The genuine backpacker's existence

Christ, where am I? What am I doing here? Why does it feel like there's an angry whale pulsating in my head?

These aren't my questions of course, but the questions of a man who has woken up at 9, the kicking-out time of the hostel he's staying in, gnarled and gnarly after having gone to bed at four thirty pissed and happy. For the fourth consecutive time.

A man in fact very much like myself, earlier this morning.

Montpellier hostel, it turns out, has the same amount of life, sound people, drinking, smoking, talking, shouting and singing as the whole of the rest of southern France put together. It's been pretty wild. And very cool.

Life in the hostel has been a continuous stream of sad Au Revoirs and joyous Bonjours, a group of merry boozers constantly being ruptured and reformed by the ever moving tide of people coming and going. The reason I'm writing this now is because the last of the 'old guard' have finally moved on (by old guard I mean myself and anyone who arrived at the same time as or before me) and I'm left to wander the streets and wonder what went on all those hazy nights and what, if anything, it has all meant for the rest of my trip.

I still feel like Montpellier is too small for my plans. It's kind of a bit Cambridge-sized and everyone I've spoken to has told me in no uncertain terms that it's really hard to find work here. Still, it's made the rest of my journey same lame and monochrome which should kickstart me into demanding more from life and not settling for hanging out with either loser or, more likely, no-one but myself.

I suppose what I have learnt from having a week surrounded by cool people in a place I've come to consider my own, is that I need to settle down in a town as quickly as possible and get myself a job and a flat.

I also need to balance this against the need to choose my destination town correctly though.

Does this mean I should cut short my legendary moped journey, take the mighty steed back home and set out to genuinely seek my fortune, or should I continue on to Avignon, Marseille, Nice and maybe even Bordeaux in search of more fleeting fun and southern french knowledge.

At the moment I can't say, but it's important for me to remember that my time here in Montpellier has been made great by the people I've met (particularly notable are Hugh, Victoria from the Sheesha place, Mickael and the crazy German punks. The rest, you know who you are!) not by the city itself which is both horribly touristy and downright seedy in equal parts. Still though, the chefs of Montpellier sure make a fine kebab.

Speak soon,

love to all,
Rob