Happy St. Paddy's day, friends!
I'm savegely hammered as I write this, as I had to be.
Dropping the Harley off today at the rental place (MotorbikeTrip, highly recommended) was one of the more depressing things I've done in awhile. It was the end of my independence, and also of the south of France's liberation tours (I hope everyone reading this knows it's an endeavor in humor).
I celebrated this holiday (Saint Patrick's Day, for the weak among you) properly, by being the first person at the only right Irish pub in old town Nice - which is of course staffed by proper ex-pat Irish types, good people all around, who were sufficiently receptive to wild asshole Americans such as myself - drinking Guinness and Jameson in large, perhaps even horrifying, quantities. Given my sadness at leaving and at returning the Harley, walking down the Promenade des Anglais a couple miles on a beautiful Côte d'Azur day to the right bar was the only thing I could really do.
Leaving tomorrow is going to be completely miserable, primarily because it involves 20 hours of travel and that extremely rare experience of traveling backwards in time. Honestly, the only good aspects of this that I can find are that I'll get to see Hans and my own bed again. Seeing my good friends also won't suck... you know who you are.
I'm going to be in a shit mood for at least a couple of days.
Love, the American,
Jack.
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