The tasteless hockey puck of European touring

Because I'm a firm believer in recycling and laziness, this is a review of the Contiki tour I took in 2003 and posted to a consumer website. I rediscovered it last week, and it sums up why I'll never join a tour group again. When I'm ripped off, I get a little... full of piss and vinegar.

Rule number one of touring Europe with Contiki: If the initial meeting with your tour manager involves the following dialogue, run to the nearest phone and try to get your money back.

"Hi, everybody! How are you today? Well, first, I'm going to tell you about Contiki. You know when you're dying for a burger and you see that glossy photo at McDonald's of the thick, juicy burger and fresh, plump bun? And you can't wait to bite into it because it looks so good? And then you order the burger and it's a tasteless hockey puck? Well, that's a Contiki tour. You've all seen the glossy photos. You've read the fantastic itinerary. It's all a marketing gimmick."

Gosh, thanks for the heads up, but could you have sent that description certified mail before I handed over my credit card information?

That pretty much set the tone for the tour.

I take all promotional material with a grain of salt, but when someone who works for the company introduces herself with what is essentially a pep talk about how much the tour is going to suck and we're "all in this together," there might be a problem.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed Europe (I'd traveled there on my own before), and I had the opportunity to taste quite a bit of the continent in a short period of time, but Contiki is definitely a budget tour company that wears the word "budget" as a badge of dishonor. Just because a tour is for those with limited funds -- and believe me, all of the trips I've planned myself have been on a budget-- doesn't mean the tour can't be thoroughly enjoyable and, well, honest. But I'll get to the honesty later.

Rule number two of touring Europe with Contiki: You don't have to hang out with or like your tourmates. It helps, but when you've got a lactose-intolerant feminist complaining that all of the food items at Italian rest stops contain dairy, an undercover skank who hides behind two glasses of wine to justify her wanton ways, an American Muslim who wears his arrogance on a cheap and inflammatory t-shirt ("Free Palestine!"), tourmates (half of whom are American by birth) who speak fluent English but rudely insist on loudly (and I do mean loudly) speaking in their native tongues, etc. -- well, no one's going to fault you if you just want to sit in a corner, rocking back and forth.

I took the Contiki tour because my then-boyfriend had limited vacation time, and we wanted to see a large swath of Europe in the amount of time he had available to him. I didn't read anything overly negative about the tours -- they sounded like fun, really -- but as I learned, that's because the kind of people Contiki generally attracts are people who make a road trip with Gilbert Gottfried and Carrot Top as company seem desirable.

You'll learn this, too, when you're transported back to the first day of high school English, and you have to introduce yourself to the rest of the class. As your tour bus is hurtling down the highway, and you try to balance yourself and get the blasted microphone to work. My tip: pretend you're asleep.

If you really do fall asleep, you'll be awoken by an obnoxious song that worms its way into your brain because it's played EVERY TIME YOU'RE ABOUT TO STOP SOMEWHERE. This song, though, is different than your "wake-up song" that greets you as you first start out each morning. I'm surprised that there wasn't an official group bonding song because it seemed that almost everyone was on the tour to make friends, not see Europe.

One girl tried really hard to bond with my boyfriend. It's funny now, but at the time, it left me wondering what kind of jail time you'd get in Italy for assault and battery. A slightly older woman on the tour took a shine to the ball and chain. Blatantly so. I mean, you'd have to be, well, a man to not realize it. My boyfriend didn't. She tried harder. At that fateful dinner in Florence, she had a bit much to drink and asked if she could dance with him. I said "no." Hey, she asked. She raised her eyebrows and voice and asked incredulously, "I can't??" Um, no.

She grabbed him anyway and proceeded to dance with him. I nicely tapped her on the shoulder and told her that was enough. For the rest of the trip, she alternated between avoiding and kissing up to me. I was cordial to her, but come on. I know it's vacation and people have the attitude that what happens on vacation stays on vacation, but hey, he wasn't single. And you asked. I told you in the nicest terms to go away. So... go.

If you go into it knowing that it really IS a microcosm of society -- for good and bad -- it shouldn't be too hard to devise plans to avoid the jerks.

Rule number three of touring Europe with Contiki: Optionals are another way of saying, "We will rip you off, and your ass will hurt mightily."

I had planned to avoid all of them, but the tour manager, who was so negative up until that point (even telling people to not sign up for the Austrian white water rafting because you could "do that anywhere"), painted such a pretty picture of the Florence optional dinner that I bought it hook, line, and sinker. Oh, the traditional Florence beef melts in your mouth. The pianist sets such a wonderful mood for the evening. It's in a monastery. You'll love it. "IF YOU DO NO OTHER OPTIONAL, DO THIS ONE."

Don't let them sucker you into the Florence dinner.

It's not romantic. It's not quaint. In their defense, I think it's in a monastery, but under the garishness of the outdoor dining decor, I can't say for sure. It is, in fact, mediocre food in a cafeteria-style setting (if the cafeteria were in, say, Tahiti) with two or three other tour groups, and the "pianist" is actually an old Italian guy playing the electronic keyboard and singing disco songs. Does anyone think "I Will Survive" sets a mood other than tacky? Anyone?

Soon after I returned home, I wrote a letter to the Better Business Bureau about the dinner (and complained to Contiki) because the advertising went beyond the usual exaggeration -- it was outright lying. When you're told that you'll have a traditional Tuscan meal with a pianist setting a romantic mood in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, you don't expect bland food, picnic-style tables, and disco songs as interpreted by an elderly Italian man. If he was even Italian. Who knows? Would any self-respecting Italian sing "Shaddup Your Face"? I expected Joe Pesci to come out and shoot at people's feet.


Had it been part of a Vegas lounge act and had I been drunk on complimentary rum and Cokes, I would have loved it, but given the cost of the meal and the fact that we could have better spent that time in Florence itself, we were rather angered. It's not a cheap optional ($90 for two, at the time), and when I complained to the tour manager about the misrepresentation, people who had overheard me agreed that it was not what they were expecting.

Contiki, of course, told me to scratch my ass, and they wouldn't apologize or reimburse me for the cost of the dinner they so fraudulently advertised, but I didn't expect anything less from them. Live and learn, right? I guess they've got an unsatisfactory rating with the BBB for a reason.

They'll try to sell you on the meals by saying it's unlimited wine. It is, but it's unlimited cheap, jug wine that's probably been contaminated with diethylene glycol. And really, how much wine can a person drink to justify the unlimited aspect of it? If you stay in Florence, you can get a liter of house wine (still not the frou-frou stuff but better than what the optional meals offer) for about 8 euro, and you'd have the ambience of a Florence or Venice café. (There's an optional dinner in Venice, too, and the people who went on it said it was really bad, so at least I only got burnt once.)

Rule number four of touring Europe with Contiki: Contiki tours had a bad reputation for a number of years because of the partying and drinking that went on. They've tried to improve their image, but unfortunately, it means that hotels willing to take a chance on Contiki are either sort of dumpy, not close to the city or not close to ANY city. I've stayed in one-star hotels and guest houses that were far nicer.

Two of the hotels (Rome and St. Goar) had bedbugs. We only experienced the bugs in Rome. Some of our tourmates made friends with the bugs in St. Goar. St. Goar is little more than a stopover where you can buy stuff from a Contiki-affiliated store, and graciously help support your tour manager with kickbacks. Not much else there, although the the blue curacao ice cream at the ice cream parlor was killer.

In the case of Rome, the hotel is actually 40 minutes and two trains outside of the city center. And the last train from Rome leaves at 10:20 p.m. No late-night parties for you.

When you arrive back at the hotel for a nice, warm shower, word to the wise: This ancient civilization (okay, Contiki hotels based in this ancient civilization) hasn't quite mastered the art of successful shower building. The shower curtain is too short, and the shower floor is flat, which means all of the water runs out of the bathroom. You'll figure this out by the water stain on the carpet in the bedroom.

The hotel in Venice -- well, I barely remember the hotel in Venice because we got there around midnight. We went to Venice before the hotel. That's because the hotel isn't really in Venice. It's about 45 minutes outside of Venice.

So, those hotels are in Rome and Venice like a hotel in NYC is on the south shore of Staten Island. Technically correct, but fudged enough that it should come with a notice.

No one knew that the hotels in Venice and Rome were too far outside of the cities to do too much self-exploration. We really were at the mercy of the tour.

Rule number five of touring Europe with Contiki: What, four rules didn't convince you not to go or go at your own risk?

At the end of the tour, after a measly 12 days together, some of the women cried. Buckets. Because they were leaving people they barely knew. They hugged me. Hugged me after only 12 days of my trying to avoid them. It was touching. No, really. Two months later, and I still think about, um, well, whatever their names were.

Europe was great. I had an incredible time. But if you have even an ounce of adventure in you, if there's even the smallest part of you that hates being treated like you're developmentally delayed and need a helping hand, if you don't think you can stomach being stuck on a bus with 35 draining personalities, don't do a Contiki tour.

The difference in the myth of the FBI and the reality of the FBI is as big as the Grand Canyon

During my stint as an underpaid technical writer for a defense contractor,
I passed the hours during weeks of downtime looking at federal jobs and dreaming about the increased salary, vacation time, pension and public holidays. Because it wasn't too long after 9/11, the FBI regularly posted new openings out of desperation.

I'm not one for authority, especially not the bumbling kind that succeeds more at trampling citizens' rights than at preventing mushroom clouds, but out of boredom and curiosity, I decided to apply for a position with the FBI's New York City field office. It's been close to 6 years and I don't remember the exact job title, but it mostly involved following suspected terrorists to see if they preferred jelly doughnuts or scones and if they shopped at Best Buy or Circuit City for all their explosive needs.

Because my job required a secret clearance, I'd already been vetted and proven to be a good girl (or a criminal capable of covering her tracks well), so I assumed that would work in my favor.

Aside from requesting the usual information, the application asked questions such as, "Describe a time when you used your observational skills." I wasn't approaching the process seriously, and I opted to take a racist bent in my answers, having a little fun by playing on the fears of many Americans and those in law enforcement.

In laying out my keen observational skills, I described a scene from the chemistry class at a local university I was taking. The professor had paired me with another student for an experiment, a student I'd previously noticed had a foreign accent but whom I hadn't heard speak long enough to place it.

Before speaking with him, I'd noted that the student had a nose that one would best describe as "Roman" and had darker, olive skin. Instead of the more casual American style, he tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, a sartorial quirk one often finds in the Mediterranean, Middle East and parts of Latin America. Based on his physical appearance, fashion sense and choice in university classes, I guessed he was from Turkey. And I was right.

The other answers weren't much better.

About three weeks after submitting my application, I received an email from a woman named "Lisa" who said she worked for the FBI and that she wanted to schedule an interview after I filled out the accompanying paperwork that required sensitive information.

Except she wrote from a Hotmail account, and the IP address traced back to AOL. Impressive technological standards for an agency tasked to investigate serious crimes.

While I couldn't imagine someone intercepted my application and was phishing for personal details, I hadn't expected a response after the answers I submitted, especially not a response using a free email service, and it raised red flags. To question Lisa's intentions, I created my own anonymous Hotmail account.

I asked Lisa to prove her identity and that she legitimately represented the FBI. She responded: "How did you get this email address? You're not on the list of candidates we want to interview. Who are you?"

I wrote back: "You're the FBI. You tell me."

It was surreal and made me all the more determined to continue with the application process. I submitted the necessary paperwork, and Lisa gave me a date and time to be at 26 Federal Plaza.

On the day of my interview, I wore a black suit with a long-sleeved shirt underneath that had metal hooks instead of buttons. As I passed through the building's metal detector, it beeped and the security guard pulled me aside. I explained my clothing situation and without checking it himself, he nodded and waved me through. Excellent security standards to go with the technological ones.

There were five or six other candidates that day, all of whom were local or state government workers. They wore serious expressions, clearly affording the process a solemn respect I couldn't muster.

Someone called my name, and I went into a room with three interviewers. The man and two women were dressed in business casual, and one of the women looked even younger than I was.

They discussed my background and why I applied for the position. Because I want to keep America safe from Saddam bin-Laden al-Zaqwari.

Then they moved onto asking questions relevant to the job.

"What if you're tailing a suspect and he notices you and makes a scene. What do you do?" I'd act confused and as if he were your average crazy New Yorker kicked out of a psychiatric hospital when he ran out of money and that a gutted social-services system couldn't help him.

"What do you do if you're sitting outside of a suspect's house at night and a cop car pulls up and asks what you're doing?" I'd pretend that my car was making a strange noise and I'd stopped to call my husband to ask what I should do because I'm a helpless girl, but he wasn't answering his phone, so I was waiting for him to call back.

They seemed satisfied with my answers, although I'm not sure I gave them with a straight face because I still couldn't believe I was there, but when it came time to move on to the next round of a polygraph test, they said that, you know, it's us, not you, and maybe we'll call you soon.

I never did hear back from them, but sometimes, in my more paranoid moments, I wonder if I've ended up on The List. And if not, will this do it?