...are the things of nightmares.
I have just applied for a wonderful job as a travel research writer. On the off chance that my potential employer reads this (thank you if you are a potential employer and reading this!), I thought it high time I published another wee travel story.
This one takes place in Botswana in March of 2009. I was camping by the Chobe River, a most spectacular location by the national park where elephants run rampant and warthogs try to nose their way into your tent at night. Baboons won't wait for nightfall, however, and will go to rather extreme measures to procure food from nearby tents. The campsite's facilities ranged in accommodation from the very sparse to the most luxurious. My budget put me in lower class section, which was a short walk away from the fancy parts. There was a glorious pool, bar and restaurant with a magnificent deck overlooking the river, and a boardwalk through the trees to reach my tent. Adorable little monkeys dotted the boardwalk, playing chase with one another and scurrying out of sight as soon as a human walked their way. It was all very quaint, in an African kind of way.
Walking back to my tent to quickly grab my towel and return to the pool, I made my way across the boardwalk and just about walked into a monkey approximately six billion times the size (roughly) of any other monkey I had seen that day. I took a step back and froze. I looked at him. He looked at me. It could have been love, but I don't think that was exactly the look in his eye. I thought about walking back the way I came, then talked myself out of it. Inner monologue proceeded as follows:
"Don't be silly Ernid, this monkey lives in a campsite. He's used to people. All the other monkeys retreat as soon as they hear someone coming. This one looks like he can smell my fear. Just stand tall, keep walking, and he'll clear out."
So stand tall I did. I puffed out my chest in order to look fearless, and quite literally strutted my way forward. The monkey jumped up onto the railing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He must have been convinced that I had right of way. Or perhaps not... Instead of scurrying away, he climbed along the railing in my direction. Turning to face me, he crouched. It looked suspiciously like the position a wild monkey might adopt, were he to pounce on a bypassing human.
I had about .6 of a second to decide on my next move. The first .2 of that second were taken up thus:
"I could take this guy on. I'm bigger than him (just) and surely I would come out on top in a fight."
The remaining .4 of a second thankfully revealed a change of heart:
"This thing has claws, it has teeth, it has rabies... RUN!!!"
And run I did. The thongs I was wearing didn't exactly lend themselves to the amazing burst of speed I so desperately required, and I was cursing my choice of footwear as this creature chased after me. He was screeching and screaming, which I assumed was his way of swearing and banishing me from his hood. I think he must've given up pretty quickly, probably after seeing the super-human speeds I had hitherto never been capable of. The chase only lasted a few seconds, but I ran all the way to my tent and zipped the door tight shut. Phew, that was close!
I was absolutely terrified of walking back to my friends on the other side of the boardwalk, and it took me a good half hour to work up the courage to return, and only after a change of footwear at that. All the cocky bravado of earlier had vanished. I was regaling this tale to my tentmate Ingvild, a lovely girl from Norway who had lived in Ethiopia for three years. She asked me to describe this monkey to her, and gave me that "you're an idiot" look I am only too familiar with. She explained that I was right to run instead of fight, stupid to even consider otherwise, and that this monkey was in fact a baboon, which could have killed me with no strenuous amount of effort. Also, looking him in the eye was a bit of a no-no. Highly territorial animals, I had inadvertently threatened his ownership of the area. Good call.
This self-rescuing princess needs saving from nothing!
(Could possibly use job from generous travel writing types)
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Friday, 23 March 2012
These precious moments...
...are many and close between.
Moving to the western suburbs just shy of a year ago, I had no idea just what flavour the everyday aspects of my life would take on. The lengthy train journeys between home and work are ideal for capitalising on lost sleep, and almost pleasant for the uninterrupted time it allows me to read. The four hours I spend in transit each day are an inconvenience, though not entirely without benefit... provided nobody from the western suburbs is coming to or from the western suburbs. And four hours allows plenty of time for western suburbanites to burst the literary (or sleepy) bubble in which I have cocooned myself.
With regular examples of fighting, screaming, talking to oneself, bad parenting, and religious extremism, it wasn't long before I realised that the giddiest height of sophistication Penrith will ever see is the mullet. Apparently it's quite the 'do' to sport if one lives out here. Swear words abound, and nary a sentence is spoken without including something offensive. Once I saw a girl who had to ask "what does one times two mean?", and while my raucous laughter signalled that I thought it a bit of a silly question, she evidently had the intelligence to tell I found her remark a wee bit stupid. Figuring out what I was laughing at probably took all the accumulated brain power of her twenty-something years.
Hence I was most excited (and only mildly irritated) when a guy interrupted me at the station one day with an enquiry about what I was reading. How I wished I had been reading Kafka, Kundera or Proust. Imagine what joy, what heavenly glory could have unfolded had I been able to discuss classic literature with a fellow commuter! As it was, I was slightly abashed to only have been reading A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French. Not what you'd call a masterpiece, but that was the book in my hands as I tried to conceal my bemusement, and I was excited to discuss it nonetheless. He asked what I was reading, I told him, thinking that perhaps he had read it or harboured a desire to do so.
Oh silly Ernid, ever the foolish optimist!
He did not want to swap quotes, discuss themes or discourse; indeed, he had not read the book. Nor did he want to know much about it. The sentence he used to open our literary foray was "I know ya not s'posed ta judge a book by its cover, but I have, and I reckon that book looks shit". Affronted, I hastily defended my book and said that while it was no Pulitzer Prize winner, it wasn't bad if one was in the mood for a casual and uncomplicated read. He swore a little more, exuding uneducated judgment, before I asked him what kind of book was his cup of tea. I don't know why I was surprised by his answer, indeed I think most fans of Twilight have single figure Intellectual Quotients. But there it was. I stifled my laughter when I realised he was serious. Twilight, the worst of all sins.
But wait, it gets worse.
He hadn't even read Twilight. He was spurting his love of Stephenie Meyer's godawful series by way of comparing her books (which he hadn't read) to my book (which he also hadn't read). He was basing the quality of the Twilight books on the merits of the movies (which was even more surprising to me, as I didn't know the movies had merits. Then again, I've only seen the first one, and felt unqualified to comment. In hindsight, I really needn't have worried.) I suggested he read the books before comparing them to other books, to which he replied that he had started reading the first book and couldn't finish it. I suspect there were too many big words for him. He said he just didn't like reading. I proposed he read a book before telling others their own looked like a poor recommendation.
Naturally, the discussion turned to a war between Twilight and Harry Potter. I felt well armed with my arguments on literary style, character development and morals. Having read all seven Harrys and (unfortunately) those four awful vampire books, my debate was strong. So well formed was my argument that a fellow commuter chimed in and agreed with me. This was an argument I could not lose, even if it was against an idiot! What pride, what joy, my new comrade and I would shut this imbecile up with reasoned argument and educated opinion. He scratched his tattooed neck as I used words too lengthy for his comprehension (such as "wizard" and "cat"), and I revelled in the camaraderie I felt with this other fellow who had taken up my cause.
Apparently, however, I had chosen the wrong team mate for my debate. He promptly threw up all over the train carriage and excused himself from the conversation. Never mind, I at least had an excuse to move to another carriage and away from Captain Twi-hard. But of course he followed me. Then told me the rest of his life story; his loves, his losses, his illegitimate child. He really did. He was excruciating. And all I wanted was to read my book!
I began thinking I shouldn't have brought a book with me in the first place, purely so it would be impossible to interrupt my reading (a sure way to ruin my day). But if I hadn't brought a book at all, this episode never would have taken place. I would've missed out on yet another precious western suburbs moment.
And wouldn't my life be poorer for it.
Moving to the western suburbs just shy of a year ago, I had no idea just what flavour the everyday aspects of my life would take on. The lengthy train journeys between home and work are ideal for capitalising on lost sleep, and almost pleasant for the uninterrupted time it allows me to read. The four hours I spend in transit each day are an inconvenience, though not entirely without benefit... provided nobody from the western suburbs is coming to or from the western suburbs. And four hours allows plenty of time for western suburbanites to burst the literary (or sleepy) bubble in which I have cocooned myself.
With regular examples of fighting, screaming, talking to oneself, bad parenting, and religious extremism, it wasn't long before I realised that the giddiest height of sophistication Penrith will ever see is the mullet. Apparently it's quite the 'do' to sport if one lives out here. Swear words abound, and nary a sentence is spoken without including something offensive. Once I saw a girl who had to ask "what does one times two mean?", and while my raucous laughter signalled that I thought it a bit of a silly question, she evidently had the intelligence to tell I found her remark a wee bit stupid. Figuring out what I was laughing at probably took all the accumulated brain power of her twenty-something years.
Hence I was most excited (and only mildly irritated) when a guy interrupted me at the station one day with an enquiry about what I was reading. How I wished I had been reading Kafka, Kundera or Proust. Imagine what joy, what heavenly glory could have unfolded had I been able to discuss classic literature with a fellow commuter! As it was, I was slightly abashed to only have been reading A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French. Not what you'd call a masterpiece, but that was the book in my hands as I tried to conceal my bemusement, and I was excited to discuss it nonetheless. He asked what I was reading, I told him, thinking that perhaps he had read it or harboured a desire to do so.
Oh silly Ernid, ever the foolish optimist!
He did not want to swap quotes, discuss themes or discourse; indeed, he had not read the book. Nor did he want to know much about it. The sentence he used to open our literary foray was "I know ya not s'posed ta judge a book by its cover, but I have, and I reckon that book looks shit". Affronted, I hastily defended my book and said that while it was no Pulitzer Prize winner, it wasn't bad if one was in the mood for a casual and uncomplicated read. He swore a little more, exuding uneducated judgment, before I asked him what kind of book was his cup of tea. I don't know why I was surprised by his answer, indeed I think most fans of Twilight have single figure Intellectual Quotients. But there it was. I stifled my laughter when I realised he was serious. Twilight, the worst of all sins.
But wait, it gets worse.
He hadn't even read Twilight. He was spurting his love of Stephenie Meyer's godawful series by way of comparing her books (which he hadn't read) to my book (which he also hadn't read). He was basing the quality of the Twilight books on the merits of the movies (which was even more surprising to me, as I didn't know the movies had merits. Then again, I've only seen the first one, and felt unqualified to comment. In hindsight, I really needn't have worried.) I suggested he read the books before comparing them to other books, to which he replied that he had started reading the first book and couldn't finish it. I suspect there were too many big words for him. He said he just didn't like reading. I proposed he read a book before telling others their own looked like a poor recommendation.
Naturally, the discussion turned to a war between Twilight and Harry Potter. I felt well armed with my arguments on literary style, character development and morals. Having read all seven Harrys and (unfortunately) those four awful vampire books, my debate was strong. So well formed was my argument that a fellow commuter chimed in and agreed with me. This was an argument I could not lose, even if it was against an idiot! What pride, what joy, my new comrade and I would shut this imbecile up with reasoned argument and educated opinion. He scratched his tattooed neck as I used words too lengthy for his comprehension (such as "wizard" and "cat"), and I revelled in the camaraderie I felt with this other fellow who had taken up my cause.
Apparently, however, I had chosen the wrong team mate for my debate. He promptly threw up all over the train carriage and excused himself from the conversation. Never mind, I at least had an excuse to move to another carriage and away from Captain Twi-hard. But of course he followed me. Then told me the rest of his life story; his loves, his losses, his illegitimate child. He really did. He was excruciating. And all I wanted was to read my book!
I began thinking I shouldn't have brought a book with me in the first place, purely so it would be impossible to interrupt my reading (a sure way to ruin my day). But if I hadn't brought a book at all, this episode never would have taken place. I would've missed out on yet another precious western suburbs moment.
And wouldn't my life be poorer for it.
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Dr Ernid T. Learnid: the biography
Each time I see a new (auto)biography come out on some B-grade celebrity, I have a feeling a better book dies. Not in the same way as the classics commit suicide each time a young reader opens "Twilight", but a piece of literature dies all the same. And they always have some dull title such as "My Life". At least they could try and be clever, like David Attenborough calling his "Life on Air" in reference to his "Life" series of documentaries, for example "Life in Cold Blood". I am not interested in reading "My Life", whether it's the story of Bart Cummings, Adam Gilchrist, Brett Lee (seriously, what's with the cricketers?), Helen Keller, Bill Clinton, Jane Fonda, Leon Trotsky, Fidel Castro, Serena Williams, Brendan Sheerin (who?), Isadora Duncan or Magic Johnson. Admittedly Helen Keller's life sounded pretty interesting, but at least she had an excuse for an unoriginal title. I would assume that the others were also deaf and blind if they couldn't think of anything better, or that as they are not known for their literary skills, their editors could do better. Calling your memoirs "My Life", while accurate, is unoriginal and doesn't scream "read me". Not to mention there's really no way of trying to convince the reader it might actually be interesting. And some of these peoples' lives just don't sound interesting. Additionally, if I didn't have reason enough not to read Tony Blair's book, the title "A Journey" threw me off completely.
In light of this, I started thinking of what I would call my autobiography. As I have no doubt that nobody anywhere would want to read it, it would need a more creative title than the stories of the lives of others we don't have much curiosity for. Here are some of them:
- Description of a Struggle (Makes me sound like a genius for referencing Kafka, could also boost sales if mistaken for Kafka's work of the same name. Would need to be released after my death to avoid impending law suit)
- You Idiot (One my friend Danni came up with, but I'm not sure she'll ever read this)
- How to Take a Fall (Hints at my enjoyment of Elliott Smith's music, and also the fact that I fell off a building and lived to tell the tale)
- Gathering no Moss (I don't actually like this one, but an elderly gentleman suggested it to me after we swapped stories on a flight home from some far flung country and I don't want him to think I forgot)
- The Tales of Ernid the Bard (Makes me sound like a wonderful writer of folklore, if not a tragic Harry Pot-head)
- Things I Only Told my Mother About Afterwards (Well, that is most things. I'm no idiot. It's pretty much a way of saying "story of my life" without sounding like a total bore)
- Booksmart Devil (Wouldn't you want to read a book written by someone so described?)
- Let's Get out of This Country (Perhaps this should be travel stories, or stories to read while travelling)
- Your New Favourite Book (Everyone in the world would buy it)
- The Very Hungry Caterpillar (It would already have sold a trillion copies)
Now quick, go out and buy it before it sells out! It will certainly beat any book called "My Life".
In light of this, I started thinking of what I would call my autobiography. As I have no doubt that nobody anywhere would want to read it, it would need a more creative title than the stories of the lives of others we don't have much curiosity for. Here are some of them:
- Description of a Struggle (Makes me sound like a genius for referencing Kafka, could also boost sales if mistaken for Kafka's work of the same name. Would need to be released after my death to avoid impending law suit)
- You Idiot (One my friend Danni came up with, but I'm not sure she'll ever read this)
- How to Take a Fall (Hints at my enjoyment of Elliott Smith's music, and also the fact that I fell off a building and lived to tell the tale)
- Gathering no Moss (I don't actually like this one, but an elderly gentleman suggested it to me after we swapped stories on a flight home from some far flung country and I don't want him to think I forgot)
- The Tales of Ernid the Bard (Makes me sound like a wonderful writer of folklore, if not a tragic Harry Pot-head)
- Things I Only Told my Mother About Afterwards (Well, that is most things. I'm no idiot. It's pretty much a way of saying "story of my life" without sounding like a total bore)
- Booksmart Devil (Wouldn't you want to read a book written by someone so described?)
- Let's Get out of This Country (Perhaps this should be travel stories, or stories to read while travelling)
- Your New Favourite Book (Everyone in the world would buy it)
- The Very Hungry Caterpillar (It would already have sold a trillion copies)
Now quick, go out and buy it before it sells out! It will certainly beat any book called "My Life".
Thursday, 23 June 2011
The burdens of being upright
If I were an animal, I think I would be a shark. Slinking around the ocean like the slinkies of the sea. And I do like slinkies. They are a lot like some people I know: pointless and useless, but they bring a smile to my face when I push them down the stairs.
Speaking of being pushed down stairs, a few months ago I had the displeasure of falling off a balcony. After dislocating my jaw, a fracture in my back, and breaking it in three places, and shattering all the bones in one arm, I began thinking I might prefer the life and style of an animal. Or an inanimate object. I soon ruled out the latter, however, after the realisation that the only object I would really like to be is a slinky, and this would not help me greatly when falling off balconies. And as I am already adept at picking myself up uninjured at the bottom of a staircase, my life as a slinky would be somewhat redundant.
But who ever heard of a shark falling off an eight metre high balcony? Not I, rabbi. So shark it will be.
Or at least it would, if the surgeons had asked my opinion before performing life-and-limb-saving surgery. Waking up thirty hours later with little memory of the previous day's events, the question burning on my lips was, naturally, to do with body modification. The nurse looked at me quizzically as my puffy face mumbled...
..."Am I going to get a hook?"
"No sweetie, your arm's still there."
At the time, I was rather pleased to still have four limbs. In fact, I still am. This is the second time in two years I have nearly lost an important appendage, and thanks to Dr Ringo at the hospital in Dar es Salaam and Dr Beard here in Sydney, my left arm and right leg remain, for the most part, in tact. However, thanks to many weeks musing while in hospital and the suggestions of some of my favourite friends, I am beginning to realise that precision surgery is rather limiting itself. I am naturally impressed the doctors managed to tape my body back together, and can't wait to go to the airport and set off metal detectors with my new titanium-enforced body. Nevertheless, I have some suggestions and even blueprints of ideas for further surgery I may need. The doc wants to do a bone graft, though I'm leaning somewhat towards a hook.
Unless you know Harry Potter (which I don't), it's impossible to transfigure your body into a shark (it's true, I looked it up). My dreams of becoming a shark, immune to balcony-related injuries the world over, have been quashed, and I'm looking for the next best thing. I had many theories as to how they patched me up in the hours following The Fall, including a very serious one about skin from my leg being put in my mouth. It was the most logical conclusion as I had a dressing on my leg and a mysterious flap of skin keeping my face together from the bottom lip down. I was seriously impressed, until I found out that skin grafts from leg to lip are just not done. Nevertheless, the nickname "Leg Lip" was inspired, and the term of endearment is sure to last many years to come. Thanks Amzzz.
Amzzz is also insistent that if and when I have a bone graft to my arm, the source bone comes from my butt. Determined that Bum Arm not become a myth like the fabled Leg Lip, I have a good mind to ask my surgeon if this is indeed possible. But the possibilities do not end there. If acquiring a hook is out of the question, I am adamant that the metal in my arm be refashioned in the shape of a gun. If one cannot be surgically modified to reflect a shark, a mock-terrorist might be fun. Or perhaps the metal in my arm could extend and shoot between my fingers, a la Wolverine.
Wolvernid.
Leg Lip, Bum Arm Wolvernid.
Alas, my next visit with the surgeon is five weeks away. My ingenious ideas shall have to wait until then, although I am keen to capitalise on this opportunity to draw up more thorough references. In the meantime, the dentist and his drills eagerly await the fast approaching chance to recreate my winning smile. The crooked grin, I can live with, but the hobo teeth are most unfortunate. No Janey, it does not make me look happy, it makes me look like a bogan. A bogan who can't win a fight. And has to use an infant toothbrush and carry their own supply of straws.
My body's awesome.
Speaking of being pushed down stairs, a few months ago I had the displeasure of falling off a balcony. After dislocating my jaw, a fracture in my back, and breaking it in three places, and shattering all the bones in one arm, I began thinking I might prefer the life and style of an animal. Or an inanimate object. I soon ruled out the latter, however, after the realisation that the only object I would really like to be is a slinky, and this would not help me greatly when falling off balconies. And as I am already adept at picking myself up uninjured at the bottom of a staircase, my life as a slinky would be somewhat redundant.
But who ever heard of a shark falling off an eight metre high balcony? Not I, rabbi. So shark it will be.
Or at least it would, if the surgeons had asked my opinion before performing life-and-limb-saving surgery. Waking up thirty hours later with little memory of the previous day's events, the question burning on my lips was, naturally, to do with body modification. The nurse looked at me quizzically as my puffy face mumbled...
..."Am I going to get a hook?"
"No sweetie, your arm's still there."
At the time, I was rather pleased to still have four limbs. In fact, I still am. This is the second time in two years I have nearly lost an important appendage, and thanks to Dr Ringo at the hospital in Dar es Salaam and Dr Beard here in Sydney, my left arm and right leg remain, for the most part, in tact. However, thanks to many weeks musing while in hospital and the suggestions of some of my favourite friends, I am beginning to realise that precision surgery is rather limiting itself. I am naturally impressed the doctors managed to tape my body back together, and can't wait to go to the airport and set off metal detectors with my new titanium-enforced body. Nevertheless, I have some suggestions and even blueprints of ideas for further surgery I may need. The doc wants to do a bone graft, though I'm leaning somewhat towards a hook.
Unless you know Harry Potter (which I don't), it's impossible to transfigure your body into a shark (it's true, I looked it up). My dreams of becoming a shark, immune to balcony-related injuries the world over, have been quashed, and I'm looking for the next best thing. I had many theories as to how they patched me up in the hours following The Fall, including a very serious one about skin from my leg being put in my mouth. It was the most logical conclusion as I had a dressing on my leg and a mysterious flap of skin keeping my face together from the bottom lip down. I was seriously impressed, until I found out that skin grafts from leg to lip are just not done. Nevertheless, the nickname "Leg Lip" was inspired, and the term of endearment is sure to last many years to come. Thanks Amzzz.
Amzzz is also insistent that if and when I have a bone graft to my arm, the source bone comes from my butt. Determined that Bum Arm not become a myth like the fabled Leg Lip, I have a good mind to ask my surgeon if this is indeed possible. But the possibilities do not end there. If acquiring a hook is out of the question, I am adamant that the metal in my arm be refashioned in the shape of a gun. If one cannot be surgically modified to reflect a shark, a mock-terrorist might be fun. Or perhaps the metal in my arm could extend and shoot between my fingers, a la Wolverine.
Wolvernid.
Leg Lip, Bum Arm Wolvernid.
Alas, my next visit with the surgeon is five weeks away. My ingenious ideas shall have to wait until then, although I am keen to capitalise on this opportunity to draw up more thorough references. In the meantime, the dentist and his drills eagerly await the fast approaching chance to recreate my winning smile. The crooked grin, I can live with, but the hobo teeth are most unfortunate. No Janey, it does not make me look happy, it makes me look like a bogan. A bogan who can't win a fight. And has to use an infant toothbrush and carry their own supply of straws.
My body's awesome.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
I am a travel agent...
....I have advance degrees in accounting, public relations, marketing, business building, computer science, civil engineering, and Swahili.
I am a travel agent....Of course I remember the reservation you booked six years ago, even though you don't have a confirmation number and you think it was made under a last name that begins with a T.
I am a travel agent....It's no problem for me to give you seven connecting non-smoking poolside suites with 2 king beds and 4 rollaways in each, and yes, it is my fault that the hotel does not have a helicopter pad.
I am a travel agent....I speak all languages and have visited Every destination.
I am a travel agent....It's obvious to me when you book your reservation for Friday, you really mean Saturday.
I am a travel agent....My company has entrusted me with financial information, and yet I can't tell you why your hotel bill for March 1989 had a 50p phone call because, of course, you shouldn't have to pay for calls.
I am a travel agent....I understand that Joe Blow Ltd. is a vast empire and will make or break my agency.
I am a travel agent....Yes, I am lying when I say there are no seats left at the lowest price.
I am a travel agent....No, it's not a problem for me to quickly construct several more guest rooms at the hotel you want, and this time I will not forget the helicopter landing pad!
I am a travel agent....I am capable of checking fares for three people, taking five reservations and answering fifteen calls simultaneously.
I am a travel agent....I always know where to find the best vegetarian, kosher, and Mongolian barbecue restaurants.
I am a travel agent....I know exactly what to do in all cities without spending money.
I am a travel agent....I take responsibility for airline food, traffic jams,rental car flat tires, weather, hotel locations, and the national economy.
I am a travel agent....Of course I can fit you into the hotel at the special corporate rate because you are affiliated with the Blackburn North Lawn Bowls club.
I am a travel agent... I am never offended when I spend 10 hours researching a 12 day Europe itinerary only to hear you say you "booked it yourself over the internet and saved £30!" I also never gloat when you call back to say the rate was sold out or that you are stuck in the middle of no where since they cancelled your flight and you cannot "call" your internet provider to be reprotected on another flight.
I am a travel agent... I love when people walk up to me at parties and out of the blue expect me to know the latest airlines fares from Melbourne to Ibiza via Byron Bay, the Maldives and Nairobi "off the top of my head".
I am a travel agent... I love that everyone assumes I get to travel everywhere for free and when I do get to take advantage of a perk people act like it is a sin against nature. If you ask me to get you the rate at! my "travel agent discount" I will kill you.
I am a travel agent...Don't bother telling me any dates or cities since I am a mind reader and already have the reservation in my crystal ball before you can tell me.
I smile, empathise, sympathise, console, cajole, up-sell, down-sell, cross-sell, perform, sing, dance, make coffees and fix the printer.................. I am your travel agent!!
I am a travel agent....Of course I remember the reservation you booked six years ago, even though you don't have a confirmation number and you think it was made under a last name that begins with a T.
I am a travel agent....It's no problem for me to give you seven connecting non-smoking poolside suites with 2 king beds and 4 rollaways in each, and yes, it is my fault that the hotel does not have a helicopter pad.
I am a travel agent....I speak all languages and have visited Every destination.
I am a travel agent....It's obvious to me when you book your reservation for Friday, you really mean Saturday.
I am a travel agent....My company has entrusted me with financial information, and yet I can't tell you why your hotel bill for March 1989 had a 50p phone call because, of course, you shouldn't have to pay for calls.
I am a travel agent....I understand that Joe Blow Ltd. is a vast empire and will make or break my agency.
I am a travel agent....Yes, I am lying when I say there are no seats left at the lowest price.
I am a travel agent....No, it's not a problem for me to quickly construct several more guest rooms at the hotel you want, and this time I will not forget the helicopter landing pad!
I am a travel agent....I am capable of checking fares for three people, taking five reservations and answering fifteen calls simultaneously.
I am a travel agent....I always know where to find the best vegetarian, kosher, and Mongolian barbecue restaurants.
I am a travel agent....I know exactly what to do in all cities without spending money.
I am a travel agent....I take responsibility for airline food, traffic jams,rental car flat tires, weather, hotel locations, and the national economy.
I am a travel agent....Of course I can fit you into the hotel at the special corporate rate because you are affiliated with the Blackburn North Lawn Bowls club.
I am a travel agent... I am never offended when I spend 10 hours researching a 12 day Europe itinerary only to hear you say you "booked it yourself over the internet and saved £30!" I also never gloat when you call back to say the rate was sold out or that you are stuck in the middle of no where since they cancelled your flight and you cannot "call" your internet provider to be reprotected on another flight.
I am a travel agent... I love when people walk up to me at parties and out of the blue expect me to know the latest airlines fares from Melbourne to Ibiza via Byron Bay, the Maldives and Nairobi "off the top of my head".
I am a travel agent... I love that everyone assumes I get to travel everywhere for free and when I do get to take advantage of a perk people act like it is a sin against nature. If you ask me to get you the rate at! my "travel agent discount" I will kill you.
I am a travel agent...Don't bother telling me any dates or cities since I am a mind reader and already have the reservation in my crystal ball before you can tell me.
I smile, empathise, sympathise, console, cajole, up-sell, down-sell, cross-sell, perform, sing, dance, make coffees and fix the printer.................. I am your travel agent!!
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
An Invaluable Source
Check out my contribution to Bolivian travel plugs - an article written by Sasha Arms about prison tourism, for which I was interviewed regarding my San Pedro experience.
http://www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/san-pedro-prison-tours
And you all called me crazy!
http://www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/san-pedro-prison-tours
And you all called me crazy!
Monday, 3 May 2010
Thinks in Rhyme all the Time
If I were a frog, I would write a blog
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.
Fin
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.
Fin
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