My family has one superstition: never say a bad thing about a car while you’re in it because it will hear you, feel sad and die. Whenever my Husband would say negative things about my old car I would jokingly stroke the car’s bonnet in an attempt to soothe her. As a joke. Because it’s funny to anthropomorphize a car, but only a crazy person would believe it was actually sentient. Although the car and myself were eventually crashed into by someone protesting the give way rules. Not saying that it was Brad’s fault my car decided against avoiding the oncoming Mitsubishi, but maybe if he didn’t say such terrible things it would have had a greater desire to live.
Beyond this one ‘superstition’ (read: fact) about overly sensitive cars I’m pretty happy to embrace all that is unlucky. As I type this I’m on the 13th floor of a building, standing underneath a ladder, tossing mirrors out a window while a black cat occasionally walks past. However since we started our travels Brad and I have begun to embrace the all-encompassing ‘Murphy School of Superstition’ (not a real school) based on Murphy’s Law which dictates that ‘anything that can go wrong; will’.
In our minds the eponymous Murphy has taken on the characteristics of a mischievous Jack Frost type character that follows us around screwing things up. The first time we waxed lyrical about Murphy being a shithead was the day before we left Australia when my perfectly functioning laptop spontaneously developed a plethora of issues. Since then Murphy has been our constant travel companion; draining phone batteries when we desperately need google maps, wrecking the internet in hostels when we have to confirm flights and giving us food poisoning in the least convenient situations imaginable. My biggest pet peeve is when people chew with their mouth open so of course at the moment I’m sat next to a guy who opens his mouth so wide with every chew that he looks like those clown heads at fares whose mouths you put balls in and somehow sounds like a certain activity every teenage boy is familiar with (Grandma: if you’re reading this I don’t mean what you think) (everyone else: I totally do). At least once a day for the past two months one of us has muttered ‘fucking Murphy.’
In hindsight before we left our hostel in KL this morning to begin our journey to Hanoi we really should have sacrificed a goat or something for that prick. The monorail, light rail, train and bus to the airport all went off without a hitch, so by the time we boarded for our flight to Da Nang, on time, we were feeling pretty confident. Of course, we then sat on the tarmac for an hour and a half for seemingly no reason. Then when we got to Da Nang the baggage carousel was broken, so one guy trollied the bags from the plane three at a time and it took roughly 14 hours to get our bags. Then we missed check in for our connecting flight to Hanoi by 7 minutes. Then we spent $200 on brand new plan tickets for a flight 5 hours later. Then we stabbed the voodoo doll we had made of Murphy’s malicious ass with airplane issued plastic sporks all the way to Hanoi.