You do this.
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That's a dumpster, kids, and its on fire. I'll be honest - watching it was riveting. Melted plastic and all.
And when the police finally rock up, they do this
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Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Burn, Baby Burn
Apparently, in Jerusalem, when you're angry at the government, you don't, for example, send in a submission, or create a picket line.
You do this.
.jpg)
That's a dumpster, kids, and its on fire. I'll be honest - watching it was riveting. Melted plastic and all.
And when the police finally rock up, they do this
.jpg)
You do this.
That's a dumpster, kids, and its on fire. I'll be honest - watching it was riveting. Melted plastic and all.
And when the police finally rock up, they do this
Felafel Theft, Round 2
It's no secret to anyone who has frequented the centre of Jerusalem that Moshiko holds the crown in the arena of fabulous felafel and schwarma. While I am open to debate and have other favourites in the region, Moshiko's fried eggplant, incredible hummous, fresh lafas (flatbreads), and heavenly spiced schwarma definitely put them in the running for favourite. I, however, have a destiny with Moshiko that makes me think maybe I'm meant to find another local for the Israeli snack.
It all began two years ago, on my last visit to Jerusalem. I was on Ben Yehuda St, the famous promenade, or 'midrechov' in the centre of Jerusalem, where foreign tourists, street performers, ragtag beggars and American students are magnetically attracted on Thursday nights and Friday mornings. The particular corner where Moshiko holds court also boasts the famous "Fro Yo" icecream shop, and the outdoor tables are always full to bursting on a Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, however town begins to die down as everyone heads home to prepare for the traditional Shabbat evening dinner. We were town rats at the time, living in a rented apartment at a major intersection, and felt like we deserved to hang out while there was peace and quiet. After all, it was our front yard.
With my felafel in hand, I was busy discussing the secrets of the universe (I'd like to think it was nothing less than that) with my friends when a beggar approached. His skin was dark as a walnut and his hair grey and grizzly. His teeth were bright yellow to match the 'whites' of his eyes, which were rolling around in his head like a crazy person. Having already begged from us to no avail, he pounced upon our table, eyes alight and stared at my felafel in hand.
"ANI RE'EV!" he shrieked with the sound only a crazy man can make, and grabbed it from my hand. He squealed like the cats he used to hang with so often, and knocked my empty diet coke can off the table, letting it roll around near the garbage bins where his feline best friends stood watching.
He chomped on my felafel like it was his first meal in days, which I don't doubt it was. It became a story for me to tell, the felafel thief, outside Moshiko.
That's until Round 2 happened again last night.
I was counting the days until my next Moshiko visit, and last night headed over there with my cousin for the best felafel lafa I had eaten in a while. Halfway through my meal, I ventured back inside for a drink, leaving my paper bag with a half sandwich sitting on the table.
I returned moments later to find it was GONE! GONE WITH THE WIND.
The felafel thief had struck again. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same man. I could've sworn I saw him wheeling around the garbage bins a little later. I reckon they've given him a promotion and he now eats all the leftover felafel he wants.
(There is a happy ending to the story. I found my felafel in the bin. There is no resolution to the mystery of how it got there, particularly since my cousin was sitting at the table the entire time. She was, however, momentarily distracted when a crowd of drunk kids were thrown out of the eating area. The half eaten felafel was found in the rubbish bin, and the lovely folk at Moshiko provided me with another one on the house.)
It all began two years ago, on my last visit to Jerusalem. I was on Ben Yehuda St, the famous promenade, or 'midrechov' in the centre of Jerusalem, where foreign tourists, street performers, ragtag beggars and American students are magnetically attracted on Thursday nights and Friday mornings. The particular corner where Moshiko holds court also boasts the famous "Fro Yo" icecream shop, and the outdoor tables are always full to bursting on a Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, however town begins to die down as everyone heads home to prepare for the traditional Shabbat evening dinner. We were town rats at the time, living in a rented apartment at a major intersection, and felt like we deserved to hang out while there was peace and quiet. After all, it was our front yard.
With my felafel in hand, I was busy discussing the secrets of the universe (I'd like to think it was nothing less than that) with my friends when a beggar approached. His skin was dark as a walnut and his hair grey and grizzly. His teeth were bright yellow to match the 'whites' of his eyes, which were rolling around in his head like a crazy person. Having already begged from us to no avail, he pounced upon our table, eyes alight and stared at my felafel in hand.
"ANI RE'EV!" he shrieked with the sound only a crazy man can make, and grabbed it from my hand. He squealed like the cats he used to hang with so often, and knocked my empty diet coke can off the table, letting it roll around near the garbage bins where his feline best friends stood watching.
He chomped on my felafel like it was his first meal in days, which I don't doubt it was. It became a story for me to tell, the felafel thief, outside Moshiko.
That's until Round 2 happened again last night.
I was counting the days until my next Moshiko visit, and last night headed over there with my cousin for the best felafel lafa I had eaten in a while. Halfway through my meal, I ventured back inside for a drink, leaving my paper bag with a half sandwich sitting on the table.
I returned moments later to find it was GONE! GONE WITH THE WIND.
The felafel thief had struck again. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same man. I could've sworn I saw him wheeling around the garbage bins a little later. I reckon they've given him a promotion and he now eats all the leftover felafel he wants.
(There is a happy ending to the story. I found my felafel in the bin. There is no resolution to the mystery of how it got there, particularly since my cousin was sitting at the table the entire time. She was, however, momentarily distracted when a crowd of drunk kids were thrown out of the eating area. The half eaten felafel was found in the rubbish bin, and the lovely folk at Moshiko provided me with another one on the house.)
The Poyke Party: Cultural Experience of the Day
They say its important to experience local culture while traveling. When in Israel, my version of local culture is usually limited to the Anglo-Israeli expats, who wheel their expensive prams around the residential areas, drink in the American-style student bars all night, and debate the consequences of making “Aliyah” (formally moving to Israel) around the dinner table.
When the opportunity arises for a more authentic Israeli experience, I grab it with both hands, which is why the other night I found myself at a "poyke" party, hosted by my Aussie friend Liana and her Israeli husband Uri.
Uri grew up in Beit Shemesh, a large town which can almost be classed a city, about an hour or less outside of Jerusalem. With the mountains close by, Uri's group of school friends have been building bonfires in the woods for years, and cooking the traditional "poyke".
The poyke is a cast iron pot which is placed in the fire, full of everything imaginable - potatoes, onions and chicken are stewed with every type of spice and flavouring, a liberal dose of Israeli beer, and the most lethal ingredient - HEAPS of "charif", or chilli powder. This made me a laughing stock of all the hardened Israelis of Middle Eastern background, who called me a lame, weakass "Ashkenazi" as my face glowed radioactively and the heat emanated from a meter away.
I did, however, point to the fact that I was the only one to consume more than the requisite beer - in fact, I'd gone on to purchase more beverages for the evening when the majority of the beer had found its way into the poyke pot. Apparently, that's a talent us "ashkes" have that the others aren't all over. So there!
The poyke stewed on a massive bonfire which freaked me out as the huge flames licked its sides. To take it out, the boys inserted a long stick under the wire handle and extracted the pot, adding the chicken and letting it cook for another hour. While the flavour was WAY too hot for my mild-mannered European tastes, I will admit that it smelled delicious, and everyone else went back for seconds and thirds.
It was great being out in the Israeli "bush", out in the woods of a mountaintop, yet only five minutes away from civilisation. Its one of the huge benefits of being in a country as small as Israel, where mountains, beaches, cities and country are all only a stone's throw from one another. These guys have been coming out here for years, and their book of polaroids told a story of teenage parties, childhood hikes and family celebrations out here, in this place.
For us Aussie girls, though, it was just an opportunity to find as many ways as possible to play on the words poyke. Go ahead and fill in the blanks, poyke.
When the opportunity arises for a more authentic Israeli experience, I grab it with both hands, which is why the other night I found myself at a "poyke" party, hosted by my Aussie friend Liana and her Israeli husband Uri.
Uri grew up in Beit Shemesh, a large town which can almost be classed a city, about an hour or less outside of Jerusalem. With the mountains close by, Uri's group of school friends have been building bonfires in the woods for years, and cooking the traditional "poyke".
The poyke is a cast iron pot which is placed in the fire, full of everything imaginable - potatoes, onions and chicken are stewed with every type of spice and flavouring, a liberal dose of Israeli beer, and the most lethal ingredient - HEAPS of "charif", or chilli powder. This made me a laughing stock of all the hardened Israelis of Middle Eastern background, who called me a lame, weakass "Ashkenazi" as my face glowed radioactively and the heat emanated from a meter away.
I did, however, point to the fact that I was the only one to consume more than the requisite beer - in fact, I'd gone on to purchase more beverages for the evening when the majority of the beer had found its way into the poyke pot. Apparently, that's a talent us "ashkes" have that the others aren't all over. So there!
The poyke stewed on a massive bonfire which freaked me out as the huge flames licked its sides. To take it out, the boys inserted a long stick under the wire handle and extracted the pot, adding the chicken and letting it cook for another hour. While the flavour was WAY too hot for my mild-mannered European tastes, I will admit that it smelled delicious, and everyone else went back for seconds and thirds.
It was great being out in the Israeli "bush", out in the woods of a mountaintop, yet only five minutes away from civilisation. Its one of the huge benefits of being in a country as small as Israel, where mountains, beaches, cities and country are all only a stone's throw from one another. These guys have been coming out here for years, and their book of polaroids told a story of teenage parties, childhood hikes and family celebrations out here, in this place.
For us Aussie girls, though, it was just an opportunity to find as many ways as possible to play on the words poyke. Go ahead and fill in the blanks, poyke.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Festival of Shavout
Jerusalem is the home of three religions, and for me most notably, it’s the time I get to indulge my Judaism more than ever before due to the plethora of Jewish culture available to me at all times. Arriving in Jerusalem on the day before the festival of the Pentecost, or Shavout, as it is known in Hebrew, allowed me a chance to see one of the primary Jewish festivals as it is celebrated in the holiest place on earth.
Shavout commemorates the Jewish people’s receiving of the Torah, all the laws and teachings that make up the religion, on Mount Sinai, over 3000 years ago. It is commemorated with a festival that spans one day and night in Jerusalem, two days in the rest of the world. Traditionally, the festival’s customs include staying awake all night studying traditional Jewish texts; eating delicious dairy food such as cheesecake; attending the synagogue; and eating festive meals together with family and friends. In Jerusalem, it is customary to spend the sunrise hours at the Western Wall in the Old City, along with thousands of other worshippers, praying the morning service before returning home for a nap before the festive meal begins. When in Rome, of course, we do as the Romans do, which meant my few hours of snatched sleep on the El Al flight was going to have to last me the night.
The day before a holiday in Jerusalem is always a sight to be hold. Machane Yehudah, the large open air market known colloquially as simply “The Shuk”, is always teeming with sights and sounds and streams of people coming to make their pre-holiday purchases. While every Friday morning sees the place bustling, a holiday is something special. The open air, cobbled streets are full of all types - Chassidic Jews, modern Orthodox women, Israeli soldiers, American students and newlyweds all peruse the stalls and haggle with the Israeli stall keepers. Produce stalls and butcher shops are interspersed with massive bakeries surrounded by metal racks of piping hot pastries, dry goods stores selling a range of random sundries from shorts to backpacks, and delicatessens offering delicious dips, ready made meats, and gourmet cheeses.
We headed to The Shuk on Tuesday morning to enjoy one of their hidden secrets, a heavenly café on a side street, for the freshest, most delicious breakfast in Jerusalem. Clearly we weren’t the only ones with this brilliant idea, so after twenty minutes of waiting for service in a dingy alleyway surrounded by pushy Israelis, stray cats and enjoying the view of a butcher shop that hadn’t yet grasped the concept of aesthetic presentation, we were seated and enjoying a breakfast that only the Israelis know how to do. Eggs cooked to perfection with just the right sprinkling of freshly ground pepper; fresh bread spread with light cream cheese; yoghurt with just the right balance of tartness and sweetness mixed with fresh berries and grated apple; and a gorgeous salad bursting with flavour, colour and sweetness dotted with creamy Bulgarian cheese. The best part, of course, was the hot chocolate. The Israelis make their hot chocolate with steamed, frothy milk and use real blocks of chocolate instead of powder. They also make a white chocolate version, with hunks of milky white chocolate hidden in the depths of the glass. Can you spell heavenly?
After a shuk breakfast and all the myriads of errands required before the holiday, we were dressed to the nines and arrived at the apartment of friends from Australia for the holiday dinner. The wine flowed, the delicious dairy treats didn’t stop coming, and it wasn’t until 2 in the morning that we made our way towards the Old City for prayer and study.
At sunrise, the Wall was packed, with every type of human being in existence. Prayer groups gathered on the mens side, each with their own customs, melodies and style of prayer. Traditional poems are read in some congregations, while others sing melodies that have existed for thousands of years. As the sun rises and the crowd thins, streams of people leave the Wall and proceed up the ancient staircases, through the cobbled streets and home for a sleep and another delicious dairy lunch.
Shavout commemorates the Jewish people’s receiving of the Torah, all the laws and teachings that make up the religion, on Mount Sinai, over 3000 years ago. It is commemorated with a festival that spans one day and night in Jerusalem, two days in the rest of the world. Traditionally, the festival’s customs include staying awake all night studying traditional Jewish texts; eating delicious dairy food such as cheesecake; attending the synagogue; and eating festive meals together with family and friends. In Jerusalem, it is customary to spend the sunrise hours at the Western Wall in the Old City, along with thousands of other worshippers, praying the morning service before returning home for a nap before the festive meal begins. When in Rome, of course, we do as the Romans do, which meant my few hours of snatched sleep on the El Al flight was going to have to last me the night.
The day before a holiday in Jerusalem is always a sight to be hold. Machane Yehudah, the large open air market known colloquially as simply “The Shuk”, is always teeming with sights and sounds and streams of people coming to make their pre-holiday purchases. While every Friday morning sees the place bustling, a holiday is something special. The open air, cobbled streets are full of all types - Chassidic Jews, modern Orthodox women, Israeli soldiers, American students and newlyweds all peruse the stalls and haggle with the Israeli stall keepers. Produce stalls and butcher shops are interspersed with massive bakeries surrounded by metal racks of piping hot pastries, dry goods stores selling a range of random sundries from shorts to backpacks, and delicatessens offering delicious dips, ready made meats, and gourmet cheeses.
We headed to The Shuk on Tuesday morning to enjoy one of their hidden secrets, a heavenly café on a side street, for the freshest, most delicious breakfast in Jerusalem. Clearly we weren’t the only ones with this brilliant idea, so after twenty minutes of waiting for service in a dingy alleyway surrounded by pushy Israelis, stray cats and enjoying the view of a butcher shop that hadn’t yet grasped the concept of aesthetic presentation, we were seated and enjoying a breakfast that only the Israelis know how to do. Eggs cooked to perfection with just the right sprinkling of freshly ground pepper; fresh bread spread with light cream cheese; yoghurt with just the right balance of tartness and sweetness mixed with fresh berries and grated apple; and a gorgeous salad bursting with flavour, colour and sweetness dotted with creamy Bulgarian cheese. The best part, of course, was the hot chocolate. The Israelis make their hot chocolate with steamed, frothy milk and use real blocks of chocolate instead of powder. They also make a white chocolate version, with hunks of milky white chocolate hidden in the depths of the glass. Can you spell heavenly?
After a shuk breakfast and all the myriads of errands required before the holiday, we were dressed to the nines and arrived at the apartment of friends from Australia for the holiday dinner. The wine flowed, the delicious dairy treats didn’t stop coming, and it wasn’t until 2 in the morning that we made our way towards the Old City for prayer and study.
At sunrise, the Wall was packed, with every type of human being in existence. Prayer groups gathered on the mens side, each with their own customs, melodies and style of prayer. Traditional poems are read in some congregations, while others sing melodies that have existed for thousands of years. As the sun rises and the crowd thins, streams of people leave the Wall and proceed up the ancient staircases, through the cobbled streets and home for a sleep and another delicious dairy lunch.
Retracing My Steps: Jerusalem
There is an ongoing debate in the world of travel between those who believe in constantly exploring new frontiers, and those who laud the benefits of revisiting places, learning the local way and constantly deepening your experience.
I sit on the fence with these two theories, understanding that while going somewhere new provides a rush and a thrill that is unparalleled, there is also an amazing quality in learning to understand and know a place after the second or third visit.
Fabulous Tour of the Universe TM is a great mix of the two. We started off in Koh Samui, a place we’d never been to before, and loved every second of discovering the foreign culture, the unfamiliar places, and making the silly mistakes that make the trip more fun at the end.
Now on leg two, we’ve arrived in Israel, a place I have long called my second or third home. Its here that I fall into place within an hour or two of arriving - haggling with the taxi drivers in my Hebrew that improves by the minute; climbing the hills and the stairs of the ancient stone streets with growing familiarity; discovering new shops and restaurants alongside old favourites; and recalling a memory, a story, an event, on every street corner.
Strolling through the streets of Jerusalem over the last two days has been one long nostalgic trip down memory lane. Walking down the main roads in the city centre, I don’t just see places: I see events. There’s the square where I met one of my best friends for the first time over a frozen yoghurt; there’s the bus stop where I made a panicky phone call home to my mother after a local hairdresser dyed my hair an unmistakable shade of magenta; here’s the burger joint we used to frequent after a massive night of tequila and long islands; and here’s the restaurant where I had the most heavenly steak of all time.
It’s more than that though - along with each memory, there are new places, new experiences that are yet to be had. There’s the Indian restaurant that I simply must try, and there’s the new shoe store that is so much better than anything else in the area. Here’s the park where I am now spending time with friends, creating new memories and new moments of nostalgia for the future me.
So as I walk down the streets among the ghosts of my former self, I can also hear the whispers of the me of the future, reminding me that each moment now is worth hundreds in the future, as I relive this incredible experience and draw on it for years to come.
I sit on the fence with these two theories, understanding that while going somewhere new provides a rush and a thrill that is unparalleled, there is also an amazing quality in learning to understand and know a place after the second or third visit.
Fabulous Tour of the Universe TM is a great mix of the two. We started off in Koh Samui, a place we’d never been to before, and loved every second of discovering the foreign culture, the unfamiliar places, and making the silly mistakes that make the trip more fun at the end.
Now on leg two, we’ve arrived in Israel, a place I have long called my second or third home. Its here that I fall into place within an hour or two of arriving - haggling with the taxi drivers in my Hebrew that improves by the minute; climbing the hills and the stairs of the ancient stone streets with growing familiarity; discovering new shops and restaurants alongside old favourites; and recalling a memory, a story, an event, on every street corner.
Strolling through the streets of Jerusalem over the last two days has been one long nostalgic trip down memory lane. Walking down the main roads in the city centre, I don’t just see places: I see events. There’s the square where I met one of my best friends for the first time over a frozen yoghurt; there’s the bus stop where I made a panicky phone call home to my mother after a local hairdresser dyed my hair an unmistakable shade of magenta; here’s the burger joint we used to frequent after a massive night of tequila and long islands; and here’s the restaurant where I had the most heavenly steak of all time.
It’s more than that though - along with each memory, there are new places, new experiences that are yet to be had. There’s the Indian restaurant that I simply must try, and there’s the new shoe store that is so much better than anything else in the area. Here’s the park where I am now spending time with friends, creating new memories and new moments of nostalgia for the future me.
So as I walk down the streets among the ghosts of my former self, I can also hear the whispers of the me of the future, reminding me that each moment now is worth hundreds in the future, as I relive this incredible experience and draw on it for years to come.
Gateway to Paradise
I've been in a fair few airports in my time, and I love how they tend to reflect the local climates and culture. In Long Beach, California, where I lived for a year, the airport is nothing more than a basic beach bungalow. In Singapore, it's a city in itself, with day spas, hotels, shops and restaurants galore. Melbourne, New York, Los Angeles and Chicago are all functional and reflective of the city's nature: They're huge transportation hubs with everything the business traveller needs.
Koh Samui takes a different spin. The toilets are among the fanciest I've seen, ranked up there with five star hotels. The views are spectacular and the outdoor transit lounges include gorgeous hand carved furniture made from what looks to me like coconut wood, but what would I know.
Sipping from a coconut, reading the local paper and watching the sun go down, before embarking on the cute painted tram that drove us down to the runway was the perfect way to finish off a week in Paradise.
Koh Samui takes a different spin. The toilets are among the fanciest I've seen, ranked up there with five star hotels. The views are spectacular and the outdoor transit lounges include gorgeous hand carved furniture made from what looks to me like coconut wood, but what would I know.
Sipping from a coconut, reading the local paper and watching the sun go down, before embarking on the cute painted tram that drove us down to the runway was the perfect way to finish off a week in Paradise.
Anatomy of a Bucket
In Thailand, we don't just drink. We drink, from buckets.
Like this one, which our friendly new best friend spilled, and offered to buy us a new one. Turned into a catfight when she got a free replacement from management and refused to pay for the one we had ordered. Good times all around.
Or this one, which also came with a few rounds of Connect 4. We were practising so we could actually beat the Thai kids.
It may have turned into a bit of a bucket fest.
It doesn't taste too bad after the seventeenth.
Like this one, which our friendly new best friend spilled, and offered to buy us a new one. Turned into a catfight when she got a free replacement from management and refused to pay for the one we had ordered. Good times all around.
Or this one, which also came with a few rounds of Connect 4. We were practising so we could actually beat the Thai kids.
It may have turned into a bit of a bucket fest.
It doesn't taste too bad after the seventeenth.
Angus, Thongs and Snogging: Koh Ang Thong Marine Park
It’s 7.16 am and despite today being my arranged day trip, I’d only stumbled in last night close to 5am, and feel slightly worse for wear as I pack up my swimwear and paraphernalia. Somehow losing my sunhat in the process, I am soon snoozing my way in the back of the minivan and stifling giggles at the American tourist next to me, who has decided to take not a mere backpack on the adventure, but a large pack with wheels, complete with a bag of food and pair of sneakers tied to the outside. This dude has come prepared.
After driving around half of Samui, passing views that I’ve missed thanks to my intense lack of sleep, we arrive at the ferry port and board our marine adventure. I am a lady with a boat fetish and proud to admit it. If you want to guarantee me a good day out, put me on a boat, or anywhere near water. I will be happy as a clam, even when everyone around me is dying of seasickness. I’m the lady who stands on the front of the top deck, wind whipping my hair in ecstasy.
So while the predominantly Asian and European crowd fled to the safety of the inner cabin, firmly clutching their life jackets, I sat in the front with my new best friends, three German travellers who regaled me with tales of the Thai islands they’d learned from extensive Lonely Planet bedtime reading. Being that the Europeans are lucky enough to have 6 weeks annual leave per year, these guys travel every year on a big holiday, usually to Asia. It’s one way to escape life as a software engineer, as all the German travellers I’d met so far seemed to be.
The Mo Ko Ang Thong Marine Park is the name for an archipelago consisting over 42 small islands. They all have the most beautiful beaches, limestone caves and rocky cliffs, leading to private lagoons much like the one on the famous cult novel and movie, “The Beach”, by Alex Garland. In fact, it is this area that inspired the movie, although filming took place on other islands.
Our first stop was Wua Talap island. In English, the word is “Sleeping Cow”, and I’ve never seen a more apt description. That’s because the sleeping cow was me, stretched out on the most private beautiful beach I’ve seen in my entire life. While one half of the group went kayaking and the other half climbed the 500 metres to a stunning lookout point, I opted to stick around on the beach, alone, for a spot of snorkeling.
Snorkeling soon gave way to just breathing. The beach was breathtaking, and it took an effort. The island itself was the typical Thai paradise, with coconut trees, traditional huts, a small tent camp, and a small kiosk selling coconuts and drinks. I waded out into the devastatingly clear water and looked out into the horizon. There was not a spot of ugliness ruining my perfect vision. Even our boat, bobbing a few hundred metres away from the shore (we had to clamber on a basic rowboat to go ashore each time, which freaked me out accordingly), just added to the picturesque view.
After hours of swimming, I was stretched on the beach and soon found myself napping. Now as all good Aussies know, sunscreen is only effective for a period of time, after which we get on with the whole reapplication dance. Being a good Aussie, I’m all over this - except when in paradise.
The sleeping cow drug overtook me, and soon I was sprawled on the beach, fast asleep with only the waves for company. I woke up prickling and burning, having missed my reapplication window by 30 minutes. Let me just say, I am still peeling from the sleeping cow sun. Drunk on relaxation, sunshine and sea, I lazily swam back out and chatted with some of my fellow tourists who had returned from kayaking at that stage. Although the view from the lookout was breathtaking, it was also very sharp and difficult, and hadn’t been recommended for those in thongs. Not everyone had heeded their advice, so when we got back on the boat, there was a certain pink-faced German tourist, who had run all the way down to make it to the boat wearing only uncomfortable wooden-soled thongs.
After lunch on the boat, it was time for the next island, where we visited the Emerald Lagoon. Little Thai men were working on the construction of the ladders and ramps required to scale the cliffs surrounding the lagoon, as we huffed and puffed our way up. Some bright soul had informed us to take life jackets with us - so each time the boat docked, there I was with my life jacket in tow. Until I realized that there wasn’t any actual need for it - being a swimmer, I was unlikely to drown while negotiating the shallow, clear, gorgeous waters of the bay. Turns out it was purely to test my endurance as I struggled to climb the ladders and staircases and head down to the Emerald Lagoon.
It was Peter Pan all over again. The emerald green waters are surrounded by limestone cliffs and caves, with precarious lookout points cordoned off only by a small barrier letting us know “Do Not Lean”. As I inhaled the beauty and serenity, despite my increasingly painful sunburn, I heard an Israeli tourist behind me ask whether I’d like him to take a photograph. Finding we had a language in common, we soon go to chatting and made our way back down to the beach together. Dror and I had similar professional interests and his sweet girlfriend had the better command of English, which gave us both a chance to practice. With Israel next on my trip, it was a great time to get back into the Hebrew speaking swing, leaving less awkward taxi driver moments on arrival in Jerusalem.
Back on the beach, I encountered the most gorgeous traditional Thai kiosk. The owner was slightly taken aback at my obsession with photographing it. I sat and drank my Chang beer, watching the waves and listening to the mixture of languages wash over me as Germans, Asians, Israelis and New Zealanders collectively marveled at the natural wonders before our eyes.
It was simultaneously fascinating but also pretty irksome - as I noticed on the ferry back, when I wanted nothing more than to chat about crap with young people. A crew of lively Europeans were sitting on the outside deck with me, but with my German limited to counting to ten, I couldn’t interrupt their banter to ask them to switch to their more stilted, yet grammatically perfect English.
As my first solo travel day, I met some lovely people but more importantly, saw some incredible sights. For only 1100 baht (not including Kayaking), Ko Ang Thong Marine Park is a great option for a day trip from Samui and is highly recommended from this novice nomad.
After driving around half of Samui, passing views that I’ve missed thanks to my intense lack of sleep, we arrive at the ferry port and board our marine adventure. I am a lady with a boat fetish and proud to admit it. If you want to guarantee me a good day out, put me on a boat, or anywhere near water. I will be happy as a clam, even when everyone around me is dying of seasickness. I’m the lady who stands on the front of the top deck, wind whipping my hair in ecstasy.
So while the predominantly Asian and European crowd fled to the safety of the inner cabin, firmly clutching their life jackets, I sat in the front with my new best friends, three German travellers who regaled me with tales of the Thai islands they’d learned from extensive Lonely Planet bedtime reading. Being that the Europeans are lucky enough to have 6 weeks annual leave per year, these guys travel every year on a big holiday, usually to Asia. It’s one way to escape life as a software engineer, as all the German travellers I’d met so far seemed to be.
The Mo Ko Ang Thong Marine Park is the name for an archipelago consisting over 42 small islands. They all have the most beautiful beaches, limestone caves and rocky cliffs, leading to private lagoons much like the one on the famous cult novel and movie, “The Beach”, by Alex Garland. In fact, it is this area that inspired the movie, although filming took place on other islands.
Our first stop was Wua Talap island. In English, the word is “Sleeping Cow”, and I’ve never seen a more apt description. That’s because the sleeping cow was me, stretched out on the most private beautiful beach I’ve seen in my entire life. While one half of the group went kayaking and the other half climbed the 500 metres to a stunning lookout point, I opted to stick around on the beach, alone, for a spot of snorkeling.
Snorkeling soon gave way to just breathing. The beach was breathtaking, and it took an effort. The island itself was the typical Thai paradise, with coconut trees, traditional huts, a small tent camp, and a small kiosk selling coconuts and drinks. I waded out into the devastatingly clear water and looked out into the horizon. There was not a spot of ugliness ruining my perfect vision. Even our boat, bobbing a few hundred metres away from the shore (we had to clamber on a basic rowboat to go ashore each time, which freaked me out accordingly), just added to the picturesque view.
After hours of swimming, I was stretched on the beach and soon found myself napping. Now as all good Aussies know, sunscreen is only effective for a period of time, after which we get on with the whole reapplication dance. Being a good Aussie, I’m all over this - except when in paradise.
The sleeping cow drug overtook me, and soon I was sprawled on the beach, fast asleep with only the waves for company. I woke up prickling and burning, having missed my reapplication window by 30 minutes. Let me just say, I am still peeling from the sleeping cow sun. Drunk on relaxation, sunshine and sea, I lazily swam back out and chatted with some of my fellow tourists who had returned from kayaking at that stage. Although the view from the lookout was breathtaking, it was also very sharp and difficult, and hadn’t been recommended for those in thongs. Not everyone had heeded their advice, so when we got back on the boat, there was a certain pink-faced German tourist, who had run all the way down to make it to the boat wearing only uncomfortable wooden-soled thongs.
After lunch on the boat, it was time for the next island, where we visited the Emerald Lagoon. Little Thai men were working on the construction of the ladders and ramps required to scale the cliffs surrounding the lagoon, as we huffed and puffed our way up. Some bright soul had informed us to take life jackets with us - so each time the boat docked, there I was with my life jacket in tow. Until I realized that there wasn’t any actual need for it - being a swimmer, I was unlikely to drown while negotiating the shallow, clear, gorgeous waters of the bay. Turns out it was purely to test my endurance as I struggled to climb the ladders and staircases and head down to the Emerald Lagoon.
It was Peter Pan all over again. The emerald green waters are surrounded by limestone cliffs and caves, with precarious lookout points cordoned off only by a small barrier letting us know “Do Not Lean”. As I inhaled the beauty and serenity, despite my increasingly painful sunburn, I heard an Israeli tourist behind me ask whether I’d like him to take a photograph. Finding we had a language in common, we soon go to chatting and made our way back down to the beach together. Dror and I had similar professional interests and his sweet girlfriend had the better command of English, which gave us both a chance to practice. With Israel next on my trip, it was a great time to get back into the Hebrew speaking swing, leaving less awkward taxi driver moments on arrival in Jerusalem.
Back on the beach, I encountered the most gorgeous traditional Thai kiosk. The owner was slightly taken aback at my obsession with photographing it. I sat and drank my Chang beer, watching the waves and listening to the mixture of languages wash over me as Germans, Asians, Israelis and New Zealanders collectively marveled at the natural wonders before our eyes.
It was simultaneously fascinating but also pretty irksome - as I noticed on the ferry back, when I wanted nothing more than to chat about crap with young people. A crew of lively Europeans were sitting on the outside deck with me, but with my German limited to counting to ten, I couldn’t interrupt their banter to ask them to switch to their more stilted, yet grammatically perfect English.
As my first solo travel day, I met some lovely people but more importantly, saw some incredible sights. For only 1100 baht (not including Kayaking), Ko Ang Thong Marine Park is a great option for a day trip from Samui and is highly recommended from this novice nomad.
The Best Samui Travel: Awe the Agent
Like any good potential visitor to Thailand, I had of course seen the movie “The Beach”, based on Alex Garland’s novel, and secretly (or not so secretly) dreamed of heading to my own tropical paradise or “parallel universe”.
Due to a lack of planning, I hadn’t actually expected myself to end up in paradise myself. We had left it too late to organise the customary compulsory jaunts to Koh Tao or Koh Phangan, but after several days of trash novel reading, Mai Tai sipping, hamburger eating, fellow traveler meeting, pool swimming and sunbathing, I was ready for something different. Ora spent the day on a day trip around the Island, watching a monkey show, doing some elephant trekking and checking out the waterfalls and rocks that make Samui famous. I wanted to do something focused on water, so found myself in the lovely Awe’s travel agency on Saturday night, booking a jaunt to the Koh Ang Thong Marine Park.
Chaweng’s main drag is full of travel agencies - small, dirty storefronts filled with mothers and babies, smooth talking young men and grandmothers, all pushing the same five day trips available to island visitors, proffering brochures that could have been created on Adobe’s Print Shop Deluxe in the 1990s. On entering, its customary to take off one’s shoes, so the doorway is littered with thongs belonging to the tourists who enter to book their ferries and trains; select day trip options; or use the Internet services. We selected our travel agency randomly, and walked inside the cool air conditioned room to meet Awe.
Awe was describing to me the day trip when I noticed next to her computer the book, “PS, I Love you.” I asked her how she was enjoying it - let’s be honest, the book wasn’t all that fabulous but damn that movie made me cry - and she told me her husband had given it to her.
Awe’s husband is an Englishman currently looking for work in the UK, while she stays in Thailand, managing two travel agencies and looking after their three year old daughter. They met when they both worked for the same property agency years ago, but the boss had been shot, the business collapsed, and now she and the boss-wife were both struggling to make ends meet.
She assured us she was better off than “boss-wife”, who had no husband - I didn’t get it exactly but he’s either in hospital or no longer alive - and at least with her, she has her husband, and her baby - he’s just far away. They’re in regular conversation on Skype and they’ve taught their daughter to recognise her father online, so that when he arrived for his yearly visit recently, she giggled and jumped into his arms at the sight of him.
Chatting with Awe took close to an hour but she gave me a look at Thailand most of us don’t see - the way that tourism shapes the industry and how it impacts on the daily lives of regular Thai people.
When Awe told me her husband had given her the book PS I Love You, it was time for us to explain what that mean. “It means he, like, really really loves you,” I summarized for her. “The husband in the book, he passed away, but he still loves his wife and thinks about her and leaves her letters,” we explained.
She laughed, that explosive Thai laugh and waved her hands. “We’re ok, I’m telling you, we’re ok! We already have baby! It’s been so many years!”
The tour she sent me on was fabulous, as you will see in the next post. And for now, here’s the plug:
Awe: 081-1872060
The Best Samui Travel
14 Moo 2, Chawang Road, T. Bop hut - right near the Ark Bar.
Email: awebasia2007@hotmail.com
www.thebestsamuitravel.com
Due to a lack of planning, I hadn’t actually expected myself to end up in paradise myself. We had left it too late to organise the customary compulsory jaunts to Koh Tao or Koh Phangan, but after several days of trash novel reading, Mai Tai sipping, hamburger eating, fellow traveler meeting, pool swimming and sunbathing, I was ready for something different. Ora spent the day on a day trip around the Island, watching a monkey show, doing some elephant trekking and checking out the waterfalls and rocks that make Samui famous. I wanted to do something focused on water, so found myself in the lovely Awe’s travel agency on Saturday night, booking a jaunt to the Koh Ang Thong Marine Park.
Chaweng’s main drag is full of travel agencies - small, dirty storefronts filled with mothers and babies, smooth talking young men and grandmothers, all pushing the same five day trips available to island visitors, proffering brochures that could have been created on Adobe’s Print Shop Deluxe in the 1990s. On entering, its customary to take off one’s shoes, so the doorway is littered with thongs belonging to the tourists who enter to book their ferries and trains; select day trip options; or use the Internet services. We selected our travel agency randomly, and walked inside the cool air conditioned room to meet Awe.
Awe was describing to me the day trip when I noticed next to her computer the book, “PS, I Love you.” I asked her how she was enjoying it - let’s be honest, the book wasn’t all that fabulous but damn that movie made me cry - and she told me her husband had given it to her.
Awe’s husband is an Englishman currently looking for work in the UK, while she stays in Thailand, managing two travel agencies and looking after their three year old daughter. They met when they both worked for the same property agency years ago, but the boss had been shot, the business collapsed, and now she and the boss-wife were both struggling to make ends meet.
She assured us she was better off than “boss-wife”, who had no husband - I didn’t get it exactly but he’s either in hospital or no longer alive - and at least with her, she has her husband, and her baby - he’s just far away. They’re in regular conversation on Skype and they’ve taught their daughter to recognise her father online, so that when he arrived for his yearly visit recently, she giggled and jumped into his arms at the sight of him.
Chatting with Awe took close to an hour but she gave me a look at Thailand most of us don’t see - the way that tourism shapes the industry and how it impacts on the daily lives of regular Thai people.
When Awe told me her husband had given her the book PS I Love You, it was time for us to explain what that mean. “It means he, like, really really loves you,” I summarized for her. “The husband in the book, he passed away, but he still loves his wife and thinks about her and leaves her letters,” we explained.
She laughed, that explosive Thai laugh and waved her hands. “We’re ok, I’m telling you, we’re ok! We already have baby! It’s been so many years!”
The tour she sent me on was fabulous, as you will see in the next post. And for now, here’s the plug:
Awe: 081-1872060
The Best Samui Travel
14 Moo 2, Chawang Road, T. Bop hut - right near the Ark Bar.
Email: awebasia2007@hotmail.com
www.thebestsamuitravel.com
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Mystery of Hairdryer Boy
Hairdryer Boy and Other Stories
One lovely evening on Samui, after a day of doing it tough relaxing on the beach, going out time arrived. For a change, I was on my own, and decided I was going to rise to the challenge.
I’ve read all the stories about traveling alone and I’m aware that its important to do so in order to “build your character”. So I put on my dress, painted my face (well, to the extent that sunburn hadn’t…) and headed out on the town.
My first stop was Solo, a modern looking bar that wouldn’t be out of place in Melbourne with leather couches, sleek bar, flat screen TVs and tall bar stools all in stark white. With the Madrid Masters still in full swing, and me a self-confessed tennis addict, I settled myself at the bar with a happy hour cocktail menu and watched Fernando Versdasco limp his way to a loss to Jurgen Melzer. My first attempt at drinking alone - completed, but not necessarily fun.
With happy hour over, it was time to move on and find somewhere that I could actually, perhaps, interact with other humans. I followed the girls in bright yellow T-shirts, shorts and pumas who stood on the corner of another small alley broadcasting Happy Hour Buckets to Uncle Harry’s, an African-themed bar that was packed despite the rest of the area being quite empty. Turning another corner, I passed a crowd of ladyboys and saw the Thai girls, slumped in stools in bars with dimmed red lighting, waiting. I settled back down at Harry’s and found myself contemplating the twisted neon lighting illustrating a woman at the “Dreamgirls” bar across the road. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she had an awkwardly shaped hip and spent the rest of the evening contemplating it as I downed the happy hour Lemon Dacquiris. It was then that I learned that Happy Hour is an extremely loose term in Thailand - some bars hold it from 12pm to 7, others until midnight, and for others, it is really just an alternative word for “drink special.”
I also attempted to make conversation with the Middle-Eastern looking girls to my left drinking blue Hawaiians, the Australian beer drinkers at the table behind me; and the American frat boys to my right who were in raptures over Thai Red Bull. None were remotely reciprocal, and my usual trick of making best friends in the toilets with a girl or two was thwarted when I entered the bathroom to discover it was unisex and had a men’s urinal at the front. A quick exit ensued and I remained friendless at the bar.
When it was time to move on from Harry’s I walked down to the beach, which was how my encounter with Hairdryer Boy began. I strolled into the Ark Bar through the back way, passing the most amazing smell of barbecued meat and numerous squealing kittens before I came out on the beach. The orange jacketed Thai waiter took me by the arm and suggested , “Miss, you sit down? Maybe same place last night?” and gestured to my table from the previous evening. Impressed but with no desire to sit alone, I weaved through the tables, and went for a wade in the ocean, before making an executive decision that can only be made after 2 mai tais, 3 pina coladas, and 2 lemon dacquiris. I decided to pick a random table and sit at it.
Being careful to avoid romantic couples on honeymoon, I noted a table with a man in a cap and his bald companion, so I sauntered over to their table and asked if they spoke English. They did, but they were German, and the English was stilted to say the least. Of course, I also sat down before asking their permission, so suddenly it was me, A the Austrian and R the German drinking Singas and discussing snowboarding in Europe. Language barriers aside, or maybe it was the beer, we were friends within the hour and I headed down with them to Green Mango to explore the other side of Chaweng nightlife.
At the bar in Green Mango, we procured a bottle of Thai rum and some cokes, and we sat at the bar to watch the bartender perform magic tricks that left me open mouthed. I’m a huge believer in magic tricks any time of day, and at this stage of the evening I was completely aghast as he once again folded a pink napkin into his palm and showed us it had disappeared. It was only later that I discovered the plastic prosthetic thumb but that still didn’t take away from my impression that the man was a genius.
Green Mango closed at 2am, but standing on the street corner we asked the Thai taxi drivers why the early closure. They explained that tomorrow, the Sun King was coming to Samui. I was enthralled - The Sun King? Real royalty, in Samui? I want to see him, I explained. While my new best friend and I spoke ecstatically about the Sun King, I felt the frown of my old new best friends who were afraid I’d slip any second and find myself in Thai jail. Apparently, any indication of anything less than utmost respect and devotion towards the monarchy is not tolerated in Thailand. What they neglected to realise was that I was being genuine in every respect, even if I sounded bizarrely eager. I’m Australian, for heavens sake. We put up with royalty on our money but have nothing to do with them except for when Wills and Kate break up for the nineteenth time and we read about it in New Weekly. I wanted to see the Sun King, dammit!
Gallivanting along the Chaweng Main Road after 2am is the best time to confront my favourite part of Thailand - no, not the lady boys - but the little girls and boys who sell their Styrofoam necklaces threaded with frangipani flowers. I had already been sucked in the day before, buying a necklace off a sweet little girl poolside and paying for her ridiculous list price of 100 baht. Little did I know the going bargain price is actually 20 baht, but I figured it might go towards this girl’s education. That was until I saw her hawking her wares at 3am, and suggested that she go to sleep for school tomorrow. She explained her situation to me in excellent English that made me think maybe this mercenary lifestyle for the kids isn’t half bad if it makes them come out speaking fluent English, Thai, and probably French or German.
She was eight years old, she told me, and had already been to sleep. Her “Mummy” makes the necklaces, and she sells them. She doesn’t go to school, but she’s not from Thailand, she’s from Vietnam. After our lovely chat, I reminded her I’d already bought one earlier that day but that didn’t stop one of the little boys from attaching himself to me and begging before I managed to pull him off. Austrian A, however, purchased one, and made quite the picture wearing it as we walked in 711 for a refuel.
I headed back with my new best friends towards the beach, laden with supplies, looking forward to some makeshift cocktails on the beach.
Walking past a baby blue Lamborghini belonging to the resort owner, I clambered over the car, convinced that my beauty and good looks might help them sell some more. Passing by Austrian’s bungalow on the way to the beach, I opened his door to use the bathroom. It was here that the fabulous camaraderie we’d shared all evening as broken as I gasped in disbelief. There, on the pristine counter, I saw a lovely looking state of the art hairdryer, together with enough hair product for three salons, and a special brush that looked like a hair straightened.
I burst back out of the bathroom. “What is THIS??” I asked, pointing to the hairdryer. “Dude! You have got to be kidding me.”
I then proceeded, in true Aussie fashion, to give the guy a piece of my mind about how humorous I found it that he had a hairdryer in Thailand. My own luscious locks, of course, had been given the full treatment of an exotic saltwater bath (read: beach swim) followed by heat treatment (read: sunbathing) and a bleach rinse (read: pool swim). On special occasions, I followed this up with the top-of-the-range premium products so thoughtfully supplied by resort staff, a brand so exclusive it is known purely as “Shampoo” and “Conditioner”, complemented with lashings of odd-smelling tap water. I was pretty proud of my hair, dyed brown especially for its low maintenance capabilities during fabulous Tour of the Universe TM, and had even made the effort to brush it out before throwing it back behind an elastic as I hit the town.
Hairdryer boy obviously didn’t agree.
“So you’re so perfect, I’m sorry, that you don’t have to do your hair.”
“My hair’s not perfect, far from it. I just don’t care how it looks - I’m on holiday.”
Then I looked at him again and realized something.
“Mate, you wear a HAT all the time. I’m seeing your hair for the first time tonight. And you spent HOW long doing it tonight?”
That was it. I sensed a change of temperature, and all of a sudden no one was laughing. He was pissed. Despite my pleas that I am an Australian, meant nothing by it, and found it bloody hilarious, I sensed I had to get out of there. I acknowledged how lovely it had been meeting them, thanked them for the drinks and hightailed it out of there.
Back at the blue lamborghini, I marveled the absurdity of my situation. I had just been kicked out at 4am by two men who were offended at my teasing because one of them used a HAIRDRYER? I was appalled. This story is going to be too good to pass up, but truth is stranger than fiction. No one will ever believe this.
I turned on my heels and stalked back towards them. I heard faint murmurs in German behind the hedge and burst back to the porch.
“ARE YOU FOR REAL?” I yelled. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Apparently not. I was out of there ten seconds later, and never glimpsed them again the remainder of my time in Koh Samui. It may be because by the next evening, the story of Hairdryer Boy had made its way around the rest of the local haunts, and the metropolice were on the lookout for him. Go figure.
One lovely evening on Samui, after a day of doing it tough relaxing on the beach, going out time arrived. For a change, I was on my own, and decided I was going to rise to the challenge.
I’ve read all the stories about traveling alone and I’m aware that its important to do so in order to “build your character”. So I put on my dress, painted my face (well, to the extent that sunburn hadn’t…) and headed out on the town.
My first stop was Solo, a modern looking bar that wouldn’t be out of place in Melbourne with leather couches, sleek bar, flat screen TVs and tall bar stools all in stark white. With the Madrid Masters still in full swing, and me a self-confessed tennis addict, I settled myself at the bar with a happy hour cocktail menu and watched Fernando Versdasco limp his way to a loss to Jurgen Melzer. My first attempt at drinking alone - completed, but not necessarily fun.
With happy hour over, it was time to move on and find somewhere that I could actually, perhaps, interact with other humans. I followed the girls in bright yellow T-shirts, shorts and pumas who stood on the corner of another small alley broadcasting Happy Hour Buckets to Uncle Harry’s, an African-themed bar that was packed despite the rest of the area being quite empty. Turning another corner, I passed a crowd of ladyboys and saw the Thai girls, slumped in stools in bars with dimmed red lighting, waiting. I settled back down at Harry’s and found myself contemplating the twisted neon lighting illustrating a woman at the “Dreamgirls” bar across the road. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she had an awkwardly shaped hip and spent the rest of the evening contemplating it as I downed the happy hour Lemon Dacquiris. It was then that I learned that Happy Hour is an extremely loose term in Thailand - some bars hold it from 12pm to 7, others until midnight, and for others, it is really just an alternative word for “drink special.”
I also attempted to make conversation with the Middle-Eastern looking girls to my left drinking blue Hawaiians, the Australian beer drinkers at the table behind me; and the American frat boys to my right who were in raptures over Thai Red Bull. None were remotely reciprocal, and my usual trick of making best friends in the toilets with a girl or two was thwarted when I entered the bathroom to discover it was unisex and had a men’s urinal at the front. A quick exit ensued and I remained friendless at the bar.
When it was time to move on from Harry’s I walked down to the beach, which was how my encounter with Hairdryer Boy began. I strolled into the Ark Bar through the back way, passing the most amazing smell of barbecued meat and numerous squealing kittens before I came out on the beach. The orange jacketed Thai waiter took me by the arm and suggested , “Miss, you sit down? Maybe same place last night?” and gestured to my table from the previous evening. Impressed but with no desire to sit alone, I weaved through the tables, and went for a wade in the ocean, before making an executive decision that can only be made after 2 mai tais, 3 pina coladas, and 2 lemon dacquiris. I decided to pick a random table and sit at it.
Being careful to avoid romantic couples on honeymoon, I noted a table with a man in a cap and his bald companion, so I sauntered over to their table and asked if they spoke English. They did, but they were German, and the English was stilted to say the least. Of course, I also sat down before asking their permission, so suddenly it was me, A the Austrian and R the German drinking Singas and discussing snowboarding in Europe. Language barriers aside, or maybe it was the beer, we were friends within the hour and I headed down with them to Green Mango to explore the other side of Chaweng nightlife.
At the bar in Green Mango, we procured a bottle of Thai rum and some cokes, and we sat at the bar to watch the bartender perform magic tricks that left me open mouthed. I’m a huge believer in magic tricks any time of day, and at this stage of the evening I was completely aghast as he once again folded a pink napkin into his palm and showed us it had disappeared. It was only later that I discovered the plastic prosthetic thumb but that still didn’t take away from my impression that the man was a genius.
Green Mango closed at 2am, but standing on the street corner we asked the Thai taxi drivers why the early closure. They explained that tomorrow, the Sun King was coming to Samui. I was enthralled - The Sun King? Real royalty, in Samui? I want to see him, I explained. While my new best friend and I spoke ecstatically about the Sun King, I felt the frown of my old new best friends who were afraid I’d slip any second and find myself in Thai jail. Apparently, any indication of anything less than utmost respect and devotion towards the monarchy is not tolerated in Thailand. What they neglected to realise was that I was being genuine in every respect, even if I sounded bizarrely eager. I’m Australian, for heavens sake. We put up with royalty on our money but have nothing to do with them except for when Wills and Kate break up for the nineteenth time and we read about it in New Weekly. I wanted to see the Sun King, dammit!
Gallivanting along the Chaweng Main Road after 2am is the best time to confront my favourite part of Thailand - no, not the lady boys - but the little girls and boys who sell their Styrofoam necklaces threaded with frangipani flowers. I had already been sucked in the day before, buying a necklace off a sweet little girl poolside and paying for her ridiculous list price of 100 baht. Little did I know the going bargain price is actually 20 baht, but I figured it might go towards this girl’s education. That was until I saw her hawking her wares at 3am, and suggested that she go to sleep for school tomorrow. She explained her situation to me in excellent English that made me think maybe this mercenary lifestyle for the kids isn’t half bad if it makes them come out speaking fluent English, Thai, and probably French or German.
She was eight years old, she told me, and had already been to sleep. Her “Mummy” makes the necklaces, and she sells them. She doesn’t go to school, but she’s not from Thailand, she’s from Vietnam. After our lovely chat, I reminded her I’d already bought one earlier that day but that didn’t stop one of the little boys from attaching himself to me and begging before I managed to pull him off. Austrian A, however, purchased one, and made quite the picture wearing it as we walked in 711 for a refuel.
I headed back with my new best friends towards the beach, laden with supplies, looking forward to some makeshift cocktails on the beach.
Walking past a baby blue Lamborghini belonging to the resort owner, I clambered over the car, convinced that my beauty and good looks might help them sell some more. Passing by Austrian’s bungalow on the way to the beach, I opened his door to use the bathroom. It was here that the fabulous camaraderie we’d shared all evening as broken as I gasped in disbelief. There, on the pristine counter, I saw a lovely looking state of the art hairdryer, together with enough hair product for three salons, and a special brush that looked like a hair straightened.
I burst back out of the bathroom. “What is THIS??” I asked, pointing to the hairdryer. “Dude! You have got to be kidding me.”
I then proceeded, in true Aussie fashion, to give the guy a piece of my mind about how humorous I found it that he had a hairdryer in Thailand. My own luscious locks, of course, had been given the full treatment of an exotic saltwater bath (read: beach swim) followed by heat treatment (read: sunbathing) and a bleach rinse (read: pool swim). On special occasions, I followed this up with the top-of-the-range premium products so thoughtfully supplied by resort staff, a brand so exclusive it is known purely as “Shampoo” and “Conditioner”, complemented with lashings of odd-smelling tap water. I was pretty proud of my hair, dyed brown especially for its low maintenance capabilities during fabulous Tour of the Universe TM, and had even made the effort to brush it out before throwing it back behind an elastic as I hit the town.
Hairdryer boy obviously didn’t agree.
“So you’re so perfect, I’m sorry, that you don’t have to do your hair.”
“My hair’s not perfect, far from it. I just don’t care how it looks - I’m on holiday.”
Then I looked at him again and realized something.
“Mate, you wear a HAT all the time. I’m seeing your hair for the first time tonight. And you spent HOW long doing it tonight?”
That was it. I sensed a change of temperature, and all of a sudden no one was laughing. He was pissed. Despite my pleas that I am an Australian, meant nothing by it, and found it bloody hilarious, I sensed I had to get out of there. I acknowledged how lovely it had been meeting them, thanked them for the drinks and hightailed it out of there.
Back at the blue lamborghini, I marveled the absurdity of my situation. I had just been kicked out at 4am by two men who were offended at my teasing because one of them used a HAIRDRYER? I was appalled. This story is going to be too good to pass up, but truth is stranger than fiction. No one will ever believe this.
I turned on my heels and stalked back towards them. I heard faint murmurs in German behind the hedge and burst back to the porch.
“ARE YOU FOR REAL?” I yelled. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Apparently not. I was out of there ten seconds later, and never glimpsed them again the remainder of my time in Koh Samui. It may be because by the next evening, the story of Hairdryer Boy had made its way around the rest of the local haunts, and the metropolice were on the lookout for him. Go figure.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Five Days of This - Samui
It’s another sunny morning and for some unknown reason, I’m awake before 9am on a holiday. For some reason, the evening’s carousing has failed to provide me with evidence in the form of a hangover. The hangover fairy is yet to bite me in the bum, and I am taking advantage of my morning chipperness and starting in on the sun worship. It also helps that there is poolside wifi so I can bond with the Twitterverse while drinking a Mai Tai.
It’s at lunchtime that we decide to venture away from the irritatingly gorgeous UK couple who have been shoving their loved-up bronzed bodies in our faces and move to the main road to scavenge some lunch. The restaurants on the street are all desperate for our custom, until we select one where I watch boxing on screen and Ora struggles to pour the largest, cheapest beer I have ever seen. Five bucks each and we’re done and dusted.
We keep moving down the street in search of some swimwear for me. For some reason I’ve failed to do my yearly bathers shop and instead have only some makeshift swimwear. I am of course the only woman on the beach not in a bikini - they vet out those with body or modesty concerns at customs, I swear.
Each ‘fitting room’ I’ve entered in shops have little potties with pee in them. Just so you know.
I ask the woman if i can try on the dresses. She graciously agrees and I ask her for a changing room. She again nods and I think I’m meant to head to the corner. She starts unfolding a sarong. I think, oh wow, she knew I wanted a sarong as well as a dress? Turns out the sarong she is now hanging with both hands is the fitting room she’s setup for me. Oh joy.
We continue past stores selling kids clothes, Cds, handbags, and my favourite, a man with a large hanging basketr of peanuts and eggs. thankfully, I’d just been complaining that there’s no way to get a decent egg around here - good thing that guy was around.
After sweating our guts out down the street, being well fed and watered, we decide on a taxi to take us back. Turns out no taxis are available, but guess what is - that’s right, a motorbike. We throw caution to the wind and jump on the back of some random thai dude who proceeds to put our possessions in the front basket and ferry us down the street, wind whipping our hair, and show us the lake view. I won’t lie, it was pretty goddamn awesome.
Back at the ranch, it’s time for a quick kip by the pool, where we read, sun ourselves, and imagine sunset which is now happening elsewhere on the island - certainly not on our side of things. We see our friends from earlier, two gorgeous bronzed girls from aussie and the UK who give us the lowdown on island activity. I catch up on a tweet or seventeen and Ora makes friends with two Yorkshire men next to us. We have our gin and tonics and pina coladas at happy hour, then head back to the room to get ready for a sweaty evening dodging lady boys, sweating, sipping buckets and endless happy hours. This is Thailand.
It’s at lunchtime that we decide to venture away from the irritatingly gorgeous UK couple who have been shoving their loved-up bronzed bodies in our faces and move to the main road to scavenge some lunch. The restaurants on the street are all desperate for our custom, until we select one where I watch boxing on screen and Ora struggles to pour the largest, cheapest beer I have ever seen. Five bucks each and we’re done and dusted.
We keep moving down the street in search of some swimwear for me. For some reason I’ve failed to do my yearly bathers shop and instead have only some makeshift swimwear. I am of course the only woman on the beach not in a bikini - they vet out those with body or modesty concerns at customs, I swear.
Each ‘fitting room’ I’ve entered in shops have little potties with pee in them. Just so you know.
I ask the woman if i can try on the dresses. She graciously agrees and I ask her for a changing room. She again nods and I think I’m meant to head to the corner. She starts unfolding a sarong. I think, oh wow, she knew I wanted a sarong as well as a dress? Turns out the sarong she is now hanging with both hands is the fitting room she’s setup for me. Oh joy.
We continue past stores selling kids clothes, Cds, handbags, and my favourite, a man with a large hanging basketr of peanuts and eggs. thankfully, I’d just been complaining that there’s no way to get a decent egg around here - good thing that guy was around.
After sweating our guts out down the street, being well fed and watered, we decide on a taxi to take us back. Turns out no taxis are available, but guess what is - that’s right, a motorbike. We throw caution to the wind and jump on the back of some random thai dude who proceeds to put our possessions in the front basket and ferry us down the street, wind whipping our hair, and show us the lake view. I won’t lie, it was pretty goddamn awesome.
Back at the ranch, it’s time for a quick kip by the pool, where we read, sun ourselves, and imagine sunset which is now happening elsewhere on the island - certainly not on our side of things. We see our friends from earlier, two gorgeous bronzed girls from aussie and the UK who give us the lowdown on island activity. I catch up on a tweet or seventeen and Ora makes friends with two Yorkshire men next to us. We have our gin and tonics and pina coladas at happy hour, then head back to the room to get ready for a sweaty evening dodging lady boys, sweating, sipping buckets and endless happy hours. This is Thailand.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
FOMO in Paradise
Hey you guys,
It's been a while, because while in Thailand I developed something called Netbook fomo.
For some reason, I found myself getting antsy while sitting in my beach chair and clattering away while the waves lapped at my toes and the Thai merchants came by hawking their wares for a spot of poolside shopping. I didn't want to put down my Mai Tai or my trashy novel, so my communication with my lovely vicarious travellers was restricted to the sporadic tweet.
I do, however, have many fabulous stories to reward you patient people which you will all hear about in approximately 28 hours. They include the following, so stay tuned:
- The Mystery of Mysterious Hairdryer Boy
- Education, Frangipani and Styrofoam Style
- Thailand Tennis Time
- A Portal: The Airport in Tropical Paradise
- Angus, Thongs and Snogging: Aka Angthong Marine Park
- Anatomy of a Sunburn
Pics galore on their way.
In the meantime I'm off to celebrate the Jewish festival of Shavout in the only place that knows how, Jerusalem. Chag Sameach L'Kulam.
It's been a while, because while in Thailand I developed something called Netbook fomo.
For some reason, I found myself getting antsy while sitting in my beach chair and clattering away while the waves lapped at my toes and the Thai merchants came by hawking their wares for a spot of poolside shopping. I didn't want to put down my Mai Tai or my trashy novel, so my communication with my lovely vicarious travellers was restricted to the sporadic tweet.
I do, however, have many fabulous stories to reward you patient people which you will all hear about in approximately 28 hours. They include the following, so stay tuned:
- The Mystery of Mysterious Hairdryer Boy
- Education, Frangipani and Styrofoam Style
- Thailand Tennis Time
- A Portal: The Airport in Tropical Paradise
- Angus, Thongs and Snogging: Aka Angthong Marine Park
- Anatomy of a Sunburn
Pics galore on their way.
In the meantime I'm off to celebrate the Jewish festival of Shavout in the only place that knows how, Jerusalem. Chag Sameach L'Kulam.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Koh Samui
Everyone fancies themselves a travel writer, and thinks they have a good travel blog in them. There are only the select few of us who are prepared to put up with the irritation of netbook schlepping, the incessant Wi-Fi Hunt ™, the pressure of finding words for your thoughts when you’re surrounded by beauty and awesomeness, and the potential self-esteem crushing incident where your blog receives only two hits (Hi Mum), to actually go through with it. Then once we have those of us travel bloggers out there, there are only so many who can keep you guys reading past the first paragraph. Which is where we have our first test.
Still with me?
We’re here, in Thailand, and this place is everything they say it is in books. Which is to say, full of people who pretend to be nice but plant drugs in your luggage, and elephants walking the streets robed in purple and gold. I won’t say none of those things are true, because I’m keeping my travel eyes open, but so far I’ve seen some of the other attractions, as promised in books, and they certainly live up to the hype. There’s a white sandy beach to my left, with gentle, rippling waves that are as warm as a Jacuzzi. In the background are mountainous peaks covered in thick trees with the odd guesthouse peeking out through the greenery. I’m sitting in the poolside restaurant at our resort, which is incidentally the only place in the resort to offer free wifi. This means that instead of being the girl who sits in the hotel room connecting with the universe all day, I get to do my tweeting, Facebooking, blogging and news dot com dot au-ing poolside. That’s right babies.
This is the kind of travel blog where observations are king. I won’t try and tell you what to do, because we’re the kind of girls who have taken ‘wing it’ to heart, and thee are no prebooked hotels or day trips planned on the Fabulous Tour of the Universe TM. We’re the people who picked up our baggage at the carousel and then sashayed over to the bookings counter to select a hotel from the big scrapbooks filled with shiny images, handwritten notes and room listings, looking like the kind of album Mum filled with photos back in the eighties. We, of course, selected the only resort that had a price for a ‘poo room’ - after all, it could come in handy.
For those airport junkies out there (is my Dad reading this?) I thought I’d give you all the updates.
Melbourne Airport is all redone, and kids, it is fanc-y. I’m talking security before passport control, a completely new layout and lots of fancy new shops in the old departures area. What scares me more is that either it was done in a heartbeat or I am completely non-observant, because I flew out of Tullamarine only in February and had no recollection of the place looking like that. Gone is the token Body Map Australia for your last minute souvenirs and the Collins Booksellers, and where on earth has that cute little mosaic gone? I’m thinking the Fifa bid has another chance now. Seriously, the airport will blow them away.
Thai Airways are still my favourite if only for their exceptional use of the colour purple. Aside from the flight attendants in their dapper purple suits and the fleecy purple blankies, I was most impressed by the purple jumpsuits on the mechanics down on the tarmac. Goes with the fluero yellow vests surprisingly well.
Bangkok Airways, on the other hand, prefer those kitchy, pastel colours that remind me of early nineties kids play centres. I’m sure I had a Crayola set of textas in just those shades of pale pink, light blue, pale yellow and pastel green. Not only do the stewardesses wear these fabulous blouses covered in the prints, they’re painted all over the plane, including the belly. Which makes for nice beach watching if you’re lying in the sun and see a Bangkok Airways plane pass overhead. These people think ahead, I’m telling you.
Now excuse me while I get back to my cocktail and my poolside chair. I’ve had three women come by hawking their garments, and I appreciate the concept of shopping without leaving my chair. Here are some moments of joy recorded by Ora, who is apparently some kind of amateur photographer and will be looking after the visual aspects of this blog.
Still with me?
We’re here, in Thailand, and this place is everything they say it is in books. Which is to say, full of people who pretend to be nice but plant drugs in your luggage, and elephants walking the streets robed in purple and gold. I won’t say none of those things are true, because I’m keeping my travel eyes open, but so far I’ve seen some of the other attractions, as promised in books, and they certainly live up to the hype. There’s a white sandy beach to my left, with gentle, rippling waves that are as warm as a Jacuzzi. In the background are mountainous peaks covered in thick trees with the odd guesthouse peeking out through the greenery. I’m sitting in the poolside restaurant at our resort, which is incidentally the only place in the resort to offer free wifi. This means that instead of being the girl who sits in the hotel room connecting with the universe all day, I get to do my tweeting, Facebooking, blogging and news dot com dot au-ing poolside. That’s right babies.
This is the kind of travel blog where observations are king. I won’t try and tell you what to do, because we’re the kind of girls who have taken ‘wing it’ to heart, and thee are no prebooked hotels or day trips planned on the Fabulous Tour of the Universe TM. We’re the people who picked up our baggage at the carousel and then sashayed over to the bookings counter to select a hotel from the big scrapbooks filled with shiny images, handwritten notes and room listings, looking like the kind of album Mum filled with photos back in the eighties. We, of course, selected the only resort that had a price for a ‘poo room’ - after all, it could come in handy.
For those airport junkies out there (is my Dad reading this?) I thought I’d give you all the updates.
Melbourne Airport is all redone, and kids, it is fanc-y. I’m talking security before passport control, a completely new layout and lots of fancy new shops in the old departures area. What scares me more is that either it was done in a heartbeat or I am completely non-observant, because I flew out of Tullamarine only in February and had no recollection of the place looking like that. Gone is the token Body Map Australia for your last minute souvenirs and the Collins Booksellers, and where on earth has that cute little mosaic gone? I’m thinking the Fifa bid has another chance now. Seriously, the airport will blow them away.
Thai Airways are still my favourite if only for their exceptional use of the colour purple. Aside from the flight attendants in their dapper purple suits and the fleecy purple blankies, I was most impressed by the purple jumpsuits on the mechanics down on the tarmac. Goes with the fluero yellow vests surprisingly well.
Bangkok Airways, on the other hand, prefer those kitchy, pastel colours that remind me of early nineties kids play centres. I’m sure I had a Crayola set of textas in just those shades of pale pink, light blue, pale yellow and pastel green. Not only do the stewardesses wear these fabulous blouses covered in the prints, they’re painted all over the plane, including the belly. Which makes for nice beach watching if you’re lying in the sun and see a Bangkok Airways plane pass overhead. These people think ahead, I’m telling you.
Now excuse me while I get back to my cocktail and my poolside chair. I’ve had three women come by hawking their garments, and I appreciate the concept of shopping without leaving my chair. Here are some moments of joy recorded by Ora, who is apparently some kind of amateur photographer and will be looking after the visual aspects of this blog.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
T minus 24
Hey you guys,
Well, call me unprepared, call me crazy, but today I bought my backpack.
Shoutout to @DriftingKiwi for his backpack purchasing guide, which was a huge help to the armchair shopper in me who has to do reams of research before heading out to store. According to the lovely Dave, I was looking for the following:
1. A travel pack, because I ain't no hiker, and need it to be accessible from all ends.
2. Something made for a lady like me, who is shorter, narrower, and to quote the man himself, has "sticky out" bits different to a boy.
3. Something with nice quality zips and whatnot
4. Good quality over budget
5. NO WHEELS. They hurt your back.
So I headed down to Anaconda, feeling really girly and awkward when I found myself surrounded by all things adventurous and testosterony. I wanted to grab a canoe and a fishing rod to look less conspicuous, but found myself in the packs section surrounded by daunted would-be travellers just like me.
There was a kid in there with his grandma, trialling a pack with wheels at the bottom. I knew the answer to that one - hell no! I tried on a pack full of exciting zips and gadgets and straps and even built in locks, but after asking one too many intuitive questions to the staff member on hand, he realised I'd actually read some online articles and moved me onward to the knowledgeable and lovely Jess.
Jess helped me hit the jackpot with this lovely little piece from Deuter. It's a girl pack and I fell in love with it for the flower first up. The flower? Sorry, I mean the streamlined "slimline" style, the narrower straps, the special girly padding, the length (it's only 55+10 which is apparently the aim for a little girl like me), and the pretty grey colour. I know I'm not supposed to care, but you can't go past a bit of aesthetics.
Well, call me unprepared, call me crazy, but today I bought my backpack.
Shoutout to @DriftingKiwi for his backpack purchasing guide, which was a huge help to the armchair shopper in me who has to do reams of research before heading out to store. According to the lovely Dave, I was looking for the following:
1. A travel pack, because I ain't no hiker, and need it to be accessible from all ends.
2. Something made for a lady like me, who is shorter, narrower, and to quote the man himself, has "sticky out" bits different to a boy.
3. Something with nice quality zips and whatnot
4. Good quality over budget
5. NO WHEELS. They hurt your back.
So I headed down to Anaconda, feeling really girly and awkward when I found myself surrounded by all things adventurous and testosterony. I wanted to grab a canoe and a fishing rod to look less conspicuous, but found myself in the packs section surrounded by daunted would-be travellers just like me.
There was a kid in there with his grandma, trialling a pack with wheels at the bottom. I knew the answer to that one - hell no! I tried on a pack full of exciting zips and gadgets and straps and even built in locks, but after asking one too many intuitive questions to the staff member on hand, he realised I'd actually read some online articles and moved me onward to the knowledgeable and lovely Jess.
Jess helped me hit the jackpot with this lovely little piece from Deuter. It's a girl pack and I fell in love with it for the flower first up. The flower? Sorry, I mean the streamlined "slimline" style, the narrower straps, the special girly padding, the length (it's only 55+10 which is apparently the aim for a little girl like me), and the pretty grey colour. I know I'm not supposed to care, but you can't go past a bit of aesthetics.
Considering flight leaves tomorrow night, it might be about time I fill her up with my pieces of whatnot and get this show on the road!
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Freakout in Progress
All the travel sites that I've been reading lately have lists of advice with no end. They tell you how far in advance you need to start saving, buy your backpack, start packing, book your flights, read Lonely Planets and even have a schedule for kissing your beloved ones adieu.
Now I'm an organised person but also an extraordinarily busy one. No, seriously.... Well, the drama for me is that I'm still finishing up a few subjects at uni, which I will be studying via distance ed while I am away. Huge call, right? Well the plan is to be done with as much as possible prior to departure... Leading to me, sitting at my desk and trying to plug through as many irritating lectures as possible, while my suitcase lies behind me unpacked, my financials remain unattended to, and the box of crap I planned to sell on ebay for some extra cash has booked a spot in the bottom of my wardrobe for the next six months.
We're at T minus 3 days and aside from finishing said uni work and "minor" details like packing and organising, there's still all the people to see and places to go... The people who will be hanging in there back home, reading about our fabulous adventures and looking out the window and seeing grey wintry Melbourne. Travelling is so damn exciting, you forget about those you leave behind.
On that note, this weekend is family time. The work will be set aside for now, and tonight it's about family. Dinner with the crew, mucking around with my sisters on the couch, long conversations with Mum over a cup of tea - pumped as I am for travel, its these things that I'll miss.
Let's wrap up one thing and then get started on the new.
Now I'm an organised person but also an extraordinarily busy one. No, seriously.... Well, the drama for me is that I'm still finishing up a few subjects at uni, which I will be studying via distance ed while I am away. Huge call, right? Well the plan is to be done with as much as possible prior to departure... Leading to me, sitting at my desk and trying to plug through as many irritating lectures as possible, while my suitcase lies behind me unpacked, my financials remain unattended to, and the box of crap I planned to sell on ebay for some extra cash has booked a spot in the bottom of my wardrobe for the next six months.
We're at T minus 3 days and aside from finishing said uni work and "minor" details like packing and organising, there's still all the people to see and places to go... The people who will be hanging in there back home, reading about our fabulous adventures and looking out the window and seeing grey wintry Melbourne. Travelling is so damn exciting, you forget about those you leave behind.
On that note, this weekend is family time. The work will be set aside for now, and tonight it's about family. Dinner with the crew, mucking around with my sisters on the couch, long conversations with Mum over a cup of tea - pumped as I am for travel, its these things that I'll miss.
Let's wrap up one thing and then get started on the new.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Countdown: 7 Days To Go
There are heaps of travel blogs out there that tell you all about the adventures people have been on. They sound a little like this:
"It's Tuesday. We woke up, and had breakfast. We went for a walk from our hotel and it was so exciting, there was *insert famous landmark* at our doorstep. We went to the landmark. We paid admission. We had lunch. We went home." And so it goes. The typical tales of scams, amazing saves, exciting new people and coincidental meet ups are inserted where necessary, along with plenty of travel tips.
Well I'm not one to deprive you of all those things that make travel blogs riveting. I know you don't want to miss out on hearing what I have for breakfast, so I'll be sure to update you accordingly.
But I also thought we'd throw in some cultural comparisons, some historical geekness (the beauty of having a world class nerd blogging her way round the town for you), as many sporting events as we can get to, and a runthrough of one of my favourite books, 1000 Things To Do Before You Die.
I have a geeky obsession with counting off all the gorgeous natural wonders, tourist attractions and beautiful buildings on this list. The only problem? It's made for the rich couple in their 60s, spending their retirement savings - not for the twenty somethings in a career crises, traipsing the land with their backpacks and not much else. That still hasn't stopped me from that exhilarating feeling I get when I pencil in the little asterisk inside the book to show I've taken care of yet another place. Granted, at this stage they are scarce - but by the end of this Fabulous Tour, I'm sure we'll have a fair few more.
Bring it on, you guys. And as of today, let me assure you the ticket is booked.
"It's Tuesday. We woke up, and had breakfast. We went for a walk from our hotel and it was so exciting, there was *insert famous landmark* at our doorstep. We went to the landmark. We paid admission. We had lunch. We went home." And so it goes. The typical tales of scams, amazing saves, exciting new people and coincidental meet ups are inserted where necessary, along with plenty of travel tips.
Well I'm not one to deprive you of all those things that make travel blogs riveting. I know you don't want to miss out on hearing what I have for breakfast, so I'll be sure to update you accordingly.
But I also thought we'd throw in some cultural comparisons, some historical geekness (the beauty of having a world class nerd blogging her way round the town for you), as many sporting events as we can get to, and a runthrough of one of my favourite books, 1000 Things To Do Before You Die.
I have a geeky obsession with counting off all the gorgeous natural wonders, tourist attractions and beautiful buildings on this list. The only problem? It's made for the rich couple in their 60s, spending their retirement savings - not for the twenty somethings in a career crises, traipsing the land with their backpacks and not much else. That still hasn't stopped me from that exhilarating feeling I get when I pencil in the little asterisk inside the book to show I've taken care of yet another place. Granted, at this stage they are scarce - but by the end of this Fabulous Tour, I'm sure we'll have a fair few more.
Bring it on, you guys. And as of today, let me assure you the ticket is booked.
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