You know what're weird?
Bears.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Love in the time of cauliflower
There are perhaps few things prettier than a quaint New England town in early fall. The leaves hover betwixt the decadent richness of summer and the sparseness of autumn, poised to break away from the towering branches they’ve clutched to since winter’s icy grip was loosened by the first rays of a spring sun. Though still largely green, clusters of orange are beginning to appear in the dappled foliage, belated freckles popping up on a face set to wither.
I’m enjoying what will probably be one of Boston’s last really warm days before hibernation occurs and the townsfolk rescue their North Face jackets and snow boots from the closet where they were, in a moment of triumph, banished to so many months ago. Nowhere else have I experienced the seasons more vividly than in North America; each one operates as a perfect bookend on a circular shelf.
As the church bells chime above me, I amuse myself by adopting the same casual stance as the Harvard students surrounding me. Colourful chairs are scattered about the lawns, studious folk sprawled across them with the various accoutrements of those engaged in the activity of learning – laptops, textbooks, iPods and dreamy, far off reveries. For a moment, I can pretend at least that I’m one of them and reach out for some kind of connection and sense of belonging on a trip that has largely been absent of such feelings.
Douchebag Warren: "YOU....got into Harvard?"
Elle Woods: "What, like it's hard?"
I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve grown weary of New York. I like to think of it as a city that stimulates the intellect, while Barcelona arouses the soul. I once thought I couldn’t wait to be submerged again in the thrum of Manhattan; to be carried along by the unquestionably strong heartbeat of that city and wash up on the shores of perfect happiness. But ever since leaving Spain, I’ve felt nothing but anxiety about a need to return.
I’m sure it’s partially to do with the way things finished with the Chileno. There are perhaps few more tragic romantic trysts than the ones that drown under the weight of their own false promise. By the end of my trip, the Chileno and I struggled to find words to say to each other. Stranded in the curious jigsaw of burgeoning relationships, we lacked the implicit ease with which to find comfort in each other’s silence. A naturally quiet person, he remained tightlipped while I fell further and further away.
When we found ourselves saying goodbye at the airport, it wasn’t with the fevered desperation of lovers on the brink of separation but with an unacknowledged melancholy. Anxious butterflies had heralded my arrival four weeks prior; this time, when I walked through that airport gate all connection would fade away and we would become two people who knew each other once.
Of course, it didn't help that he flew to Greece that day and promptly fell in love with someone else.
But these are some of the memories I take with me from that city of wonders: cigarettes smoked over café con leches amongst jovial Catalans while the August morning unfurled languidly outside; gazing at architectural feats of such perfect beauty that, were words even necessary, they would have been hard pressed to emerge from a mouth fixed wide open in amazement; the musical rhythm of the city, feet on pavements keeping beat to the tune of staccato conversations and yells of ‘hey chica!’ and ‘guapa!’; floating about in the cone of silence created when one partially submerges their head in the Mediterranean sea, just contemplating the life and listening to the ocean’s murmurs; vibrant Peruvians feeding me ceviche while fellow diners, arrested by the music, fashion a makeshift dancefloor and let loose to the whoops and cheers of their audience; the spark of satisfaction that came when my mediocre Spanish began to resemble something approximating conversational, and the realization one day that if I just let the lyricism of others wash over me, understanding would come in with the tide; riding my bicycle through the quiet streets at midnight, thinking of Daniel Sempere and the Cemetary of Forgotten Books and wanting to believe that it really exists; watching the sunrise on a northern beach with a motley crew of impossibly attractive musicians, singing ‘Baby I love your way’; and that delicious feeling of possibility that this could be the point where your life changes completely, that you’re about to jump off the precipice and land in an Oz of your own creation with a road paved not from yellow bricks but cobbled stone.
So perhaps it turns out that I fell in love after all, but not in the way I expected. As someone remarkable once said to me, ‘falling in love isn’t about discovering someone else but about discovering yourself’. The Chileno and I may have exchanged a passionless goodbye that Friday morning some weeks ago, but beneath the shadowy veneer that cloaks a world of fantasy, Barcelona and I were locked in the kind of embrace that turns cynics into believers and breathes life back into hearts of stone.
And as far as love affairs go, that ain't bad.
I’m enjoying what will probably be one of Boston’s last really warm days before hibernation occurs and the townsfolk rescue their North Face jackets and snow boots from the closet where they were, in a moment of triumph, banished to so many months ago. Nowhere else have I experienced the seasons more vividly than in North America; each one operates as a perfect bookend on a circular shelf.
As the church bells chime above me, I amuse myself by adopting the same casual stance as the Harvard students surrounding me. Colourful chairs are scattered about the lawns, studious folk sprawled across them with the various accoutrements of those engaged in the activity of learning – laptops, textbooks, iPods and dreamy, far off reveries. For a moment, I can pretend at least that I’m one of them and reach out for some kind of connection and sense of belonging on a trip that has largely been absent of such feelings.
Douchebag Warren: "YOU....got into Harvard?"Elle Woods: "What, like it's hard?"
I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve grown weary of New York. I like to think of it as a city that stimulates the intellect, while Barcelona arouses the soul. I once thought I couldn’t wait to be submerged again in the thrum of Manhattan; to be carried along by the unquestionably strong heartbeat of that city and wash up on the shores of perfect happiness. But ever since leaving Spain, I’ve felt nothing but anxiety about a need to return.
I’m sure it’s partially to do with the way things finished with the Chileno. There are perhaps few more tragic romantic trysts than the ones that drown under the weight of their own false promise. By the end of my trip, the Chileno and I struggled to find words to say to each other. Stranded in the curious jigsaw of burgeoning relationships, we lacked the implicit ease with which to find comfort in each other’s silence. A naturally quiet person, he remained tightlipped while I fell further and further away.
When we found ourselves saying goodbye at the airport, it wasn’t with the fevered desperation of lovers on the brink of separation but with an unacknowledged melancholy. Anxious butterflies had heralded my arrival four weeks prior; this time, when I walked through that airport gate all connection would fade away and we would become two people who knew each other once.
Of course, it didn't help that he flew to Greece that day and promptly fell in love with someone else.
But these are some of the memories I take with me from that city of wonders: cigarettes smoked over café con leches amongst jovial Catalans while the August morning unfurled languidly outside; gazing at architectural feats of such perfect beauty that, were words even necessary, they would have been hard pressed to emerge from a mouth fixed wide open in amazement; the musical rhythm of the city, feet on pavements keeping beat to the tune of staccato conversations and yells of ‘hey chica!’ and ‘guapa!’; floating about in the cone of silence created when one partially submerges their head in the Mediterranean sea, just contemplating the life and listening to the ocean’s murmurs; vibrant Peruvians feeding me ceviche while fellow diners, arrested by the music, fashion a makeshift dancefloor and let loose to the whoops and cheers of their audience; the spark of satisfaction that came when my mediocre Spanish began to resemble something approximating conversational, and the realization one day that if I just let the lyricism of others wash over me, understanding would come in with the tide; riding my bicycle through the quiet streets at midnight, thinking of Daniel Sempere and the Cemetary of Forgotten Books and wanting to believe that it really exists; watching the sunrise on a northern beach with a motley crew of impossibly attractive musicians, singing ‘Baby I love your way’; and that delicious feeling of possibility that this could be the point where your life changes completely, that you’re about to jump off the precipice and land in an Oz of your own creation with a road paved not from yellow bricks but cobbled stone.
So perhaps it turns out that I fell in love after all, but not in the way I expected. As someone remarkable once said to me, ‘falling in love isn’t about discovering someone else but about discovering yourself’. The Chileno and I may have exchanged a passionless goodbye that Friday morning some weeks ago, but beneath the shadowy veneer that cloaks a world of fantasy, Barcelona and I were locked in the kind of embrace that turns cynics into believers and breathes life back into hearts of stone.
And as far as love affairs go, that ain't bad.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Mallorca Nights and Your Essential Guide
As far as days went, it was shaping up to be pretty perfect. The Mediterranean reclined languorously before us, a plump and undulating doyenne wrapped in a sheath of turqoise, each murmuring wave a new secret whispered in our ears. Above her, the sun cast forth his golden arrows, trying to penetrate the surface of that glittering beauty whom he saw every day but who as yet remained devastatingly out of reach. How he envies the sand! An unremarkable wastrel, blessed to spend an eternity beneath the ocean and her tempestuous mood; to enjoy not the sensation of her crashing upon its shore but the insistent tug of her caress as she continues to whisper secrets to those watching from beyond.
In possession of a small jug of sangria, I considered the scene before me, marveling at how one place could be so full of imperfect beauty. I brought to mind oh-so-eloquent monologue delivered by the inimitable Shug Avery in Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple when she illuminates Celie as to the true nature of this entity we call God.
Ain’t no point in worshipping the white man’s God, Shug tells Celie, because there’s no room for you in their world. Do you think their God would make it so some folk were better than others just ‘cos of the colour of their skin? God ain’t no He – he ain’t some white man in the clouds. Whatever God is, it’s all around us. It’s in the flowers, in the trees, in the beauty of a sunset. Those white folks, they spend they whole lives tryin’ to please God – they don’t realize that all the time God is trying to please them right back.*
“Yer, but tha’s the problem wiv café food, innit? You dunno wot yah gonna get. Tha’s why I reckon that, even vo it might be more expinsive, your be’er off eating in the ‘otel.”
“Yeah, tha’s right. ‘Specially somewhere like Spain, innit?”
And snap. Reverie scattered with the instant application of British Package Tourist. Quelle sur-fucking-prise.
I imagine British tourists are to Spain what Australian tourists are to Bali. Undesirable, scandalously ill bred and completely lacking in any kind of cultural sensitivity whatsoever, but drowning in the kind of extra money that people who truly love flat screen TVs always unfortunately seem to have. They are also tiresomely predictable yet endlessly amusing because of this.
The basic itinerary of the British Package Tourist is not without its subtle nuances and complexities, but armed with the right information it’s fairly simple to follow. If you plan on ever becoming one but are unsure of what the protocol is, never fear – I have compiled a complete guide for you. As with anything in life, the motto is BE PREPARED. And thanks to me, you may now avoid the kind of embarrassing faux pas that will have you questioning whether or not it’s more appropriate to drink your companion’s pina colada through a straw or simply lick it directly off their breasts.
BRITISH PACKAGE TOURISM GUIDE FOR FIRST TIMERS
Pitch up to Gatwick for the 6am red eye, bleary eyed but already coated in tanning oil in anticipation of the weekend’s festivities. You sideeye your fellow passengers, ranking them in order of Shaggable to Handsy Uncle Reg or The Fat Friend. You make sure to consume at least four drinks on the flight so that you can hit Spain in style, bonding with your fellow passengers in the process. Handsy Uncle Reg is in fine form, knocking back seven cans of lager and showing off how loudly he can belch. Remember to applaud. It’s good manners.
You arrive at your hotel in the bus arranged by the travel company, new best friends in tow and duty free liquor already cracked open. Shaggable is surrounded by a posse of besties ranging from almost-as-hot to they’ll-do to only-if-the-others-are-taken and one friend who will, before the week is over, inevitably don one of those novelty aprons with plastic breasts (for the men) or let Handsy Uncle Reg shag them on the beach but only from behind (for the women). Full of piss and vinegar and an unbridled sense of sexual optimism, you check in amidst the sounds of girlish squeals and football songs.
By now it’s almost 11am and the ferocious Spanish sun is well overhead. This means it’s time to head to the beach with all your essentials – cigarettes, tanning oil, latest Dan Brown novel (for the tour’s intelligensia) and Union Jack beach towel. Because England experiences approximately 93 hours of sunshine a year, you’ll want to jam all your tanning time into this week - never forget that the basic aims of a package tour to Spain are to return with a killer tan that will inspire envy in all your co-workers, cornrows (or another variation on an exotic hairdo) and a treatable STI. Thrush doesn’t count, unless you acquired it through drinking too much beer and forgetting to pee in the sea after that incident with Handsy Uncle Reg.
With that in mind, you’ll spend the first two hours lying on your back and carefully turning every 30 minutes. This is Spain, so ladies, feel free to remove your bikini tops. Not only will it help avoid any unsightly tan lines, it might just help grab the attention of Shaggable and co so that they know that a) you have a great rack and b) you’re up for it. Don’t worry if you hear a slight crackling sound – it’s just the sound of your skin aging 20 years. BEAUTY IS PAIN.
If you’re organized, which you’ll want to be – you’re British after all – you’ll have appointed someone to act as alcohol runner to the chiringuitto. Unless Shaggable is up there engaged in a competition to see who can build the highest tower out of beer cans (for the men) or comparing breast augmentations (for the ladies), make sure the runner is someone else (preferably the second most attractive speciman in your group because competition is competition and it’s a jungle out there). Forget that Spanish sangria rubbish – you’ve been looking forward to this holiday for months and it’s time for you to indulge! The chirringuito will no doubt have a selection of fancy cocktails, so feel free to be a bit wild – although if I might make a suggestion, Sex On The Beach is an appropriate choice because it’s not only exotic, it’s also quite pithy and clever.
You should be a bit tipsy now, which is exactly where you want to be. If you’re a lady, you’ll have already read your airport purchased copies of Heat, OK! and Woman’s Own, but it’s probably best to leave Cosmopolitan and Sugar for day two – you like to keep stimulated and you don’t want to run out of reading material.
Now that that lovely sun has made you all toasty and warm, you’ll probably be thinking about a dip. Time to grab your best girlfriend and head to the water, offering silent thanks to Maybelline for creating waterproof mascara – it’s unlikely you’ll putt your head under because you’ve just had your holiday highlights done, but there’s a high likelihood you’ll end up rousting with some of the lads. You’ll want your eyes to remain come hither in case Shaggable decides to splash you.
If you’re a lad, keep an eye out for when the ladies head to the water. They’ve had ample time for tanning while you’ve been walking around with your Union Jack towel draped around your neck pretending to be a matador, but now’s the time to think about moving in for the kill. You’ll no doubt have your eye on the best looking bird in the flock, but here’s a sly tip – flirt openly with her less attractive friend. It will drive her crazy with the kind of jealousy that can only come with entitlement, and will (if applied correctly) almost certainly guarantee you a blow job behind the karaoke bar later on.
By this stage of the proceedings, you might be feeling a little overwhelmed with all the holiday hijinks. This is completely normal – you’ve spent the last ten months living in the geographical equivalent of clinical depression, and all this sun is probably going to your head. Pace yourself (not too much!) – you have all week. Why not go and spend some time by the hotel swimming pool? That way you can lounge about in the water AND have the perfect view of the sea.
5pm rolls around (where does the time go?!) and it’s time to start thinking about freshening up for dinner. Proper British people eat dinner no later than 7:30pm so they can fit in more time for drinking, and if you want to fit in you should behave no differently. While casual dress was fine for the beach, you’ll want to look a bit fancier for the first night’s festivities – particularly if you’re planning on heading to the Britannia later on. Ladies, this means you’ll want to don your best, most sparkliest drapey halterneck number. It may be tempting to wear everything you own in white, but let’s not be too hasty – there’s still a few days of tanning left before you can capitalize on just how good a white minidress with criss-crossed back looks against your brown skin.
Lads, this one’s much easier for you because the only variation you require to your normal Home outfits is some kind of sombrero or cargo pants that detach at the knees. Ignore the lay in your bag – it’s not Spanish and you only packed it because you’re planning on going as a hula girl to the costume party the hotel will be hosting in the Mermaid Bar later on in the week. For now, all you need worry about is whether or not your collar is popped correctly. Don’t fret if you’ve forgotten your hair gel – one of your friends is bound to have brought some so there’s really no need for anyone to miss out on potential bathroom sex because their widow’s peak wasn’t teased to perfection.
You’ll find it’s easier to congregate in the hotel lobby ahead of dinner time. By now you’re all old friends and selecting dinner mates is just a matter of course. Having said that, you still want to maintain a modicum of decorum – this means no belching at the dinner table unless it forms the punchline of a joke or removing someone’s knickers with your teeth. There’ll be plenty of time for that later when DJ Ricky Z gets the party going.
Here things will start to get a bit hazy. There’s no point in going on a British Package Tour unless you spend 95% of your time at least slightly drunk. But come 11pm, all that Sex On The Beach starts to catch up with you and you’ll find yourself approximately 135% drunk. This is okay in and of itself – preferable even. But here’s where things get tricky – to be a proper British Package Tourist, you have to take care to be as acutely offensive as possible to everyone else bar your fellow BPTs. Sounds simple in theory but can actually take a bit of practice to get used to. For example, it’s okay to yell obscenities at some scrag tottering down the street, but what if she’s part of your tour or shagging someone in it and you didn’t notice before? This defies the natural sense of camaraderie that will befall any BPT group, and must be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, when handled deftly, it can work in your favour to call someone a cheap and nasty bitch because it could actually be a compliment indicating to them that you understand they are willing to let you suckle on their breasts as part of a drinking game.
If you’re not confident with being able to tell the difference – and anyone other than a seasoned British Package Tourist or an Essex local would not be remiss in admitting confusion – then I find it’s simpler to follow what seems to be the essential rule of British Package Tourism, and that’s to be as rude as possible to anyone who appears to be an actual resident of the foreign country in question. Not only does it solidify your connection as a group, it reinforces to the subject of your approbation that their reliance on their own mother tongue is an inconvenience you did NOT request when parting with hard earned pounds (and the exchange rate!) as part of YOUR holiday, and that if they will INSIST on being a Spanish chimmy changa chocolate dago bar, they could at LEAST have the DECENCY to learn how to speak proper. CAPEACHY?
Let one of those rip on your first night and that STI is as good as yours. Probably a few of them.
As for day two and the rest of the week? Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
In possession of a small jug of sangria, I considered the scene before me, marveling at how one place could be so full of imperfect beauty. I brought to mind oh-so-eloquent monologue delivered by the inimitable Shug Avery in Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple when she illuminates Celie as to the true nature of this entity we call God.
Ain’t no point in worshipping the white man’s God, Shug tells Celie, because there’s no room for you in their world. Do you think their God would make it so some folk were better than others just ‘cos of the colour of their skin? God ain’t no He – he ain’t some white man in the clouds. Whatever God is, it’s all around us. It’s in the flowers, in the trees, in the beauty of a sunset. Those white folks, they spend they whole lives tryin’ to please God – they don’t realize that all the time God is trying to please them right back.*
“Yer, but tha’s the problem wiv café food, innit? You dunno wot yah gonna get. Tha’s why I reckon that, even vo it might be more expinsive, your be’er off eating in the ‘otel.”
“Yeah, tha’s right. ‘Specially somewhere like Spain, innit?”
And snap. Reverie scattered with the instant application of British Package Tourist. Quelle sur-fucking-prise.
I imagine British tourists are to Spain what Australian tourists are to Bali. Undesirable, scandalously ill bred and completely lacking in any kind of cultural sensitivity whatsoever, but drowning in the kind of extra money that people who truly love flat screen TVs always unfortunately seem to have. They are also tiresomely predictable yet endlessly amusing because of this.
The basic itinerary of the British Package Tourist is not without its subtle nuances and complexities, but armed with the right information it’s fairly simple to follow. If you plan on ever becoming one but are unsure of what the protocol is, never fear – I have compiled a complete guide for you. As with anything in life, the motto is BE PREPARED. And thanks to me, you may now avoid the kind of embarrassing faux pas that will have you questioning whether or not it’s more appropriate to drink your companion’s pina colada through a straw or simply lick it directly off their breasts.
BRITISH PACKAGE TOURISM GUIDE FOR FIRST TIMERS
Pitch up to Gatwick for the 6am red eye, bleary eyed but already coated in tanning oil in anticipation of the weekend’s festivities. You sideeye your fellow passengers, ranking them in order of Shaggable to Handsy Uncle Reg or The Fat Friend. You make sure to consume at least four drinks on the flight so that you can hit Spain in style, bonding with your fellow passengers in the process. Handsy Uncle Reg is in fine form, knocking back seven cans of lager and showing off how loudly he can belch. Remember to applaud. It’s good manners.
You arrive at your hotel in the bus arranged by the travel company, new best friends in tow and duty free liquor already cracked open. Shaggable is surrounded by a posse of besties ranging from almost-as-hot to they’ll-do to only-if-the-others-are-taken and one friend who will, before the week is over, inevitably don one of those novelty aprons with plastic breasts (for the men) or let Handsy Uncle Reg shag them on the beach but only from behind (for the women). Full of piss and vinegar and an unbridled sense of sexual optimism, you check in amidst the sounds of girlish squeals and football songs.
By now it’s almost 11am and the ferocious Spanish sun is well overhead. This means it’s time to head to the beach with all your essentials – cigarettes, tanning oil, latest Dan Brown novel (for the tour’s intelligensia) and Union Jack beach towel. Because England experiences approximately 93 hours of sunshine a year, you’ll want to jam all your tanning time into this week - never forget that the basic aims of a package tour to Spain are to return with a killer tan that will inspire envy in all your co-workers, cornrows (or another variation on an exotic hairdo) and a treatable STI. Thrush doesn’t count, unless you acquired it through drinking too much beer and forgetting to pee in the sea after that incident with Handsy Uncle Reg.
With that in mind, you’ll spend the first two hours lying on your back and carefully turning every 30 minutes. This is Spain, so ladies, feel free to remove your bikini tops. Not only will it help avoid any unsightly tan lines, it might just help grab the attention of Shaggable and co so that they know that a) you have a great rack and b) you’re up for it. Don’t worry if you hear a slight crackling sound – it’s just the sound of your skin aging 20 years. BEAUTY IS PAIN.
If you’re organized, which you’ll want to be – you’re British after all – you’ll have appointed someone to act as alcohol runner to the chiringuitto. Unless Shaggable is up there engaged in a competition to see who can build the highest tower out of beer cans (for the men) or comparing breast augmentations (for the ladies), make sure the runner is someone else (preferably the second most attractive speciman in your group because competition is competition and it’s a jungle out there). Forget that Spanish sangria rubbish – you’ve been looking forward to this holiday for months and it’s time for you to indulge! The chirringuito will no doubt have a selection of fancy cocktails, so feel free to be a bit wild – although if I might make a suggestion, Sex On The Beach is an appropriate choice because it’s not only exotic, it’s also quite pithy and clever.
You should be a bit tipsy now, which is exactly where you want to be. If you’re a lady, you’ll have already read your airport purchased copies of Heat, OK! and Woman’s Own, but it’s probably best to leave Cosmopolitan and Sugar for day two – you like to keep stimulated and you don’t want to run out of reading material.
Now that that lovely sun has made you all toasty and warm, you’ll probably be thinking about a dip. Time to grab your best girlfriend and head to the water, offering silent thanks to Maybelline for creating waterproof mascara – it’s unlikely you’ll putt your head under because you’ve just had your holiday highlights done, but there’s a high likelihood you’ll end up rousting with some of the lads. You’ll want your eyes to remain come hither in case Shaggable decides to splash you.
If you’re a lad, keep an eye out for when the ladies head to the water. They’ve had ample time for tanning while you’ve been walking around with your Union Jack towel draped around your neck pretending to be a matador, but now’s the time to think about moving in for the kill. You’ll no doubt have your eye on the best looking bird in the flock, but here’s a sly tip – flirt openly with her less attractive friend. It will drive her crazy with the kind of jealousy that can only come with entitlement, and will (if applied correctly) almost certainly guarantee you a blow job behind the karaoke bar later on.
By this stage of the proceedings, you might be feeling a little overwhelmed with all the holiday hijinks. This is completely normal – you’ve spent the last ten months living in the geographical equivalent of clinical depression, and all this sun is probably going to your head. Pace yourself (not too much!) – you have all week. Why not go and spend some time by the hotel swimming pool? That way you can lounge about in the water AND have the perfect view of the sea.
5pm rolls around (where does the time go?!) and it’s time to start thinking about freshening up for dinner. Proper British people eat dinner no later than 7:30pm so they can fit in more time for drinking, and if you want to fit in you should behave no differently. While casual dress was fine for the beach, you’ll want to look a bit fancier for the first night’s festivities – particularly if you’re planning on heading to the Britannia later on. Ladies, this means you’ll want to don your best, most sparkliest drapey halterneck number. It may be tempting to wear everything you own in white, but let’s not be too hasty – there’s still a few days of tanning left before you can capitalize on just how good a white minidress with criss-crossed back looks against your brown skin.
Lads, this one’s much easier for you because the only variation you require to your normal Home outfits is some kind of sombrero or cargo pants that detach at the knees. Ignore the lay in your bag – it’s not Spanish and you only packed it because you’re planning on going as a hula girl to the costume party the hotel will be hosting in the Mermaid Bar later on in the week. For now, all you need worry about is whether or not your collar is popped correctly. Don’t fret if you’ve forgotten your hair gel – one of your friends is bound to have brought some so there’s really no need for anyone to miss out on potential bathroom sex because their widow’s peak wasn’t teased to perfection.
You’ll find it’s easier to congregate in the hotel lobby ahead of dinner time. By now you’re all old friends and selecting dinner mates is just a matter of course. Having said that, you still want to maintain a modicum of decorum – this means no belching at the dinner table unless it forms the punchline of a joke or removing someone’s knickers with your teeth. There’ll be plenty of time for that later when DJ Ricky Z gets the party going.
Here things will start to get a bit hazy. There’s no point in going on a British Package Tour unless you spend 95% of your time at least slightly drunk. But come 11pm, all that Sex On The Beach starts to catch up with you and you’ll find yourself approximately 135% drunk. This is okay in and of itself – preferable even. But here’s where things get tricky – to be a proper British Package Tourist, you have to take care to be as acutely offensive as possible to everyone else bar your fellow BPTs. Sounds simple in theory but can actually take a bit of practice to get used to. For example, it’s okay to yell obscenities at some scrag tottering down the street, but what if she’s part of your tour or shagging someone in it and you didn’t notice before? This defies the natural sense of camaraderie that will befall any BPT group, and must be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, when handled deftly, it can work in your favour to call someone a cheap and nasty bitch because it could actually be a compliment indicating to them that you understand they are willing to let you suckle on their breasts as part of a drinking game.
If you’re not confident with being able to tell the difference – and anyone other than a seasoned British Package Tourist or an Essex local would not be remiss in admitting confusion – then I find it’s simpler to follow what seems to be the essential rule of British Package Tourism, and that’s to be as rude as possible to anyone who appears to be an actual resident of the foreign country in question. Not only does it solidify your connection as a group, it reinforces to the subject of your approbation that their reliance on their own mother tongue is an inconvenience you did NOT request when parting with hard earned pounds (and the exchange rate!) as part of YOUR holiday, and that if they will INSIST on being a Spanish chimmy changa chocolate dago bar, they could at LEAST have the DECENCY to learn how to speak proper. CAPEACHY?
Let one of those rip on your first night and that STI is as good as yours. Probably a few of them.
As for day two and the rest of the week? Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
NOTE: The Essential Guide to being a British Package Tourist is also relevant to Australian Tourism with a few minor word changes.
*Paraphrasing from Walker's text.
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