The Adventures of Bonnie Muddle

I am in lourve

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:29:00 GMT

Now it wasn't until I actually went to Paris that I understood why people fall in love in this city, why people love with this city and quite simply why people associate love with Paris at all. I was of the understanding it had something to do with some french/english translation problem between the lourve and love...

It actually took a little bit of time for the attraction. It wasn't necessarily love at first sight for me and Paris.

I was introduced to Paris after a whirlwind Contiki tour, the previous night spent in a (former) prison in Switzerland and a first stop at a pungent Parisian perfumery.
The Eiffel tower by night really was the first to tug at my heart strings. Despite the looming clouds, drizzle and gale force winds, the Eiffel tower was magnificent. Lit up like a candle on a cake. Everyone who stood beneath the grand structure couldn't help but be in awe.

Here we were being hustled into an elevator the excitement of an impending first kiss bubbling inside me and I stand transfixed at the giant clogs churning and beyond the glittering lights of the city of Paris.

Finally we reach the last stop. Almost blown away not just by the dazzling view but also by the severe winds, causing me to cling to my new raspberry beret (the kind you find in a second hand store-sorry couldn't resist!). It is breathtaking.

I feel flighty and elated- the hungover of a first date. My first date with Paris.

I spend the next day zooming around attempting to take in all the 'sights' between rain and dark clouds. Getting lost in the expanse of the Lourve, ordering over-priced coffee and crepes on side-walk cafes, taking in the erriness and beauty of the Notre Dame, experiencing famous French toasted sandwich served by a slapstick waiter and standing in wonderment at the kaleidoscope of light shining through the stained glass at the Sainte Chapelle.

That night we are off to Montmartre. Outside the Moulin Rouge we re-enact can-can girls and then like frivolous giddy girls we dash to the Irish pub across the road.

Once our stomachs start to grumble...we find a crowded little cafe (it seems to be the way in Paris- everyone likes to bunch close together in a small vicinity, spilling out onto the sidewalks). We like the French bunch together and order some wine to warm up. Snails are ordered and French soup is slurped.

After dinner, we give into Divina's persuasion to brave the cold and walk to up through the winding cobble-stoned streets of the Montmartre district to the Sacre-Coeur church. The most magical place in Paris.

The beauty took my breath away. I wanted to say "I love you" but didn't know how. Instead I said nothing and felt the intoxication of the city overwhelm my speechless self.

The next day I had to myself. All to myself. Just me and Paris.

I slept in, washed all my clothes and had a decent shower (simple things please a traveler). I got ready for my day in Paris...I basked in the sun that finally now shone on the City, I spent my time wondering around the city, I walked through the Champs de Mars and watched a group of small children play a game of socceor below the Eiffel Tower. I sat on the grass and looked on at couples laughing at each others whispered words and tourists taking photos with the famous icon. I myself attempt several times to take a self portrait with the Eiffel tower.

I walk endlessly, wanting to stop for a coffee...but with too many choices I keep on walking trying to find the perfect place to plant myself and people watch. I finally find a little Creperie cafe, the brightly colored flower pots draw me in and I sit and watch and sip on my warm cappuccino.

Later I find myself back beneath the Sacre-Coeur. The sweet smell of warm sugar leaves me with a crepe in my hand. I delight in being by myself. I delight in watching the happy children spin endlessly on the merry-go-round. The sun is getting warmer and brighter as the day comes to an end. I climb up the many stairs to the first stage beneath the church. People hustle around and watch as a puppeter puts on a show with the City as his backdrop.

After the show finishes I wonder to the second stage. Where people all crammed together sit on the cement stairs and listen to someone sing in broken English to 'fast car' by Tracey Chapman. Even the misguided lyrics didn't deter me from enjoying every part of the performance.

I decided to walk through the grand entrance of the Church...hundreds of candles provide just enough light to guide the way around the expansive exquisiteness of the Sacre Coeur.
Above the alter, a gold- etched Jesus gazes down upon the audience below.

I arrive in time for the Saturday night mass. Now feeling quite overwhelmed with unexplained feelings of happiness, sadness, appreciation and reflectiveness...I take a seat on a cold wooden pew and wait for the mass to begin.

As the clock strikes six...the nuns emerge from the back of the hall and stand in perfect choir lines. A chorus of heavenly (pardon the pun) voices fill the church, their voices echo and vibrate throughout each pore of the Sacre Coeur.

I am transfixed and now overwhelmed by pure peace, so much so it is hard to leave the beauty of the church.

Once I finally make my way out of the giant arches of the Sacre Coeur, the light has dimmed and the sun is slowly setting, illuminating the Eiffel Tower through a misty haze set over the city.

I am here. I can't rid the smile from my face. I am in love.

I wonder through the hustle and bustle of the Montmartre area, as the dinner crowds take their seats on the sidewalks of quaint candle-lit cafes, bottles of wine are opened and artists approach the people offering sketches to encapsulate the occasion. Lovers warm one another in the now chilly air, immersed and lost in each others eyes.

I too am spellbound by all that I see, I look out at the beauty all around me and find a small voice from inside whisper, "I love you Paris".

Under the Tuscan Sun

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:21:00 GMT

After a big night out in Rome, involving one too many vinos, a slice of nutella pizza and lack of a thing called sleep. I set off to Tuscany.
This meant a very long and very hectic start at the Rome train station. Italians as they are dramatic, pushy and loud. Very hard to deal with all the confusion and drama at a train station with a shocking hangover and the looming inevitability of meeting the boys family for the first time.
After being pushed and shoved by one too many Italians on one too many espressos. I narrowly miss my scheduled train that was to get me in on the scheduled time to meet the boys family.

I felt like some damsel in one of those movies chasing after the departing train with her lover looking back at her. Hopeless. face pressed against the glass. Doors shut just as she approaches. Train edges away.. See now the Italian drama is rubbing off.

With the help of another damsel who had also missed the train but had the added edge of being able to speak the language and the Italian push-in-front of the line gene. It was sorted through translation and pity for a the girl taking a vacation in struggle city.

So with a ticket on the next train, with a tad detour to Florence I was on my way.

So have multiple micro-sleeps and a gaggle of giggling ginos in my ear. I arrive in Siena to greet the Baker brood.

As we wind around the last bend along the dirt road, we pull up to the most beautiful Tuscan villa.

Perched above a valley of vineyards, rustic old terracotta tinged stones create a two-story vintage villa built, lived and loved for hundreds of years. Blooming bright fushia bougainvillea climb up lattice and large arched windows with wooden shutters let the perfect amount of light into the spacious bright rooms and cast rays across the white vintage lace four posted bed.

We all gather around a large table on the veranda to enjoy a home cooked lunch- Tuscan style.
The sun warms my back and the smooth red wine warms me inside. We sit around and talk, laugh, eat, drink and bask in the afternoon sun. My head feels light with the ecstasy and the pure relaxation of it all.

The evening is spent walking through the vineyards, ripe plump purple grapes hang from the vines and the afternoon sun slowly fades away and brings a cool crisp breeze.
We watch the sun set from the top of the small township, the church bell rings and echoes across the ever expansive vineyards. My breath is taken away in the moment. I am happy. Purely happy. I take the time and distance my wandering thoughts to take it all in and simply enjoy the beauty of it all.

Dinner is a three course home cooked meal, made with love, time and fresh herbs growing in the garden. Each mouthful is pure bliss. I savor the fresh, robust flavors of every ingredient.
The wine is smooth, sweet and makes me feel numb with pleasure. I am beginning to enjoy this way of life.

The following day I receive the rare treat of breakfast in bed, I delight in the sunshine shining through and the crispness of the white sheets.

We take the day exploring the townships in the surrounding area. We wander around the bustling leather stalls, drink frothy cappuccinos and marvel at the small scooter turned hatchback ute. We wander through arch ways down stoned pathways leading to rustic homes with brightly coloured shutters. We admire the impressive views, and drive past ancient stone castles. We eat lunch down in an old cellar, sipping on wine and indulging on succulent delicacies. We sing happy birthday and admire each others purchases.

The afternoon is spent in the Siena square slurping on gelato and watching the ongoings of the people coming and going and also enjoying the late afternoon sun.

I am sad when I have to leave. In fact I cry. I have enjoyed being looked after and not having the stresses of traveling weighing down on my heavy shoulders. Shoulders pulled down with the weight of an ever-expanding back-pack, the accumulation of useless novelty souvenirs and the impractical sized- Lonely planet. I have enjoyed the beauty of the Tuscan hills, the warmth of the Tuscan sun, I have enjoyed the guiltless indulgences and pure pleasure of it all. And maybe most of all I have enjoyed seeing the boy again.

Open your venetians- I am in Venice!

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:18:00 GMT

I find myself lost in a sea of crowds. In an attempt to re-surface I barge through the herds of tourists clicking on their kodak, slurping on their quickly melting gelato, bargaining for a "My____(insert relation) went to Italy and all I got was this lousy t-shirt", t-shirt and shuffling along owwing and ahhing and all that is Venice. I am drowning. And I am drowning in the narrow, winding labyrinth that is Venice.

San Marcos square was like finding a pocket of air amidst all the drowning. That is if you discount the pigeons.

San Marcos Square was a hive of activity. Perfect people watching. There we stood, giant gelati in hand looking out at the pigeons and people and taking in the grandeur of this Italian square.

We race around, watch a glass blowing display, admire the beauty of the church, dash across the bridge of sighs and get lost in the ancient prison (which once housed Casanova) and of course make our way to the gondola rank.

We climb in a velvet lined gondola and my friend, Seth and I take the throne and we feel like prom Queen and King. Our gondlier, underneath his striped scooped necked top and tailored pants sports a whole host of trashy tatts, including a tired pitbull a faded rose and an even more faded name of a girl once loved. I am suprised he doesn't have LOVE /HATE across his knuckles. His hair is slicked back in an something Greenpeace would cite capable of killing marine life. He doesn't have much to say. But he does know how to use that paddle.

We glide along the venetian waterways, under small arched bridges and through dark shadows cast by faded buildings. We sail through rays of sunshine which warm our backs rested against velvet thrones.

The hills are alive with the sound of music

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:16:00 GMT

As I wake from a bus riding induced coma on board coach 'Contiki', I struggle to focus and the first thing I see through bleary eyes is jaggered ice-capped hills admist rolling green.
Lace curtains part behind shuttered windows and brightly coloured flower boxes line the panes of slanted roofed chalets. It is breath taking. I am in Austria and the hills are alive with the sound of music!

And what better way to wake up to the fact that I am in the Austrian Tyrol than being splashed in the face with ice cold water. And by that I mean- ice, ice, ice cold water. What better way to experience ice cold water from the Tyrol than go white water rafting!

Besides the minus degree water- the white water rafting was amazing. In between waiting for my fingers to thaw out enough to hold my paddle the surroundings were simply may i say it again...breathtaking.

That is me second from back

Gliding, splashing, laughing and shivering in between pinching myself to the fact that I was being tossed around like a pantyhose in a washing machine admist a scene from 'Heidi'. Green, fertile hills, cows grazing on meadows, sun shining down illuminating each individual cheerful flower- happy to be growing in such beautiful surroundings.

To warm up after our deep freeze we were handed a shot of schnapps. I didn't realise although being conjoined with sweet fruits such as strawberries, apples and peaches, Schnapps- the real stuff. Tastes a lot like tequila. Definitely strong. Definitely warming.

The township of Innsbruck, was oh so quaint! This is the place famous for the Winter Olympics; a gorgeous imperial church perched above the township and below the mountainous scenery, a little bakery with the smell of sweet strudel wafting out on to the cobblestoned streets.
I swear I even saw Julie Andrews with a cane basket in hand skipping along.

I couldn't go to Austria and not pop in to the Swarovski Crystal World.

Mum would have been very disappointed.

I entered inside the giant with glistening crystal eyes. After being dazzled by the 11m high crystal wall and the inside of a giant crystal prism I indulged myself in some little treasures from the Swarovski store.

The sweet taste of the Rhine Valley

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:11:00 GMT

As soon as you drive into Germany, you know you are in Germany.
You can feel it in the fresh, crisp air, the beauty you breath in.

Driving in through the valley, cascading vineyards and greenery roll down from the tops of the wall of the valley. Old castles sit proudly on top overlooking the small, quiet townships.

The old steam train puts along the side of the water, puffs of smoke come from the chimmneys of the perfect little houses lined in an ordered fashion on the banks of the water.

I feel as though I am in the midst of a toy train town....and I'll spy the fat conductor just around the corner or perhaps spot him with a stein in hand sitting perched in one of the quaint little bars.

I walk to the top of the the sloping valley and stand underneath a silent castle and look out on the township of St. Goar. I feel a sense of tranquility yet also of erriness as I gaze down on the mysterious mermaid figure overlooking the water. The mermaid- Lorelei famous for seducing sailors into the river and to their death (check out http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A24145869 more on the Lorelei legend).

I understand how Heinrich Heine and Mark Twain felt now looking down from the same spot the poem of Loreli was imagined:

Ich weiß nicht was soll es bedeuten
Daß ich so traurig bin;
Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,
Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
- Heinrich Heine, 1823.

I cannot divine what it meaneth,
This haunting nameless pain:
A tale of the bygone ages
Keeps brooding through my brain.
- translation: Mark Twain, 1880.

With the knowledge good wines come from this region I take the night to attend a wine tasting in the an old cellar. A stone staircase leads us down to a candle- lit cellar, the smell of oak and fermented grapes pricks the nose. They are famous for their ice wine and white wines in the region. Deliciously sweet they are.

St. Goar is also a land mark because of the giant cuckoo clock that is perched in the main street . It is the biggest Cuckoo clock in the world. St. Goar also houses a great array of traditional Steins decorated with elborate stories etched in their clay and of course one of the biggest Steins in the world. Now you know what the Germans consider important.
Yes in Australia, we may house the biggest pineapple, mango, lobster, banana and various other produce items but it is the Germans who have the biggest beer mug! Why didn't we think of that.

AMSTERDAM- Bicycles, Bridges and Brownies

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:06:00 GMT

Amsterdam a city of bicycles, bridges and brownies (and I’m not talking about the kind your grandma bakes).

Amsterdam although often mistaken as the capital of the Netherlands, it is definitely a capital of culture. A place that turns a blind eye on drugs and prostitution and has a pretty liberal attitude all round, except of course when it comes to the bike lane. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to cross a Dutchman on a bike lane if I was obscuring his or her path.

The funny thing is how normal the people of Amsterdam are…they weren’t stoned sex-phenes growing magic mushrooms in the back of there organic veggie patch but more quite a serious looking bunch, with good looks, height and a sense of education and conservatism. I guess who can blame them I would be pretty serious or at least seriously pissed off if herds of excitable tourists out to score some pot and a prossie raided my town every night as well.

I must say I could help but be an excitable tourist though too…although I wasn’t on the look out for a prossie.

I had always been curious to walk down the red light district and check out a coffee shop or two.

After a leisurely and liquor lubricating cruise down the canal with the contiki clan. We were now being hurriedly ushered down the cobble stoned streets of the red light district to hit up a ‘cultural show’ deep in the labyrinth or rather in the labia of one very ‘cultural’ girl.

Bored window girls illuminated by a red haze, idly texting on cell phones lined the narrow streets. Oblivious or perhaps just uncaring by the herds of tourists staring in bewilderment through the glass, like children at a zoo. The assortment of lingerie clad girls lazily lean over very hospital- esque bunks ready to pull the white curtain shut and perform an examination…well I guess that is what happens, just perhaps not a medical examination. I am amazed at how sterile and normal it all seems. As if rooting perfect strangers for a buck or 200 Euros is a perfectly acceptable line of work (well 200 Euros for a 10 min session- that is pretty good money).

Once at the ‘Cultural Show’ we are greeted by an enthusiastic door man who begins handing out free drink coupons and penis lollypops whilst ushering us through the doors of an intimate velvet adorned theatre.

We are given the front row. The show begins with no warm up, no now we are about to see rampant sex on stage, no slow build up to the fact a now very naked, expressionless couple are having sex on a rotating lazy susan, as if rehearsing a choreographed series of yoga moves.

Mouth open, slightly aghast, I am boggled in thoughts, I wonder how many times a day they have sex, I wonder if they are a real couple as announced, I wonder how a.) He keeps it up and b.) How she stays lubricated and out of pain with her legs over her head like that. As the curtain closes I am left pondering how ‘salute to the sun’ became a sex position.

The following acts involve a leopard-women doing a striptease to eye of the tiger, a well-endowed man flinging his package around like he was squatting flies and two more ‘real-life’ couples on the lazy susan.

By this stage I have had without realizing had a fair bit to drink (you know this is always the start of a good story). This was in order to take the edge off what I was witnessing and witnessing with 60 or so other people. Yeah I’ve watched porn but not with 60 other people in the room or come to think of it not quite involving acts like this one….with the exception of some bad porn watched in uni days…disguised under the name Bare Bitch Project (Spin off of Blair Witch Project- you can imagine how good that one was).

When next thing I know a lady dressed in a costume from ‘Jane and Tarzan’ clutching a banana in her hand is asking for volunteers. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, the egging on of 30 people, the look of sheer desperation in the eyes of Jane or just the fact I felt I was being dared and to not go up on stage would mean I had failed in giving everything a go (something I promised myself when first coming overseas).

So up I went on stage. There I was under the bright lights standing where I had just witnessed the last couple going at it doggy-style with Jane, a banana and what looked like someone dressed in a giant ape outfit with a throbbing hard on in the wings. This was not a Holy cow Batman but more of a HOLY SHIT what have I gotten myself into moment.

The music starts up and Jane starts dancing around, waving the banana around like it was a golden oracle. In order to warm me up she has me copy some moves she makes. It turns into a bit of put your right arm, you put your right arm out, put your left arm in, put your left arm out, put your bum in you put your bum out and you wave it all about. So there we are doing the dutch porno version of the hockey pockey…the music then dies down…the crowd is hushed…we are obviously being built up for something. Jane goes down. Jane spreads her legs. Banana is inserted. Banana is peeled.

Now comes my part…

I am handed a blind fold.

The music is building to a crescendo.

I am led to Jane. I am instructed to eat the banana. No turning back now. I pray I am going to get banana to go, hold the muff.

The first mouthful of that banana was a welcome relief … that is until the ape from the wings emerges with a giant strap- on and stats rubbing up against me from behind, making animated and overly excited ape sounds.

The crowd bursts into fits of laughter as I make a hasty retreat to my seat.

Let’s just say I will never be able to look at a banana the same way again or an ape for that matter.

Next stop was to a famous coffee shop. Now not to get you confused but a coffee shop sells marijuana and a café sells coffee- go figure.

One of the more happening and well known establishments, named after a ‘grass’ dwelling insect lured us in with promises of smoke ranging from black widow to bubblegum and a selection of brownies.

With the confusion of having to press a button to light up a screen with an extensive menu that could out- do the Cheesecake Factory - I went the brownie route.

I had been advised to only have half the brownie, wait an hour, then have the other half. But that is like telling a small child to eat half their ice cream and then wait an hour and eat the other half. Not going to happen. I waited all about 5mins before devoring the second half of my brownie. Feeling slightly mellow I still wasn’t satisfied. So I then went on to a black widow. Never really being a Frenchie in the art of smoking. I was more a Sandy. Having only the year before been coached by my boyfriend how to effectively smoke a joint. I went through the step-by-step process…Suck. Swallow. Hold your breath. (God this sound like another lesson a boyfriend once taught me). Slowly let the smoke come out your mouth…

With that I looked like a Class A TOOL standing there as if at a birthing class trying to smoke a giant and now very wet joint, while a table away were some rastas blowing smoke rings around me.

By this stage, I was well and truly up with the kites.

Now the hard part, trying to find your way home admist a whole host of challenges, including a now raging appetite, too many bright lights and a maze of cobble- stoned streets. Realising it was only five minutes until the last train departed to our out-of-town inn…an inebriated brownie munching friend and myself left the group of rowdy Aussie chicks in search of some ‘sweet ‘shrooms’ and attempted to locate the train station.

It took almost 15mins to find the train station which was across the road from where we originally had started our search. It took 20 minutes of much confusion and 5 train guard’s assistance to purchase a ticket to a train which was supposed to have already left.

With some stroke of luck we somehow (really I don’t know how) found and boarded our train. Now not so lucky was another young lad on tour with us from Dallas.

He was found once the lights went on at the end of the sex show sucking face with the lucky lady sitting next to him. Oblivious to the fact the audience had turned its attention away from the stage and to Dallas and his new tonsil tennis partner groping one another…god knows what would have happened if there wasn’t an arm rest forcing the separation of the two. Anywho…he and his mistress had decided to take an earlier train back to re-enact some of what was seen on stage. Now equally as confused once at the train station. Dallas hopes on a train to ask directions. Bad idea.

The doors shut.

Worse still, the particular train he got on was the last for the night.

One way to Germany please.

Not only did he not get laid he ended up in the middle of somewhere. Somewhere he couldn’t speak the language and somewhere he didn’t have any money and somewhere he had to hitch a ride with a truck driver through the night to get back to Amsterdam.

Lesson here: never get on an active train in a foreign country to ask directions.

The following morning after knocking back a sickening cone of chips with mayo and tomato sauce (Dutch specialty designed for stoners) I headed off to see Anne Frank’s house. A little too bleary eyed from the night before to fully appreciate the house that was the hiding place for the young Jewish girl who was persecuted by the Nazis during World War Two, and the famous diary she wrote there…but now satisfied I had done something in Amsterdam besides get stoned and see a sex show.

Next stop- the Heineken Brewery. A kooky bunch of Dutchmen must have had a say in this place. What better then at the end of every exhibition having a bar for a beer break of the famous amber substance. After polishing off the free beer you arrive at a creative center where you can be transported to a country-side in Holland to sing (in Dutch) to a karaoke machine or perhaps you want to lounge around in a space capsule and watch bad ads from the 80's.

After all the excitement expelled in Amsterdam it was time to get back on the bus...and sleep it off until the next stop...

Dare I say it...Contiki

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 13:03:00 GMT

So after a wonderful and overwhelming first few days on the other side of the continent I was ready or maybe not so ready to jump on the dare I say it…Contiki bus.

After a long negotiation with myself whether or not to take the 12 day whirl around Europe with 50 something 20 something year olds in a drunken haze…I decided with the short time I had in Europe, no available traveling buddy and no time to organize anything myself I would take the risk of hearing “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie Oi Oi Oi” and the response to arriving in a foreign country, to a chorus of hyperactive, hungover’s “Where can I go get drunk?” and jump aboard.

Although my decision was made, the usual muddle messes I get myself into meant although setting my alarm for 5am (bus leaving at 7am sharp- no exceptions!!)…I found myself waking up at 6.40am (alarm had been set for 5pm not am!). Running around in a scurried state of shock, I put on my smoke sogged club outfit from the previous night, shoved anything I could see visible laying on the floor into my already over-stuffed bag and attempted with 6 failed calls to get a cab to whiz me to the 25 minute away bus depot.

With no way to get through to any of the taxi companies I run out of the house dragging my side-splitting bag along with me…arms flying around to try and catch a ride… I don’t know… to the mental asylum!

Eventually a smiling Jamaican taxi driver promises to get me there in about 20-30 mins man….I was just praying he wasn’t operating on Island time or had induced any Jamaican favors. This broadway loving (yes broadway loving- apparently his favourite is James and the technicolour dreamcoat) taxi driver weaved his way through the beginnings of peak hour traffic, reassuring me that we would indeed get there on time.

And well although not exactly on time we pulled up as the Contiki coach was about to pull out of the depot. Jumping out of the cab heaving my now collapsed luggage I wave down the contiki coach…eyes peering down, faces pressed up against the glass analyzing this disheveled girl (looking like I had already endured a two week contiki experience). The tour guide pops her head out of the door.

I quickly announce I am on the tour…she looks at me quizzically, “Your on the European Experience tour??”

“Ummm…yeah a European experience…”

She prompts…

“The 28 day tour?”

Realizing I had obviously flagged down the wrong coach I embarrassingly answer,

“No, the 12- day one.”

The now slightly smug guide points in the direction of the coach pulling up behind me. Now clearly known by the European experience coach and my tour group also peering down through the glass trying to work out just what the hell the commotion was all about.

Finally taking the last seat on the bus I begin the Contiki Discovery tour…

Now usually what happens when getting the last seat on the bus is you end up in the front seat with the kid with the coke-bottle bottom glasses and droll cascading from the side of his mouth.

But the only seat vacant on this bus was at the back of the bus, where a rowdy lot of rural Victorian girls, were re-telling animated stories about arriving in London for the first time, in between, ‘grouse’, ‘sweet mate’ ‘and then I said let’s get shit-faced’, I slowly shuffled my way to the vacant seat next to a 30-something year old gay interior designer from Brisvegas, in Europe for a tile show in Italy. As it turns out my conceptions of contiki travelers turned out to be indeed misconceptions (with the exception of the gaggle of Aussie girls in the backseat).

We had a 30-something year old Doctor from New York City, A prison psychiatrist from San Francisco, Five honeymooning couples from South America, Central America, The States and Australia, a cop from New Zealand, two Pharmacists, two nurses, a dentist from Canada, a French- exchange student, a Colombian housekeeper, sisters from Yugoslavia, a South African diamond farmer, the Munich soccer teams greatest supporter from China and did I mention five couples on their honey moon.

Can’t exactly imagine that Contiki is offering the sort of romance that a honeymooning couple is after. Unless that is you envisage your honeymoon consisting of drinking a bottle of Austrian Schnapps, watching a sex show in Amsterdam and topping it all off with a root in a Munich beer garden. But then again who am I to judge.

So now well acquainted with the my new traveling team and feeling quite safe that if I was to get any liver problems, tooth-aches, need any help with my French, a bit of tile advice or if I just wanted to spill my heart out on a leather couch I would indeed be looked after by new friends.

But I don’t think any group support would be anyway cohesive enough after a night out at our first stop- AMSTERDAM.

London Times

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 12:52:00 GMT

After a sleep-less flight from New York City, a 2 hr immigration line, a pulled shoulder heaving all the luggage through Heathrow Airport and a tube ticket in the direction of Cockfosters (try not laughing at this when sleep deprived) we arrive in LONDON!

First stop. Clapham South. We step out from one of the steepest escalators, the icy breeze hitting our faces to the Australian ridden suburb of Clapham South.

Once locating Karla's apartment (thanks to my personal GPS system and former resident of the Clapham area, Dave), we are greeted by one of many dossers* crashing at Karla's pad. A shower and a sleep and I was as new of a woman I could be on a good dose of jet lag. Karla and Heelena had organised a dinner date at a Mexican restaurant in Clapham, followed by a bombardment of former Charles Sturt Uni mates at the local pub.

It is amazing you can run into more people you know in London than you can in any city in Australia. After a few cidars and pints and a lot of catching up with old friends all in the midst of travels i was ready to crash and crash out I did.

We had a weekend of unusual sunshine and warmth.
So we made the most of the weather and the Thames Festival action down on South bank.

As we weaved through music acts, gourmet food stalls, buskers, drinking crowds and happy shining people and many of them I got a great view of South Bank in all its glory and some of the major architectural icons of London- including the Thames building, the Gerkin and London bridge.

The warmth and sunshine continued for Miss Karla's birthday, so we headed for Clapham common to have a picnic and blow some bubbles...

The party continued with drinks out in SoHo and an old Irish friend of Dave's to liven things up. We shotted (very expensive and exactly portion controlled shots) through the night, danced up a storm, caught a tuk-tuk to an "offie"* to buy copius amounts of beer (we never end up drinking) and bribe the store attendant into giving Karla a birthday present (we end up with a chocolate bar!) then hope in a black cab back to Karla's pad.

The last day in London town...Dave took me into town and we hoped on one of the classic red double decker tour buses to get a fly-by look at the icons of London. Unfortunately the weather had turned ghastly chilly. Determined however to ride on the double deck of the bus we cuddled up with the cool wind hitting our faces as we managed to snap a few pics of Big Ben, the London eye, Buckingham Palace (well the gates at least), Hyde park, Trafalgar square, Piccadilly, Park Lane, Oxford St...a regular game of monopoly really.
After we couldn't take the drizzle and wind anymore we hoped off and warmed up with some Indian (very popular cuisine in London) and a pint before catching the tube home.

The story so far...

bonnie_mud — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 12:21:00 GMT

After doing a stint at Uni and walking out with a degree in PR and a shocking hangover...I found myself stumbling to Sydney town, dabbling in fashion PR and then on to the music industry . When thoughts of traveling to far away lands got to much to suppress any longer, I packed up my life (and left most of what was left in cardboard boxes at my parents house). With a job offer from her uncle and Yacht Captain, I flew to Miami in the United States of Whatever to take up a position sailing the seven seas as Stewardess extraordinaire. Perfect. Except perhaps for the sea sickness. So two years and 20-odd countries later I am still finding my sea legs and still eager to explore more of what the wide world has to offer before (one day) moving back to Australia to get a haircut and a real job. All my previous adventures are published on my blog www.theadventuresofbonniemuddle.blogspot.com