2016 so far in Austria

As we come to the mid-point of the season, it seems only right to reflect on the highlights of the last two months. We've had some amazing guests, memorable nights out and traumatic skiing sessions. But there's also been some low points, namely losing two of our favourite guys Mark and Aitor. We miss you guys so much and life is not quite the same.

Work

Despite my last compelling post it appears my moaning hasn't changed anything. The toilet roll holders are still being polished and I'm still not allowed to carry a glass or piece of cutlery in my bare hand without running the risk of offending the guests. A truly, ungodly sight. I tried to form a Hotel Assistant Union and challenge the oppressive and quiet frankly dangerous practise of hoovering the stair case. This fell on deaf ears, but my campaign to stop wasting napkins is going fairly well. We're probably only binning 50 napkins an evening now instead of 75. I like to think of myself as the modern day Winnie Mandela. My struggle will continue, but I will never give up what I believe in. Delivering not an excellent, but a perfectly adequate 5/10 customer experience.

After the fall of our great brother Mark, we've all had to help out a little more in the kitchen. For some people this has worked well, Billy has been in his element on the KP and Mrs Peanut has learnt how to hold plates more firmly, after previously smashing 11 pieces of crockery in a week. Things have also gone a little wrong. Namely, after I confused ' grate the zest of the lemon' with 'grate the whole of the lemon' giving Thursday nights starter's somewhat of a bitter taste.

In my last post I talked about the HA team, so it seems only right to now give credit to our chefs. Fortunately none of them posed for a group photo so I did what I do best, stalked their Facebook's for hours on end.

So, first we have our Spanish head chef Aitor. Aitor is the most placid head chef and can only be compared to an angel. He makes the best mushroom pasta in the world, pulls out some show-stoppers when playing cards against humanity and loves a slice of chocolate cake with a cooked breakfast.

Then we have Mark, our CDP. Mark brings sunshine too everyone's day with his twisted sense of humour,crazy skiing and creepy ass laugh. Our Commi Chef is called Joe. We hit it off instantly with a mutual agreement. As long as I bring him coffee and maintain my Dobby like loyalty, he will reward me with the scraps of blue cheese, my own personal meth.

DJ Joe

Mark (creep in the back)

Then we have the two laziest boys in the kitchen Harry and Jack, our kitchen porters. When Harry's not acting out scenes for his latest Rom- Vom-Com with his damsel in distress Lydia, he's chopping onions in a pedantic fashion (and probably thinking about his next nauseating act and consequential emasculation). Harry is the life and soul of the kitchen with his dad dancing and brings order to the kitchen by making sure people only take one sausage at breakfast. Any more than one would be a true sacrilege.

 Farry's glory days

Then there's Jack who loves nothing more in life than a bowl of porridge and six boiled eggs. And that's all there really is to say about him. Pretty insignificant.

Enjoying Life to the full

Living with a demon

When we first arrived in resort we were all relatively surprised with the gorgeous accommodation we were allocated. We had heard the horror stories of the damp crammed rooms with copious amounts of weird room mates( luckily I only have one room mate who steals my socks and knickers. Nothing too strange there).

Crazy room-mate and I

 We saw the showers with hot water, the PVC sofas, the British heart foundation décor and thought we had hit the jackpot. Little did we know that we had just entered into our own modern day horror story and into the labyrinth of a pure demon. The rules were enforced with a violent fervour, do not touch the curtains, no guests were allowed EVER, and socks must always be turned inside out before going in the washing machine. No shoes allowed in the house, certainly no cooking, no entry to the spa, no cigarettes to be smoked outside the property and no knickers that show more than a quarter of a bum cheek ( any less and she'll throw them on the ground and shout hysterically in German). We've all had an encounter with Lucifer herself, a story to tell. Her latest trick is to hide your shoes if you leave them inside your kitchen and if she's feeling particularly hellish she'll tie your shoe laces together into a knot that is as difficult to solve as John Travolta's sexuality.

Access to one's basic human right of Privacy is a thing of the past. She enters when she wants, be this the middle of the night, whilst having a shower, or even whilst changing. Knocking is a mere social nicety she simply doesn't have time for. She roams the corridors like Argus Flich and Mrs Norris and it's not unusual to find her sniffing round your apartment at 5:50 am.

Of course Lucifer has a spawn, a successor to carry on her tyrannical rule. As time has told, evil always has a back up plan. Dr Evil of course has Mini me, the Kaiser had Hitler and David Cameron has Michael Gove. And the house Dragon has her lizard. As the lizard is the only one who can speak English he often enforces the Dragon's psychotic rules. Last Saturday six of us had a couple of drinks. It was as tame as a your Nan's 60^th in your local church hall with a finger buffet. Things got a little louder when the club banger, 'build you up buttercup came on'. But that was as wild as it got.

The night of the wild party. Population 4.

The next day bleary eyed after a heavy night partying our world was shaken. In a rage doors were swung open at 7:30am, lights turned on and quilts quite literally ripped of naked bodies as the lizard hysterically hissed and told us to check out promptly. It was a confusing time, some thought the building was on fire, other's wondered whether this was the start of the well anticipated zombie apocalypse while some wondered whether ISIS had taken a stronghold in the town It was a surprise we weren't told to lie on the floor with our hands behind our heads. Turns out music is not allowed to be played after 10pm.

Antics

So last time I checked in, It was the eve of New Year. New Years Eve was nothing short of spectacular. The evening started off tame for some of us, apart from Evie who was already swinging off people's necks by 10:30 pm. We all enjoyed the fire works and tried to blag our way into clubs for free. Due to our poor negotiating skills, this of course didn't work so we settled for a tiny bar called Niko's for 15 euros. A real stretch for the seasonaire bank account. The New Year's spirit must of got to some people's head's so much it reverted them back to their teenage years. The scenes that unfolded were strikingly similar to those Friday nights you spent at the Under-age disco. Body glitter on, impulse deodorant level 10. You would lean against the vending machine sipping a can of coke hoping the boy in year nine with the spikiest hair would ask for your hand when the club banger 'who let the dogs out' came on. The night would be topped off with a washing machine snog and a mention in his MSN status. Niko's became that under-age disco as far too many bizzare couples engaged some heavy petting. Some young lovers even took took to humping up against the coat rack. All in all an unclassy affair. 2016 came in for some with a literal bang.

As I mentioned in my last post I gave up the K kebab for a whole month. I did it much to everybody's shock. The 1^st of February was an exciting day for me. The whole day I dreamed of my kebab. The sauce, the meat, the lettuce the tomato couldn't slip my mind for a mere second. I drank the beer, I did the dancing and at 1am I was ready for my kebab. The anticipation was rife, my body pratically shaking as I stood in the queue for my opium. When the kebab man told us there were only four left you can imagine my excitement. Like a child desperate for a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's factory, I may have tried to wrestle my way to the front of the queue. When I heard the perilous words of 'you're not having a kebab, you are too rude', I apologised profusely and begged him to understand my situation. But he stood firm on his decision, he didn't need an English girl undermining his position as the kebab oversear. I don't really think I can blame the tears that followed or the merciless begging on the alcohol, it was a true raw heartbreak. As I rested my head on the counter crying he ushered me away and I sat under a table feeling sorry for myself sobbing into my hands. People were confused and gave me a few pity bites, but it wasn't the same. And until they lose their first born child I don't think they will understand the pain I experienced in the early hours of February 2^nd, 2016.

What could of been

What I've learnt.

We have all discovered the past few months that the seasonaire lifestyle is difficult to sustain. Drinks are pricey, hangovers at an altitude are beyond difficult, but the Heimnator and I have come up with a few key rules to surviving the season which some of you may find useful.

1. Mind sweeping is everything. At the age of 23 I should probably be buying my own tequila beers, but £280 a month and a requirement to attend a minimum of three nights out a week, means times can be tough. So left over cocktails, warm beer are your new best friends. If you need any advice on how to play the game you can visit the mind sweeping lord ,Scott for advice on how to have a night out on 1 euro and still wake up late for work with a splitting hangover.
   N.B. Keep your mind-sweeping appropriate. Assess the context. Do a HACCP assessment; look for hazardous substance assess the critical control points. Are there any witnesses? Under no circumstance is it okay to mind-sweep a bottle of Moet pour you and your friend a glass and continue dancing with the bottle in hand. Speaking, hypothetically of course.

 2. Lock your bedroom doors. To avoid nude colleagues having a romantic rendezvous between your sheets.

3. Don't beg to get into a strip club. Turns out you can't negotiate your way into the strip club with your six euros in shrapnel. And it doesn't matter if it's your birthday and your mum (aka Robyn) tries to convince the bartender otherwise, you don't get a lap- dance for free

4. Build up a good relationship with the local DJ. Despite, common misconception a little bit of neediness goes a long way. Forget what your counsellor told you use your childhood trauma,
rejection and father issues, use them to your full advantage. If the DJ won't play your favourite song just cling on until he will play American boy, Deja Vu and Fat-man Scoop.

5.Build up a good relationship with guests. Guest's can be hit and miss. But every once in a while you a get a golden egg. A few weeks ago we had a huge party of South African's who were quite simply the best. A couple weeks after we had guests who showered us with Jagger. However, make sure you confirm their relationship status before making your relationship more personal. Some have girlfriends, some have girlfriends with a mortgagee and a dog.

Great Guests

6. Build up a good relationship with strangers. Turns out anyone can be your friend on season. Whether its the semi- naked guy on the pole who shares his Corona around the club. Or the guys who pour Grey Goose into your three euro beer, everyone is their for the same thing.

7. When a middle aged gentleman across the bar buys you a drink, toast triumphantly and give a polite nod. Life is a film after all.

8.Try to stay vertical. Don't do a Polly- Pocket and find yourself lying under cars, lying in the road, being thrown in the air in Fire and Ice or falling down and injuring people's gammy feet.

Polly P down

9. You're bound the get sweaty working in a hot kitchen. But avoid the temptation of ramming a sanitary towel up your armpit.

10. Don't let Connor, Dan or Billy go ahead of you in tobogganing. Unless you have the funds to get yourself out of a law suit for grievous bodily harm.

11. If your pulling techniques aren't working, take a leaf out of Peanut's book and try the straw in the mouth dance. It's been tried and tested. If she bites the other end you're onto a winner.

12.Learn your times tables, study in school, learn what 12+19 is, understand that a little bit of snow won't melt the entire ski resort, understand you can't drive from South Africa to Austria in 24 hours. This should avoid constant mocking, but it's no guarantee

The jeb himself

13. Keep Joe on a lead

14. AVOID THE SNOW PARK.

All in all its been a fun few months. We've leant a lot and are certainly not ready to come home yet. I still need to learn how to ski over a mogul without freaking out and more importantly mend my relationship with the kebab shop.

Ciao for now.

Four things I've learnt from my first month as an seasonaire

It's been a fun month that's for sure. It started with formal handshakes, polite laughing at shit jokes and civilised glasses of wine. However soon turned into kittkatting , drunken ice skating, absinthe, snogging 50 year old Austrians, and ,for some people, even pissing on your own bedroom floor.

1. Mastering the art of domestic goddess(dom)

So there are six of us that work in the hotel. We have Robyn the Irish face licker, the star gazer Billy, the flamboyant animal trainer Scott, two pint Rachel and of course, not forgetting, Mrs Sarah Peanut. Together we make each other's day bearable as we put the world to rights with a polished tap and a watermark free shower. Forget the Red cross in Syria, forget UNICEF keeping African orphans warm, forget Nelson Mandela's 24 year struggle for racial equality. There is nothing more satisfying, rewarding and IMPORTANT than a smear free sink and a pillow lean with a 140 degree angle.

The standards of cleanliness are great for guests, but they are frustratingly strict . Last week I got called back to a room because I hadn't turned all the guest's toiletries around so the label was facing outwards. Just in case Mother dearest forgot what brand her toothpaste was.

Despite the moaning and groaning, we've all learnt a lot. I now know that glass cleaner can get anything clean, baths are a hotbed of pubes and need to be cleaned daily and that the spawn of Satan is chrome. I can't even look at my own chrome toilet roll holder without recoiling and giving it a quick rub down with a used make-up wipe . The amount of finger marks they get is disgusting and I certainly won't be having such a devious surface in my own home.

I can now clean a room and bathroom in fifteen minutes, fold towels in a creative way and make any bed, (even a middle aged, 25 years of marriage, she's banging the butler, affectionless one) look homely and inviting.

                                                              The team (minus Mrs Peanut and I)

2. How to drink responsibly

Apart from the snow, alcohol seems to be what most people's world revolves around on season. The past few weeks have taught me a lot about my body and the way it works. I remember my first night, like a niave fresher or Bambi leaping through a field before his mother died, I was care free and didn't realise how the easily the world can shit on you. I thought I could participate in early evening drinking. With a vodka in each hand and a gluhwein on my mind I stumbled over to the Beach Boys concert and got suitably intoxicated. You know that feeling when your sat on a porta loo bellowing out 'god only know's what i'd be with out you' to a girl you met 72 hours ago, and you know it's time to go home? Imagine the despair when you say your goodbyes, think about warming up that pasta bake at home and realise it is 19:30 and you can't even remember whether Lauren and Will are boyfriend and girlfriend or father and son. Even gender became ambiguous that night.

After dealing with the world's most crushing hangover and a bank account that had been inappropriately beaten, groped and fondled, I decided to change my ways. It was trial and error, but I learnt three glasses of wine is certainly enough, Jagger and milk is not good for my bowels and to stick to Beer if I want to have a conversation without sounding like Stephen Hawking. I used to blame my bruised knees after a night out on my heels, but after falling down a flight of stairs in my sturdy snow boots, I might need to apologise to the countless pairs of shoes I have slandered in the past. It wasn't you, it was me.

From passing out on kitchen floors, being bitten by Austrian men, EXTRA MEAT, unwarranted midnight yoga displays from the world's smallest women, vomiting in night clubs, working on two hours sleep and whatever the hell happened on that hill on Billy's birthday, we've had it all. I fear it was even worse than 'the fishing trip' on Gavin and Stacy.

               Potter having a mare.

                                             The faithful night of 'the hill'. Billy's Birthday.

3. How to stay safe on the slopes

It took a grand total of four ski outings until I rolled down a hill and ended up in the doctors sobbing into a hospital bed as my boss gave the cliched male response to tears, the awkward patt on the back. With a sprained ligament and the foreboding conclusion that it would take six weeks to heel I hobbled back to work and continued to cry hysterically as if I was an orphaned Romanov princess. Turns out the prognosis was not so bad and I should be hopefully skiing this week. However, from the sidelines I have still managed to compile a few good pointers for the future.

                                          

                                           A rare picture of me on the slopes.

1. Always have your pockets zipped up. After a tumble you may suffer slight amnesia and think 'wow wonder where that phone, that is lying conveniently next to my ski, came from? '. No second thought will be given as you bumble on aloof and contactless.
2. Respect your stomach. Always chew pizza. Don't tarnish the snow with your un-mouthwashed breathe and bile. Harry. 
3. Keep at least a 30 meter distance from Mark at all times. To avoid paralysis.
4. Don't ski when drunk, don't ski in the dark . All valuable tips to avoid a sprained knee.
5. Look out for rocks. Lydia.
6. If your slow like me, get yourself a Polly -Pocket like friend who will wipe your tears, collect your polls, remind you to lift the chair lift up, and push the boundaries of your friendship by tricking you down runs way beyond your ability.

Polly P and I.

4. How to maintain a healthy balanced diet.

They say that skiing can burn up to 400 calories per hour. The Daily Mail add that you can lose up to 'five pounds a week, tone your stomach muscles and boost your immunity.' So a month in I'm wondering why I feel more Kerry Katona than Rihanna? Shit. Who knew you couldn't trust the Daily Mail anymore?

Anyway, Its safe to say i'm looking less like Moguly from the jungle book after my 12 week stint of bowel seizures and two hospital visits in Kathmandu. Everyday we are treated to a full English, lunch is nothing short of a carbohydrate rave and our staff dinner is merely a starter before the main course of duck, venison, apple strudel, chocolate brownie, truffle and cheese scraps.

But the real devil for chafing thighs and 3am self-loathing is the K kebab. What can be described as nothing less than heaven in a pitta, the edible form of Jesus even, has been the greatest love story to date (apart from Lydia and Harry, Larry). Bringing such sweet sweet ecstasy yet such bitter heartache.

I have had eight in a month and am currently the K kebab queen. A title this month, during dry January, I endeavour to relinquish. For 28 days I will attempt to not let a drop of the world's most succulent lamb, most mouthwatering yogurt mint sauce touch my lips. The money I will save on kebabs I'm going to donate to a charity in Nepal. Should be a total of around 35-40 euros. I'm considering setting up a just giving page. Details will follow.

                            These are four separate occasions and kebabs. All special in their own way.

So that's a summary of what's been happening in our little bubble of a ski resort and all the things i'm learning on this 'gap Yah' journey to self-fulfillment, inner peace and prosperity. I'm already looking forward to 2016 and hope it will be kebab free and allow me to finally master the art of cleaning bathtubs.

(Disclaimer: Mum, Dad and Nan the reference to kissing middle-aged Austrian men and urination outside of the bathroom, has not happened to me personally. I'm still only nearly burning down buildings with my cooking. No need to worry.)

Committing the most heinous of crimes: Five things i don't like about Christmas.

I’ve not even written a sentence and I can already see you imagining my face on that voluptuous green body, donned by the one and only Grinch.  However before you go throwing your toys out of the pram, give me a second to lay down my argument. Christmas to me sucks. I’ve never really seen the point of it and the whole experience just appears anti-climatic.  Every Boxing Day I’m left feeling bored, miserable, skint and two stone heavier.  Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with my family on Christmas day and passively watching the showdown between my grandparents as to whether we are going to watch it’s a Wonderful Life or the Downtown Abbey Christmas Special. However, Christmas today seems to have been turned into a bit of a spectacle loosing its original sentiment and in its place creating spoilt children, debt and ridiculous jumpers.  However, don’t worry I’m not going to go all heavy on you and probably isolate half of the population. Here are five reasons I’m sure you can relate to, too.

    The Christmas Card

The Christmas card can be considered to be one of the central pillars of your early life.  You remember the days of apprehensively waiting at your primary school desk. How many Christmas cards will I get? Will the popular girl send me one? You know who I mean; the one who is cool enough to hang around with the year six’s and married the hunkiest boy in school with a sacrilegious Haribo ring.  Then there is the dilemma of sending them. You’ve got approximately 40 pointless little cards in your pound land saver pack and you need to send out all 40 or you are basically admitting to yourself that you are a loner and subsequently committing social suicide. Do you send your crush your favourite card with the cute dogs or is that too forward? Maybe you should play hard to get and send him the kittens in Christmas hats? How many kisses constitutes sweet before it gets slutty?

This was the origin of the Christmas card for me. It was a point of social tension.  Taking it into the post-pubescent era, I have to ask why do we continue to send these pointless pieces of card? I understand if it’s off your great auntie’s cousin’s girlfriend , who you have not seen in years and needs to give you a run down on all the family's shenanigans. But I do not need a card from my next door neighbor or best friend saying ‘To Rea. Happy Christmas. From Bob’ (for the record I have no friends or, from what I’m aware, neighbors called Bob).  Why don’t you just wish me a happy Christmas in person?  Dwelling on that point, what does a happy Christmas actually mean? It’s just empty words with no sentiment. Some people have told me that they like Christmas cards because they like the words. But their not my words, they’re the words of some bored graduate working at Clintons. He’s probably not had his lunch in a few hours and knows if he throws in the phrase, ‘May your Christmas sparkle with moments of love, laughter and goodwill’, he’ll have hit the nail on the head and can enjoy his tuna sandwich smugly.

Then there is the issue of what you do with the Christmas card and when it is acceptable to resign it to its predetermined fate, the bin. You don’t want to be rude by throwing it away, but it’s January and you really need the bugger out of your life.

  Christmas related stuff

Why is it that as soon as it turns mid-August my vision appears to become limited to a sea of green and red?  And the sparkles, oh the bloody sparkles.  Last week I went out on my weekly haunt to buy a new outfit and it appears that all the high street appears to stock is outcasts from Dolly Parton’s wardrobe.  I don’t want to wear sparkles, sequins or any of that crap. Just because its Christmas doesn’t mean I want to look like the tree. Then there are the songs. Some of them are quite catchy, I mean who doesn’t enjoy Fairy Tale of New York and All I Want for Christmas. However, it’s not all I want to hear on repeat two months before the big day.  There are some people who want/need to dance somewhat inappropriately on a night out and I do not want to see them destroying my favourite Christmas songs by their ‘sexy’ dancing.  Let’s make sure we can cater for all creeds during the Christmas period, shall we? To avoid treasured childhood memories being ruined by Miley Cyrus and her godforsaken twerk.

    Gifts

The stress of buying gifts is always something which makes me dread Christmas. One, I’m usually skint and two, I am so terrible at it. I think one year, in a technological savvy age, I actually bought someone a phone book! Men are even harder to buy for. With women at least you can fog them off with a nice piece of jewellery, perfume, clothes, anything really. Men, why is it so bloody difficult? My mums not much help, ‘what should I get granddad and dad’, the response ‘socks’. How many pairs of socks do you really need? Do you actually like socks? I know that if I unwrapped a beautifully wrapped gift, to find socks I wouldn’t be exactly over the moon. Inevitably we end up buying people gifts they don’t really need and the only person who ends up pleased in the whole process is the CEO of Primark.

    Getting Fat

As Tom Daley cruelly reminded me on Twitter a few days ago, in a cliché post, ‘summer bodies are built in winter’. Thanks for that one Tom.  And how can anyone possibly follow that mantra with the amount of food that appears to suddenly become extremely accessible and integral that you eat in large quantities. Cake, sweets, mince pies, alcohol, roast potatoes, more alcohol and cheap disgusting chocolate coins that you just can’t help sneaking off the Christmas tree. I try to restrain myself, but theirs always my nana reminding me that, ‘it’s Christmas, it’s a treat’ and ‘give over, there’s nothing of you eat more’. If persistent she will then whip out the big guns and say that’s she ‘worried about my eating patterns’, (this all comes from the woman who has a spoonful of mash potato and is full). It’s a difficult situation to navigate and the answer is usually to just consume as much as humanely possible. However after this eating jamboree, you then immediately feel guilty. Eventually you come to the realisation that the sparkly Dolly Parton dress, you were forced to buy as an exacerbated consumer, will have to be returned back to the store. More than likely, it will probably return to haunt you in your local Oxfam a few months later.

  The After match

So the build up to Christmas cannot be described as anything other than pure excitement. People are always smiling and it gives your days at work meaning as the countdown to the forsaken holiday begins.  Bright jumpers come out and there is the inappropriate scene at the staff Christmas party, you spend weeks trying to forget about. Secret Santa begins and your electricity bill rockets sky high from the amount of LED lights flashing in every room of the house. However, when the day comes you can’t help but sense a dark cloud foreboding in the near distance, often literally and not just figuratively. Everyone knows winter is a killer; the sun sets before kids get home, its freezing and if you are a student you spend 90 per cent of your time revising in several duvets.  So, when the day of reckoning arrives you can’t help but feel kinda sad that your chocolate calendar abandons you here. Another two months of the black abyss alone, until spring arrives.

Sorry to piss on everyone’s bonfire. I am not completely miserable there are some joys to come out of Christmas, which is namely the 2015 One Direction Calendar.  

Only five more days till December and when everyone subsequently loses their marbles.  Merry Christmas!

Seven reasons you should travel alone

So, this summer I took the ultimate plunge and decided to set out across Africa riding solo. Jason Derulo style. It was a two month stint around Southern Africa independently. There is a lot of stigma with traveling solo. Will I be safe? Will I make friends? And, moreover, will people think I'm a crazy weirdo? It’s these thoughts which often restrict people from taking the plunge and getting out there. It can be hard being around people who don't have the same aspirations as you, but that doesn't mean you need to let your dreams fester. Traveling alone is an incredible experience and here are seven top notch reasons too.

1: YOU ARE NEVER ALONE.

Did you hear me? I said NEVER.

 I remember sitting on my flight to Cape Town a nervous wreck, full of excitement, dread and anticipation (but mostly dread). "I'm not going to meet anyone!” I exclaimed silently in my head.  “It’s fine”, I reasoned to myself, “It’s only two months, I can get by alone for eight weeks?” These thoughts turned out to be completely futile as its turns out when you're travelling alone you are never alone. People are ridiculously friendly and everyone always wants new friends. I couldn't help thinking I'd reached the peak of my popularity that summer, feeling like the brunette and clumsier version of Regina George. In fact I can only think of one evening when I was alone and that was self-inflicted, as I had a very important Jodi Picoult book I needed to get through. You meet different people every day and often get asked the same questions. By the end of the trip you'll be able to round off your important information in a matter of seconds. My name is Rea, I'm 21 and I've just finished university. If I was a sofa I'd be a recliner, I'd rather have no toes than fingers and I’d like to think in ten years’ time I'll be helping Harry Styles pick out polka dot tea towels for our new home. You know? The basics.

2. You meet the most incredible people.

So you get it. You are never alone when travelling and the best part is that these people are usually incredible. You get to meet people from all walks of life. Whether that's a crazy jam-sniffing Canadian, young soldiers from Israel, an American with a 'suns out guns out' tank top, or a girl from Manchester who has eaten monkey and chips. The best part is that they are usually similar minded with the same dreams and aspirations as you. They motivate you to do better, travel more and live more freely.

3. Travelling with friends could be a disaster.

Don't get me wrong I love my friends. When I was sat on that plane on the way to start my adventure the only thing I wanted was them. I needed someone to tell me my hair looked like a birds’ nest and someone to ridicule my choice of footwear (trainers from year nine gym are never a good look). However, in hindsight, I don't think I could have done these two months with my partner in crime. For one spending that much time with your best friend could be intense. Eating together, sleeping in the same room, brushing your teeth together, it is bound to cause arguments at some point.  She wants pizza, you want African cuisine. She wants to go cage shark diving, but you want to read a book. She wants a Mojito on a two for one deal, but you want a Long Island Ice Tea! It’s bound to end in disaster.

I think having friends with you when travelling could also hold you back.  If you have your friends, you may sometimes feel you don't want to make an effort with new people. I remember one night being ridiculously hung-over, wanting nothing more than my pillow. However in an attempt to not appear anti-social, I somehow got goaded into playing an insane game of beer pong and ended up on the mountainside with a herd of goats and some crazy Australians.  If I'd have had my friends that night, I probably would have settled for a cup of Horlicks and an early night. I would have never engaged in a drunken argument with a very sassy goat. A must for your bucket list.

4. You learn things about yourself

There is that awful cliché that when you are travelling 'you find yourself'. What does that even mean? Where was I hiding all this bloody time? I'm pretty sure I could find myself before and it was usually pining in my bedroom after Topshops' new lines.  So, in an attempt to ditch the cliché, I would say that you learn new things about yourself. For example, I learnt that I can talk to anyone and, in doing so, talk the hind legs off a donkey. I like to be alone, I love being with nature, don't like busy cities and have an irrational fear of goats (I realise that this sounds like a personal ad for match.com). I never knew that I could have such interesting and exciting conversations with strangers, but when you are pushed into these situations you surprise yourself. It also helps you clarify your goals, dreams and aspirations. A lot of travelling is spent on busses staring out of windows listening to Taylor Swift songs. This prolonged silence, and the sweet notes of Tay Swizzle, give you a good opportunity to clarify who you are and what you want to be.

5. You are pushed out of your comfort zone

Building on my last point, travelling is all about pushing yourself out of your comfort zone. The complete act of packing up your life and travelling to another part of the world alone is, dare I say it, pretty dam badass.  This complete freedom can be daunting and pushes you out of your comfort zone, which only has excellent results. You start to do the craziest things! Whether that’s white water rafting down the, crocodile infested, Zambezi river, walking with lions,  skydiving, swimming with sharks or surfing. Or, not speaking from personal experience (cough* cough*), sleeping in an national park to hear an elephant outside your tent and sharing your dying wishes with a six foot, strange, German man.

6. You can be anyone you want to be.

Another great part of travelling alone is getting the chance to leave everything behind, all your worries, secrets, insecurities, gone. You can be whoever the heck you want to be!  You can take it to the extreme like I did, telling strange men you are a marine biologist with a Lebanese boyfriend called Julio (pronounced Hoolio), (what Lebanese person is called Julio?). Or you can be more subtle and do all the things you’ve always wanted too without scrutiny. You can kiss that boy you find cute with the nerdy glasses. You can share the opinions you’ve always kept under wraps.  Ross and Rachel weren’t, technically, on a break and…. I don’t really like Christmas.  You can make the most outrageous jokes and watch them fall flat because WHO CARES, you can pick up, leave and start again tomorrow at a new destination! It truly is a liberating process.

7. You are a crazy weirdo. Embrace it.

Finally, why worry if people think you are crazy for travelling alone? You are crazy and that’s something to be proud of. You dropped your life, friends, family, home comforts to live out your dreams and follow your passions. If that makes us crazy weirdos, I know I don’t care.  That’s exactly what I want to be.


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