Nina’s Travel Rule #48: Never Golf on a Dead Goose

How to Cross a Continent...

How to Cross a Continent…

So I was asked last night if I’d ever written a book, ’cause apparently MY VOICE SHOULD BE HEARD. I was like, nah, lazy, blah blah, but I do have a blog. Wait, shit, I haven’t blogged in a year… So here we go!

9 months ago, Christmas arrived, and the Adorable Husband and I decided to drive to Melbourne. From our house.  In Perth. For the non-Aussies amongst us, that’s like, approximately 3 billion miles away, across an entire continent of deserty death. Including the Nullarbor Plain, aka the the longest, straightest, flattest stretch of paved road in the entire fucking world (that part’s literally true). Well, by which I mean, actually, 2125 miles away. And, as this was clearly not psychotic enough, we decided to golf it. Yeah that’s right, the longest, straightest, flattest stretch of paved road in the entire fucking world also hosts the longest golf course in the entire fucking world. It’s the Nullarbor Links, and it’s 848.17 bloody miles long. It stretches across desert; scrub; more desert; a shit-ton of prickly shit the Aussie’s call double-gees, which I still can’t really bring myself to speak about; road houses with populations of, on average, 4 people and 34 dogs; and some truly horrifying wildlife I’ll get to in a sec. Oh, and also I’d never golfed in my life. What could go wrong??

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Breaking News (in support of my theorem that Australians are the Luckiest Assholes on Earth):

So yesterday, apparently some ass-hat Aussie got his leg stuck in a train. During rush hour. Omg, you say, how horrific!! Nope, she’ll be right, it’s Oz. It’s Perth, in fact! Perth, where nothing even remotely newsworthy has literally ever happened. Ever. So little, in fact, that I wasn’t aware of this awesomesauce:

until this morning, when my All-Worrying Mother informed me of it.

So because this is Oz, Dude Caught in a Train is fine. Because the commuters all, clearly, exited the train, organized their damn selves, and then shoved the fucking train OFF THE MAN. Yet, this is not what proves my point; this is just normal, run o’ the mill, Aussie decentness (bless their hearts). Nope, what proves my point is the 30 seconds in that video AFTER the random-ass crowd of random-ass Perth commuters PUSHED A TRAIN OFF A MAN’S LEG. It’s the bit where no one cheers (too American), or videos the amazing rescue (too Pommy), or even fuckin’ checks he’s ok (waaaay too Canadian), nope nope, they just… go quietly and politely about their previously scheduled business.

No worries. She’ll be right, ’cause fuckin’ Aussies always fuckin’ are. God bless ’em.

Nina’s Travel Rule #47: Adorable Asshole Aussie Adendum

Nina’s Travel Rule #47: Australians Are the Luckiest Assholes On Earth

So true...

So true…



So, what would you do if you: realized at the Sao Paulo airport that your Adorable Husband had somehow managed to misplace his passport and cell phone, but you had a flight in about an hour, were down to approximately $200 for the next week, and had to be in a city about 1000 miles away in like four days or you’d miss the US World Cup Round-of-16 game you just scored tickets to??  If you were me, you’d screech something to the effect of ‘You motherfucking idiot, SERIOUSLY? I’m going to murder you in your sleep if you make me miss this match and you’re not even gonna like it cause I’m gonna do it WITH A SPOON.’  If you were the AH, however, you’d be an Aussie, and your response would be something more like ‘Yeah, no worries, it’ll all work out.’  And goddamn you, you would be right, ’cause (spoiler alert) all stupid Aussie cunts are the Luckiest Assholes on Earth.

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Nina’s Travel Rule #46: Don’t Sleep, Caipirinha!



Brazil: Day 16. Death looms. Caipirinha’s consumed in the past 72 hours: possibly 18? Plus at least 18 beers. Cities visited: at least 5. Flights taken: 3. Countries visited: 2, possibly 3. Clearly, I no longer know what’s happening to me, or possibly care. Life is good, futbol is played, distance is traversed, sleep is for pansies.

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Nina’s Travel Rule #45: You Really Can do the Brazilian World Cup for a Week With No Underwear.



So, I’m at the World Cup in Brazil. For six weeks. Because I’m kinda amazing. And, at the risk of one of you flying over here to mug me for them, I’ll now share the most awesomesauce fact ever: I have tix to the final. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! But let’s get back to the point: my (glaring lack of) underwear…

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Nina’s Travel Rule #44: Smoke ‘Em if You Got ‘Em!


20140210-143538.jpgSo it’s aaaaaaall happening again! After two years doing the expat thing in Australia, I’m back in America! It only took, ya know, like 50 hours. Perth-Hong Kong-New York-Boston-Denver. And all I can say after 6 days back home on holiday is: I think I’m officially a homeless expat. But first things first, right? Upon landing in Denver last week, I decided that all I needed was: a mobile, a giant raw hamburger, some Mexican for dessert, a fuckin’ bath and, oh right, to exercise my god-given constitutional, erm, I mean, Coloradan rights. Not in that order though, so off to the pot store I went!

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Nina’s Travel Rule #43: I am Dirty, Get Over It

So good it's _almost_ worth cleaning off to drink!  Not.

So good it’s _almost_ worth cleaning off to drink! Not.

I was informed yesterday, by a Turk of all people, that I should really wash the top of my Coke can before drinking.  Apparently some dude died last year ’cause he didn’t, and it was covered in rat piss.  Can we guess what I did, dear followers?  Yeah, that coke got drunk, but it sure didn’t get washed.  Because, you see, what the well-intentioned Turk failed to realizes is: I am Nina, I am dirty, get over it.  So, in explanation for the failure of his valiant effort (I love you, Wurk-Turk!), here y’all go: The Official Top 10 List of Nina’s Dirty Moments.

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