A Modest Introduction

I'd like to start my story with a warning, but those always come off, to me at least, as transparent self-aggrandizement, like "oh look at this guy, his story's sooo crazy and his prose is sooOoOo well-crafted, you'll have a literary embolism after the words jump right off the page and lodge themselves in your arteries."

Not my style, I'm far too humble. So instead, some context, plainly stated: all the events I'm going to talk about happened, for realsies, and have not been exaggerated. Hopefully you don't have whatever-the-hell a "nervous disposition" is, but if so, feel read one of those other hundred thousand travel blogs where couples take GoPro videos of their day hikes and talk about how "stunning" everything is.

This is going to be the story of what you always suspected travel was like - all the scars and swearing behind the backpacking facade. After all, isn't it a universal truth that we only want to hear about someone's trip if it was a disaster? That's what we're going to be focusing on: horrible decisions, inebriated lunacy, and grievous personal injury. You might possibly consider it the greatest tale ever told; I couldn't say. Would that make me the voice of a generation? Who knows, I'm not a label kind of guy. If you feel the need to call me a rapier-witted genius at the height of his powers, I won't stop you. Although I think you'll agree after reading that one thing I am not, is a genius.

And if you're trying to actually glean some old-fashioned travel advice from all this, I'll save you some time: do the opposite of what I did, 'cause I did it wrong. You get, it the title.

Now, the trip: