So after managing to lose my wallet before leaving the country and missing my flight due the the amazing efficiency of US customs (it took six manned booths an hour to move three people through. The staff outnumbered the passengers. Presumably everyone else was there for moral support It took them ten actual minutes to process me once they got around to it, most of which was spent trying to explain the concept of backpacking. Trust me, I don't plan on staying here.), and wandering downtown Portland for three hours trying to figure out where the bus stops were (it's like if whyte ave was the size of sherwood park), I made it to the hostel half an hour before lockout. On the plus side, I had a pretty good conversation with a boisterous bloodshot man on the train about Terry Pratchett and Ving Rhames' stylishness. I'm going to call it a draw. Onbyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
The hostel cat, Sheba, has planted herself on my lap and keeps trying to help me type. It is comfortingly familiar.