'Cause you had a bad day...

Cue Daniel Powter-backed montage...on second thought, don't.
The handbook I got from my work visa program said the first week would be the most frustrating, but I had no idea just how frustrating things could get until yesterday. I had an interview with a guy at a music studio on Thursday, but he said the best I could hope for would be a part-time thing, so I spent about six hours straight yesterday going to just about every single temp agency in this city--and believe me, there are a lot of them. I set up a couple of meetings for next week, but for the most part people just took my CV and told me not to expect anything. At the last place I went to--appropriately enough, called The Temp Agency--I was able to land a one-off waitressing job, which I'm going to today. The problem is, in order to work as a waitress, I had to buy a white, long-sleeved shirt, which ended up costing about as much as I'm going to get paid.
By the time I returned to the hostel, I was exhausted, disappointed and desperately in need of good news. Thursday night, I had visited a flat that was perfect beyond my wildest dreams: it was centrally located and gorgeous-looking; it was available for as long or as short as I wanted; the views were amazing; the flatmates were awesome; the price was below what I was willing to pay.
Guess where I'm not living?
It happened that they found someone who could stay for longer, so they took him instead, sending me a consolatory text message. After silently sobbing into my pillow for some time, I reluctantly agreed to come out drinking with my new roommates.
This ended up being fun, or at least it was until we got back to the hostel and one guy, a corpulent Canadian traveling around Europe with his friend as a post-graduation thing, propositioned me in no uncertain terms. In retrospect, I should've seen it coming from the questions he was asking me, like "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "Have you ever hooked up with anyone while traveling?" and "What would you think aboot hooking up with a Canadian in a hostel?" (First off, I wouldn't hook up with anyone in a hostel--I mean, ew, there were four other people in the room--and second, call me shallow, but I tend to stay away from fat guys. It's not so much an aesthetic thing as a self-preservation instinct; I like my lungs un-crushed, thank you. I almost considered responding with "Why? Is your cute friend interested?" but thought better of it.)
So getting to sleep with that guy in the room was a little awkward, made all the worse when I went to put in my earplugs and they fell from the top bunk into the miniscule triangle formed by my bunk, the next bunk over, and the wall. So I had to go climb down into that square foot or so of space, fumble around for the earplugs, then climb back up into bed (Good thing I found them, though, because my would-be hookup snored like a chainsaw.)
All that aside, I'm glad I'm here. I mean, my culture shock's been minimal so far, except for the fact that when you're racing around looking for work and being rejected over and over again, the last thing you want to hear is bloody bagpipes! AAAARGH! Maybe the sound is an acquired taste, like haggis.