You Know You’re a Global Hobo When…
You’ve been on the road for a while now. But just how much of a filthy intercontinental scab have you become? You know you’re a dinky-di backpacking bum when…
You can’t remember the last time you shaved your legs or your face, but it was probably when someone accidentally left a rusty razor in the communal bathroom.
Your vans/cons are falling apart and stink out the entire hostel room, but there’s no way you’d ever think about throwing them out. They’ve still got more soul than you.
You are perfectly capable of having a tactical chunder at 8pm and then continuing to drink until dawn.
You believe that if there isn’t a “money back on return” associated with your hostel towel, it’s forever yours. You bought it after all.
The only circumstances under which you could currently contemplate getting married would be for a visa or a green card.
The only thing you’re looking forward to about coming home is the duty free alcohol prices.
Your feet look like this errrrday.
You go on a “Prague Clock Tower Bar Crawl” and are most excited for the free t-shirt you get at the starting point. It’s the only clean piece of clothing you have.
You’ve only met 70% of your constantly-growing Facebook friends list once, but you have every intention of crashing on their couch next time you’re in their hometown.
Commencing a 9-5 office job anytime in the future makes you shiver more than you did that time at Running of the Bulls when you were too poor to afford a sleeping bag. Instead, firetwirling, blogging and opening a hostel all seem like valid career paths.
You’re far more concerned about getting your hands on a fake student card than a fake ID in order to nab discounts.
You’ve lost track of your number of sexual partners, and their nationalities. All you know is that more of them live overseas than in Surfers Paradise.
You would prefer to spend the night on an airport floor in order to catch a 5am flight than pay an extra $10 for one at a reasonable hour.
It’s difficult to see the skin on your wrists and ankles from the number of pieces of coloured string and rotting festival bands you have entwined around them.
You believe entering wet t-shirt competitions is completely okay (in fact, it’d be rude not to participate) when there’s prize money or a free bar tab of some description for winning.
Your passport looks like it’s been drenched in bong water, run over by a tuk tuk and chewed by sewer rats.
On an average day, you are drunk more than you are sober.
You have some sort of travel-related tattoo, perhaps a Tolkien quote or something in Arabic.
You never seem to have enough pesos for a square meal, but you always have enough pesos for beer.
You’ve done one or all of the following: bungy jumped, eaten magic mushies, parachuted, snowboarded, had peyote, surfed, ridden a bus for more than 12 hours, worked behind a hostel reception desk in exchange for free accommodation, rented a Wicked/Jucy van, shagged someone in a hostel shower and hitchhiked.
Your passport and iPod are more valuable than the university degree you spent at least three years of your life studying for before throwing it out the window.
When the backpackers you’re staying at serves free breakfast, you know to shove as many pieces of bread and packets of jam in your pockets as possible. You’ll even take the cheese, and eat it in all its sweaty goodness hours later.
If the local grocery store has self-checkout, you have a legitimate inability to tell the difference between prime-cut steak and brown onions.
You’re used to being lulled to sleep by the rustle of plastic bags.
Skype, Viber and Whatsapp are your best friends, especially when it comes to that babe you met on the pub crawl last week.
You think it’s totally acceptable to vomit in public, anywhere, anytime if you’re hungover.
If you’re a girl, you have at least three piercings. If you’re a guy, you have at least one.
You run into the same Aussie traveller 20 times in 20 different cities… and you still can’t remember their name.
You have mastered the art of having sex in a bunk bed without waking the person sleeping below you.
Your food pyramid consists of instant noodles, pizza, kebabs, pasta with butter, deep fried feline on a stick and beer.
You’re a pro at washing your smalls in the sink.
You’ve lost count of the number of churches you’ve been to (including London’s The Church), but you’ve never been to mass.
Given your usual modes of transport, Ryanair, Tiger, Air Asia and Easyjet are considered a luxury.
You can order a beer in multiple languages, and skull one in about 1.7 seconds.
You own about six converter plugs, yet you’ve never bought one in your life.
Couchsurfing.org, hostelworld.com and globalhobo.com.au are your homepages.
Discovering a cubicle containing a western toilet brings you genuine excitement.
No matter what it is, if it’s free, you want in.
The last time you had a bedroom to yourself was in high school.
You wouldn’t have a fucking clue what day it is, and the only way you’ll ever know is if you check the chalkboard drink specials wherever you’re staying.
You have sampled McDonalds in at least five countries,
As soon as you enter any café/bar/hostel, your first question is, “Can I please have the wifi password?”
You own at least one pair of hippie pants from South East Asia so baggy it looks like you pooed yourself (which you’ve probably also done, because you can only ever afford street food).
You have a beard/dreadlock/hair wrap/scar from that time you crashed your moped when you were stoned on the finest quality Cambodian weed.
You feel safe in the knowledge that undies can be worn four ways before they need to be changed.
You’ve spent nearly a year in Europe, but can still only vaguely point out where Norway is.
Shampoo serves as bodywash, eye-makeup remover, washing machine powder and – when times get desperate – lube.
You want to move to Asia forever, because $3.50 can get you a bed and breakfast as opposed to “half an avocado” at the shitty café you currently slave at.
You refuse to get out of your bunk bed until exactly 60 seconds before you are due to check out, and you have never once been late.
You open every conversation with, “Where are you from?” and, “So how long have you been travelling?”
You know your passport number off by heart, but have no idea what your phone number is.
The answer is always yes.
Gemma Clarke is the editor-in-chief of Global Hobo. She spends her time contracting tinea in foreign countries, taking afternoon naps and drinking red wine through a straw.