Mistakes you make when Traveling

Have you ever ordered a meal off a menu because the picture looked like the meal would be delicious?  Did the meal live up to the expectations you had from the photo on the menu?
On a recent visit to Istanbul, I went to a local restaurant in a shopping mall.  They had posters of a delicious looking steak that was on special displayed all around the restaurant.  Of course all the writing on the posters was in Turkish.  As I can't read Turkish and the waiter couldn't speak English. I had to go by the picture.
BIG MISTAKE!

When the steak arrived my immediate observation was that it wasn't actually a steak, but rather thin slices of meat placed on flatbread.  I shrugged and decided if it tasted good, then all was fine in my world.  Before I could shovel the first forkful into my mouth, the waiter arrived with a pot filled with melted butter which he proceeded to pour over my meal.  I was aghast!  I have never been able to handle anything too oily and fatty.  Even cream makes me want to throw up.  Looking at my meal swimming in a sea of melted butter, I could feel my stomach heave.  Not wanting to waste money, I managed to pick off the slices of meat to eat, while trying not to look at the flatbread which was now sodden and soggy with the melted butter.  I bravely ate that meat while glaring at the misleading posters, fighting back the nausea.  For several hours afterwards, I felt physically ill.
The lesson to be learned, don't pick a meal based on a picture on the menu.
I guess another lesson could be not to order from a menu not written in English.  On a visit to Gabon, I went to a cute beach-side restaurant in Libreville.  The menu was in French, and the waitresses only spoke French.  My French is limited to words like 'restaurant' and 'bureau.'  I thought 'poisson' was the French for chicken, and was shocked to be served a very fishy stew with fish heads!
Maybe I'm a slow learner.

A couple of weeks ago, I was visiting Frankfurt.  Knowing that I would be arriving at the airport in time to board and I would't be able to check in luggage, I took a small carry-on and left behind my face cream, deodorant and toothpaste.  My thought was that I could buy toiletries in Frankfurt.  Also, as my residence card was about to expire, I didn't want to have any products in my bag that might draw attention to me, causing someone to ask me for identification.  One of the great things about traveling through the Schengen region, is that you aren't often asked to show identification.  But, I wanted to avoid chancing my luck.  However, on visiting the supermarket near my hotel in Frankfurt, I found identifying face cream to be a problem.  Toothpaste and deodorant were easily identifiable.  Browsing through the products on display, I decided to go with something that sounded familiar.  It said 'Creme' and 'Body Butter.'  Now I have to state, I use body butter from The Body Shop, as I find it works well on my sensitive skin.  The first time I tried the 'creme' on my face, it felt tight afterwards and stung a little bit.  The next day it stung even more and my skin started going red.  Stupidly, I used the 'creme' a third and then a fourth day.  By the fourth day my face was very red and burning.  I decided to wash my face to remove remnants of the 'creme.'  To my horror as I wet my face it started to foam.  It was at that point I realised that the 'creme' was not what I thought it was.  A closer look at the bottle showed the word 'douche' after the word 'creme.'  A German-speaking friend confirmed my worst fears.  The face cream I had been using on my ultra-sensitive skin for four days was actually Shower Gel!  No wonder my face felt tight, turned red and foamed when I washed it!

The Frankfurt visit influenced decisions I made for my Finland visit the following week.
I made three bad decisions.  The first one was to pack in my toiletries so that I didn't have to risk buying a wrong product in Finland as I can't read Finnish.  I didn't want a repeat of the 'creme douche' incident.  The second one was to send my passport away to another embassy to get a visa.  This effectively meant that I would be traveling to another country without a passport.  I didn't see this as a problem as nobody had wanted to see my residence card or passport when I left Frankfurt.  The third mistake was deciding to check-in my bag because I had packed in toiletries.
Well, the airline lady asked me for my passport when I tried to check-in my bag.  She refused to accept a certified copy of it or my now renewed residence card.  Instead, she canceled my flights right there and then.  This should have been devastating as I was leading a workshop the next day and people were counting on me.  Instead, I went to the airport Starbucks, not for a coffee, but to use their table so I could set up my laptop.  I quickly bought new plane tickets on a different airline.  I did not check-in my bag, but took it as hand luggage, my toiletries setting off the alarm.  Luckily, all I had to do was remove them from my bag and put them in a clear plastic ziploc bag they gave me.  Thank goodness nobody asked me for identification on the two flights to Oulu in Finland and the two flights back. 
Desperate times call for desperate measures. 
I blame this all on the toiletries!
Sometimes I think these kinds of things only happen to me.  Maybe it's because I am a risk-taker, who knows.
Cindy Vine is a South African living and working in Norway.  Cindy is the author of Hush Baby, The Freedom Club, Not Telling, CU@8, Defective and The Case of Billy B.  All her books are available on Amazon in both paperback and e-book format. http://cindyvine.com 

Let the adventures begin!

It can only happen to me!
#justsaying
I was originally going to write a blog post about how not to pack a suitcase.  For all my traveling, I have not mastered the art of suitcase packing.  I'm a shover.  Find a hole and shove something in it.  When you have a Star Wars carry on suitcase inside your main suitcase, it makes packing more difficult.
Don't ask.

But then one of the wheels on my wheelie case seized.  So now instead of each wheel moving like a ballet dancer so that I only need to direct my suitcase with one finger, I now have to drag it along as the one wheel has stopped turning.  I could feel my right bicep increase several sizes from the effort I had to put in to drag a heavy suitcase.
Not a good start.
My original intention was to take a train to my hotel from the airport.  However, changing trains and walking to the hotel dragging a suitcase, carrying a carry on suitcase, handbag and my laptop case on my back, made me think that plan might not be my wisest.
After all, I am an old woman.  My hair is grey.
I dragged my suitcase through Charles de Gaulle until I found the exit to the taxi rank.  A kind gentleman asked, "You want car taxi or motorbike taxi?"
Always thinking of the budget I asked, "Which one is cheaper?"  In my mind I imagined the motorbike taxi to be like a tuk-tuk which I used to travel on in Thailand.
I tried to smile pleasantly to disguise my shock when I saw the motorbike taxi was just a large-as motorbike.  The biker gave me his leather jacket to wear, put a disposable hairnet on my head before plonking a huge helmet on me so I had to strain my neck to see out the visor.  He put my laptop bag and handbag into side compartments, and tied my big suitcase with deformed wheel onto the carrier on the back of the bike, then he indicated for me to climb on up.

Let's get one thing straight.  I haven't straddled anything for many years.  My joints have seized up like the wheel on my suitcase.
But, pride was at stake.  So, completely disoriented with the heavy humungous helmet on my head, I managed to make my right leg lift and swing and got myself comfortable on the seat.  The biker man then passed me my carry on suitcase and I realised that I would have to hold it on my lap for the journey, making a wall between me and the biker.
The trip was exhilarating, if not a little frightening, as we weaved in and out of the traffic, going way past the speed limit when the freeway was clear.  My driver liked driving on the dotted line and I was sure I would lose both kneecaps or maybe knock off some sideview mirrors.  However, he was very good, even though he shouted and swore at cars that came too close, and even gave a few cars the finger which of course meant that he had to let go of the handlebar.  My nerves!
So today I am Bikergirl Cindy.  I was pleased when I climbed off that I didn't walk like a cowboy.
This wasn't on my bucket list but I'm pleased I had this experience.  And that it only took 20 minutes when if I had gone in a car it might have taken almost 2 hours in the heavy traffic.
So let the adventures begin...time to forage for food.

The Freedom Club is FREE on @amazon until Saturday! 
getbook.at/freedomclub. A group of teenagers decide to stand up to the school bullies, but what they uncover is nothing they expected.
Cindy Vine is an author currently living in Norway, but traveling in Europe for the summer holiday.  She's the author of The Freedom Club, Hush Baby, Not Telling and The Case of Billy B.  All her books are available in both ebook and paperback format on Amazon.

Confessions of a Perpetual Traveler

When I lived in New Zealand I was amazed at how many people had never left Auckland.  To never move from one area your entire life boggles the mind.
I could never be that person.
For me life is made up of a series of adventures. Granted, not all of them are good.  Some are downright miserable.  But travel is always a good adventure.
As a child I was a bookworm, and would read into the night.  I lived vicariously through the characters in the books.  Through them I traveled to exotic destinations and ate amazing food from all around the globe.  Those characters' lives planted a seed in me that was to grow over time.  It was not enough to just read about the different cultures and cuisines, I wanted to experience them first hand.
Danger and living life on the edge became a part of me.  The easy route through life is so mundane that it puts you into a comatose state where you just go through the motions of being alive.  Little house, white picket fence, loving husband, 2 children and a dog.  (Not a cat as I am allergic to them.)  I have to confess, I did try that but kept swerving off the well-trodden path, until my life became one detour after another with many side roads.  No cul-de-sacs for me.
Although it was never part of the grand plan (I had wanted to become a farmer or a vet), teaching proved to be an excellent career choice.  It opened doors for me to see the world.  Living in different countries and becoming absorbed in their cultures is different to going there on holiday.  Immersion not a quick flit in and out.

Nowadays, my part-time job (which is actually my sole source of income) takes me to many different countries.  I can sometimes travel to three different countries in a month.  Some might say I am lucky.  Those are the people who don't travel a lot.  Those who do travel will know exactly what I mean when I say that continuous traveling gives you a sore bum.  Airlines really need to do something about their seats.  No jokes.  Yesterday's flight had me struggling to get comfortable.  I think my coccyx is permanently bruised from bad plane seats.  When it is more comfortable to sit on the toilet on the plane, then you know there is a problem with airplane seats.  Hopefully, some airplane designer will read this and design seats for the frequent flyer.
Last night at the passport control, I watched two people completely lose it.  The queue was long, I have to say.  We had been standing in it for over an hour, shuffling forward every so often.  Then a Filipino woman started shouting, "You jumped my line!  You jumped my line!  You are not a man!  What kind of a man are you?  You jumped my line!"  The man in question first tried to respond in a friendly manner.  He had a wife and about 4 children and a granny with him.  But the irate woman kept shouting, "You jumped my line!"  So he started shouting back.  And then it was a very loud, full-on shouting match.  Airport security arrived.  Removed both the woman and the man and his family out of the queue and made them sit down for a while.  More security arrived and escorted them all to some offices in the depths of the airport.  They hadn't re-emerged when I finally went through passport control.  It shows you have to be patient and just wait in the line.  No matter how annoying it is.  And use your elbows to protect your place in the line.  That is something I learned in China.
Two weeks ago I was in Poland and managed to visit Auschwitz, a lifelong dream of mine.  Two trains, three planes and I was back in Cape Town.  Now I am in Doha, Qatar, looking out my hotel window on the 35th floor, wondering where I can go to forage dinner for tonight.  Cheap food, not over-priced hotel room service.  And what is it with hotels and restaurants all wanting to serve Italian food?  Seriously?  Why are they so ashamed of the local cuisine that they have to steal someone else's?  I choose the local cuisine ahead of Italian every day.  Not that I am anti-Italian.  But eating the local food definitely enhances the travel experience.  And makes you forget about your sore bruised bum.
Cindy Vine is an author and teacher currently living in Cape Town, South Africa.  She is the author of The Case of Billy B, Not Telling, Defective, C U @ 8 and Hush Baby.  All her books are available on Amazon in both paperback and kindle format.