Obligatory travel stories
Travel blogs seem to be so popular with the kids these days. When I went overseas last year, I didn’t blog - I just sent out a few group emails to keep people posted. This was pretty much just in case anyone was wondering if I had discovered a lemon flavoured, carbonated beverage to my liking in the USA yet, or if my lower colon had recovered from the Giardia-tainted chicken wrap I ate in a pub on Mayfair, which later resulted in me spending two agonizing days ‘sweating it out’ in Matt Simpson’s bed, spastic colon in hand.
I still can’t believe that I got food poisoning on the most expensive Monopoly street of them all, and not when we ate at a pub on the Angel Islington - clearly the lesser-valued, lighter blue, more poisony Monopoly street.
An even better window into my soul (and large intestine) was my written journal. When I was happy, the red-leather bound pages were neatly written, the handwriting consistent (well, consistently shit, but still… consistent in size) and the reports of the day extremely complimentary. As the days wore on and the gossamer thin layer of my patience wore away around me like so much deodorant at Bangkok airport, the diary become a collection of shallow rants, describing trip highlights like the constantly steam covered, poo-stinking hostel bathroom in Vancouver with no dry surfaces to place ones towel where I was forced to spend a grueling single night. The best part about that bathroom was how I decided at the time that the experience had helped me to understand “exactly what Schappelle Corby was going through” in Balinese prison. Now, I don’t want to look too much in to this, but I may have been just a little homesick, and perhaps the teensiest bit overdramatic at the beginning of the solo leg of my journey.
Clearly, this journal is chock full of riveting stuff.
I honestly can’t believe what I sometimes wrote, considering that through the misty rose-coloured fog goggles of retrospect, I had a wonderful time. There was perhaps ten whole ordinary days out of about seventy, but it seemed only to be the homesickness that was recorded ad nauseum. Consequently, I thought I would post a few diary entries from the trip, solely for the purpose of hanging shit on myself for being such a pissy, 1st world weenus.
I promise that in all future posts, I will write about the good times… and I promise to keep my poo references to a bare minimum.
Sunday, August 29th: San Francisco
“…I’m sick of my own negativity…. I tried to call James before to talk and it didn’t work. Why don’t phone cards have instructions? I wasted 75 cents trying to call, and I have no coins left now.”
“… Alcatraz was actually better than I thought – I had zero expectation.”
“Had lunch at some T.G.I. Fuckwits sourdough bakery on the waterfront, and then caught the tram back to town.”
Monday, September 5th: Vancouver
“Now I’m back at the revolting hostel, after having a shower in the revolting bathrooms. I may not leave the confines of my cell until morning.”
“I don’t know if it’s the lonely talking, but I want to settle down with James and have 19 children and never leave home again”.
“Why am I in the worst hostel room in the worst city on earth?”
Thought I made a pit stop in Ethiopia? I wrote this in VANCOUVER!! What was I thinking?! Of course, I flew to Chicago the next day, and had possibly the most tops week of all the tops weeks there ever did was.
Wednesday, September 15th: New York City
“Slept in Late this morning, in an attempt to cure my tiredness, sore feet, sore knee and unexplained arm rash (did I mention I had the runs as well, dear diary?)”.
“Will need to force my feet into recovery to prepare for Anthony’s endless agenda of walking and touring”
Sunday, September 24th: New York to London
“Watched ‘Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’, ate my plastic meal, and then passed out in my chair.”
“Ben Elton hasn’t been funny for, like 10,000 years. What a cunt.”
Friday, September 30th: Paris
“Is Anthony reading this diary? Is Anthony reading this sentence RIGHT NOW? Hmmmmm…he’s over there on the bed right now, probably thinking I’m fucking insane”
Wednesday, October 5th: Night train to Milan
“Despite Anthony’s unconscious corpse on the next bunk, I felt alone and vulnerable.”
“I assume most people come here to buy expensive, useless shit.”
-o0o-
I’ll leave you with a delightful diary entry from NYC, just in case anyone still wants to be my friend after this window into my world….
Friday, September 16th
“It’s hard to believe how lucky I am sometimes”.
Sure – this may have been in some way related to seeing Christopher ‘Shooter McGavin’ McDonnell ACTUALLY DO THE SHOOTER MCGAVIN FINGER GUNS as he ran backwards up the stairs in a white suit during the encore of Chicago on Broadway – but you get the point.
Lucky be this happy little clam who gets to travel the world just because she wants to, I say….
I still can’t believe that I got food poisoning on the most expensive Monopoly street of them all, and not when we ate at a pub on the Angel Islington - clearly the lesser-valued, lighter blue, more poisony Monopoly street.
An even better window into my soul (and large intestine) was my written journal. When I was happy, the red-leather bound pages were neatly written, the handwriting consistent (well, consistently shit, but still… consistent in size) and the reports of the day extremely complimentary. As the days wore on and the gossamer thin layer of my patience wore away around me like so much deodorant at Bangkok airport, the diary become a collection of shallow rants, describing trip highlights like the constantly steam covered, poo-stinking hostel bathroom in Vancouver with no dry surfaces to place ones towel where I was forced to spend a grueling single night. The best part about that bathroom was how I decided at the time that the experience had helped me to understand “exactly what Schappelle Corby was going through” in Balinese prison. Now, I don’t want to look too much in to this, but I may have been just a little homesick, and perhaps the teensiest bit overdramatic at the beginning of the solo leg of my journey.
Clearly, this journal is chock full of riveting stuff.
I honestly can’t believe what I sometimes wrote, considering that through the misty rose-coloured fog goggles of retrospect, I had a wonderful time. There was perhaps ten whole ordinary days out of about seventy, but it seemed only to be the homesickness that was recorded ad nauseum. Consequently, I thought I would post a few diary entries from the trip, solely for the purpose of hanging shit on myself for being such a pissy, 1st world weenus.
I promise that in all future posts, I will write about the good times… and I promise to keep my poo references to a bare minimum.
Sunday, August 29th: San Francisco
“…I’m sick of my own negativity…. I tried to call James before to talk and it didn’t work. Why don’t phone cards have instructions? I wasted 75 cents trying to call, and I have no coins left now.”
“… Alcatraz was actually better than I thought – I had zero expectation.”
“Had lunch at some T.G.I. Fuckwits sourdough bakery on the waterfront, and then caught the tram back to town.”
Monday, September 5th: Vancouver
“Now I’m back at the revolting hostel, after having a shower in the revolting bathrooms. I may not leave the confines of my cell until morning.”
“I don’t know if it’s the lonely talking, but I want to settle down with James and have 19 children and never leave home again”.
“Why am I in the worst hostel room in the worst city on earth?”
Thought I made a pit stop in Ethiopia? I wrote this in VANCOUVER!! What was I thinking?! Of course, I flew to Chicago the next day, and had possibly the most tops week of all the tops weeks there ever did was.
Wednesday, September 15th: New York City
“Slept in Late this morning, in an attempt to cure my tiredness, sore feet, sore knee and unexplained arm rash (did I mention I had the runs as well, dear diary?)”.
“Will need to force my feet into recovery to prepare for Anthony’s endless agenda of walking and touring”
Sunday, September 24th: New York to London
“Watched ‘Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’, ate my plastic meal, and then passed out in my chair.”
“Ben Elton hasn’t been funny for, like 10,000 years. What a cunt.”
Friday, September 30th: Paris
“Is Anthony reading this diary? Is Anthony reading this sentence RIGHT NOW? Hmmmmm…he’s over there on the bed right now, probably thinking I’m fucking insane”
Wednesday, October 5th: Night train to Milan
“Despite Anthony’s unconscious corpse on the next bunk, I felt alone and vulnerable.”
“I assume most people come here to buy expensive, useless shit.”
-o0o-
I’ll leave you with a delightful diary entry from NYC, just in case anyone still wants to be my friend after this window into my world….
Friday, September 16th
“It’s hard to believe how lucky I am sometimes”.
Sure – this may have been in some way related to seeing Christopher ‘Shooter McGavin’ McDonnell ACTUALLY DO THE SHOOTER MCGAVIN FINGER GUNS as he ran backwards up the stairs in a white suit during the encore of Chicago on Broadway – but you get the point.
Lucky be this happy little clam who gets to travel the world just because she wants to, I say….
Labels: favourite
posted by FEMBOTanist at Monday, May 01, 2006
1 Comments:
Shooter McGavin! You really are very lucky. He rocks.
xox Sarah
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