2. The Tourist's Prayer

How often on our travels have we seen something which caught our eye, or had a tinge of humour and thought 'That's good. I like that'? And tucked it away in our mind to be brought back later only to realise we can't remember? It's a good idea to make a note of it, or take a photo of it. Below is something I saw in a place somehwere at some point in time which I thought not only very true, but also hilarious in its way - the tourist's prayer. There are a number of versions, all pretty much the same but with a few difference in the wording. Below is my version - I have made it up in a nice picture card and due to the smallness of the writing, have typed it out underneath.
I hope you like it and get a kick out of it as I did.

Heavenly Father look down on us Your humble, obedient tourist servants, who are doomed to travel this earth taking photographs, mailing postcards, buying souvenirs, and walking around in drip-dry underwear.

Give us this day divine guidance in our selection of hotels, that we may find our reservations honoured, the dunnies flush, and hot water running from the taps.
We pray that the telephones work and the operators speak our language.

Lead us dear Lord, to good, cheap restaurants where the food is superb, the waiters friendly, the grog is included in the price and local taxes aren't added on later.

Give us the wisdom to tip correctly in currencies we don't understand. May the locals appreciate us for the good, kind, loving people we are, and not for what they can extract from our purses to add to their worldly goods.

Grant us the strength to visit the museums, the parks, the government buildings, every temple and cathedral known to man and all the "musts" in the guidebooks...And if perchance we skip an historic monument to have forty winks after lunch, forgive us as for our flesh is weak.

Dear God, protect our wives from shopping sprees, "bargains" they don't need, can't afford (and can't fit in their suitcases anyway.) Lead them not into temptation Lord, for they know not what they do.

Almighty Father, keep our husbands from looking at foreign women and comparing them to the vintage domestic model. Save them from making fools of themselves in cafes and night-clubs. Above all, do not forgive them their trespasses for they know exactly what they do.

When our journey is over, grant us the persistence to find someone who will look at all our photos, watch our home videos and listen to our stories, so our lives as tourists will not have been in vain.
Amen.

This we ask you in the name of Thomas Cook, Conrad Hilton, Mastercard, Visa & American Express.

P.S. I realised after typing it out long hand here that I'd added a bit and forgotten to put it in the "postcard" and when I went to edit said postcard, I couldn't add anything anyway as there wasn't any more room on the "page".

1. Memories

How does one start a travel journal? I have so many memories whirling about and seen lots of wonderful places both in my own country and overseas, it's like there's a kaleidoscope of images, long-forgotten outings, aromas, and summer warmth all wanting to come out. Some belong to different times, later years, down by the beach, up the country or in the bush. The smell of eucalyptus is strong, I see the blue haze from the summer heat drifting upwards in an ever encompassing spiral from the gum trees. There's the brown snake, the meat cooking on the barbie, salads, china cups and proper cutlery with "sweets" out in the middle of no-where with not a toilet in site. "Going" behind the bushes, the long grasses tickling one's skin, hoping you didn't wet your shoes.

It wasn't until a few years ago I realised how lucky I was - I'd been all over Victoria (my state) - my dad took us everywhere. If we weren't having the Sunday Roast, which everybody had every Sunday, come rain, hail or shine - we were "going on a picnic". Names, places come back to me now - the Great Dividing Range, the You Yangs, Yan Yean, Ferntree Gully, Sorrento, Rosebud, Sylvan, Bendigo, Geelong, Barwon Heads, Gippsland, Wonthaggi, and lots of other places.

I can see my mum in her "bubble" bathers sitting under a wide beach umbrella on the sand at the beach - don't ask me which beach, there were many and several - with the thermos flasks, a large one with hot water and the smaller one with coffee, sitting on the picnic rug while dad went in for a swim. Dad loved the water, mum hated the heat. Mum couldn't swim so she sat under that striped brolly in the shade and watched the picnic things, shouting instructions to me not to go too far, stay with your father and calling us back when lunch was ready.

Making sand castles and treading the water watching it make furrows on the skin and your toes disappearing into the wet sand, sinking down with little rivulets all around, collecting sea-shells, smelling the saltiness of the sea (a proper grown-up would say "inhaling") but still, this is my memory, my childhood days and I would smell the salt. Watching the frothy waves as they ran in and then gradually fade as they lost their power and the tide went back.

Coming home at the end of the day, red as a beetroot, sunburned but happy. And with a nose that would start to peel the next day! Happy times indeed - fun-filled, frolicking, feverish days of sweet summer Sundays. This is the stuff that dreams are made of.