Category Archives: Travel

Alastair Has A Swedish Massage…

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I have been on holiday in Mexico for over a week now, and the rigorous sessions of ping pong have been taking their toll. When you’re representing your country against Americans, Mexicans, Koreans and a short, Spanish kid with big teeth and over-hairy eyebrows, you have to work through the pain barrier. That doesn’t mean to say that you don’t suffer the next day. And, wow, was I suffering. I felt stiffer than a corpse’s pencil. I don’t know why a corpse would have a pencil, but let’s just go with it. Perhaps he was a writer?

Yesterday morning, I decided that some relaxation was in order. I booked myself in for a Swedish massage…

Now, I will be honest. Leading up to the massage, I had my fears – the main one being that my relaxing massage would be given by one of the following:

  1. A big, hairy man with tattoos on his knuckles; spelling out the words ‘bad ass muva’.
  2. A tourettes sufferer.
  3. An Abba tribute band. It might consist of them walking up and down my back for an hour singing the greatest hits of Abba. Painful – too painful!

I’m pleased to say that two of my fears were immediately allayed when I arrived at the massage suite. A quick look around re-assured me that there were no hairy masseuses and no people dressed in blonde wigs and 1970s retro gear.

I paid the receptionist some money and was handed a disclaimer form. I had to confirm that my death as a result of excess pain, suffocation with a towel or drowning in oil was at my choosing. After signing my name on the death sentence, I was taken into a little room by a small Mexican lady with smooth hands and a softly spoken voice. I felt like I would be taken care of – and not in a James Bond evil villain kind-of-way. I didn’t feel the need to check to see if she had a venom-laced blade in her shoe, or a knife-wielding dwarf in the cupboard. I felt safe.

After a short chat about oils, my masseuse advised me that she would leave the room for a minute to give me time to take off my clothes, do a little naked dance around the room (she didn’t actually mention that bit, I added it in for my own pleasure) and settle myself on to the couch, covering myself up with the towel. I hid myself well under that large towel. My inner child was hoping that she would walk back in, look around the room in a confused manner and say “Mr Hazell…? Where have you gone?”

She found me. Drat!

With everything in place, it was time to begin. The relaxing music started playing – it was Enya. I have to say that when it comes to background music, Enya is to massage what smooth jazz is to soft core pornography. It just sets the mood. It helps you drift off into another world; a better world where Abba doesn’t exist and death from towel suffocation is impossible.

The masseuse started on my feet. Now, I feel the need, at this point, to confess that I am slightly ticklish. So, I’m sure you can imagine the problem here. To stop myself from bursting out in fits of giggles, I desperately tried to take my mind off the sensations occurring in my tootsies…

‘Think of something non-ticklish, think of something non-ticklish…. feathers…. Bastard, I really hate my mind sometimes…’

Mercifully, the work on my feet lasted only a minute or so, and she began to work her way up my body. After massaging my back for a while, she whispered softly in my ear to turn over. We were half-way through already. I slowly wiped the dribble off my chin and turned myself over, like a beached whale trying to roll back towards the sea (but with less blubber). She moved some towels around a bit, and then placed one around my head. I reassured myself that although I had moved one step closer to suffocation, it was still fairly unlikely.

I settled onto my back, started to relax and was gently drifting off and then… ‘Oooooh no, not the feet again. Think of something non-ticklish, think of something non-ticklish…. feather duster… for Christ’s sake!!’

Again, thankfully, the torture was short-lived, as she put my feet down and moved on to my legs.

I must confess that from there onwards, I don’t remember an enormous amount. My mind drifted and my body relaxed, as Enya warbled gently in my ear.

And then that moment came. It was over, and it was time for me to depart. “Mr Hazell,” she said, “it’s time for me to finish now. If you would just like to take some time for yourself before dressing and meeting me outside.”

I wondered to myself, ‘how much time can I legitimately take? Would 7 hours seem excessive?’ I then raised myself from the couch, with a towel still wrapped roughly around my head, and prepared to get myself dressed. Now was definitely not the time to do another silly, naked dance around the room. It would be inappropriate. Oh, sod it…

I strolled out to meet my masseuse – walking a little bit like a spaceman who had just landed on the moon. She offered me some cold tea (it was supposed to be cold, they weren’t just lazy with their tea making) and I accepted. I then turned to her and said… “thank you for the massage… the words I’m singing. Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing. Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty?”

I have to say that I really enjoyed my massage. So much so, that, after looking through the list of other massages available, I’ve been tempted into trying another. My next massage is booked for tomorrow. The 80 minute Hot Stones Massage. Just leave my bloody feet alone!!

Hotel Breakfast Madness

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The hotel breakfast experience can be an uncomfortable, tense affair – especially if you’re in a foreign country. Does this story ring true with you?

The hotel buffet breakfast

Bleary eyed, wearing your shirt back to front, and with your hair looking like you were assaulted by a troop of wig-stealing monkeys on your way in, you fumble your way through the door of the hotel’s breakfast room. It’s a buffet breakfast; all you can bloat. You chuckle to yourself as you imagine the fat American man you bumped into yesterday (the one with the enormous boobs) jumping up and down with joy at the potential calories on offer. Let’s hope he’s wearing his sports bra…

As the Maitre d’ greets you by the door, it becomes obvious that he speaks no English. So, you try to hint that you want a table for one without inadvertently giving him ‘the bird.’

Following a period of mis-communication, during which you seriously considered punching the Maitre d’ in the face, as he stood between your hungry stomach and the eggs and bacon, he sits you down at a table of his choice. Frustratingly, he’s chosen the table furthest away from the buffet, meaning that you have to undertake a small marathon to reach the food. The realisation passes through your mind that you will probably burn off more calories getting to and from the buffet area than are actually contained within the food. Oh, why can’t they supply golf carts?

The waiter walks over. He, at least, speaks a little more English…

Waiter: “Tea? Coffeeeee?”
You: “What… err, tea… yes, I’ll have tea. Thank you”

Then comes the list…

Waiter: “What tea you like? Engresh breekfast, caamomile, greeen tea, mint tea, eeerl grey…?”
You: “Err, I don’t know. Tea. Just tea. I don’t want help sleeping, I don’t have prostate issues… ordinary tea!”
Waiter: “Ah, ok………… juice, what juice you like?”

Finally, the waiter leaves… he’s gone to get your strawberry tea and asparagus and wheatgrass juice (you won’t have a problem with constipation today, that’s for sure!). As you sit at your table, staring blankly into the distance, your eyes focus for a brief second on a woman struggling back to her table, supporting an enormous mound of breakfast goodies with both arms. Her head is tilted to the side of her plate to see where she is going. Forget the golf carts, how about a forklift truck?

Now slumped over your table, struggling to wake yourself, you glance at your watch. It’s 10.29am. Breakfast finishes at 10.30am, so there’s little time to loose. You’re going to have to act like a contestant on the television gameshow, Supermarket Sweep – without the bright, very gay clothing and without the over-exaggerated enthusiasm. It’s too early for that. You jump up from your table, like a startled deer. Well, ok, more like a wounded wildebeest…

As you reach the food area, panting from your exhaustive journey, you notice several groups of people wandering around with their heads down and arms out, reminiscent of extras from an episode of the Walking Dead. It’s the hangover crowd. You decide it’s best to stay away from them incase they walk into you or, worse, projectile vomit over your shoulder as you inspect the pastries and cakes.

It’s time to make your first big decision: how to begin the breakfast debauchery? Being that it’s the morning, you really don’t want to have a guilt trip for the rest of the day about what you’ve eaten at breakfast. So, the best option is to start with something healthy; fruit. You pick up a piece of melon with your spoon and carefully place it on your plate… that’ll do. It’s amazing how this one piece of fruit, measuring approximately a square centimetre, can change your perspective and make you feel so much better about the mound of unhealthy eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, pastries and cakes that will inevitably follow. Afterall, your breakfast won’t have been *all* unhealthy, right?

And, let’s be honest, you are “health conscious.” Yesterday, you walked all the way up the hotel stairs to your room on the ninth floor… having taken the lift to the eighth floor first.

After devouring your fruit in three seconds, it’s time to move on to the cooked breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and a mountain of toast. That brings us to one of the trickiest parts of the buffet breakfast…

The hotel breakfast toaster

Arriving at the toaster section, you’re confronted by a crowd of people with very perplexed faces, clutching pieces of bread. And they have every right to feel perplexed, for hotel toasters are always so incredibly over-complicated, with their vast array of buttons, dials and knobs (where-ever there’s a toaster, there’s always knobs). Moreover, the toasters always resemble torture devices with their mish-mash of metal spokes, prongs and cages. And why is there always one piece of ‘forgotten toast’ sitting on the exit tray; cold, getting in the way, but still optimistic of achieving fulfilment underneath a blanket of warm honey. It’s always perfectly toasted too – a miracle, in toasting terms. You can guarantee that your toast won’t turn out looking that good. ‘Hmm, you could just… no, it’s cold. Urgh.’

Having fought through the crowd, claiming to be the biggest toaster expert in the world, the torture device is finally revealed to you. Now, there’s an inevitability that the toaster will be one of two things:

  1. A time machine. Your bread will disappear for twenty minutes, only to re-appear looking exactly the same as it went in.
  2. A cremation furnace. You pop your bread in and, 10 seconds later, a pile of ash falls out onto the tray (the ash may or may not resemble the face of someone famous from history… possibly someone who was cremated)

Arriving back at your table with your mound of food, the waiter kindly presents you with a teapot of strawberry tea and a glass of asparagus and wheatgrass juice. Now, getting the tea from the little teapot into your cup should be easy. But, no, he’s given you the one teapot in the world with the dodgy lid and leaky spout. Consequently, when you go to pour it, the tea goes everywhere… everywhere except the cup, which remains as dry as an Arab’s flip flop. Seeing you in some distress, but clearly not understanding the gravitas of the situation, the waiter brings you a napkin. A single bloody napkin!

Although frustrated, part of you remains grateful that you’re not on board a boat with him. For, if it was to start taking on water he’d probably hand you a thimble to bail with…

At exactly 10.30am, events suddenly liven up. The lights in the buffet area are switched off, one by one. Breakfast is over… but the fight has only just begun. A mad scramble ensues, reminiscent of feeding time at the zoo. It’s a battle of wits between staff (starting to take things away) and people trying to desperately grab extra food for their breakfast. Everywhere you look, there’s chaos. Well, I say ‘everywhere’ – the fruit section remains incredibly peaceful.

You finish your breakfast and leave the restaurant. It’s all over. Behind you is a scene of carnage; bits of half-eaten food everywhere and tea-soaked table cloths as far as the eye can see. Although you arrived late, you feel contented that you aren’t the last to leave. That prize goes to a plump, married couple. There’s something not quite right though… the man has a strange muffin-shaped mound in his t-shirt and his wife is dragging a heavy handbag along the floor behind her. Forget the forklift truck – how about an articulated lorry?

A Towel Too Far…

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Rapport can be described as a state of harmony achieved when the people involved appreciate and understand each other’s feelings and ideas and communicate on the same wavelength. Here is a story of how I established rapport with a room maid during my stay in Cancun. I was feeling a little cut off and lonely at the time, so it meant a lot to me.

During my two-week hotel stay, I occupied a twin room all to myself. This meant that I received two of everything, or in the case of bath towels, four of everything. It seemed a little extreme.

My first few evenings in Cancun were spent outside of the hotel. However, on my fifth night at the hotel, I was enjoying a rest before dinner when there was a knock at the door. I opened the door to a maid, who presented me with a towel before wishing me a good evening (in Spanish). “This is ridiculous,” I thought, “what the bloody hell do I need ANOTHER towel for?” Despite this, deep down inside me I felt a tingling sense of increased security: if I should need to have 10 showers a day, I could! Furthermore, if I ran out of money, I could start my own laundry shop… ;)

Opportunities can appear when you least expect them to. As I stood there, towel in hand, a childish idea came into my head – ‘towel origami.’ I could have some fun with this towel and put it to good use. So, this is what I made…

Enrique - Towel Origami

Say “hello” to my towel man, Enrique; made from one bath towel and one hand towel (together with a few bits and pieces from the complimentary bathroom pack). I left Enrique sitting at the top of the second bed; to greet the maid the next day. Next morning, I went out for the day, returning in the evening. As I walked back into the room I spotted that Enrique had disappeared… to be replaced by Mariana (complete with flirty eyes)…

Mariana - Towel Origami

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Cancun Holiday 2011

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Swimming Pool and Sea

My Caribbean Coast holiday is almost over – it’s time to start thinking about heading home. It has been a delight to leave behind the cold, wet weather and enjoy some sun and luxury in Cancun; a truly relaxing break for the mind, body and soul.

Back home, the UK is in the grip of winter. It’s winter here in Cancun too – both places share that in common. However, that is where the comparison stops. Winter here means balmy temperatures of 26c compared to England’s 5c. The liveliness factor is also very different. I live in a town where a special offer on denture cream at the local pharmacy is considered ‘breaking news’. Hardly comparable, then, to yesterday’s news from Cancun – a lady being bitten by a 9ft shark as she stood waist-high in the sea.

As i come to the end of my Cancun holiday, I look back with fondness on the time that I’ve spent here. I count myself lucky to have enjoyed a holiday made so special by the people I have met and the experiences I have shared. Granted, they weren’t all entirely pleasant; thinking back to the incident with a transvestite hooker at 4am outside Coco Bongo. He/she grabbed my hand and wanted a piece of me for $15. I gave some to her for free – some lip, my middle finger and a clean pair of heels.

Coco Bongo

Despite that ordeal, Coco Bongo was a definitive highlight of my trip. Now into my thirties, I no longer enjoy the experience of loud clubs and dancing next to perspiring drunks; pre-vomit. However, this club was delightfully different – a mixture of theatre and some classic music. Truly spectacular and highly recommended.

The great night at Coco Bongo compares to a fairly average night at another club called Basic (Cancun is full of clubs). The venue was nice enough, situated as a pier on the lagoon, but it’s the people I’m with that helps make the experience. At Coco Bongo, I was accompanied by the delightful Natalie and her brother Andre. At Basic, I was with a group of strangers and over-fussy bar staff with OCD. Leave your drink for 10 seconds and you’d come back to find it gone, the table empty and wiped and the chair tucked neatly underneath the table; your very existence expunged from the scene. I just about resisted the temptation to defenestrate members of staff into the lagoon outside, giving the crocodiles a late-night snack.

I must confess that I haven’t found it entirely easy in Cancun. The first week felt very daunting because of the mixture of cultures and languages; making communication tricky and frustrating. However, perseverance (and learning to talk slowly) was the key to overcoming these barriers.

Food-wise, I’ve eaten a lot of delicious meals in Cancun. The steak here has been mouth-watering and tender. I’ve also kept up my tradition of eating strange food when the opportunity arises. Leaping enthusiastically onto my list of unusual foods is the humble frog – delicious.

I’m going to talk about some of the people who have made my trip special. A series of serendipitous meetings has led to some truly memorable moments. For me, the enjoyment of a holiday is hugely dependent on the people I share my time with. So it proved here…

Chichin Itza
  • Christian, my business partner. It has been a pleasure to experience his life in Cancun and get to know all of his friends.
  • Natalie, Christian’s niece, with her warm smile, and her brother, Andre. Our trip to Chichin Itza (the Mayan archeological site dating back 5,000 years) was one I will always remember. Not just for the amazing, mathematical constructions and the strange ideas for flattening foreheads of the upper class children (Wikipedia), but also for Natalie’s decision to buy handmade napkins from the little, old, Mexican native ladies. The problem with that idea was that, having bought from one, others quickly appeared (her twins – they all looked the bloody same!). I think Natalie went home to Brazil with a suitcase full of napkins (if her family are reading this, they know what to expect for Christmas this year).
  • Sofia, a young Argentinian lady. Having only been learning English for 1 month, I was impressed by her understanding and use of the language. We ate a lovely Mediterranean meal together and had a great night out.
  • Nicolette, a delightful, young, American lady with a bright future (though, not at ping pong!). I met her following her deft little dodge through the lift doors, as they were closing. We subsequently struck up conversation, bumping into each other at regular intervals. I have to admit that I’m grateful for the snow storms that hit her home city of Chicago; delaying her return flight by two days. She left yesterday and it’s very quiet here without her cheeky banter and endearing smile. Still, at least she now has the opportunity to finish reading her 1000-word book – A World Without End – without interruption. What she doesn’t know is that I ripped out the last page – it’s now ‘a book without end’… ;)
  • Paola, the cute Mexican lady who is part of the Riu Hotel’s entertainment team. She has been tremendous fun; always greeting me with a big smile, despite me murdering her favourite Sinatra song at the karaoke event (serves her right for choosing it for me – :-D ). Paola has grown an innate hatred of my name because she struggles with pronouncing it properly. I gave her the option of calling me Frank (after the karaoke), but that just confused her more. At times, she resorted to calling me Nigel, though she doesn’t quite know why. Whatever, I’ve enjoyed spending time with her.
  • There are many, many more people that I’ve met and spent time with during my trip – too numerous to mention – but all of whom have contributed to my time here.

So, as the curtain comes down on my holiday in Cancun, what are my overall impressions?

When you get over being hollered by taxi drivers and the annoyance of being addressed as “amigo” when walking past street sellers. When you get away from the ever-present, grotesquely Westernised commercialisation in the hotel zone. When you discover the real beating heart inside and start to soak up the warmth, the atmosphere and the sunshine. That’s when it becomes truly cleansing for the soul; diminishing any levels of stress and leaving one totally relaxed.

Chatting to one man in the hotel lift, he likened Cancun to the scene at the end of the movie ‘The Shawshank Redemption.’ I was pleased to note that his partner was with him in the lift. So, he wasn’t comparing himself directly to the movie’s lead character who was jailed for murdering his wife, later escaping to the sun-kissed beach the man was referring to.

There is something very quaint about Cancun, the beaches and the sea. Indeed, as I strolled out to the sandy beach on my last night, with the sun setting and the sea lapping against the shore, it was hard to imagine a more romantic and delightful place to be. Almost perfect, with only one thing/person missing…

Karaoke In Cancun

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Karaoke

I can’t sing. I like to think that I can, but I really can’t. In addition, I hate watching other people sing when they’ve clearly got the musical talent of a drunk Labrador. So, imagine my quandary when I was approached by a gorgeous, Mexican lady and asked to participate in a karaoke evening…

Let’s start with some background on where I am. I’m on holiday in sunny Cancun, Mexico – the only place in the world where buses have a bus to catch (they speed around, competing with one another for passengers). I’m staying in an all-inclusive hotel, where food, alcohol and entertainment are thrown at you and ingested like feeding time at the local crocodile park. It really is modern debauchery at its finest.

Yesterday, after a day of relaxation mixed in with a tragic attempt at pool-side salsa dancing and some beach soccer, I was relaxing in the bar with a drink. It was at this point that I was approached by the gorgeous Mexican lady, Paola, wearing a stunning dress. With my brain distracted and tongue half hanging out, I heard her mumble something about a karaoke show. Alarm bells sounded in my head. I did the only thing I could think of – I nodded enthusiastically (to seem bold and brave), before running off to hide in a corner where she couldn’t find me. Unfortunately, she sought me out and discovered my hiding place.

Sitting down next to me, she had her book of songs at the ready. I flicked through the pages, trying to buy some time to figure out a way to say “no” without looking like a boring, spoil sport. However, my clever brain had deserted me and been replaced by a giant, wobbly jelly. Glancing through the book I stopped, quite by accident, on a page of Frank Sinatra songs. “Fly Me To The Moon – sing that, I love that song,” she boomed from next to me. “Here, write your name and I’ll do the rest.” Foolishly, I agreed (my jelly brain had turned into a trifle by this point). Whilst she ran off excitedly, I ran off in terror – towards the bar. The only possible way to make the experience less painful was to order a few quadruple vodka and cokes. Reaching the bar, I signalled the barman in desperation and then glanced around the room. I felt a little more at ease – the room was half empty. Great!

As my imminent demise approached, the room was filling up. Word was obviously getting around that somebody was going to die horribly on stage. The karaoke show began and from that moment, every time the announcer read out a name that wasn’t mine, I sat back, swigged another vodka and coke and took a deep breath.

After 3 singers, my name was read out. This was my moment – I strode up onto the stage; faking confidence. The introduction to the song began and I started singing. It was bad, very bad – I could hear it, yet could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, the song had no backing vocals – Sinatra never needed them to distract from his amazing voice. So, it was just my voice and an almost-silent instrumental. A break in the vocals allowed me to try and win the crowd back with a little dance – it worked – but then I had to start the final verse and that meant singing again.

I didn’t just murder the song, I butchered it into little pieces and fed it to the cat, before having it vomited back up with a fur ball. The only consolation I can take from it is the thought that Paola won’t be able to hear her favourite song again without remembering my performance, so there is some kind of revenge there. Still, I think I’m now deserving of the nickname The Butcher Of Bexhill.

Despite my singing being awful, I wasn’t the worst singer of the night and I didn’t take it seriously. So, although it was as painful as having teeth removed with a cordless hammer drill, I did come out of it with a sparkling smile and a little piece of dignity. I think Paula appreciated the effort… ;)

Bulgaria

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Bulgaria

When I was deliberating over whether to write a blog article about my time in Sofia, Bulgaria, I considered putting it to a public vote. It would have been simple – shake your head to vote ‘yes‘ or nod your head to vote ‘no‘. Notice the problem with that? No, don’t nod for your answer, that just confuses things…

I was in Bulgaria for one week and I must say that during that time I felt both baffled and bemused with the whole ‘head nod’ means “no” and ‘head shake’ means “yes” idea. Bulgaria is, apparently, the only place in the world where this is the case – it’s the opposite of everywhere else. I have to say that I’ve never felt so popular with women and then been hit by such esteem-crushing realisation… I wish women in the UK would give me similarly enthusiastic head-nods when I ask THEM if they want to sleep with me… ;)

I find myself puzzling over where this communications concept came from. I mean, Great Uncle Bulgaria (the womble who founded Bulgaria as a nation) must have been smoking pot when he decided:

Great Uncle Bulgaria

I know, let’s switch things around and make this country like no other in the world. Let’s make the head nod mean no… oh, and let’s change the body language so that when someone says ‘yes’, they shake their head and act utterly miserable and pissed off! Yeah, that’ll really confuse the foreigners and keep them out of our country and away from our rubbish bins… (ok, enough of the womble jokes!)

On to transportation now. The tram and bus systems seem quite well organised in Sofia. They go underground, overground (wombling free…). However, their ticket systems really do need a re-think. You buy a book of ten tickets and use one ticket each time you get on the tram / bus. You punch it using the little machines attached to the sides of the bus. Obviously, when I say you “punch it”, you don’t stand there in the middle of a crowded bus jabbing it with your fist… “take that you little bastard!” Instead, you subtly lean across the seated passengers, thrust your armpit in their face, push the ticket into the little hole punch and then push down on the puncher. If you’re very unlucky, a miserable-old-bastard ticket inspector will get on during your journey, look at your ticket and then demand to see your next / previous / previous year’s ticket in order to satisfy himself that you do own your ticket and that someone else hasn’t given it to you in an act of amazing hospitality rarely seen anywhere in Bulgaria (no, I am being unkind there!).

hotel condiments

Onto the subject of sex now (well, I like to include the subject in most of my blogs). During my Bulgarian experience I noticed that the hotels like to accessorise their rooms with little luxuries – some expected and some not quite so expected. I took a photograph of some of them (left): soap, shower cap, shower gel, condom….

It’s a Bulgarian’s mini prostitute bathroom kit (prostitution is legal in Bulgaria). Get em to have a good shower beforehand… (I don’t mean a bathroom kit for Bulgarian midget prostitutes, by the way…)

When it comes to patience, Bulgarians seem to have little of it. I experienced this first-hand with my plane flights. No sooner had the plane touched down on the runway than the seatbelts were off and people were up on their feet opening the overhead lockers (which were crammed to bursting with cases). The fact that the aircraft was still travelling along at 80mph was seemingly unimportant. However, their desperation to get off the plane was not matched by their attempt to get to Passport Control. Indeed, their enthusiasm seemed to dissipate as soon as they took a step off the plane… switching to a slow-motion amble. Having waited until last to leave the plane (for my own safety), I found myself weaving in and out of people like a formula one car overtaking milk floats.

The impatience of Bulgarians is also demonstrated when it comes to driving. From weaving taxi drivers, whose idea of screenwash is to stick their arm out of the window and throw bottled water across their windscreen, to drivers who will not be defeated by steep hills covered in ice. They’ll find a way to do what they want if it kills them. And if you get in the way, you’ll get the horn (so to speak)…

I very much enjoyed my trip to Bulgaria and meeting the people there. But, I have to say that their mannerisms took a bit of getting used to. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry… ;)