Just when you thought there was a limit to how many half-finished travelogues one woman could write, in a fortnight I’ll be launching into another international caper.
Carry on old chaps, I’m off to London! And Paris, for a wee bit. Or ‘oui’ bit.
My fabulous, infamous homegirl Nikki entered one of those “Like and Share for your CHANCE TO WIN!” competitions on Facebook, and contrary to all the laws of the internetz she actually WON. Two tickets to the three day Wireless music festival, and return flights for two to London. I suspect she only chose me to come because she knows for a fact we can survive a long-haul flight without tit-punching each other…although having said that, this journey exceeds our Vegas flying time by another 9 hours, so one or both of us may end up needing a mastectomy. But frankly, one boob seems a small price to pay for a free trip across the pond.
We’re spending a couple of nights in London, then a couple of nights in Paris, and then another week in London. A couple of people have helpfully pointed out that we’re not spending enough time there, and we should expand our travel itinerary because London is the perfect base from which to explore Europe and the UK in its entirety. These people are clearly either zillionaires or idiots. Our air fares may have been free, but everything else is costing a small fortune. And that’s before we’ve taken into account the obligatory mugging by Romanian gypsies in Paris.
Neither of us have any idea what to expect or what we’re going to do. We’re not good at the usual touristy endeavours – we tend to wander aimlessly until we stumble on some excitement, then find ourselves being driven home in the tray of some guy’s ute in Rarotonga, or drinking pink liquor in a Dominican drug dealer’s penthouse suite in Las Vegas. I like to think we’re the kind of travellers who immerse ourselves in the local culture, connecting with the locals and bypassing the superficial tourist facade. This sounds much classier than “that pair of drunk bitches that talks to everything with a wang.” National Geographic should be paying us for this shit, I tell you.