Julie Hayes On What Really Happens When You Trust Your Brother’s “Miracle Remedy” on Holiday

By the time we finally made it to Adelaide, I felt like we deserved a medal. Or at least a commemorative tea towel and mug. We’d already cancelled the trip three times, each time because one of us was sick, and this fourth attempt was happening even if I had to be strapped to the roof racks like loose luggage.

I’d spent the week before we left with stomach cramps, wind that could kill a black dog fifty yards away, and a general vibe of “should this woman be allowed to travel?” But there was no way known I was letting a bit of digestive drama stop me. The doctor had armed me with enough medication to tranquillise a small pony, and I was determined to use it responsibly, by which I mean, often.

Everything went swimmingly at first. The apartment was gorgeous, the weather behaved, and I only spent 30% of my time worrying about where the next toilet was.

Then came the day of the big bus tour: wineries in the Adelaide Hills, followed by lunch on a paddle steamer. I woke up feeling decidedly not paddle-steamer material. More “pale shipwreck survivor” than the “holidaying goddess” I was aiming for.

Desperate, I remembered the little bottle of oil my brother had shoved at me the night before. “Great for nausea,” he’d said. “Trust me.” I should have taken note that this was from someone who shot me in the eye with a nail, set fire to my fingers, and pushed me full-bodied into the cow shit pit twice… face first… then told Mum I jumped. Of course, he didn’t mention how much to take, but I’m a grown woman. How hard can droppers be?

So, on the bus, bouncing gently through the hills, I filled the dropper to the top and added a little extra glug, because why not? I was on holiday. I deserved effective nausea relief.

Well.

By the time we reached the first winery, I felt fabulous. Not just better… fabulous. The air smelled fabulous. The grapes looked fabulous. The bus driver looked like he could win Australia’s Next Top Model.

I’m not a drinker, but I drank everything they offered. Every. Single. Thing. And it was all, without exception, fabulous. I entertained the other ladies on the tour bus. They thought I was hilarious. I thought I was hilarious. My husband thought something was going on, and he was right, but in that moment I didn’t care because life was delicious.

At one winery, I became inexplicably fixated on a series of abstract paintings on the wall. I announced, far too loudly, that they looked exactly like the diagrams of clitorises I used to show teens in sex-ed. There was a fat one, a thin one, a shy one barely peeking out, and one absolutely enormous one that I swear followed me with its eyes. The older ladies on the bus totally agreed with my educated assessment.

Lunch on the paddle steamer was a spiritual experience. The water sparkled. The people sparkled. The crème brûlée practically ascended. I told complete strangers that they were beautiful. I told the waiter he was beautiful. I told a pot plant it was beautiful. I meant all of it.

Then we arrived in the German village, Hahndorf, though in my state I kept calling it “Handjob”, thinking I was hilarious. The colours in the shop windows were astonishing, like someone had turned up the saturation on the world. I needed to touch everything. Smell everything. Announce my opinions about everything.

We wandered into a boutique that looked like a rainbow had exploded inside it. There they were. The jeans. Jeans I had apparently been longing for my entire life without knowing it. Blue denim sprinkled with roses, pearls, beads, and possibly the tears of unicorns. The saleswoman draped a top over them, then a jacket, then a necklace, and at each step I became more convinced that I was witnessing fashion history.

“You look spectacular,” she said.

She was right. I looked spectacular. Possibly deranged, but spectacular.

I handed over my credit card without blinking, and she wrapped everything up lovingly, adding a free set of beads because apparently I was her new favourite customer.

I slept the whole bus ride home, mouth open, gently drooling like a sedated wombat. Waving and blowing kisses to all my newfound friends, I exited the bus floating in purple chiffon I had found in the op shop in Handjob.

Back in the apartment, I proudly laid out my glorious purchases… and immediately discovered I had spent an entire week’s wages on four items of clothing, one of which I’m pretty sure I’d seen online for $69.99. What had I done? Who even was that person?

That’s when I finally Googled my brother’s “miracle nausea oil” and learned it was, in fact, cannabis oil. Potent cannabis oil. Industrial-strength, apparently.

I raged. I stomped. I vowed never to trust my brother with anything again, including spare keys and medical advice. I should have known better. But eventually, I took a deep breath and accepted the truth. I had done it. I had spent the money. The boutique lady had probably gone out for champagne on my behalf.

For a moment, I considered setting fire to the entire wardrobe.

But then I remembered the day, the way the hills glowed, the way strangers laughed with me, the way that crème brûlée tasted like angels had torched the sugar themselves, and I realised maybe the point of holidays isn’t perfect choices. Maybe sometimes the best memories come from moments when you completely and spectacularly lose the plot.

And honestly?

I still looked pretty fabulous.

There’s still some in the bottle. Christmas is looking good!