So 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!
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.
Dispatch from The Armpit of Australia: I find myself currently on the Gold Coast, stuck for four days at what I can only describe as Tampa meets Vegas at spring break. It’s Schoolies week, that lovely time of year when all the Aussie kids finish high school and descend on the beach to drink themselves violent and send the rest of the country slightly mad with nausea. Clearly I’m too old for this miserable shit, but what the fuck, I’m here, and now it’s on… Read the rest of this entry
So, I’ve been waiting to post this shit for like, a solid two months. Fuming the entire time. Fuming vociferously, in fact. To all who were willing to listen. However, given their raging and heretofore unimagined ineptitude, I’d thought it might be nice to make sure I could actually return from the trip I’d booked with them before I unleashed The Fury of My Blog on The Worst Travel Website Ever. Well, I’m back now, so buckle up, Bravofly, you’re about to learn exactly what I think of you.
P.S.- If you’re looking for a rather funny disaster-story, it’s in here, promise, but if you really aren’t up for a ridiculously pissy, damn-it-Nina’s-at-it-bitching-again, ragingly ridiculous rant, you might could just mosey on over to the rest of this blog and avoid the following:
Soooooo, I really should waited to hit ‘publish’ for about 20 min last night. Went back to the airport bar right after posting, and this happened:
I sit. I order beer. It is tasty. Old Filipino man sits next to me. He seems pleasant. 10 minutes pass. A rather drunk, rather vociferous, indeterminately Asian man enters. He sits with us and starts chatting with Old Filipino Dude. So far, so fine.
OFD: ‘So where do you live? I live in the Bay Area, I was just here visiting my family.’
Drunk Indeterminate Asian: ‘I live in Antioch.’ Also in the Bay Area ‘An’ I fucking hate Amurica.’ For those who know me and tend to think I tend to exaggerate, this is literally word for word… ‘Yes, I furcking hate it. ‘merica. Hate. Urrrg.’
Me: Look of commiseration towards OFD, who clearly has no answer to this rant.
Chat chat, blah blah blah.
DIA: ‘You want some mango juice? I’m not tha’ drunk! Gots too much mango juice. ‘N Filipino monies. Let’s give some to Australia grrrl!’ The Aussie girl being me. ‘You wrnt sum mango juice?’ he asks me.
Me: ‘I’m American, actually.’
DIA: ‘Oh shit. Furk. Furker.’
Me: ‘It’s ok. I quite like America, but parts of it do suck.’
OFD: incomprehensible laugh-snorting…
DIA: ‘Have some mrngo juice! You want srme Jack? I’rl buya some Jack…’
Me: ‘Ok then’.
And that is how I nearly missed my flight trying to chug three cups of free mango and Jack Daniels plus my leftover beer.
God bless Manila.
Dispatch from Manila International Airport:
It’s hour 39.5 of my second trans-pacific jaunt in the last 2 weeks. I’m feeling… not actually awake, and I think there’s 3 more cities and 20.5 more fucking goddam hours to go? But I’ve just spent 16 hours in ridonculous Manila, so it must be time to blog! To follow: the four most interesting conversations of my first jaunt to the Philippines…
So, I never actually meant to go to Israel. Not that it doesn’t sound lovely or whatever, it just wasn’t in the itinerary. The trip was meant to be a 5 week honeymoon in Egypt with a possible side excursion to Jordan, solely to get my Indiana Jones impression on at Petra, of course, then 10 days recuperating from holiday on the beach in Thailand. Which sounds like, fuckin’ awesome, right?? However, it turns out my Adorable Husband has an adorable (NOT) habit of cramming too much shit into trips I feel would be better spent smoking sheesha with the locals. Which is how I found myself stuck in Tel Aviv, shoe-less, covered in slush from a massive blizzard, barely having escaped deportation at the hands of the adorable Israeli Border Guards, with all transportation options out completely snowed in. Like seriously, who else could this happen to??