As if you needed more proof...

Today provides yet another example of my unceasing incompetence in foreign countries. I went with a fellow American whom I met at my ultimate class (yes, I take a frisbee class on Thursday nights. I like to pride myself that I am one of the better pupils) to play disc golf with our funky hippie coach and two Czechs. The field was located in a far-away land, accessible by a bike ride, tram ride and bus ride all in a row (though not as far as Baltimore, Shelly, especially as Frank did not provide directions). However, the journey took longer than the thirty minutes predicted. We hopped off of the tram onto the number 13 bus, as instructed by our directions. After fifteen minutes on the bus, though, and with no sign of our stop (which hadn't seemed quite so far on the map), I approached the conductor --

"Excusez-moi, monsieur, est-ce qu'on a déjà passé l'arrêt 'Nid de Cigognes'?"
"Ah, oui... depuis longtemps."

He then told me, chuckling, that it would just be best for us to stay on the bus to the end of the line and come back with him on the return. So what was to be a two-minutes bus ride changed into one of thirty minutes. He chuckled some more as we got off of his bus, finally.

Oh and then on the return bus ride, I couldn't find my aller-retour ticket and spent five minutes frantically searching in my backpack to avoid paying an extra euro and thirty centimes. This is a rather pointless story, but I thought I should say something before I went off for a week on vacation (I've rented a car and sort-of sketched out some routes east...).

I'm a disc golf prodigy, though. Okay... not really.

Amitiés,
Alison