Travel

Ejo #49 – Before The Ejo (A Travel Disaster Trip Down Memory Lane)

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I’d been tossing up a few ideas for December’s ejo, but they were all cast aside when I discovered this old gem lurking in the depths of my computer. I do believe I am about to present to you my very first ejo, written over seven years ago. My first travel essay, written about my first travel misadventure, on my first solo trip abroad. Some of you will remember it. For others it will be new. I present to you the abridged, Editor’s Cut version of the essay for your holiday season reading pleasure.

 

Buon giorno tutti,

 

I am about to regale for you, a tale of travel misery and woe.

 

It all started when I landed at Milano Bergamo airport on the 28th April 2006. I’d caught an early flight from London, so had been up since 4.30am. When I landed in Italy, I took the shuttle bus from the airport to Milano Centrale Stazione where I was to catch another bus to Milano Garibaldi station to catch a bus to Siena. Simple, right?? Sure, except that someone told me there were no buses at that time. No problem, I caught a taxi (for €10, which was a bit of a rip off, but hey, I was excited about being in Italy). When I got to Garibaldi, I went to the ticket area and asked about my planned 2.15pm bus to Siena only to be told that it had been cancelled because of a national transport strike due to finish at 3pm that day – crazy Italians and their crazy striking. I asked about the next bus and was told that all buses to Siena that day were booked out. “OK”, I thought to myself, “there are other avenues for me to take”. I’d go to the train station across the street and catch a train to Siena. Who needs the bus! So I schlepped across the road with my two suitcases and my heavy handbag thinking, “Wow, this is shaping up to be quite the adventure”. Oh, little did I know! I got to the train station ticket area and waited in line for 45 minutes before being told that all the trains to Siena were booked out for the day. No more seats to Siena.

 

I started to panic internally, but tried to keep a cool facade. ‘Keep It Together’ became my mantra, whispered under my breath over and over again. My problem was that I’d booked a car rental in Siena that had to be picked up by 11am the next day. If I didn’t collect it, the reservation would be cancelled. I figured (after a bit more thought) that the best solution would be to hire a car from Milan to Siena. I walked 20 minutes into town carrying my cases and my big, fat, stupid handbag looking for car rental offices. I eventually found a Thrifty where they told me they had only one car left – a Smart car (you know, those ridiculous little boxes that seat two people and not much else). It was €55 for one day. I suspected they were trying to rip me off, and (thinking myself the rather savvy traveller) thought I should be able to get a better deal somewhere else (oh, the naivety).

 

I walked around town for another half an hour (yes, lugging my luggage) to discover that I’d somehow managed to arrive in Italy on a long weekend (who knew!!!), so all the cars were gone. ALL OF THEM! I hurried back to Thrifty and was relieved to find the Smart car was still available. However, because I was going one way I would have to pay an extra €45. This seemed quite ridiculous and, at that stage, unacceptable, so I figured I’d spend the night in a Milan hotel and get into Siena first thing in the morning to pick up my Siena car rental (are you following all this??).

 

I haughtily turned my back on Thrifty and returned to the bus station to ask about the earliest bus into Siena the next day. It didn’t arrive in Siena until 2.45pm, so I rang the Siena car rental office to change my booking pick-up time from 11am to 3pm. They told me that they closed at 12.30pm and that if I didn’t pick up the car before then I would forfeit the rental. ARGH!!!!

 

So I trudged across to the train station to find out if the trains left any earlier than the buses. But no, it was the same deal with the trains. The earliest didn’t get there until 1pm. Too late for me.

 

I had now reached desperation stage. Melting under the Milanese sun, I dragged myself – hot, shitty and sweaty – back to the Thrifty car rental place, resentfully forked out €100 and signed the paperwork on the bloody Smart car. It was the only way I could get to Siena in time to pick up my Siena rental. When they pointed out that Thrifty didn’t have an office in Siena, I waved the problem away. “You have an office in Firenze, 70km north of Siena?? No worries. Please just give me the car keys. Now!”

 

I devised a cunning plan (pay attention, now) to drive the Milan rental to Siena, sleep the night in my booked accommodation, drive the Milan rental to the Siena rental place, pick up the keys to my Siena rental, park it somewhere it wouldn’t incur a ticket, drive the Milan rental to Firenze, drop it off and then catch a bus from Firenze back to Siena to pick up the Siena rental from where I’d parked it and then drive to my villa in Tuscany. Brilliant plan, no?! Obviously I like to make life difficult for myself – but I honestly couldn’t think of another way around it. I had exhausted all other options.

 

I got directions out of Milan, but somehow managed to find myself a) in peak hour, long weekend traffic, b) going round in circles because the stupid signs didn’t make any sense, and c) driving like a maniac in order to avoid being murdered by what I had started referring to as Fucking Crazy Italians!!!!

 

It took me two, long and exhausting, hours to get out of Milan onto the highway for Siena. I literally whooped with joy when I was established outside of the city. It was, by now, 6pm and I had a 375km drive ahead of me, after having eaten NO FOOD for 14 hours, and being VERY TIRED INDEED and having a PRETTY BAD HEADACHE!!!! Still, things were OK. All I had to do was concentrate on the fact that I was driving a death-trap and that I was doing it on the wrong side of the road. Oh yes, and deal with the thunderstorm that decided to follow me along the highway dumping rain on me and my little jalopy, drastically reducing my visibility and traction on the road. And then, at about 11pm, I also had to contend with a 30km bumper-to-bumper traffic jam on the freeway due to roadworks into Siena. But I was heading in the right direction and I was happy.

 

So around midnight I made it to Siena, proper – absolutely exhausted and kind of hallucinating about going to sleep. I won’t even go into how many times I had just wanted to stop the car and transport myself back to Australia, back into my bed, safe and sound asleep. Let’s just say it was LOTS.

 

So, as I was circling the city it occurred to me that, whilst I had a street address for the small hotel I was staying in, I had no map and no directions. Minor problem after what I’d just experienced, quite frankly. “I’ll just drive around and find it,” I thought to myself. HAHAHA!!!! Have you ever been to Siena? It’s a city with a population of about 50,000. It’s freaking huge. Good luck finding a hotel if you have no idea where to look. This eventually dawned on me and I stopped at a large hotel to ask for a map. I found the street I was looking for on the map and realised it was inside the city walls, i.e. no cars allowed. So I parked close to where I thought the hotel would be and headed into the ancient city on foot to conduct a reconnaissance mission. I found myself delving deeper and deeper into the city, going into progressively darker and creepier little alleys – though by this stage the idea of being murdered, and my body being disposed of, was actually very comforting. Just as I was about to give up, resigned to spending the night in my “vehicle”, I looked up from my dragging feet and there it was. Hotel Antica Torre!! There was a note on the door with my name on it, with a key inside. I squealed a little and jumped up and down with sheer happiness at having found it.

 

I managed to find my way back to the car and dragged my suitcases along the cobbled street, probably waking up all the Sienese residents – but I wasn’t about to do anyone any favours by carrying them. I just didn’t have it in me at this stage. As I climbed up the stairs to my room, I could SMELL sleep!! I had a shower, and collapsed on the bed. I had very bad dreams that night!!

 

The next day was better. But I truly must be an arrogant and audacious individual, because I took the Milan rental car to Firenze with absolutely no directions, no map, and (even worse this time) no address. What is WRONG with me!!?? Once I got there, I just drove around in crazy circles (like a Fucking Crazy Italian – the streets of Italy no longer held any secrets for me). I stopped and asked for directions about twenty times, and then, lo and behold, I found the damn office and I dropped off the damn car, got on a damn bus to Siena, caught a taxi to the Siena car rental, drove to my villa and pretty much died of happiness.

 

Last year, David and I spent some time in Siena (still one of my favourite places in the world despite my traumatic experience). Why don’t you check out my photo series from our visit: Pedestrians Of Siena.

 

Photo Series: The Pedestrians Of Siena

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During our trip to Italy in June 2012, we spent some time in one of my favourite cities, Siena. One day, after exploring the city’s labyrinthine streets, we stopped at a tiny little cafe and sat down for a couple of hours to enjoy a bottle (OK, maybe two) of prosecco. It turns out we were pretty close to the University, so even though it was a small street, it was quite the busy pedestrian thoroughfare. Enjoying the people-watching over the course of the afternoon, I decided to set up my iPhone and take candid photos of the people walking past. I’m assuming this is legal!!!!!

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Uh oh, getting suspicious looks.

Uh oh, getting suspicious looks.

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BUSTED!!!!

BUSTED!!!!

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Ejo #47 – Things I Hate About Dubai #2 – HAIRDRESSERS

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I’m going to cut (haha) right to the chase. I’ve been to five different hair salons in Dubai, ranging from top-end, super expensive “designer” hairdressers to little, back-street joints where the “hairdresser” also waxes legs, threads eyebrows and gives shoulder massages (hopefully not all at once, but I wouldn’t be surprised)! Regardless of the ambience of the place, regardless of how much the haircut costs and regardless of whether the gown they slip on my shoulders is made of silk or more closely resembles a plastic rubbish bag, all five of these salons do have one thing in common. They have, at one time or another, completely butchered my hair.

 

Now, I’m sure I can hear some of you rolling your eyes* and saying, “Really? This is what you’re complaining about? A bad haircut?!”. To you, I say two things. First of all, phooey!! And secondly, I’d like to tell you a story about two little girls. When my middle sister, Mari, and I were younger we had a particular Uncle (whom I shall name X) whose clumsy attempts to make us feel special and unique probably did more harm than good. He would say to my sister, “Mari, you are so beautiful, such a pretty girl. You should be a model.” And to me he’d say, “Chrysoula, you are so smart, so intelligent. You should be a doctor or a lawyer.” So, is it any wonder that Mari grew up feeling dumb, and I grew up feeling ugly! Thanks Uncle X, thanks a lot.

 

Anyway, neither of us lived up to his lofty expectations. But you know the great thing about being pigeon holed? It’s figuring out that you don’t have to conform to anybody’s ridiculous ideas of who you are and what you’re capable of. Taking a long break after high school, Mari eventually went on to complete a Degree (with Honours) in Sociology. Now she academises me under the table. (See how smart I am? I make up words because it’s fun!)

 

And no, unfortunately, I didn’t blossom from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan. I’ll never be Cinderella in anyone’s book. And that’s OK. I’ve come to terms with that. You know why? Because I’ve got great fucking hair!!! And that makes up for a lot! It’s bouncy and thick and has a little wave in it. And can I quote you a statistic here, for effect? Studies** show that 91% of Australians believe that hair is key to a person’s sex appeal and attractiveness. Ninety one per cent!!! That’s like…. practically everyone!!!!

 

So, pardon me when I get a little emotional, a little overwrought, a little hysterical at a bad haircut. But c’mon people, it’s all I have to work with! There’s no buffer here, no room for error. And when your whole sense of physical self-esteem is wrapped up in whether or not you are having a good hair day, then a couple of bad hair YEARS can be a blow to the ego.

 

I have never made the claim that my hair is EASY to cut. In fact, the same characteristics that make it great hair (thick, bouncy, wavy) actually make it really problematic hair. I’m the first to admit it and I always warn new hairdressers of the high difficulty factor. They usually dismiss my cautions with a confident wave of the scissors, probably thinking that THEY will be the one to tame my wild locks, as they start slashing and hacking. And then, when they fail (miserably) I’m the one who has to pay for it, and even worse I’m the one who has to live with it. I have a feeling that a lot of people are going to defend the Salon Inks, the Ted Morgans, the Toni & Guy’s of DXB. Maybe they’ve had good haircuts at these places. But the fact remains that I have not, and if my hair is too difficult for someone to cut well, then as far as I’m concerned that someone is not a good hairdresser. Ergo, in my personal experience there are no good hairdressers in Dubai.

 

I’m not ashamed to name some names here either. After all, they weren’t ashamed to sabotage my head, so I don’t feel any compulsion to protect them in return! A lot of people throw the name Salon Ink around as the best salon in the city. I remember asking Narelle at Salon Ink to trim my shoulder length hair and, even more vividly, I remember her giving me a lopsided bob, with kinky layers sticking out around my ears!! Not exactly what I requested and it took me nearly a year to grow out. I recall showing Elaine at Ted Morgan a photo of a blunt fringe (à la Krysten Ritter) and walking out with a feathered Farrah Fawcett do which also took about 12 months to grow.

 

But the ultimate crappy haircut is the one that still hurts the most. I wasn’t joking when I said I measure my bad hair in years. I am still growing out a chop executed in April 2011 by a man called Shadi Nassif at Caritas salon. I walked out of the salon literally looking like a giant mushroom head. And that, ladies and gentleman, was the nadir (and the finale) of my hair grooming experiences in Dubai. After some serious crying, a lot of cursing and even a little bit of melodramatic wailing, I vowed to never EVER get my hair cut in Dubai again. And, despite the inconvenience, I’ve stuck to that vow. And will continue to do so! It does make hair maintenance a bit difficult, but I’m prepared to live with that.

 

I am lucky enough to have found a wonderful hairdresser in Amsterdam who seems to understand my obstinate mane. Raúl at LysandroCicilia is not only a delightful young man who loves what he does, he’s also extremely bloody good at it. He’s my Hair Whisperer and I simply adore him. I wish I could say that my life was so awesome, so filled with rainbows and unicorns, that I could afford to fly to Amsterdam every time I needed a haircut. But, unfortunately, this is not the case. Through necessity, I have become very comfortable with split ends and annual haircuts. It’s not ideal, but I’m a stubborn cow, and like I said, I am never getting my hair cut in Dubai again. The end!

 

* And yes, I can hear you rolling your eyes. It’s a curse.
** Yeah, yeah, OK, it was a Pantene study. But it still counts!!!