When my best friend Lynne and I went on vacation, I always used to write almost daily about our experiences and email the reports to friends and family.
I think it started when we took a trip on Cunard’s QEII in 2000. Only 25 years ago, and yet technology was nothing close to what it is today. I had to go to the ship’s business centre to type out the email, then send it, with our cabin number in the subject line. When anyone responded, the staff would print out each reply; stick it in an envelope; and leave it in our cabin. Every night, when we got back from dinner, we’d find the pile of envelopes to open and read. We really looked forward to them.
After that vacation, it became a habit for me to write almost daily about our escapades and email out the latest instalment. Some days, it felt more like an obligation than a fun thing to do, but looking back now, I am so glad I made the effort.
I was recently going through my email folders, determined to delete thousands of junk emails – from dodgy vacation offers to books on the subject of menopause: it’s not a death sentence – and came across a 62-page document attachment. It was the consolidated set of emails from our two-week cruise trip through the Mediterranean. I started reading, and it took me right back to all of our adventures. Paying for squares of toilet paper in Egypt; trying on an XXXXXL belly dancer costume in Turkey that looked like a bejewelled Band-Aid on me (while trying to fight off market vendors); hungover in Athens; getting lost in the maze of streets in Mykonos; and marvelling at the wonders of the Old City of Jerusalem.
It was such a packed schedule, I remember being irritated that I’d committed myself to regularly writing to everyone. Who knew that I would be the one to benefit from the effort many years later? I had forgotten so much about that amazing trip – and it all came flooding back.
An excerpt from the start of our tour in Israel:
“As we drove along in the direction of Akko – an old city and excavation site – our tour guide Anat started with the history lessons … and lost us at Shalom. It was clear from the very beginning that she was extremely knowledgeable from a biblical and historical standpoint, and thusly it was one of those so-and-so begat so-and-so talks, peppered with dates, unpronounceable names and a slew of wars.
The time of Herod was interrupted by a mobile phone call which initially was fine, but when she pulled a pen and pad of paper out at the same time I became a little tense. I was riding in the front seat and Lynne was sitting in the centre of the row seat behind us. Anat chittered away, trying to write and steer at the same time as I dug my feet into the floor beneath. At one point she wasn’t braking fast enough for me, so I heard myself bleat ‘The car, the car, the car, THE CAR!’ before she tush-tushed me and expertly skimmed the bumper of the other vehicle in front as we flew through a junction.”
Elegance in the Dead Sea:
“Warnings had been issued before we got in. Be careful trying to stand up after floating. Don’t get the water in your eyes and mouth. Be aware of the mud on the bottom.
Well, nothing could prepare us for that mud. As we slowly entered the sea from the shore, it squished between our toes and was slick beneath our feet. A young lady in a white bikini resembling Ursula Andress a la ‘Dr. No’ was coming towards us. ‘Watch out for the holes,’ she said, as I promptly sank in down to the calf and stumbled forward, hitting my knee on a rock in the process. ‘Uck,’ came Lynne’s voice behind me – not happy with the consistency of the mud and struggling with sinkholes scattered like landmines on the bottom. We didn’t go far before we half-sat, half-fell into the water, and I screwed up my face to close all orifices against the salty liquid.
I realised that walking was not the safest way, and so got down on my front in the shallow water, pulling myself along with my hands with my legs floating behind. You know when you see those National Geographic programmes about how creatures were fish millions of years ago and as they evolved they grew legs and walked up onto the land? That was me, making my way to shore in the Dead Sea, with Lynne choosing to walk in my wake, following my lead of where was solid to step.”
Good times.
Again, while going through my emails, I came across a report I sent to my parents when Lynne and I went to Strawberry Hill in Jamaica in 2016. That was a magical weekend – the mountains of the island are just stunning – although we found that our hiking skills needed some work …
“Despite the iffy weather, Lynne and I decided we would walk the Gordon Town Trail, led by Rastaman, Dave.
It all started off with a decent slope along the main road, followed by more main road that offered an incredible vista of the valley, with banana trees, breadfruit trees and coffee plants, along with bamboo and avocado, all calmly growing on insanely steep hillside, that begged the question ‘How the heck did anyone manage to cultivate these things?’
As we rounded a corner, a bunch of impossibly cute children were walking down from a house, led by a teenager. We clearly heard ‘Look! Two white people dem!’ It was a fair cop. We were human-shaped Crisco.
I handed out some candy that I had in my bag for emergencies (ahem). Who could resist those big smiles.
Once we hit the actual trail, we got an idea of what we were in for. We had been relieved to hear it was downhill for most of the journey, but had no concept of the terrain. As we wibbled and wobbled our way over foot after foot of slippery rock, mud, and plant life, all downhill and THEN some, we passed schoolchildren and adults wearing everything from simple shoes to sandals, flying by with not a care in the world. ‘Dey walk dis hev’ry day,’ Dave explained, as he skipped over one obstacle after the next.
‘My knees,’ Lynne murmured.
Words fail me regarding the breathtaking beauty of the scenery. It makes you want to give it all up and live in the mountains. People went by with bags of produce on their heads, all friendly and charming, quite happy to stop so Dave could demonstrate to the two out-of-shape foreigners how they walked this path and carried their belongings.
At the end of it all, we had walked about six miles, and Lynne’s sneakers, alas, did not make it. She lost the soles of both.
We got a taxi back, stopping to pay J$100 so Lynne could use a toilet, and then hit the familiar winding road up the mountain to Strawberry Hill.
This driver made our driver from the airport look like a rank amateur. As we were thrown about in the back seat like two beans in a can, he belted around corners to the soundtrack of none other than the great Michael Bolton, blasting at us from a highly digitized sound system.
‘BABY THAT’S WHAT LOVE IS ALL ABOUT (SCREEEECH, BEEP!, BEEP!), TWO HEARTS THAT FIND A WAY (HONK, HONK, HEY MAN!), SOMEHOW, TO KEEP (VRRROOOM, SCREECH, BEEEEEEEEP!) THE DREAM FROM DYING …’
After a while you just accept that you’re a passenger in a game of chicken for three miles, so you just have to lean back and hope you win.”
I got out of the habit of writing on our trips, but re-reading these reports has renewed my enthusiasm for the idea. I love seeing friends’ tales of their journeys on Facebook, so it’s time I dusted off my laptop and started afresh … just as soon as we’re actually going somewhere.
