After a month+ of Italian adventures, travelling North to South, Aimee and I found ourselves back in Rome. We had an early morning flight booked for the following day – next stop, Barcelona!

We couldn’t fathom spending money on accommodation that we would have to ditch at 4am, so I sent a message to an Italian bloke we had met once before. He generously agreed to us crashing at his, and we hastily met up with him and his mate for afternoon drinks.

Well, one drink led to another, and before we knew it, we were crammed into his tiny car zipping through the narrow streets of Rome, bouncing from one watering hole to the next. Beers, cocktails and plastic cups of wine were flowing.

And then things started getting hazy.

Here are the undisputed facts: We did not end up sleeping on his floor. We did, however, have photographic evidence of an impromptu 3am skinny dipping session in a Roman fountain. To add to to the chaos, our Italian acquaintance ended up driving our sorry asses to the airport as we had failed to organise any sensible transportation ourselves.

To top it all off, we had to be clumsily escorted onto the plane due to our inability to walk with any sense of dignity. I know that, not only did we make it to our seats, but that we harassed the young man who had the pleasure of sitting next to us. Unsurprisingly, we talked a big game of kick-on’s before immediately passing out.

That’s when we woke up in Spain – disoriented, groggy, and as clueless as ever.