How A Bad Day In London Transformed Me Into David Sedaris' New Publicist

I should probably write to David Sedaris and thank him for making me his new official publicist. It is not exactly official, but I think it may as well be.

It seems my keen readers ears are not as good as my keen readers eyes because despite his success and regular presence on bestseller lists I can only remember catching references to Sedaris' work a handful of times. Once in the car a radio interview was being conducted with Sedaris but this was ages ago, possibly years. But I still remember the instanteous smile he put on my face when he spoke about how his soft lilting voice is often mistaken to be female when talking on the phone.

Strangely enough I have seen his book 'Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk' on the shelves of many Italian book shops in the english section. I always gave it a tentative look, not quite sure why it was ringing a bell...'that funny guy I once heard of maybe, probably wrote it..might be a good book...but this is all too vague for me to make an informed decision...'

I finally gathered the momentum to buy 'Dress Your Family in Cuduroy and Denim' when I was in London a few weeks ago The purchase came about during a moment of extreme vulnerability.

My day began in Bloomsbury, the purpose was to visit the Britsh Museum but the experience proved to be somewhat anti-climactic. I have heard for so many years about how amazing it is that this became a case where the reality was left with no choice but to wilt in comparison to the imaginings. The journey around the gigantuan building had a checklist feel about it, because to my surprise there were no surprises! Everything I had been told was there....the Pantheon Marbles, the sensational Egyptian collection, etc,...as I encountered each item I had been told to look out for, my attempts to engage with it were thwarted by the apearance of a mental Tick symbol, comically large and green, lighting up with a ping noise. Maybe these items I had busted my gut studying at high school were triggering some negative mood associations... Maybe I was just very tired that day.

After the museum I resumed my second favourite activity in foreign countries, eating. With the first being spending money, I am a dangerous commodity. Mostly to myself. While I munched away on Pret A Manger yoghurt and museli I flipped through my guide book only to realise that Bloomsbury did not hold as much interest as I had predicted the night before.

I became annoyingly indecisive,  umm-ing and ahh-ing about everything my little Travel London book suggested. By the time I decided to visit the Charles Dickens Museum and had actually managed to find it, it was late afternoon. Soon things would be shutting. I was wasting my day...

After I then quite illogically decided to get to the Borough Markets, which involved a long bus trip followed by an even longer walk due to me getting off two stops early. Once I got there though I was a very happy camper.  I would go back to the markets another two times before the end of my trip. I tucked into a delicious piece of Banoffee pie, feeling so incredibly British in a Love-Actually-wannabee-Keira-knightley sort of way. I hoped maybe with the success of the markets I had made ammends with my indecision.

It was only once I was heading over London Bridge, feeling wonderful and Bridget-Jonsey, that I realised with a jolt that 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' was no longer lodged under my arm. I had borrowed the copy from my cousin's book shelf that morning and been reading it throughout the day. I only had one chapter left.

As is typical of me I went into full panic mode. If my house was to burn down I can honestly promise to be uber calm throughout the occasion, taking charge, giving orders even making tea for distressed passersby. If however something relatively minor happens on the scale of life and death, such as losing a coat, forgetting an appointment...I am inconsolable. If I lose an item belonging to someone else I seriously contemplate running away to Cuba. I filed a lost property report for the book at the markets reception with the desperation of a mother who has lost a child in a crowd and moped my way back across the bridge, now feeling like Bridget but in all the bad ways.

After making it halfway on foot to the tower of london and realising that it was 4pm and it would be closed. So I backtracked and made my way through cheapside, feeling Elizabeth-Bennetty, to St. Pauls Cathedral. I stopped along the way in a few shops, taking my time. I was just leaving a shopping complex when the cathedral came into full view. I reached for my camera in my bag...my hand rummaged around, finding lipglosses, bus tickets, a hair brush, water bottle, coin purses...no camera. My breathing became rapid and I muttered 'stay calm, stay calm, stay calm' like an incantation. I emptied my bag straight onto the pavement as shoppers stared.

I slumped against a glass wall, all my belongings spread around me... everything except for my camera. My camera with a 32 gigabyte SD card containing 4 months worth of travel photos.

A female police cyclist passing by with her bike noticed me and when we made eye contact there must have been something very pathetic about my face because she came right over and bent down next to me.

"Hello dear,  is everything ok?"

My bottom lip literally wobbled and I started bawling like a child. I told her the whole tale in hysterical blubberings, starting from the point when I lost my cousin's book. She was so nice throughout my ranting. So sympathetic, nodding knowingly, a kind grimace of solidarity here and there...she even told me a story about how she recently lost an important set of keys and how angry she was with herself. She then asked me my name and told me her's was Elise. She took down all the details of what happened and gave me the number of the station she worked at so I could call in to see if the camera had been found and handed in. She encouraged me to retrace my steps in the meantime.

"But Elise, is there even any point?!" I groaned, fed up with the cruel, cruel world, aka my own chronic absentmindedness. She told me it wouldn't hurt.

I thanked her profusely and followed her advice. All I can say is thank god I did because I had only left my camera on the counter of the most recent shop I had been in. The sales assisstant 'aww-ed' when I was clasped the camera to my breast and I cried sloppy completely indulgent tears of relief, disturbing londoners trying to buy stationery. I headed onwards to St. Pauls, still relieved and weepy when I ran into Elise again! She was on her bike and told me she was been circling around hoping to see me and ask if I had had any luck. She was so happy for me I had found my camera and in that moment I really just wanted to hug her. I thanked her again a hundred times, not only for her help but for her understanding.

It was at the end of this day, of highs and lows, that I decided I needed only one thing to calm me down and that was to buy a good book. I took a bus to Angel Islington and quickly found a discount book supplier. I bought another copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower to replace the one I went and lost on my cousin, and then perused the shelves for something that would cheer me up and make me laugh. That's when I found 'Dress Your Family'. It wasn't as cheap as I would have liked,  but oh man, was it worth every cent.

It was on the bus back to my cousin's house in East London as I started reading that my new voluntary work as David Sedaris' publicist began. Since then I have laughed on buses, planes, trains; in baths, kitchens, beds, cafes, and parks. Once I had laughed my way through 'Dress Your Family In Curduroy and Denim' I scoured the Oxfams of London for more second-hand Sedaris books, finding 'Me Talk Pretty One Day,' 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' and 'Barrell Fever,' so I could laugh my way through those.

I feel my greatest publicist work for Sedaris happened on the public transport system of London. I was on the double-decker bus heading to Oxford Circus and basically busting my lungs trying not to cry with laughter as I read 'Dress Your Family'. I was so immersed in Sedaris' hilarious piece on cultural differences called 'Six to Eight Black Men' that I jumped when the lady sitting in front of me said 'Excuse me?' I immediately assumed she was going to ask me to shut up or had mistaken my laughter for crying. But instead with eagerness she asked me what I was reading. She was so curious about what could make me laugh so much she just had to know! With relief and surprise I handed her the book so she could read the blurb, and praised it to high heaven. She thanked me saying she had been looking for a funny book to read and immediately began downloading it on her kobo.

My second publicity stunt occured when heading to Borough Markets on the underground tube. I didn't have a seat in the packed carriage but didn't mind because Sedaris once again was making me laugh myself silly. So silly I suspected that in that moment for all the Londoners sharing my carriage I was the 'typical loon' on their train that day. I read with the book held high over my face like a mask to hide my silent giggling but my shoulders which remained exposed still shook with laughter. Just before my stop I lowered my book to find the middle-aged couple standing opposite starring and smiling at me. 'Good book then??' the man asked, genuinely interested. I chuckled and told him was it ever! They laughed, asked to see the cover which I obliged and said they would look out for it, wishing me a very nice day as I stepped out of the carriage onto the platform.

Since London I have continued reading Sedaris in Italy. I am older and wiser now though, aware that if I read this one as quickly as I did the others then very soon I will finish it and the addictive joy will be over. I am still in the last chapter now of 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' which I started three weeks ago and still preaching the virtues of his attractive self-deprecation, dazzling observation skills and the delicious way he handles irony.

Sure Sedaris isn't exactly up with the times, he is in fact quite a dork. So if you are looking for the musings of someone you can relate to by age and interest this is maybe not for you. But this is also what I like about Sedaris, he never proclaimed to be cool. His honesty about his own sexuality and oddballness, his hilarious portraits of his quirky family and friends, the wonderful one-line observations about the world, and his ability to always to wrap up his stories with an elegant bow, drawing the important facts together to make a satisfying final message, in my opinion makes him a very entertaining and neat writer.

So everyone go and read Sedaris now, particulary if you are in need of a good career change.

Northen Italian Village-Crawl: Bassano del Grappa, Vicenza, Asolo

Working as an au pair has allowed me many benefits as a traveller. I don't have to pay for food or accommodation and with my Castelfranco family it was agreed that I was not needed by the family till 3pm monday to friday. I also had sundays off completely.

With my mornings off I liked to take the train to visit beautiful local towns, and during that period I made it to three.

Stop number 1: Bassano del Grappa

Bassano was recommended to me by many friends who have raved about its beauty, and it indeed was well worth the visit. Unfortunately not much was open in the way of the beautiful boutiques common to cobble-stone Italian towns due to it being low season. However the markets were on which I took a stroll through through. They were a little hit and miss, consisting mostly of outlet stalls for underclothes and bedsheets, but the highlights of the markets were the flower stalls which smelled amazing and the fresh produce stalls. I bought a punnet of strawberries when I was leaving and ate them as I strolled back to the train station. The other thing worth mentioning was the Libreria Palazzo Roberti, one of the most beautiful bookshops I have seen: www.palazzoroberti.it

After the markets I bought a thick Italian hot chocolate and strolled down to the otherwordlyAlpini Bridge which I am happy to say is as beautiful as it is on google images. I spent a long time leaning on the bannister, taking photos and indulging in the view.  I then walked down the opposite bank in order to take photos of the bridge from afar where I met some ducks encamped amongst the lilies and reeds. In my good mood I shared some of my mozarella and prosciutto panini with them.

I highly recommend Bassano,  even just as an aesthetic experience. It is a combination of quaint, tasteful, otherwordly, and sublime...a fascinating experience as a tourist. I couldn't stop musing the whole time I was there: 'To think people are so well acquainted with beauty it is their daily reality...I wonder if they know how lucky they are!'




Stop number 2: Vicenza

Vicenza I can imagine being so beautiful in the summer. The turqoise dome of the Basilica Palladiana must glow and make a beautiful contrast to the houses painted in bright shades of terracotta, peach and mustard. When I was there it was definitely still winter though. It was drizzly, a bit dark and the gray sky seemed to dull the details of the stonework of the Piazza dei Signori.

I strolled around, finding once again that many shops were still shut, but I did enjoy a nice nutella and strawberry crepe and decide against buying a bottle of Klorane dry shampoo which was selling for a despicable ten euros in a chic pharmacy.

Another highlight was visiting the Teatro Olimpico. Despite the creepy supervisor, who offered to take a photo of me against the stage but then escalated the situation into a fullblown, slightly awkward photo shoot, it was very interesting and has been preserved beautifully. It also had a cute gift shop.

I visited the Palladio musuem, and as I have found is often typical with Italian musuems in winter, I was the only visitor and the supervisors were more than plentiful. I was stalked around the museum by bored musuem attendants but still managed to learn a thing or two about Palladio and to take a sneaky shot here and there of the gilded ceilings.

It was a shame that the sun only decided to come out in Vicenza just as I was about to leave. With a few minutes to spare I darted back to some of the more beautiful sights and recaptured them showing off their full sun-kissed potential. I am glad I did, particularly in regards to Piazza dei Signori which had a beautiful array of brightly coloured houses sadly dulled by the gray sky tormented me. I managed to capture these houses just as how I like to imagine they would look in the height of summer: fun, bright, and so very romantic.




Stop number 3: Asolo

The main lesson I have learned about travelling in Italy in winter is that it is both a blessing and a curse.  Being able to eat at any restaurant you want, walk through close to empty streets without being bustled around and getting into museums immediately is great. However as someone who identifies as an extrovert it can be a bit demotivational visiting towns that are beautiful but with almost lifeless streets.

In Asolo I decided that if I could not enjoy the company of its presently non-existant population, except for the five inhabitants I ran into again and again in the space of three hours, then I would focus on communing with its nature, which was peaceful and dramatic. I hiked up to the remains of the castle on the highest point of the village known as the Rocca, then hiked down to the nunnery and graveyard of Saint Anna which had the most spectacular view and contained the grave of the amazing Italian Actress Elanora Duse. It is a fitting final resting place for a woman who so articulately valued the natural world:

"If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things of nature have a message that you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive..."

I ate broccoli and spinach ravioli, and rabbit for lunch, peered in the few expensive boutiques aimed for wealthy retirees that were open, and debated whether I did or did not have room left for gelato. I admired the tall towers of the city baking in the sun, creating many layers of spires and matching shadows set down the sides of its many slopes. I also enjoyed a glass of fresh orange juice at a tiny cafe full of elderly but impeccably groomed Italian ladies, and watched a bride in the most gorgeous winter weddingdress I have ever seen step out of a car and enter the Cattedrale with her family and friends.

In conclusion, forced to enjoy the nature more than I would have had it been any other time of year, the natural and structural aspects of Asolo provided an envigorating yet peaceful experience.

Babysitting Charlie

I only had one official babysitting job in Sydney before my current au pair experience.

My little sister had the same bestfriend for the first few years of primary school, a boy I will call Charlie.

I remember seeing him run around our house when he came over and imagining how adorable it would be if they were to grow up and become sweethearts. Both had golden blonde hair, blue eyes and mischevious smiles. They always had a lot of fun together.

My mother always thought Charlie was wonderful. He was 'such a character' as I was soon to find out...

I had met Charlie's mother a few times, just quickly, when she picked him up from our house. I thought she was a wonderfully kind and vibrant woman, the kind of person who made you feel comfortable within minutes of knowing her.

When she approached my mum to ask if I was interested in baby-sitting Charlie I leapt at the opportunity.  At this stage I had just turned fifteen and I was still to get my first job, so the prospect of earning my own cash was exciting.

Charlie's mother called me to talk about the specifics of the job. Basically Charlie was learning the piano in group lessons after school once a week. However she had work. All I had to do was go straight from highschool once a week, down the road to my old primary school which Charlie and my sister also attend, and accompany him for the lesson.

The first time I had underestimated the time needed to get from highschool to the lesson. I arrived late and he was furious. The sunny little boy I knew as my sister's bestfriend was now a terrifying scold.

"You, are late!" he hissed as I slipped next to him on the piano stool. I was disheartened to find that what I thought was a little baby angel was capable of radiating such dislike. Next week will be better I told myself. It wasn't.  I made sure I was on time, but he wouldn't have it, I couldn't do anything right. During parent participation activities he held my hand with limp distaste. When the lesson finished he would run to the door, grab his bag and stalk off to aftercare without so much as a goodbye or a glance back.

"Bye Charlie...see you next week..."

I worked out eventually he was not angry at me as such after learning a bit more about his father from my parents. My mum had been told by Charlie's mother that her husband who was a science researcher had to dragged away from his work.

"The man's a workaholic," my father informed us.

Charlie's mother was also a busy woman. Not just a mum she used to be a dancer and was now holding a high up executive position in the Sydney Dance Company.

Here lay the root of my 'Charlie Problem:' Looking around the piano lesson room all the children except Charlie had a mum or dad sitting next to them. I was clearly no substitute for either of his busy parents.

So the piano lessons which continued may have been good money, but they did nothing for my confidence as a baby-sitter.

Despite the cold front Charlie must have been giving me a fairly decent review to his mother, because once the piano lessons concluded she asked if I would consider baby-sitting him on weekends and during evenings. Taking the money into account I said yes.

I approached the first weekend session preparing for the worst. I remembered my own experiences of being baby-sat at about age seven with my little brother by a woman I will call Mary. She smelt perpetually of peppermint from the gum she chewed and tucked us into bed with fake nails the length of talons. On the whole she was nice enough, but that didn't stop my brother bawling in protest until he was red in the face and dragging himself down our ten metre hallway on his stomach, abandonment exemplified. I also remember him spitefully drawing with textas on the wall.

I however was on the other end of the spectrum, whole-heartedly embracing the concept of babysitting as a home breakfast-in-bed service. I pestered Mary for late-night treats I would never have dared ask for if my parents were home. My favourites were vegemite and butter toast cut into triangles and hot chocolate at midnight. 'Thankyou, Mary, that will be all." I would wave her from my room after the delivery of a second serving of toast.

Thankfully Charlie was over-excited, a little bit hyper, not afraid to answer back, and given to outrageous cheating while playing monopoly. But at least the cold demeanor I knew from piano lessons was gone.

The next time I babysat Charlie things took a different turn. It started off normal enough but then he decided it was time for some dancing. I was amazed by his natural groove that was of a maturity beyond his years. He boogied around the house as I watched on amused and fascinated. The boy was fabulous and clearly very talented.

He got even a bit too fabulous for me though when he took his showmanship to the next level. He sat me down on the couch, turned off all lights except one to create atmosphere, then hit play on the sound system. A sexy latin-jazz track began to play. In the middle of his stage,  the loungeroom floor, he raised his head to the beat. Then his arms flipped around like little angular swords. He began to gyrate his hips and I started getting uncomfortable. Then before I knew what was hapening he had ripped off his shirt with a growl and tossed it onto my face, all the while starring deep into my eyes.

"WHOAH, WHOAH, WHOAH!" I leapt up tearing the shirt from my face. I raced over and turned down the jazz. I reassured Charlie that his dancing was terrific, but that it was time for bed. Or monopoly. Or any other activity of his choice, suitable for an eight year old boy, other than a striptease...

Later that evening when his mother drove me home I asked her whether he was receiving any dance lessons because he was just so, errm, wonderful. She shook her head suddenly looking worried.
"I know, I know..." she said anxiously as if we were discussing something sobre like a bed-wetting problem. I didn't understand at the time, being a dancer herself, why she hadn't encouraged her son to also enjoy it. To me it even sounded like she feared him enjoying it. It seemed out of character for as she had always struck me as a very progressive and relaxed individual.

"It's to do with his father," said Dad. Mum also caught onto the idea.
"Yes, the boy does love dressing up...do you think he is afraid Charlie's gay...?" Whether or not this was the case remained unanswered.

The third baby-sitting session was also eventful. I was minding not only Ben but his cousin. There was no striptease but both of them were hyper and hard to manage. Things really got out of control during a game of hide and seek. I was counting when suddenly the cousin came running inside to inform me Charlie was urinating in the middle of the street. I didn't catch the act but I was shown the puddle, and indeed, it was in the middle of the street. I found him hiding around the back of the house. Once I had them both inside I locked the doors and gave them a talking to about public hygiene.  I couldn't get too angry though, it made a good story.

The next session Charlie was particularly cheeky, answering back at nearly everything I said. Also I didn't think it possible but his cheating at boardgames had gotten even worse. At some point in the evening Charlie told me he wanted to show me something. Despite my better judgement, I agreed, he seemed so serious all of a sudden. He took me out of the back of the house to what appeared to be a renovated garage. Inside it had been turned into a bedroom, complete with desk and wardrobe. Charlie informed me it was his dad's bedroom. He looked at me strangely as if looking for some judgement to appear on my face. Things clicked. His parents were in sleeping in separate rooms, he had been playing up that evening...things weren't happy at home. I took his hand and lead him back to the house.

That was the last time I babysat Charlie. Time passed and the next thing I heard was that his parents had taken him out of my sister's school and put him into an all boys school. I always suspected that may have been his father's idea.

I sometimes wonder how the funny loveable kid is going. I just hope that he has been allowed to take dance lessons because not only do I want to be able to brag about having babysat the next up and coming Peter Allen, but because he was such a bright unique little star.

The Perils of Playdough: Yes, They Exist

We were sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the playdough. The playdough had become an afternoon ritual involving the following steps:

1. The second youngest arrives home
2. The playdough is set up
3. The little one comes home
4. They fight over the division of the playdough
5. For a brief period genuine attempts are made to create true to life objects: cars, spaghetti etc.
6. All playdoughs are mixed into one jumbo colour, usually vomity-purple-brown
7. Playdough is not-so-secretly taste tested.
8. Playdough fight begins
9. Culprits flee the scene
10. I am left to peel playdough off the ceiling.

Today, still in the 'attempts to create true to life objects' stage of the playdough session I got a bit of a surprise. I looked up from my own carefully crafted bowl of spaghetti complete with meatballs and find the little one has...well, unknowingly created a....male appendage.

For a moment I stared at it with disbelief, trying to pinpoint the moment when this afternoon's playdough session turned into a life drawing class. Or should I say life moulding class. Then I wondered What I should do? I mean what was I going to say when their mother inevitably entered the kitchen to check on us and found what appears to be my willing supervision of the construction of a playdough penis by a four year old?? But then if I apologised for it on behalf if the little one upon her arrival she might just think I have a really dirty mind! I could not let this happen. My reputation as au pair was at stake.

"Hey," I said leaning over to the little one and his...creation, "how about you make some spaghetti??" and offered him the garlic crusher hoping he might begin deconstructing his artwork. The answer was a resounding "NOH!"

Ok that tactic was just too obvious. I was going to have to apply more stealth.

I reached over hoping he might not notice me alter the shape, however this is a child used to competing with three bigger and stronger older brothers. His territorial instincts are finely honed, ready to kick in at even the slightest sign that what is his may be wanted and taken from him. He caught sight of my movement from the corner of a suspicious blue eye and let out a shriek that raised to an ear-splitting pitch until I backed up. "Scusa, Scusa!!"
He glared angrily at me for a few seconds then resumed refining the shape if his playdough...well you know what.

Footsteps were approaching, my hostess was returning.  Panicking I mentally ran over the various ways I could explain how this rather inappropriate object came to be formed by her innocent four year old. I held my breath in anticipation.

My hostess noticed it straight away. She stopped, a look of shock on her face, but then to my relief she stifled a snort of laughter, clapping her hands to her mouth.

"Ohhh, mama mia... mama mia" She murmured a little alarmed,  now closer and inspecting its uncannily realistic shape and dimensions. The scrotum, everything... She looked up, we made eye contact,  then we both promptly burst into hysterical laughter.

Despite finding the situation funny my hostess clearly also felt some kind of obligation as did I, to assure invisible neighbours that never ever would she encourage nor allow her four year old boy to make playdough genitalia.

After also failing to inspire him to turn his creation into spaghetti she simply sighed. She gave in, acknowledged its existence and asked the little one what he had made. He replied in italian "a petrol station."

It is a tribute to her devotion to the role of eternally supportive mother that she nodded approvingly, only miming silent laughter to me behind his back.

"Well, it's a very...very nice petrol station" I offered, now relaxed enough about the whole thing to indulge in some double-entendre.

My hostess laughed, "Yes, a nice petrol station, especially for women!" She winked, then with her usual grace left the room giggling with a youthful cheekiness I had not seen in her before.

Thank goodness for progressive Italians!

New Years Eve in Buenos Aires: The Strangest NYE Yet

New Years Eve is always a strange night I find. One always feels they need to make a big deal about it, but all we end up doing is going to extremes. Drinking too much, doing things we would never usually do, sometimes with people we would never do them with, running down the street screaming with sparklers alight in each hand...etc.

But New Years Eve in Buenos Aires was exceptionally odd. All year I had imagined it would be a night of awesome latin fiesta and pizazz, lots of salsa music, dancing in the streets, handsome people everywhere, some tango here and there, beautiful Argentinian wine, and streamers, fireworks, the lot...

But when the three of us left our hostel ready for a night of partying we were met with a strange silence. Our footsteps echoed as we wandered down the empty streets of San Telmo. BA seemed to be dead. The bars were closed, so were the restaurants. What was going on?

Looking back now though the warning signs had been there. Being hopeful Aussie tourists used to a national NYE that borders on the barbaric we ignored these signs or got distracted before we could read into them. We assumed all capitals must celebrate NYE like us Sydney-siders do.

In the lead up to the night my two travel companions and myself had been trying to somewhat gauge how NYE pans out in BA. It was so strange though, we didn't hear about any parties, any major events, no fireworks, no street closures...it was just this strange blank, an absence of information. Maybe these things aren't advertised like they are here in Sydney, we thought. Surely, on the night we will find ourselves swept up into a crowd and carried along where the night takes us. Yeah, exactly, why worry about this absence of information? Oh look San Telmo markets!

The only recommendation we found for a NYE activity was in a Lonely planet guide I think. Apparently an english comedy bar a few blocks from our hostel was really good. We could laugh our way into the new year.  Anyway, it was our only option...so we leapt at the opportunity.

As I said before, setting out around 8 to see the comedy, we were struck by how unnervingly lifeless the streets of our usually bustling neighbourhood were. All the ice cream shops, pizza parlours, even the liquor stores were all closed. How strange. We wandered around missing the comedy bar several times, probably due to not only poor signage but to the fact it was closed, more than closed, it was as dead as the rest of the street it was on. The lights were out, the door was locked and there was definitely no comedy on. Our first and last resort for NYE shenanigans had fallen through

Sighing and puzzled we sat on the bars front step, waiting in the sticky heat for our fourth NYE companion to join us, as they were meeting us here, coming from a different part of the city. We joked and mused as to why everything was so dead, was there a secret party underground or something? A secret party foreigners are not invited to? Were we not cool enough?

We were still sitting musing when some drunk men ambled by slowly. I shifted in my seat suddenly feeling uncomfortable under their seedy gaze in the middle of this deserted and dark street in downtown BA. Suddenly a scream was heard from an adjacent street. A woman's voice began hurling abuse in Spanish, evidently directed at a man stalking towards us from this road. The woman pursued him still cursing and yelling abuse. The drunks then stepped into action. I am not sure what crime this man had committed but these drunks assuming role of guardians of BA Street Justice decided he deserved punishment.

One of the drunk men stepped forward and slugged him across the face with a violence that made his knees buckle. He fell to the ground. Before he could get up the same drunk struck again, this time he kicked the man square in the jaw with a force that I am sure must have nearly broken his jaw, some teeth, something. The other drunks moved in.

Watching this from the other side of the street my travel companions and I gasped. The sudden violence of it was harrowing. I closed my eyes, terrified this was going to escalate into something I didn't want to see. Were they going to beat this man to death? In the middle of the street? In front of us? Should we stop them?

Fortunately it didn't. Time which had temporarily stopped, which tends to happen in moments of surreal violence, started once more. The man got up, shook his head as if trying to shake out the shock he absorbed from his jaw and power-Walked away, muttering under his breath. The drunks ambled on, the woman shuffled home. I finally took a breath and realised I was trembling. We then burst into questions. Oh my god, what just happened? I don't know! Were they defending that woman? For a second there I thought they were going to absolutely beat the shit out of him!

Then our friend arrived. Did you see what just happened we asked her? Yes, she did, she saw some of it. It was some kind of altercation wasn't it? Yes, now let's get the hell out of here! But where would we even go? the comedy isn't on, the bar is closed. Get dinner? Yes but everywhere is closed!

Even in the part middle of the city, where our friend had come from, everything was reportedly shut as well. We were going to have to rely on luck trying to even find a place to eat that night, Still a little dazed, we walked back to our hostel, to ask for some advice and we found on its doorstep the most 'happening' gathering we had seen so far, that being five guys drinking beers and chatting casually. Our hostel receptionists couldn't give us any tips. Try the main square of San Telmo?

Once there though our options were limited. We  cried out in relief when we saw our first open restaurant But were turned away. People had made their bookings months ago we were not those people. We did a lap of the square but both of the only two options had incredibly overpriced set menus. We ended up going for a bar that from the outside appeared to be serving reasonbly priced food. However things got seriously lost in translation over yet another set menu with the waiter, who also appeared to have a glass eye. He didn't speak english and we didn't speak Spanish.

"So wait, it is 500 soles for the set meal NOT including drinks?"
"No only if you have dessert."
"Wait, what. We have to have dessert?"
"Yes if only 3 of you be eating."
"But can we just have a main course ?"
"No, but you can without wine."
"Then that's assuming we don't want dessert?" Suddenly he looked puzzled.
"What is this about dessert?!"

This went on for a good ten minutes. Two of my companions began itching for a solution. One of them very aptly summed up the mood at the table: " God, It's NYE, all I want to do is get sloshed!"

We ended up sneaking out of the bar when the waiter went to ask the chef whether we could just have main courses with drinks exempt from set price, or maybe it was whether we had to pay full price for just dessert, wine not included, I can't remember.

We finally found a restaurant. It was overpriced, the set menù was uninspiring but hey, at least we would finally get some alcohol into us, we needed it. The peace didn't last long. Soon we were informed by the manager that the table we were at had been reserved. Would we mind taking a Seat at a different table? We obliged, and began what would be a good 40 minute wait for our meals. Our cocktails disappeared into a blackhole and when we left we found the staff gathered around the counter engaged in what looked like a group session of counting up of the dough coin by coin. Money was everywhere. We managed to escape the premises without having to pay the ridiculously expensive bill they were convinced was ours and headed back to the hostel to contemplate our next move.

It was after midnight, we were now in the New Year and we decided that the night would finally kick off by heading into Palermo Soho, the nightlife hub of BA.Surely, surely....
 Three of the four of us headed out, flagging a taxi in a deserted street through sheer dumb luck. It was the first taxi we had seen that night, and taxis being the ants of the transport kingdom that is saying something about the state of the BA that night.

Sure enough, Palermo was packed. People swarmed in a tight snail-shell formation wrapped around the central square. There was music, there were lights, there were fancy dresses, long queues, and people spilling out of overcrowded bars drinking on the street. But something was wrong. No one, I repeat no one was drunk. It was a bizzarely sober atmosphere for nightclub central. We were bitterly disappointed.

People seemed to always be heading somewhere, moving quickly, off and away...but to where? As if stunned to find out human activity can be motivated by reasons other than alcohol on nye, we shrugged and resolved to stick with what we knew best and get sloshed anyway.

We tried out a handful of bars that were decidedly deceitful. From the outside they screamed with their packed courtyards,  music and flashing lights "Woooo Par-taaay!!!" Inside however people sat around casually sipping drinks as if it was an after-work function on a thursday evening. They were just chilling but soon would have to head off because they had to feed the cat and trim the bonsai.

We got some drinks into us, finally, but were distracted by the little girl and her mother seated next to us. Why take a child to a bar? Is this not a bit improper!? Maybe this is why we didn't seem to fit into BA on the brink of the new year. Because we ask tedious questions like this. But at the same time just want to get sloshed till we are sick and expose the general public to terrible moves on the dancefloor...a tad ironic I admit.

We ended up having a strange rest of the night. I remember some flirty BA teenagers, one of my companions running into someone they knew, and despite searching high and low not being able to fulfil our one and only desire left after a night of systematically lowering our NYE expectations: a good time on the dancefloor.

How a culture revered for the creation of perhaps the sexiest dance in the world, tango, cannot provide even one dancefloor on NYE I will not pretend to understand.

The next day we had no regrets, we had enjoyed ourselves, but were still puzzled. Why no excessive overly expensive fireworks paid for with tax-payers money? Why were no annoying street closures and traffic jams? Why no offensively accessible alcohol suppliers? Why no oppotunities to make a fool of oneself?
Oh well, we will just have to count on another typical Aussie NYE to enjoy these luxuries. And that's the great thing about NYE, there will always be another one.

Ilha Grande: A long rant about Hell in Tropical Paradise

When I decided to spend some time in Brazil in between the end of my tour through South America and going on to Italy, I was introduced by my travel agent to a tropical paradise known as Ilha Grande.

Ilha Grande is a beautiful island located about 3 hours drive south of Rio de Janeiro surrounded by a collection of dizzyingly beautiful lagoons. My travel agent googled it for me, showed me some pictures, and right then and there, in STA Ultimo back in April last year, I decided that I definitely deserved from tropical paradise in my life. I paid upfront for a 3 day tour to Ilha Grande recommended by the agent and waited for the tedious year of working full-time to pass and for this exciting time in my life of travel and paradise to begin.

I can remember saying to people with thinly veiled gleeful satisfaction that 'Ilha Grande is going to be my time to relax, recover and revive after the intensity of Peru and Bolivia. A bit of time to just sit back and relax in paradise. You know what I mean? Sometimes we just need to relax once in a while?' People would nod approvingly and often say something along the lines of how envious they were. I would once again mentally pat myself on the back for my excellent taste in travel destinations.

Things in life though, just never work out the way we plan them to. That said I don't think I was unreasonable in expecting exactly what I imagined and was promised from the experience that was Ilha grande: a nice relaxing time, strolling deserted white sand beaches, sipping from coconuts, lazing in hammocks, cozying up under palm trees with a good book and strutting my stuff in my new bikini. I mean those aren't exactly activities typically fraught with peril and risks....for me though, I have this relationship with life where it likes to give me a suspicious amount of inspiration and opportunities, but never without a good ol' slap in the face upon accepting them. It is like a 'happiness tax' or something. I take what I am given, but have to withstand some kind of punishment for my audacity in doing so.

***

So the trip didn't really get off to a great start when my pick-up from my hostel arrived about 40 minutes late and then didn't know who the hell I was. Some other people from my hostel were on the same tour so they hopped onto the bus without any trouble, while I stood feeling a bit like a poser, waiting to be approved and seated with the others. Calls were made to head office, questions were asked in rapid portuguese, then asked again more loudly. Looks were exchanged. It seemed that there was confusion because my name was familiar but I was not on the pick-up list.

'When you book trip?' I was asked in broken english. 'This week, now??'
'Oh no! I booked this trip ages ago! Earlier this year in April...' I replied.

The pick-up man scrutinised me with narrowed eyes, as if judging my moral worthiness to come upon this tour as opposed to the logistics of whether I booked or not. Another phone call was made, voices were raised and I began to get that horrible feeling in your stomach when you know something you have counted on being easy has turned around and bitten you on the backside. Then finally he snapped his phone shut and told me to hop in the van. I felt huge relief, like I had passed the character test required, not that my very legitimate paid for tour booking had finally been located.

The drive to Ilha Grande passed pretty much in silence. I looked around at my fellow tour companions and felt a little worried that these were the people I was hoping to get to know over the next three days. I was by far the youngest person there, everyone else seemed to be in their late 20s and early 30s. Most also seemed to be groups of 3-4 friends or lovey-dovey couples. Trying to attempt some kind of beginning of a relationship, I made a comment to the American girl next to me in the van about the incredible heat. She agreed enthusiastically, but shortly. We fell back into silence. It was pretty clear she had no intention of wasting her energy on me. I began to feel a little nervous. How the hell was I going to find sharing a dorm with these people let alone make friends with them?

We transferred from the bus to the boat with a great deal of confusion. The van we were in came to a sudden holt, we jumped out, our luggage was dumped and without any directions being given, the van left us where we were, did a u-turn and disappeared. The group of us, about 12, looked around at each other as if to say 'Soooooo....what now?' Eventually we made a connection between the groups of brown and chilled looking tourists leaving the jetty and new groups of not so brown tourists replacing them on the jetty. We followed and after a great deal of confusion we were on the beautiful boat to Ilha Grande.

I read my book as the boat rocked its way for 40 minutes to Ilha Grande. From the shore it really hadn't looked that far away, but whenever I looked up from reading it seemed the distance between our boat and the island was unchanging. I realised that this was no quick swim over to the island. Well that's no problem, I thought to myself, because I am heading to tropical paradise and I won't even want to leave! I smiled smugly to myself. Oh, the innocence I used to have.

So our boat pulled up to a jetty, one of the ship-hands called out the name of the stop and this is where things got weird. Some of the people on my tour disembarked with their luggage, others remained....but weren't we all staying in the same place? Freaking out I overcame my shyness to ask one of the girls I recognised from my bus trip where we were getting off.

'We?' she said. 'Oh I don't know...it depends where you are staying? Where is your hostel?'
'What? I thought that we...were...staying...' I trailed off into that awkward confused silence of someone who has realised they have made some terrible assumptions and should probably just shut up and let someone who knows what they are doing do the talking.
'No, well we are all staying in different places, it depends what company you booked through. Like, we are getting off on the other stop. Yeah we are all staying at different places...'

Woah. Ok, no one told me this. I had a sudden sinking feeling that I had missed an important detail somewhere. Surely I should have known about this? I mean my travel agent never mentioned this, nor had I received any emails in the days before...or ever! Nothing, this was all news to me.

I ran up and asked the captain where I was supposed to be getting off. He had a list in his hand and I hoped that maybe my hostel was listed next to my name or something. He looked affronted as if I had asked him the colour of his underwear.

'Why would I know? I have no idea where you are staying!' He said this rather loudly, loud enough for everyone on the boat to watch this scenario unfold.
'Oh, it's just I don't know...where I am staying...I am sorry, I think I have not received some info-'
'What do you MEAN you don't know where you are staying!?' he cried. I suddenly felt incredibly stupid. But more than that angry. Something had gone wrong and now I was quite unfairly looking really daft.

Then a blonde girl, a hotel receptionist from the island helping people disembark, noticed the captain raising his voice at me. She asked what was going on, the captain explained to her in annoyed Portuguese, while I stood there feeling like a naughty child. As if maybe she thought I was just a slow person she nodded then repeated the captains question for me in slow stupid people's english.

'Mirundah, WHERE. ARE. YOU. STAY-ING?'
'I. DO. NOT. KNOW. I. HAVE. NOT. BEEN. TOLD!' I had no idea what was going on. The girl and the captain argued, gesturing at me like some child neither wanted to adopt, then finally she sighed and told me to follow her.

Dragging my heavy suitcase I followed her to the reception of the hostel that sat at the beginning of the jetty. She sat down behind her computer and as if I was a very stupid customer and she were a weary insurance consultant, began to accost me.

'Mirundah, it is very dangerous for you to just go to some place and to not know where you sleep! You need to know these things and to plan them before they happen!' I gritted my teeth. Oh wow, knock me down with a feather. Are you saying that it is best to plan your accommodation when in a non-english speaking country when travelling alone as a single white female?? Well I never. I held my silence, not enjoying being patronised at all. I tried to explain that I thought that maybe I had not been sent some important information regarding this tour, but she wouldn't let me get a word in.

She then did some searches on her computer, then finally found my name. Out of sheer luck I was actually in the reception of the hostel my travel company arranged for me to stay at. Now seeing that I was looking a bit emotional and rather bewildered she began to talk to me in a calmer more soothing voice. In a way this was worse, she was feeling sorry for me. I became even more silently livid. She took me to my dorm and when she closed the door finally the angry tears broke free. I resolved that as soon as I got access to a computer I was going to send an email to my travel agent and ask what the hell was going on.

***

I don't believe that what I did was wrong. By that I mean just hop into the van and assume everything would go the way I assumed, being: that this was like the tour I took through South America. I would hop into the pick-up van, our names would all be on a list, the group of us would then share the same hostel and facilities for the next three days, then leave together at the same time. No, it seems that depending on what company you go through, you are simply sent to a hotel depending on how many people you have and where has the most places available. I was not on a 'tour', all I had paid for was accommodation, a pick-up and a chance to explore the island on my own...this was not made clear at all from the beginning.

***

After a bit of a sulk I pulled myself together. I put on my swimmers and tried out the first beach I saw. The water was heavenly, the sand was bright white, people sipped cocktails and chatted with friends. This is when I first noticed that I was already the whitest person in sight. I returned, had a burger for dinner at my hostels cafe and then not really knowing what to do with myself (the bar was deserted, apparently people were still recovering from a party that had been held there the previous night) I returned to my hostel room and decided to get an early night. I wanted to do some sight-seeing the next day and wanted to be up early for it. I was starting to feel positive, electrified by the possibility of having a fabulous time on this stunning island despite the bad/confusing beginning.

When I entered my dorm which accommodated eight beds, one of my roommates had appeared. The rest I had not met yet were obviously still out. He was a Belgian guy, blonde, tanned and lovely. He was reading, and after a really nice chat about our respective travels he resumed his reading and I climbed onto my bunk and began to read myself. Then the hiccups began, followed by stomach cramps, followed by nausea. I had only been reading for about an hour when I realised that I was once again on this trip to South America, going to be sick. I hopped down to the bathroom and promptly threw up violently, the kind that makes you gasp for air and the back of your throat burn from the acidity of your stomach contents. Oh man, it was food poisoning, probably that godforsaken burger. I broke out in a cold sweat of dread, and in between throwing up I rested my head on the cool tiles of the bathroom that was for some inexplicable reason flooding. Just my luck. Things were not going great at all. 'This was supposed to be my indulgent relaxing treat!!' I thought to myself. 'What the hell is this??!'

Some time later, shaking and exhausted from the violence of throwing up, I emerged from the bathroom and lay on a lower bunk-bed. I couldn't bring myself to climb up to my bunk and besides I suspected my relationship with the toilet was not yet over. No point having to just get down again.

The Belgian politely asked me if i was ok, a sweet question with implications of a serious understatement, considering the poor thing knew I definitely was not, having been treated to the dulcet tones of my heaving through the paper thin bathroom wall for the past 20 minutes. I replied no, a shaky thin voice that sounded disgusting even me. He suddenly got out his medical kit and insisted on giving me some of his medications. He was so so kind, asking me if i needed anything. I didn't want to take his medicine, what if he got sick he might need it? He said he was going home tomorrow! He wouldn't need it! Of course i should take it! He wanted me to! He filled up his 2 litre plastic water bottle and placed it with some pain-killers, some gastro-stop and antibiotics beside my bed. I was so grateful to him I could have cried. I then fell into an uncomfortable, clammy sleep. it was well over 35 degrees and the air conditioners were definitely not working that night.

I woke up a little later as the rest of my roommates entered around midnight. I got up, went to the bathroom and threw up again. This time I felt a suddenly a lot better. I think I had finally got everything making me sick out of my body. I emerged from the bathroom and everyone suddenly stopped what they were doing. They timidly asked me how i was feeling. I cringed. They were just being polite, but the simple fact was they had heard me throwing up through the walls and were badly masking their disgust.  Only the Belgian guy was genuinely concerned. I tried to laugh it off, rolled back into bed and didn't wake till the next morning when the belgian placed a new bottle of water beside my bed. He was leaving. He told me it was nice meeting me and that he hoped I would get better soon. I thanked him profusely for his kindness. Almost not wanting him to go....The other roommates had left too.

At some point in my lingering fever that morning I realised that I had run out of water. I was trying to stay hydrated. I wandered out to the cafe of the hotel, to buy some water and ran into the blonde girl from the reception. She double-took at my greenish complexion. She asked me what was wrong and I told her I was sick, reluctant to add to the already numerous faults I seemed in her eyes to possess. She told me I looked like I really badly needed a doctor. I asked if I could see one.

'Oh we don't have any doctors on the island! It is too small, and people never get sick here!' Oh ok, Great.

I continued on to the cafe where upon arriving I was told they had run out of water. I stopped myself from asking how on earth they had allowed themselves to run out of the life necessity that is clean bottled water and simply asked where was the nearest convenience store. I was told in the middle of town, about a 15 minute hike away. I wanted to cry. Nothing seemed to be going my way. All I wanted was some clean water! Looking kind of guilty they asked if they wanted one of the hotel staff to get me some water from the centre of town. I declined, feeling miserable and sheepish and returned to my room, as I was feeling weak and ill again. I had just settled down when a man knocked on my door, introducing himself as the owner of the hotel. He spoke to me in a kind fatherly way and told me that someone was going out to restock the cafe. They would have water soon. Seeing that I was shivery he also brought me an extra blanket. He suggested that I just eat crackers and bananas for the next few days as they were gentle on the stomach. I thanked him.

I stayed that whole day inside, miserable about the fact outside was absolutely stunning. The hotel looked onto a gorgeous beach, the water turquoise, warm and shimmery. I was dying at jump in, but was just too weak to. I began to dwell on the fact I was losing my precious time here due to illness. Then a new roommate arrived. A tall ridiculously good looking Argentinian guy strode in. He had a pierced belly button, which I know because he wasn't wearing a shirt which seems common, almost a social custom on Ilha grande. He took one look at me, sprawled, pitiful and green, wrapped up like a grandma in a blanket, scowled and resolved to ignore me from then on. Yay....new friend. Not. A bit later three Irish roommates were brought to my room by the manager. He introduced me to them, jokingly telling them they had to take care of me because I was sick. I tried to say 'hello' and 'good' at the same time, but in my feverish confusion only managed a croaky 'gello.' They chuckled uneasily, already terrified they would be held responsible if I were to suddenly curl up and die.

They darted around the room, making noise in their attempt not to make noise, apologising to me and swearing like troopers at each other. They then disappeared to enjoy the island I had so far not been able to. Once again I was alone.

***

The next morning I was determined to start afresh. I still wasn't hungry but it was nice seeing the pleasant surprise on my Irish roommates face's when I could suddenly speak full sentences, smile and joke around like a normal person who no longer appeared to be on the brink of death. We talked about our travels and I even discovered that two of them are currently living in Sydney, very close to me. It was a small world moment and we bonded over that. They then went off to the beach while I chose to pace myself and slipped into a hammock beside the sea, enjoying the sun and sheer gorgeousness of the nature around me.

I then decided it was well and truly time to get some answers. Using a share computer I sent a polite or passive aggressive email, depending on how you read it, to the company that I was booked with. I found their email on the few papers I had relating to the trip. I then sent an email to my travel agent, letting her know what had happened, asking if she knew what was going on. It was at this point I noticed something. I looked around the large room the computer was located in and saw I was surrounded by beautiful brazilian girls, all a bit older than me, in a large party groups. I searched in vain for someone who looked like they had come to the island themselves or on a tour group...but no. It really seemed that the only people here were ones who came in a group of friends or with their partners. No one spoke a word of english. I suddenly felt very self-conscious and resentful of the fact I was not on a tour as I had been informed I would be. I could see that is was going to be basically impossible for me to meet new people here when we could not even communicate with each other.

I wandered over to the cafe once again to ask directions to the main street where I could buy some bananas and crackers. The secondary manager helped me, a really tall eccentric guy, who didn't seem to own a shirt. He also always seemed to have a beer in his hand. He gave me some kind of vague explanation and I made my way there, but I had over-estimated my recovery and obviously had no idea I was going so slow because by the time I got to the main road, who did I find chilling there? - the guy who had just given me directions. Awkward. We nodded at each other and I made my way down to road, painfully aware that I was the only person without company. Romantic couples surrounded me, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and making out. Groups of gorgeous brazilian girls trotted around laughing and joking together. I began to wonder why the hell I thought having a relaxing holiday on a honeymoon/beautiful brazilian people's getaway island was a good idea. It was just kinda depressing.

I finally found a shop selling bananas. I tried to ignore the fact its customers were starring at my white skin, glowing ridiculously, even in the evening darkness and began to choose some bananas. They seemed to come only in huge bunches weighing maybe 3 or 4 kilos. I tried breaking off a few but they were tough and I only succeeded in bursting one open. I decided to take the huge bunch up to the counter and explain I only wanted a few. A girl obviously native to the island was serving at the counter while her boyfriend playing with his phone sat to the side keeping her company.  She took the huge bunch and I realised she thought I was buying the whole lot.

'Oh no, can i just get 3 please?' She looked at me suspiciously, like I was being deliberately being difficult and was pretending I didn't speak Portuguese. The boyfriend sniggered.
She gave the bunch back to me as if I didn't want it.
'No! no I just don't want the whole thing! Just 3 or 4!' I tried to show her what I meant, pointing to a few of the bananas. She said something in Portuguese and I stared back dumbly unable to say I understood. I tried to explain again, but she didn't understand. She didn't get angry but the boyfriend began laughing at the miscommunication. The confusion continued for an awkwardly long time until I grabbed the bunch, clumsily snapped off some bananas with great difficulty and returned the bunch back to its place. The girl was just shaking her head as is I was an absolute crazy, while her boyfriend was basically hysterical with laughter. Customers looking on began to laugh too. I left feeling incredibly stupid because I realised this was not laughing with me, but the girl, her boyfriend, and the customers were all very much laughing at me. With my face glowing I raced back to my hostel, their laughter still ringing in my ears hours later.

***

In retrospect it was an incredibly enlightening moment when I realised for perhaps for the first time in my life I was the minority in a social situation. It suddenly hit home how hard this must be for people who are the minority no matter where they go. No one makes concessions for you, no one cares if you are sick or not. Your differences are not allowed for, hell, in fact they can even be made fun of without shame or consequence. It was a grim but eye-opening moment. And it had been brought about over the act of buying some stupid bananas.

***

So I got a reply from the company my travel agent organised my trip through. They are called Bamba Experience. They insisted they had sent me an email with all the details on it, suggesting it may have been sorted into my spam folder. I checked and checked again, nothing. They never offered a decent apology.

On my last morning on the island I actually had breakfast with an english man who has lived for about 15 years now on Ilha grande. When I told him about my experience arriving on the island and he asked me who I was booked with. Telling him, he nodded gravely.

'Everyday I hear about Bamba and its shitty service. I hear complaints all the time. They have gone to the dogs." He also informed me that Ilha Grande has had a major problem with water pollution too. The past year has been terrible, the water used to be safe to drink, but now even locals can't touch it without getting sick. My illness now made sense too. I mused at my poor luck. It seems several factors overlapped at the same time, and I got caught in the middle.

***

My last day in Ilha grande was beautiful. Finally fully recovered I went on a boat trip around the blue Lagoon. The day was spent dropping the anchor in the middle of beautiful tropical bays in order to dive off the edge of the boat and snorkel with fish. We visited secret beaches by kayak, enjoyed the waves of a perfect white sand beachs, strolled through sultry green jungle, and tucked into brazilian barbeque. When we were dropped back off the sun was setting. I walked around trying to find somewhere to have dinner when all of a sudden I bumped into the lovely Belgian guy I had met on my first night. We hugged and asked each other the same question at the same time: 'What are you doing here!?' 

It turns out that he missed his boat back that morning after we said goodbye. He then had to look for another hostel with accommodation available and failing to do so ended up camping in a different part of the island. He would now be leaving the following day. We ended up getting dinner together and talked at length about travel, life and friends. He told me about his work at a vulnerable youth protection house in Brussels. About how he teaches boys martial arts and coaches them in sports, as a way of keeping them from more dangerous pastimes such as drugs and alcohol. He was very humble and I was struck by the quiet purity of his life goals. When we parted, this time for real, I laughed and facetiously told him that bumping into him again had been like running into my guardian angel. He kept manifesting at all the right times! he laughed really hard, hugged me once more and disappeared into the crowd. I felt a bit teary.

***

When I left Ilha Grande I had mixed feelings. I have decided that it was a very useful experience. Being sick is never fun but when sick alone, unable to communicate with anyone, after being let down by a tour company you placed your trust in...that was a valuable learning curve. I think back to that night when I was laughed at over the bananas and how horrified I was that no one made any exceptions for me. I just simply did not fit in, couldn't keep up with the pace of life the Ilha grande folk were used to, and was thus laughed at for my perceived failures. That was a hard and lonely experience.  

I also can't say it was the tropical relaxation holiday I had intended it to be but there was no denying it, that Island was possibly the closest thing to paradise I will ever experience. It was magnificent even when I was sick and lonely. When I arrived back in Rio I hoped something crazy would happen and I would run into my Belgian guardian angel again. I didn't. All the same it was nice imagining it and nothing, nothing, could stop me from doing so. 

Take that life, you haven't crushed me yet.