Wednesday, June 27, 2007

The Backpacker's guide to getting ripped off

"Long" immediately picked me for the sucker that I was. Sitting by Hoan Kiem Lake in Hanoi in a state of jet-lagged culture shock, I was only too happy to be approached by a local. "Hey," I thought to myself, "I came here to mix with Vietnamese people, and I'm talking to one within an hour of landing!"

To start with, Long just wanted a chat. He was a student, he explained, and was glad to have the chance to practice his English. (Note to all fellow travellers: this phrase should be enough to set off alarm bells the size of Big Ben.) Four hours later, I'd eaten a snake, Long was considerably richer, and I'd been introduced to the world of ripping off gullible tourists.

I've travelled a lot, but for some reason I'm about as sharp as a bowling ball when it comes to scams. I've donated my hard-earned cash to wily shysters the world over, from sneaky cabbies to opportunistic market salesman and unwanted "tour guides".

My old mate Long had his patter down pat. After 15 minutes or so of chatting about football and getting to know each other, he'd suggested we go get something to eat. "What do you like?" he asked.

"I want to eat what locals eat," I said, grabbing the juicily dangled hook and swallowing it whole.

"Great!" Long said. "You have to eat snake with me, it's a great delicacy here."

With that he stuck his arm in the air, a cab miraculously materialised, and we were whisked off to a tiny restaurant in an alley in the middle of God knows where. There I was introduced to the menu, which hissed and snapped at me before being dragged off to the kitchen to be slaughtered and prepared.

After placating me with a few shots of snake wine, Long triumphantly presented the meal, which I managed to munch on convincingly. It wasn't too bad - only problem was, I hadn't sighted a price list all night. As I should have expected, when the bill was eventually slipped in front of me, it was for the equivalent of a week's wages (had I actually been employed).

The high price was to help preserve these beautiful animals, Long explained, which I imagined it would have, given that at that price most Vietnamese people would have to save for about 20 years to have dinner. So I reluctantly paid, and walked out a little poorer, and slightly wiser.

Of course, you don't need to be sucked into an elaborate scam to get ripped off overseas - getting swindled is almost part of the experience in some countries.

I've found the breed who will always try to make a bit of extra coin out of you wherever you go are cab drivers. Some will just take you on the tourist route to run up the meter. Others will charge you tourist prices and refuse to haggle. In Mumbai I once had a cab driver who managed to charge me more for the cab ride from the train station to my hostel than I'd paid to get the train there from Chennai. He simply tinkered a bit with the meter.

Also in India, in Agra, a rickshaw driver spent most of our journey trying to persuade me to let him take me to a few shops to "look around". "I'll get 10 rupees just for you to go into the shop," he explained.

"Here's 10 rupees," I replied, passing him the money. "Take me home."

Local markets are another good place to cop a swindling, mainly through sellers that know all too well that you have no idea how much you should be paying for things. They're likely to start the bidding at about four times what locals will pay, and if they're smart, they'll pretend not to speak much English so you can't do any haggling.

There's also the "guided tour" trick that I've fallen for a few times just out of pity for the tour guides. Usually you'll be walking around somewhere, be it a famous site, or just in the tourist area of a city, and a local will suddenly appear by your side and engage you in conversation. Pretty soon you realise they're giving you a full rundown on the history of the place, and pointing out other places you should visit. Then comes the request: "You know sir, this is what I do for a living, so if you could please spare a few baht/rupees/ringgit/riel..."

Anyone who's been to Rome will also know the Gladiator trick. Men dressed in full Gladiator regalia ask tourists to pose for a photo with them outside the Colosseum. Of course, one of their cronies uses your camera to take the photo, and you won't be seeing it again until you've given them a satisfactory tip.

Then there are the elaborate scams that can land you in a fair bit of trouble. I was once approached by two guys in Jaipur, India, who "just" wanted to go and drink chai with me (another alarm bell phrase). I agreed, and ended up spending the next few days touring the city with them and enjoying being shouted free meals, aware that some sort of scam was afoot, but not sure what it was.

I hung around long enough to be eventually introduced to their "cousin", a jeweller, and asked to smuggle jewellery into the UK for them. I politely declined, and got the hell out of their as quickly as I could. (But Raj, if you're reading, thanks for the free food!)

And then there's the distinctly Asian (in my experience) scam of the trip to the karaoke bar. I met a guy, Dan, later in my Vietnam trip who'd been sucked in by this one.

A local had approached him, again at Hoan Kiem Lake, and asked him if he wanted to check out some bars. After a few drinks the two agreed to go to a karaoke bar, which in some cases can mean a singing-badly-in-front-of-strangers bar, but in Dan's case actually meant a glorified brothel. Little did he know.

Dan ended up parting with about $200 just to get out of the place alive. Intrigued, I asked Dan the name of the local he'd met.

"Ah..." he said, "I think he said his name was Long."

Ever been the victim of a scam on the road? Just been ripped off? What happened?


Sunday, June 24, 2007

World's best ski and snowboard bragging destinations


Ever met someone when they've come back from Aspen? They drop Aspen into conversation like a newly loved up teenager drops in her boyfriends name at every opportunity. "Would you like sugar in your coffee" may be met with "Aspen has coffee." I call it mentionitis. The ability to bring any conversation back to your favoured topic.

The snowsports industry relies on mentionitis, only they call it 'boasting rights'. Those hero ski and boarding destinations that give one kudos and make friends eyes glaze over in envy. So, which resorts rate on the world schuss-o-meter? Here's my must do locations to ski or board before you hang up the plank/s for good.

There are over 350 snow resorts in the USA, 500 + in Japan, more than 700 in Europe, not to mention Canada, Alaska, South America, Korea, China. That's a lot of turns to make in one lifetime.

Tick these ten babies off your list in your four weeks annual leave and you'll be a legend in your own ski locker. These all rate for uniqueness alone - a mix of superb skiing to great apres and culture.

1. Whistler Blackcomb, British Columbia. Why? Because it's big and nasty and home to the Winter Olympics in 2010 so go before, it will be sooo yesterday after.

2. Nozawa Onsen, Japan. When you discover a hidden gem you don't want to tell anyone but the nature of mentionitis means you can't help yourself. Nozawa Onsen, Nozawa Onsen, Nozawa Onsen. Why? You'll have to find out for yourself.

3. The Vallee Blanche, Chamonix, France. Off piste glacial skiing and riding to get the heart pumping. Ascend the mountain tied by rope to your fellow group members then follow the guide down hill. Don't day dream, you may fall into a crevasse.

4. Aspen, Colorado, USA. Believe the hype. Four mountains by day, the world's best après scene this side of Austria by night. For boasting rights hike the Aspen Highlands Bowl, gear strapped to your back then ski and ride back down. Hangover days cruise the blues, the grooming here is perfecto.

5. Craigieburn, New Zealand. Leave prentensions at the door, this place is ungroomed and you'll have to manhandle the nutcracker rope tows or get a whipping. The terrain is long and deep and begging for a double entendre. The lodge runs on a generator so don't take your curling wand you'll blow the fuse. There's a chores board but it's easy to bribe young skiers with free drinks to get your name wiped off it.

6. Bariloche, Argentina. The steak here is thick and cheap. Unlike the locals who are rich and thin. Ski Catedral mountain's powder bowls by day then take a siesta. Dinner's at 11pm, après starts at 1am.

7. Park City, Utah. This is under a proviso. It must be during the Sundance festival in January for celebriskis. Hang back in the lift queue till Diaz and her posse show up, then hijack their cabin and act like a film producer.

8. Two words - heli ski/board. The world's original, CMH, fly in Canada and you don't have to be Seth Morrison to hitch a ride. Introductory heli weeks run each season as do women's heli weeks for chicks who don't want to be intimidated by hot doggers.

9. Silverton, Colorado USA. Lift serviced big mountain backcountry. Awesome terrain with limited daily lift passes meaning no crowds stealing your lines.

10. India. Henry Ford's grandson is opening a swanky eco ski resort in Himachal with some serious dollars. Until then you can take your life into your hands in Gulmarg with true frontier skiing and riding. Take an avalanche course first, this is major backcountry and comes with Kashmir rebels and Delhi belly.

Check out images of these destinations in this photo gallery.

D'oh - I haven't even touched on Eastern Europe. We'll have to call this part 1.

Have you got mentionitis about a particular snow destination? What ski destinations should have made the top ten but didn't?

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Hits of summer: the European must-do's


It's not very often that it sucks to be in Australia, but now is one of those times. Not just because I've spent the last week staring at the underside of my umbrella, but because I know that somewhere, over in that other hemisphere, there's a hell of a lot of fun being had.

That's right, it's summer in Europe. Which means some extremely lucky travellers are currently enjoying long evenings in English beer gardens, sun tans on Portuguese beaches, the clear waters of the Adriatic, and warm afternoons in the Vondelpark in Amsterdam.

I'm insanely jealous. However, as a reader, Vanessa, suggested, if you're heading over for your first European summer, you could probably use a few pointers. So here are the must-does for a summer of fun ...

So here, in no particular order, is my list of the places that you absolutely have to visit if you're spending a bit of time in Europe this northern hemisphere summer. I've tried to steer clear of the blindingly obvious ("You should check out Paris!"), but as most of my European experience comes from working on tours, there's not much here that's too far off the beaten track.

There are also places you should avoid, of course, but picking them is easy: as you'll probably start in London, go to a few travel agents and find out which Spanish islands you can get to on the cheap. Then, avoid them like the plague. You do not want to run into "Brits abroad". No offence Poms, but spending a week in Mallorca or Ibiza is about as cultural and fun as getting glassed in a Liverpool pub. And you'll probably meet just as many Spaniards.

But I digress. That's the ugly - here's the good.

(To check out this list as a photo gallery slideshow, click here)

Barcelona. One of Europe's liveliest cities, Barcelona is the perfect summer destination. It's warm enough to go to the beach, the nightlife is great, and the food is incredible. There's also a great melting pot of cultures, as Europeans from all over seem to flock there, and sights like La Sagrada Familia that will blow you away. You'll walk away a few kilograms heavier from a stay in Barcelona, but you'll have had a great time.

Naples. Napoli, as it should be known, is a bit out of left field as a tourist destination, but is an amazing place to visit. One of the poorer cities in Italy, it certainly can't boast much aesthetic charm, but the birthplace of pizza is full of character; and characters. The people are friendly, the coffee is good - and it's also close to Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii, as well as the famous Amalfi Coast.

Amsterdam. A bit of a cliche as a destination, but for all the wrong reasons. Check out the Red Light District for a night by all means, but Amsterdam's real attractions are in suburbs like the Jordaan, where you can sit at a little cafe by a canal and while away the afternoon sipping witbiers with lemon.

Croatian islands. Although well and truly "discovered" now, Croatia is still cheaper than the Greek islands, and a much better destination. The islands are littered with charming little fishing villages, and the water is achingly clear and warm. And as long as you like seafood risotto or mixed grills, you'll be well fed. But be warned: once you get there, you may not leave until September.

San Sebastian. A lot like Barcelona, only smaller, prettier, and, amazingly, with even better food. If hordes of backpackers aren't your thing it may be a good place to avoid, as it's a pretty popular little destination, but for a week of days on the beach and nights at the tapas bars, San Seb is pretty hard to beat.

Lauterbrunnen. This is a completely different experience to, say, a Spanish beachside town. Lauterbrunnen, nestled deep in the Swiss Alps, only has a population of about 2500, and is the departure point for the train up the Jungfrau, a mountain in the Alps. The town itself is postcard stuff, and is an extremely relaxing place to just spend a day wandering around listening to distant cowbells and gazing at snow-covered peaks.

Berlin. There's so much to like about Berlin. For some it's a city of nightclubs, of partying till dawn then sleeping it off to do it all again. For others the appeal is the history of the place, which can seem so distant until you find yourself at the East Side Gallery, staring at paintings on the crumbling wall that so violently divided a city, and a country, not even 20 years ago. History is everywhere in Berlin, but the city is also littered with modern art, and locals have a surprisingly fresh and positive attitude. And they like to party.

Budapest. Not as popular as Prague, and maybe not quite as charming, but Budapest has some real character to it. There are the usual cathedrals and monuments that most European cities can boast, as well as ancient Roman baths, hunger-pain-inducing food halls, and the brilliantly original Statue Park, a park full of old Soviet-era statues.

So there's the list. If you anyone manages to make it to all of those places this summer, I'm pretty sure they'll have a good time. Even one or two would do. Have fun. Ya bastards.

What are your must-does for a European summer? Any places you would avoid?


Monday, June 18, 2007

War and Piste - the battle between skiers and boarders. Bitch fest or love in?


Click image to watch Snow It All TV's streetword on War and Piste

ONCE UPON A TIME there was alpine skiing, a sport reserved for the entitled who used their silver spoon to eat snow each winter. Those with private ski lodges, goggle tans and family trusts were at the front of the lift queue, those in rental gear and borrowed parkas at the back.

Then along came snowboarding in the stealth of night, entering the mountain through the back door. The battle had begun and all the elite had to protect them was that same well worn family set of silver spoons...

You gotta feel sorry for snowboarders. They've increased their numbers four hundred percent since 1990, single handedly saving a dying ski industry but they still cop abuse, even fisticuffs as this video shows (language warning), from the ungrateful with piste envy.

It was snow apartheid for boarders much of the late eighties and early nineties. First they were banned from the hill like a pedophile from a childrens party so they snuck in for their beloved turns after dark, trekking under the same chairlifts that their saggy butts were banned from.

You'd think they would have been grateful when the ski fraternity finally allowed them to share their corduroy. Instead they refused to snowboard with their legs together and came up from behind with a snow scraping sound that still incites fear in skiers before beating them down the hill. One nil to them.

Snowboarding made the Olympics in 1998 and gold medalist Ross Rebagliati lived the rider cliche by testing positive for ganja while old school skiers tutted into their twelfth brandy over a late night game of poker. One all.

Ten years on we mix in the same circles, as men in mid-life crisis trade in their retro matchstick skis for a snowboard with hot-as-hell-sexy-mamma graphics more suited to a riding teenage hormone than an ageing executive with knee pads. It's hard to grow up.

Truth is I envy snowboarders. Sure, I've been cut off by them. While heli skiing on a mountain with a boarder and two skiers the boarder still managed to steal my line despite having an entire untracked mountain in which to play. She just didn't get it but after a strategically placed pole plant on my behalf she didn't do it, or walk, again. Two one to the skiers.

I understand a boarder's pain when the mountain goes flat and they have to hop along like a mutant with a board for a foot before I offer them a tow. I envy their ability to take on powder and make it look so easy, simply because for them it is. The old joke goes "what's the difference between a snow boarder and a snow board instructor?" The answer? "Five days."

I truly envy their urban cool fashion brands (though I'm quite happy to keep my arse in my pants). Brands that have thankfully influenced ski fashion and allow me to carve it up in gangster bling shouting 'sup! to my posse as I ski by on my Miss Demeanour terrain park twin tips. Trouble is I "cheat from the feet up", dressing the part in my Burton, Sessions and DC but the most I can shred is a carrot in my kitchen.

I bow down before snowboarders and say thank you for making skiing hot again, for letting us onto the rails, not complaining when we steal the indy grab from your style which you stole from skateboarders who stole it from the surfers in the first place. Two all.

Either way, we're even now, right? After all some of my best mates are snowboarders, just not Catholic.

Which team do you bat for - Knuckle dragger or double planker? Ever been cut off by a boarder, abused by a skier? Is it a modern day love in with past ills forgotten or does the war still exist?

Sheep jokes aside, there were some belly laughs to be had from the entries for the Lindauer Queenstown Winterfestival giveaway.

I was especially taken by Tom's description in SMH of his father dressed in snow gear and strapped to his board in the living room. But the winning entry goes to Skye who said in The Age "You know it's winter in New Zealand when when you can only type ^^^^^^^^^^^ cos they look like snowy peaks!!!!" Witty and visual. Check your email Skye, you're off to ski in Queenstown!

Watch this space for the next seriously hot competition giveaway from Little Miss Snow It All and check out what's going down this season at The Age ski section.

Photography credit: Mt Buller

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Air of despair: Fog, lost luggage, and a really bad hangover

Looking back, I probably shouldn't have had such a big night out the day before flying. Sure, had I been sober there still would have been fog, I still would have had flights cancelled, my in-flight movies still would have been in Spanish, customs still would have almost strip-searched me, and my backpack would still be all on its lonesome somewhere deep in the airport ether ... but it would have been a lot easier to handle without the hangover.

All travellers seem to have an airport/flying horror story; finally, I've got mine.

It started at about 4pm at Ezeiza airport, Buenos Aires, approximately seven hours after I had gotten home from the night before. I'd decided that one last BA-style blow-out would be the perfect send-off from a city that knows how to party. However, as I stood in the airport check-in area, swaying slightly as I peered through an alcoholic haze looking for my check-in desk, I was regretting it.

I found the right desk, and waited in line ... for an hour. Upon getting to the desk I was told that my previously reconfirmed flight had been cancelled, but they could get me on an earlier flight to make my connection in Santiago. But I'd have to sprint upstairs to make it.

"Great," I said. "What time does that flight leave?"

The check-in girl shrugged. "I don't know. But it will be pretty soon."

So precise! I didn't realise then, but by that point, not only had a thick fog begun to invade my brain, but a real fog was also starting to envelope Buenos Aires, smothering the airport in a soupy goo. This was not good.

As it turned out, I hadn't had to sprint to the gate at all, because after an hour and a half of listening to announcements in Spanish and trying not to fall asleep (the Hilton Hippy once spent 27 hours in Incheon airport after falling asleep in the gate lounge and missing his connecting flight), we were told that our flight had been cancelled because of the fog.

Fortunately, however, the staff managed to find me a seat on a later flight - the exact same flight I was originally supposed to be on, but had been told was cancelled. My throbbing brain unable to conjure the Spanish to point this out, I wearily wandered off to the new gate, boarded my flight, collapsed in my chair, and woke up in Santiago.

Having made my connection to Auckland, I decided to check out the in-flight entertainment. The English channels, to my intense dismay, had all been dubbed into Spanish. Going along with the perverse logic of the day, however, I was overjoyed to find that the Spanish channels were all in English. I watched something with Hugh Grant in it. Hey, desperate times ...

So after going through the ridiculous charade of getting off the flight in Auckland with only enough time to go through more security, have my hand luggage checked (again), and then reboard the flight, I managed to make it to Sydney. Unfortunately, it appears that my backpack was having such a good time in Buenos Aires that it decided to stay on a few more days without me.

As I write this it is somewhere deep in the black hole known as "airport land", being searched for by, hopefully, at least a few people. To my lovely backpack: come home soon, I miss you.

But my day wasn't over yet.

"Geez mate, lose your baggage did ya?" said the customs guy. I nodded, confirming the glaringly obvious.

"Ah well, just come over here and we'll have a look at your stuff, eh?"

There's not a lot of stuff left to look at, I thought, as we walked over to the stainless steel examination table. I was wrong. My friendly customs man proceeded to go through absolutely everything I owned, as if by losing my baggage I'd proven I had something to hide.

He read every receipt in my wallet. He pulled out my mobile phone and scanned through the numbers.

"This just a mobile?"

"No," I wanted to answer, "it's actually a bowl of goldfish."

He rifled some more, but obviously couldn't find anything of interest, so he opted for an oral grilling.

"Where have you been?"

I listed the countries.

"So ... six weeks in South America - did you meet anyone there?"

No, I thought, I was there for six weeks, but didn't manage to meet a single soul.

His stock of inane questions exhausted, I was finally let through, and wandered bleary-eyed to the taxi rank, where, thankfully, a spare taxi was waiting.

"G'day mate!" the driver said, looking me up and down. "Hey, where's all your luggage?"

Have you got a nightmare travel story? Did you get your bags back?


Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Snow - a four letter word for sex


(For your chance to win a trip for two to Queentown's Winterfest, see the competition details at the bottom of this blog entry.)

You never forget your first time.

Mine was in Thredbo and he treated me bad, blindfolding me with a blanket of fog, whipping me with a harsh north easterly and leaving me beaten, bruised and begging for mercy. I went back to him of course, despite the bruises. We Snow lovers are a masochistic breed.

It's ski season again, the time when Snow returns from slutting his way round the northern hemisphere and turns it on for his southern posse. Skiers and boarders know Snow is a commitaphobe, on a good year he's a knight in powder armour, on a bad year he's just plain wet if he shows up at all.

I'm a sucker for mistruths my mother calls lies. I believe it when Snow says he'll be back next year even when I'm standing on tussock waiting, skis strapped to my feet wondering how he could have forsaken me. I've even been known to fake it with man made snow till he arrives. It's never as good doing it yourself, automated guns shooting faux powder just leaves me cold.

The ski industry relies on Snow's seduction, though they pretend size doesn't count while embellishing on what they've got. We all know there are real inches and then there are snow inches and that twenty centimetres doesn't always mean twenty centimetres depending where on the mountain you measure it.

My friends call me a synoptic tart as I study the meteorological charts searching for his whereabouts. They think me a battered wife when I tell them I've met Snow's other lovers in ski towns around the world but I still refuse to leave him.

These same friends tell me to drop him but they haven't met Snow. They haven't returned from a blue bird day when the sun is shining and Snow has laid it on with thigh burning powder that makes everyone feel like a ski god, piste or no piste. If they had they'd be fighting me for the front of the queue. Instead they complain when Snow calls at the last minute and I drop them for a weekend when he sweeps into town.

Well I've got his number now, so I won't be waiting by the phone. I know where to find him this winter. He'll be lurking around in New South Wales and Victoria, hanging with the bros in New Zealand and mixing it up with the latinos in South America.

I'll be stalking him from behind. Sure, I know he'll leave me at the end of winter but I'm saving my frequent flyer points and going after him. He won't get away. Not this time.

Coming soon:
"Snow Wars. Skiers vs Boarders - the gangwar continues" and "Boasting Rights - ten places to ski before you die."


To celebrate the return of my lover, Snow, I'm sharing him around.

Two lucky wannabe snow addicts will be rubbing shoulders with celebrities at the crazy Lindauer Queenstown Winterfest with four nights at Peppers Beacon, three day ski passes plus ski hire for two at Coronet Peak and tickets to the Lindauer Masquerade Ball and the Stolichnaya Big Night Out with Shihad. We'll throw in return flights with Air New Zealand but you must be able to fly on June 22 and return on June 26. (Terms & Conditions)

Just finish this sentence in 25 words or less "You know it's winter in New Zealand when..." and post it on the blog below. Don't forget to put in your email address and we'll remember not to print it.

The wittiest as judged by moi will take home the NZ$5220.52 prize booty.

Winner announced in next Monday's Snow It All blog.

Photo: 2006 Holzknecht Photography

For more on the ski season, visit the The Age's ski section.


Thursday, June 7, 2007

The Best Place You Ever Stayed In Australia

Where am I? In Paradise!
It doesn't matter whether it was in a tent, a caravan park, a motel, a hotel, a log cabin or the ritziest Bed and Breakfast or Hotel - what was the best place you ever stayed in, in Australia?
I know what my favourite place is - and I can't afford to go there unless someone else is paying - but what about you? Some people really believe that camping in a National Park is better than anything else on earth - and who are we to argue with them?
So here's my favourite place. What's yours?

If you didn't recognise the photo at the top of the blog - it's Lizard Island north of Cairns and across the water from Cooktown. It is about as perfect as you can get. The water is warm, clear beyond wildest imaginings and, this is a real bonus, you can dive in off the beach or the rocks and the Great Barrier Reef is just off shore. No long trips by catamaran to pontoons on the Outer Reef. The reef is there at your doorstep. The only problem: it is so damned expensive and that is partly because you have to pay for a flight from Cairns before you even get to stay on the island. If you want to know more have a look at Walkabout's Lizard Island site.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Holiday romance, and other disasters


I was almost sure that Belinda* was the love of my life. We'd had so much fun together on the road, and parted promising to see each other again. We then spent hours texting each other little inanities from different corners of the globe.

But then I made the rookie traveller's error: I cut my trip short to go home and see her.

Somehow, at some point when I was in between Heathrow and Sydney airport, Belinda decided to have a change of heart. As I was about to find out, holiday romances are best left on the road...

I'd run into Belinda while I was working on tours in Europe. We met in Paris, and had our first kiss underneath the stars on a little pier in the Greek islands (which sounds much more romantic when you ignore the fact that we were both wasted).

At the end of the tour I continued working in Europe, while she headed back to her job in Australia. But after a few hundred dollars worth of text messages and a lot of soul searching, I decided to take a chance, and follow her back home.

It didn't work out. Actually, it didn't even come close. One lunch full of awkward silences and stilted conversation, and that's the last I saw of her.

Holiday romances always seem so perfect at the time. You're both away from home and prepared to do things you normally wouldn't, take chances you normally wouldn't. You're both completely carefree, and not too bothered about the consequences of picking up some guy or that your family and friends will never meet.

But when you get home, everything changes. I've written in a previous blog that the only way to really get to know your partner is to travel with them. The flip side of this, however, is that if the only thing you've ever done with your partner is travel, then you come to realise that you don't know them from a bar of soap.

What are they like when they stumble in from work after a stressful day? What are their friends like? Do you actually have anything to talk about now that you're not planning what to do and where to go each day? Are they even the same person at home?

Belinda wasn't my only disaster. I once went to visit another holiday fling, Julie*, in Melbourne, hoping to relive some of the fun we'd had while motoring around Croatia during a European summer. We'd had a ball together over there, so I didn't think it would be much of a stretch to have a bit of fun for a week in Melbourne.

A few hours into my stay, we'd already run out of things to talk about, so Julie flicked on the TV.

"Do you watch The OC?" she asked.

"Er, no..." I replied.

Julie stared off into the distance for a few seconds. "Oh my God," she muttered. "We have nothing in common."

That was a long week.

My current travel buddy, whom l'll call the Seducer after his new favourite cocktail, just met a lovely little Irish girl called Rachael* while we were in Peru. Now the Seducer, who tends to fall quite hard, is talking about going to visit her at her home in Mallorca, a move fraught with danger considering she lives there with her parents.

What if they don't get on when there's no travel to talk about? It might seem like they got to know each other really well in the magnified world of travel, but they were only together for a week. What's he going to talk to the parents about?

Some of the best holiday flings I've had have been the little one- or two-nighters, the ones where you meet someone, have a good time, then go your separate ways - both promising to email, of course. You've got a few photos to remind you of the fun you've had, and you never have to deal with the realities of home.

But if you insist on changing your holiday plans for someone you're convinced you're in love with, be careful. Your new love probably won't turn out to be some crazed axe murderer at home - you'll probably just find each other boring.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those charitable enough to end up in a relationship with either me or the Seducer.

Ever had a holiday romance? How did it go when you got home?

Hope you're enjoying the Backpacker blog. As I'm currently making like a good backpacker and attempting to consume my bodyweight in steak somewhere in Argentina, I unfortunately won't be able to reply to your comments this week. But please keep them coming - there will be other moderators on board. As usual, drop me a line if you've got ideas for good topics I've missed at