Last night over a vino or three, my friend and I were comparing our European ‘fashun’ adventures.
You know the ones, when you’re sure you’ve packed to cover every contingency and have the right look going on, only to feel completely dishevelled around the delightfully effortless locals who make jeans, a teeshirt and a scarf look so, well, runway.
And then there are those inspired moments, when you decide a new look is the answer. So you do the whole white blonde to dark chestnut thing… and end up with a superman-style do.
Add to that a little eyebrow tinting and facial-fluff threading and your journey has begun – as a blotchy-faced, caterpillar-browed mother of a super hero.
Okay that’s my friend’s adventure, but I laughed so much I nearly choked on my vino. Because I can relate to it – she of the strategically packed, quick-dry recreation gear that seemed so practical at the time, or the other fashun disasters that never saw the light of the European sun.
But wait, there’s also the dreaded ‘packing light’ dilemma. Because, says EB, this time I’m not dragging a bloody huge bag up narrow flights of stairs to lofty nests overlooking the city. Thank you very much.
Now there’s the sticking point, when I utterly refuse to spend over two months in androgynous action fatigues, even if they are wicking, wash and wear, wrinkle-free, odour resistant, and possibly with added bear-repellant qualities.
In the end, part of the joy of travel (and life) is in people watching. I’m guessing this trip will be no exception. Besides, no matter how carefully I pack, I won’t have a thing to wear. C’est la vie.
At the very least, my friend and I decided, there shall be no more caterpillars.