therewasthisonetimein

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: WASHINGTON DC 2013

Hope and change baby!  Let’s get yo American on! All abord the Australian contingent to the Presidential inauguration 2013. 

So, swept up in the historical significance, I begrudgingly consented to wake up in the darkness, pile on really all of the clothes that I own and catch the first metro into the National Mall.

Dark, freezing and conspicuously caffeine free, going to the inauguration was a certifiably terrible, terrible idea. Not enough clothes in the entire world. Our crew got a spot “up the front” — so at least when the fluid around our brains froze solid we’d be close-ish to the action. 

Only in extreme situations would I describe shots of whiskey at 6am as necessary to survival. This was one such situation. I would have emptied my bank account then and there for a blanket, heater of any variety or a roasty warm fire. No such luck. 

Things you can do when you have 7 hours to kill before anything happens at a major public event with three quarters of a million people in sub zero temperatures include:

• rearranging scarf for maximum warmth, minimum aesthetic value.
• befriending strangers who are equally fanatical to be up so god damn early.
• plastering self with hand warmers.
• jumping up and down. repeatedly. for the warmth. Also of minimum swagger value.
• acknowledge that you’ll never, ever be warm again. Feel soul crumble. 

As shit got real, and finally the (important) people started turning up, suddenly, everywhere, flags. American flags. Being handed out like candy. So many conflicting feelings. One for everybody that turned up. All of the patriotism. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Michelle Obama, and the guy that she’s married to, came out into public view looking fabulous. She was wearing the same gloves as me. Which got me some mad cred with the other fanatics up the “front”. 

The flag came in handy when Mr President began to speak about the hope and the change and somewhat shockingly; his ambition to combat climate change. It was so unbelievable that I was not even bothered that I was the only one that was jumping up and down, overcome with political nerd joy. 

The flag was awkward, embarrassing and conspicuously dropped from view when the bit about America being the best country in the world happened. 

But whatever, the real spectacle, the piece that made it all worthwhile, the unforgettable life changing event was obviously…

drumroll…

Queen B

I will not enter into any correspondence regarding lip sync conspiracy. 

And so I can say, I was there! That blessed day in January which will go down in history as the day President Obama declared his ambitious agenda for his second term. It was such a big deal that Beyonce and Jay-Z and the Aussie-posse turned up.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA, 2012

Some people, when on holiday, like to climb mountains, or bask by a beach. It’s pretty well documented (see below) that I just like to drink (wine). Really anywhere. Thus it seemed only fitting in Argentina, what with being anywhere, to go an organised wine tour. How civilized. To become acquainted with the country, taste the fruit of the vine etc…

It was with that, or some more convincing justification that I awkwardly shuffled into what appeared to be some homage to dead animal Argentinian steak house, having just scoffed a mandarin in an attempt to ensure I had some food in my stomach. Let the bourgeois begin!

This tour, however, differed somewhat from a regular “this is this wine” tour in that it was basically run as a press tour. A journalist from an Argentine national paper was in toe, observing how one of her countries tourist attractions was received. So two journalists, one photographer, one sommelier, one publicist and I made a merry gang of wine tasters.

As the first glass was being poured, the photographer interrupted the ritual saying “no, do that again”, so he could get a better shot. Some would say ruining the magic. Some would point to the near over flowing glass. Mmmmm.

At the second, less steaky venue, with the sommelier telling us facts about the wine, some of which I may have even retained briefly, we were told to smell, talk, ENJOY OURSELVES for the camera. And then to do it again. It was around this point that I started to wish I could at least brush my hair. Or have some sort of non-mandarin, non-alcoholic nourishment. There’s also an extent to which I may have slipped a god-sent 3/4 full bottle of white into my bag. You know, next to the Malbec.

Strolling through the gorgeous suburbs of Buenos Aires, now quite jolly, we made our way to the last destination. It was an empty hotel, fully ready to open it’s doors, save for final council approval. It was eerily empty, like a shrine to so much bureaucratic incompetence.

Here we polished off the last of a tasty Pinot Noir and a well decent Malbec. Altitude, grapes, sugar… I think there was mention of those. By this time the tour came to an end and the Argentinian journalist wanted a quote from me on how I enjoyed the tour. I wanted to say good things, I really did. I’m pretty sure what came out was “booze… good… oooh walls spinning” or something equally as elegant.

So next time you’re flicking through the leisure pages of your favourite Argentine national paper, look for the sloshed Australian agreeing intently and ENJOYING HERSELF!

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: KOH SAMET, THAILAND, 2011

Having flirted with and dismissed the Bangkok Shopping Monster which had eaten up and spat back our friends and their Mastercard’s before us, the boys and I, in our very Australian manner, decided that some chilling was in order. Beachside. In style. In aid of this we boarded a markedly unstylish, some might suggest garish, bus out of Bangkok.

As we exited in that painfully slow way that the “many vehicles, small space, no rules” madness allows, we ticked by Bangkok proper, Bangkok state, then just the last dribble of industrial inhabited Bangers. I was left with not much else to do than to listen to Drake and deconstruct his flawed gender politics. That or Thai idol.

However, when our snack deficient bus ride ended, our journey was just beginning. We arrived in a tourist town seemingly having over catered with the tourist trinkets or miscalculated the tourist-to-trinket ratio.

Through many failed attempts and liberal use of that language that consists of acting out questions then directions, we found some nice men who said they’d take us to our

PRIVATE BOAT

yeah, I’ll say it again

private boat.

And lest, on our 100 metre journey toward said private boat, we were to be mistaken as mere plebeians, we were transported on… a trolley type thing. As if we were having a slow motion tour of the surrounding culturally significant monuments, being shouted at like geriatrics.

About our private boat, I will only say this:

Eventually we were steered into a calm cove of a bejungled Thai island. Paradise.

Toes in white sand, a foreign silence with Bangkok still in our hair, sun slowly setting. Couldn’t get any better.

Until we cop sight of the resplendent tropical bungalows we were to call home for the night. If only we were going to be there long enough for me to use all of the matching soaps so I could smell like the sandalwood and frangipani of my room. I meet the boys on our shared patio to squeal in delight and ask whether or not all of this excellence called for a gin and tonic. To which they replied “We already ordered some. They’re bringing them up.” If I had died that second I would have been cool with it.

As we sat on the deck overlooking the calm ocean for dinner, the sunset was actually providing us with custom purple mood lighting. With gin. Mmmmm my happy place.

And sure, this whole blog was an excuse to use ‘resplendent’ in a sentence.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, AUSTRALIA, 2011

Can you say “Impromptu Blue Mountains road trip”? It’s a shitty day and I decide to entertain The Dane with an adventure out of the city. 

This most excellent idea maintained its excellentness until we were, say 100m from my house, when the traffic slowed to a stop. And when I was rendered lame and dare I suggest ball of hormonal rage by awful period pain (yeah, I said it). It turns out driving is far from the preferred foetal position.

With this delightful beginning, and one brief pit stop for painkillers, we carried on through the ‘burbs until we reached the mountains.

Almost instantly, a thick, impenetrable fog descended upon us. And didn’t lift.

Along the way I was certain I could remember a lookout that would have an amazing view. Even in the rain. Yet somehow I picked the wrong town and ended up turning into some dead end suburban street. Unrelatedly, moments later I was curled up in the back seat in necessary foetal position, having given up on touristy goodness or social grace of any kind.

Our goal was the Three Sisters. It would be a nice picture postcard perfect landmark so The Dane could show everyone back home how amazing sunny Australia was.

What he got was fog so thick we couldn’t see 10 metres ahead, the backstreet of some town and a companion who was swinging between “FUCK YOU!” and “I’m sorry” every couple of minutes. Win.

When we finally reached Katoomba to see the Three Sisters we were met with a wall of white. We were RIGHT THERE and couldn’t see shit. I made The Dane take pictures of the postcards and calendars in the gift shop to put on facebook. I was also freezing and being rained on and my shoes were soaked through.

Which worked wonders for my mood swingy charm. It’s around this point that The Dane probably started eyeing off the tourist buses for an alternate ride home.

We decided to get some food and make the most of the day. At the kebab joint The Dane encountered his very first bogan who spoke incessantly. I chose some inedible food and contemplated eating my body weight in chocolate instead.

I remained steadfastly hungry and had heard rumours of a bakery in Leura- so we go to Leura. I had perked up and as we were pulling into the main street I was recounting an (undoubtedly hilarious) anecdote until *smash. I have just crashed into the huge 4x4 behind us. My teeny car has crumpled at the sight. Horrified, we inspect the damage.

I’ve smashed my back-light but there is not even a scratch on the four wheel drive. I’m still dazed when a man comes out of the closest shop and amiably says, “That’s my car.” I fall over myself with apology, offering my details and what not, but the nice man realises I’m worse off than he, perhaps detects a note of my insanity, and he has mercy on me.

His little daughter approaches, and sweetly asks, “What’s going on dad?” to which he responds “this lady has just crashed into my car.” Sigh.

There’s no bakery by the way.

What there is, is a book shop, where in my state, I decide buying myself a book will fix everything; hormones, driving skills, mechanic bills, friendship crises…

But I left my wallet in the car. And The Dane has to pay. Then The Dane’s Danish card gets declined. Then The Dane has to run to the car to fetch my wallet.

So the improvised road trip scores about a 1 out of 10. But I feel some key life lessons were learned; Danes, yeah, it rains in Australia sometimes, my reverse parallel park isn’t what it used to be, and obviously, there is no reason to ever leave Surry Hills.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: BARCELONA, SPAIN, 2011

We had to get up ridiculously early. I think my alarm began with the number 4. Simone’s began with a 3. It is impossible to function in a time that you didn’t know existed.

England is it’s grey, drab, damp and depressing self as we march on to Gatwick airport so that we may escape to the bright sunny climes of Spain. The plan is a sangria fuelled Spanish escapade of fun in the sun.

However, Simone has locked her bag and forgotten the key. And Gatwick airport serves poisonously bad coffee.  And Simone’s phone isn’t working. And we haven’t left England yet. Viva España!

And yet as we arrive in Barcelona, somewhere I’ve wanted to visit forever it is bucketing down rain. Maybe Simone locked the weather in her bag with, like, with all of her other belongings.

The best bit is how there was in fact no system to deal with the natural phenomenon of rain at Barcelona airport- so our bags, locked or otherwise, arrive soaked through.

Oh, it gets better. After searching for a non existent train, we finally found our hostel. Desperate for a lie down, hungry as hell and lugging my heavy, heavy bag up too many stairs, we arrive in our room. Or should I say, cesspit. It looked like all the beds had been slept in and the room was covered in crap. There was actually a layer of grime covering the entire room. Simone’s face lost it’s colour. She doesn’t do mess, let alone, dirtiness.

Trying to remain calm, we decide to lock up our bags, find something to eat and consider our options. My enormous bag didn’t fit into the locker. Please try and visualise the sleep deprived, rained on and caffeine deprivation headachy me shoving, kicking, and leaning on a suitcase to fit it in a too small locker. Like fitting a triangle into a circle.

And that, friends, is how we ended up eating coke and chips in an over priced tourist trap of a café in the rain in Barcelona. We resolve that we will change rooms at all costs and get some of our money back. The conflict avoiders that we are.

About three metres from the gross café I see a dust covered sign “Pension”, having done Tuesday night Spanish for a while, I determine that this place may have rooms available and I suggest we look. We climb up the stairs after the cleaner yells “dos chicas!!!” up to the reception level. I am “muy” hesitant about the amount of stairs there are in this building, and obvious lack of any lift/elevator/teleport and visualise my bag that weighs half my body weight. However, there is a magical, magazine spread, sparkly clean room on display. Love at first motherfucking sight. 

An ancient man leads us to our potential residence. He climbs the stairs. I visualise my enormous suitcase. And he continues to climb and climb and climb. I’m out of breath. And he climbs.

We are on the 7^th floor and we see the perfect room, clean, own bathroom, clean and overlooking the plaza and clean! I’d probably have this room’s babies. 

Now, for the confrontation. We are not practised at this. Step one: collect belongings. Step two: “We are leaving, we want our money back!” Then run.

I’ll save you the description of how we systematically lugged our things up to the 7^th floor paradise.

As the ancient man took an electric saw to the lock on Simone’s bag, the sun came out, lighting up the vibrant plaza below and I enjoyed my first Spanish siesta, it became clear that Barcelona was going to be alright after all.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: MUKONO, UGANDA, 2011

We were somewhere on the road back to Kampala, the crew content with our days on the road. Our celebrity Tracey had to stop for the ATM and I was feeling so nauseous I had to climb my way out of the minivan. Being outside in the hot red dust and the fumes of the highway was distinctly unhelpful.

“Guys, I think I’ve eaten something bad.” I say, unable to shake the feeling that I was going to vomit over everyone.

But I hadn’t eaten anything different to anyone else on the trip what with the beans rice, rice beans combo we’ve been delighting in. Instantly, the photographer asked, “Have you been bitten?” and I had to confess,

 “Yes.”

“You should get a malaria test.” He says. My heart sank. But I clambered back into the van, just wanting to feel better.

So when we arrive in Mukono, I figure it’s better to have the test, which takes ten minutes and costs two dollars, just know for sure.

Tracey, being the sport that she is, comes along and gets the test with me out of solidarity.

The clinic turns out to be a room on the main road, a lacey curtain with “labrotory” hand sewn on the front separating the room from the chaos from outside. But this is Africa.   

I get my finger pricked for the test. Tracey does the same. We get happy snaps. Photographer insists on figuring how they will tell whose blood is whose. I feel shitty but can admire this kind of ridiculous.

When we are back to the clinic for our results, it kind of feels like getting school test scores. I fully expect to be positive, I feel like shit and Tracey should be clear. I could buy the drugs and everyone is fine. End of story.

We walk back past the lacey curtain and the blood pricker says to Tracey, “You, you have some malaria. You are positive.” Our collective jaws drop. No, they’re mixed up, right?

“You” he says, pointing to me, “you have some malaria too.”

What the fuck. My job description is: send Tracey home safe and sound. At this point I’m scoring a D.

Photographer insists on checking the test. Tracey wants to faint. So we sit. Demanding to know what this means. People die from this shit. Our friends, freaked the fuck out, get tests too. Three out of four positive. We are an epidemic.

We need a second opinion.

Back in Kampala, the three girls file into an expensive expat doctors surgery.

“98% of people who think they have malaria don’t have malaria!” he declared. “Mzungus with malaria are a sight to see, they are very, very sick. Anyone that tells you that you have malaria is lying. They don’t even take your medical history.  What are you doing in the country?” The old man bursts in one stream of clipped English accent. Failing to take any medical history.

“We’re filming a documentary with ActionAid.” Tracey replies.

“What are you feral hippies? Commies? Liberals? Jumper wearers?” He so subtley inquires. 

“Something like that.” I respond, attempting not to vomit on his desk, leaning on it to keep me upright.

Tracey is so relieved that she doesn’t have malaria; “Thank god we came to see you, I love you!”

Feeling a significant amount less than love for the fascist I add, “I still feel quite sick.”

He then proceeded to:

1. Bitch generally  about the Africans.

2. Whinge about the price of beer in Australia.

3. Talk about climate change in a favourable way, about how it would benefit the Africans, which is a hangable offense in of itself. Wilful ignorance of established science. Quite the trait to inspire confidence in a doctor.  

4. Say that my malaria tablets would prevent syphilis, chlamydia and gonorrhoea so I’d be ok.

5. Lift up my shirt and tap my stomach whilst gesticulating about the hopeless Africans.

Midway through the list of STD’s he suggested I may or may not have, I ceased putting effort into trying not to vomit all over him.

Who knew that such colonial relics still existed?

When Tracey autocratically ordered me a double gin that night I knew I was going to be ok.

So travellers, beware! Non-malaria is a threat to all of you. Non-malaria can strike at any time. It can cause fainting and visits to prehistoric doctors that make you remember why you are glad feminism happened. It can cause mass panic and is contagious. The latest data indicates that non-malaria is a scourge the world over.

The cure? Quinine. Lots and lots of quinine.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: KAMPALA, UGANDA, 2011

I think its important to begin by saying that I forgot to pack pants. Which means for steamy, damn hot Kampala, I was somewhat inappropriately attired.

Dressed thus, in a thick woollen type skirt I was congratulating myself on potentially my best, maybe only successful haggle of all time with the taxi and arriving to the correct place more or less on time. On Africa time at least.

I was going to watch my new friend play volley ball. Now, normally, I’m not the kind of girl who goes to watch the sporting endeavours of someone I met the night before, but I was new to Kampala, terrified of the roads and had been up since six anyway, so why not?

I arrived at the university, somewhere in Kampala, feeling conspicuous. I walked around looking for the sport fields, when I finally found them, I walked past a little kid who was so distracted by staring at me that he copped a soccer ball to the head.

I finally saw Kodili and her volley ball team on the basketball court. I waved and kind of awkwardly sat on the bench. Why were they standing in lines like that?

Suddenly everyone was waving at me echoing “join us, join us!” I can’t honestly tell you what the f*** I was thinking at that point. I was coming to watch volley ball, but thinking it would be more awkward not to join than grow some ovaries and do it, I went over to Kodili and joined in.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Aerobics!!” Kodili replied.

Look what you’ve done Emily, you could have been in the fucking air conditioning.

But I was committed, if only for how it would make great blog fodder and you know, it wasn’t that hard. If I managed to keep the “YOU ARE DOING THE GRAPEVINE IN UGANDA, COULD THIS BE ANYMORE RIDICULOUS” train of thought out of my head. 

I did though, because I was mesmerised by how all of the African women were not just doing aerobics, they were owning the aerobics. How do you incorporate a full body thingy into a step left, kick twice routine? How did the slightest shuffle incorporate more co-ordination and style that I have garnered in my entire life?

On about the second run through of the entire Venga Boys repertoire I was getting kind of tired. The sun was beating down onto the basketball court and back up my ill-attired legs. Some of the girls decided to continue the routine under the shade of a tree. I actually think my shoes were melting.

An older white guy joined in and thankfully I was now the second least co-ordinated one there.

So, amigos, I will leave Uganda fitter than I arrived. If only I’d been game enough to take pictures of the aerobics. Or to bring a skirt that didn’t hinder my left-hand-touch-right-ankle moves.

Afterwards, when we were all enjoying the shade and the others were about to begin the volleyball (!!!!!) some of us were sitting around, one recovering from heat stroke. There was pointing at me and laughing and local language and I asked Kodili what her friend had said.

When the friend touched my arm and said “I have a daughter as pale as you, but she is yellow, not pink.”

TOKEN CUTE KID

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: SKAGEN, DENMARK, 2011

Skagen is supposed to be pretty. It’s supposed to be a dignified getaway, where the rich, famous and literally, royalty, go to play. It’s the tip-top of Denmark, where you can put your feet in two different seas.

It is the historic home of artists who admired the light and sand dunes and such. It’s where they design those nice watches. There’s even a lighthouse to add to the postcard-ness.

And yet, as we drove in, and the houses were gorgeous and the roads tiny and impractically winding I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong. It was like the houses had a dress code of adorable. The sunset was fitting for all those artists that lived here. I had great company. I even put one foot in each ocean and walked up and down a perfect beach as the sunset. And still the feeling of not quite right remained.

Pizza. Faxe kondi. Red wine. All so right.

But Skagen stunk of fish.

Worse, this town stunk of fish food. I think the fish food or general excrement factory was hovering somewhere above where we were staying for maximum impact. It’s umm, not a smell that adds to the majesty of a place.

We stayed in the very same hotel as all those famous artists. And by doing so were the only ones in our age category, say by, oh, 30 years. Fellow guests that seemed unperturbed by the fish smell. Weird.

They did seem disturbed by me before coffee (maybe I was swearing loudly in English, but still…) and my mate stealing a croissant at breakfast. The look of horror and judgement thrown at him will be ingrained in my memory forever.

So Skagen, you were nice. Now I can say that I did. But thank god you can’t smell pictures.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: LAS VEGAS, USA, 2009

When I woke up on the first morning, this photo was on my camera and I had lost my credit card.

There is no explanation. I guess what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME IN: TAIPEI, TAIWAN, 2009

All my belongings in the world are in an unruly bag. An enormous, unruly bag. I have a two night stopover in Taipei and I have arrived, at 6am, the extent of my plans on a small scrap of paper. On it is an address in Chinese and English- where I am being hosted through a couchsurfing connection.

Alas, an unexpected obstacle, it’s 35 degrees and 700% humidity. I am unwisely in jeans. I need caffeine. Iced. Stat.

And look, it was ungodly early, I was melting and I was in a crazy new mega-city where all the signs looked like this:

I’m not going to pretend that I know how I ever found where I supposed to go. It was with difficulty. But find it I did.

I talked my way into an unfriendly building where my couchsurfing host lived. I am a huge fan of couchsurfing and never had a bad experience. But I was hoping this French guy would just say hi and let me sleep a little. And have a cold, cold shower.

“Hi, I’m Emily” I say, that crucial moment in any couchsurfing exchange when you rock up and hope with every fibre of your being that they acknowledge your existence and remember that you were coming.

Bewildered look. From a girl, no less. I’ve woken her up.

Oh no.

“From couchsurfing” I say, motioning toward my bag. The girl ushers me in and I realise her confusion is English related. So, although it’s been a couple of years, I try French, the only other option I have. And we’re off.

I do get my nap, and thankfully, my cold shower. A couple of hours later we take to the streets of Taipei together, thankfully, she is showing me how to get around. Using my half-ass French and her English, which is emerging, we wander through markets, navigate the amazingbeautifulawesomeshiny metro and see Taipei together. It turns out that my couchsurfing host is an expat who works all the time, and Marie is one of his best mates from home here for a visit. I think we are both glad for the company.

So it is in these bizarre circumstances that my complete lack of research into Taipei goes rewarded.

The metro, the people and everything I can see is talking Chinese, I’m thinking in English, but I speak in my rusty French. The combination of too many hilarious engrish signs, the jet lag, heat and language ennui (see what I did there) turn my brain into a soupy mess. A beef noodle soupy mess.

On my last day Marie and I attempt to get out of the craziness of the city. Taipei is shiny, clean, neat and modern yet bustling, but we want countryside. We want peace.

We find a gorgeous and accessible place with hot springs just outside the city (accessible due to the metro, which yes, I know, I keep mentioning, but, you know, I live in Sydney, I’m gonna worship functioning public transport).

The place we choose is eerily clean, crisp, quiet, lush and green for somewhere so near the city. We wander around, as is our want, chatting in our particular brand of franglais. We decide to wander up a mystery path of said lush greenness. There’s a temple up there. An American nun takes us in, offers us tea and biscuits. Because that’s what nuns do.

Marie, this nun and I end up having one of the most profound conversations of my life. We sit for hours. What is happiness? Who are we really? How did this nun, who used to be a highly paid accountant in LA, end up in a temple on a hill outside of Taipei? Will everything be ok?

As we head home, I am even more dazed than I was before. Marie and I drift off in a haze of Buddhist wisdom when, we are almost hit by a bus. A real, big, speeding, full of people type bus. Such is life. Such is a Taipei stopover. I need a cold shower.