#IHateHashtags

I cannot stand the use of hash tags. For those of you unfamiliar with what a hash tag is, it is a statement or word following the prefix #, such as #YOLO or #IwanttheworldtothinkI’mfourteen. What began only a couple of years ago as a way to link or tag comments and posts has regressed into the most over-used and blatant way to show one’s stupidity and need for acknowledgement. The original use of hash tags, popularized during the Iranian election protests,  has become my largest source of annoyance any time I log onto a social network site. The use of hash tags themselves are not the issue, and often can add as sort of a secondary caption to a comment or photo, but their overuse is unbearable.  They dominate my Facebook newsfeed, especially since Facebook took control of Instagram, a site seemingly dedicated to turn every person into a photographer and to further promote the use of this atrocity. I can’t imagine a better way to express to the world you that are intellectually inferior than tagging a picture of yourself, say, enjoying a drink on a beach with #herecomesthesun, #drinkdrankdrunk, #whitegirlwasted #summertime, bestdayeva, #summervacay, #imisswearingshortsthatrevealtoomuchskin. So many times the message people are trying to convey could have just as easily, and more effectively, been stated in simple English language instead of massacring  it into a half-thought, lazy caption broken up by inappropriate punctuation and symbols. I can’t stand it.

I dated a girl for a while, and after we ended it she developed an interest in Instagram. In a matter of weeks, my Facebook news feed went from occasional posts from her containing interesting information about her life and career to over-edited photos, from a site I didn’t request to browse through, that had so many hash tags I couldn’t remember what the original caption was. It eventually got to the point where I had to “hide” her posts to avoid losing respect for her as a person.

After repeated exposure, the overuse and misuse of hash tags speaks deeply to me as a judgement of character and intelligence. Maybe one day everyone will be effectively utilize the tools we have available online, and their need to be noticed will no longer blind them to seeing just how annoying it can be when they feel the need to resurrect old jokes and over caption things in hopes of getting a few more “likes”. But I doubt it.

This blog is a hash tag free zone.

Rome

We landed in Rome at about 1 am. Exhausted from sleeping in the airport the night before, we boarded the last bus of the night headed down town. After sleeping in the street in London, we learned that booking a hostel ahead of time was one of the most beneficial things we could do before arriving in a new city. The two South Africans next to us on the bus, however, hadn't learned this yet and we offered to bring them to our hostel. Luckily for them, there was room in our hostel, and at their encouragement, we began to drink to celebrate. Despite being tired, there's just something about warm whiskey from the backpack of a stranger that begs me to make bad decisions, and before long we were at a local bar ordering rounds of gigantic, cheap shots. Coming from Paris where a beer can cost as much as fifteen dollars, being able to buy a shot for a euro was too enticing to pass up. By the time we got to some underground club in god know's where at the heart of the city, everyone was much drunker than they needed to be, which is the perfect amount of intoxication for me to dance. I spotted a girl at the far end of the dance floor, a short brunette wearing a long, tight, neon green shirt for a dress that claimed "Bring Back The 80's" in bold letters.

My travel partner was about as useless as me on the dance floor, but much less willing to embarrass himself, which makes for a terrible wing man. Add the aggression and stubbornness of a night of drinking whiskey, and I was left to approach her alone. Maybe Suadela, the Roman goddess of persuasion decided to lend me a hand, or maybe she was bored and happy to have a dance partner, but either way she agreed to dance. Her name was Gosia (pron. go-sha), born in Poland before moving to Ireland and finally to Italy as a tour guide, which meant that she not only spoke Polish and Italian, but English with an Irish accent. As the club began to close, the others in my group demanded I give them the only map. I found out they already had maps but were too drunk to realize. Gosia looked at me and asked if I'd like to go for a walk. Anticipating the standard, drunk staggering through the streets and kissing in dark alleys, I agreed. As we left, she grabbed my hand and took off running down the first alley we came to. When we finally left the shadow of the side street, we stood at the base of the Trevi fountain, empty of the thousands of tourists that normally surround the imposing fountain, eager to throw their money in hopes of having their wish granted. I handed her a coin and we had barely finished throwing them before she took off again, waving for me to follow. For four hours we ran through the city, each stop with enough time for me to see the beauty and awe-inspiring Roman architecture and art before she scurried off to the next sight. We saw the Colosseum, the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, ancient Roman roads, countless archaeological sights and all of her favourite parts of the city, without seeing another soul.
By the time the sun began to come up, we had walked around most of the city and ended up at the front door to my hostel. After I kissed her, I watched her neon green shirt walk down the cobble stone street and realized that I had fallen in love, both with her, and this city.