Group tour. It’s not a dirty word. (Or even a dirty phrase made up of two otherwise clean words.)

Yes travel is all about novelty, adventure, pressing back the boundaries of our ordinary lives, meeting new people and discovering new things. Why isn’t that possible within the safety of an air-conditioned coach? It doesn’t have to be all umbrella wielding guides, generic food and fifteen countries in nine days. There are some tremendous experiences to be had within the confines of an organised schedule.  

Small is delightful

 

A suspect gaggle of tourists in Macau

When researching our Canadian holiday, my cousin and I honed in on the phrase ‘small group’. Twelve max. Great. A personalised, four-wheel drive around British Columbia. We waited patiently to be picked up on the first day, were warmly greeted by our jovial guide and led to a van. An empty van. ‘Are we picking up the rest now?’, we asked timidly. ‘Nope! It’s just you two this time round. We’re going to have a whole lot of fun’. Big grin. Teeth. My cousin and I looked at each other a tad nervously – was this perhaps a kidnapping instead? Should we ask for ID? And we were also a tad disappointed too. This concept of ‘small’ just seemed a little too small.  

It turned out to be one of the finest tours I’ve ever experienced – back roads, introductions to locals, getting to know whole families, and dinners and movies that weren’t part of the program. It was very much like driving around the countryside with well informed and well connected friends. We were eventually joined by two other Australians from a rival state. The lovely and easy going Canadian guide was constantly taken aback by our light hearted by ruthless and scathing banter about football. And I don’t even follow football. It’s just the Australian way.

A walk in the country

Walking tours are like therapy in the sunshine. Hours of meandering along, getting to know yourself, each other and plenty of time to confront the big questions of life. There’s bonding and a slow focus on every hour of the day. Lovely. Of course, that’s the ideal. That was the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains for me – I read books on my white washed, wrought iron balcony, danced around my cool tiled lounge room and ate mulberries and cherries right off the tree. Sangria, sunshine and good fresh food. Bliss.

I confess, it wasn’t ideal on the day it was 38 degrees Celsius, when I struggled up a shale covered mountainside and severely burned the backs of my legs. It definitely wasn’t ideal. There was little dancing after that. But overall, walking tours are slow and intense – in a good way! You don’t see a lot of a country but what you do see is authentic and concentrated.

Day tour

Short and sharp, this is the perfect way to politely acquaint yourself with a city fast. It only takes up a couple of hours in your day, you learn a bunch of stuff and sometimes they’re free. Travelling on my own it has been the perfect way to meet folks. From one such two-hour tour of Chinatown in Singapore I met a fellow Australian, who invited me to lunch and introduced me to a fascinating American cancer survivor/writer/actress, and later another friend of hers who lives in Singapore. The next day we visited other sites, hung out in my suite at the Marina Bay Sands, went to high tea at the Raffles, cocktails at the Fullerton and then, finally, for dinner on Clarke Quay.  And I thought I’d be on my own for my birthday!

The “noble” solo travel experience can be a quiet and lonely one. When you’re travelling on your own, the day tour gives you a chance to talk to people without making any commitments. This opportunity to flirt a little, to go out on a date but not give your phone number at the end is perfect for commitment phobes.

 

 

If you're going to be herded like a gaggle of sheep, it might as well be in a rural setting.

(Sierra Nevada mountains, Spain)

 

Contiki/ Topdeck

Failing all other civilised options, you can fall back on the tried and true – the debaucherous, raucous, clichéd, obvious and tactless Contiki or Topdeck.

Yes, you have to get up at the crack of dawn and eat stale bread rolls with jam. Yes, you have to slouch in a coach, half asleep and bored for hours each day. Yes, you will have to stay close to a loud and fearless guide who carries some sort of beacon (umbrella, flag, etc etc) and herds their flock of sheep safely through piazzas and churches, markets and museums. There’s petty but tearful arguments about the front seats, there’s ruthless time keeping to stay on schedule and, in that big crowd of people, there is, without doubt, going to be someone who irritates the crap out of you.

But you can also be anonymous and blend in with the crowd. You can let your hair down and really revel in that anonymity – be someone else for a little while. You can still challenge yourself and you will definitely learn something about yourself. You can meet people from many different countries and background and if you ask enough questions, you’ll learn something cultural and thought provoking. But you will only get bite-sized, pre-packaged pieces of countries – high in sugar and fat and alcohol.

There’s nothing essentially wrong with this. Will you have a great time? Probably. Will you remember Ireland? I certainly don’t.

 

Maybe just a little slice - travelling and food (or food and travelling)

Outdoor dining: Clarke Quay, Singapore

Food and travelling go hand in sticky hand. It doesn’t have to be high end or even particularly exotic (though it does seem to be more acceptable to spend a disproportionately large amount of cash on dinner when you’re travelling than it does on any given Friday night at home – see ‘'Two girls'). It’s just lovely when it helps you connect with a place and with the people in it. In Hong Kong, my friend and I stopped to buy pepitas and marvelled at the fact that this was common in three different cultures (Chinese, Venezuelan and Italian) and that something as simple as a dried and salted pumpkin seed could make three disparate people smile and chat. Aw, see – so warm and fuzzy!

When travelling, however, there’s often a tug between wanting to try the local cuisine and opting for the safe and familiar. When it’s tripe and offal, sometimes we flinch a little. When the local cuisine is pizza and gelati, it’s not such a great tussle. Although when I was with a group of folks eating pizza in Venice, we munched on the thin crust scantily clad in tomato, cheese and basil in silence.  None of us wanted to say what was really in our hearts – the pizza was rubbish.  Yeah, yeah we were in Italy but the pizza was rubbish.

A little piece of Mickey at
Hong Kong Disneyland

It is, however, the thing you have to try. Each place has one of these ‘things’. Peanut butter and jam on thick sliced white bread in Canada was surprisingly heart melting. Sangria was festive in Spain, Hainese chicken was delicious in Singapore, and the chocolate cornetti and lemon granita were decadent in Rome. But the borsch in Russia made me frown, and the prospect of frog soup in Singapore made me twitch (I didn’t actually get to try that one). I did try snails in France and in my dad’s village in Italy (predictably garlicky but surprisingly hard and nuggetty), and how could I have left Scotland without trying a little pile of haggis.

But it’s the homemade meals that count the most. That’s when connection with place really kicks in. When staying with my aunt in Formia, Italy for a few weeks, food was always quite an item of discussion. First, there was the giant box of Cornflakes she showed me, smiling knowingly, when I arrived. She thought that this was compulsory Australian breakfast food and it was her way of saying welcome, and here’s a little piece of home. Then she decided that actually, it would be far more lovely for me to have a squidgy warm sugared donut from the local bakery for breakfast. She would walk down there before I woke up and then present it to me with a strong espresso. Heavenly. I mean heavenly. However, one cannot eat a donut the size of one’s face every day for weeks without feeling a little unwell. I had to go on a donut hunger strike before she would really take no for an answer.

At my aunts, we had feasts for lunch – exquisite local seafood, oversized bowls of pasta with fresh sauce, and buffalo mozzarella and prosciutto with crusty bread. But one of my favourite dishes was her tomato salad. It was just tomatoes with slithers of onion, basil, salt and oil. I questioned her time and again about her secret ingredient that made this tomato salad so mouth watering but she would just laugh. I snuck into the kitchen one day to discover her splashing some water into the salad. ‘Ha! You caught me!’ she said. ‘It’s just water. I add a little and it draws more juice from the tomatoes.’ She shrugged, almost apologetically.

So simple.

But, back home, every time I make that salad (and yes, I add a splash of water) I remember the warm summer sunshine of Formia and I connect.

What food reminds you of place?

Niagara Falls please, with lots of cheese

The Whirlpool....at your peril

Niagara Falls is an enigma. On the one hand here is a place of natural wonder. There is an enormous river, a fierce whirlpool, and not one, not two, but three amazing waterfalls. On the other hand, there is the dreaded and hard core commercialisation. Concentrated around the waterfalls are an enormous adventure park, a fierce ferris wheel, and not one, not two, but three colourful casinos.

The best idea is to let go. Just let go. Embrace your inner cheesiness and have some plain old good fun. It’s good natured Canadian cheese. The commercial element may be hard core, but it also comes across as an earnest commitment to make Niagara Falls as darn pleasant as possible.  

Niagara Falls is also perfect. I would have to say perfect in slightly disquieting way. Lawns are manicured, flowers grow regularly and with just the right happy shade of violet. There is no litter, there is no traffic chaos. There was a particularly unnerving corner cafe, Applebees, which ran a friendly and welcoming message on loudspeakers mounted outside. The message was something along the lines of ‘Please, come on in! We’ll welcome you like you’re the returned prodigal son and try to make your dreams come true with pancakes and maple syrup’. Everyone goes about their day in a friendly and orderly way. And did I mention this is Canada – stereotyping I know, but everyone is easy going, smiling and helpful.

You have to visit the Falls. (You really can’t avoid them. Let’s face it, that’s probably why you’re there.) Your options for visiting are surprisingly vast. They are, of course, milked for all their worth, but they are worth it. Waterfalls are just running water, really. But what Niagara makes of them commercially is pretty impressive. Along the river bank downstream, you can gaze transfixed at the Class VI rapids and imagine yourself being violently swept away on a tiny rubber raft. You can press up against like-minded tourists in the crowded tunnels set behind falls – yep, to view rushing water through tiny reinforced windows. If you’re adventurous / crazy, there’s a cable car that will swing you perilously over the Whirlpool – a roiling, seething bend in the river. Or you can even enjoy a decidedly damp (and far more sedate) re-enactment of the Falls’ creation in the interactive movie show ‘Niagara’s Fury’.

Perfect town. Disquieting.

The highlight, however, has to be the Maid of the Mist boat tour. Since 1848, passengers have donned blue plastic raincoats, drifted past the American Falls and crept right up to the base of Horseshoe Falls. (The cheese here involves resembling a posse of Smurfs. I’m only 5ft nothing so this analogy is particularly apt.) A journey of a few minutes, the boat chugs confidently up to the Falls, turns around and just powers the motor against the current so that people can enjoy the unique perspective. The noise is astonishing. I was soaking wet in an instant (despite the Smurf coat) and barely able to open my eyes against the spray. Try, try to take photos.

The tendency is to laugh nervously because, in its direct line of fire, I could feel the unbelievable and destructive force of the water. The Horseshoe Falls is not the tallest in the world, but it certainly is one of the most powerful. Surprisingly, of the sixteen people that have deliberately attempted to go over the falls (many in the requisite barrel and one with their pet turtle, yes, a turtle), eleven have survived. When you’re trapped in this vortex of liquid power, it’s terribly hard to imagine intentionally throwing yourself over the edge. Let alone with a turtle.

When you’ve experienced the Falls in every legal way possible (it is now illegal to attempt a tumble –without a license), there is plenty more to do in Niagara. There’s the butterfly conservatory, printery and newspaper museum, historic McFarland House, an adventure park, a Ripley’s Believe it or Not museum, nightclubs and casinos.  There are two minigolf courses – one Dinosaur themed and the other glow in the dark – gaming arcades, a haunted house, a Strike bowling alley and tourist shops galore. All this squeezed into a town you can just about walk end to end, if you’re really keen (and fit). Just remember to smile and say ‘cheese’ and you’ll have a wonderful time.

And if you’ve truly had enough of the decidedly good intentioned but hyped up, glittery, shiny tourism bauble with jacked up pricing you can just sit by the waterfalls all day long, soaking up the spray. And it won’t cost you a cent or stink of cheese!

Souvenirs

Lovely but useless Murano glass.
It's not even real Murano glass!

When purchasing souvenirs on holidays, most of us lose our heads. We just want to capture the moment with something tangible – a little bit of sparkly magic we can cling on to when we go back to our routine lives. Even though we know, most of us know, that souvenirs are inevitably rubbish and carry no magical powers whatsoever. Oh no, we tell ourselves, I’m not buying plastic trinkets made with cheap child labour. Oh no, I’m going to buy something real, something authentic. Say, a tiny Murano glass figurine from Venice that costs half your shopping budget. That sits on the shelf. Collecting dust. Made exclusively for the tourist market.

I’ve bought a stack of useless things both for myself and for others, in the spirit of souvenir buying. In Canada I loaded up on bear poo (chocolate coated sultanas), maple leaf key rings and maple syrup soap, butter, candles and tea. In Spain I bought hand painted plates, in Russia I bought lacquered trinket boxes and in every country I’ve visited I’ve collected a pen, key ring, postcard and/or magnet. I bought $20 worth of bead jewellery in Brazil and paid $60 to get them treated at Customs.

I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed when purchasing my cheap Taiwanese import spoons at the counter, but tell me what else I can give my aunts. Let’s face it, they’re convenient and don’t take up any important space in your suitcase. In Hong Kong my niece actually spent seven days and nights searching for damn tea towels for her aunts. They were, incredulously, nowhere to be found. Cheap jewellery, pashminas, imitation handbags and purses aplenty. But tea towels, forget it. She ended up finding one at the airport as we were preparing to head home.

Perhaps my parents take the biscuit in terms of impractical souvenir buying. My Italian parents living in Australia visited their homeland in 1977. As gifts for themselves and other family members, they brought back with them four (that’s four) La San Marco espresso machines from Milan. Orange and chrome. Four. My father estimates a good 6 kilos each. In one suitcase. My parents were clearly well ahead of their time with regards to home espresso machines, but right up there in the ‘crazy’ category as far as souvenir buying is concerned.

I scrounged around for a photo of this coffee machine that used to sit in our kitchen. I failed to locate one, so I casually asked my aunt, one of the espresso machine recipients, if she had one. She had one better - the actual coffee machine, still in plastic. I took this photo last week. Needless to say, my aunt is a bit of a hoarder....

You think this is just a 21st century malady? Not so. On the Grand Tour in the 1700s the English hoards invading Italy packed up extraordinary booty to take home. Keep in mind, those on the Grand Tour were mainly male 20-somethings with money to burn and an aching desire to prove to those at home that they were now learned and cultured young men. They took home plaster busts and portraits of themselves sitting idly by classic Roman scenes. They carried off with them an enormous amount of sculptures, medals, paintings and books. Some of them started museums. Possibly the most disturbing to our modern sensibilities – they chipped off hunks of marble from the Roman Forum relics that they would later convert to a lovely coffee table.

But like us souvenir suckers today, the English regularly fell for fake antiquities. Enterprising Italians quietly rustled up some half decent marble Roman torso, scrounged up some suitable limbs and then tinted them all with tobacco water to age them consistently. ‘Come this way sir. Of course it’s real!’

I had my own Grand Tour / crazy souvenir moment when visiting Hobart in Tasmania. I walked into an antique map shop and stopped dead in my tracks. On the wall were four framed engravings of Rome in the style of Piranesi. They were at least half a meter in length and height. Each. They were straight out of the 1800s and I instantly fell in love with them. I recalled my parents epic journey with four coffee machines and thought, I can’t really buy four framed 19th century engravings can I? No, I decided, that’s too silly. My souvenir from Hobart will be restricted to fudge and chutney from the market. And maybe a hand painted bookmark. But no 19th century engravings.

Six months later, home in Adelaide, I was still thinking of those engravings. They called to me like no other souvenir ever had. (Except for maybe a pair of Prada sandals in a Hong Kong outlet store that I still dream about now and then). So I called the store and, yes, they were still available. A few days later I was hanging them on my office wall. Best souvenir I ever bought. 

One of my beautiful engravings. No regrets about this souvenir.

Beijing disconnect

Temple of Heaven

When I meet a new city, I’m so willing to fall in love with it. I try to give it a warm hug and ask it to bear its soul immediately. I’m demanding. When perhaps I should hang back a little and let it come out from behind the curtains in its own time.

I went to Beijing wide-eyed and eager to swoon but left feeling a little rebuffed and disorientated.

When my friend Michelle and I arrived, mid-November, mid-afternoon, the sun was an amazing golden ball, hazy but intense. It was cold. There was snow and ice on the ground and tree branches. The air felt crisp and fresh but surely that lovely hazy light was just pollution?

We were staying in a rather lovely hotel but it sat on a ring road – a vast, multi-laned ring road with no pedestrian crossing in sight. We gazed into the middle distance from our windows and wondered how anyone ever managed to get to the other side. There was an observation tower seemingly only meters away but after much deliberation we decided it just wasn’t worth risking our lives for.

Like the beacon in The Great Gatsby....

We took a short walk outside, laughing at the minus zero temperatures for the first few minutes, and then grimacing and struggling to inhale. We just wandered down the street and in and out of little shops. Certainly we didn’t feel unsafe, but the curiosity and interest from passers-by was not playful. It wasn’t tempered with the innocent joy of the unknown and the shy possibility of connection. It was, instead, a little suspicious and closed. Even though I tried to grin pleasantly at everyone (I admit, that may well have been the problem).

The communication breakdowns we found endearingly funny were just sources of consternation to service staff. At the hotel we ordered something like a Bailey’s on ice, and a vodka and lemonade. The waitress returned with a Black Russian and a Kahlua shot in a martini glass. But no smile.

Michelle and I took the inevitable Great Wall tour. It was only a small group – a very quiet Indian couple, and an American Chinese couple with elderly parents. Our Chinese guide, Eric, was lovely and engaging and helped us believe we could still fall in love. The tour group itself was from one of Dante’s circles of hell. The one were people responded to questions in monosyllables and didn’t bother to ask any in return. The one where people on holiday were depressed and depressing, uncommunicative and closed. These were folks who audibly sighed with joy and relief, and pounced eagerly, when fries were brought to the table at the end of an excellent Chinese lunch. Even, to my dismay, the elderly Chinese Americans.

Michelle and I drank all the alcohol at the table – our glasses, the Indian couples’, the elderly Chinese parents’ – and left to wait outside.  

Maybe it was the cold. Beijing was cold. The cold was sometimes unbearable. My fingers hurt, I couldn’t feel my face well enough to speak. I was standing, walking, waving but only because my brain was still functioning and sending the correct messages to my obedient limbs.

Finally we get to the Wall. It is an impressive and beautiful structure. It’s just a wall but it’s built across mountain tops and the idea of hundreds, thousands, of Chinese building this enormous monument by hand, brick by brick, of surviving winters in the dark and freezing watch towers is truly staggering. I struggled up the wall – icy steps and gale force winds. I lost my balance and slid to the ground. I stepped carefully and all the while thought of those who built and guarded it. What resilience, what fortitude. And what misery and despair they must have felt, surely.

The next day, our last in Beijing, I was restless and cantankerous. Like a selfish traveller I was looking for the familiar. I like to think it was in search of connection, but maybe it was just a comforting blatant search for the familiar. The city seemed soulless, the people hesitant. We had met a few warm people but we were kept at a distance. When I like to be close. Of course, that’s my problem, not any other nation’s.

So we headed for the Forbidden City and the Temple of Heaven. You can find any information you like on both of these astonishing places – go look for it if you like – but not just yet. In a moment. Because one of the most interesting episodes for me was the walk through the park to get to the Temple of Heaven.

Here was life. A sheltered gallery where groups huddled together playing cards, slapping them down, jeering and triumphant or frowning and defeated. There was karaoke – a serious looking sing-off between two men. Another woman putting her whole heart into her song and all the expression into her face.

And then there was an open air ‘disco’. I love music and I love to dance. So I watched transfixed at a group of folks gathered together in an open space in the park. All these people, young and old, dressed in heavy coats, moved in various ways to loud speaker music. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Sunday. Minus 8 degrees. A middle-aged couple danced a tango so gracefully and beautifully you’d think they were competing. They were so earnest and light at the same time (remember, minus 8). Everyone was beaming, content and patient. It wasn’t a wild party; it was a sedate but passionate appreciation of dancing and music.

I smiled. I smiled and smiled. Strange how these few minutes influenced all my perceptions. I knew this, I knew dancing. And I knew community, and togetherness and warmth when I saw it. Even if I didn’t necessarily feel welcome to join in, that was ok. I’d witnessed it. That was enough to connect.

Even if just for a moment, only connect.

We’re not in Kansas anymore: Orchard Towers, Singapore

Boat Quay

It was around 2.00am on a Monday, Post-Formula 1 Grand Prix Sunday, and Boat Quay was peppered with drunk Western tourists. Yes, that’s right, I was one of them. Race fans were still milling about, promenading up and down the Quay. A tall bunch of Europeans wore red curly wigs and heaved around an enormous Ferrari flag that they used to wrap around and capture passers-by. We merrily took photos of each other and promised to email them. (No, I never received any.)

‘We’ included a friend of mine from the UK and her friend, and a fellow Aussie we met at the track – let’s call him Shane. I don’t think we were too obnoxious – we didn’t skip and dance in the street and we didn’t shout out obscenities. We just sat in the charming English pub, the Penny Black, giggling like school kids and trying to make new friends (I managed to chat to a special effects guy working on the movie Rush).

But then the Penny Black had to close and we were turfed out. We walked past the singing Europeans again, took more photos but then extracted ourselves and continues down the street. Singapore is always balmy and summery and even though the streets were almost empty by then, we were keen on continuing the revelry and celebration. But where?

The street back from Boat Quay was also full of bars and nightclubs – all closing or closed. Out options were down to a couple of strip clubs but we three girls roll our eyes and said no. Yuk. I don’t think so, thank you.

Fancy then, our naivety when a local suggested (coyly, I might add) that we were sure to find something open at Orchard Towers and we gaily thanked him (him) jumped into a taxi and headed straight there.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know that Orchard Towers was a shopping centre by day and a multi-story whore house by night. I didn’t know that it was bar after club after bar after disco of prostitutes – both the regular and lady-boy kind. I didn’t know.

We spilled out of the taxi and were confronted with Orchard Towers. It took us two minutes to scan the scene before we had that ‘I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more Toto’ moment. I think Shane had a moment of ‘How do I behave in polite company?’. We didn’t even make it inside the actual building, but opted for a bar on the ground floor. I wish I could tell you its name (only so you can avoid it) but I didn’t take note. In fact, we didn’t even make it inside that bar either, but sat on the balcony. I only know we were determined to have one more drink, enjoy the unique ‘atmosphere’ and then call it a night.

We continued to grin and snort with laughter while we clambered on to our tall bar stools and gave drink orders to scantily clad hostesses. Shortly after our first vodka and lemonade, I hit the dance floor because I didn’t know what else to do. Inside the bar it was almost pitch black. It was pretty much empty and so was the dance floor. But soon enough three or four girls came to join me and we jumped crazily about for three and a half minutes. That was enough dancing for me.

I found my way through the gloom to the toilet which was, in contrast, starkly lit. A shame. Because I was confronted with everybody’s handbags, shoes, make-up bags, sparkly tops, stockings and hair brushes. The bin was overflowing with filth, and the walls were spattered brown and red.

Back at our table, my friend was chatting with one of our hostesses. She was sweet and young-looking. Exactly as you would imagine this girl to look – innocent, petite and fragile. She was from the Philippines (let’s call her Jessie) and kept asking us if we were having fun, needed any more drinks, wanted to dance any more. Her ‘boss-lady’ kept circling us and smiling but with narrowed eyes and a stern look. She seemed to make Jessie nervous and twitchy so we tried to look as if we were indeed interested in ‘business’ and bought her a drink. Shane was no help at all. Wide-eyed and surely confused about what he should do and how he should behave in the company of women, he did nothing but grin uncontrollably. Disturbing.

We were joking around and still tittering but then, suddenly serious, my friend said to Jessie, ‘There’s got to be something else you can do? What about cleaning?’. Jessie was a little defensive – ‘It doesn’t pay as much, and it’s so dirty’. We raised our eyebrows. I honestly don’t think she realised the irony in that statement.  She told us she only had a few weeks left on her contract anyway and that she would be heading home after that. Jessie sent her money home to her family. ‘Sure’, my friend said, ‘but....’. She was struggling to understand, as were we all. How do we connect? I looked at Jessie and said, ‘We will do a lot for our family, won’t we?’. And she looked back at me, cocked her head and said, with an indignant but grateful tone, ‘Thank you. Yes.’. She seemed on the verge of tears. Which wouldn’t be good for business.

Her boss came round again and said something to her. Jessie moved on to another table where a couple of completely wasted and ripe Westerners teetered on their stools.

We decided to call it a night and called out for a taxi. We had stopped laughing.

Brazilian F1 Grand Prix

Fans flying the flag

So, my dad and I being long time fans of Formula 1, we thought, while we were in Brazil, we should catch the race. It was Michael Schumacher’s last race (the first time, 2006). Why not. We had done every grand prix in Adelaide and even a couple in Melbourne. Sao Paolo seemed like the next logical step.

I’m going to have a whine about it. That’s right, a first-world whine.

Lost

Our adventure started at the hotel. We were unsure of where we were going and how long it would take to get to the track (despite rather extensive research!) because there was no circuit information available in English. So when I spied a fellow milling about the hotel foyer with a Ferrari cap and knapsack I quietly idled by a pot plant and waited. When a taxi arrived for him, I swooped. Before this poor fellow could get in the front and shut the door, my father and I were halfway in the backseat on each side and I’m smiling winningly and pointing to my F1 entry pass. Dad and I shut the doors, pulled on our seatbelts, smiled again and waited. The totally frazzled fellow at the front spoke Portuguese to the driver and away we went. We never actually confirmed we were going to the same place but it worked out well.

Beyond the cyclone fencing and metal poles,
there is a Ferrari. I promise.

 Street circuit vs race track

We quickly realised the difference between street circuits (Adelaide, Melbourne, Monaco, Singapore) and a dedicated race meet at a purpose built circuit. It was hard to describe what was there. It’s easier to describe what was not there – no lattes, strawberries and ice-cream, no fashion parades, live bands, parachutes or stunt bikes. There was the race. There were very bad hot dogs sprinkled surprisingly with potato chips and there was overly frothy beer. You had to buy a ticket at one stall and then collect your food at another, which was fine if you spoke Portuguese (surprisingly, actually, how quickly you learn the words for ‘beer’ and ‘sandwich’.). There was a single stand selling Ferrari gear and a couple selling Renault. That’s all. Unfortunately, there was also so much cyclone fencing between any vantage point and the track that I almost went blind.

Brazil = party atmosphere: wrong

Sure, we watched the cars zoom down the Senna S curve. Sure, the qualifying was exciting, Massa got pole and went on to win. Yeah, yeah it was Schumacher’s last race (started 10th, dropped to last, and then finished 4th). This is not a racing report. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve followed F1 since I was 12 and I’ve diligently watched every race live ever since (well, let’s say 90%). I can tell you what the DRS system and KERS is all about. But I was in Brazil! At an F1 motor race! And I was cold and bored and hungry! Where was the excitement? The glamour? That’s right – dad and I were disappointed. We were downright grumpy and narky with disappointment. We had to buy umbrellas and coats! Where was the glorious Brazilian sunshine? Where was my actual seat for crying out load? All I had was a wooden slat!

Abrupt start / abrupt finish

Whilst my father and I wandered into the circuit on the first day chattering and excited like kids at a birthday party, we soon became bored and disconsolate. There were very few support races, very few English / Italian speakers in the stands to chat with, very little will to sit on our wooden slat for too much longer. I suggested we wander around outside a little and see what the neighbourhood was like (the circuit sits snugly within an ordinary suburb). But upon trying to leave we were pounced upon by an aggressive female security guard who kept saying ‘No, no!’ and shaking her head sternly. Um?? Eventually she managed to indicate that if we left, we would not be allowed to re-enter the circuit until tomorrow.  We didn’t want to miss the actual reason we were there – F1 Friday Free Practice – so, we slunk back to our seats, feeling a little like prisoners. A feeling that was reinforced by the cyclone fencing.

After the race, when my new circuit friend Jackie, possibly Schumacher’s biggest fan (after all, she flew in from Newcastle, UK, for only three days), stopped sobbing hysterically, we sighed, hugged and prepared to listen to the drivers at the after race press conference. But even that was thwarted! A line of reckless- and edgy-looking policemen started at one end of our grandstand and systematically swept everyone out before the champagne cork popped. For goodness sake – what about this legendary atmosphere? Where’s the sense in turning out 80 000 people all at once? Taxi! Taxi!!!????? Another fellow we’d met at the track (an English-speaking Brazilian from Fortaleza) herded us away and encouraged us not to provoke the policemen. ‘You never know’ he said.

 

Happy ending

There was a happy ending of course. We caught a bus into town with the other 80 000 folks and then asked a taxi driver to take us to a good Italian restaurant. We were deposited at Lellis and ordered various mountainous platters of pasta to share.  We were like a good joke. An Australian, an Englishman, an Italian and a Brazilian walked into a restaurant.... 

And after all, the point for me was not that I was witnessing Schumacher’s last race, or that I was watching the F1 in Sao Paolo, Brazil. It was the fact that I was sharing it was my dad (see Sao Paolo, Brazil via the 1950s) – something pretty special to me, despite my first-world whining.