“Have passport will travel” has always been my motto. But don’t think that my love of overseas locations makes me an expert traveller – far from it. I get seasick and bus-sick and have a distinct dislike of flying. (Not to mention that I find it hard to sleep in strange beds and get an upset stomach when I eat foreign food.)
No matter the destination I always seem to encounter some sort of drama or mishap. You could say I’m a magnet for misadventure – one of those people who should holiday at home.

I’ve lost my passport, lost my way and lost $100 in three minutes to a con artist on Las Ramblas in Barcelona.  I’ve skidded on ‘black ice’ on London’s M1 and totalled my hire car, then been caught up in a street fight outside a nightclub in Spain.  My day-pack has been searched during a bomb threat in Belfast and my body searched after occupying the seat next to a drug-runner on a charter flight from Morocco to Madrid.

Even my shopping excursions have been blighted by misfortune. I’ve bought expensive shoes for friends that didn’t fit, got confused with currency and paid double what I should have and had my pockets picked while browsing in a mall.

But having time to shop is one of the best things about being on holiday and it doesn’t matter what language you speak, people always understand when you’ve got a credit card in your hand. I prefer to buy things that are different – objects that I can’t get here in Australia  – and designer home-wares have always been my favourite souvenirs.  Unfortunately, my last acquisition has to be my piece de resistance of regretful purchases.

It was springtime in Paris and it was love at first sight.  The object of my affection was a hot-pink, retro-style lamp at one of the better antique flea markets.  It was perfect for the 60s house I was renovating so I bought it without bartering. And, as it was fragile and too big for my suitcase, it had to be carried in a box of its own.  For the next month I carted the cumbersome package on and off every plane, train, bus and taxi while I travelled through Europe.  I dropped it more than once, got it caught in closing doors and held my breath every time it was shoved into car boots or overhead lockers.

Finally I returned to Perth, proudly carrying the lamp amongst my extensive hand-luggage. It wasn’t long before I had the chance to unveil my Parisian purchase to a girlfriend who dropped by to welcome me home.

I plugged it in and turned it on.

“Voila!” I said with much fanfare.

The lamp cast a soft, pink glow around the room and I hoped my friend would be suitably impressed.  But my glory was cut short when she said the words that every global-shopper dreads:

“You know you can buy that at Ikea.”

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