Ten and a half travellers do Mooloolaba

I woke up to the Littlest Hobo coughing and crying in her makeshift bed of sun lounger cushions on the floor beside me. In a sleepy daze, I scooped her up in my arms and cuddled her next to me in my bed, and she soon drifted back off to sleep. I started on my journey back to the land of nod too, but somewhere through the sleep-induced fog I managed to piece together the fact that Mr Traveller wasn't in the bed, no light was shining under the door, and the sounds of laughter from the card game down the hall that had formed the background for my night time slumber were nowhere to be heard. I started to drift back off to sleep myself, but then decided I'd better go and investigate. I gently lifted the Littlest Hobo back into her bed, glanced at my watch - 3.10am, and then tiptoed to the door.

Silence.

I pulled the door open and peered along the dark corridor.

Still nothing.

The apartment was still. In the living room, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were sound asleep. I turned back towards the bedroom, but on a whim changed my mind and headed up the stairs to the rooftop and the pool area. I peered through the glass out past the still and empty swimming pool into the milky darkness beyond, where I could hear the waves crashing, 16 floors below, but everything else remained stupefyingly calm and still.

I opened the door, walked through it, and just as it was a couple of millimetres from clicking closed behind me, I grabbed a cushion and wedged it in the gap; earlier in the afternoon, before we had first arrived, a couple of our group had been locked on the roof when the door closed behind them and they couldn't open it again from the outside. I was surrounded by eerie silent stillness, and a chill ran down my spine.Not a soul to be seen. I turned on my heal and hotfooted it to the door. Just as I grabbed the handle, I sensed a slight movement barely within my vision over my left shoulder. The handle slipped through my fingers as I heard my name hissed in a hoarse rasp. Oh what had I got myself into?

Then I heard my name again, and the voice was a little clearer and more familiar. My eyes were gradually adjusting to the darkness, and the flapping that had appeared over my shoulder became a knee, and at the end of that knee my husband. 'We're locked out' he exclaimed. 'We're locked on the roof!' I turned to the door and glanced down at the precariously wedged cushion, glad to see that the door was still open.

'What are you doing up here? Are you on your own?' I asked. He repeated that he was locked out, then pointed to the others (our nephew and our niece's husband) lying further along the deck. As Mr. T hobbled to a standing position, ready to wake the two sleeping beauties, he promptly fell back onto the sun lounger, declaring his foot completely unusable (somewhat dramatic given that he was just experiencing pins and needles, having been lying with his other leg resting across the foot). My nephew jumped to his feet as the sweet smell of freedom invaded his dreams.He was visibly shivering and repeatedly informing me that he only had 'this tiny towel' to cover him. The third member of this unlucky and somewhat alcohol fuelled trio was shaken into wakefulness and I could complete my rescue operation without so much as a cross word (much to their surprise!).

The pool was great for building the Littlest Hobo's confidence in the water

Reacquainting with the pool the next day

But the dodgy pool area door had to be the only downside to this apartment. All we knew was that we were being treated to a weekend away by my brother-in-law and family and niece and her husband. On the day, we were told to drive to Mooloolaba and all would be revealed. Once we arrived in Mooloolaba we were directed on the phone into the Mantra apartment block, then we parked the car and headed for the lifts. When we stepped through the door of our holiday apartment, we weren't prepared for the amazing accommodation that was to welcome us. The roof top deck with private pool and spa was the first treat, looking out over the ocean below, and ours to enjoy all weekend.

Loving the pool!

So many remote controls for one room!

The panic button by the bed

Then we headed back downstairs and checked out the movie room, complete with mural painted ceiling and lots of overly technical looking Sony audio equipment. We checked out our bedroom, with a walk in wardrobe the size of another bedroom, speakers dotted the ceiling throughout and a marble-clad en-suite with views along the coast up to Noosa and beyond. I'm guessing this place belongs to someone important, given the panic button that was mounted near the bed.

The mural on the ceiling in the movie room

Our en-suite with views up the coast

We looked around the rest of the apartment then regrouped in the living room. Then we noticed a couple of doors off to the side of the room... the first one was locked. The second one opened, to reveal.... another door! Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, we opened the next door to find a large empty room with a hung ceiling, several cut off wires hanging out the walls and ceiling and a large one way mirror on one of the walls. Standing right up against the mirror we could see into the locked room - nothing much to see there, but we were fairly confident that this strange area we had found was a recording studio.

We think it's a recording studio

With all the musical evidence around and the panic button too, plus the sheer opulence of the place, it felt likely that someone famous may own it - I would love to know who! Between flashy penthouses, long-haul upgrades to business class, and the Intercontinental in Singapore, we've been having a jolly old time for long-term travellers the last few weeks. I'm sure we're going to come back down to earth with a thump in a couple of weeks time when we arrive in New Zealand with out budget leading our decisions! Still, I am sure that the wonder of the beautiful area we will be visiting will make up for any home comforts or little luxuries that we suddenly find are missing.

The view from the balcony off our bedroom

Crossing the language barrier

I didn't think that much about language issues when planning our trip to Spain until a friend asked me a few days before we left 'So, do either of you actually speak any Spanish?' 'No' I replied, still not giving it much thought. I'd been to Spain twice before, and to the Canary Islands several times and had always got by with a meagre Ola and the odd Por Favor. And Mr Traveller can speak near on fluent French, and can do a wicked Spanish impersonation. And, well, Spain shares a border with France, and they sound kind of similar, so um, we should be fine. Then she reminded me of the story another friend had told us, about her time travelling in South America when she tried to buy a torch, and became the spectacle of the store when it turned out that she was asking, repeatedly, for the Olympic flame. And she too was fluent in French, in fact her husband, who she was travelling with at the time, is half French, so that whole close proximity and sounding similar to my naive ear thing, well, clearly it doesn't stand the test. But still, for some unknown and slightly odd reason, I heard what she was saying, but the alarm bells did not ring.

Maybe my mind was still relatively absorbed with my Gran. Maybe I had been assuming that terribly ignorant and unattractive trait that the British are famous for, believing that everyone should speak English. Maybe it's been way too long since I visited a non-English speaking country, after years of living in Australia and America, and using up our major holidays on trips to visit friends and family back in England, or else exploring said countries (plus the odd trip to New Zealand, where lo and behold, they speak English) and I had just forgotten what it feels like to be a stranger in a strange land. 

We were in Korea only 4 months ago; we weren't just the only non-Korean speakers, but also the only Caucasians, to the point that the Littlest Hobo became a novelty spectacle wherever we went. But I didn't feel so much of a fish out of water as I did yesterday morning, when I wandered around San Sebastian desperately seeking contact lens fluid, clutching my trusty iPhone with google translate app all set up and ready to go. I didn't feel as embarrassed as I did when i pulled open the lift door today and nearly knocked my neighbour flat, but I couldn't think of the Spanish word for sorry. We actually gave up on having dinner out tonight, and headed back to the apartment to reheat left-overs from yesterday, despite the fact that it's my birthday today, because it all seemed a bit too difficult trying to order allergy friendly food for the littlest Hobo when we couldn't read the menu and would have to rely on good old google translate to tell the waiter/waitress what our constraints were.  

We're considering ditching Spain and taking a slower meander through France, mainly because we've learnt from earlier trips that less is more and taking it at toddler pace is an absolute must, but also because we can speak the language. 

At least sorbet is sorbet everywhere... I think.

It's not that we're having a terrible time - we're having a fantastic time actually; we're revelling in each others company, doing everything we want to do (with the exception of dinner tonight, which, in fairness probably also had a lot to do with having been out for hours and hours and feeling ready to flop in our pj's), stuffing our faces with delectable tapas, and San Sebastian is an amazing city - it's romantic, full of history, a gastronomic delight, superbly toddler friendly, and moderately warm for mid November in the Northern hemisphere. I was delighted this evening, when we walked into the bakery and the Littlest Hobo chanted Ola with the rest of us without a second thought, but that's only one very small step. But I think, if I'm truly honest, we are a little embarrassed by our naivety, by our lack of preparation and ignorance that makes me feel somewhat green around the gills at this travel business, when in reality it's something that we've been doing for years, just by a different name, because it wasn't a permanent, everyday state. I feel that we should have known better, and now it's too late to do much about it. Our best option is to tuck it under our wings as a lesson learnt for next time, and go and drown our embarrassment and celebrate our next challenge, whatever it may be, in a glass or two of Spain's finest Rioja. Ole!