Group travel: a sloppy shit show of bill paying, reservations, compromises and making sure no one perishes most egregiously. Whether your destination is Oktoberfest or Running of the Bulls, you’re bound to experience one – if not all – of these five types of people on your group travel.
The Mom Friend
Oh, the Mom Friend. The well-intentioned, responsible wet blanket of the group’s barbaric fire. The one who nags you to wear at least SPF 50 at the beach, carries your phone and your wallet around, and somehow has gauze on hand for when you crash and burn after an embarrassing attempt to drunkenly do a half-assed cartwheel in the street while hollering “PARKOUR!”
The Mom Friend can frequently be spotted cleaning up bodily fluids, wigging out because Jessica’s slumped against a trash can outside the beer hall at Oktoberfest while Steven is careening towards the ferris wheel, and harping about what your future employers can view on the internet.
The Wild Card
For every overly rational Mom Friend there’s the balancing erratic Wild Card. The one who’ll square up in front of a beefy German police officer with an empty beer stein in one hand and a stolen street sign in the other; the one who falls off the face of the earth for a few months to become a spear fisherman in Argentina; the one who woke up in Amsterdam barefoot after a heavy night of raving in Ibiza and made it back to Spain with nothing but a crumpled ten Euro bill and half a cheeto as leverage.
There’s a 5/10 chance they’ll get you in landed in a Spanish jail cell, but there’s a 13/10 chance that it’ll be frickin’ legendary.
You’re pregaming with your buddies at the Stoke Villa in Ibiza and The Lightweight decides they have the chops to smash a whole bottle of Henny solo before downing some of Stoke’s unlimited beer and sangria. They make it to the first bar, toss back a shot of tequila, and promptly yak their dinner into the establishment’s bathroom sink. The Lightweight never steps foot in a club, but their bitch ass will brag obnoxiously to your friends back home about “the fucking lit time we had in Ibiza.”
The Planner makes the Mom Friend look more tranquil than Snoop Dogg on muscle relaxant. They have stuffy wine tastings, expensive cooking classes, and guided cathedral tours nailed down to the minute. They will have an aneurysm of chaotic proportions if you mention the rest of the group wants to bum it at the beach all day. The itinerary is the be-all, end-all, despite the fact that you want to do fuck-all after a night of partying on a boat and dancing with spicy Spanish strangers.
We’ve all had that moment where we’ve gone to chip in for a hangover pizza, reached into our wallets, and pulled out nothing but lint, disappointment, and that dusty condom from freshman year. Thankfully there’s always that solid mate who offers to cover you given you buy them a drink next time.
The Mooch is different. They’re down-right dastardly. They ask for a sip of your drink and gulp down at least half. They never pay their share of the concert tickets you angelically put on your card out of convenience for the group. After you pay for their appetizer, four rolls of sushi, three cocktails, and dessert so pricey it could’ve only been crafted with gold flakes and orphan unicorn tears, they’ll slap you on the back and say “thanks, buddy, I’ll hit you up next time! Haha!” In the deep crevices of your heart, you know next time will never come.
Are you sick of being the Mom Friend? Ready to go full Wild Card with no restraints? Ditch the group and snag a Stoke Passport to travel the proper way: with a crew of wild, beautiful new best friends.
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