we? These old women love messing with your head for the attention, but you shouldn't encourage them." "I was just relieved she didn't want to stick needles in me," said Ire. "You can do all the talking, next time. You have a promise of guest rites, after all, it was your choice not to come with me to--" "I know, get off my back!" Julan was still grinning. "I want to have this proof from the cavern, first. Then I'll go to the Urshilaku and show them, explain that I'm the Nerevarine, and you were only helping me." He set his jaw at the distant horizon. "I'll show Mother, too." You could still say something. You could repeat what Zainsubani told you about his father, try to-- He knows! He's heard it and rejected it, so all you'd be doing is telling him you believed the word of a stranger over his! Faith, Ire. You said you were going to have faith in him. Yes, but... ugh! Walk, just walk. The foyada seemed eternal. It ran broadly south, but as the incline increased, it began a slow, fern-frond curl around a huge rock spur. They scrambled uphill through flowering heather, swarming with tiny copper moths that rose like dustclouds as they passed. As the day wore on, Iriel's exhaustion grew, but Julan's optimism remained undentable. "I've been thinking about this guest-rites thing," he said, at one point. "One of the most well-known prophecies is called The Stranger. That's where the famous line about Incarnates comes from: 'many fall, but one remains'. But it also has lines about the tribes welcoming a stranger to their hearth. And guess what? The Velothi word for stranger, hlarmut, can also be translated as guest, and that's the word used in guest rites!" His eyebrows leapt as he beamed into Iriel's impassive face. "So me receiving guest rites might be part of the prophecy! For the first time in forever, I'm making real progress!" Iriel made a noncommittal noise and faked the need to focus on the placement of his feet. I said I wouldn't stand in his way. I said I couldn't protect him by showing him I doubted him. I said I had to trust him, even when he's wrong. Noble sentiments, so idealistic. Bodu saw through that guarshit straight away. What use is any of it, if he's dead? In the afternoon, they climbed above the ashline. Crossed into the high places, where the storms whipped constant torrents of ash from the crater of the volcano. They had goggles from the Urshilaku with shalk-wing lenses and tight leather straps. Ire wrapped his blue silk scarf around his nose and mouth, followed by another less permeable one of soft, grey racerskin. Even Julan was forced to cover his face, though Ire could still hear him humming, whenever the wind dropped. They clambered over piles of scree, and verdant explosions of bittergreen. Sometimes, a gust of wind would catch Iriel unawares, and he'd have to cling to the nearest bristling tendril until Julan rescued him, grateful his netch gauntlets kept the spines out of his skin. Everything is so fragile, so precarious. Any moment, something could tear him from me. Every step we take, a crack could open up between us. Could swallow either of us... or both. We killed an ash vampire, but we almost died a dozen times and it's only going to get worse. Where's the line, Ire? He knows. He stood across it, that night you tried to attack the Council Club. You lecture him about boundaries, but where are yours, now? You always do this. You fuck things up one way, then you overcorrect too far in the other direction. You're not "having faith" in him, you're enabling him. And if you keep going, you're going to watch him die. But what else can I do? In the crags, they passed through a cliff racer nesting ground, empty now the chicks had all fledged. Iriel felt small bones crunch beneath his boots, and forced his gaze upwards, stomach turning. Julan was already bouncing over the top of the next ridge. I don't know how to help you. I've found plenty of ways not to do it. I don't want to mock you, deceive you, lecture you, patronise you, manipulate you, order you, guilt-trip you. I won't have you feel my love as a chain around your wrist, dragging you from your hopes and dreams into cultureless domesticity, like Shani tried to do. Is this all that's left, letting you pull me into the mouth of hell with you? I don't want to watch you die, but if the choice is this, or leaving you to die alone... I owe it to you. I owe it to you to be wrong about staying, instead of wrong about going. "Huh." Julan had stopped, and was scratching his head. The foyada had ended in a narrow clearing, rock faces on all sides. There was no sign of a cavern, or an opening of any sort. "I don't get it." He pushed up his goggles, the cliffs largely shielding them from the ash. "It must be here, but we've checked the entire length of the valley." "Can we rest?" Iriel's bag had slipped from his shoulders, and he looked ready to drop into the ash next to it. Julan nodded, and they settled themselves against the rock face at the foyada's dead end. Ire loosened his scarves, and shook out the ash, until it made him cough so much he stopped. Julan passed Ire the waterskin, and waited while he drank, watching with such intensity, it was all Ire could do not to choke. He settled for spilling it down his chin, and shooting Julan an exasperated glance. Julan returned him a smile of pure affection. "I know this has been hard on you," he told Iriel. "And I don't just mean the climbing, I mean everything. I know I've been hard on you, too, and difficult to live with. I want to apologise, and to say... you don't know how much it means to me, that you're here." Please let a crack in the rock open up, because I want to crawl into it. "I could do this." Ire heard Julan's voice, and dimly felt him cradling his hand, through his gauntlet and haze of impotent despair. "I could actually succeed at my mission! I never felt this way before, never in my whole life. It's amazing, and it's all because of you." Oh. Great. "I never imagined that anyone would do this for me, would share my burden like this. You're so strong, Iya, far more than me, and far more than you realise. I love you so much." Ire knew he couldn't respond without crying, and then having to explain why. And then falling apart completely, begging, drenching Julan in guilt, exchanging all his confidence and devotion for doubt and resentment again, and to achieve what? A temporary victory, at best. He gritted his teeth and looked away, into the rising blush of the sunset, at the lone star appearing over it. Vasa bel-Azura. Viatrix said love and faith were the same thing. That faith let her follow, when reason failed. But... she was talking about a god. What do gods ever have to lose? The mountain groaned, and, as if answer to his prayer, he felt the rock behind him shift. Iriel might have wondered how the liminal boundary operated, without a monk and a pulley, but at that moment, there was nothing in his mind but a sense of hollow inevitability. They walked down the passage hand in hand, a distant, submarine glow luring them into the depths. Julan was vibrating with anticipation, Iriel numbly docile. The cavern that opened around them was a temple. Luminous, numinous, stalactites and stalagmites ringing it like pillars. In the centre, surrounded by green and violet mushrooms that shone like altar candles, was a kneeling female figure, carved from the rock. Julan's eyes were fixed on the statue, his mouth slack. "Azurammu," Ire heard him breathe. Azura's stone eyes were cast down into her lap, where her hands were resting, upturned and open. Towed nearer, Ire saw lichen patterning her skin and moss softening the folds of her robe. Julan clutched convulsively at his arm. "Look!" Iriel followed his gaze. She had worshippers. Around the edges of the cavern, motionless figures were huddled at stiff angles, bent at the knees and neck. "They're bodies!" Julan let go of Iriel, and moved towards the nearest form. "This one's been given full death-honours... more than for a khan, even. Are they heroes, legendary champions? I've never seen soul-bindings this complex." He began going from corpse to corpse, squinting and gasping. Iriel hadn't moved, was still hovering at the centre of the cavern, paralysed by discomfort and dread. The statue loomed over him, all benign expression and benevolent hands. He hated it with every fibre of his being. There was something glinting between the statue's cupped hands. A silver band. He leaned closer. A silver band... with a moon and star on it. He almost shouted to Julan, but stopped himself. Something was bothering him about the ring, and a second later, he realised what. It wasn't enchanted. It was impressive to look at, the six-pointed star nestled into the elegant curve of the crescent moon, but it wasn't magical. Not imbued with any sort of spell, let alone a soul-scanning murdercurse. I could be wrong. Daedra can be subtle, after all, and my judgement isn't what it was. But... I can still sense the arcane, and there's simply nothing here. I can feel the amulets on the corpses across the cavern, but not this ring. Nibani Maesa said that to gain the proof of Nerevar, I had to find the moon and star. But if she knew the cavern was here... why is the ring still here? Why hadn't they already retrieved it, kept it safe? Unless... it's just another sinyesh, a test-thing to retrieve. Iriel stared again at the circle of metal in the statue's hands. How can it be a proof, if it's not magical? She must have known it wasn't magical. That anyone could wear it, and-- He saw a trap. He saw a glittering snare. A manacle, to drain freedom, and replace it with blind, dutiful obedience. "Mephala!" Julan's voice drifted from somewhere behind the statue. "There's even more bodies! And they must be really powerful spirits, the amount of bone charms holding them to this place is... incredible. Iya, I think this place is a tomb for failed Incarnates!" He saw a poisoned chalice. If I'm wrong, and it is cursed somehow, it will kill him instantly. If I'm right, and it isn't, it will cement his confidence, and lock him on his course. Make him the willing dupe of this reborn soul shell game, or whatever it is these wise women are playing at. Either way, it kills him. Quick or slow, it kills him. The stalagmites and stalactites were no longer the pillars of a temple. They were ranks of pointed teeth, ready to snap closed. "What have you found?" Julan was approaching from the back of the cave, and Iriel's pulse hammered against his throat. Too late now to hide it, lose it, pretend it had never existed. He suddenly heard Viatrix, again. 'Some things They did so we might not have to. So we might receive the lesson, without paying the cost.' Iriel picked up the ring. At the flash of silver, Julan's eyes went wide. When he saw what Ire was doing with it, they went wider still. "No," he said hoarsely, beginning to run, catching his shoulder on a stalactite, forcing past it. "STOP!!" This time, I chose it. I betrayed him with both eyes open. The Moon-and-Star slid past Ire's knuckle, and settled around the base of his left middle finger. And nothing happened. There. I was right. I know it'll hurt, to find it was all meaningless. That he'll be disappointed it's not the proof he wanted, that it's been nothing but a huge set-up. At best, he'll be furious with me for taking the risk. At worst, he'll despise me forever, for sabotaging his destiny, and he'll have the right. But at least he might live to do it. Ire began releasing the breath he'd been holding. Then he saw Julan's face, and it froze in his chest. Julan came towards him. Silently, slowly as if underwater, his eyes fixed on the ring on Iriel's hand. When he reached it, he stopped. Took Ire's hand in his, gently, reverently. He ran his fingers along Iriel's knuckle, then across the ring. Then down the length of Ire's finger, and off. Iriel couldn't speak, but when Julan looked up, their eyes met. There was no trace of anger in Julan's face. Only something of the condemned man, in the split second after the trapdoor opens, and before the noose pulls tight. He nodded slowly. He squeezed Iriel's fingers. Then he ran from the cave. "WAIT!!" Ire's self-possession returned, as Julan reached the cavern entrance. Stumbling down the tunnel after him, Ire saw the stone door begin to grind downwards. He launched himself towards the shrinking wedge of rose-gold light. "COME BACK YOU IDIOT IT'S NOT ENCH--!" The rock wall descended the last few feet just as Iriel hit it face-first. next: 187: mother previous: 185: courage beginning: 1: numb

[scottymcgeesterwrites]

My First Time in Los Angeles

This past April, I visited California for the very first time with my girlfriend, Em. It was also her first time there - in short - it was our first time venturing OUT WEST beyond Pennsylvania.

Vacations have always been somewhat of a bum rap for me.

I only ever spent vacations with my parents, and as the years went by and the money became short, we went on fewer and fewer vacations. But even when I went on vacation, my strained relationship with them made the time drag by ever so slowly, especially through their arguments, and I often found myself saying, “God, I need a vacation. Oh, wait.”

Our trip was really a double feature - 4 days in Los Angeles and 3 days in San Francisco. We each had friends from college we wanted to visit, whom we hadn’t seen in years.

The first thing I had in mind was to visit film locations. There was the Griffith’s Observatory, featured in Rebel without a Cause and La La Land. The Bradbury Building at 304 South Broadway, where Blade Runner was filmed. Pacific Park, where Bean was filmed. The Bronson Cave Trail in Griffith’s Park, where the original 1960′s Batcave was filmed. And about 30 miles north of L.A. are some unassuming rock formations in Vasquez Rocks Natural Area Park where Captain James T. Kirk battled a Gorn in the Star Trek episode Arena.

                       (Rowan Atkinson as Mr. Bean in 1997′s Bean)

Unfortunately, from my list I only got to see the Griffith’s Observatory and Pacific Park, but that didn’t mean my time in Los Angels wasn’t what I wanted. Oh, far more than that. My friend Carlos could practically make money as a tour-guide. He live a couple towns over but was familiar with Los Angeles, its subway system, its atmosphere. He took us to the Los Angeles City Hall, where we could see nearly everything, even the Griffith’s Observatory in the distance.

Pictures made possible by my lovable Nikon P510. The zoom on it is amazing and has been the envy of all my friends (penis envy - zoom envy). 

We even stumbled upon an enlightening talk on affordable housing development. While we wandered around Los Angeles City Hall, we noticed many nicely-dressed people gathering. Even though we felt out of place - post-graduate 20-somethings haggard from walking in the sun all day long - nobody gave us weird looks. We slipped into the crowd inside the main hall and listened to a talk some guy gave about why people in Los Angeles hate poor people.

Seriously.

For those of you unfamiliar with the homeless problem, Los Angeles has a huge one. It’s notorious for having the most homeless people, Skid Row in particular. Carlos told me that it’s nothing to be afraid of though - it’s just smelly and disgusting - and the homeless people only fight among themselves if they ever fight.

Part of the reason for Los Angeles’ dragging homeless issue is that nobody wants affordable housing to be built in their backyards and neighborhoods. They believe in this stigma that homeless people bring violence, drugs and crime. In reality, they need mental aide and a place to live. But people keep voting no. And so the homeless continue to fill the streets.

Well.

Fuck.

While my memories of L.A. are grounded, I remember feeling as if I wasn’t really there, and yet active at the same time. An engaging observer. I felt it most when Carlos, Em and I sifted through the crowd of the affordable housing presentation. Nobody bat an eye at us despite us dressed so differently. I felt like I was in an episode of Doctor Who where The Doctor takes his companions to witness some fantastic historical event and few people are paying attention to them.

After that, Carlos took us to Little Tokyo, where I gushed with nerdiness at finding trading cards from JRPGs like Tales of Symphonia and Tales of Xilia.

Carlos is an interesting individual - unconventional but very fun. Many people back in college thought he was too crazy but I could deal with crazy. He had an idea to buy 32 oz. bottles of Asahi beer and hide them in these funny, wool socks he bought. He drank with Em and as our shopping progressed, Carlos became Carlos to the third power. He binged on shopping for anime, and his favorite is Eureka Seven.

“Dude,” he said aloud, holding the special edition box set. “I love this. It’s a great romance. Oh, man, I’m a sucker for romances like this. This boy, the main character right, he’s young and full of semen. You know what I mean?”

That day was probably the best time I ever had on a vacation. My parents were a practically non-existent thought somewhere in the back of my head. I didn’t have two pairs of eyes judging me. I could be myself, experience a new place the way I wanted.

Los Angeles Nightlife (and meeting a celebrity)

Em’s friend told us a couple places where we could have a good time. Well, the place we hung out one night was appropriately called Good Times at Davey Wayne’s. We waited in line in some alleyway with this annoying jagoff of a bouncer who literally looked like Jared Leto. Maybe he was Jared Leto now that I think about it. I don’t know. He really looked like Jared Leto - he had the white Jesus thing going on. Maybe he was a nice guy, I thought, until he was completely enamored with this one girl who cut in line. She flirted with him for five seconds and he let her in.

The one thing that struck me immediately upon entering Good Times at Davey Wayne’s was not the hipster, 70′s theme, but the fact that people were actually dancing. Like really dancing. Not the grinding shit East Coasters do everywhere, nor the awkward wedding dances where old people try to be hip. It was seriously the best time I ever had clubbing.

When I prepared for Los Angeles, I bought a small green notebook. I’m very anal about my notebooks. Each notebook is color-coded based on the topic. This slim green notebook is reserved for autographs. I chose green because it’s the color of envy, which is usually how you feel about celebrities.

I imagined at first that running into even mildly famous people would be a frequent occurrence in Los Angeles. But right before we left for L.A., I read someone’s post about how it’s not at all like that. Regardless, I brought the book with me.

When we were at Good Times at Davey Wayne’s, my ears caught a particular voice that struck me. I knew I heard that voice somewhere. I honed in on it and saw this blond girl and her friends. I immediately recognized the famous YouTuber Meghan McCarthy.

I told Em about it but I wasn’t 100% sure. Yet Meghan has a distinctive voice she’s known for and I was sure about the voice. Em approached her anyway and lo and behold - she was Meghan McCarthy. 

So I got my very first celebrity autograph!

And I was also an idiot for not remembering to take a picture. To be fair, our phones were in a constant state of dying during our vacation from all the picture-taking. I almost didn’t get any pictures of the Griffith’s Observatory. Both our phones AND my camera died. I got really bummed out - but then - I remembered I was carrying my Nintendo 3DS! It takes low-res pictures but - hey - better than nothing.

The Getty

On my last day I visited my old friend Seb - whom I hadn’t seen since my college graduation of ‘12. He already has a wife and a son. The guy’s already living it. He was my college pal since Day 1 of freshman year. We were DJs together for WMNJ at Drew University. Well, he was a DJ, I was really a talk show host. We had always meant to hang out together but life drew us apart.

Seb is an artist. As such, he took us to The Getty - quite possibly the most expansive, beautiful art museum I’ve ever been to. It’s also free (well, except for parking but still). The Getty is nestled up in a mountain, so you take a tram car ride up there.

So overall, what’s L.A. like?

Miami, but on steroids.

And with the movie theme going on.

I’ve been to Miami many times. It’s hot. There are homeless people. Driving sucks. And there are palm trees everywhere.

The driving is atrocious.

People who live there also have this strange aversion to the subway system, which I actually found affordable, easy to use and fast. I guess it’s just overshadowed now by Uber. Another reason why the subway could be overshadowed is that it takes you to mostly touristy areas.

There’s also weed everywhere and nobody cares. Nobody ever cared even when it was illegal. It’s now legal but legislation is taking its jolly old time to figure out how to regulate it and sell it, etc. So you can’t find a store to walk in and get some weed. Still, there are “marijuana doctors” at nearly every corner of every street.

Hollywood Blvd. is equivalent to NYC’s Times Square. Once you start seeing chain restaurants and street performers, you know it’s touristy.

Pacific Park is further away in Santa Monica, next to Venice Beach. If you are from New Jersey or at least familiar with the Jersey Shore, think of Venice Beach as Seaside Heights but on steroids.

(Almost anything in L.A. can be summed up as ‘Like X but on steroids’ - ESPECIALLY the movie theaters. I really wanted to see a movie in the Chinese Theater but we didn’t have the time.)

Pacific Park - to be brutally honest - was not as exciting as Em and I thought it’d be. It’s a tiny little amusement park. The roller coaster is so short that they let you ride twice. While everyone else around us beamed with excitement, we were really spoiled East Coasters having experienced Six Flags with fucking death-defying drops in Nitro, and even the Jersey Shore with all its piers clogged with amusements. Pacific Park is the only amusement park on the West Coast. The reason being, well, earthquakes and erosion.

We could never seem to get a general consensus on how frequent earthquakes occurred. One Uber driver told us once a week, another said once a month, some passerby told us once every couple months. People blatantly contradicted each other - especially since one person said they hadn’t had a major earthquake in decades while another said the last major earthquake was in 2014. People contradicted each other on what public transportation was like. The food. The stores.

But they never contradicted what it was like about each other. Everybody in L.A. is truly trying to be somebody, and I could tell right away when that girl cut us and had Mr. Jared Leto Lookalike flirt with her by asking him to take her phone out of her back pocket. I overheard it all the time when people talked about their comedy acts and meetings with friends to get this film shoot down.

And while I was annoyed by that instance, it’s a far cry from the overall good vibe. Strangers are friendly. Nobody is suspicious of you for anything. There are dozens of “Love trumps hate” signs and the like. When I took a picture of Em in from of Pacific Park, two strangers wanted to get in the picture, which resulted in an amusing progression of photos.

Where did you stay?

An AirBnB. I actually feel horrible because I still haven’t left a review for our hosts, now that I reminded myself.

AirBnB is basically Uber for hotels. It’s getting really famous now. We got a really sweet cheap deal for the time we spent there.

I’ll actually shout out to them - we stayed at the Chaplin Room at Limelight Manor, hosted by Joan & Luis.

It was our first time using AirBnB. Joan’s parents apparently take care of the place. They were sweet and helpful. We were apprehensive at first because we weren’t sure what we could use and what we couldn’t use. Em assumed everything was owned by Joan and Luis. I thought otherwise. The sign clearly says “Put your name on whatever you don’t want other people to use.” There were unmarked bottles of wine. So I drank one. Logical.

We never saw the hosts, only Joan’s parents, who took care of the place like the maids of a hotel would.

The guests at the AirBnB tended to keep to themselves, just like a regular hotel. At first I was weirded out because I always heard people scurry here and there but when I left the room nobody was around.

BONUS ROUND:

On our way to California during the plane ride, Em and I saw these very strange lights as we neared Las Vegas.

Bio-dome? Science facility? Area 51? Aliens?

If anyone knows - feel free to share.

Ciao.