I actually like knocking the Israelis more than I like knocking the Aussies (lost The Ashes again, chaps?). Besides, the Aussies are OK really. They don't run over people's houses in bulldozers, after all. And we encountered a corker of an Israeli in Cali.
Cali is notable only for its stunning women, decent Crepes & Waffles cafe and....erm...that's it, I think? We wasted a week there, just to stay for the weekend and a great open-air techno club in the hills called Eliptica. So time it for a weekend if you go, then escape. Aside from that, it's a truly ugly city with nothing going on. Think Burnley in the sunshine, but without the ugly, inbred people walking around.
We took a room at Iguana Hostal. Lovely place, and the friendly lady had a private room for us. She went to show us in, only to find the door locked. Puzzled, she went off for the key. We entered to find this Israeli chap on the bottom bunk bed, bent over his small laptop. The landlady said nothing, and he packed up and left the room. Thinking nothing of it, we settled in. Garfield laid on his bed, but soon jumped up.
"My bed stinks of shit."
He sniffed gingerly at the sheets, where the Israeli had been sat.
"I'll pass mate, ta...what do you mean, shit? Like dirty?"
"No, I mean human excrement."
Now Goof's always been one to moan. Jocky said he thought I was a bloody moaner til he met young Garfield. So we're used to him exaggerating the state of things occasionally. He wasn't budging, though...and we started doing the maths. If the guy had a dorm room here, why did he lock himself in an empty room he had no right to be in? What was he looking at on his laptop? Why did this require a locked door? And how could you get a smell like that on the sheets if you hadn't had your shorts down?
To mine and Speckled's amusement, Garfield stripped the bed and turned his mattress over. He disappeared for a few minutes, and returned to say he'd told the landlady in broken Spanish and using a wanking mime "My bed. Este hombre, el erm...y'know" and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. We thought he was joking; he wasn't. She came in soon after with fresh bedding, making throttling motions and saying "I kill that guy". We fuelled the fire, saying "Internet, hmm? Pornografia? Hombre mancha..." (dirty man). She laughed. Obviously, we told all and sundry at the hostel...despite the lack of hard (ahem) evidence. He got a few funny looks and, despite us bumping into him a couple of times, he never spoke or met our gaze...guilty conscience?