Forever Paisley

Here I am, seated in 52A headed Eastbound on a Boeing 747, “watching” Inception and trying not to let the rambunctious toddler to the right get to me. In just nine short hours I will be back on home soil, attempting to readjust to the real world.  Nine more hours to catch up on weeks of The Economist, nine more hours to digest the last two weeks on the road, nine more hours of free apple juice.

  My last day in Melbourne was perfectly relaxing. I slept in. Well, I slept until 9:30AM. Generally sleeping in for me is associated with a much later hour, but since I have been on the road I have had to force myself to stay in bed past 7AM. When I woke the sky was clear and the thermometer read 32 degrees celsius. Rather than give into the heat and waste away in air-conditioned quarters we decided to grab our bikes and cruise the city. From Queen Victoria Market to The Docklands to Southbank and along the Yarra River we went. Come 4:30PM, my ass hurt from Dave’s bike seat, my face was pink and I had frozen yogurt on my mind. Success.

As we neared the end of your tour de Melbourne, a few pints of delicious lager on a riverside patio sounded excellent. Sounded great, but more than I love beer, I hate being hung over in airports, on planes or anywhere in public for that matter. That in mind, we dodged the pubs, cooled our bodies with sorbet and headed home for tempeh tacos. After dinner the crew agreed that I needed some culture on my last night in Aussie. Dress up like Crocodile Dundee and head out into the wilderness to wrestle swamp creatures? That’s not exactly what they had in mind. Wilfred was their cultural experience of choice. Wilfred, a Australian TV series about a foul-mouthed, bong-ripping, chain-smoking dog that is overprotective of his owner, wreaking havoc on the lives of her love interests. Had I been smart I would have realized that the TV show was more than mindless satirical entertainment. I would have realized that there was a lesson to learn. A lesson about steering clear of overprotective dogs. A lesson about the damage that they can cause – mentally, emotionally, or in my case … physically.  

This morning, my bags were packed in the kitchen, the car was in the driveway and my flight was just three hours away. I chugged a glass of water, threw a scarf around my neck and began to say my goodbyes. As I went to hug Lachie and Pip, their loyal but slightly overprotective dog, Charlie, jumped up and bit me. Bit me right in the fucking va-jay-jay. Appreciative of their hospitality, I didn’t want to make a huge deal out of it, but I am not going to lie it hurt like hell! When we got in the car, I told Dave and Lindsay that the pain gave a whole new meaning to the term “fire crotch”. Ouch. I suppose every epic vacation has to have it’s fair share of misfortunes. Usually my travel misfortunes involve running from security or warding off creepy men, not poodles and vag injuries. Oh well, I guess it could have been worse.

Day 9,543. Back to the US of A.

Cherrettie