The Reluctant Honeymooners

I would like to clarify something for the people of New York: Nicole and I are not dating. We are very aware that we are related and she is definitely not my girlfriend. So please, stop asking us if we are together. This is a cheeky cousin’s getaway, stop making us feel so honeymooney.

Let me start with a small example: after a visit to the Museum of Modern Art - which was fantastic -  we popped over to one of the thousand Irish pubs in the city for lunch and a sneaky martini. As our waiter led us to our table he told us we were a very handsome couple. First of all, we are not a couple. Secondly, we are not handsome we are gorgeous. This was just a small mistake made by a friendly but presumptuous waiter. I can accept that. But the sheer frequency of which we were forced to define our relationship got exhausting very quickly and really made us feel like reluctant honeymooners.

On our last night in New York we went to a late-night Comedy Club in the Village. We were, quite rightly, concerned that we would be seated close to the front and be picked on mercilessly by the comedians. Luckily, we were seated behind a pair of twins, who were as expected extensively quizzed about their sexual habits and whether one could feel the other’s pain or pleasure. The twins helped us dodge a bullet there, but when we were waiting outside of the Comedy Cellar, a man tried to get me to buy Nicole a rose. I, as usual, explained that she is my cousin and he quickly responded, “Boy, I never look at my cousin like that. Unless y’all from Missouri then that’s OK.”

Who said matching Yankees outfits were couply?

Even when we went to the Yankees game we were supposedly giving off couple vibes. Maybe it was because I looked really butch in my baseball cap and Derek Jeter shirt. After the game, we popped over to a bar called the Dugout, where all the hard-core Yankees fans were hanging out for a post-game Bud Light. We were at the bar for less than a minute when a local sportsfan spotted our beauty and asked me if Nicole was my girlfriend. We clarified that she was my cousin and then had a quick chat about Crocodile Dundee, because that’s how New Yorkers relate to us folk from down under.  While Nicole is talking to this one guy, his friend leans over to me and says, “You better watch out for your cousin, he got out of prison yesterday. Yeah, he’s a paedophile.” I want to believe that he was joking but you always have to take paedophile threats seriously, so we moved to the other side of the bar. I may not be her boyfriend but I do still have to protect her by exerting my faux-masculinity. Usually that just involves putting on a deeper voice and sitting in the front seat of taxis. Although sometimes it can be a bit intimidating. 

So masc

We were wandering around Midtown and we were stopped by two guys handing out mix-tapes of some of their raps. I fell into the tourist trap and assumed it was actually a free CD but the guy started flattering me by calling me ‘Big Nate’ as he signed the CD and started asking for a little something for him. He then said, “Hey, Big Nate, is this your girl?” And once again, I had to explain that no, this was not my girl. He then whispered to Nicole, “Hey girl, you date black guys?” We ended up giving them 9 bucks for the CDs just so we could get away. 

On a side-note, I did get into a fair bit of trouble in New York due to my lack of knowledge about the hip-hop genre. On our first night I was wearing a Run DMC shirt and thought I was top-shit. We asked the security guard at Rockefeller Centre for directions to the observation deck and before he helped us he decided to quiz me about my supposed love of hip-hop. I tried to play along but Nicole ratted me out by saying, “He doesn’t even know who Run DMC is, he doesn’t even know what they sing.” The security guard was shocked, “How the hell you don’t know who Run DMC is? I suggest you don’t wear that shirt anymore until you go YouTube Run DMC. Hell, you need to go get changed right now. Go back to your hotel and change that shirt, coming in here not knowing who Run DMC is, pfft. What kind of music do you like anyway?”

Put on the spot, all I could think of was MC Hammer or the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. Instead, I told him weakly that I like all kinds of music, but yeah, I think hip hop is “cool.” Another tourist came up to ask for directions and I thought that this would deflect my struggle, but the guard said to him, “Just a minute, do you know who Run DMC is? This guy here is wearing a Run DMC shirt but he doesn’t know who Run DMC is. Unbelievable.” After a few more minutes of humiliation, he shook his head and gave us directions to the observation deck. As we left the building he was still shouting out for me to change my shirt. And then, on the way back to the hostel, a homeless man spotted my shirt and said, “Oh hey Run DMC, we gonna party tonight boy.” Luckily, Nicole didn’t rat me out that time. I haven’t worn the shirt since but I did Wikipedia them as soon as possible.

The troublesome shirt

We were staying at the YMCA, because we heard that it was fun to stay there, and the staff also had their suspicions about our relationship. We were required to flash our key-card to security whenever we entered the building. Usually we would just have one person flash the card for both of us. But one night, the security guard made Nicole dig around in her handbag to show him her card to prove that I wasn’t trying to sneak a girl up into my room. Who would’ve thought the YMCA would be so anal – and not in the Village People sense.

Even the psychic we saw on 46^th Street took a while to figure us out, and you’d think she would at least see the cousin revelation coming. However, I don’t really give her that much credit because her first piece of advice for me was to join the family business. Hands up who can picture me as a builder. Yeah, I didn’t think so.

I mean, maybe we encourage the misconception with the way we take constant couples shots. Perhaps we shouldn’t have taken a romantic carousel ride together in the middle of Central Park. Maybe we shouldn’t have been seen canoodling on the top of Rockefeller Centre?

Fountain frolicking is a regular cousin activity

Horsey, you scared me

However, the honeymoon vibe forced upon us seemed to disappear as soon as we entered the theatre district and I was reunited with my people. In between matinee and evening Broadway shows, we had dinner at Ellen’s Stardust Diner, which was a great restaurant with singing waiters. There, no one assumed that we were dating. We entered the restaurant and our waitress was singing ‘Popular’ as we sat down, and we immediately began to sing-a-long. When she was done, she gave us menus and said to me, “Let me know if you or your clearly platonic friend or relative needs anything.” Ah the theatre crowd just gets me.

The audience of Andrew Rannell’s opening night of Hedwig and the Angry Inch didn’t even blink at Nicole and I. The show is about an East Berlin born transsexual punk rocker played by a male actor who is now married to a Croatian drag queen played by a female actor – so yeah, they could grasp our situation quite easily. This also gave us the freedom to unabashedly flirt with Andrew at the stage door. As he signed our playbills he gave me a wink and I turned a bright shade of Kinky Boots red. Meanwhile, Nicole also gushed at him and rubbed his arm a bit too thoroughly. How pathetic; two cousins fighting over the same unattainable Broadway star. Regardless he must’ve enjoyed the attention as he was more than happy to pose for a blurry photo with us.

The photo is blurry because I was too nervous

Thanks for hosting us New York, you have been incredible. But in the future, if you are going to just assume that we are on our honeymoon or a romantic couple’s retreat, at least swing us a free hotel upgrade. Now, we have arrived in San Francisco, where I don't think we will be encountering the same problem. 

Beware The Tourist Trap

I like to think of myself as a savvy traveller, someone not easily scammed or lured into uneasy situations. But sometimes, you let your guard down for a moment and you unexpectedly find yourself in a tourist trap.

For example, we had just visited the Blue Mosque in Istanbul and were looking for somewhere to eat when a friendly looking local in suit-pants and a crisp white shirt waved at us and said hello. He reminded us that he worked at our hotel and told us he had just finished his shift and was on his way home. I told him we were looking for a restaurant and asked if he had any recommendations. He said he knew just the place and I started following him down the street. This was when the girls finally got my attention by making the cutting hand at the neck gesture. It turns out he wasn’t from our hotel. The staff at our hotel weren’t dressed that nice and he was most likely an organ harvester or serial killer. Or he just couldn’t tell us whiteys apart. Either way, I was this close to falling into another tourist trap.

In Athens we were a little obsessed with finding a restaurant where we could smash plates. There’s something cathartic about smashing some porcelain. I mean, I accidentally smash glasses when I’m drunk all the time, but it’s just not the same. We googled it, and apparently it is now illegal to smash plates  in Greece because flying shards of glass and porcelain are somehow considered “dangerous.”

We were walking under the shadow of the Acropolis and we passed a restaurant advertising plate smashing and live music. This place had tourist trap written all over it but I was enthralled. We went back to our apartment and did some research. The restaurant I had fallen in love with just because of their willingness to let tourists break the law, was ranked the 1,404^th best restaurant in Athens on TripAdvisor. Some of the review titles included “Don’t even think about eating here,” “The WORST restaurant I have EVER been to,” “Avoid this place” and “The WORST restaurant in Athens.” Well screw you TripAdvisor, I thought, we want to smash some plates.

So we disregarded the advice of the internet and fell into a blatant tourist trap, and it was such a cash-cow. For example, we were charged 8 euro for 'complimentary' bread. Our waiter ignored us and instead of taking our order he aggressively flirted with the pre-pubescent girls at the table next to us, trying to convince them to go clubbing with him. When my salad did come, it was literally just a bowl of rocket leaves with a sprinkle of cheese. Worst of all, the wait staff kept floating around handing plates to everyone else to smash but gave none to us. Eventually we asked to do some smashing and he told us it would cost one euro per plate. We were wriggling in the trap, but dammit we wanted to destroy some porcelain, so we ordered a plate each and it felt amazing. 

Maybe the reason we fell into a tourist trap was because we went looking for an outdated cultural stereotype? When we landed in Turkey, we were very keen to experience a traditional Turkish bath, but I wondered if we were about to fall into another tourist trap. Our hotel, which was already looking pretty dodgy, suggested we go to Cemberlitas Hamami just up the road. The bath was populated by a lot of locals, which indicated that this place wasn't just another tourist trap. However, it wasn't very tourist friendly in that we had no idea what was going on and no one was going to help explain it for us. The baths were gender separated so I said goodbye to the girls and was left to figure things out on my own.

Firstly, I was given a tea towel and led towards a changing room with a very see-through glass door that looked out on the reception/waiting area. Why is it that all my holidays end up with me unleashing the kraken on the unsuspecting locals? I then walked through the waiting area in my tea-towel and found myself in a circular room with a marble slab in the middle. I walked around for a bit, trying to see what everyone else was doing but they were just lounging around pouring water over themselves. Eventually, after working up a bit of sweat, an old Turkish guy came up to me and laid me down on the marble slab and started scrubbing my entire body. Initially, I was worried that this experience would be too … erotic … and that something would - how should I say this - unexpectedly come up. But as soon as he started sandpapering my skin off, I knew that I would be spared any unnecessary penile embarrassment. Dude was rough. 

Cemberlitas Hamami

After violently scrubbing off my new tan he tipped a few buckets of cold water over my body, flipped me over on the marble, and started working up a soapy lather. It was not relaxing. He stretched my arms up so with nothing to lean my head on, I tried to levitate my face off of the marble but his strong hands kept slamming me down face-first. I thought he was going to break my nose. Then he flipped me over again and started elbowing my stomach and I seriously regretted coming to the baths after dinner. He then dumped a few more buckets of water over my body and left the room without saying anything, leaving me to feel like an abandoned lover. 

Eventually he came back and lead me to an area outside of the circular room where a bunch of guys in tea-towels were standing around talking in Turkish.  He sat me down near a tap in the wall and left me alone again. He came back with a bottle of shampoo, squeezed a huge amount onto the top of my head and attempted to wash my hair. I was the only man in that hamam without a number two buzz-cut. Long hair for guys must be rare in Turkey because as he was washing my glorious mane, the people standing around me were pissing themselves laughing. I must’ve looked hilarious because he let my soapy fringe fall all the way down to my chin and I could barely breath through the curtain of hair and shampoo. He then started throwing alternating buckets of hot and cold water into my face. It felt a bit like he was trying to get me to tell him state secrets. Getting water-boarded in Istanbul was never on my bucket list but I can tick it off anyway. I pried the hair away from my mouth and nostrils, took a deep breath, and saw the bunch of guys near the door give me a thumbs up. I had become a Turkish hero, a thing of legend: The Boy With The Lady Hair. 

Finally, my favourite type of tourist trap is the kind where they dress you up in costumes and take semi-offensive, culturally-ignorant souvenir photographs. In Santorini, I became a Spartan warrior adored by two beautiful Grecian Goddesses. This one was pretty tourist-trappy because the photographer was drinking a beer, shooting from a hideously low angle, and seemed obsessed with phallic imagery. The Sultan photo shoot in Istanbul, however, was fantastic. Although I was a bit perturbed that the subtext of the photo implies I am wed to both my sister and my cousin.

Nicole (left) and Nicki Minaj (right)

I love a good harem 

OK, I have to admit it: I love tourist traps. Sometimes it's nice to be a tourist and overpay for food and wear silly costumes that stink of other people's BO. Tourist traps make travel interesting. It is lucky that I have come to this realisation, because Nicole and I have arrived in New York and have already been scammed by some savvy locals, but more on that later. For now, I would like to thank Europe for hosting me for two months and for providing me with a lot of laughs, a few hangovers, thousands of photos, and a greater knowledge of thigh-chafing.

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Chafe

It does not escape me that I am very blessed and fortunate to be able to travel around the world with my sister, cousins, and friends. Visiting new places and sharing new experiences with these people has given me the opportunity to learn more about them and how they view the world. One thing that I have learned about my darling sister is that she chafes a lot when travelling. All this walking and sightseeing has taken a toll on poor Jess and her thighs. Before booking this holiday we were worried that there would be friction, but we didn't really expect this kind of friction.

I love my sister almost as much as I love making fun of my sister. I understand that chafing happens, but boy oh boy does she talk about it a lot. There we are in Mykonos finishing a meal at a nice restaurant and Jess jumps up and announces to the table, "I better go to the bathroom before the bill comes and Vaseline my thighs - I need to be nice and slippery to make it up that hill!" Thanks for sharing Jess, now excuse me while I vomit up my moussaka. In case you were wondering, the Vaseline did help. Perhaps she should become the new spokesperson for Vaso because, and this is a direct quote that is burned into my brain, "it has opened up my eyes - and my legs - to a whole new world." O brave new world, that has such Vaseline in it.

To be fair to Jess, we have been doing a lot of walking. In Santorini we hiked to the top of an active volcano and JB struggled. The tour group surged ahead while Jess hung back looking like Frodo trudging up Mount Doom.

If the fate of Middle-Earth were in the hands of my sister, Sauron would have been laughing - "take your bloody ring, I'm heading back for a coke." Meanwhile, I'm no Samwise Gamgee myself and I was not carrying her the rest of the way. The best she could get out of me was a mid-hike neck massage (we think she strained her neck by continuously looking up at the summit and groaning at the remaining distance).

Later that day, we were set to watch the famous Santorini sunset from the town of Oia, known for its blue domed churches with whitewashed walls. The only problem was, we were dropped off at the port and the town was all the way at the top of a huge cliff. Our eccentric tour guide told us, "there are two ways up the mountain, my babies, you can take a donkey ride for 5 euro, or you can walk, which will take about 20 minutes, 40 minutes for the lady in the leopard-print blouse." Jess was reaching for her purse before the guide had even finished her sentence.

But first, she had to get on the donkey....

Jess and the other girls decided to take the donkey ride up the cliff. I was tempted but ultimately I decided to avoid inflicting my bodyweight on a poor donkey and took a stance for the ethical treatment of animals. There were 300 steps to the top of the cliff and I cursed my ethical code with every single step. By the time I reached the top, I was a sweaty mess of curls and limbs but I felt like I had made the right choice. The girls may of had their donkeys but I rode my high-horse all the way to the top.

So Jess chafes and doesn't like hiking, tell us something we don't know. Well, in Scotland, we were lucky enough to have a fun little reunion with some of the Seymour clan who were assembled in Edinburgh to watch Kylie umpire the women's hockey at the Commonwealth Games. While there, I learned that the Seymours like to drink lots of wine. Now that I put it in writing, this doesn't seem like such a revelation either... Anyway, we gathered in a pub in Edinburgh, and as we pushed the tables together to accommodate our large group, the waitress felt a shiver run down her spine. She couldn't quite place it, but she felt a strange sense of fear creep over her flesh. All of a sudden the air felt thick and she thought, some powerful force has entered this place. She wasn't a superstitious person, but she couldn't help but think of the wine cellar and for the first time in months, she worried that they weren't prepared for what was to come...

Trevor ordered drinks for the table, a cider for Jess, and a bottle of wine for the table, better make that two bottles of wine. The waitress returns a short while later to see the wine bottles turned upside down in the ice bucket, empty. She brings another bottle as request. She passes by the table a while later and the bottle is once again upside down in the ice bucket. Strange, she thinks, I could've sworn that I just brought them a fresh bottle. She brings another bottle. It too is turned upside down, empty. She brings another bottle, only for it to meet the same fate. She feels stressed, she tells her boss that she is finishing up early. But she can't leave, she pours herself a pint and she sits at the bar, trying to process the mystery of the empty wine bottles. A girl form the haunted table, one of the daughters, pops up next to her at the bar, she asks the barman for two more bottles of wine. This can't be, she thinks, am I losing my mind? Where does the wine keep going? The daughter receives the two bottles and jokes with the barman that they must be running out of wine by now. The waitress' premonition appears to have become real, she lets out a small scream and she runs from the bar, past the haunted table, and out the door into the streets of Edinburgh. She feels the wind slap her face, and for the first time since she was a little girl, she believes in ghosts.

The Haunted Table

Long story short, we drank a lot of wine with dinner, and then went back to Trevor and Liz's flat for a nightcap, taking an obnoxious amount of street-selfies along the way. It was a lot of fun to be able to catch up with them and we are very proud of Kylie. Sadly, we didn't get to see her umpiring in Glasgow, but we were lucky enough to watch the final of the +75kg Women's Weightlifting, which was awesome and really - pardon the pun - uplifting.

And I would walk 500 miles...

Speaking of ghosts, Nicole, Hayley and I went on an underground ghost tour of Edinburgh, which was often hilarious and only a little bit scary. The tour started with a simple question: where do you find the most ghosts? I guessed a cemetery but was told that that was incorrect. Nicole then asserted that tunnels are the most haunted place on earth. Tunnels. I'm not quite sure what she was thinking with that one. But that wasn't right either. The answer was 'the bar' because that is where the spirits are kept. Ah, so it's going to be that kind of ghost tour.

On our way to Greyfriars Kirkyard, a super old and allegedly haunted cemetery where you can also find Thomas Riddle's grave, our guide stopped to tell us about ancient Scottish torture practices, in particular the 'iron maiden' - an iron cabinet with a spiked interior. We continued walking and Nicole fell in step with the guide to have a little chat. The guide subtly pulled a rubber rat out of her bag and hid it up her sleeve, ready to scare Nicole at just the right moment. Nicole blabbed on oblivious, consistently ruining the setup for the rat prank, much to the guide's frustration...

Guide: Of course, the iron maiden was terrible, but my favourite method of torture was the ra -
Nicole: Have you seen Matilda the Musical?
Guide: Just the movie.
Nicole: Well the iron maiden is just like the chokey.
Guide: Ah yes, the chokey, well my favourite method of torture was the rat -
Nicole: We saw the musical in London, a bit over-rated we thought.
Guide: Oh, well my sister saw it and liked it. But as I said, my most favourite torture was the -
Nicole: We also saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which was great.
Guide: Yes, but my favourite method of torture -
Nicole: Hayley saw it too, it was good right Hayley?
Guide: Yes, yes, yes, but my favourite method of torture was the rats!!

When the moment finally came and the guide threw the rubber rat at Nicole's feet, her squeal was hilarious, but she really made the tour guide work for it. So, Nicole likes to talk a lot, I will file that under things I've learned that were already pretty obvious.

The guide tried her hardest to make the cemetery spooky but The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo was taking place about 50 metres away, so the sound of military bands, bagpipes and cheering really didn't mesh with the scary stories she was telling us. However, bagpipes and kilts are terrifying in their own right.

Managed to capture a photo of a ghost. Or it's just a blurry tombstone. You decide. 

So we didn't see any ghosts, but we did see the Loch Ness Monster! Yes, we were very lucky that Nessie popped up to say hello, considering she hadn't been spotted for well over a year. She even followed us all the way to Greece!

NESSIE!!

Nessie hanging with the girls in Greece

Nessie photobombing our sunset in Santorini

Relaxing in the pool with my mate Nessie

Nessie and Nicole sharing a drink and defying the laws of physics 

So, while travelling throughout Scotland and Greece with my friends and family, I guess I haven't so much learned new things about them as I have enjoyed the things I already suspected about their personalities. Jess will always struggle on an incline, Nicole will always ruin a punchline, and the Seymours will always intimidate the waitstaff, but I love them for it. And Nessie, well, Nessie will always be there for us. 

The London Curse

November 2010. A planned weekend getaway from the Netherlands to London is aborted when our plane is grounded due to excessive fog.

December 2010. A blizzard hits Schiphol. Flights from Amsterdam to London are cancelled and train tracks are frozen over. It takes me two days to reach London.

July 2014. I have booked another flight from Amsterdam to London. I'm nervous. I'm clearly cursed and cannot travel between these two countries. However, the third time was the charm and I arrived successfully in London with only a 20 minute delay. But I'm superstitious. How else will this London Curse manifest itself? 

It may sound surprising, but England is actually the most challenging place I think I have ever backpacked. Apparently we speak the same language but I find Londoners really hard to understand. For example, why are all these people greeting me by asking me if I am "alright?" Do I not look well? Maybe they are startled by the bags under my eyes because we are staying on the loudest street in London. 

Fun fact, there is a rule specified in the UK Ambulance Service Clinical Practice Guidelines (2006) that every ambulance and emergency vehicle sent out between the hours of midnight and 8am must activate their siren and pass directly under the window of the youth hostel on Euston Road. People of London - stop being so accident prone / if you see a crime being committed, try and sort it out amongst yourselves because some of us are trying to sleep. 

The supposedly simple solution would be to just shut the hostel window. Trust me, this has been an over-discussed bone of contention between my travel companions. The problem is that the British Air-Conditioning Industry is practically non-existent. I think because the Brits are only used to five days of Summer a year, they never really bother installing any sweet, sweet AC. For those five days a year, the whole country is a sweatbox. We were there for those five days. 

So there we are in our non-air-conditioned hostel. The nightly dance goes like this: before going to bed, Nicole shuts the window because she knows the constant barrage of emergency vehicles will keep her awake all night. She drifts off to sleep. Jess starts to overheat, she throws the blanket off of her sweaty body and she looks at the window longingly, anticipating that glorious breeze. She makes eye contact with Kat, who is also awake from the heat. Kat gives her a determined nod and with her permission Jess opens the window. As their body-temperature decreases, they fall into a relaxed slumber. An ambulance speeds past and Nicole wakes with a jolt. She can't sleep with all this noise. She shuts the window. Jess starts to overheat and the vicious cycle repeats. The dance continues for the rest of the night, and the next night, and the next, and the next. As far as first world problems go, this one is pretty devastating. 

My engaging, enthralling, companions

So it's little bit sweaty on the tube, big deal right? Cambodia was hotter than this and I survived there for six weeks. But in Asia, you can wear whatever you want. Here in England, they can be a bit snobby. You actually have to wear shoes, and they have to be nice shoes. On our first night together in London, we headed to the 31st floor of The Shard to enjoy some overpriced cocktails and pretend that we're so fancy, you already know. But as we traipsed past the doormen, they warned us that I might not be able to get into the bar because I was wearing canvas shoes. They were the nicest shoes I had. It was either these canvas shoes, thongs, or lesbian joggers. I don't know where 'the Shard' gets off on being so snobby when it sounds like the street-name for a sexual health clinic in Nowra. 

We managed to sneak past the eagle-eyed maitre d' and got to the piano bar, which had an admittedly awesome vibe and view. But man, those drinks were expenny. Aside from charging like a wounded bull for a drink (I feel bad using that expression now, FYI) they added a 'discretionary 13.5% service fee' to the bill. What does that mean? Do they mean it is discretionary because they only mention the fee in very small fine print or is it discretionary because businessmen can take their mistresses for a cocktail and the bar staff won't tweet about it? Anyway, when we left the bar we decided to poke our heads into another restaurant to see the view. That maitre d' demanded a reservation and wouldn't let us have a sticky beak without one because - and I quote - "we are a very classy restaurant and your shoes are offensive to our filthy rich clientele." 

The London Curse didn't stop me from getting into the country but it did stop me from entering London high-society. So I decided to stick with my people: the theatre crowd. We went to see Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on the West End. Both were great productions but we made the mistake of seeing children's shows during school holidays. London school holiday audiences are obnoxiously rowdy. People talked, kids got up to go to the bathroom, parents discussed how their kids should hold it in next time, people took photos, non-native speakers translated the major plot-points for their kids, and because of the previously stated nation-wide lack of air-conditioning, people faffed about with hand fans. It felt like there was one Veruca Salt on stage and about a dozen in the Grand Circle. The theatre is my happy place, and The London Curse tried to take that away from me. 

The Curse reared its ugly head most obtrusively on our day trip to Stonehenge and Bath by conjuring up a storm of traffic. It took us a few more hours than expected to get there, but we made it and I laughed at the idea of the Curse, daring it to try another trick. That would be around the time that my shorts ripped. One moment I am posing in front of the great stone formation and the next thing I know my own personal stones are hanging out of a gaping hole in my pants. We rushed back to the gift shop hoping to buy a pair of shorts but they didn't sell any. They stocked Bort licence plates but no Stonehenge shorts - the Curse works in devious ways. It wasn't until we reached Bath that I was able to buy another pair of boardies and attempt to discretely change into them down a side street. It wasn't a very private moment. To quote a random pedestrian, "Don't be ashamed, mate, we've all been there." 

Before vigorous posing

After vigorous posing 

Well, Curse, you got me, but I survived. And despite your efforts, we managed to do a lot of successful touristing. I have left London a little more superstitious, a little more self-conscious about my footwear, and a little bit more tanned on a patch on my inner thigh. But at the end of a hard day's night, I get by with a little help from my friends, and I find the strength to let it be. 

Abbey Road 

Why Freud Would Love Madrid

I've been in Madrid for almost a month now and I'm beginning to notice that Spain has some serious mummy issues. If any city were to be diagnosed with an oedipus complex, it would be Madrid. There seems to be a deep fascination with breasts and lactation in this city, more so than any other place I've visited. (Side note, Vietnam has a serious case of penis envy).

I first began to notice this oedipal trend during a visit to the world-famous Prado Museum. There seemed to be a fair bit of artwork inspired by breast-milk. For example, this painting depicts a statue of Mary squirting her breast milk into the mouth of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux to prove to him that she is his spiritual mother. Still better than bubbling, am I right?

Alonso Cano, The Miraculous Lactation of Saint Bernard

This painting was enough to give me pause, but not enough to convince me that Spain has an outstanding fascination with lactation. Then I stumbled across another painting by Rubens titled The Origin of the Milky Way. In this painting, Hercules is suckling at the teat of Juno astride a chariot - and yes, I feel really gross for using the word teat - but Hercules bites the nipple and Juno pulls away, spurting her milk out into the universe and creating the Milky Way. All this time, I thought 'milky way' was just a cute name for a galaxy but apparently it is mythological lactate. Think about this the next time you eat a Milky Way chocolate bar, I dare you.

Rubens, The Origin of the Milky Way

Of course, this is fine art, you can't diagnose an entire city with the oedipus complex because of a few paintings based on mythology and religion. I was amused by these painting, but not alarmed. A couple of paintings doesn't mean anything, I thought. And then I remembered that the type of cheese most widely eaten in Spain is packaged in the shape of a boob with a nipple. It is called 'Tetilla cheese' which translates as 'small breast.' Furthermore, Tetilla cheese is colloquially referred to as 'tit cheese.' Tit cheese. I mean, I must be on to something here, right? 

This is some real Dolly Parton style cheese

I thought I was going crazy. I was seeing breasts everywhere - which was new for me. I literally hadn't been this concerned with breasts since I myself was being breastfed. Perhaps I was the one with the oedipus complex and not Madrid? Breastfeeding is natural and beautiful, maybe I was being over-sensitive. 

And then I heard something that tipped me over the edge. Something that made this no longer a conspiracy or a coincidence, but an actual thing. Rumour has it, that there is an underground cafe in Madrid where you can order a coffee made with fresh breast milk. I'm sorry, I know I said in my previous post that I try and say 'yes' to everything while travelling, but there is no way in hell that I am ordering a Lactation Latte. One cappuccino please, hold the lactate, pro favor. 

It's official, if Madrid was a Game of Thrones character, it would be this kid: 

To the Moon Door! 

From bullfights to breast-milk, this country has sure kept things interesting. However, last weekend I was able to temporarily escape this Freudian wonderland and caught an overnight bus to Portugal. 

A word on overnight buses: they are terrible. That was three words. Maybe I need to source an editor for this thing, especially since I just spent 500 words talking about boobs... Anyway, the bus left at 11pm and I was already running on three hours sleep thanks to a classic Madrid mid-week rager, so I was ready for some sleep. Everyone on that bus was so inconsiderate. There were loud talkers, there was a guy shelling nuts, and the woman behind me played with a plastic bag for a solid fifteen minutes. I hated them all. Despite this, I managed to drop in and out of sleep. It wasn't until we had a pit-stop somewhere in the Spanish countryside that shit really went down. 

Towards the back of the bus, a couple was having a fight. I don't know what they were fighting about but the guy was crying and loudly screaming that he wanted to get off the bus. Then two policia boarded the bus and went to the back to sort it out. The police didn't seem to do much because this other traveller turned around and started ranting at the couple to sort out their problems because she had been listening to them fight for 60km and she was over it, officially. I didn't quite understand what was going on but I was loving every minute of it. The fighting couple stayed on the bus, the police left, and I live-tweeted the whole thing because the bus had wifi. Who could possibly sleep with all this low-stakes drama? 

The bus pulled into Lisbon just as the sun was rising and thus began a really long, exhausting, day of sightseeing, festival-going, and catching up with an old friend who had turned into a giant bearded hippie (love you, Tom). We went to the flea market, climbed to the top of the Pantheon, pounded some sangria with his sisters, and went to the beach, all before heading to the music festival. 

No lactating statues in sight 

We caught the most BO-ridden train ever to the festival, which was loaded with the Portuguese equivalent of bogans - and I am coining the phrase 'Pogans' in order to adequately describe them. However, when we got to the festival grounds the mood was awesome and I was really excited. But then Tom, perhaps because he looks like a giant bearded hippie, was refused entry because they said his festival bracelet appeared faulty. After about twenty minutes of arguing, with his sister this close to kicking the security guard in the balls, Tom managed to prove he had legally attended the previous two days of the festival by citing the prices of all the alcohol available on the grounds. That's my boy.

The giant hippie with his feisty sisters

We saw Bastille, Foster the People, Chet Faker, Jungle, and Nicolas Jaar, who were all amazing - I was just so tired. Exhausted. As it turns out, I might not be that well-suited to music festivals. I ended up falling asleep during Foster The People, while standing up in the middle of the mosh pit with a beer in my hand, which miraculously didn't spill. I'm not sure how it was physically possible to doze off but I ended up missing about half of the set. After sleeping through at least six songs, the band started playing the only one I knew - Pumped Up Kicks - and I regained consciousness.

If you look closely in this video, you can almost spot this weary traveller wake-up and rejoin the living with erratic dancing and out-of-tune screaming. Or you can at least get an idea of the crowd I managed to block out in order to have a siesta. You can take the boy out of Spain, but you can't take Spain out of the boy.

A Vegetarian Goes To A Bullfight

I have a policy while travelling that I try and never say the word 'no.' Do you want to go get a drink? Yes. Is one more round of sangria really a good idea? Yes. So it is true that Australians have an unhealthy relationship with alcohol? Yes. These are probably bad examples, but you get my point. When I'm travelling, I don't like to close myself off from new experiences and opportunities. I guess you could call me a 'Yes Man.'

When the question was 'Do you want to come to a traditional Spanish bullfight?' I had a little more trouble answering. I was torn because I knew I would hate it and I didn't really want to financially support animal cruelty. I spoke with Rafa and Carola to get the Spanish opinion on the tradition. They enjoy the bullfights because they fully understand and appreciate the skill and ceremony behind it. For bullfighting aficionados it is considered an art form with deep ties to Spanish heritage and can even be seen as a symbol for Spanish culture. So I decided to approach it with an (attempted) open mind and said 'yes' to seeing a bullfight. 

The opening ceremony part was actually quite enjoyable: a bunch of guys in sequinned outfits twirling pink and yellow capes - fabulous! Throw in a pasodoble and I would have been positively enthralled. 

FIERCE

But then they brought out the bull and teased him with their capes. I don't want to go into too much detail because I find it to be actually really upsetting, but they disorient the bull with their capes and prod his neck muscle with harpoons. They also bring out a blindfolded horse to stir up the bull - which is exactly what happened and the bull gored the horse and tipped it over. Then the matador emerges and does a dance with the bull for about ten minutes before piercing him with a sword. At this point, the crowd goes nuts cheering for the matador and waving white handkerchiefs to signal their approval. The bull slumps to his knees and then one of the banderillas stabs the bull in the head repeatedly util the bull finally dies. The matador then poses for his applause while the bull is dragged out of the arena. 

It was so confronting to watch. In my opinion, I witnessed a cruel, slow torture of a confused animal, who was taunted and killed for entertainment. The 'artistic' side of bullfighting didn't register with me at all. I know that the movements and the processes had some sort of significance to the Spanish audience, but I couldn't stop focussing on the bull's suffering.

I think six fights were scheduled for the day but we left after the third because once you see it, you can't unsee it, and we didn't see any need to see it again, you see? I left feeling pretty depressed but very happy that I don't eat beef. 

I regret having contributed to organised violence against animals as entertainment, however,  my attempt to learn about the tradition and understand the cultural significance of the bullfight means I can now advocate against it without being a hypocrite. I do think the phrase "it's culture" is used as an excuse for numerous cruelties throughout the world and I'm not comfortable with that.

Ultimately, I understand the cultural 'heritage' of bullfighting in Spain, but I absolutely hate it. In my opinion, bullfighting is complete bullshit. Perhaps it wasn't a great idea to base my entire travelling philosophy on a Jim Carrey movie. 

The Spanish Way of Life: Church, Tapas, and Indecent Exposure

After a 30 hour flight, I arrived in Madrid tired and smelly but excited. I was greeted at the airport by Rafa, my Spanish amigo. Within five minutes of being in the country, we were at a local Churreria buying churros for breakfast. This is how I want every adventure to begin: with doughnuts and chocolate.

I am super lucky to be living with the best Spanish family in the world while I am in Madrid. Rafa, Carola, and their four kids have been so amazing and welcoming. They made me feel like part of the family immediately. After our churros breakfast, I even went with them to Sunday mass. The best part about Spanish church - aside from scoring some brownie points with the big guy upstairs, and more importantly, my Nanna - is that after mass, they go and have a few beers and some tapas. This is a great initiative to make church more appealing. After lunch, they also took me for a walking tour of Madrid and we had some more beer and tapas. So basically, it was a full day of eating and drinking - my two favourite things. I could really get used to this Spanish way of life.

Rafa and Jorge

One downside to Madrid life is the fear of being pickpocketed - and as you all know, I have been emotionally and psychologically scarred since my mugging on the booze cruise in Cambodia. Madrid's pickpockets are notorious for preying on tourists on the metro and in crowded areas. However, I have developed a threefold strategy to avoid being targeted. Firstly, I try and look Spanish. I do this by putting my hair up in a bun and embracing the stubble (hard to imagine, I know). Secondly, I try and look like I'm tough, so I bought a Men's Health magazine in español which I pretend to read on the metro. I make sure the cover with the naked werewolf from True Blood faces out so people will think I'm tough by association. Thirdly, when I'm going out I wear really tight jeans where even I have trouble getting my wallet out of my pocket. Ain't nobody getting into my pants. 

On the subject of pants, I went on a pub crawl on Friday night and things got a bit cray. On the first hour of the crawl, there was unlimited sangria, so naturally the rest of the night is fuzzy. I was happy for the night to remain a mystery, unfortunately a photo has surfaced of me mooning the camera. I mean, it's not a bad enough photo to get me fired from the Cronulla Sharks, but still. I usually don't even like taking my shirt off at the beach but here's me with my ass hanging out on the streets of Madrid. Spain has changed me.

Here's the censored / more offensive version

That very night, I was determined to adapt to the Spanish social timetable, as they tend to go out late and party till much later. The metro starts at 6am so my mission was to stay out until then. I succeeded in that regard, but as soon as I got on the train I chucked a Ross Gellar and slept through my stop. When I woke up the train was going in the opposite direction towards where I had just come from. It was a hot mess express. Perhaps I'm not so good at being Spanish after all.

Of course, I'm not here to party - I'm here to learn. I can hear your scoffs from here, but I've actually been taking four hours of Spanish lessons a day. The first morning of class was a bit stressful as I was forced to sit a Spanish test to determine my level. I had to answer 80 multiple choice questions and sit an oral exam even though the only two words I knew were 'amigo' and 'paella.' In the immortal words of Bridget Jones, "oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger." So I answered the 80 questions to the best of my ability, and I think I did alright - everyone knows the correct answer is usually C, anyway. But when I got to my oral exam, the teacher spoke some rapid-fire Spanish, saw the fear in my eyes,  consequently drew a big red X over my test and classified me as a beginner. Um, yeah, I could've told you that.

I'm slowly learning the language and I now understand things like colours, numbers and household furniture. However, I'm finding it really hard to pronounce certain words properly and not sound so Strayan all the time. Whenever I try to roll my R's I end up sounding like a defective lawnmower running over a possum. I just can't do it. It has also been brought to my attention that the squiggly little line above an ñ actually makes a whole lot of difference. Apparently, if you pronounce an ñ the same as you would a normal n, it can radically change the sentence. For example, "how old are you?" can be misheard as "how many anuses do you have?" It feels a bit like this language is setting me up for acute social embarasment. Luckily, my Spanish family are there to steer me away from such faux pas.

In my time away from class, I've been able to do a a bit of sightseeing. Today I took a trip to Toledo, a UNESCO World Heritage site 70km south of Madrid. Toledo is a really pretty, old town with lots of  ornate churches, synagogues and mosques. My only complaint is that the town consists of an intricate network of narrow cobblestone streets, but these really big cars chug through it anyway and cramp it's style. As well as causing congestion, the cars look really stupid, like Austin Powers doing that three-point-turn in Dr Evil's lair.

Bloody Toledo Drivers

The Top of Toledo

In conclusion, when in a new country, don't ask people how many anuses they have, and don't expose yours in public.