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Prince's St. Backpacker's Hostel

I arrived in Edinburgh after a truly exhausting series of flights and security check points (including one time where I was pulled out of line at one gate "randomly," which I insist was because they saw that I was reading Catcher in the Rye, and not because I look like a blonde Islamic fundamentalist with my unkempt beard). The most draining leg of my trip came in Amsterdam, where I had a six hour layover, during the time when my body was telling me it was 4 a.m. until ten in the morning. I read a bit, dozed off a bit, and watched an extremely funny beggar get thrown out of the airport, as he screamed "motherfucker!" as loudly as he could at the police. More than anything else, hearing "motherfucker" shouted in a Dutch accent told me that I was no longer in my home country but on a new adventure. I eventually made it to Edinburgh. Collecting my luggage, being waved through customs, and boarding the airport shuttle, I found myself in ...[crap, descriptive powers failing me...get your journal and describe this better later.]

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This page last updated on 3 February, 2002, and doesn't like it when I touch it there, either.
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