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.
