‘My spider senses were tingling’

Tony Ryan presents a timely reminder of the perils of international travel

With the international borders now opening up, my kids (22 and 20) are talking about travelling overseas for the first time without us. With the bride living in England for two years in her early 20s, she has countless stories to tell. This always leads to my first venture overseas as a young naive 24-year-old.

While the wife’s tales lead to great things, mine sit in the dumb arse category. One story (and there are quite a few) the kids always want retold.

Apart from family holidays, going down the coast with mates and footy trips, I had not done much travelling and had never been overseas. After exploring Europe for three months, I ventured to the good ol’ US of A. I spent time in the Big Apple and Niagara Falls, then went to New Orleans.

At this stage I was travelling on my own before catching up with a mate in Las Vegas. So the best place to be was at a youth hostel – full of young like-minded travellers looking for adventure and all very social. If you walked into the common room alone, it would not be long before someone invited you over to their group to have a drink. There were no phones to stick your head into and thus avoid eye contact. It also helped that I looked like a young Brad Pitt (OK, that’s a stretch).

I met up with these two Irish blokes and with a surname of Ryan it did not take long for a strong bond to establish. For the next couple of days we did a mountain of sightseeing, the Mississippi, the Creole cuisine and, of course, the spectacular night life the “Big Easy’ had to offer.

Unfortunately this was my demise. On the last night the Irish lads were in town we went out for a few beers and ended up at the first karaoke bar I had ever been to. Many drinks were had and we even ventured on stage to belt out an Irish song that I did not know. With an early flight the lads decided to call it a night; with hindsight, I should have too. But I wanted to keep the party going.

I met up with some Aussie guys and then a young local lad. We had a few drinks and the local lad suggested we go back to his house when the pub shut. Sensibly the others did not take up the offer, but my dufus side did. We stopped at a 7/11 and bought some beers with the last $10 I had on me. I never realised the meaning of ‘the wrong side of the tracks’ until we crossed the railway line and headed into what could only described as a very dodgy part of town. Suddenly my spider senses were tingling and decided that I would go back.

The chap insisted that he lived at the end of the street. As he led me into this house all my fears were realised – the house was abandoned. With the streetlight shimmering through the window, he told me he had a knife and he wanted all my money. If I did not do what he said, he would stab me. I shared a few choice things, including the fact that I had told him that I had spent my last $10 at the 7/11.

I emptied my pockets – the haul consisted of a wallet with no money (my one credit card was at the hostel) and two letters I had not posted. He then demanded my new runners, which I had bought in New York. He said that most travellers hide cash in their shoes. This guy was smarter than I thought (and obviously smarter than me) as I did have $20 in my runners that I’d forgotten about.

At this time in the States, Crocodile Dundee was huge and Aussies were the flavour of the month. Somehow I plucked up the courage and said no, and told him that if he killed an Australian he would get the “chair”, then told him to “go forth and multiply”. With this, I pushed past him and ran out the front door. I leaped over the six steps leading into the abandoned house and was glad I kept the runners as this gave me a pace that would have rivalled Usain Bolt. I had no idea if he tried to chase me as I did not stop nor look back.

I ran at a pretty good pace for the next three or so kilometres back to the hostel. Amazing how being mugged tends to sober you up. Not having cash or a card for a cab; I had those kilometres to curse myself and then came to the realisation that it could have ended up way worse.

Still shaken the next day, I cut short my New Orleans stay and flew to Vegas. There are a few stories there but I have to go by the old adage that “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”!

As footnote, I can tell you that bloke was not a nice chap as he did not have the manners to post the letters taken out of my pocket!