Spoke too soon...

Sun: gone.
Laundromat: closed.
Murphy's law did throw us one bone amidst the gloomy damp stankness that is our life right now: 2 ridiculous Brazilian men named Daniel and Marco.
We had seen these two men the night before, Marco was trippin balls something fierce and kept staring intently in our direction across the bar. It was certainly a little odd, but we're at a beach hostel just outside Amsterdam, odd is kind if expected... Need I remind you of the man in the bunny suit?
Anyway, let's get to the part where Margaret and I return from the grocery store with spaghetti and all kinds of delightful vegetables (seriously, if we hadn't gotten vegetables when we did, we would probably both have scurvy) and infiltrate the kitchen.
Before we make it to the kitchen, we get flagged down by the Brazilians who introduce themselves and then apologize. Apparently they weren't staring, it's simply that there were monster women eating my brains and Marco wanted to make them go away, but he forgot how language worked. They apologized again and then let us go.
We laughed and went about boiling water and chopping veggies.
As soon as onions and garlic hit the hot pan, Marco reappeared (universal truth number 2, the smell of cooking onions/garlic will always summon people to the kitchen) attempted to "teach us to cook", told us our food was too much work, and then wandered away.
When food was cooked, he reappeared, served himself, and began freaking out that our pasta wasn't pasta and that we were clearly misinformed in the art of pasta making. "visit me in Dublin" he said "and I'll teach you to cook" (HA! Teach me to cook?!?)
We tried to figure out what made our pasta not pasta, it turns out that pasta is apparently only pasta if it has tomato sauce...which is false... So we took a survey of the hostel bar which turned into everyone in the bar naming their favorite non-tomato-based pasta sauce. Once he was secure in our food knowledge, he served himself another portion and joined us once more at our table.
Madness ensued.
Eventually, my food baby started kicking, so we went upstairs to drink a beer from our stash and coax the fussy food fetus into submission...then the dubstep pulsing through the floorboards from the bar below lulled us into a glorious slumber where we remained until morning...afternoon...whatever, it's all the same.