Road Wench: It's a Tour, Not a Holiday

Road Wench — It’s a Tour, Not a Holiday

(abridged e-book version)

by

Shannon Meadows

Road Wench – It’s a Tour, Not a Holiday (abridged ebook)

Published by Shannon Meadows

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 © Shannon Meadows

Cover design by Amanda Rainey

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Publisher contact details: Shannon Meadows

roadwench@hotmail.com

http://roadwench.blogspot.com

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in Publication entry

ISBN 9780980835410 (abridged ebook)

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From the Author

This book is based on my memoirs, and the events that happened to me or people I worked with during my first season on the road. In order to protect the many guilty parties (the innocent are too boring to write about!), all names have been changed. For reasons of readability many characters are composites of several people from that tour, dialogue has been added, and stories tweaked. It’s my story, my perceptions, but in a fictionalised format. Enjoy!

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Chapter 1 Road Wench

‘Road Wench’

Proper Noun

(1) A person (usually female) who has worked in the travel industry for some time, leading coach tours through numerous European countries. Customarily covered in gold jewellery, she may be able to speak multiple languages and advise on the best toilets and cheapest shopping (or cheapest toilets and best shopping) in over twenty countries. Skills include being able to answer the same question fifty times in a row without becoming noticeably irate.

In severe cases the Road Wench may also have a large collection of scarves, and umbrellas or silly poles to stick up in the air so her group can follow her around crowded cities.

(2) Someone who is addicted to travelling and even though she should stop, can’t.

‘Coach Driver’

Noun

A really top bloke.

Stud.

February 2002

Help me! I think I’m becoming a Road Wench.

I don’t wear much jewellery, although I do have a puzzle ring from Florence and another made of Venetian glass. I never wear scarves or use silly poles. But I am addicted to travelling and I can’t seem to stop.

Some people say, why worry about it? Keep doing it if it’s what you love. They haven’t met my family. My family tell me to stop bloody well travelling around in circles, come home, get a real job, meet a nice boy and have some kids while you still can.

What do I think? I can see the sense of both sides of the argument. What am I going to do? Go back for another summer season on the road. Why? Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning…

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Chapter 2 The Most Interesting Interview Ever

Two clients were playing pool, half a dozen were dancing in a corner, and I was standing at the bar having a beer. It was about 2am and I’d volunteered to show the clients a local pub I’d found. We’d returned from an evening trip to Monaco around midnight, but this was not a group that wanted to sleep. Besides, we had all day in Nice to recover.

A couple of guys ordered a giraffe. No animals were harmed — it was the name of a tall two-litre glass cylinder that beer was served in at some Riviera pubs. It had a tap near the base for easy pouring.

I savoured my beer and the cruisy conversation. No repetitive questions, no spieling, no timings, no organisation required until dinnertime tomorrow — or was that technically today? Either way it didn’t matter. God, it was good to unwind, I was starting to feel like a normal human being again.

I was interrupted from my reverie by THAT question.

"Shannon, you have the best job in the world! So tell me, said the client in a conspiratorial whisper, as if no-one had thought to ask such a question before, …how did you get into this anyway?"

***

November 1999

It was eight months since I’d chucked in my job as a lawyer to travel to London on a working holiday. I’d met Aussies, Kiwis, Saffas (South Africans), Irish, Scots, French; basically every nationality except the English — they’re hard to find in London. Despite fervent promises by ruthless recruiting agencies, my London career had amounted to no more than ad hoc administrative jobs, but I enjoyed the change of pace and diminished responsibility. It left me free to quit and travel whenever a European festival took my fancy. In between jaunts to Gallipoli, Pamplona and Munich I earned pounds in London doing a variety of mundane jobs, happy that the exchange rate on my next European trip would make up for the mediocre wages.

Somehow a hostel in Earls Court had become my home, where the long term residents were kept entertained with an endless supply of short stay travellers, but gradually my enjoyment of lager swilling egocentric London had started to wane. Then the Oldies arrived. My mum and two aunties were all first time travellers, and had obtained shiny new passports for their Big Trip. I’d promised to be their personal tour guide, and took a break from temping jobs so I could travel with them.

I met them at Heathrow at 7am. I smiled and waved as they came out the exit, relieved I hadn’t missed them in the expanse of Heathrow. My smile dropped as I noticed that each of the Oldies pulled a gigantic suitcase behind them. Straddling each suitcase was a matching duffel bag, and slung across each shoulder was a large handbag. Have I mentioned the tallest of the trio was five foot? The luggage dwarfed them.

Right, let’s head to the tube, I announced after hugs and greetings.

Aunt Joanna’s face dropped. I want a taxi.

I explained it was peak hour and we’d need three taxis to fit all their gear, so it’d be preferable to take the direct tube line. She got into a huff and after she finished arguing that I wasn’t the boss of her, we made it to Earls Court station by tube without losing anybody or the three zillion items of luggage. I didn’t realise until later that Aunt Joanna was menopausal and the Hormone Replacement Therapy medication didn’t seem to help. One minute she’d berate a total stranger for unwittingly pushing into a queue ahead of her, the next she’d be in tears over her plate of roast beef.

Aunt Irene was a chain smoker who loved a bit of a drink, so she got on really well with the others at my hostel. She nearly collapsed on arrival at Heathrow from going without a ciggie for 24 hours, but recovered as soon as I escorted her to the smokers’ room. She had an adventurous spirit but no sense of direction, and managed to get herself lost in Salisbury, the last stop on our UK coach tour. I was off the coach, ready to wait for her and catch a train back to London, when she came puffing up, little legs racing. She’d been waiting for the coach on the exact opposite side of the cathedral’s huge park.

Mum had her own story. She was smacked hard by a speeding runaway bicycle in Dublin. As she was thrown into the air like a rag doll Aunt Joanna screamed, thinking she was dead. Mum managed to hobble away with dark purple bruises but no broken bones. I asked the rider for her details. No passport, I illegal, from Bucharest.

Maybe we should go home, whimpered Aunt Joanna.

No way, this is my Big Trip, I’ll be right, Mum declared firmly, but gingerly.

In a way it was her own fault — she’d waited to cross Irish traffic lights on the green man, after leaving the Guinness Brewery without drinking a drop. Talk about tempting fate.

Dramas aside, they drank in the culture like a pot of fine leaf tea. Sharing the novelty of their maiden overseas travelling experience was unforgettable, and their excitement and wonder was infectious.

Enjoy yourself, but come home soon. I want some grandkids, whispered Mum during our Heathrow farewell, seven weeks later.

***

Back in London the days were shorter and the air was cooler. The pubs cranked up the central heating to retain a thirsty clientele. It felt strange being back at my London hostel, like being cast adrift. I thought I’d feel sad after The Oldies had left, or perhaps relieved to be free again, but instead I felt happy knowing I’d been part of their Big Trip, and no-one could ever take that away from us.

I started another bland job to pay off my trip, caught up with my friends and met the latest hostel arrivals, but I was restless.

I’m not sure I want to stay in London for a gloomy northern hemisphere winter, I said to hostel buddy Melinda over a pint one evening. Maybe it’s time to move on.

That reminds me — have you seen this week’s TNT? she said. I shook my head.

The TNT Magazine is every antipodean’s free weekly guide to London. It appears every Monday in stands scattered near hostels and tourist spots around the city. Melinda pulled a copy out of her bag and flicked it open to a page she’d dogeared, then thumped it on the table in front of me. In the bottom corner of the travel section was a simple advertisement: European Tour Managers Wanted.

That’s my Dream Job! I exclaimed, nearly knocking over my pint in my excitement. Getting paid to travel around Europe, meeting people from all over the world, and helping other happy travellers enjoy their Big Trip — just like I’d done with The Oldies.

I rang for an application form and despite the tendency of mail to disappear from the ‘Post In’ tray in the hostel’s common room, it reached me. The closing date was imminent, and I needed to include references. It was 1999 and emails were still a relatively new thing for the general public, so I found the ability to obtain quick email references from Australia something akin to a minor miracle. I’m eternally grateful to my Australian referees who were not only technologically savvy, but managed to write up decent references speedily, despite being frantic at their IT jobs preparing to fight the dreaded impending Millennium Bug.

***

A month later I was standing outside an ugly grey concrete building, an hour from central London, thankful that the grey skies hadn’t opened up despite looking angry all morning. This drab 1970s block held the promise of a working life full of European cities and culture — museums, history, cuisine, party nights, fashion, languages.

I reread the letter clutched in my palm. ‘…At your group interview you are to present a five minute talk…’ I took a deep breath and went inside.

I was shown into a conference room where I shook hands with about a dozen other hopefuls.

Hi, I’m Shannon, a lawyer from Perth, I said, as I tried to smooth away the wrinkles my freshly ironed suit had quickly reacquired on the squashed peak hour tube ride.

I wonder what they have in store for us? said Kerry, an accountant.

I’ve heard they like to push your buttons, the key is to be relaxed, said a Norwegian guy. One of my friends did this last year.

He shared his tips and we made excruciating small talk (get today over and done with, please!) for about twenty minutes, until an important looking man strode to the front of the room and stood still, surveying us. Silence descended immediately.

Welcome to your group interview. I’m Richard, and today you’ll also be assessed by Graham, Karen and Rebecca.

We all turned around in greeting, surprised that we hadn’t noticed the suited trio seated in the back row. I couldn’t help wondering how much of our chatter had already been noted by them, especially the shared concerns and tips on how to do well in the interview. They had been talking to each other and we had assumed they were candidates too. Sneaky sods.

Richard ran through the day’s events. Beside him was a small TV. Plasmas hadn’t been invented yet.

After an introductory video, we will have your presentations. Keep talking until I tell you to stop. We will have time for questions after all the talks have been completed, then that is all for the first round. You can telephone us after 1pm to find out if you have got through to the second round and if so, to arrange another time for a more traditional individual interview.

Was it just me, or did he smirk when he said that it would be a ‘traditional’ interview?

If you are offered a place on a training trip for either Europe or Great Britain and the date or region doesn’t suit you, you will forfeit your spot. We don’t care if it’s your sister’s wedding or that you applied for Europe. If you’re given an offer, I’d advise you to take it. We have plenty of other applicants to choose from. The seven weeks of training is unpaid and it is definitely NOT a holiday. Insurance and spending money is your problem, but your time on the trip is entirely ours. We will tell you when to sleep, when to eat, when to pee. You have a hell of a lot to learn.

So it was their way or the highway. Got it. I didn’t flinch, but I peeked at the other candidates and noticed some appeared ruffled, with some frowns and whispering at his hardline approach. Others were unfazed; they wanted this shot so badly they would’ve done their talks naked if required.

The first round began. Most people had interesting stories, and the audience was kind. We all wanted each other to do well. First up was the Norwegian guy whose name was Lukas. He was decked out in lightweight, waterproof tan pants, hiking boots and a North Face coat, and looked the part of a trekking tour guide. It turned out that he was, in fact, a trekking tour guide, having run camping tours in North America for his previous job. Damn. He would be hard to beat. He talked about a sign of the times, the emergence of the mobile phone culture.

How many of you own a mobile phone? Nearly half the hands went up. Do you remember when it was only the top level executives that had mobiles? They were the size of bricks! Then everyday people started using them, mainly for business. As the phones got smaller the number of users went up. Nowadays if you visit a high school in Norway, you’ll see every kid is glued to their own Nokia handset, that’s a Norwegian brand. Imagine what it’ll be like in ten years time…

Lukas was laidback and easy to listen to. When Richard said ‘Stop’ after five minutes we all wanted him to keep talking, but today we were playing by Richard’s rules. Thanks Lukas, said Richard. Who’s next?

I didn’t go straight after Lukas, he was too hard an act to follow. I volunteered to do mine after the next speaker and felt unusually nervous, but I clasped my palm card tightly, and was determined to use my high school drama skills and at least not look nervous. I didn’t end up using the card. I guess the many practice sessions I’d foisted onto fellow hostellees paid off.

Hi, I’m Shannon, and I’d like to talk to you today about travel, I began,  NOT! I guess you probably hear a lot on that topic so instead I’m going to talk about something peculiar to me — my experience temping as night receptionist in an accident and emergency department.

The silly start seemed to work, it elicited a few smiles. I talked about the horrendous waiting times — on my first shift a guy with severe stomach cramps had to wait seven hours before he saw a doctor — and the different ruses people used to try and circumvent the system. Some yelled or whined, others cajoled, one pulled out a knife. How I was disappointed that I had to work during an important World Cup rugby match. I was midway through explaining how I got a match update from a patient who had been in a brawl at a Shepherd’s Bush pub where he had been watching it on a big screen, when I was interrupted.

Right thank you Shannon, that’ll do, said Richard. I couldn’t believe it. He’d wrecked my flow.

Actually I’m not quite finished, I don’t believe that’s the five minutes yet? I said.

That’s enough. You can take a seat.

After all that! I missed out on telling them to think ahead, take a book with them and be nice to the receptionist next time they go to A&E. I missed my story of how I became so used to telling people to switch off their mobile phones in the waiting room that sometimes as I boarded the early morning bus at the end of my nightshift, I’d have to stop myself from saying the same thing to the other passengers. All my funny stuff was at the end, so I could finish with a bang. For nothing.

I tried to mask my annoyance by acting confident and unfazed, and took my chair. One thing I was aware of — everything we did counted, not just the talks.

I was sitting next to Kerry, one of the few other girls in the room apart from the sneaky back row observers. She decided to go next. I just want to get it over with, she whispered to me as she went forward. It was no wonder. We were all nervous, but most people were able to speak once it was their turn. I suspected that what was going to set the candidates apart was how interesting our talk had been.

Hi, my name is Kerry. She paused and smiled…then froze. Seconds of silence passed. She started again. I’m going to talk about human biology… Not a bad choice of topic, it was different to everyone else’s. Except that she didn’t do it. I’m interested in human biology…The heart is an organ that… She paused again, her smile wilting.

Why don’t you start again, suggested Richard.

‘The heart is part of the circulatory system – no, I meant to say that the liver is unusual because…because…"

She stopped and started her talk about half a dozen times, couldn’t remember what she was going to say, then couldn’t think of anything to say. She stood there, looking at us, her face blank, hands trembling. The dreaded Blackout Induced By Fear. Heck, make something up, I willed telepathically to her while I smiled supportively. Richard gave her a few more chances to start over, but still she wasn’t able to speak. Nothing. In tears she sat down.

Don’t worry about it, I whispered to her. Privately I was relieved that at least I did better than her. It was only five minutes, it was a topic of our own choice, and we’d had weeks to practice. If you couldn’t speak after all that preparation, you simply wouldn’t cut it leading a tour.

I’ve never been any good at public speaking, but I just wanted to give it another try, she whispered back at me, as she dabbed her face with a tissue.

Good on you for having a go, I whispered back, and I meant it. Some people rate public speaking as scarier than dying.

Next up was the second guy to dress in trekking gear, and I don’t mean Star Trek although he was a bit Out There. Short, stout and with a chin full of stubble, he was from Deepest Darkest Africa.

Come to Zambia on tour with me, I promise you’ll have the time of your life. We’ll go by jeep to stealthily seek out majestic game. There’s kudu, giraffe and hippo hidden amidst the grassy plains and oxbow lagoons. Our aim is to get close enough for tourists to fire shots — from cameras of course! He was so passionate about the wildlife, he made me feel like booking a trip.

So far Richard had not commented on the talks, merely being timekeeper and writing notes about each person’s delivery. When Mr Zambia finished and sat down, Richard made a brief comment. "That was good