Learning About Me

Ejo #105 – Drunk In….. Rome

Roma!  You might be surprised to learn that even though I’ve been to Italy eight times in my life, I’ve never been to Rome before.  I figured it was time, so David and I booked a three night stay at the end of our Sicily sojourn.  And I’m SO glad we did.  The moment we hit the streets, eyes wide in wonder, I fell in love.  The vibe, the architecture, the people, the opera floating into my ears from an open window down a cobblestoned alleyway.  It was such a delight to discover that Rome wasn’t going to be a huge let-down.  That it really is as wonderful as everyone says it is.  Naturally, we hit the ground running, already slightly tipsy from our flight from Sicily.  Surely you’d be disappointed with anything less.

 

WELCOME PICK UP

Taxi rides from Fiumicino Airport into the centre of Rome cost a flat fee of €48.  So, check out this cool life hack – for the exact same price, you can get a chauffeur-driven Mercedes to whisk you into town instead.  All you have to do is book it in advance and the driver will meet you and escort you into a luxurious, air-conditioned vehicle.  No queueing in line, no smelly cab, no confusion about where your Airbnb is located.  None of that shit.  This one’s a must do if you’re travelling to Rome.

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Better than a taxi, any day of the week.

 

VICOLOFT APARTMENT

We normally stay in Airbnb accommodation when we travel.  This time was no different, but this particular apartment was also available on other sites, and I have to say that I’m getting a little peeved with Airbnb’s extortionate service charges – so if I can get the same place for €70 less why the hell wouldn’t I?  We stayed in Vicoloft, an awesome apartment managed by the very lovely Alessandro, located in wonderful Trastevere.  This beautiful, cobblestoned neighbourhood is situated across the Tiber River, offering the best of both worlds – it’s walking distance to most of Rome’s incredible attractions but also a nice escape from the tourist hoardes.  Even better, this part of town rocks a great vibe every single night of the week.  I tell you what, Romans sure do love to party!!!  Our apartment was located in a particularly lively part of town, with local revellers going strong into the wee hours.  Luckily the windows are double (maybe even triple) glazed, which means that when you’re ready for bed, the place is as quiet as a tomb, despite the masses downstairs partying like it’s 1999.

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Crisp, clean sheets.  And art.  Minimal perfection.

INFO:
Vicolo De’ Cinque 16, Rome
CLICK FOR MAP

 

PIMM’S GOOD

It’s a bit of an understatement to say that Aperol Spritzes are ubiquitous in Rome.  They are literally everywhere.  And you can bet your bottom dollar we guzzled plenty of them during our three day stay, eschewing the tradition of having them just before dinner.  Hey, traditions are made to be broken.

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There’s a charming tradition in Italy called aperitivo, during which you buy a pre-dinner drink and they bring you free snacks to whet your appetite.  How civilised.

 

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We had these Spritzes during a power outage in our ‘hood – this bar had a generator, and we were lucky to squeeze these in before they ran out of ice.

 

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What better way to celebrate success at the shops than with an enormous Aperol Spritz.

 

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Pimm’s Good Bar was my favourite.  First we ordered espressos (espressi??).  When they came out we ordered Spritzes and the waiter high fived us.  It was 11am.

 

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The waiter wanted to join us in a Spritz – you could see it in his eyes.

INFO:
Via di Santa Dorotea, 8, 00153
1000-0200
CLICK FOR MAP

 

 

MR. BROWN

We stumbled across this wonderful little bar, a couple of steps from our place, and decided to give it a go even though it had just opened and was totally empty.  The old dude smoking on the bench outside rushed in to take our orders and promptly made it very clear that he was only bar-sitting until his son, the owner, turned up.  But he was still more than happy to make us a drink.  How fucking cool is that.  We ordered negronis and then helped him to make them when he pretended he didn’t know how.  And you know what?  It was the best damn negroni I’ve ever had.  Listen kids, when I travel and when I drink, my absolute favourite experiences are in places like this.  I will go to five star hotel cocktail bars but they’re kinda same-same the world over.  When you want to go deep into a city or a neighbourhood, then these are the kinds of places where you’ll meet locals.  Where you talk to the owner, and watch them go about the day to day business of running a small bar.  I live for places like this.  This whole “Drunk In….” series exists because of places like this.  So, next time you travel why don’t you look for the seediest bar you can find, support a local business and have a fucking good time.

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This bar was literally five doors down from our apartment and ended up being our absolutely favourite haunt.  By the time we left three days later the owner was hugging us and giving us free shots.

 

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I know I might come across like a fancy girl, but I love nothing more than a dingy bar with a cool bartender making me tasty drinks.

 

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The Porno shot, in case you were wondering, is Mr. Brown’s home made concoction.  It’s a little sweet, a little spicy and designed to encourage more drinking.  Oh, and at €1 a pop, they’re very fucking dangerous!  Suffice to say that five Porno shots gave me the worst hangover of our holiday.

 

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The infamous Porno shot.  The picture’s a little fuzzy, because so was I.

 

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Dad was fucken awesome, chatting to us in broken English and free-pouring the tastiest damn Negroni’s we had on the whole trip.  Total highlight.

 

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During the day the bar was empty, and we had the owner, his feisty girlfriend, and his Dad to ourselves.  At night it was a totally different story.   The place was totally packed every night.

INFO:
Vicolo de’ Cinque, 29, 00153
1700-0200
CLICK FOR MAP

 

SUPPLIZIO

Suppli are the perfect snack.  So, what’s suppli, you ask?  Well, my friends, suppli are deep-fried balls of rice – kinda like arancini, but also kinda not.  Firstly arancini is Sicilian and suppli is Roman.  Secondly arancini are huge and suppli are bite size.  They’re also delicious and made in an assortment of flavours and fillings, which means they’re the perfect mid-afternoon snack to wash down with a cold beer.

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The Classic suppli – rice, chicken giblets, tomatoes, mozzarella and Parmesan.

 

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Cacio e pepe suppli – rice, Pecorino Romano, mozzarella and black pepper.  Mmmmm!

INFO:
Via dei Banchi Vecchi, 143, 00186
1130-1600, 1630-2130
Closed on Sundays
CLICK FOR MAP

 

EL MOJITARO BAR 

As you know, strong coffee is a stalwart companion to any drunken shenanigans.  And as you’d expect, Rome has some of the best, and some of the strongest coffee around.  We didn’t have a single bad cup of the stuff, but I do think that the reason for that was that we stuck to espressos rather than milkier concoctions.  My suggestion is to walk into any espresso joint, order an espresso while jauntily standing at the bar and chug it down for an instant jolt of caffeine.  Don’t linger – that’s not how the Italians do.  A couple of pointers: NEVER, not in a million years, order a cappuccino after 11am.  You’ll be laughed out of the shop.  And don’t order a latte unless you are in the mood for a glass of milk.

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My favourite espresso bar in Rome.  Mostly because it was roll-out-of-bed-and-lurch-down-the-street distance from our apartment.  But also for the friendly service and fantastic, strong coffee.  Apparently they also do amazing mojitos, but we were there just for the coffee (I can’t believe I just wrote that!)

 

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Check out the marbling on that crema.  That’s some coffee-porn right there.

INFO:
Vicolo del Cinque 5, 00153
Mon-Fri: 0630-0200
Closed on Saturdays & Sundays
CLICK FOR MAP

 

 

PASTA E VINO

I want to say that we ate well at every meal in Rome, but the sad fact is that we didn’t.  When an awesome hole-in-the-wall restaurant gets reviewed really well (or features on a TV show – Anthony Bourdain, I’m looking at you down there) it starts getting a lot of tourist traffic.  And the problem with that is that bloody tourists don’t actually like real Roman food.  They like their idea of Roman food.  So out go all the authentic recipes that made the place awesome in the first place, replaced by a bunch of dumbed down, standardised dishes which are shit.  I was disappointed at nearly every single restaurant we ate at.  But not this one.  Pasta e Vino exceeded all  my expectations and if you’re looking for a relaxed place to eat some outstanding pasta then you should come here.  Some wonderful friends (shout out to the Micheners) bought me a meal in Rome for my birthday and I chose this place as it had some pretty good Italian reviews on Tripadvisor.  The service started out a little aloof (as is the norm in Rome), but over the course of lunch warmed up significantly.  And the food?  Well, let’s just say I had the best plate of pasta I’ve eaten in my entire life here.  ‘Nuff said.

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All the pastas.

 

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David had the bucatini all’Amatriciana, a very traditional Roman dish made with tomatoes, olive oil, pecorino and the magic ingredient: guanciale (cured pork cheek).

 

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This is the dish I’ll be thinking about on my deathbed.  Bucatini alla Gricia – basically Amatriciana, minus the tomatoes.  Bloody amazing.

 

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All topped off with a beautiful Sardinian white wine.

INFO:
Vicolo de’ Cinque, 40, 00186
1200-0000
CLICK FOR MAP

 

 

GALLERIA BORGHESE

One very fine morning David and I got up super early and walked about an hour from our place to the Galleria Borghese.  I have a very close friend who sometimes wants to smack me in my face because when I travel I’m not very much into museums or sightseeing.  I’m just not.  I don’t need to see that shit.  But every now and again, I meet someone who is SO enthusiastic about a place, that it triggers something in me.  That’s when I go out of my way to seek a bit o’ culture.  And that’s exactly what happened with Galleria Borghese.  I met an older gentleman at a wedding last month and he was positively effusive about this museum.  His eyes just lit up when he mentioned the artwork inside.  He described it to us with such passion.  That kind of enthusiasm is kinda sexy, and definitely infectious.  I immediately booked tickets to go and check it out while we were in Rome.  This museum books out weeks in advance so we were very lucky to get in.  And it was totally worth it.  It really was an incredible experience to behold all that historical art set in such splendour and extravagance.

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The Borghese Museum.  It’s incredible how much art is contained behind these walls.  A mindblowing and enlightening experience.

 

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I’m getting this exact same picture painted on our bedroom ceiling at home.

 

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Hello, David.  😉

 

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Bernini’s fucking astonishing Ratto di Proserpina, which until today I didn’t realise translates as Rape of Proserpina.  Fucking intense.  Please, please, please look at Pluto’s muscular hands digging into Proserpina’s flesh as he drags her struggling ass down, into the Underworld, to be his queen.  This thing was carved out of marble, people!!  MARBLE!!!!

 

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When you’ve just spent two hours gazing upon the disturbing magnificence of Bernini and Caravaggio, it’s time to hit up the Museum cafe and get yo’self an espresso and an Aperol Spritz.  Stat!

INFO:
Piazzale Scipione Borghese, 5, 00197
0900-1900
Closed on Mondays
CLICK FOR MAP

 

TRATTORIA DA TEO

We didn’t have any dinner reservation on our last night in Rome and that nearly turned out to be a big mistake.  All the places we wanted to eat at were full and we started to get nervous that we’d be stuck eating a slice of pizza at the local kiosk (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  Trattoria da Teo was on my list of places to try, and our final chance at nabbing a table as it was getting pretty late.  Once again we lucked out and were given the last table for two.  This place was rocking with an awesome atmosphere, jovial and friendly service and very delicious food.  We were happy to let our fantastic waiter make recommendations from (and off) the menu and we weren’t disappointed with his choices.  By the time we ordered the limoncello dessert, we were on such good terms with him that he comped us two generous nips of limoncello to go with it.  Now that’s service.

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A beautiful restaurant, with street-side dining, that serves delicious and traditional Roman food that is as authentic as you’re going to get.

 

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Squid and artichoke for antipasto.  Bloody delicious.

 

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We were lucky enough to get the last serve of this special seasonal dish of stuffed zucchini flowers.  So yum!

 

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Another recommended dish of fettuccine with mushrooms

 

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Spaghettig with tuna, olives, capers and super fresh tomato.  Delish.

 

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Limoncello dessert and limoncello digestivo.  Coz you can never have too much limoncello!

INFO:
Piazza dei Ponziani, 7A, 00153
1230-1500, 1930-2330
Closed on Sundays
CLICK FOR MAP

 

 

MORDI E VAI

One of the food highlights of our trip to Rome was this amazing sandwich shop in a markethall, about a 45 minute walk from our place.  It was on our list of must-do’s, but we hadn’t really been able to find the time to make it here during our three days in Rome.  Luckily, on our final day we had to check out of our apartment at 10am and found ourselves with 2.5 terribly hungover hours to kill, so I made us walk to this place in the searing heat just to get one of these damn sandwiches.  Props to David, who loyally trudged behind me as we schlepped along the sweltering riverside to get some lunch.  And it was SO worth it.  This place is awesome because it serves proudly traditional Roman cuisine in a street-food style.  So you can get tripe, you can get offal, you can get oxtail – as well as less confronting fillings of meatballs and braised beef.  There may be a vegetarian option, but I’m gonna be honest, I did not notice.  I was too busy salivating!!!  We had done a bit of research and everyone was telling us (as I am now telling you) to get the allesso.  When you do, owner Sergio is gonna grab a panini bun and dip that baby right into a big vat of lardy, delicious gravy before stuffing it with the softest, tenderest damn slices of beef I have ever seen in my life.  This is topped with some delicious, bitter greens and the whole thing wrapped up in a plastic bag coz that baby is juicy as hell.  Best fucking hangover food EVER!!!

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Sergio Esposito making us our sandwich.

 

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Get the panino all’allesso.  You will thank me for it.

INFO:
Nuovo Mercato Comunale di Testaccio,
Via Beniamino Franklin, 12/E
0800-1500
Closed on Sundays
CLICK FOR MAP

 

Ejo #104 – LOVE!

This month, I’m keeping things simple. Talking about simple things. In particular, I’d like to talk about love. Not romantic love, but the more general kind. Platonic love, sisterly love, love for humanity. Which, though it might sound like some poor, distant cousin of the love you feel in your loins, can be just as intense, just as unconditional and just as rewarding, if not more so.

But let’s start with my first love. Yes, the romantic kind. Allister was someone I went to high school with. Someone I had an intense crush on for several years. Yep, I was crazy about him. I’d spend hours staring at him in class, daydreaming about him, writing about him in my diary, concocting reasons to talk to him. But he never requited my feelings, and after graduation we went our separate ways for a couple of years, until… a chance encounter at a milk bar (which shows you how long ago this happened). We talked for a bit and then he drove me home in his Datsun 240Z. And in those few minutes, all the feelings I’d harboured for him for so many years erupted, enveloping me in a delicious frisson. Love!!! He must have felt something too because he asked if he could see me again and of course I said yes. And thus began a beautiful three year romance, my first real adult relationship.

The feelings I’d had for Allister in high school may have started as infatuation, but when we became a couple they very quickly turned into real love. And here rests my (long winded, and rather indulgent) point. I was 20 years old. I was truly, madly, deeply in love. But I simply couldn’t bring myself to say it. After a couple of months together we both knew it was love, but neither of us wanted to say the words. As though saying, “I love you” was some kind of weakness. Like it might expose some kind of vulnerability that needed protecting. Why were these three words so excruciatingly difficult to utter?

I grew up in a very loving and expressive family, but even from a young age I was always very reserved. I figured I was just born stoic, and that Allister was too. The word “love” just seemed too heavy for us. Too laden with responsibility and heft to bandy around willy nilly. The word needed metering out. Pacing, like some precious, finite commodity. It needed saving for a rainy day. What I didn’t know then, probably because of my youth and inexperience, is that love is actually a boundless wellspring. That love expands, infinitely, to meet its demand. And that love experienced within, is a fraction of the same love experienced outside of oneself. Unshared love is finite, because the vessel that holds it is finite. Love expressed, love shown, love shared is infinite.

So, I grew up keeping my feelings hidden away and private, and that worked just fine for 32 years. But when my father died, all the feelings were suddenly way too much to contain. The things I felt during the ten months of my father’s illness and devastating decline, the emotions I’d somehow managed to compress, crush and dehydrate in order for them to take up as little room inside of me as possible, suddenly became impossible to restrain anymore. Years of pent up shit just rent asunder, like a nuclear explosion inside my body. Suddenly I had no choice but to show the world exactly how I felt. And I felt like absolute crap, so… hey, it was a hell of a lesson in learning how to express myself. It wasn’t fun, but it taught me that I actually had nothing to fear by showing my hand. The floodgates I’d spent my whole life barricading just burst wide open, and it was OK.

I was once (somewhat accurately) described as an island. Part of me was actually proud of that for a long time. But when my Dad died, I decided that I wanted to build some bridges connecting me to the people I truly cared about. I didn’t want to be alone with my emotions anymore. The burden of love unshared – it’s too much. I used to be afraid of loving, but I’m not anymore. Getting older, losing a loved one, moving away from everyone you care about for a huge chunk of your life – these things distill the fact that the only important thing in life is to love. This might sound a bit airy-fairy, a bit icky, a bit touchy-feely. I’m sorry if you feel that way. I’ve decided that, for me, a life dedicated to love is an excellent life indeed. I spent so many years agonising over what my purpose in life should be, never finding an answer that filled the hole I was trying to plug. I had to hit rock bottom, hating everything and everyone (including myself) after moving to Dubai, to figure shit out. I was so lucky to find an amazing therapist who helped me realise  that my purpose in life is simply to love. That’s it kids. Simple, yes. But not necessarily easy. It’s a purpose that I wrangle with every single day, and one that may never be fulfilled. But in trying, I’ve found that the hole has shrunk, just a little.

I met my friend Natasha in 1999, when we moved into the same share house after my year abroad as an au pair. Let me tell you guys, Natasha is a magnificent ray of sunshine. A gorgeous blue-eyed, blonde-haired, Slovenian goddess with an enormous heart of gold. The kind of girl you would totally expect to be intimidated by, except for the fact that she bends over backwards to make sure you’re OK. She’s self-deprecating to a fault, raucous, hilarious, kind and extremely loving. And I’ve had a massive girl crush on her for the last 19 years. The children of immigrants, we’ve both always shared a loud passion for music, art, travel, laughter, food and wine. We revel in each other’s company, and I’m always delighted when I can spend time with her. This month Natasha was diagnosed with very aggressive, stage 4, stomach and ovarian cancer. I tell you what, friends, news like that freezes everything. Your heart… it just stops. In that moment you realise just how much you can love. And also, just how much you can lose. And here’s where I’m going to get all mushy again – you’ve been warned. I believe that the opposite of love is not hate at all, but fear. I believe that in every moment of every day we have the choice between acting out of fear or acting out of love. And I choose love for Natasha. Sure, I’m scared for her. I’m fucking terrified. She has, literally, the battle of a lifetime ahead of her. But she inspires, and has always inspired, pure love in me and that is what I choose for her now. I choose love.

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So, Natasha and I have this thing (which, of course, is hilarious) where she’s Amy Poehler and I’m Tina Fey – coz it makes total sense (don’t question it). And for a recent gathering at her house, just before Natasha’s first session of chemo, I sent along a cardboard cutout of “myself” to reprazent (totally over-dressed of course)!

I’d like to talk about another friend of mine, my au pair “mother” Kate – a woman who has been (during the 20 years I’ve known her) my surrogate mother, my sister, my master, my daughter, my nemesis, my beloved friend. There is no relationship on earth that exists like the one I have with this woman. It’s almost irrelevant to say that we would do anything for each other, but it’s true. On Sunday, 19th August, against a backdrop of majestic natural beauty, Kate married a beautiful soul called Sheldon, in a ceremony that brought tears of joy to many eyes. And I was lucky enough to be invited, to feel like I was actually an important part of Kate’s special day. It was such an honour to spend the four days leading up to the ceremony with the beautiful couple and my gorgeous kids, Daniel and Holly. It was a love fest of epic proportions because Kate has always loved fiercely and unabashedly. She taught her children (and me) to do the same and I am so grateful that all those years ago I was lucky enough to be placed with her family. I have grown as a person because of her and I will always love her.

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The love was tangible. What an amazing, and gorgeous, couple.*

 

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I find it difficult to express, in words, the love I feel for these three people. *

Not that long ago, I promised I’d move mountains to attend the future weddings of every single member of my second family. I certainly didn’t expect to be called out on that promise so soon, but hey – a promise is a goddamn promise. And I keep my promises. Why? It’s love, folks. I would give everything up for the people that I love, and fuck it, I’d be richer for it. Loving doesn’t deplete me. It strengthens me. My Mum and Dad, my sisters, my husband, my “kids”, my friends, my neighbours, my fellow human beings. I love you all. Hell, sometimes I look in the mirror and can honestly say I even love myself. And isn’t that the greatest love of all?

 

 

 

 

*Photos by https://www.nicoledreon.com

Ejo #103 – An Open Letter to Annette of Holiday Shacks

 

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The email that launched a thousand words.  A simple apology would have seen the matter die a natural and quiet death.

Dear Annette of Holiday Shacks,

Thanks so much for your email. I must say though, it wasn’t exactly the response I’d been hoping for. I thought, perhaps, you might go for something a tad more conciliatory. A touch more apologetic, considering your crappy handling of what went down when we rented one of your “shacks” earlier this year. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting you to so nimbly squirm out of accepting any responsibility at all. Allow me to recap.

In April of this year I rented one of your ludicrously priced holiday homes for a weekend. You see I live abroad, so whenever my husband David and I are back in Melbourne we have this little tradition of renting a country house with my sisters so that we can all catch up, have some drinks, cook some food, dance around, swim, play games, shoot the shit and just have some good old fashioned, wholesome, family fun.

As you can imagine, we were suitably impressed when we arrived at Oceania Retreat – it’s a stunning property. Which is why I rented it, notwithstanding the astronomical (and actually pretty embarrassing) price tag. I’m sure you’ll agree that $3050 for a weekend away is a shitload of money, Annette. Because I would hate for you to think that I can go around splashing cash like that on the regular. No, no, no. It was definitely way above my budget. To be very honest with you, I actually booked it by accident one night, when I was super drunk. Oops! And I’m not ashamed to say that paying that much money for a two day getaway made me feel a little bit like vomiting in my mouth. But as I’ve already said, time with my sisters is very special to me, so I went through with the booking.

So yes, we were impressed with the house. But as I told you in my initial complaint, there were a few things we were not so impressed with. Especially considering the price we paid. For instance, the dirty socks we found on the back porch. What the hell, Annette? For $3050, the least you could have done was pick up the socks? Also for that price, how about providing an umbrella that actually fits into the picnic table, instead of one that doesn’t. And hey, why would you advertise the house as having a “coffee maker” and a “fully stocked gourmet kitchen and pantry” but not actually provide any bloody coffee? That’s just nasty, girlfriend. I mean, alright, coffee might not seem like such a big deal… but it kinda is a big deal Annette. It kinda is! And while you’re at it, you might also want to think about asking the owner to repair the broken bi-fold doors that we were strictly forbidden to use. The busted bi-folds were a hoof to the face, Annette. I bloody love bi-folds!! I love the effortless blending of indoor and outdoor living that they provide. The bi-folds were one of the main reasons I booked Oceania Retreat in the first place. And the fact that the entire wall of them was broken and unusable does not seem fair considering that I paid full price for the house.

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The row of bi-fold doors that are designed to welcome the outdoors inside.  These were locked shut during our weekend stay.

 

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This is the house I thought I was renting.  Sadly, because the bi-fold doors were locked shut, it’s not the house I got.

But look, all of those inconveniences paled into comparison when, at around 9.30pm on Friday night, the electricity in three quarters of the house just went out. And no Annette, despite your strident assertions, we had not overloaded the system. Not in the least. Nary an iPhone was being charged at the time. But the power went kaput anyway. Being practical people, we figured we’d just find the fuse box, flip the safety switch and get back to having fun. Except Annette, we couldn’t find the fuse box. We looked everywhere, inside and outside of the house. But it was nowhere to be found. Was it because we were drunk? No. Was it because there were no lights? No. It was because the fuse box was hidden… wait for it, behind a locked door!!!

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Curious.

Which begged the question, Annette, where the fuck was the key? I still believe that was a very reasonable question to ask, sitting in a big-ass summer house with no electricity on the first night of a weekend away that cost us an asspile of money.  For some reason, you disagree.

We spent a couple of futile hours looking for the damn key before giving up, a little after midnight, and calling the number in the guest compendium. We called twice, because we felt that the situation was serious enough to warrant immediate attention. But the woman who took our calls obviously didn’t think that a power outage in a luxury holiday property was worth waking anyone up for. And so we spent the night in a $1525-a-night house with no electricity. Which was significantly worse than a mere “inconvenience”.

Look, Annette, ultimately it wasn’t the electricity failure that pissed me off. It wasn’t the dirty socks or the sadistic, empty promise of coffee. It wasn’t even that the fuse box was stupidly locked in a room that we couldn’t access – even though that was fucking ridiculous. I mean, come on. If you were going to give us the key anyway, why lock the door in the first place?  Mess with your guests, much?  (For future guests staying in Oceania Retreat, the key is in a small bag, in a box, on a middle shelf in one of the cupboards in the laundry – good luck finding it in the dark.)

No Annette, what really upset me was your email. How long it took me to make my initial complaint is irrelevant; I’m a busy person. And I’m sorry that most of your guests are in bed by midnight, I truly am.  But we paid for the privilege to stay up as late as we wanted.  So sure, we called after midnight, but the power had been out since 9.30pm. We called only because we were out of options and we were worried that the fridge situation was going to become a health hazard. The meat was starting to smell and the beer was getting warm. And that is most certainly not OK.

I know you’re not a hotel. Duh! I’m not interested in a 24 hour concierge desk.  I’m interested in 24 hour electricity.  I have stayed in over 50 holiday homes through companies such as yours, as well as 72 Airbnb rentals. I have never seen a fuse box locked in a room with no access. You know why Annette? Because I’m fairly certain that it’s illegal. And the reason the room was locked? To protect the secret treasure trove of wine and coffee hidden inside (oh yeah, there was fucken coffee!!!). Seriously, if the owner is so concerned about their mediocre wine collection they should find another place to hide it. The fuse box needs to be accessible 24/7.

Your final comment was: “We consider that his matter has been finalised as we dealt with the situation in an appropriate time frame and don’t consider Facebook as the appropriate forum when the situation was resolved.”

Listen, seven hours to respond to what I would call an urgent situation is not dealing with it in an appropriate time frame. And indeed Annette, Facebook was definitely not the best forum on which to air my grievances about Holiday Shacks. High five for pointing that out. Hospitality, you see, is an industry that relies on excellent customer experiences and positive word of mouth. Particularly the rarefied realm of luxury hospitality in which Holiday Shacks lurks. Your website bandies around terms like, “luxury holiday accommodation business”, “luxury coastal and rural holiday homes”, “luxury villas” and “guest luxury experiences”. That’s a whole lotta jive about luxury, Annette. But do you know what I don’t consider a luxury? Electricity. I tend to think of electricity as more of your “essential” type item. You rent mansions (not caravans); on the Mornington Peninsula (not outback Australia). Unlimited access to running water and electricity is not optional. And ten hours without electricity is not an inconvenience. It’s fucking unacceptable. And even worse, avoidable.

Before I finish, I’m going to leave you with a suggestion. Some constructive criticism, if you will. Seeing as you work in customer service, perhaps you could try using a bit more diplomacy next time you receive a complaint. Instead of blaming us, your customers, for a situation that was not our fault, perhaps you could … oh, I don’t know, maybe just think about apologising instead?? Just saying, Annette. I have a feeling that your email to me was so dismissive and contemptuous because you presumed that the final word was yours. But you were wrong, Annette. It’s mine.

And now the matter is finalised.