I tell this story in honor of my best friend, Meg Fanney, who turns another year older today. It is because of this story that Meg and I know where we are going after we die, to re-live this moment at St. Christophers as ghosts night after night. The mystery will never be solved.
Together we moved to Edinburgh Scotland following the summer after we graduated from college. Living in London for a semester during our sophomore year only heightened our excitement and anticipation for life abroad. Unlike our first round in Great Britain, we were free to roam, get jobs, drink ourselves silly, and create a life.
We met Meg’s friend from childhood, John, who had been bumming around Europe for a while, and was just stopping in Edinburgh for a few nights before heading back to NC. Like all who are young and in Europe, or old in America and ready to forget, we arrived ready to party. We chose our hostel based on many factors: 1. Bar in the main floor. 2. Close to the train station.
We drank a lot that night. Beer. Tequila shots. I remember watching John take three shots of tequila right in a row to conclude the night and close down the bar. Our room was big. There were a total of 4 bunk beds in the room, and we shared the room with one woman from Australia reading a book about Princess Diana. I went to bed. My bed. A twin bed.
I woke in the middle of the night with John in my bed. It was very strange. No, we did not go to bed together, I swear. No, really, I went to my bed alone! I try to wake him up and he won’t budge. He won’t even acknowledge that I am shaking him. Then I notice the bottom of his pants are wet. Soaking wet.
Panic mode. I role John to the side and pop out of bed, shake Meg awake and say, “John won’t wake up!” We are both in mom-panic-mode at this point, but slightly still drunk. Meg tries to wake him up but to no avail, so she runs down the stairs to get an employee. I’m freaking out. And then I notice, the floor is soaking wet. Am I standing in urine? What the fuck is this? Why are there wet footsteps coming out of the bathroom?
Meg returns with the employee, he concludes John is not dead, just drunk, and suggests I take John’s bed and let him stay in mine. He then proceeds to use tons and tons of sheets (I don’t know why he didn’t use towels) to soak up the massive amounts of water on the floor. Let me re-emphasize, the floor was soaking wet, soaking into suitcases and shoes.
I go to bed. Confused. Freaked Out. Confused. Freaked Out.
John wakes up and doesn’t say a word. Not, hey, why I am I in this bed and not my own? Why am I still wearing my clothes? Why are the bottom of my pants wet (that’s how wet they were, they were still wet in the morning)?
I say hi to John in the morning and wait for any sign of confusion or recollection from the previous nights shenanigans. Nothing. When I ask him about it, he says, “Oh Amy, I’m just a hard sleeper” and I say, but John, just tell me “Where did all the water come from?”