The Royal Edinburgh 2011 Military Tattoo

You know how the thing with tattoos works, don't you? You get to the ripe old age of 18, and decide that you want to brand your body for life with a picture of a tiny butterfly permanently inked across your tight and muscular stomach. Then you reach your thirties, fall pregnant, and get to your ninth month, and the tiny butterfly has metamorphosed and stretched into what looks like a giant hadeda about to crash land into your crotch.

I did it a bit ass about face. I avoided tattoos in my teens and twenties, got to my thirties, had too many margaritas at a Mexican bar during happy hour in New York, and decided that I couldn't live another day without a dragonfly on my ankle. Luckily, I still liked Norbert (the dragonfly) when I sobered up, but I promised never to get another tattoo. Ever. Until a year or two later when I got another one on my arm. But it was a much more mature decision than before, because both myself and the tattoo artist were sober this time. And I swore that was that.

So when Charmaine told me we were going to the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, you can imagine why I was ambivalent. I have no impulse control, and pictured myself walking out of there with a picture of a rocket launcher or tank tattooed on my shoulder. Phew, was very relieved to find out the tattoo has nothing to do with tattoos. What an amazing night - it gave me goosebumps!

A few photos from the Fringe

Older and wiser

Ah boo. It's my last day in Edinburgh - leaving for London tonight. Can't believe that a week flew by so quickly, and that I wasted 2 days being sick in bed.

I had such an amazing time here catching up with old friends, making new friends, drinking like a Welsh Coal Miner, soaking up the wonderful Festival atmosphere and just generally misbehaving. Just what I needed!

Whenever I leave a place during my travels, I like to reflect back on what I learnt during that time. So here goes:

1. Anya was right : a taxi is the only way to travel! Ah yes, never underestimate the wisdom of 6 year olds.
2. Don't ever believe the weather man; he's a lying bastard with a really sick sense of humour. And also, don't think that sunny skies in Scotland mean that there will be no rain. There will always be rain in Scotland. It generally waits for you to come outdoors without a brolly or a raincoat, and then it sneaks up on you and pisses down on your head and soaks you to the core. Which leads me to my next point.
3. Don't bother to do your hair in rainy climates. There isn't much point in spending an hour trying to style it because you'll just end up looking like a drowned rat within minutes. Just bloody well tie it up. Don't bother with make-up either. Only use water-proof mascara.
4. The Brits stare a lot. They can't help it; it's just the way they're wired. Staring back and trying to shame them into looking away will not work. In fact, it will just encourage them.
5. The self check-out at Sainsbury's rocks!
6. It's possible to pick up an accent in a week. Though most people will think you're making fun of them, so try not to do it.
7. Everything is always better in a foreign country when you're on holiday.
8. In Scotland, "wee" means small. If you tell people you need a wee, they'll ask, "A wee what?"

Sigh. Goodbye Scotland... So long, and thanks for all the fish. Huge thanks as well to Charmz, Andrew, Anya, Pierre and Denise for making my trip so amazing. Sheepdog, love you millions - you're medicine for the soul, and it uplifts me just knowing that we share the same planet.

Grog, sprogs and dogs

Okay, so to bring you up to speed on what we've been up to since I arrived...

Friday was a bit of a blur because I didn't get to sleep on the plane (can't take schedule 12 drugs, i.e. the good shit) when traveling with sprogs. So Charmz let me sleep at the B & B, before they fetched me for a lovely dinner out at a South East Asian Restaurant. Early night.

Saturday morning, we headed off to The Royal Mile where we met Pierre, an old childhood friend (err, "old" as in I've known him since I was 6, not "old" as in over the hill) who had traveled all the way from Aberdeen to have lunch with us. There was initially talk of some highbrow activity like going to a Museum, but that was quickly shelved when we decided to go drink. Umm, I mean, go for lunch at a lovely tapas bar called Barioja (www.Barioja.co.uk).

We really had great intentions of behaving. We even ordered some food, though not very much. A few glasses of wine quickly segued into a litre of Sangria. And then another one. And another one and then another two. I won't go into too much detail after this, mostly to protect the names of the innocent (Pierre). Suffice to say that we had a fabulous time, and that it's amazing how some friendships can be picked up where they left off, even after years and years passing in between reunion piss-ups. Umm, I mean lunches.

Sunday morning, Charmaine's husband, Andrew, decided that Charmaine and I should be punished for our behavior the night before, and suggested a gentle country walk at Roslin Glen. Keep in mind that:

1. We were a tad hungover.
2. I did not bring any suitable clothes or shoes for hiking.
3. I was expecting cold Scottish weather and had packed accordingly.
4. Did I mention that we were hungover?

Andrew took us on a "stroll" that covered at least 20kms through spectacular scenery. Which I unfortunately could not appreciate due to the aforementioned hangover. And the fact that most of the walk was through mud. And in 20 degree heat. Done in my Doc Martens and heavy winter jeans. Did I mention the hangover? Also, even though Andrew is a genius, his navigational skills are, as Anya would say, "crap". Of course, I whined the whole way; even Anya (who was repeatedly attacked by nettles), held up better than I did. You know you're a whiny-ass when a six year old tells you that the pub is just around the corner, and that you'll feel better after a beer. She was right, I did.

After an afternoon nap, Charmaine and I went to see a fringe comedy show by Zoe Lyons called  "Clownbusting" Very funny! (http://www.comedyfestival.com.au/2011/season/shows/zoe-lyons-clownbusting).

Monday was spent wandering around the festival, and looking after 2 sprogs and a dog. The dog was very cute. Enough said. And on Monday night we headed off to Edinburgh Castle to watch the Military Tattoo. Wow! It was amazing. The castle was used as a canvas to the most spectacular light show, and the music and splendor just took my breath away. (www.edintattoo.co.uk). Having the most amazing time!!!

Run Anya, run!

So there we were. Me standing braless and bootless at airport security while an overly enthusiastic woman jabbed a wand at me, and Anya standing to the side hosing herself laughing at me.

By now, it was ten minutes past gate closing time, and I was determined not to miss that bloody flight. The wand Nazi finally concluded that my bra posed no threat to national security (wonder if that would have been the case if I was a double D cup?) and we were free to go. Of course, we didn't have a moment to waste buggering around with lacing up boots and repositioning bras, so I grabbed my stuff, grabbed Anya and then ran like the hounds of Hades were snapping at our heels.

Take a moment to appreciate the scene... A wild eyed woman madly dashing through the airport with her bra wrapped around her neck like a feather boa, her big boots clutched in her hand, her feet only covered in socks, and a sprog being dragged along behind her. I was ready to dive tackle anyone who got in our way, but the crowds parted before us. Funny that.

It was at this point that I heard, "Ma'am. Stop!! Come back!"

To hell with that! What did security want now? For me to hand over my knickers for scanning? Cavity search? "Run Anya, run! They're not taking us alive!"

Alas, Anya was tired and needed the loo. Not a great combination. I soon felt a hand on my shoulder and thought, "That's it. The jig is up. The bloody mad English bastards have won." I spun around, ready to face my tormentor only to be faced with an out of breath old lady, who was holding out my travel wallet, which contained our passports and all my forex. "You dropped this," she said. Score: Mad English Bastards 1 - Bianca 0.

After thanking her profusely, we belted to the gate and got through a mere second before the gate closed. And yes, I put on my boots and bra before take-off.

Of bras and boots

So there we were. Standing in front of the troll who wouldn't let us pass.

"What is your relationship to this child?"
"I'm her good mummy."
"You're her mother." It's important to note that the troll looked understandably skeptical here, considering that Anya and I don't look alike, and don't share surnames.
"Oops, sorry. I'm her godmother, but Anya has a Scottish accent and pronounces it 'good mummy'".
"So if Anya jumped off a bridge, would you jump off a bridge?"
"Err no. But that's mostly because she's very flexible and probably wouldn't break as many bones as I would."
(Note to self: don't refer to broken bones when you're suspected of being a child abuser/human trafficker.)
The conversation continued in this way for another twenty minutes with Anya thrice denying that she knew me. (Another note to self: sprogs can be contrary when they're tired and need to make a poo).

The troll finally let us pass after taking photos, fingerprints, urine samples and making me explain the history of my relationship with Charmaine. (Sorry friend, but I had to tell her about the time you and Tracey stole that painting in Questionmark in Melville and carried it out in your handbag. I was important to cast myself in a good light and make you look bad, so the troll would approve of my "good mummy" status).

Just when I thought we were home free... There it loomed... Heathrow security.... After elbowing our way past a few people and me offering sexual favors to others, we got to the front. I removed my Doc Marten boots, unloaded everything into trays and dashed through, hoping that our plane hadn't taken off yet. Of course, I set off every alarm they had. Anya thought it was very amusing.

I was then frisked and touched in places that I didn't know I had. Repeatedly. Their electronic wand thingy probed and prodded, and my suggestion that they give it a vibrating feature was not appreciated. After the wand repeatedly squawked around the boob area, I tentatively suggested that my underwire bra could be to blame. They made me take it off. When Anya and I were finally waved through, there was no time to put my boots and bra back on.

To be continued...

Mad dash to freedom...

So I thought that traveling with a 6 year old was going to be challenging. And it was. But not because of the sprog; it was going to be challenging regardless. Just because I have bad travel karma, and someone somewhere gets a huge kick out of seeing me suffer.

The whole process was painless until we got to Heathrow, and had to catch a connecting flight to Edinburgh. Up until then, everything had gone smoothly. Anya was an angel: she slept, behaved and even managed to look totally innocent every time she let off a really stinky fart, and had people turning around to glare in our direction. Which was often.

Our stopover at Heathrow was meant to be an hour and forty minutes. More than enough time to get us through customs and security; I even thought I'd have time for shopping. Cue evil "nyaaaa haaaa haaaa-that's-what-you-thought-but-the-travel-gods-had-other-plans" sound effects.

Firstly, we arrived almost half an hour late, because we were forced to hover tentatively over Heathrow like the unwanted ugly cousins at a family shindig. Then, the trains that connect the terminals and gates at Heathrow were malfunctioning, so we got to the UK Border Control late. Thirdly, everyone was stinky. Okay, this may not have contributed to us being late, but it definitely contributed to my pounding headache. Why do they heat the planes so much that you end up sweating like a rapist in church?

Then, there she was... At Border Control...The ugly troll that stands under the bridge and does everything in its power to prevent you from passing. I waited for her to ask for the password, to which I would have replied "Botox", as nothing else could ever improve those horrible frown lines on her trollish face. Instead, she demanded, "Passports".

By this point, we had 15 minutes until our gate closed, so I was anxious and nervous that we'd miss our flight. The troll mistook my shiny pallor for a sign of guilt. And thus set about spending the next 20 minutes trying to prove that I was a human trafficker, and Anya was my victim.

Story to be continued....

Hello disillusionment, my old friend

So, we've deduced that when I travel, I have the willpower of Lindsay Lohan at a crack den in Nigeria. So, if I know this about myself, and if I know I'm likely, nay... certain to pick up weight, why don't I just accept it and diet when I get home? Ahh yes.... If only...

My problem is that travelling brings out my inner Pollyanna. It makes me completely incapable of being realistic and reasonable. It makes me wildly optimistic; ridiculously hopeful that a lifetime of terrible habits can be wiped out simply because I've changed my scenery, as opposed to my self.

Here are some examples:

• Even though I know that I'll generally start out the holiday at a certain size, and that I'll end the holiday being at least one size up (size 12 to a size 14, for example), I'll still insist on buying and packing size 10 clothes. I know what you're thinking. WTF???? I know, I know! I can't explain it. Something short circuits in my brain when I'm packing, and I truly believe that just because I'll be in a lovely exciting location, my life-long battle with my metabolism will cease to exist. And I'll magically be stick-thin and able to fit into slinky clothes and eat like a lumberjack. Naturally, we get to day two of the holiday, and all the stuff I've schlepped with is about as useful as as Paris Hilton at a rocket science convention.
• I'll believe that even though I've never taken my make-up off before going to sleep, and never worn face-masks and never used pampering creams and serums, that I'll do all of this while travelling, and therefore have to pack bags and bags of face goop and smelly girly stuff. Which Poodle normally ends up using. (He usually looks and smells amazing by the time we get home!).
• I'll be certain that even though I've never read a guide book in my life, and refuse to read maps (which sounds better than: I'm completely incapable of reading them), that this time will be different. And I'll stock up on at least 10 different guide books that I will drag from pillar to post and never read. Until we're home, and then I'll realise how much we missed out on!
• I'll be convinced that even though I hardly ever wear anything other than jeans, shorts and baggy tops, this holiday will be the time when I'll magically transform into a feminine waif-like creature, who will enjoy wearing floaty skirts and dresses and slinky tight outfits. Of course, on holiday, I stick to shorts, jeans and baggy tops, and still feel uncomfortable in skirts and dresses. All images of me running slow-motion through flowering fields (with my dress billowing behind me in the gentle breeze, and a giant straw hat perched on my head) die when I realise how hard it is to find flowering fields that don't also contain pissed-off armed farmers. And dresses that aren't see-through. And stupid straw hats that don't make you look like a tosser and keep falling down over your eyes. Though, the first point allows me to say that I would have worn them if they weren't all two sizes too small for me.

Sigh. Disillusionment is a dangerous flaw in a traveller, and I promise to never do these things again.

Or....I swear, this time, I'll be different!!!

Eating and drinking to sustain the economy

So where was I? Oh yes - the bathroom scale has to be packed for every trip, after the holiday in Std 9 where I picked up 10kgs in 2 weeks. (And just for the record, I did not accompany my friend and her family to any of the nudist beaches during that holiday. In fact, in order to escape the ordeal, I hired a bike and puffed and panted my way from Fish Hoek to Cape Point and back again. That's 35kms up a steep hill. Chased by cyclist-hating psychotic baboons all the way. And then 35 terrifying kilometers down a steep hill on a bike with shoddy breaks. For someone who has the athletic ability of a handicapped sloth,it was not pleasant).

So I know what you're thinking... I need more willpower when I go on holiday. Or you're thinking, "So what? Diet before you go, enjoy the holiday and then diet when you get back." And both of these are excellent suggestions. But this is why neither option is feasible...

Put me on a cruise liner or in a Club Med resort, tell me that I can eat and drink as much as I want to, and I will. In fact, it's my duty. If those nice people at Club Med or Royal Caribbean go to all that effort to order, transport and prepare tons and tons of amazing food, who am I to turn my nose up at it? If they have to use cranes to lift crates upon crates of rum aboard, then it's my moral obligation to drink it. Because let's face it, I'd hurt their feelings otherwise. Also, think of all the people who would lose their jobs if we didn't partake of these pleasures while on holiday: chefs, waiters, barmen, truck drivers, factory workers, farmers, etc. It boggles the mind. All that joblessness could cripple the economy!

Besides, it's important to nourish yourself with healthy food when you're on holiday. And what could be healthier than fruit? Take a pineapple, for example. That has been cut up and then placed in a blender. Liquefied and then poured into a glass. (With oodles of white rum and coconut cream added). Nothing could be healthier, that's what!!! It's a no-brainer. Except maybe having two of them, and then having a strawberry daiquiri, or ten afterwards. These drinks are full of vitamins and minerals, which are good for you. They're also unfortunately full of calories too - at least 650 calories per cocktail, which is more calories than a Big Mac. Which means that 6 of them during the course of a long, hard day on the beach, adds up to almost 50 slices of bread. Before I've even put any real food into my mouth. Arghh!!!!

So now you know why I'm able to pick up 2kgs a day if I'm not careful...

Next time, why it won't work to just allow myself to pile the weight on during the holiday and then lose it afterwards.

Scales and epic fails

Okay, I've rethought this whole travel blog thingy. If I only blog when we're travelling, then I'll only blog a few weeks out of every year, which is not very impressive blogging stats. And since I've always said that my favourite part of travelling is the build up to it (counting sleeps and calories for weeks before you get near passport control), then I figure I can blog ABOUT travelling, even when we're not actually travelling. Excellent logic! And hey, it's my blog, and I'll write what I want to. Okay, sorry Poodle, it's OUR blog. Just like the camera, iPad, iPod and other gadgets are all ours. (*rolls eyes* No they're not. They're MINE, MINE, ALL MINE!). Err, I might have issues with sharing...Note to self: chat to therapist about this.

Now that we have that out the way, it's time to talk about packing for travelling. I have a huge issue with this, because I always try and pack too much. I don't know what it is about heading out into the wild blue yonder, but give me a case, and I'll try and fit the kitchen sink into it. Along with all the pipes, toolbox and a plumber. Crazy, considering I don't do dishes. Or plumbers. Ever. That's Poodle's job :-) The dishes, not the plumber. Some of you are starting to feel sorry for Poodle now, aren't you?

Anyhoo. Most of my packing attempts have been epic fails, because my luggage is always overweight, and I don't end up using a quarter of the shit I've squashed in.

The one thing that always gets packed first no matter where we're going or how long we'll be away is... can you guess? It's that one thing that I can never, ever do without. No, it's not a raincoat. Nope, not a GPS either. Wrong, not malaria pills or my TripAdvisor application. It's my scale. Yip, a good, old fashioned bathroom scale.

Why, you may ask? Excellent question; and I'll tell you. It started in Standard 9 (Grade 11 for the whipper snappers), when I went away to Cape Town for 2 weeks with a friend and her family. Did I mention that this friend and her family were all extremely skinny people? And ate and drank like Welsh Coal Miners with the munchies? They spent the holiday shoving food at me (and also going to nudist beaches, but more about that another time) and were very offended if I mentioned the word "diet". So, naturally, I gained 10kgs in 2 weeks. Seriously.

My mother did not recognise me at the airport when I arrived home. And that was the start of my life-long attachment to my scale during times of travel.

To be continued....