It’s become a given that if I have an early flight I can’t sleep.
But actually, even if I didn’t have an early flight I probably wouldn’t have slept this night anyway, thanks to the high maintanance girl in my dorm getting the hostel manager in our room at 1am to ask what the sheets were for.
Seriously, what the f$*# did she think the sheets were for?
She then threw a hissy fit and refused to sleep in them.
Why exactly she decided to stay at a hostel I’m not quite sure.
Anyway, given my tone you’d understand why I was in need of a four-night retreat from hostel life.
And what a retreat it was.
Four nights on the Italian island of Sardinia with a bunch of 11 girls – 9 kiwis, two Australians and one South African.
The girls aren’t roughing it like me, so they pay for a transfer to the hotel.
I take two public buses.
And, in what is perhaps a sign from God that I need to work out what I’m doing with my life, the guy sitting next to me is a life coach from England.
Here he is mulling over his next 10-year plan while I’m mulling over what I want for lunch.
But I ditch lunch plans in favour of a nap on my queen-size bed, followed by a shower where I don’t have to wear jandals and, get this – the shower nozzle is for once actually attached to the wall.
As for my company, I can’t even describe how nice it was to have people who just get me – to not have to explain my colloquialisms, translate my accent, or wonder why people are laughing at me because for some reason still unbeknown to me I am apparently very, very funny – particularly to Germans.
And, my mind’s further at ease once I learn I’m not the only one who suffers from awkward ‘lost in translation’ moments.
My favourite is the girl who was trying to explain to her foreign companions how she injured her foot.
Unfortunately, as kiwis don’t really differentiate their vowel sounds, I’ll leave it to you to figure out what they surmised when she said – “I fell off the deck.”
Of course, it wouldn’t be a girls’ weekend away without a girls’ night out and in typical kiwi fashion we all end up pairing our outfits with jandals.
It’s all downhill from this point on.
Before long we attract the attention of a nuggety car salesman-looking Italian who grabs one of my companions to dance and starts ramming his clearly massive boner into her back.
Needless to say Italian men just don’t do it for me.
As for the island of Sardinia, I can’t tell you much about it because I barely moved from my sun lounger on the beach.
As a result, I am officially the brownest I’ve ever been and I swear the parts of me that haven’t seen the sun now glow in the dark.
But all good things must come to an end – mine when I have to get up at 5am to catch the first of two buses to get to the airport.
If you’ve been following my blog for awhile, it will come as no surprise to you that I’m at the wrong bus stop.
Fortunately, a Robert De Niro lookalike (who spoke no English) spots my mistake and leads me to the right bus stop a good kilometre up the road.
If it wasn’t for him I would have missed my flight to Venice.
What a good sort.