No, Venice lady, we didn't steal your TV and other tales from AirBnB

The only way we were able to afford to travel through Europe and America for 6 months was Airbnb.

The.Only.Way.

As a group of four, two of whom valued privacy from time to time and two who were exhausted parents who needed their beauty sleep, we made the rule of no more than AU $200 per night and where possible two bedrooms or at very least one seperate bedroom and a lounge room with sofa bed. Also, NO house shares (meaning staying with other people in the same place).

As luck and providence would have it, we stayed in some really awesome apartments, met some very nice people and were only accused of theft and vandalism once.

We stayed in a few homes that were much the same and passed by in a bit of blur. These were all mostly ok, one bedroom places with lumpy sofa beds in sizes ranging from tiny to small, no air con and some interesting design choices. Like a toilet next to the front door, a loft bedroom with a roof so low we had to kneel to get up the stairs and decapitated ourselves promptly in the morning, an elevator which only fitted one small suitcase at a time and never people, never ever people, Oh, and with no locks. 

Which brings me to Venice. A little one bedroom apartment in a quieter part overlooking canals. No security and no locks. We stayed four nights and had a very good time getting lost in tiny streets. At the end of our time, we cleaned up, packed up, shut the door and left, like instructed. On Airbnb, as a visitor, you can leave a review saying if you enjoyed your stay. The owner can also leave a review of you, as a visitor.

"You Stole My TV!" was the review we received, publicly. Now keep in mind we still had about 2 months worth of Europe trip to go and another 8 places to stay and Everyone can see that we are apparently thieves. My calm and well thought out response was something like "Ah, no, we didn't. We are a family of four travelling by TRAIN, with SUITCASES! Where the F* would we put your bloody TV? I am at the point where I am throwing out shoes because I can't be arsed carting them around, but now I have room for a TV???? your F*n nuts!". Airbnb graciously stepped in at that point and removed the post.

The vandalism part of our Airbnb story occurred in Pisa. The shittiest apartment of all the ones we stayed in and also the cheapest ($65 per night). Let that be a lesson to you all!

It was a basement conversion into a mouldy, mosquito infested, concrete sweat box. In our attempt to cool the room from boiling lava to the devils arm pit, we apparently damaged the fan thingy and somehow or another unplugged the fridge. This apparently caused major damage. So much damage in fact that he was able to rent it out to some other unsuspecting schmucks the very next day.

It really wasn't all bad, in fact, mostly it was brilliant.

In Paris, our first Airbnb, we had a small, old beautifully appointed apartment. We could just see the top of the Eiffel tower from the kitchen window and you could almost fit one person in the shower (but you had to do the limbo in order to wet your head). An attic apartment in a converted old theatre with ancient wooden beams in Montpellier. A huge apartment in the funkiest part of Rome, a decent apartment smack bang in the middle of the red light district of Milan, a renovated little beauty deep in the heart of Dominican Harlem, New York and lastly a beautiful, light filled, arty and comfy place in the Jewish Orthodox area of Beverly Hills, where we, ironically, celebrated Christmas.

I loved the adventure of discovering each new place and the pot luck that is Airbnb added to that sense of excitement. Things I learned were:

If its too cheap, Don't. Really Don't.

Stay as central as you can or at very least as close as you can to subways/metros and a supermarket.

Contact the owners of the different places you are staying as much as possible. If they don't want to talk with you about your upcoming stay, your in for a shit one probably.

It is possible to negotiate a better rate when staying for a week or more.

Treat each place with respect and clean up when you go, at least dishes, floors and rubbish.

You can get a decent price for a second hand TV, ;-)

Last Words

No, not my last words, you don't get away that easily!

This is something I have wanted to write about for a little while, I think once I do, I will feel better, mainly because I am so scared of forgetting.

I have been looking back through all of my holiday posts on Facebook to get inspiration for writing about the big trip. In doing so I have re read almost all of my Mums comments. Her support, her love, her pride in us and her enthusiasm in our adventure are evident through the whole thing. Mum commented on nearly every photo I posted (close to 300) even while really ill in hospital.A few people have asked me if I regret going on our grand trip, now that Mum has passed away, the short answer is "Hell NO!". Mum lived that trip with us. Every post I made was with the knowledge that she was drinking it all in on the other side of the world."Thank God you went, look at how happy you all are!", Mum would say.

When we got back, and I did get to spend some precious time with Mum, she said some thing, that I hope, will stay with me forever. 

Once Mum had decided to stop treatment and have some peace, she was moved from ICU to a quiet room with a view to the Perth hills. You have never seen anyone so happy to finally see the sky and trees. She was settled and content and I was leaving for the evening. I stroked her forehead, gave her kiss and said "Bye Mum", she looked at me and said "I never forgot a moment with those eyes" and that she loved me. I cry now when I think about it, because even though I knew she was dying, it hadn't registered properly yet for me, but it obviously had already for Mum. It wasn't her last words to me but they make my heart sing and swoop all at the same time.
I promise Mum, that I am trying to not forget a moment with you either xx 

Why I felt like a contented Walrus in Paris

Touch down in Paris, tired, bedraggled but oh so happily surprised by our chic french Airbnb apartment in Passy. Walking distance to the Eiffel tower and straight out of the iconic Paris images that we have daydreamed over. Once the jet lag fog lifted and we ventured onto the streets, we started to notice a trend. Every-single-person, every-bloody-one was gorgeous.

Older men with stylishly turned up collars and a devilish sweep to their hair. Women, svelte, and groomed and confident and quirky, beautiful and sexy, I swear Dave and I both had trouble holding a thought, let alone a conversation. Even teenagers, who should have been pimply and greasy, like normal, wore perfect "I'm glamorous but don't care" street outfits, all shiny hair and big sunglasses.

Now, I'm a bigger girl. I know this fact and its not exactly something I can hide. For the most part, from hour to hour, day to day, I don't think about it too much and there are some bonuses, like a great rack. It crosses my mind when considering a krispy kreme donut (or two) or under those god awful fluorescent change room lights, oh and especially when I accidentally swap to the front camera on my phone, but, like I said, not too often.... Until Paris.

Suddenly, I was Walrus Shrek. I felt ungainly, huge and dowdy. Dressed in my "I had to pack for 6 months and I never ever want to iron in that time" outfits, I walrused, with my family in tow, to all of the famous and best Paris locations.....and had the BEST fucking time!

You know why I didn't care? Cos it was Paris. I gorged on Almandine croissants, cheese, Pate, Champagne, Wine, Pain Chocolate, more cheese, terrine and cognac.

Parisians, you can be skinny, you can be stylish and while you cook like that? Ill happily be the fat, drooling, clomping walrus in the background inhaling all your delicacies and i'll thank you for it. Do yourself a favour, buy a mu mu, travel insurance and a ticket to Paris. Skip the fashion show and find the closest boulangerie. 

2 deaths, 1 illness, 6 months, 7 countries, 2 kids, 1 hubby and a hippo

"Caroline? You had better sit down. Joe* was found dead last night, looks like he took his own life".
He had worked for/with me, a troubled man with a young family. I was a real estate agent and managing a small office, with a smaller team. I can't say I knew him well, but I tried to help him. I tried to see that he got back at least close to the rails if not on them.

I rang Dave and told him. I didn't feel responsible, but I did feel a little neglectful, like I had washed my hands of him, and now  a while down the track, this was the result. This was only a month or so after another man we knew through our work had died in a tragic accident, again leaving a young family behind.

"Wow, thats terrible, I found out today that Matthew* is really sick, he's only in his thirties! Fuck it life is too short for this! I think we should just bloody do it!" shouted Dave.

For about two days we had been talking about IT. You know the dream that you talk about animatedly with your significant other after a couple of glasses. For the first and probably the only time in our lives we had the borrowing capacity to pull IT off. You thought I was going to say, we had the money.... trust me.... we will never have the savings for a huge trip, let alone IT, but we had the potential to pull it off. The incentive? A good deal of "Lets get the fuck out of here" followed with a smidge of "We will probably never be close to being able to do this again".

So we did. 6 months of travel with our kids (two gorgeous girl firecrackers aged 7 and 8) to all the dream destinations we could think of.

Once the decision was made, and the bank paid up, next came the fight. Dave wanted to leave yesterday, now, immediately. I, on the other hand was working through the logistics, we had to clean up our house and find some people to rent it. Organise some sort of schooling for the girls. Give notice to work, pack, put the rest of our stuff in storage... plan, book and pay, break the news to my parents and friends. I thought we needed at least three months to get our selves organised. I put my foot down! 2 weeks later we were on the tarmac and that is how it all started.

Some days are crap, but thats ok

When I woke up this morning, I knew I was in for a rough one. 
I had a little pocket of tears that were going to be shed, and I had no choice in the matter. In the middle of the night, when I couldn't get back to sleep, on the bus to work and a sad song came through my headphones, when I looked at the "wall of Mum" that is the photos on my fridge door. Memories still make my heart drop into my shoes and my chest tight and anyone that asks me to talk about it is still greeted with monosyllabic answers, tight smiles and "yes, we are ok, being strong".

Its been three weeks today since Mum died.

Still gotta catch the bus to work, still gotta pack lunches, still listen to the kids tell me about their day, still smile and laugh, still watch movies and still waste time on Facebook but now... there is a small part of my brain that observes from a distance. Unsure of how to react. Sometimes it wants to scream and rage like a sweaty faced toddler, sometimes it wants a teddy bear to hug or better yet... Mum. 

People are so kind and helpful. "Your Mum is with you, She is in your heart, Live life to the fullest to celebrate her, she was special, one of a kind and you are just like her". It helps, it really does and most of the time those sentiments are exactly true. Until, I wake and I know, I'm in for a rough one.