The Ten Most Stupid Things I Have Seen Or Done In My Travels

Right now I am on the Pacific Coast of Mexico, clutching my stomach from food poisoning, acutely aware that I am not going to get any sleep, and I can't help but think that it was pretty stupid to eat the eggs at the cafe even though I knew full well that there was something funky going on. Then that got me thinking, could it be the stupidest thing I have seen or done whilst travelling?  Sadly, after heading down that rabbit hole I gotta say not even close. Not even top ten. Here are some highlights in no particular order.

• PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC: GETTING TAXIS: I was on a spontaneous ten day break with my sister so I got some last minute tips from a friend who had lived in Prague. There was a lot of fun stuff to do, and great advice, but one rule was reiterated. Twice. "Do not get a taxi without asking the price". Of course it was raining when we arrived from Vienna, and there was a row of gleaming taxis beckoning us. It would have been rude not to. So we jumped in and gave him a piece of paper with the hotel name on it, and sat back. I still don't know how much we paid as it was a foreign currency that was new to me, but most likely enough for a nice dinner for him and the wife for the ten minute journey. Lesson learned. Later that night I was much wiser: I asked the taxi driver if he spoke English first. He shook his head, so we jumped in anyway, but it was ok, because he turned on the meter. In an out of the city we wove, until Mr. Taxi driver was bored. During that forty Euro cab ride we saw our hotel four times.  

• CENTRAL AMERICA: TAKING A HOLIDAY ROMANCE HOME WITH ME: So I met a nice (enough) guy in Guatemala (an American) who was travelling with his mother and sister, which indicated to me that he had strong family values, not issues. He was good looking enough, and I was bored, which may explain why I overlooked the fact that he was late thirties, never married, no kids. Huge mistake. It was three weeks of fun, laden with huge, bright red flags that I chose to diligently ignore. Not only ignore, but then I took him home as a souvenir, didn't I? Apparently negative traits are not so forthcoming in the Caribbean, and once he got to Europe it became an exercise in catch and release.

• ST ANTON, AUSTRIA: DRY HUMPING A WOODEN KANGAROO WHILST WEARING A GREEN LYCRA SUIT: Let's just say, 6am on New Years morning may have been a reasonable time to call it a night. What compelled me to stay in the bar and then go directly to lunch still has me flummoxed. I do understand though, that once I had made that decision to go to lunch I had no choice but to power through. And I did, but as my meal was forgotten I went straight to the shots. Incapable of skiing, we got a taxi to Apres Ski at the Krazy Kangaruh, where for some reason a friend had a green lycra suit in her handbag (as you do). So I put it on. Backwards. But that was not enough. Seeing that nobody could see me (aside from the fact that they could as they had seen me arrive and the bar was pretty much empty) I figured it was my time to shine by doing push-ups on the tables. Still not enough: finally I was winning at life, so I went outside and started dry humping a wooden statue of a kangaroo, proving that it was in fact I who was the Krazy one. Never. Lived. It. Down.

• LAKE COMO, ITALY: MAKING A LONG DISTANCE PHONE CALL FROM MY ROOM: I was lonely and a little bit drunk. I was staying in Como by myself and it was my first time taking a holiday alone. Dinner was horrendous: the waiter grilled me about my intention to dine alone. Luigi, the little fucker,  may as well have said, "Ha, do you feel humiliated yet? No? Well, let me give you a table in the middle of the restaurant where everyone will watch you and wonder why you would dine alone in one of the most romantic, scenic, overpriced places in the world. Got no friends huh? You sad reject." So in defiance I got drunk by myself, and increasingly lonely, so I went back to the hotel and called my sister. For an hour. Then I needed a cigarette, so I went and got one from the concierge, and smoked it, all the while without hanging up the phone in my room. Couldn't I simply have called her back? No, that would be too easy. The call cost more than my hotel room would have done for three nights, so I had to go home prematurely the next morning.

• BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA: PUTTING DUTY FREE BOOZE PURCHASES INTO NEAR EMPTY SUITCASE: I had to go back to Australia under trying circumstances at short notice during the middle of Winter in Austria. As it was such short notice, the only available flights had me up in the air for 38 hours. On the plus side though. it was the beginning of 2009 and the pound had just crashed, making Duty Free super cheap. So I bought two bottles of Bombay Sapphire Gin to accompany me. But when I got to Brisbane, I had to change to a domestic plane, meaning I couldn't have the booze in carry on. No worries, my suitcase was nearly empty, and what harm could come to two thinly wrapped bottles of Gin in an empty suitcase? When I got the the airport my mother queried whether I had been drinking the whole way, because I reeked of GIn. That little exercise cost me four hundred dollars in express dry cleaning.

• POMPEII, ITALY: SOME GUY TAKING PHOTOS IN THE RUINS USING A FLASH: So here we are, roaming the ruins in the ancient city of Pompeii, which is wonderfully preserved due to the fact that Mt. Vesuvius erupted all over it in 79AD. We were walking around what was a brothel, and some guy starts taking photos using a flash. There were signs and pictures everywhere in every language, making sure even a monkey could get the gist of no flash photography. Aside from this American monkey. I pointed out that it was forbidden, and he said that it was not for preservation as I stupidly  suggested, but for the benefit of the photographers as the flash may cause a reflection on the perspex ruining the photo. I dobbed on him.

• GUATEMALA TO BELIZE: BORDER CROSSING IN A BOAT WITH NO RADIO: This one gets the food poisoning mention as tonight's episode has me safely in my room feeling sorry for myself. So we were at the Hostile Hostel in Guatemala and couldn't wait to leave. I had been throwing up all night in the outdoor toilet from home cooked tamales, but a travel day was still better than staying there for another night. The first boat ride went without a hitch, but somewhere between sitting on a dirty dock that reeked of petrol fumes and getting on a speed boat to go from Livingston to Belize, I stopped paying attention to logistics and concentrated on not throwing up. I was only jolted from my alternate universe when we hit a log going at full speed and the boat stopped dead. Thinking we were going to sink, I waited for him to use the radio for help: but there wasn't one.

• ST ANTON, AUSTRIA: GOING OFF PISTE WITHOUT CORRECT EQUIPMENT (NOT EVEN I AM THAT STUPID): I gotta say, this is more stupid than all the things I have ever done put together. Not even I am The amount of people that come to St Anton looking for fresh powder days with the intention of getting first tracks when they have not prepared properly is Darwin Nomination worthy: a plugged in toaster in the swimming pool has nothing on this! I cannot explain the extremity of my head shaking was when some older, slightly rotund English men were all sad that their friend was in hospital from a heart attack. Not only had he been out til four o'clock in the morning, but then he got up and went off piste by himself without avalanche gear. Genius.

• BUDAPEST, HUNGARY: GUESSING WHICH CUP THE BALL WAS UNDER UP AT THE CASTLE: I met up with a friend whom happens to be a good lawyer (suggesting intelligence) and has a Hungarian wife which means he should have known better. Sure, he had been ripped off on taxis Prague style, and to be fair I could have said something but it is hilarious watching others go through it. But him paying fifty Euro equivalent for a three block taxi was nothing compared to what he did up at the castle. There were some lovely old men whom had seen it all, with two balls and three cups (nothing kinky). My friend threw down a large sum of money, which the old men took as soon as they had done some jibbity jabbity boo shit that was blink or you'll miss it. I was still laughing whilst he did it twice more, same result, meaning he could not even pay local price for a taxi.

• BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: WRONG PART OF TOWN STROLL: Recently in New York I was looking for an Australian cafe in Bedford-Styvesant that I had read about, and for my weekly travel writing assignment I was doing, "A Round up of Australian Cafe's in New York". Of course I had looked at the map and knew where I was going. I just didn't know that you needed coins for a bus, so the driver would not take me. I was like, "No problem, I can walk anywhere because Brooklyn is now expensive and gentrified". So here I was, in my chocolate brown Prada boots, a leather satchel with my Mac Book air inside, and—well, frankly anything of value I brought may as well have been on display. It was not until about ten minutes of moseying and looking in awe at the brownstone houses that it occurred to me that this was no Bedford Avenue. Not. Even. Close. At last count I crossed the road ten times, with eyes on me the whole way. In this case, I even surprised myself with my level of stupid.

Please put your own stupidity stories in the comments section below.

Tips on getting a job in an Austrian ski resort

St Anton am Arlberg, Austria

UPDATED SEPTEMBER 2019

So, you are thinking of working a ski season?

Hopefully you don't think that you are going to rock up when the snow starts falling, find a job, spend a few hours working each day for really good money, and then spend the rest of your time skiing or relaxing in your really nice pad when you are not out having drinks bought for you. There is not one part of that statement which is a reality.

However, getting a job is possible, even without speaking German (but German definitely gives you a strong advantage).

1. The sooner you get there the better

To be honest, most of the good jobs are already gone, and the competition is fierce for those that remain. You will be lucky to get anything, but the longer you leave it, the less likely it is.

2. Have a good resume

You may not get asked for it, but as you trudge around asking about work it would be very useful to have handy. And a professional one. A photo on it of you in a bra lying on the bar having Jägermeister slurped off your belly is not a "qualification." And yes, in Austria and Switzerland people have a photo on their resume.

3. Dress the part

Flannel shirts, beanies and boobies hanging out are not going to get you anywhere (both sexes). Actually, that is false, it will probably get you laid. A lot. But it won't get you a job. Actually, that is not 100% true either. BUT, just to be on the safe side, dress like you are meeting your boyfriend or girlfriend's mother, as many of the lady bosses, or "Chefins", in Austria are of that vintage. And you probably will bang their child at some point, so in a roundabout way that is exactly who you are meeting.

4. Be prepared to work

In St Anton the hours are long, jobs very hard to come by, and when you do, they are very hard work. Chances are you will be working 8-10 hours a day, six days a week, for a salary of 900-1500 Euro a month, but your employer will pay your health insurance.

5. Always ask if there is a room included

Some places provide rooms for their staff, in which case you are lucky. But don't expect it to be a room by yourself. There are normally 2-3 people in a room, and often these rooms are not in the village. In the case of St Anton it is likely to be in the nearby villages of St Jakob, Pettneu or Flirsch.

6. Talk to people

If you are there in November, there are not too many people around, meaning not too many bars open yet, so it is a good time to get to know the seasonaires and locals. In the case of St Anton am Arlberg, if you go to Jules or Fang House, there should be people that will tell you what is around and who is looking for staff. Same goes for rooms. If you do find a room before a job, take it. It is easier to find a job if you already have accommodation.

In this time in November, check out Gasthof Edelweiss in Pettneu as a base. Miriam and Dave are more than awesome, and are willing to provide a base for people at minimum rates (starting at 18 Euro a night). As Dave was a ski bum himself, and Miriam is local and used to work at the Tourist Office, you could not wish for better hosts.

7. Don't be an ass

Cannot be stressed enough for all of the above. And life. At all times keep your manners in check. You can't afford to be an ass when you are new to town: few people will tolerate it or want to help you.

8. Take sufficient money with you

Don't think that you are going to get there and money will start snowing down. You will need to shell out for a ski pass (in St Anton you will get some of that money back at the end of the season when you have worked a certain number of hours) and possibly accommodation. Even if you do get a job straight away, you will not get paid until the end of the month.

HOWEVER....

Doing a ski season is an awesome experience, and if you can, do it. It is something you will never forget.

Swiss Recycling

Don't get me wrong: I am all for being eco-friendly, doing my part in saving the planet and all but in this country, recycling is a whole new kettle of fish. To say that the Swiss take it seriously is an understatement. It is a real commitment. 

Coming from Singapore, where we all have an opening in our kitchens to a communal rubbish chute and the convenience of dumping everything in to a bag, tie it up and *plonk*, down it goes into the chute, no muss, no fuss, I had to make quite an adjustment when I got here.

I still remember in my first week in Switzerland, I dutifully took out the trash, only to have the the bin man dump it unceremoniously on the front of our apartment building. It was the height of summer, so naturally, it stank up the place, much to the displeasure of my landlord. "Bloody Ausländers," he muttered under his breath, after telling us that we'd need to get our arses (pronto) to the supermarket and buy special Züri-sacks. Züri what? 

"White! They are white in colour!" he added in exasperation.

Right.

I was close to tears after combing COOP (the Swiss supermarket chain) for about 45 minutes for these mysterious "white bags". I JUST WANTED TO THROW AWAY THE DAMN RUBBISH! I finally plucked up the courage to ask the nearest person wearing the COOP uniform, who sighed (probably also thinking "bloody Ausländers!" in her head) and said that these sacks aren't sold on the supermarket floor. They had to be purchased from the customer counter. Motherf......you don't say!

I soon realised why. At 1.70CHF a pop for the 35L bags that come in multiples of ten, it cost 3 times more than the normal roll of black trash bags. The kind lady at the counter explained that the bags costs more as they include duty/tax to be paid by the user in order to send the trash for incineration. Ah ok, I get it now: prime target for shoplifters and cheap asses like me to easily slip into their bags. 

Grudgingly I paid and went home to the unpleasant task of transferring the rubbish into those damn white sacks. Lesson learnt and woohoo, level up for experiencing life in Switzerland. 

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Further googling told me that with the exception of food waste and household rubbish, nothing else could be thrown in to these precious bags. No cardboard (that includes the loo rolls, mind you), plastic bottles, wine bottles, batteries, nada. Just household rubbish. You would think that those that I've listed constituted household rubbish. Stop rolling your eyes, I was an ignorant fool. No, those have to be specially disposed of, on certain stipulated dates of the month—not as and when you like. Tough shit if you forget to put them out on the right date, because you'll have to bring them to the recycling centre, which, mind you, not everyone lives within the vicinity of one.

Oh, whilst you are in Switzerland, don't go throwing the green glass bottles together with the brown ones. There are different silos for different types of glass, darlings: white, green and brown glass, and DEFINITELY don't even think of trying to do it on Sundays. This is not an urban legend: someone I know did indeed get a fine of 400CHF for doing just that. Something about the clinking of the bottles when they hit the bottom of the silos that disturb the peace and quiet on Sundays. If only they had similar laws for noisy children.

6 years in, buying these Züri-sacks and stickers (Gebührenmarken) when I changed Gemeindes (each town has a different way of charging), is now part of my routine at the supermarket. I have also gotten used to having a little corner of my kitchen perpetually resembling a mini junk yard. I have to admit that my penchant for online shopping contributed mostly to our pile of cardboard together with egg cartons and cereal boxes. I have also done countless walks of shame, lugging many empty wine bottles to recycle after having a dinner party—and I tend to avoid eye contact in order to avoid being judged for being an alcoholic. I set up notifications on my phone's calendar to be reminded of newspaper/cardboard/old clothing collection dates. Usually 24 hours prior so that I can sit in the kitchen, wasting 30 minutes of my life every month flattening and packing the cartons/newspapers into neat individual stacks. Did I mention that each stack cannot be over 5kg? Don't forget to tie it with recycling twine too. 

A little over the top? Maybe. Painful? Definitely. But it really does become part and parcel of your daily routine. I've also observed that my purchasing habits have been altered. I tend to tell the shoe shop lady in broken German when paying: "nur die Schuhe, ohne Karton für mich, danke!" (only the shoes, no box for me, thanks!). They don't look at me funny. They understand. It has heightened my awareness of unnecessary packaging and unless it is Chanel, I now tend to opt more for practicality over fancy packaging. 

In fact, many shops ask if you would like the packaging or a bag to go with your purchase. I generally say no and tend to just stuff it into my handbag if it is a small enough item. 

I have to admit: this country's policy of making each citizen responsible for their individual waste disposal is very sound. You pay for the volume of crap you dispose of. This may be more difficult for the individual citizen but to advantage the society on the whole: very logical. Very first world. Very efficient. Generally, very Swiss. 

Puerto Escondido: Why it's my happy place

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Fresh oysters.

Puerto Escondido, Mexico

The ice cold Corona sat there taunting me. I could hear it whispering, "Drink me," (in Spanish of course) as the condensation languidly trailed down its curvaceous exterior.

The moment of truth had come.

Having retired from my illustrious drinking career a year earlier, I rarely thought about that sweet, sweet nectar. But when, after a long journey from Winter in a landlocked country, you find yourself barely with your shoes off before someone puts 12 freshly shucked oysters in front of you, to be washed down with the aforementioned liquid, resolve is not so forthcoming.

"Oh, thank you, I don't drink." I made it sound as light and airy as I possibly could given the circumstances, but the declaration choked me up a little, and as the defeated Corona was being carted away, it lowered its voice and said, "You may have won this time... " (in Spanish).

Mustering resolve is only half the battle: in St Anton I am inevitably required to follow my statement of refrainment with an explanation, for which I have a repertoire, "I know! Very un-Australian to not drink! They took away my passport." "I'm not thirsty. " And so forth.

With the Corona gone, I waited for the deluge, and then it came. "You don't drink." "Nup." "Fair play," and that was it.

That was in my first hour in Puerto Escondido in the state of Oaxaca in Mexico, and that was also the amount of time it took for the first tension to be released from my shoulders. I knew it wouldn't be instantaneous because I am pretty strung out, even by bitter middle-aged women standards, but not being questioned gave me hope that some point in the near future I could say, "Just chillin'," and mean it.

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The view from the common area at Sunset Point.

Why had I chosen Puerto Escondido, you  didn't ask? Well, I had been tampering with the idea as so many people from St Anton go at the end of the ski season, because Sunset Point—best described as a self-contained retirement village for people nowhere near retirement—is owned by Chris Rex (Rexy) who spent 20 years in St Anton. As I was not quite ready to throw myself into the solo travelling thing, I thought that Puerto could be my training ground, as there would be familiar faces, base camp if you will. 

Actually, that is not entirely accurate (such intelligent thought never went into it, just how it turned out). I was so exhausted from the ski season that I simply wanted to wile away my days—without having to be overly polite to people—whilst sitting in a hammock; or, if I was feeling active, go to the beach and perve on hot surfers whilst mango juice trailed down my fat rolls like condensation down that ice cold Corona: lascivious cougar style. During my extensive research, I ascertained that both were possible. "Are there hot surfers?" "Yep." "Sold." And so that is exactly what I did.

For a month.

I stayed there for double the intended time, as in this vortex, time slows down, and it takes pretty much a whole day to do anything, except for a game of darts: that only takes half of the day, and normally you play a couple of games. The longer you stay, the slower time goes: you start preparing to go out for dinner five hours before, even when you are not hungry. You see, by the time you have decided what you are going to eat, where you are going to go, how you are going to get there, then incorporate time for stragglers (invariably as you are just about to walk out the door someone else wants to join but has to have a shower first) it is already getting late. But then you have to acknowledge that it is not just you, it is the Mexican surf community, and everyone is running on the same time. So by the time you get there, sit down, order, and then wait two hours for your food (which takes no time to eat as by then you are very hungry) the day is over. But it didn't bother me: I had come a long way.

After about two weeks, as I lay in a hammock doing absolutely nothing, I lazily speculated that perhaps some time in the near future I should think about maybe thinking about moving on. "No point this week," Rexy said. "That cyclone that was supposed to hit here is heading for Chiapas. You don't wanna get caught up in that." I grunted in agreement before eating another avocado. A week later, the same scenario (possibly in a different hammock). Same speculation. Similar response, except that the cyclone had hit, and the roads were not great for an overnight bus trip. Again I grunted in agreement, then ate a mango. Maybe next week.

By the time I did leave, I was relaxed and happy: just chillin'. Many of the forced St Anton behaviours had washed away, and I felt equipped for my adventure, with an awesome tan to boot.

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"Psst, lady, you want a space cookie?" (Guatemala)

You know that moment we are all seeking as travelers? You know, the one where you arrive somewhere, immediately forget about how much you need to stretch your legs or go to the toilet, and you just look around in awe, take it all in and think: “That, ladies and gentleman, is my next Facebook cover photo”. Well I had one of those when I arrived at Lake Atitlán in Guatemala. It was a sunset after the rain, at the beginning of June, and the myriad of colours were slowly retreating behind two volcanoes whilst we were hustled onto the last boat across the lake. At least I think we were being hustled on, but I couldn’t be sure as I don’t speak a word of Spanish, which makes everything just a bit more exotic. As we were whooshing across the lake to the hostel in Santa Cruz I thought to myself: “The only thing that could make this boat trip better would be weed-laden space cookies!!”

How fortuitous, as the very next day a purveyor of these delicious treats found me wandering the streets of one of the many Mayan villages that dapple the shores of the vast lake. I am not sure what she said, but I heard it as: “Psst, hey little lady, yes you!  You look like you reside on the shady side of the street. Would you like to buy a delicious and very special cookie, which will also support the local economy?”  Well, if it was to support the local economy, how could I say no? “Five please.” Which was lucky, as that day a very large flock of predominately middle aged, squawking women travelers had arrived at the hostel, and as there was no escape from the village after dark, these cookies provided an avenue for retreat. Each afternoon after my adventures—such as worshipping Maximon, “The God of Drunkards and Gamblers,” in a village living room—I would take a cup of tea, sit by the dock and eat my cookie, timing it so that I was very, very hungry by dinner time. My only other option for company that was not part of the squawking flock was a docile ginger fellow who grappled daily with the intricacies of a very complex card game called Shithead. And then I met Tracy.

I was in full astronaut mode when I met Tracy (who was there for the diving), so it is understandable that seeing she bared a vague resemblance to one of my best friends from home, I thought that it actually was one of my best friends from home playing a trick on me—for three days—but I was reluctant to broach the subject as she was just so good at Shithead. The day after I met Tracy, we met a guy called Richard who arrived at the hostel with his mother and sister. He had too much facial hair and an idiotic hat, but enough potential to warrant further investigation, so I engineered to sit with him at dinner. His mother was immediately impressed by my eating capabilities and commented how nice it was to see a girl with a healthy appetite. This prompted to me to tell her the story of the little old lady who sold me space cookies, and how “when in Rome…” (I am not actually sure what it is that they do in Rome aside from getting shat on by pigeons whilst paying extortionate prices for coffee.) Next thing you know, I had set up a date for the next day with the object of my desire’s mum, with Tracy as my wingman to hopefully laugh at all my hilarious jokes, with an assumption that Richard would come along, and with the missions of riding a chicken bus and picking up more space cookies (the main form of public transport in Guatemala is disused, souped-up American children’s school buses, where passengers are crowded in like chickens).

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The next morning we all set off, and I was perhaps overly cautious, taking my back-up-throw-away-wallet. But I needn’t have been, as sitting next to me on the chicken bus was a very young woman with her wide-eyed baby. Thinking it was a perfect time to demonstrate my maternal tendencies, I cooed at the baby; but rather than gurgling and giggling, her eyes welled up with tears momentarily before she started screaming: it was like she had seen the cookie monster.  Out of our group, I was the only one that was not slightly amused, and hopefully Tracy was laughing uncontrollably because she thought I had planned it and she was being a good wingman. We then stopped for lunch, where lots of Mayan children were trying to sell us friendship bracelets and hair ties. Richard kindly pointed out to them that I was looking to buy gifts to take home, and I had just taken four hundred dollars out of the ATM. This caused me a world of awkwardness, and I liked it! After lunch we had our final stop of picking up our cookies in San Pedro.

As the boats only go in one direction (clockwise I think) you are unable to take direct routes unless you pay for a private boat, so even though San Pedro was the next village, we had to take the long way around, and I was relieved to see the cookie lady was still where she had been before. She was so happy to see me, and I felt that, even though we did not share a language, we had built a rapport. As we shook hands her gold-toothed smile said: “Nice doing business with you, gringa, I charged you five times too much,” and mine said, “Thank you so much, kind Mayan cookie lady, I know I paid too much, but I probably would have paid five times more.” After we had purchased what remained of her cookies, we scurried for the last boat, took a seat, and before I could say to Richard’s sister and mum, “Careful, they are quite strong, so make sure you only eat half,” they had gobbled up a whole cookie each. Oops.

It was not long into the boat ride when it occurred to me that boats stopped running early during the rainy season as the storms transpire in the afternoon, and on this particular afternoon it went from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in no time. The boat was full of both tourists and locals, lightning was striking very close to the boat, and I astutely realized it was not a daily occurrence when a local man grabbed a life jacket after seeing water coming through the floor. I was momentarily afraid, and I think I might have tried to flirt with Richard, something about a big strong man making me feel safe, but he did not hear it over the storm, or he wisely chose not to respond. To say “we” felt relieved to get back to the hostel would be incorrect, as I don’t think Richard’s mum and sister even noticed it had been raining before going into their rooms and disappearing for the night. By dinner time I had managed to embellish on the story, which had gone from being caught in a little rain to a near death experience on a rickety boat in a third world country.

The next day when I came down to breakfast the family was gone. I don’t know if the previous day counted as a date, probably not. Not only was Richard unaware that I had amorous intentions, I had made a baby cry before drugging his mother and sister and taking them on the boat ride from hell. At least I thought he would say, "Adios!" On the flip side, I did have a new partner in crime, as Tracy and I were heading to Antigua together that day, unbeknownst to Tracy, with a pocketful of space cookies, and I had forty likes on my new cover photo.

When I grow up I wanna be Snow White

St Anton, Austria

I have a fascination with midgets, and I don't mean certified little people, I mean borderline: generally hovering around the 150cm mark (to get the piece of paper you need to be 147cm).

I am not sure when it all started, but a while back someone stopped me in a bar as I was on my way to the bathroom (the Jagermeister was not agreeing with me), and wanted to simply have a chat. Due to my level of inebriation I declared that I did not do Midget Porn, and moved along. As this vertically challenged man of Irish extraction was a friend of a friend, I found out that he was somewhat offended, and that apparently Leprechauns have feelings too.

My next encounter was a few years later, when a likeable chap who I swear I had never seen before approached me and told me that I owed him an apology. "What for?" I asked. Apparently I was very rude to him the night before. I informed him that I had been rather drunk and could remember very little and perhaps he could jog my memory. "You called me an angry ginger midget" he said. All I could do was burst out laughing, declare that that was hilarious, I could not apologise for that, and give my drunk self a high five. That was when I realised I had a problem.

From that day forth, I thought it were best that I let the short people make the first joke about their height and take it from there. Or alternatively high five them and watch them try and jump. Understanding these people, and acknowledging that they are just like normal people, only little, has paid dividends, as in the last few years I have made many friends of the vertically challenged variety. Six to be precise.

Of course the first one is the Angry Ginger Midget, and then my second little friend was Gordy. With much willpower, I refrained from patting his head and saying hilarious things such as, "Oops, sorry, I didn't see you there," for at least two weeks. It wasn't easy, especially when I tripped over him, but soon we established a solid friendship fuelled by booze, and such banter came naturally.

On one occasion when he and the Angry Ginger Midget were having a beer together I managed to exercise decorum and restraint by not saying anything (that would just be rude). But they understood, and knew how hard it was for me, so when the Angry Ginger Midget said what I was thinking, "No, it is not a midget convention." I saw it as a reward for working so hard at biting my tongue. It was then that I began dreaming of having seven of them in the same place at the same time.

Number three, Joseph, is the chef at my work. I have always been nice to people in the kitchen as they are more likely to give you scraps. Even though Joseph does not speak English unless he is drunk, we manage to communicate to the extent that I can articulate what I would like for lunch and we can make bets on Ski Racing. He calls me Old Hen and I call him Rumpelstiltskin.

Then there is the Rolling Monkey who has amazing dexterity in the cigarette rolling department. I ask him to roll me a cigarette, he does so and then taxes me a little tobacco. Once he asked if I knew his name, and I said, "Of course I do, it is rolling monkey". He is wonderfully useful, as is his partner in crime, a Danish man who, when wearing a certain hat resembles a Garden Gnome. He spends his day waving a towel for naked Sauna patrons in a ritual called "Aufguss" I don't think he wears the hat anywhere whilst he does it.

But my personal favourite is Craig. I call him Craig because he merrily morphs from a scampering piss head to a podium dancing Oompa Loompa in a matter of minutes, He will do anything for a shot of Jagermeister, and does not even flinch when I make him jump for it. In fact, he often comes back for more. Funnily enough the more Jagermeister I give him, the more willing he is to do tricks. Gyrating Oompa Loompa's are definitely a crowd pleaser.

Then at an end of season BBQ it happened. All five remaining vertically challenged men  (Gordy had sadly left the village) were in the same place at the same time, and at the perfect level of drunkenness where they could pose for a photo without puking on my shoes.

Two more and world domination is mine!

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• Awesome mugshots created by Marilen Adrover, who nicely allowed me to use it when I explained my cause. More Disney Mugshots are here.

The Hostile Hostel

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The last you heard from me I was pining over a hairy faced man (not hipster hairy, neglect hairy) who I had attempted to romance by feeding his mother and young sister space cookies, and was then surprised he did not say goodbye. But here is the catch: he did! He left a note, which I never saw as the hostel threw it away, but I knew this because I bumped into him in the street in Antigua, and so I convinced him to put his family on a plane and come and play happily ever after with me for a few weeks, or forever (I was not fussed). So after three days in Antigua we headed to Semuk Champey, which is a natural 300 meter limestone bridge of descending pools with a river passing underneath in the jungle, and Tracy agreed to meet us a few days later.

When Tracy did arrive she had some new friends in tow: a very camp, allegedly heterosexual Australian couple who were backpacking for a year with suitcases mainly filled with beauticians wears for waxing and whatnot. They said it was to make some money, but I think it was primarily to keep his eyebrows shaped, as his appearance was of great concern. So with them, we went to the crystal clear turquoise pools where fish nibbled the dead skin off our feet (which I have paid a lot more than a park entry fee for), and we ate some BBQ chicken at the entrance, where a man in a counterfeit "Van Dame" t-shirt (given away by the misspelling of Van Damme) tried to stop the dogs from fighting for food scraps.

Then our choice of transport back to the hostel was on a tyre down the river. Our guide was no match for Tracy's decolletage, and before you knew it he was touching her feet whilst trying to cop a feel of her buxom bosom as we were floating down the river at a rather brisk pace. Of course I laughed, because I was a good wingman and it was all part of her master plan, as who wouldn't want to have freshly fish-nibbled feet fondled?   

We got back to the hostel as the afternoon storm hit, and it was a cracker. Eardrum-puncturing thunder, epilepsy-inducing lightning, and rain to match, which fondly reminded me of munching space cookies on Lake Atitlan. Mmm space cookies, I wonder if…. well there could be no harm in asking…  So I did.
  "Why hello lovely French hostel employee, you look like living in the Guatemalan jungle you would not be adverse to partaking in the consumption of sugary treats with a special ingredient. By chance have you baked a fresh batch today?"
 "Alas mademoiselle, I have none fresh. Unfortunately I can only offer you a freezer full of special brownies I made last week."
 "10 please."
 "And whilst I am here, may I suggest an alternative to your plans to go to Tikal, where you would see the unforgettable Mayan Ruins at sunrise whilst howler monkeys surprisingly howl?"
 "Certainly."
And that is where things got interesting. You see, if he had said, "I am sending you to an isolated, bug infested hell," I would have most likely said, "Thank you, that sounds wonderful, but I think we will stick to the original plan." But since he packaged hell in such a way that it sounded endearing, the next morning we willingly set off.

A geezerish English man with hideous teeth picked us up from Livingston, and then transported us to his guesthouse called "Greenhouse" on a river which was only accessible by boat. The first thing we saw—actually, that is not fair, the first person we saw was a skinny man in his 30s with long straggly hair and big welts all over his legs: he had clearly been a delicious smorgasbord for all the creepy crawlies in the area. A human tasting plate if you will. The guesthouse was in a state of disrepair, and we suspected the geezer was just too baked the whole time to get around to doing anything aside from disparaging his girlfriend. When I thought about going to the outdoor bathroom I envisioned myself returning looking like a ravaged cavewoman (and not in a good way), so I held off.

By the time that we sat down at dinner, we had determined through some subtle eye contact and gesticulating that we wanted to get the hell out of there, and would do so first thing in the morning, but we had to get through the night. This did not involve barricading ourselves in our room (don't be so dramatic), but an excruciatingly awkward dinner of tamales where we felt that the geezer and his girlfriend were in the middle of a fight (given away by the silence and glaring). The only background sound was the slurping, lip-schmacking and finger-licking of the other guest who was eating with the same enthusiasm it appeared the bugs had eaten him. When we finally did get upstairs, we attempted to sleep straight away so that the morning would arrive sooner, and we were reluctant to talk as someone, anyone, may have been peering through a peep hole (take your pick).

Of course none of this damp, dirty, cobwebby creepiness boded well for a good night's sleep, nor did the tamales we had eaten for dinner. By 2am I knew that I was not going to make it through without regurgitating dinner. I did manage to find the outdoor bathroom—but not the light—and all I could hear when I was not hurling was what could very well have been scampering spiders on the tin roof. I did eventually make it back to bed and lay rigidly awake until the morning. When we told geezer that we wanted to leave he was quite taken aback and would not let us use the internet (something about modem and too hard basket) so we did not know where we had to get to, but we just wanted to leave and asked him to drop us off at the dock to go to Belize. With the cost of the transport, it turned out to be the most expensive night of the whole three month trip, but I considered it the fee for our release and gladly paid it.

You would think that maybe—as I was puking up tamale on the dock amidst petrol fumes as we prepared for our next border crossing—I would have reflected upon the turn of events and concluded that following recommendations from a stoned Frenchman with exceptional brownie-baking skills was a bad idea. But it wasn't a bad idea. Not only was it a travelling 101 demonstration that everyone has a different idea of Utopia, but it also provided a benchmark for rockbottom, meaning from that day forth, when assessing the viability of an option, it would be based on a scale of Greenhouse to 10.

The Germans and English Love Mallorca: But Apparently Not Each Other

“I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad.”

— George Bernard Shaw

The 2013/2014 ski season was not one of the best I had experienced, so when it started snowing in May I decided that, "Better late than never" is not always the case, and the more useful adage under these circumstances would be, "Get out whilst you can."

A friend was on a road trip and told me that she would be arriving on the Spanish island of Mallorca that Friday.  I had a quick look at flights at no one's suggestion, and you can only imagine my delight when I found a one way ticket on Skyscanner from Munich to Mallorca that very Thursday for 60 Euros, so I locked it in, then called her to invite myself. You can only imagine her delight!!

I was not phased by the 6am departure time: sitting up all night at an airport to save 20 Euros is always worth it, especially when you have three Ryan Gosling movies to watch. I mean when else are you going to be able to watch them whilst on holiday? 

Why would I sit up all night you ask? Well, the last trains arrive at Munich at 1 am, and getting a hotel would defeat the whole purpose of saving that flight money. But didn't I spend more than 20 Euros on snacks and coffee whilst I was waiting, you ask?  No, I only spent 18 Euros.

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When I did arrive in Mallorca, and wanted to check baggage claim, I noticed that there were a few other arrivals from Germany, but I did not think anything of it, as, funnily enough I was incapable of thinking, perhaps due to frying my brain watching three Ryan Gosling movies. Nor did I think anything of it when the information at my first hotel in Palma Mallorca was in German before it was in Spanish.

My friend picked me up on Friday morning, as she had got the overnight ferry with her car from Barcelona to Palma de Mallorca. (In my hasty enthusiasm I had booked my flight a day too early, meaning that I spent a night in Palma, costing me — you guessed it — more than the flight) and we took the scenic route to Alcudia via Port de Soller. The Port was just what I had imagined Mallorca to be like, small and intimate with the undulating Mediterranean as a backdrop and the promise of tapas.

Alcudia on the other hand was not what I had imagined Mallorca should be like. Had I heeded the warnings, perhaps I would have been prepared for the Bettenburgen "bed mountains" that lay in front of me: 60's style, soulless, multistory blocks overflowing with geriatric Germans reveling in the packaged, pre-organised nature of these resorts.

When I checked in, the receptionist asked me why I couldn't speak German, and I informed her I could, but up until this very moment I was under the obviously misguided impression that I was in Spain. I think that the deal breaker came at dinner where the food was, well, traditional German food, prepared specifically for a demographic that may have digestion problems with spicy food and a preference for soft portions so as not to play havoc with dentures. Really bringing it home was the advertisement for weekly rentals on walkers and wheel chairs.

I do not have anything against Germans or geriatrics. However as George Bernard Shaw said, "I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad." That was where the discomfort lay, for I am not ready for retirement from whatever it is that I do.

My travel companion was in 100% agreement that we were not yet ready to be put out to pasture, and that we required a bit more spice and adventure in our voyages, so we looked into alternatives and decided that Port de Soller was our happy place. We made reservations to stay at Esplendido, a **** hotel (that is four stars, not a four letter profanity) on the beach for eight days, starting Monday, which left a whole weekend ahead of me.

As I had already watched all the Ryan Gosling movies I had downloaded for the holiday, I had some time to do some Nancy Drew type sleuthing to see if Alcudia had more to offer, and I discovered that there was also a shitload (an Australian standardised unit of measurement representing "a lot") of English tourists. We are not talking posh, pinky up whilst drinking a cup of tea English: we are talking talk show English. Not the Oprah type talk show, but that one that you go on so you can tell your brother that you are cheating on him with your father. And here is the best part: the German and English infestation of the island in the summer months is not harmonious.

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In fact, a quick search of "Germans and English in Mallorca" came up with about three million hits. From what I can gather, the German's like to get up early and reserve their place on the beach with their towels, and the only way that the English can compete is to stay up all night and then jump off the balcony to get there before them, resulting in "balcony legs" and "vodka breath". These and other ailments are described in a hilarious cartoon (seriously, who said the the Germans were not funny?)  published by German paper Bild. The English rebuttal was a cliché-ridden cartoon in response, but not an entirely accurate one. Another was that the English should embrace the stereotype and feel no shame.

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Full article here.

My sleuthing (and hunger) took me to the promenade, and then it hit me: in the German/English battle for Mallorcan holiday territory I had found myself on the front line. I could feel the characters depicted in the cartoons above walking towards each other and neither was willing to retreat. All those arrivals at the airport? Troops. And the Easy Rider Mobility Hire? Wheelchairs my ass! High Tech transport logistics I am thinking. The hotel filled with geriatrics? It must be the German command centre. The sky may as well have turned black when I realised Summer still had a long way to go, and this was nothing compared to what was going to ensue in the coming months. 

So I left them wielding their artillery of towels and rolled up Daily Mails, went back to the hotel, ate some sausage and sauerkraut from the buffet, and downloaded some more Ryan Gosling movies whilst I wondered what Spain was like.

*I would like to state, that the main picture from this article was by no means taken in Alcudia. It was the drive on the way. And also on the way back. To where you ask? Back to our happy place, Esplendido Hotel in Soller, where we had the most wonderful week of great breakfasts, a comfortable stay and the most central point for exploring. Splurgeworthy? Hell yes!

Does having lunch in Monaco constitute as travelling a country?

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“Not just a sunny place for shady people. ”

— Somerset Maugham

Apparently Monaco is a country....

Before I insisted that we stop in Monaco for lunch, I had to ascertain that it was in fact a country, as frankly that was the only reason I wanted to stop. Although dubious, it is.

• With a total area of 2.02 square kilometers, Monaco is the second smallest independent state in the world, after the Vatican. Both would also be right up there in the "World Dodginess" and "Suspicious Characters per Square Meter" World Rankings.
• It is a Principality, which means a Prince is running the joint as opposed to a Kingdom which has, surprisingly, a King. It does not matter that the Prince puts his wing-wang in places he shouldn't, resulting in illegitimate children; the people LOVE him, because....
• It is tax free for individuals, meaning that millionaires and billionaires clamber into this "country" like clowns into a car, rendering it....
• The most densely populated sovereign nation.

 

So we did stop for lunch....

As we weaved our way up the Riviera we played a game called, "Spot the car with Monaco number plates costing under 50 000 Euro." Nobody won.

Our Nice hosts had suggested we head up to the Castle as that is where the best views could be found. As I sat and munched on my flimsy 7 Euro crepe surrounded by people in Grand Prix merchandise, I could not help but feel that the whole thing was a set which was going to collapse at any point: I did not lean on anything in case the pylons were hollow.

Looking down onto the port was a crash course in, "How to be ostentatious 101." The cars, the boats, the casinos, and the distinct aroma of money and greed did not make me envious: I just felt dirty, and not in a good way.

 

Yes it does count as travelling the country....

As that is it: what you see is what you get; the whole 2.02 square kilometers are right there, laid out before you. See, if you have lunch at an airport on the way to somewhere else, then that does not count, as you have not experienced the culture. However, I assume to explore the true  "culture" of Monaco you would either need to be a billionaire, a world class gambler, or a hooker for hire (is there such thing)? As bar-tending does not pay that well, I have a terrible poker face, and no-one in their right mind would pay me for sex, this was as close as I was going to get, and that suited me fine.