What happens on Contiki...

I was looking forward to joining our Contiki tour in New Orleans, and from the moment we stepped off the plane I fell in love with the Big Easy. Here, you can call people ‘baby’ without fear of being accused of sexual harassment, and it’s actually quite charming really. Less charming was the smell of Bourbon Street, but when you think about it who doesn’t love the smell of alcohol intermingled with weed and stale vomit? 

As with any tour group, it’s a great study in human behaviour, but I use the term human loosely. We were lucky enough to hear about one guy’s sexual exploits with a goth chick in graphic detail before we even knew his name, and that if one girl could sleep with someone famous she would choose Mick Molloy. Let’s just ponder this for a moment. Out of EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, the one person she would choose to get it on with is MICK MOLLOY. It’s a lovely compliment to Mick that a woman in her mid-twenties finds him desirable enough to pay him a visit between the sheets, but really? I’d have preferred to have heard the conventional/boring yet understandable George Clooney or Brad Pitt as an answer, but then we wouldn’t have been a group of bogan Australians travelling overseas. 

The fact that we were a group of bogan Australians was never more evident than on one of our driving days, the group played a game called ‘questions in the hat’. The rules were simple, write down any question and put it in the hat. Questions were drawn at random and someone would be called up to answer it. Some of the questions were quite pleasant, such as ‘why is the sky blue?’ or ‘if you could be someone famous for a day who would you choose?’. I’m afraid to say the majority of the questions, however, were more along the lines of, ‘if you could have two guys cum in your eyes or ears, which would you choose?’ or ‘Would you rather be fudge-packed by Andy while Shannon blows you or drink a bottle of Ed’s semen?’, ‘demonstrate your oral sex technique’ and ‘if you had to choose a person of the opposite sex on this bus to pee on you, who would you choose?’. Astounding that this kind of creativity is going to waste and not being channelled to influence our future generations. Wait a minute, most of them were school teachers. 

While the tour provided many memorable moments, one of the most bizarre highlights occurred when we stopped to watch the ducks march at the Peabody Hotel, Memphis, Tennessee. You can read about the Peabody Ducks and their history here. 

Anyway, after an action packed day at Graceland, Sun Studio and meeting die-hard Elvis fans Cindy and Randy from Nebraska, Biz and I decided to stop in at the Peabody on our way back to our accommodation to catch the ducks in their afternoon journey. At 5pm the ’duck master’ signals it is time for the ducks to march out of the Peabody fountain, down a red carpet and into the elevator which takes them to wherever they are kept when they are not in the fountain. We arrived about fifteen minutes before the ducks were to march, and by that time there was already a sizeable crowd forming. To watch DUCKS walk down a RED CARPET. Isn’t the USA adorable? But it gets better. Everyone was enjoying the ducks swimming in the fountain, and then the Duck Master adjusted his top hat and tails and turned on his mic. It was show time. (Just before the DM started his incredibly challenging job of getting the ducks out of the fountain, he locked eyes with Biz and they shared what can only be described as a ‘moment’. A feat in itself given the thousands of other people in the room. Just saying, it was very special and perhaps if the DM is reading he can get in touch and I’ll pass on Biz’s details.)

The Duck Master, and perhaps Biz's one true love.

As the DM began to speak, the ducks got out of the water and marched around the edge of the fountain in preparation for their journey home. It was about this point that I thought Justin Bieber had walked into the room. The camera flashes were blinding, and the hubbub of the crowd was reaching a climax. I think the Peabody should invest in some tiny little duck sunglasses to protect the eyes of their famous residents. And then the ducks stepped out of the fountain and onto the red carpet, waddling behind their master for about thirty seconds and getting into the lift and disappearing for another day. The show was over, and I was wondering where on earth, and in which universe, I was now living. These ducks pull more of a crowd than some football teams (I’m looking at you Port Adelaide), for simply swimming and walking. Two things they were designed to do, and have been doing without red carpets for centuries. God bless America!