The Most Important Thing

My Scholarship entry - Giving back on the road

sxoidmal — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 15:23:10 GMT

Four days into Phnom Penh, my wife and I were recharging at a nice cafe by the Mekong River. She simply wanted soup and I had a beer as we people-watched at sunset.

Suddenly there came a small gang of little girls peddling bootlegged literature—they swore it was legit but one peek within the covers disabused this risible ruse—and they divided to conquer as many dining tourists as possible. We explained we already had books, we didn't want to carry more around.

Before the sale was completely lost, our girl's expression shifted to confidentiality: “Can I draw you a picture?” We were astounded by the simple beauty of this proposition! And how could we refuse such an opportunity? This ten-year-old entrepreneur pulled up a chair, produced clean typing paper and a brace of colored pencils.

She asked what kind of drawing we would like, but we deferred to her preferences, a butterfly and a flower. The despairing sales plea transformed into artistic integrity: every curve of each petal or wing got her best effort. If she made a mistake, she earnestly apologized and started over with a new sheet of paper! We learned about her as she drew: her name is Theavy, she goes to school all day and sells these books all evening. Around 11 PM her mother would pick her up and she'd get about six hours of sleep before doing it all over again.

Eventually the other girls drifted back to us, saw what Theavy was up to and wanted to join in. There ensued a heated, high-pitched debate in Khmer that probably had to do with having secured a contract, but we were open to buying portraits from all three of them.

Building on Theavy's idea, we purchased a pack of postcards and whenever kids tried to shill their souvenirs, we instead encouraged them to draw us a nice little picture. Instead of having to hustle some change from tourists, we hoped, they got a few minutes to not think about the day, to relax, and to indulge in the creativity and playfulness of childhood.

Photos: Travel Photos

sxoidmal — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 13:27:00 GMT

All the shots from everywhere I've been.

Touring the Glengoyne Distillery

sxoidmal — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 16:00:00 GMT

The day started out with a bus ride from the docks in Greenock where our cruise ship, Jewel of the Seas, parked to Glasgow, Scotland, UK. Setting out apart from the rest of the family and friends, it was me, Rebecca, and our friend Andrea who were going to the big city for the day. The one thing that impressed me was the sheer quantity of kilt shops and kilt supply shops. I've since been assured that this is a phenomenon entirely localized to the densest part of the city--toward the edges it's less common and, out in the countryside, almost entirely unheard of. But around all the areas where we walked, it seemed there were more kilt stores here than there were Starbucks in my own city, which seems hyperbolic but I'd lay money on it.

I'm afraid I didn't stay in Glasgow: I got a cup of coffee with the ladies and toured briefly, taking in the exterior of several impressive-looking buildings and a military recruitment campaign, but this was not my destination for the day. The cruise was to include a day's jaunt out to Dumgoyne to tour a scotch whisky distillery, but as it happened there had not been sufficient passenger interest to justify it and it was canceled. On the other hand, among those of us who were interested, the intensity of our interest was enough to band together (passengers and crew alike) to rent a taxi and take off on our own.

Brunno, Nada, and Tiago were working on the ship, Alex was a tourist from Romania, and they were my compatriots for the afternoon. Our driver had such a thick brogue we could barely understand him, but he understood well enough where we were headed. Well, mostly: after a couple wrong turns and a conversation in the middle of the street (a passing motorist, clearly distressed, called out, "Ye canna park there, mate!"), we did find our way to Glengoyne Distillery.

I consider it fortunate, actually, that the distillery was down for maintenance: one of the huge copper chambers was being replaced and cleaned on the day of our tour. That meant there were fewer fumes in the air and, therefore, flash photography and electronics were permitted in the area! My only wish was that I knew more about distillery and the production of alcohol prior to this tour, as the finer points of the manufacturing process were lost on me. (Years later, as I got into homebrewing, I would have especially appreciated the point in the tour where our guide indicated the malted grains and the wort were essentially a form of beer. No idea what he was on about, then.)

Our guide was a friendly old man with a bright, cheery purple plaid tie. He led us from where the enormous casks were stored, through the distillery, taking great pride in every point of the scotch-making process. It was lovely to see an authority figure with such a clear love of the craft, rather than a sullen and inexperienced guide giving a begrudging and perfunctory recitation of half-understood facts. I tried my best to come up with questions for him, to show him how engaged with the tour I was: I'm a nascent scotch-lover, still learning how best to appreciate this complex and well-storied beverage.

When we were done, we breezed through the gift shop and received a few shots of scotch that came with our admission (Alex and I suspect we were shorted a shot, an oversight on the guide's part rather than outright malice), a walk-through of what it means to age a scotch over decades. Stunning material, stunning results.

We hailed our cab driver and instructed him, as best we could, to high-tail it back to the ship. It seemed we had cut our timing a little too close, what with our engagement in the scotch distillery tour. It would be bad enough for me, if we missed the boat: I'd be on my own to find very expensive improvised travel plans to hustle me to the next port. But for the crew members, it was a different story. The cruise lines have a very stringent screening and hire policy, and they maintain very low tolerance on crew behavior. To miss the boat for them would have spelled disaster, possible eviction--the air in the cab was particular tense on that ride back. All we could do was look at each other and attempt to distract ourselves with myriad stories from our discrete pasts.

We reached the outskirts of civilization, warehouses and garages, and we were a little encouraged, but when we heard the ship's horn bellow across the landscape, we cheered our driver with tremendous enthusiasm--it meant we were close enough to hear the horn. Pulling in with scant minutes to spare (we managed to pass one tour bus on its way back, so we were guaranteed a little more time), we pooled all our money together, tipped the driver heavily, and clambered aboard the Jewel of the Seas as fast as our scotch-wobbly legs could carry us.

The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival

sxoidmal — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 16:00:00 GMT

Just after my 39th birthday, Rebecca and I decided we were going to fly south for the early spring and attend the Jazz & Heritage Festival in New Orleans. I hadn't been there since Katrina struck; Rebecca had never been and had always wanted to attend the Jazz Festival. It was also a prime opportunity to visit my brother and meet his wife and son, so why wouldn't we go? We found some cheap tickets online, flew into Gulfport, MS, and drove our rental car along the coast into the Big Easy.

It really was a fantastic drive. The weather was a stark change from whatever crappiness Minnesota was going through, which lifted our spirits right off the bat. We pulled over at one point for a lunch of an authentic slow-roasted pork sandwich (my wife can't tolerate gluten and isn't used to pork, so she just asked me to describe the experience in detail). It really was fantastic, smoky and tangy with a homemade BBQ sauce--exactly the kind of thing one hopes to experience when wandering through the South.

Things got a little darker, then, as we drove through the wreckage Hurricane Katrina left behind. Ancient trees were uprooted and knocked over with seeming effortlessness. Houses and estates, if not dismantled, were flooded and ruined beyond all hope of restoration. My brother called to check on us as we drove through Pass Christian, and when he heard where we were he warned us to stay away from the shore: the water was still quite toxic from everything that got washed up in the storm. My wife and I regarded each other grimly: we were going to enjoy our time in New Orleans, but clearly a measure of darkness was inescapable.

We stayed at a very nice hotel near the convention center, near enough the French Quarter to justify a healthy walk. My brother was just over the river from us, accessible by a not-too-convenient bridge. He told me about the rioting when the city flooded, how you couldn't tell which neighbors were going to help you and which were waiting with a shotgun if you wandered too close to their property. It was a very grim time, underscoring how badly the people here need traditions like the Jazz Fest to bring them back up and establish some normalcy.

Getting to the Fest was a bit of a tangle: it wasn't hard to find the bus stop that would have us shuttled out to the fairgrounds, but we weren't clear on the procedure. We handed our passes to the fair over to the attendee escorting us aboard the buses, just like everyone else seemed to be doing. I inferred, therefore, that this was how admission was validated and we'd just show up, unload, and enjoy the festival. Not so! Apparently we were supposed to buy a bus ticket, which looks very much like the Jazz Fest pass, and then you use your pass to get into the fairgrounds. Consequently, when we showed up at the front gate, empty-handed, my wife began to despair. The depression of the surrounding area and the various setbacks we'd encountered this weekend had taken their toll on her, and she was ready to pack it in, just give up and go home.

I refused to do this. I asked her to look surprised and let me do the talking, and I approached the security desk (some distance from the front gate) and very politely explained that I gave our Jazz Fest passes to the bus driver by mistake. She said this happens all the time, and she got out of her seat to escort us through the front gate. I thanked her very much--sometimes it's just best to act clueless, be polite, and let other people come up with the answers. If I'd gone up to Security and demanded to be let in, there's no doubt in my mind we'd have been heading back up to Mississippi that evening, Jazz Fest unseen.

As it was, we had a fantastic time. It's like everything turned around and a tide of joy came washing over everything. We saw traditional brass bands, popular rockers, and heart-brightening gospel choirs. I was on a mad dash to sample as many different and unheard-of dishes as possible (reported with journalistic fidelity to my wife), indulging in deep-fried shrimp, various forms of gumbo, and a dozen other things, all downed with unbridled enthusiasm.

The unquestionable highlight was the live performance of Trombone Shorty and his band. We discovered him by accident at the State Fair up in our neck of the woods, St. Paul, MN. There, we were taken aback at his talent and the raw power of his performance, and it's no exaggeration to stress how much of an influence his appearance at the Jazz Fest had on our decision to fly down this weekend. Up at the State Fair, he kept reminding the audience how they were from New Orleans, straight from New Orleans; down at the Jazz Fest, his address of origin changed to "Ninth Ward! Straight outta the Ninth Ward for you!" On his home turf, his bravado and skill were that much more electric, with strong waves of soul and hope pulsing through everyone, keeping them on their feet for the entire show. (This was a relief to us, as he had a harder time in St. Paul--Minnesotans are profoundly difficult to get dancing.)

As the picture shows, my wife had the grand fortune of running into Trombone Shorty himself after the show. She'd purchased a postcard made from one of his album covers, and this he autographed happily. It was amazing to see how far the pendulum of events could swing from the darker, colder end and on into these warmer, happier moments.

Our First Morning in Reykjavik

sxoidmal — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 07:43:00 GMT

I wrote in "Wednesday, technically" because we've lost some time, flying westward. After a very long flight we touched down in Keflavik Int'l Airport, a daub of architecture in the middle of a broad field of volcanic rock and tough, stubborn grass. Immediately I was impressed with how clean and efficient the structure looked, inside and out, like a very elegant construction of European art (or, at times, a very expensive IKEA project right out of the box). The customs officers were gruff but polite; we changed our money at some cheerful yet official-looking kiosks; we decompressed with a cup of coffee. I have no fine tongue for coffee so I defer to my wife's expertise and sensitivity (she didn't care for it).

On our way out of the building, we weren't sure where to go next: we had to catch a shuttle bus that would carry us into Reykjavik. An older man and woman were talking, both past middle age but healthy and energetic, just the sort of condition that makes Americans question their way of life. They were employees of the airport and were taking a break—this is only notable because most American airports would retain workers in their late 50s and 60s for some kind of background labor or support, not customer-facing roles, which would be allotted to younger people with trendy appearance qualities. So far, I was amiably disposed to Iceland and my (new, untested) theory of its ageist inclusiveness.

By way of conversation they asked what brought us to Iceland, and we explained that we were on our honeymoon. There was a moment's pause, then another, and they looked at each other. Recovering first, the man said, "Why Iceland?"

Read the rest at The Most Important Thing.