On my very first trip to Europe, I was 25 and on the 'eat every other day' budget. I landed in Amsterdam with the intention of moving on fairly quickly, but Amsterdam was very enjoyable all by itself. I was busy finding my 'backpacker' legs before I set out, Eurail pass in hand.
In the 'Tanker youth hostel I'd befriended a group of Aussies and we had been sightseeing together for a few days when a new Australian, Timothy, walked in the door. He was small, perhaps 5'2", wearing a leather vest and a beat up old cowboy hat. The other Aussies looked askance and immediately apologized for him. He was, "a real jackaroo" (American's can read "redneck", Brits, read "chav") and they had no idea how he had gotten out of the country.
Despite or because of his outback upbringing, Timothy was an interesting character. When I mentioned I wanted to see the Vermeers at the Rijksmuseum, he volunteered that Vermeer was, "a nice little painter" (score one for the Australian school system). Then in the next breath he explained his life goal was "to remain pissed for the rest of my life."
We compromised. Museum first, then drinking. 4 hours in the museum, 12 hours in various bars.
To this day, I can picture him on the stool to my left, roaring drunk, as he hauls back a pint over his head, tipping farther back to get the last drop - in an instant, he crashes to the floor flat on his back, looking confused.
He looks up at me and says, "I don't like this bar. Let's find another."