peanut butters of the world: the salzburg edition
August 31st, 2010 § 1
In Austria souvenir shops sell a sign that would look great on the mantelpiece in the good room, right next to your beloved yard glass and the portrait of your sadly departed blue ribbon greyhound . The little yellow sign has a picture of a kangaroo, subtitled “Austria – No Kangaroos”.
It really is just as well Austria doesn’t have any kangaroos because they would charge your €50 just to approach the ticket booth to the marsupial show, another €50 to talk to the salesman, who would then cavity search you and charge you €100 for your back row seat.
J-man and I should have fled the country after our first morning here. After arriving early in Vienna, a girl at our hostel recommended we go to a nearby traditional Viennese coffee shop for breakfast. After eating three croissants that magically appeared – unordered – with our coffees and all five (5) bread rolls that came with Joel’s plate of eggs, we felt fat and triumphant. Until we got our bill for €35 ($AUD1,000) which charged us for each roll we ate, each of the croissants we didn’t order, the milk in the tea and just a little extra to cover the waiter’s child support payments. Since then we’ve paid 40 cents for whipped cream that came with a slice of cake, €4 each for a breakfast made up of cold bread rolls and warm milk and we are fighting for a €26 refund from the Austrian rail system after we bought the wrong type of Vienna Card, an all-included transport and sightseeing pass, which has several different types all conveniently titled “The Vienna Card”. Well done, Austria, well done.
But here’s my favourite screw of all: On our first night here in lovely Salzburg we found a cheap Japanese restaurant for dinner. Once inside, the waiter took our drink orders then handed us a menu, which was completely different to the one displayed downstairs and much more expensive. The cheaper one was allegedly the lunch menu. As an act of revenge, we ordered only spring rolls and Miso soup. When our bill came we were pleasantly surprised to find that, with a glass of Coke and a wine, we owed close to €30. Ah, the waiter explained, that glass of wine I poured you? That was a double. It might be different in America, he said, but that’s how we do it here. Oh yeah? Go check if there’s kangaroos in Texas, jerk face.
So, I’ve taken solace in tasting some of the cheaper local delights:
Mmmm, sweet, sweet €2.50 erdnuss creme.
when you’re a stranger
August 21st, 2010 § 0
It’s 11.26am in Krakow, Poland and I have been up since 4am after a 12-hour train ride. I’m seedy, sleepy and have furry teeth, but this is travel baby and it feels real good! Last night, as I was rocked to sleep in the arms of the country’s efficient rail system, I thought about writing a list of the weird things I’ve noticed about Europe.
A list of the weird things I’ve noticed about Europe:
No-one cares if you die: I first noticed this when I made eye contact with a lion at Berlin Zoo. A lion kept in an unfenced enclosure, with a deep moat the only thing protecting me from its powerful jaws and sharp claws. It’s like dudes, have you not seen Born Free? Lions can leap! Then after climbing a massive church tower in Dresden and up into a giant fortress in Konigstein, I noticed the Europeans care not for protective fencing. Jump off if you want and take your enthusiastic, ice-cream-eating husband with you, for all the Germans care. In Poland I also saw someone reverse their car within mere millimetres of an unfenced train platform just as a train sped by. I actually quite like this about Europe. It’s kind of saying if you’re stupid enough to tempt a lion, test gravity or screw up a simple driving manoeuvre, you deserve to die.
Sit where you want, losers: The numbering on train seats across Europe is incredibly confusing. A few times J-man and I have been assured we’ll be sitting next to each other, only to find we’ve been placed in seat 23 and 78. But yep, seat 78 is the window and 23 is the aisle. Well, that just makes perfect sense!
Peron!? Peroff! Same goes for train platform numbering. Sure, your train leaves from platform two but which side of platform two? It’s a game of chance, skill and dumb luck. I’m just glad we didn’t get on that train headed to Elblag, like Joel suggested.
Leopard print is slimming: Many older European ladies like to wear their clothes two sizes too small in the least flattering patterns and materials possible. So what if you’ve had eight children? Treat those animal print tights like sausage skin and squeeze it all in. Then match it with some blonde, teased hair and coral pink lipstick and you are ready to scoff a truckload of Lody or Bacon Butty with all your gal pals.
Dames? Pretty much everywhere in Europe you have to pay to use public toilets, or the good old WC. It’s kind of a cool system because you can mostly be assured the toilets will be clean and fully stocked with paper, soap and the latest edition of Hello! The weird thing is the attendants who take your money are often old men in white lab coats who grunt as you walk in and then watch your every filthy move with a suspicious eye. A few times it’s been a kindly old woman, including one in Gdansk, who had her little table set up with pictures of the grandkids and Jesus and Mary. Why she still believes in god, I don’t know.
Until next time I see something weird…
free for the moment
August 8th, 2010 § 1
One of the most exciting nights of our trip so far was catching an overnight ferry from Harwich in the UK to the Hook of Holland. When I say “ferry” I actually mean liner, complete with restaurants, a casino and an elderly Dutch bartender who cheerfully congratulated me on my pregnancy (gas). J-man and I got all squeal-y when we went into our little cabin with its bunk bed and faux port window. It was a first-time experience and the beginning of a new adventure, so we celebrated on deck – in true Dutch style – with a Heineken. Before our ship even set sail on the mighty seas J-man decided he wanted to do something drastic – shave his head. It was something he’d been considering for a while. So while on international waters, the J-man became a cueball.
peanut butters of the world: the cambridge edition
August 7th, 2010 § 1
Hanging out in Cambridge was like all my travel dreams rolled into one. J-man, my friend T and I wandered through the cobbled, narrow streets catching glimpses of historic, ivy-covered colleges with luscious grounds. We marvelled at all the people riding retro bikes. We went punting on the River Cam with a charming tour guide who cracked jokes about Australia’s convict past (”You Aussies keep your fingers to yourselves”), recent sporting failures (”Cricket…something something … Rugby something, also”) and tourist attractions (”You know that scene in Harry Potter where he learns to fly? That wasn’t filmed here”). We reclined on the narrow wooden boat sipping ciders, looking at the classic English landscapes and feeling alive.
But all of that was shattered by something I shall now refer to as King Intef’s curse on the flesh-coloured underpants. I wore those beauties again on my trip to Cambridge because I was wearing a vaguely sheerish dress and thought I might distract the scholars from their studies if I wore my fetching neon green ones. Anyway, the day went very smoothly until I went to the gals’ room in an old pub. Just after I sat down a woman burst in on me and screamed. The toilet stall was very long and wide and there was nothing I could do to slam the door, so we just kind of looked at each other in sheer terror – me with my flesh-coloured underpants around my knees, her dignified in a matching linen outfit. After she shut the door, I tried desperately to secure the lock, pants down, only to be burst in on seconds later by a teenage girl, who also screamed.
After urgently ushering T and J-man out of the pub I told them that was it. The Cambridge dream was over. Luckily T knew exactly how to mend my broken spirit – with fudge! Peanut butter and chocolate fudge! I haven’t actually had any peanut butter while in the UK because it seems the Brits love berry jams and Marmite on their toast and the spread of the gods is reserved solely for sweets and fudge.
Observe:
I’ll admit this looks like something you might find if you were a plumber. But actually, it was a delicious specimen from The Fudge Kitchen in Cambridge. Also known as the happiest place on Earth, second to bed.
Peanut butter fudge cures all ills. Except travel hair and face disease.
(Hello! I’m actually writing this from Germany (see: öööäää), weeks after leaving the UK. I’ve also since been to Holland, where internet was mostly nonexistent. Hopefully now I’m in the land of the schnitzel I’ll be able to update more. Sheesh!)
a fella lookin’ dapper and he’s sittin’ with a slapper
July 16th, 2010 § 1
I’m sitting writing this mere hours after exposing myself before the coffin of King Intef. As I admired the intricate gold decorations on his ancient tomb at the British Museum this morning, I saw a little London school boy glance at my crotch in horror. My fly was completely undone and because I’m wearing freshly washed, skinny tight black jeans it meant the zip was gaping like a laughing mouth, revealing my sensible flesh-coloured underpants. Flesh-coloured underpants which have lost a little of their elasticity and opaqueness. Excellent. That kid was more scarred by me than by dudes who have been dead for thousands of years. And poor King Intef! Although, he did live during an age where women used cow poop contraceptives, so he’s probably experienced worse.
I couldn’t let that one go to the keeper before doing a wrap up of our time in Thailand. So, Thailand! The one country where there were signs reminding me to keep my modesty in check. Here are some highlights of our adventures in Koh Samui, July 2010.
Partying like it’s 1979
As you can tell, J-man was quite popular with the locals. I really admired him, he learnt lots of Thai phrases and delighted everyone. It would be mean of me to mention that he accidentally inserted the word ”curry” into many phrases which didn’t actually include that word, so I won’t say anything about that. This photo was taken on our last night, which was probably our best night on Koh Samui.
After a pretty quiet day relaxing by the pool, we walked up the beach to find somewhere to eat and saw that our resort was hosting a beach barbecue, complete with live entertainment. We gorged ourselves at a buffet which included crayfish, crab, lobster, massive prawns, Asian salads and kebabs. Just as I was pulling the head off a giant prawn after going back for thirds (yep, you read that right), some of the lovely ladies pictured pulled J-man and I up to dance. J-man attempted a white man hula dance with one of the girls, while my pretty partner avoided looking at my face and touching my hands which I know were both covered in a thick film of seafood debris.
But I did manage to find myself a new husband. One with fire-twirling skills! Here’s our wedding photo (check out those abber dabbers!):
We also enjoyed the smooth sounds of the resident musicians – two middle-aged dudes named Val and Candi who played covers of old people’s songs, much to the delight of the resort’s guests who were all … super old.
Turns out ol’ Val and Candi were also world-class salesmen and we ended up with a copy of their 2005 smash-hit album. Seriously the best Thai souvenir we could have asked for.
2. Tracing the footsteps of Leonardo DiCaprio:
Pretty much everywhere I’ve been in Asia (which sounds like I’m a seasoned traveller. I’ve only spent two weeks in Vietnam and ten days in Thailand), someone has told me it’s exactly where The Beach was filmed. You know, that awesome movie where Leo kills things with his own hands. Or, as I’ll always remember it, the movie with the mild sex scene I silently endured with my mum and our timid Japanese exchange student. Anyway, we were told we were visiting the Lagoon featured in The Beach, which upon further research turned out to be the inspiration for the lagoon in the book. But I still liked to think I had a slight chance of making out with Leo on our trip to neighbouring island Ko Toa.
This was one stop on a boat tour of Ang Thong National Marine Park. We leisurely snorkeled and swam, but to get to the lagoon we had to climb a million stairs in crazy-stupid humidity and I almost died. No really, look at my face here. Hello, sweaty:
3. Doing semi-Thai things:
I say “semi” because it was hard to do anything really authentic on Koh Samui, which mostly caters to cashed-up bogans on their holiday of a lifetime. And it’s not like we did our bit, staying in a resort and all, but we tried.
We visited food markets, ate from street stalls, ate at places that made real stomach-busting Thai food, rode around in the famous no-meter metered taxis and watched an impromptu soccer match between some local men and tourists.
Weirdest sign: “No weapon, no food, no pets, no smoking, no sex” – displayed in our bus to the airport.
Cutest Thai to English translation:J-man and I were constantly reminded of how lame we are only being able to speak English and getting by on the hope everyone else does as well. We admired Thai people for their ability to speak not only English, but French, Dutch and German as well. We did, however, come across some awesome signs and notes in our hotel. The list of DVDs we perused some nights listed movies starring actors “Hilaly Swank”, “Kate Wensak” and “Lewanwado Dicaprio”. But by far, the best was the description of the movie Up In the Air as “relationship felike”.
Funniest quote: “The Jackfruit is like a nice lady, the durian is like a yuck man” – A local recommending fruits we should and shouldn’t try.
Holler!
peanut butters of the world: the thailand edition
July 11th, 2010 § 1
After almost a week in Thailand you might expect me to write just a little something about our adventures.
Maybe you’d want to know about our arduous pastimes:
Perhaps you’d like to see a little of Thailand’s hideous, nay, disgusting wilderness:
I suppose I could write about boring things like speedboat rides and snorkeling in the Ang Thong National Marine Park:
Or I guess I could describe swimming off a nearly deserted island (if you ignore the swarms of sweaty, plump fellow tourists):
But instead, I bring you the first installment of what I hope will be an extensive, in depth investigation into (dramatic pause) Peanut Butters of the World. Holler!
Joel and I decided to take a luxurious holiday to kick off our six month overseas trip. After spending a bunch of time being thrifty, saving up and depriving ourselves of lots of things, we wanted to splurge. So, I don’t feel too guilty saying one of my favourite parts of our Thailand trip is breakfast. Every morning we head downstairs for a buffet breakfast, which includes a parade of fruit, French toast, pancakes, pastries, donuts, fried potato (!!), bacon, eggs, omelettes, cheese, yoghurt and lots of different types of bread to toast. It took me a couple of days to try the peanut butter here, because I was too busy dancing on tables eating donuts off every finger between mouthfuls of greasy, crispy potato and fatty bacon. This actually isn’t far from the truth for some of our fellow guests – we’ve seen a grown man smearing Nutella on a chocolate donut and a woman getting a plateful of chocolate croissants, donuts and danishes and taking a tub of Nutella with her to her table.
When I finally had peanut butter on toast, I was a touch disappointed.
The peanut butter here is called Skippy. I couldn’t read a lot of the label, except that it’s imported from the US and is milked from a kangaroo. It was actually a lot like most of the food we’ve tried here in that it was quite mild, which I suspect is an attempt not to offend any Western tastes. It was smooth, stuck to the roof of my mouth and was creamier than the peanut butter I usually eat. The one thing it was really missing was the actual taste of peanuts. And that, to me, is the ultimate offence. Until next time …
holy phut, bo phut!
July 6th, 2010 § 0
J-man and I have ended up at a resort where many people seem to be taking their second honeymoon or celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. If I were any other person, I’m sure I’d be disappointed. But hanging with old people means quiet sleeping time, polite greetings in the hallways and feeling superior because my body is not yet on the great journey south. I get to do a lot of the latter because the old women staying here – they seem to be mostly European – still rock out poolside in their high cut, sometimes even string, bikinis.
It’s our second real day on Koh Samui and it feels a lot better than it did yesterday. We were in for a small rude shock when we realised it was a little more expensive here than we anticipated. We choked on our second rate food from the pool bar after handing over $30 for a burger, which came with a weird stale bread stick, and some beers. I mean $30! C’mon Third World let me take advantage of you, isn’t that the sole reason you exist? Luckily, my fat Western expectations were met once we left the compound and went across the road for $1 beers. That’s more like it! Now, fan me with your life savings, peel me a bunch of grapes with your eyelashes and hire a tame elephant to mix my cocktails.
The best part of Thailand so far is doing it with J-man. That came out wrong. Yes, there was that key party with the German family, which I won’t write about here, but I mean travelling with J-man. Having spent a very small amount of time in Asia, I know that smiling politely and saying “no thanks” is the best way to get rid of hawkers. But Joel, being the kind soul he is, will talk to them, hear what they have to say, consider their offer carefully before telling them a lie, like “we are late to meet friends” or “we’re just off to get some bottled water!”
While we’re here I’d like to: snorkel, see the Big Bhudda, look at the lude Grandmother and Grandfather rocks, ride a scooter, adopt a gibbon and get my nails done ghetto fabulous style.
i don’t how i’m gonna tell you, i can’t play with you no more
June 28th, 2010 § 4
Yesterday, J-man and I casually closed the door on the little yellow apartment that has been our home for the last three years. We talked about how strangely OK we felt about it. Maybe it was because we’d spent the last couple of weeks packing our things, double-checking we hadn’t kindly left behind any pubes for the new tenants and scrubbed melted cheese off unexpected surfaces. Maybe we were just ready to be done with the damn thing. Really, we’d been thinking about leaving for over a year and we knew the break-up was coming. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t love you sunny, little number eight.
Here are some things I will always remember about our first apartment together:
- On one of our first nights, I was still shell-shocked about living in the city and having a job and having a serious relationship. J-man, in his eternally positive and hopeful way, tried to cheer me up by cooking dinner. I can’t remember what the whole meal was, but it included hash browns. As J-man proudly served it up, I took one bite and declared “This tastes like oven cleaner” and burst into tears. Why he ended up proposing, I’ll never understand.
- Our unfriendly neighbours. I have a bit of a penchant for dresses about four sizes too big, which I wear with a belt around my waist. One day soon after we’d moved in, I walked up the stairs as a neighbour and his girlfriend walked down. The boyfriend and I exchanged cheery ’hellos’ while the girlfriend ignored me. As I unlocked my door, she said loudly: “She looks pregnant in that dress”.
- Our yellow couch. It was in a perfect, sunny position next to glass doors and was the perfect spot for reading, watching telly and making whoo- nevermind. Unfortunately we didn’t really have room for a dining table so it was also where we ate our dinner. It ended up more of a beige colour with tomato sauce and chocolate splatters as well as mysterious head patches. Gross.
- Crows Nest, Neutral Bay and Cremorne really became our stomping grounds. We’ll never have enough money to live there properly again but it really is a nice part of Sydney. Water views, awesome pubs, a historic cinema, green parks, good bookshops, cafes and heaps of purebred dog owners. Plus the weird Hare Krishna place that smelt alternately of spicy vegetarian cooking and wizz.
- Stir Crazy. My favourite place to eat in the whole world. For a little while it was our Friday hangout, until we started saving hardcore for our trip. The curry puffs are to die for and don’t even get me started on the fish cakes, baby.
- Cruddy appliances. Our first washing machine didn’t take in water, so we had to fill it with buckets and constantly re-start the bastard. One load of washing would take three hours. Our oven wasn’t fanforced so everything, no matter what, would end up slightly burnt on the bottom. I’m a good cook, I sweeeear!
- Beers in the park. Quite a few times, J-man and I would lie in a particular part of the park that’s really close to the freeway but has a view of Sydney Harbour. You could close your eyes pretend the woosh of the cars was actually the ocean. I always felt content lying there, half-tipsy, looking at all the other people in the world.
- The 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208 buses. One stand out memory is catching a bus into the city one weekend morning with J-man. As we got on, a younger looking guy asked me where Wynyard was. As I tried to explain, he asked me to sit down across from him and talk. I could immediately tell he was a Christian - something about the glint in his eyes. At first I thought he was trying to spread the good word, but it soon became obvious he was trying to hit on me, in that awkward way Christian boys have, as J-man looked on in bemusement. Conclusion? Christians are weird homewreckers.
- The time(s) J-man defrosted chicken breasts on top of the water heater. I have a life-long fear of getting Salmonella poisoning. I don’t know why really, it just sounds awful so I’m always cautious about chicken. In my opinion, J-man has always had some pretty suspect ways of cooking with chicken, but he used to work at KFC and declares himself an expert. One night, mum came to stay and my sisters came over for dinner. When I arrived home, there was a terrible smell wafting around the whole flat. I thought maybe someone farted or had just used the bathroom and, being senstive about that issue myself, decided just to ignore it and subtley open a window. As the night progressed, the smell turned from bad fart to bad poo to bad corpse-decomposing-after-violent-death-at-the-hands-of-a-deranged-serial-killer. When mum went to use the shower, I suggested she give it a few moments because obviously J-man was having some pretty serious butt issues. I don’t know what made me think of it but I looked towards the water heater and noticed a package of chicken sitting on top. We had planned to have a chicken dish the night before but had decided to go out instead. And, even though I constantly pester him to be careful with chicken, J-man obviously didn’t think that ruled out defrosting it on the heater. By the way mum looked at both of us that night, I knew we lost a couple of points. It was shameful, embarrassing and foul. And a couple of months later, J-man did it again.
- Other random flashbacks: dust bunnies, carpet stains, brown hot water, succulent pot plants, uncomfortable bed, dead other plants, our cactus Admiral Fitzwallace, bad internet, Doritos, Crust pizza, spooning, weevil disaster, love.
you’re finally sixteen
June 6th, 2010 § 0
Recently I read this. I thought I’d write a letter to my 16-year-old self because I’ve been thinking a lot about her recently. At that time I wasn’t known as Steve or Stevie. I was Stephie G in the grand tradition of Ali G a’ight?
Dear Stephie G,
You’re the smartest person I know. Nice work getting rid of that bitchy friend who stood by and laughed as horrible things happened to you. Also, thanks for ditching the stoner crowd. Imagine how different things could have been – you could have an accidental kid, a bad dye job and an addiction to social security by now!
All your hard work will pay off. All the note-taking, day-long study sessions and melt downs over Ancient Rome will lead to greater things. Things like an amazing three years at uni and a pretty great job. It will give you drive and willpower to get anything you want, like that pretty reluctant guy you will meet in 2004. Don’t worry, you will crush him with your incessant text messages and eventually force him to marry you.
Thanks for being smart with your check-out chick money. Earning so little taught you never to buy designer handbags or shoes or colourful cocktails. Instead, over the years, you op-shopped and drank beer and packed your own lunch. And now, sister, you’re about to blow your savings and explore the world. Holy batman balls!
Love, Stevie.
watching the clock
May 12th, 2010 § 1
Lately I’ve been waiting for life to begin – again.
Way back in 2006 I had just finished uni, moved out of my flat with the J-man and into a house with friends for a couple of months. I had a trip to Vietnam with my cousin Sophie planned for January 2007 and, determined to pay for the whole thing myself, I had to save up a bunch of cash. My housemates were often out of town so I saved money by buying a loaf of bread and a jar of vegemite, which would last me for a weeks’ worth of lunches and dinners. Needless to say I got thin, unhappy and a fairly stabby. I felt like every day I spent behind a checkout in that small country town was a waste and I was just waiting for life to begin.
And then I went and had an adventure, which included many sexy sleeper trains:
The thing that was extra hard about that time was what J-man refers to as “the dark times”. Just about every summer we spent apart at uni, things between us would get weird. It was, I think I realise now, me freaking the bejesus out about the fact I’d found my one true love at the tender age of 17.
So the extra sweet thing about finding myself in the same spot now – saving for a trip by depriving myself of a social life, food and clothes – is that this time I get to wait for our lives to begin. I think this adventure is going to be so amazing. And I can’t wait for it to look like this:
