Tales of a Wannabe Vagabond

Eternal Rome

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:23:00 GMT

Blaring sirens, gunweilding carbonari, potent herbs, loud Italians: Rome.

The line to get into the Colosseum was chaos. In true Italian style, there was not so much of a line as a blob of humans. Claustrophobia kicked in 20 minutes into the wait but I couldn't have left if I wanted to. I was simply lost in the blob, moving when it moved and stopping when it stopped.

"I have an idea," Sean said, smirking. "Moooooooo. Mooooooooooo."

The sound startled me. The last time he did this we were waiting to get off the Seattle-Bainbridge ferry with 300 commuters.

"Stop!" I said, nudging him in the ribs. It only encouraged him."

"Baaaaaaaaa. Moooooooooo."

I noticed the Italian man who'd been standing on the back of my shoe move away slightly. I looked up and saw that Sean created a protective force field around our bodies. Everyone in a five foot radius looked at Sean and if he had two heads.

"See?" he gloated. "Mooooooooo. Oink. Oink."

"You're certifiable," I said, secretly grateful. I wasn't 100 per cent sure but I thought the man behind me "accidentally" grazed my rear end one too many times for it to be an actual accident.

After an hour of mooing and baaing, we made it to the ticket booth. We walked up the steep stairs into the Colosseum. We didn't speak; we couldn't find words. Knowing that you are standing in something that has been around for thousands of years is hard to take in.

Moss covered the top of the rocks, and they were slippery to the touch. Intricate tunnels weaved in and out of the maze. Thousands of years ago, men came to fight to the death in this very building. The thought gave me shivers. We took our time, not wanting to miss anything. I walked to the top floor and leaned in between a crack in the stone. Rome flooded the scene. Ancient ruins, modern apartments, restaurants, and streets filled the horizon. Rome certainly wasn't built in a day.

Once we'd had our fill, we walked to the Trevi Fountain. The cool water sprayed my face as I stood on its edge and threw in a penny. Surely I would visit Rome again. We grabbed cafes and walked to the Spanish Steps. From the top, we watched the sun set. Pink, purples, and blues painted twilight. Down below, Rome was busier than ever. Women in beautiful and provocative attire led men down the streets headed to restaurants and clubs.

"I don't want to jinx anything," Sean said tentatively. "But nothing bad has happened in Rome yet. Maybe the Eternal City will be our haven."

I looked out over the city. For thousands of years it has endured wars and natural disasters. Suddenly, losing a debit card and missing out on Germany didn't seem like such a big deal.

"Even if something does happen, I'm okay with it. This here, right now, this is what I wanted last October when I stormed home with The Binder."

I found it unfortunate that we have the least amount of time in Rome when there was clearly so much to see. We decided that we must prioritize, and that meant omitting certain things. One thing I demanded to see was the Pantheon. And so we walked for hours, past the Trevi Fountain and found it wedged between unsuspecting buildings. It didn't seem right to me. I wished there was more space around the Pantheon, but like everything else in Rome thousands of years of building has caused a tight squeeze.

I left Sean outside. I knew where I was going, where my legs had to take me. Once at my destination, I looked up. One hole in the ceiling, surrounded by hundreds of square tiles. The gray light hurt my eyes but I refused to look away. The Pantheon emptied as thunder roared overhead. It was the perfect place to hear my first Italian storm. I could feel the moisture in the air and then it came; rain drops pitter pattered on the marble floor. They echoed in the vast space. I felt drop after drop pound my face.

Not wanting to be completely soaked, I moved from the center and admired the artwork. However, what I admired the most was the sound of rain hitting the marble. Pat, patpatpat, pat. I wondered how many people through the history of the world had enjoyed storms from inside the Pantheon.

"Babe, we need to head out and get our things from the hotel," Sean said, grabbing my arm. I was surprised to learn I had spent two hours inside the Pantheon.

I nodded and followed him out. We were catching an overnight train for our last adventure in Europe: exploring the city of love, Paris.

Ghostly Venice

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:20:00 GMT

“What now?” asked Sean looking around the Marco Polo International airport.

“I don’t know.”

We stood in the middle of the airport’s entrance trying to make sense of the signs we couldn’t understand. I dug through my overly full backpack and found our survival phrases. As we didn’t have to pee, see a doctor, or order food, the list was useless. I handed the list to Sean, who also looked hoping to magically find the words that would help us decipher the signs.

“Well, I guess we could ask for help,” he said nonchalantly. We both eyed each other intently, hoping the other would volunteer. Seeing the look in his eyes and knowing I was the one responsible for our situation, I caved.

“Stay here with our things,“ I ordered, piling my suitcase and backpack onto his. “I’ll be back soon. Maybe.”

I walked to the small shop by the exit doors, perusing the shelf while I mustered up the courage to make a fool of myself. I walked to the counter with a map of Venice. The cashier was chirping away to another customer in Italian. I prayed no one would stand in line behind me. Once the customer walked away from the counter, I pounced.

“Excuse me,” I said, handing her the map. “Do you speak English?”

I could hear the hope and desperation in my voice.

“A little,” she said, not even bothering to look up. A wave of relief washed over me.

“Great. Can you tell me how to get to Venice?”

She looked up, a patronizing smile on her face. She waved her hands in the air.

“You are in Venice,” she said.

I took a deep breath. I was looking for the Venice with all the water and canals and gondolas. When Sean and I stumbled outside, all we could see was a tarmac and roads. Unless the airport was floating on a hunk of land, which I thought was doubtful, we were not in the right spot.

“Yes, I understand that,” I said, trying not to betray how stupid I felt. “But I’m looking for how to get to the city center where our hotel is located.”

She didn’t respond. Apparently she suddenly forgot how to speak English all. However, as I started to walk away, she pointed outside the window to the bus station while murmuring something in Italian. I’m sure she was paying me no compliment.

“Graci- um... merci-um... thanks,” I mumbled, truly thankful. I walked back to Sean, map in hand, with a smile.

“We need to take the bus,” I explained while we grabbed our stuff and walked toward the door.

It was much warmer in Venice than it had been in England, and I was immensely grateful. Everyone was congregating at the same bus, so we did as well. If there was one thing I learned about traveling, it’s to copy people who look like they know what they’re doing. However, there was a glitch. Everyone hovering around the bus had white tickets. As two ticket-less, lost looking puppies, a nice American couple herded us back inside the airport and placed us in the correct line.

Here’s another thing I learned about traveling: you must alternate acts of public humiliation. I paid my dues and it was Sean‘s turn. He walked up to the counter and asked, in his best English-Italian-Charades, for two tickets to Venice. Keeping up with the theme of Marco Polo International airport employees, the ticket booth clerk rolled his eyes, forked over the tickets, and we were on our way.

By the time we got outside the first bus with the crowd was gone and a new empty bus arrived. There was no bus driver or sign indicating where the bus was going. We decided that we’d rather get on the bus and away from the airport than stay and ask more disgruntled employees for help. When the bus finally pulled away, I looked at the pamphlet the ticket booth grump had given Sean. It had one schedule for busses going to Venice and one for busses going to… Rome.

“Honey,“ I said, crumpling up the schedule and staring out the window. “Just to let you know: we may be going to Rome.”

“Wonderful,” Sean said, rubbing his face.

We sat in silence as we contemplated the situation. Personally, I was so happy to be in Italy that I could care less where the over sized bus was taking us. I watched the bus turn right, and I saw a sign indicating “Venezia -->.” I breathed a sigh of relief. The bus ambled over a bridge, and stopped. We could have walked from the airport. Sean and I both turned to each other and laughed. We were dumped off in a large bus parking lot.

“So….” I said, looking around. I still could not see canals or boats.

“So….” Sean said, also looking around.

We stood for who knows how long taking in our surroundings. As I looked behind me, I saw the most beautiful sight: a big, blue T. A tourist office. Or booth, to be more exact. As we walked toward the booth, which was cramped into a corner, I dug through my back pack to get out the address of our hotel Locanda Herion.

The woman was busy reading a tabloid when we approached her booth. She spoke no English but she knew exactly what we were after once I handed her the address. She pulled out a map, circled a street, pointed straight ahead of us, and sat back down apparently through with us. We looked the direction her wrinkled finger pointed and saw a bridge. A bridge meant water, so we felt confident she wanted us to go over the bridge.

“Gracias,” I said, folding the map.

“Wrong country sweets,” Sean said quietly.

“Oh shut up,” I said, smiling.

We hauled our suitcases across the busy bus terminal, across the street, and up the stone bridge. The sight was beautiful. All it took was a few steps and all of the sudden there she was: Venice. The water, a marble green, the buildings decaying and colorful, and the Italians, weathered, loud, and hungry.

We walked down the stone streets, our eyes not sure what to focus on first. Vendors overflowed the streets, their savory goods tempting us. Colors ambushed us from store windows where masks for Carnival were sold. Loud, passionate Italians bickered good naturedly all around us. Blue Christmas lights hung from above, illuminating the dark allies. At every bridge, we stopped. Some were short and squat, other large and long. Each canal was unique. Some curved so tightly we could only see the first apartment, the rest hidden behind curves.

We found our hotel down a secluded walk way and were pleasantly surprised: our room was elegant, spacious, and clean. It wasn’t exactly what we were expecting after The Dump. We collapsed into the soft queen sized bed not noticing how tired we were until our heads hit the pillows. I reached across and grabbed Sean’s hand. We drifted off into sleep listening to the sounds of boats, Italian, and our soft breathing. My last conscious thought was one of unconcealed joy. This feeling was what I flew half way around the world for.

When we woke, we were famished. This was the first time I had seen Sean’s excitement truly break free. We were in Italy, and we were going to eat. That was enough to bring Sean galloping out of Locanda Herion. We crossed bridge after bridge in search for the perfect trattoria that beckoned us with the menu and price. Our hearts dropped slightly when we realized just how expensive Venice was. Simple Italian meals cost 20 Euros, something we couldn’t afford three times a day for four days.

We were laughing as we walked into what we were sure was a tourist trap. But, the price was right. We were instantly greeted by a young Chinese man who greeted us in English. Both confirmed we were indeed in a tourist trap. However, our hunger was so severe we didn’t care. I happily sipped a coke waiting for spaghetti and meatballs. Once our food arrived, we laughed even more. The portions were tiny, and Sean was grateful. Sitting in front of him was a blob of black spaghetti with what looked like sand.

“Ha!” I said, smiling. “Sometimes ordering safe is the smartest thing.”

Sean’s lip quivered as he took the first bite. I was too smart to try his cuttlefish. So we both sat, in high spirits, eating my overpriced Ragu pasta. After supper, we wandered aimlessly hand in hand discovering bit by bit the mysteriously beautiful city. I could only register one complaint: there were so many tourist. I hoped that because we came during the off season, we would experience a more traditional Venice.

It became clear after maneuvering through clogged streets that it wasn’t going to happen. I felt like I was back in high school trying to move through the hallways during passing period. Despite the massive amount of tourist, I fell asleep content the first night.

I woke at 5a.m., the room dark and quiet. It took me a minute to spot what woke me. But then it washed over me. My nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Honey…“ I said, shoving Sean.

“Huh, wazza goin on?” He slurred, already laying his head back down on the pillow ready to go to sleep.

“Honey,” I said sharper this time, and then I saw his nostrils register the ungodly smell. He sat up immediately.

“Do you smell that?” he asked sharply. I rolled my eyes. Of course I smelled it. How could anyone miss it? I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. I turned the light on expecting the toilet to have flooded while we slept. But there was no water on the floor. Sean was bent next to the vent in the room, sniffing. He stood, and shook his head. I walked over to the window and looked outside.

“Whoa,” I said dumbly, holding the curtain back and beckoning Sean with my hand. “I think I found the source of the smell.”

The whole street below was flooded at least three feet. The moon light reflected off the water. It was quite beautiful. We crawled back in bed, pulled the covers over our faces, and fell back to sleep. That morning as we walked to a café the shop owners dutifully moped out their stores and then helped their neighbors mop up the smelly mess left behind. As we drank our espressos leaned up against a wooden bar table, I remembered reading that the floods occurred frequently. Looking out the window, watching the true Venetians wander the streets (you could tell by their plastic yellow boots), I wondered what drove these people to stay?

Venice was damp, dark, over run with tourist even in the dead of winter, flooded, expensive, and sinking. Why on earth would anyone choose to stay in such a hopeless situation? Enrico, the manager’s son of Locanda Herion, took us out to breakfast one morning, and we talked about life in Venice. I was surprised when Enrico admitted that he drove one hour each morning to get to Venice and one hour each night to get home.

“Why?” I asked.

“Life in Venice is expensive,” he said. “Too expensive for young people like me who dream of going off to college.”

I nodded my head, savoring the sweet chocolate croissant.

“Besides,” he began, “what opportunity is there for work on a sinking city if you are not a glass artist, historian, cook, or hotel owner?”

“Why do you do it then?” Sean asked.

“Family,“ he said simply. “My father owns the place but he’s too old to run the business anymore.”

That day, as Sean and I got lost exploring the city, I noticed that most of the Venetians I saw were older. They were somber folk. They walked slow, stopped to talk to everyone they recognized, but I never saw them laugh or their faces brighten. It made me think that the city’s population was dying right along with the city itself.

Out exploring, we ended up walking straight into Piazza San Marco. There was simply too much to look at. I spun in a circle, my eyes gazing at the cathedral, and then the gondola docks, then at the shops lining the piazza. Sean took my hand and led me to the waterfront. We sat down and watched the sun set. Gold filed the sky and everything else paled in comparison. Once the sun was down, gondoliers returned to the docks only to stop for a moment before going out in search for love birds. Sean and I were interrupted when a man holding a flower tried to place one in my hand. I closed both fists tight.

“No,” I said loudly and firmly. I watched earlier in the piazza how the scam worked. The men with the roses would find couples and put a rose in the woman’s hand and then expect the man to pay for it.

“You take,” he said, trying once again to forcefully put the flower in my clenched hand. I stood, and so did Sean.

“No,” I repeated again not breaking eye contact. The man was about to try again but Sean stepped forward. The man smiled, turned, and walked away. I wished the guy would have chosen another time to try and scam us because my high from watching the sun set disappeared.

“Come on babe,” Sean said, taking my hand and walking back to the cathedral. We walked up the steps to its entrance. It cost 5 Euros to go in, and I had no problem paying the fee. We walked up a dark and narrow winding staircase that opened into the top of the cathedral. We stood, baffled; the three large domes were just feet away. I stared up, taken with the beauty of the gold paint and saints. Mosaics adorned the wall, and I looked around guilty. I had always been so curious about mosaics. What patience these artists had to take tiny glass shards and create a picture. The tiles had become smooth over the years, and before I knew it my fingers were tracing the image of Mary and her baby.

Beep, beep, beep.

I jumped back. Two inches from the mosaic, was a sign that read: Do not touch- alarm will sound. Cheeks red, I hustled away from the mosaic to find Sean. He was outside admiring the view from the top of the cathedral. The sky was still orange. We leaned against the railing admiring Doge’s Palace. If only we were giants we could reach out and touch it. We stood in silence yet again, trying to copy the image into our brains. Hand in hand, we walked carefully down the staircase and onto our next Venetian adventure.

Otherwordly Iceland

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:19:00 GMT

The sky was fading.

The Atlantic Ocean was churning.

And Iceland was the moon.

I looked out the window. I had never seen anything like it. I doubted many people had. Large craters sprinkled Iceland's face like old scars. Snow blanketed the terrain.

Every once and a while, light would shine from down below; proof people actually lived on the moon. The villages were tiny, and not just because I was 15,000 feet in the air. As we glided through the sky, there was too much to look at. Hot springs steamed. Mountain peaks sliced the air. Cars wound through towns.

Reykjavik came into view. We landed softly. We had hours and hours until our connecting flight to Seattle. We wandered through the airport. The sky was a purple haze.

We stood on the outskirts of the airport, breathing in the crisp air. It smelled like the sea and snow. We knew we didn't have long to be outside so we made the most of it. We were pulled in different directions. I wanted to look at the soft rolling hills. Sean wanted to look at the city lights.

I barely blinked, and it was time to go in. Dragging our feet, we walked back inside the airport. As I stood in line, I smiled. Our one month in Europe was up and we were going home. Despite the misadventures, and there were plenty, I was sad to leave.

If I didn't have 50 middle schoolers waiting for me, I might have just grabbed our bags, hopped in a taxi, and stayed on the moon.

What a work of beauty.

Forgetful Beijing

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:17:00 GMT

"Do you see our bags anywhere?"

My head circled the merry-go-round filled with fat suitcases, tattered duffel bags, and two dog carriers with terrified inhabitants. Heaving a sigh, I shook my head. Out of the 300 passengers on the plane, fate would choose us.

"Excuse me," a shy female voice said from behind.

It was an airport employee and she was carrying a clipboard. We we either about to be interviewed for some survey or she was going to drop bad news on us. It was the latter.

"Are you looking for your backpacks?"

My ears perked up. She said backpacks. How did she know we had backpacks?

"Yes."

She took a steadying breath. This did not bode well.

"Air China left your backpacks in San Francisco."

I laughed.

"It must have something to do with all the drugs, knives, and aerosol cans."

The lady laughed but we weren't kidding. Our bags were bursting with clothes as well as an aerosol can of Permethrin, anti-Malarial pills, and a box cutter.

"If you come with me, we can go to my office and fill out some paperwork."

Glad that our connecting flight was another 10 hours later, we shuffled after her with one thought swarming through our brains...

Not again!!!

Antique Paris

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:04:00 GMT

“Happy New Years sweetie,” I whispered, my body rocking back and forth as the train chugged up the Swiss Alps.

Sean sat up, alarmed.

“It’s not me who’s farting!”

“What?” I laughed, confused.

“It must be him,” explained Sean, pointing below him to the Australian boy asleep in the bunk.

“Or him,” I said, pointing to the bottom bunk at the naked Frenchman.

It all started six hours earlier. We boarded an overnight train from Rome to Paris. We were in a six person bunk and both Sean and I were on the top bunks. We thought it would give us more room to breathe but instead it gave us hot, stinky air to breathe.

It was 12:01, January 1, 2010. We rang in the New Year not with a kiss but instead with one very naked Frenchman, his sleeping girlfriend, and a mother and son from Australia both of whom snored loudly.

It wasn’t exactly romantic.

“But anyway,” I said, pointing to my watch. “I didn’t ask if you were farting. I said Happy New Years. It’s officially 2010.”

“Oh. That makes more sense. So… 2010, can you think of a better way to start the year? I mean, we’re sleeping in a room full of strangers, one who felt the need to get naked and then fart and snore all night.”

“It’s my dream come true,” I said, smiling. “I do wish I could give you a kiss though. It’s been our tradition for the past five years.”

Sean blew me a kiss, and then laid his head down so he was facing me.

“How much longer?” he asked.

“The train is supposed to pull into Gare du Nord at seven, but we’ll see.”

Sean nodded, and then stuck in his ear plugs. I laid my head down and tried to get comfortable but it was nearly impossible. The train lurched from one side to the other so my head bashed the door or my feet bashed the window. It was not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement.

I looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see. We crossed into Switzerland thirty minutes prior and were now crossing the Alps. Occasionally a light post would illuminate the back drop but only for a quick second. How strange it was to whiz through a country I’ve always wanted to visit. It was cruel.

At 2a.m., the train stopped in Switzerland for an hour waiting for a connection. Wanting to stretch my legs, I slinked out of the bunk trying not to wake my five sleeping roommates. The air was sharp as I walked down the stairs to stand on the platform with a dozen or so others who also couldn’t sleep.

Snow fell lightly and silently. There was no moon or stars, and I could only see as far the city lights would allow. We were nestled in a small village with steep roofs and pine trees. Most homes looked like gingerbread houses. The streets were quiet, the city’s occupants fast asleep in their beds.

The jagged mountains loomed to the east, and even in the dark I could admire their beauty. How I longed to wake Sean and spend a day wandering this town.

“Yeah, I think the couple below me is getting it on,” I overheard another passenger say.

“I have a baby in my compartment and he’s either crying, pooping, or barfing every five minutes,” said the other man.

Grateful that all I had to contend with was nakedness and flatulence, I stepped back aboard the train. I got out my guide book to Paris and read until I felt the train lug forward. Away we went.

I dozed in and out of fitful sleep until six when I got up to go to the bathroom. We had long been in France. As I watched the countryside fly by, I felt like a jealous lover whose affair was cut short. I wanted to roam from town to town getting to know France’s every nuance.

When we finally stepped off the train, we walked straight to the information center. Luckily, despite the fact it was New Years, someone was working there. The young woman looked as though she hadn’t slept and still had a blood alcohol level of 1.

“Take zee green line and geet off at Champ de Mars,” she slurred. I guess a hangover is a hangover in every country.

The Metro was free because it was Sunday, before noon, and a national holiday. Lucky us. We only had to ride five stops westward. When the train lurched to a stop, we gathered our suitcases and walked to the door. I waited for the doors to open but nothing happened.

My heart stopped. In French, beside the latch, were complicated pictures and instructions for how to open the door. I looked helplessly at Sean who just looked down at the ground. Behind us, a French couple started speaking quickly, and we knew why. When riding the Metro, you have to get off right away unless you want to be carted one stop further than you wanted.

Finally, realizing we were inept, the French woman shoved us aside and expertly opened the door. We were saved. We stepped outside and walked up the dark tunnel. We emerged on a large street with a dozen restaurants, flower shops, and clothing stores. The morning was gray and bitterly cold.

As we walked down the road it became apparent that every Parisian was in bed nursing a hangover. The sidewalks and streets were absolutely deserted and every few feet a pile of wine bottles lay neatly beneath a tree waiting for someone to pick them up. New Years Eve must be a very important holiday in Paris.

We found our hotel and left our baggage there. It was too early to check in and while both of us wanted nothing more than 8 hours of sleep in a real bed, we were determined to find croissants, café, and the Eiffel Tower.

Too frazzled from the train, I let Sean wage the language war with the women in the first bakery we found. He came out smiling and bearing goodies: café with lait and chocolate croissants. We munched happily as we walked down the street. We could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

As we rounded the corner, snow softly fell from the sky. As if that weren’t enough, thousands of lights lit up the Eiffel Tower. They twinkled and sparkled and dazzled. It was captivating. I stood completely transfixed by the sight. It didn’t seem real. We had the Eiffel Tower all to ourselves, it was snowing, and we had coffee and chocolate filled pastries. Could life get any better?

We walked beneath the Eiffel Tower and looked up. It was a feat of engineering genius. As we walked over the Seine, we found more remnants of New Years Eve.

“What’re you doing?” I gasped when I turned around and saw Sean walking toward me with a discarded rose in his mouth.

“I’m giving you our traditional romantic New Years kiss,” he said, spitting the rose out and cutting his lip.

“Argh! That hurt!”

“Yeah, that was really romantic.”

“You know I live to please you.”

Finally it was time to check in so we bustled back to the hotel, our extremities numb from the cold. Without a second thought, we fell into the soft covers. When we woke it was evening, and we were hungry. We dressed in all of our layers and headed out.

“Jackie, come here.”

Sean was standing next to an Italian restaurant. In the window, there was the cover of Rick Steve’s 2010 Europe Through the Backdoor book. On the cover, written in black sharpie, was: Rick Steves Recommendation.

“We have to eat here,” I said opening the door. “That is just hilarious and I’m convinced”

We stepped inside and a lively old man seated us. Once we glanced at the menu, we were glad we saw the sign. Not only was the food reasonably priced but the restaurant also offered some of our favorite dishes.

“Ready order?” the owner asked, a large smile on his face.

“I would like the port,” Sean said, not looking up from the menu.

“No, no, no,” interrupted the owner, waving his hands in the air. “That later.”

Sean looked at me, clearly confused. I shrugged.

“Beer?” Sean offered tentatively, relieved when the owner scribbled it on his notepad.

Every time the owner delivered drinks or plates, he would mumble incoherently. It sounded something akin to “Boobali boobli boo.” It must have been important because he said it five times. As we were leaving, Sean handed the check to the owner and said “Boobali boobali boo.”

“I guess it’s not really French because he’s looking at you like you’re crazy,” I said as we closed the door behind us. Indeed, the owner watched us leave and walk down the street.

“I really wanted that port,” complained Sean, as we headed back to the Eiffel Tower. I just couldn’t get enough of it.

“It is an after dinner drink,” I explained, but Sean didn’t want to hear it.

There was now a line a quarter mile long to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. We had talked about doing it but the look on Sean’s face said everything.

“Don’t worry honey. Nothing will beat this morning. You’re off the hook.”

We spent the next three days walking. We walked through the Louvre, to Notre-Dame, and alongside the river. The sky was blue dotted with cotton balls. The sun shone down and we talked about living in Paris someday.

“You have to admit there is something alluring about this city,” I said, legs crossed on the river band.

“I can’t argue with that,” said Sean.

“It’s too bad we have to leave tomorrow,” I said, sad.

“We’ll be back, “he said. “I’m sure of it.”

Those words rung through my head as I looked for my husband. I read the announcement board again, panic flooding my body:

Boarding Flight: Last Call

“Where are you?” I asked myself, scanning the rows of people. Then I spotted him. He was standing in a 50 person line waiting to go through security to get into the waiting room. Of course he was the fiftieth person in the line. What perplexed me was the fact we had both gone through security an hour ago. How did he get out?

I waved to Sean, who looked like a deer in the headlights. I motioned with my hands for him to cut but he stood rooted in the ground.

I sighed and walked over to the security guard who let us threw an hour before.

“Excuse me,” I said. “My husband is waiting in line and our flight is about to leave.”

“Didn’t I already let you guys through?” he asked, perplexed.

“Yes,” I grimaced.

“Okay,” he said, leaving his post and walking through the door to escort Sean to the other side.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said, pulling Sean to the boarding gate.

“How did you end up on the other side of security?” I asked while we ran down the narrow boarding hallway.

“I had to pee,” he said, still red faced.

“Geez Sean,” I laughed. “You peed your parents on the way to Europe and you almost peed your pants on the way home. You may want to get that checked out when you get home.”

“I’ll be sure to look into that,” he said as he handed his boarding pass to the stewardess.

“Welcome aboard. We hope you enjoy your flight to Iceland.”

Frozen London

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:01:00 GMT

My husband paced nervously in and out of herds of angry people.

I sat on my suitcase and noticed that my dirty hot pink underwear had been poking out the side of the suitcase the entire Tube ride. Oh well. I read the sign again:

All trains to Paris cancelled

I should have known this trip would be a disaster when my husband peed his pants in Seattle before we even took off. But I was naïve enough to hope otherwise. After all, our first two days in London were perfect. Perfect if we forgot about the frisky squirrel that jumped into Sean’s pants at the Kensington Gardens or the 10 hour nap we took that left us wandering around London at 3a.m. in desperate pursuit of sustenance.

I closed my eyes and imagined the 5-star hotel in Germany that we were supposed to stay in tonight. I imagined the fluffy bed covers, the scrumptious food, and the impeccable view of Neuschwanstein Castle. Bitterness washed over me as I realized some lucky bastard would fall asleep clutching my soft covers after eating my delicious food and looking at my breathtaking castle.

“Sean,” I sighed. “We’re not going to fall asleep in Germany tonight.”

My husband was speechless and pale. His first trip across the pond was not going according to plan. And there was a plan: two days in London, four in Germany, five in Venice, five in Florence, five in Rome, and five in Paris.

“It’ll be alright,” I said, grabbing his hand. “I mean, what else could go wrong?”

I should have known better.

Two hours later, we were back at the Wellington Court Hotel also known as The Dump. The bedrooms were closets with beds and sinks and garbage cans. White paint chipped from the wall and stains of mysterious origins littered our floor. Our room emitted a strong odor of sweat socks. The showers were down the hall, rusty, and desperately lacking consistently hot water. And to add insult to injury, we paid 70 Pounds a night.

The Austrian bellhop watched us contemptuously as we lugged our suitcases up the icy steps. Perhaps we should have listened to him when he said it was useless to try and get on our train bound for France. Instead, we defiantly ignored him, walked to Victoria Station in the freezing cold lugging our heavy suitcases behind us, paid 7 Pounds to get to Charing Cross Station only to read that sign.

All trains to Paris cancelled

The Dump provided us with a different room for the night beside Australian backpackers. I learned on my first trip to Europe that rooming beside Australian backpackers meant no sleep, the scent of toxic drugs, and outbursts of screaming from passionate sex or masturbation.

“So…” I said, opening the window to allow in fresh air.

“So…” Sean groaned, lying down on the lumpy bed.

“Here’s what we’re going to do: hang here for another night, go to Charing Cross Station first thing in the morning to see if we can get on a train. That way, we can at least spend one night in Germany. If the trains are still down, we’ll catch a bus and ferry to Paris.”

Sean sighed.

“Come on!” I said. “Stop moping and let’s go. We’re young, we’re alive, and we’re in London!”

“I simply cannot contain my excitement,” he said dryly.

“For crying out loud grandpa: get your coat on and let’s go have some fun!”

The sky was already black by the time we left The Dump and Jack Frost nipped savagely at our extremities.

“So explain to me what you were thinking when you decided to bring us to England in the dead of winter?” Sean asked, his teeth chattering and his neck disappearing into his jacket collar like a turtle.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s romantic, and scenic, and less crowded during the winter.”

“Romantic? Did you really say romantic? Sure, you’re right. I think it’s really romantic when I try and get it on with my wife and I can hear the two guys next door farting. Nothing says romance like gas.”

I rolled my eyes.

“If you want to be miserable, that’s just fine. But I refuse. We’re in London and I plan on enjoying every second of it.”

We walked in silence all the way to Big Ben. It was illuminated in the sky, and we arrived just in time to hear it ring.

“Okay,” Sean admitted. “I guess that’s pretty cool.”

“You got that right…”

Two days later and fresh out of luck, we found ourselves standing beneath Big Ben once more.

“Is it still cool?” I asked, wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck as flakes fell from the sky.

“It lost its coolness factor yesterday,” Sean said. “Been there, done that.”

We had found a nice rhythm to our days: pay 3 Pounds to check the Internet, hyperventilate when we saw the trains were still out of service and the ferries were not running, pass out when we researched the cost of airfare to Venice, and then regain consciousness, lug our bodies heavy with sorrow upstairs, put on three layers of clothing and head to Subway desperate to save money. We frequented the sandwich joint so often that Robert, the pimply kid who worked there, knew our names and sandwiches.

We also made tri-daily stop at Starbucks for two Double Grande Nonfat Peppermint Mochas. The coffee warmed our souls as we walked aimlessly, legs frozen, all over London. We tried to remain positive about our predicament but found it hard when we realized that we could have been hunkered down in front of a crackling fire after a day of snowshoeing in Germany.

We drown our negativity the good old American way: through a massive sugar rush. We spotted just the place to self medicate on the bank of the Thames: the German Cologne Christmas Market. There, in the middle of the market, stood a candy stand. We filled our clear plastic bags with hot tamales, sour balls, licorice, and other goodies.

“Hey, after this we should go ice skating,” Sean said, handing our bags to Gary, the clerk. “I saw a rink at the Tower of London yesterday.”

“Alright, that sounds like fun.”

“That will be 20 Pounds,” Gary interrupted, handing the bags to Sean.

“What?” I gaped.

“That-will-be-20-Pounds,” Gary repeated, annunciating each word like I was special and frequently ate paste. I may have looked special because I was mesmerized by his teeth. They were crooked and yellow from eating too much candy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

“The prices are listed right there,” he said, pointing to tiny writing next to the register.

“Well, Gary, if you expect me to pay 20 Pounds for this bag of candy you had better make me believe it’s magical. Oh, I know, will eating it give me the ability to fly? Or will it make me invisible? Will it give me super strength? How about-”

“- Honey, you’re making a scene,” Sean said, handing Bad Teeth Gary 20 Pounds.

“What’re you doing? Don’t give that to him. He can take his candy back… I don’t want it anymore!”

“Let’s go,” Sean said, steering me away from Gary and his magical candy stand.

“You do realize you just forked over $40.00, right? For candy? Not even good candy. There wasn’t even any chocolate.”

“What were you going to do? Hit the guy over the head with hot talames?”

“Well if I did he would have deserved it! He’s a scam artist!”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh… calm down. We’ll go ice skating and you can knock some unsuspecting little kid over and pretend he’s Gary. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” I relented. “Maybe two kids, though.”

“Three even, if you want.”

“You know, I remember Londoners being much nicer the last time I came here,” I said, taking Sean’s hand as we strolled down the river side.

“Everything changes,” Sean said, offering me the candy bag. “Hot Tamale for the lady?”

“Sure,” I said, plopping red hot in my mouth wondering when our island fever would end.

Dolce Florence

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:55:00 GMT

My brain refused to accept the words flashing before my eyes:

Your card has been retained. Contact your bank.

My heart stopped.

A person would have to be an idiot to travel halfway around the world with only one debit card. Unfortunately, I was an idiot and I did travel half way around the world with only one debit card.

“Sean, I think we have a problem.”

“What?”

Words failed me so I just pointed to the screen. I watched my husband mouth the words, seemingly unable to find his voice. He read the sentence a few times before turning to me.

“What happened?”

I didn’t know whether to lie or tell the truth. The truth was that I was drunk and I entered the wrong pin... twice. On the third try, when realization dawned on me and I entered the correct pin, the ATM refused to spit out my card.

“Well… I dunno, really. I guess it didn’t like my card.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” Sean said, pacing back and forth. “What’re we gonna do?”

That was a great question. It was 11p.m. on a Saturday night and most Florentines were in bed. I was doubtful anything could be done.

“This is bad! This is really bad!” lamented Sean, pacing back and forth tearing at his hair. “I read that the mafia can jam ATMs so they can rob people like us blind!”

“What?” I laughed, temporarily distracted. “You think the mafia is trying to rob us?”

We both looked up and down the street. Only two other souls were out at this hour: nuns.

Sean eyed me wildly and grabbed my arm.

“I also read that thieves dress up like nuns and priests to make you feel all safe and relaxed and then pick pocket your Rolex when you’re least expecting it,” he whispered, his fingers digging into my flesh.

“We don’t have a Rolex,” I said incredulously, shaking my arm free.

“You know what I mean,” he said, standing guard in front of the ATM as the petite gray-haired nuns passed with kind smiles.

“Buona sera,” I said, smiling.

Sean nudged me with his arm as if daring me to say another word to the dangerous nuns.

“You’ve got to stop reading those guide books,” I breathed, annoyed. I wasn’t ready to tell him that my stupidity was the only criminal around. “Well, we’re not going to solve this by standing in the middle of the street.”

“We can’t leave!” cried Sean, alarmed.

“So what do you propose? That we stand here all night? Trust me: the debit card is safe and sound in that ATM.”

Sean stalked back and forth again, his fingers digging into his hair again.

“I hate Florence!” Sean shouted suddenly, causing me to jump in surprise.

“Andate tutti a 'fanculo!” a voice called out from above. I looked up and saw a bald man hanging his upper body out of his third story window shaking his hands at us.

“Right back at ya buddy!” yelled Sean, waving his arm in the air. I stepped back and looked at this crazy person, my husband, realizing I had just married him.

“Calm down,” I said, dragging Sean into an alley. “For all you know that man very well could be in the mafia.”

We walked back to the hotel in silence.

“God I’m starving,” I said, as we opened the door to our small room; we were on our way to dinner when the fiasco struck.

“I entered the wrong pin,” I confessed, flopping down on the lumpy bed.

“What?”

“I entered the wrong pin. That’s why it took the card.”

“Seriously?” Sean asked.

“Seriously. Actually, I entered the wrong pin twice.”

“You entered the wrong pin twice,” he murmured, shaking his head. And then he lost it. And then I lost it. We laughed until it hurt, and then we laughed some more.

“Some trip,” I chided, my cheeks sore from smiling.

“It hasn’t all been bad,” he countered.

“It hasn’t all been good.”

“More good than bad,” he reassured me.

“So now that we have 20 Euros to our name, what’s the plan?”

“I’ll tell you what. There was a tasty looking restaurant we passed on the way from the train station. It had great deals on this Italian specialty called a Hamburger. I think the place was called McDaves or something, and as I recall it was boasting of one dollar sandwiches.”

I groaned.

“We flew all the way to Florence, the food capital of the world, and we’re going to eat off the McDonald’s Dollar Menu.”

“It’s better than going to bed hungry, right?”

I nodded.

He pulled on his coat and grabbed the last 20 from my purse.

“I’ll call your dad on the way,” he said. “I’m sure he can wire money so don’t worry. Come tomorrow night we’ll be eating like kings, I promise.”

He came back wielding the ever so familiar Mc Donald’s bag, and suddenly I was grateful for the comfort of something I knew… even if it was greasy junk food. I fell into restless sleep and dreamt that I was standing naked in the McDonalds back home trying to pay from my milkshake with Euros while nuns laughed at me.

I woke suddenly.

“Huh? Wuzz goin on?”

“Phone,” Sean said, reaching blindly toward the nightstand.

“Hullo?” he slurred. “Jody! So good to hear from you! Do you have any news?”

I felt the bed shift as he got out of bed to stand in the bathroom where there was better reception. I prayed my parents solved our little problem from thousands of miles away.

The bathroom door slammed shut and I opened my eyes.

“Good news!” Sean yelled, jumping on the bed and pulling off my covers. “The money problem is sorted out so get dressed and let’s go!”

So it was in high spirits that we collected our wired money from the lobby and set out to enjoy Florence, Italy. It wasn’t difficult. One quality that brought Sean and I together was our love for food. Florence was our heaven.

We walked for hours, in and out of alleyways, searching for the perfect menu that made us cry with happiness; we ate soft fettuccine noodles bathed in black truffle crème sauce, mushroom risotto atop a crispy cheese crust, and bruschetta adorned with plump tomatoes and fragrant basil.

We walked over the Ponte Vecchio Bridge with chocolate gelato spilling down our hands. After exploring the cathedrals and slipping down intriguing roads, we felt at peace with Florence. We could forgive its ATMs, and mostly I could forgive myself. After all, we knew it would make for a great story when we got home.

Storming Singapore

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:48:00 GMT

Things really went to hell in Little India.

“This is useless!” I hissed while standing in the middle of the street and turning in circles.

“This is not useless,” corrected Sean, once again consulting the map from our battered Lonely Planet guide book.

“Useless: hopeless, futile, a waste of time, ineffective, inadequate,” I rattled off, closing my eyes and trying to calm down. “You choose the synonym…. I really don‘t care because this activity is most certainly useless!”

“Just chill out.”

“Chill out? You want me to chill out? Okay, sure, I’ll chill out. It’s fine that it’s 4:55 in the morning, we’re standing in the middle of god knows where in Singapore and our bus leaves at 5a.m. for non-refundable boat tickets to Indo-freakin‘-nesia and I’m pretty sure a man was stabbed outside our hotel just five minutes ago and there are two Market Streets right beside each other going completely opposite directions and our bus station is down one of them, which one who knows but it’s certainly not us!”

Sean looked up from the map, smiling.

“Feel better?”

I wanted to slap him but instead I nodded my head.

“Good. Now, I’m pretty sure we go down this Market Street past the Chinese hawker stalls.”

Taking a deep breath, I followed Sean down the middle of the dark road; homeless men slept on the sidewalks, and we discovered they were none to pleased when you accidentally tripped over them and woke them from their drunken stupors.

As I walked behind Sean, my heavy backpack permanently disabling me, I cursed the day I ever considered visiting Singapore.

“What’re you going to do in Singapore?” Tuan, a 30 year old vagabond, asked us while we talked over beers in the Cameron Highlands.

“Eat.”

Tuan smiled then, nodding his head.

“You’re going to the right place then because there’s nothing else to do in that city.”

Sure, we ate. And the food was good. Like, really good. Plates teaming with chicken and rice and vegetables satiated our hunger. But, it was not good enough to warrant this early morning jaunt in search for a bus that would connect with another bus and then another that would drop us off at the ferry so we could take the boat and end up on the Riau Islands.

“At least it’s not raining,” Sean called over his shoulder, forbidding my dour mood from rubbing off on him. I wanted to take off my Teva sandals and chuck them at his head. How did he do it, I wondered. I knew he was tired. Of course he was tired. Last night, at 2a.m., two Germans decided to watch the Chainsaw Massacre in our dorm. I wanted nothing more than to give them wedgies as they walked around in their tighty -whitey underpants.

“I mean, wasn’t that rain something else? It was like standing under a waterfall.”

As Sean babbled, I fantasized about all the things I could do to him to make him feel the way I did; I could trip him, I could push him over, I could scream out that Allah sucks and make him deal with the consequences, I could litter in front of a police officer and get a ticket…

“Yo, Jackie, where you at?”

“Huh?” I asked, my vindictive thoughts interrupted.

“I said: there it is.”

And sure enough, there it was: the bus station.

“Yeah, the rain was pretty cool,” I admitted, my blood pressure suddenly under control now that I knew we were not doomed.

And you know what? The rain was incredible. It was a deluge in the middle of an urban jungle, quite different from the Malaysian downpour we experienced in an actual jungle. We spent most the night cowered under walkways and running through the streets. Like all the locals, we took two plastic bags from a bin a kind store owner put out and moved like bats out of hell through the rain, weaving through the city until we reached Little India where our hostel was located.

As we waited at the bus stop, I prayed the plastic bag I used to wrap my wet clothes in wouldn’t burst and soak everything in my backpack. We had done our laundry for the first time in one month and I refused to have all my clothes smell like a wet dog because chances were we wouldn’t do our laundry again for another month.

As our bus pulled away from the terminal, I catalogued the pilgrimage we were about to undertake: three busses, two taxis, and a ferry all within six hours to end up on a beautiful Indonesian island. Part of me hoped it would be worth it, but another part of me knew it would.

As we drove over the Causeway, headed toward Malaysia, all I could think was: Singapore, you’re alright.

Cerulean Riau

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:45:00 GMT

“Where you go?”

I shook my head, smiling politely.

The sun bore down on my bare shoulders and I cursed myself for forgetting to put on sunscreen as we rushed to catch our ferry to Indonesia.

“Where you go?”

A posse of five Indonesian men followed me as I walked down the dilapidated pier. I was tired, hot, hungry, and completely out of patience.

“Look, I don’t need a ride anywhere.”

I breathed deeply searching for a calm I did not feel as my words failed to register with them. I stalked further down the rickety dock. One man followed me past the police stationed at the waterfront. I eyed them, trying to find reprieve from this unwanted attention but was not surprised when they simply looked the other direction.

The man, his face badly scared, put his wrinkled hand on my shoulder to forcibly stop me from walking away. His dirty fingers left marks on my pale white blouse but that didn’t matter because something inside of me snapped and my rage boiled over.

“No.”

The word escaped my mouth with such ferocity I scarcely believed it emanated from me; after one month traveling overland through South East Asia, I was no stranger to persistent locals. Frankly, I usually dealt better with the annoyance. I understood these people depended on me to make their living. Did they over charge me? You had better believe it. Were they a hassle? Undeniably so. I had a hard time faulting them, however, when two dollars made such little difference to me and such a great difference in their world.

The man quickly took back his hand looking embarrassed.

I felt embarrassed as I looked over Tanjung Pinang.

The one dirt road that ran along side the waterfront was lined with tin shacks that were homes and businesses all in one. Children played naked in the streets with garbage and emaciated oxen roamed the area in futile pursuit of edibles; women cooked noodles and chicken in large woks under the unforgiving sun, their faces flushed with sweat and heat. Men, unemployed with no where to go and nothing to do, lazed in the shade of trees smoking and playing cards.

Before arriving in Tanjung, I learned that most of South East Asia's lanun, otherwise known as pirates, come from Tanjung and its sister island. Indonesia is comprised of 10,000 islands. It borders Malaysia and Brunei. Ships are forced to breach the passages between these numerous islands to deliver and export goods. Piracy was lucrative. For the men of Tanjung Pinang, piracy stood in between starvation and life.

I looked into this man’s dark brown eyes, and I understood what he could not convey with his limited English: these relentless men needed desperately to give me a ride somewhere so they could feed their children.

At least he was not commandeering a vessel.

And how I hated myself for not being able to help him compared little to how I loathed the world for being so wildly unbalanced. The situation on this Indonesian island was hopeless and there was nothing I could do to fix it; even if I did give him money, soon enough he would be back at the dock waiting for someone who had more fortune and luck than he.

I held out my hand, and he extended his.

“Jackie.”

“Mohammad.”

He brought his hands together near his face and bowed smiling. He possessed few teeth, and the ones he had we yellow and rotting.

He turned and walked away finally accepting the fact that I really, truly, honestly did not need a ride. I sat on my backpack and waited for Sean to emerge from the bathroom. I felt drained. Emotionally and physically. South East Asia was literally changing my perceptions of the world and it was a painful transformation.

“You ready?”

I jumped.

I hadn’t noticed Sean approach.

I squinted up in the sun as I studied his outreached hand. I felt grateful to have someone stand beside me and witness this hard truth about the world with me.

We walked toward the parked van across the street. Louie, the driver from our bungalow, was waiting for us while listening to Eddie Vedder.

“America!” Louie cried gleefully as we stepped into the van, slapping the steering wheel. America, I thought, the country I usually complained about. Never again, though. Looking out at this Riau Island, I finally understood I never had a real reason to complain. I was able to earn an education, attain employment, procure housing, purchase nutritious food, and find purpose and meaning.

I wished the same things for the people of Tanjung.

The drive was long and hot. By the time we stepped out of the van, my hair was plastered to my face and I wanted nothing more than to jump into the tempting cerulean water. Our bungalow hovered above the ocean on stilts. The air was quiet, a rarity for South East Asia.

I knew we had come to the right place; a place I could collect my thoughts and unwind from the wind and grind of nomadic life.

If only life was so simple for the people who lived and worked only forty minutes away.

If only…

Chaotic Bangkok

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:43:00 GMT

I look around and contemplate this new hurdle: the Bangkok train station bathroom. Women clog the one alley way that runs in between the stalls. I am the only white person around. This is an automatic problem. Thai people are extremely gracious hosts except for when it comes time to queue for anything. They move to ticket booths in a stampede and the same rule applies for waiting in line for the bathroom.

One must engage in a contact sport to secure a stall. I am next in line. In fact, I have been next in line for the past minute. That doesn’t stop women from shoving me aside and barging into the next available stall. Finally, I make a choice. I must be just as aggressive. So I am. I hear the creak of a lock and know that a door is about to open. I step forward at the same time an elderly Thai woman does; she’s cut her way from the toilet paper vendor all the way to the front of the stampede. I refuse to let her win this game. I’ve been on a bus for 13 hours, all the way from Krabi to Bangkok. I have earned the right to use this hole in the ground. As the door swings open and its occupant steps out, I shoulder the old woman aside and wedge my foot in the door.

My bladder sighs in relief.

I have won.

I feel a twinge of guilt as I look back while locking the door; the old woman wears a long green dress, flip flops, and has a handful of tissue paper. Her gray hair is balding and fluffy. Her face is wrinkled. For a moment, when I look at her I see my grandma. Guilt eats away at me; I should have let her use the stall. At the very least, I shouldn’t have elbowed her out of my way. In an instant, however, my guilt vanishes because when my eyes reach her face I see a hint of pride. Her kind smile says it all: the white girl has finally figured it out.

Oh Bangkok, how you confound me.

You’re loud. You’re crowded. You’re smelly. You’re a comparison of wealth and poverty lined up side by side. You’re…

Different.

I look down and see the ever familiar hole on the ground. I will never be used to this procedure. Being in Asia forces me to value things I never did in America. I never was grateful for clean drinking water running from my kitchen sink, the plethora of toilet paper stocked up in my closet, or the bountiful selection of cheese at my local grocery store. I had never been without these items so I never realized how much I appreciated them.

Asia is my teacher and the lesson is the difference between want and need, charity and greed, and above all awareness. I knew when I returned home, I would throw away my Anthropologie catalog, cancel Netflix, and use my car less often. I would instead seek out experiences with Sean, my unwavering partner in crime, and live a life not focused on things. Asia was proof people could live happier lives with fewer things cluttering their hearts with desire and greed and want and dissatisfaction.

Stepping out of the stall, I weave my way through the congregation of Thai women and see a long legged, blond haired girl hesitantly trying to navigate her way through this cultural experience. She’s a novice. She waits, perched on the side of the crowd hoping to secure herself a stall.

“You’re gonna have to jump in there,” I say as I walk past her, and she just nods her head.

It’s funny how going to the bathroom can become a marathon effort. Before I got on the plane, I tried to imagine the things that would be difficult for me to deal with in Asia. I thought the food would be too spicy, the language too complex, and the touting too forceful. None of those things turned out to be true. Sure, a green pepper seared the top of my mouth once but those could be easily avoided. And yes, Thai people look at me funny when I tried to say hello and goodbye in their native tongue. And don’t even get me started on the tuk tuk drivers. But, when all is said and done, things like going to the bathroom cause me much more grief than any of those other experiences combined.

It was due to this expectation that certain things should be easy. In America, all one has to do in order to take care of business is walk into a McDonalds. In Bangkok, first you have to locate a public restroom. They are few and far between. Then, you have to pay. But don't forget some toilet paper. The unsuspecting traveler thinks there will be some in the bathroom. What a fool. Then, one has to bully his or her way into a stall fighting with the other people who also need to go. Then, well, one has to readjust everything one knows about how to go potty. It’s exhausting because one expects it to be so simple.

And regardless of any future hurdles I face while moving through these confounding countries, from something as simple as going to the bathroom to something as painful as addressing the horrors of the Killing Fields, they will be worth it because I will leave with a better understanding of how to be a global citizen.

So as I slide into the chair next to Sean and take a sip of his Thai ice coffee, I watch the chaos around me and feel immensely grateful to be a part of it even just for a few hours.

Emerald Krabi

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:41:00 GMT

“Jackie!”

My ears perked up and I stopped walking through the hordes of people swarming around me.

Smiling at human nature, I shrugged. Who on earth would be calling for me at a random night market in Krabi Town? Everyone I knew was scattered on different continents.

Resuming my quest to find Sean in the sea of people, I walked toward the Strawberry Shake Lady. She had a stand on the outskirt of the night market. Most of the time, she laid her gray haired head on the coolers stacked beside her cart and slept. Twice now we had to shake her leg to wake her. Each time, she grinned widely at us and admired my necklace. This woman was Sean’s newest favorite person and I was likely to find him at her stand in rapture over one of her mouthwatering creations. She was an artist and her medium was fruit, ice, and a blender. She elicited bliss in the same way viewing David, all marble and muscles, did within the walls of the Uffizi.

I brushed more than shoulders with other shoppers as I squeezed through the narrow walk way, often having to wait in a line of ten or more people simply to get by favored vendors selling fried fish, rice noodles, and oddly enough donuts.

“Jackie,” a female voice cried again. “Jackie…wait!”

A hand fell on my shoulder.

Meredith and Mikey stood in front of me, exhilaration lighting both their faces.

My jaw dropped.

We met the married couple in Malaysia almost four weeks earlier. We became instant friends. We survived trekking through the jungle together not to mention multiple rounds of Chang beer, which caused all kinds of misadventures in the mountain village of Tanah Rata.

“What?” I stammered. “How?”

As far as I knew, they were supposed to be in Burma.

“We decided not to go to Burma,” Meredith explained as she gave me a big hug. “We were on a bus and heard someone talking up Krabi so we thought we’d check it out... and here we are! We just got in today.”

I hugged her back, hard. When traveling, one acquires friends quickly or not at all. In secret, Meredith reminded me so much of my ex-sister in law that it almost made me hurt.

“What about you?” Mikey asked as we patted each other’s backs merrily . “Aren’t you supposed to be in Bangkok?”

I laughed. Bangkok: what an absolute nightmare.

“Naw. We took a detour. Besides, by the time our trip is over we will have been to Bangkok six times. I think we can live without it for now.”

“Hey, where’s Sean?”

I looked around.

“That’s what I was just trying to figure out, but I think I have a hunch,” I said, grabbing Meredith’s arm and dragging her through the crowd. It was literally the only way to stay together in the chaos of the night market with its aisles bursting with people, food, and animals.

“Have you guys eaten yet?” Mikey asked, his fingers wrapped tightly around Meredith’s wrist.

“Nope. We split up looking for the best grub.”

“Good. We haven’t either.”

So it was over a dinner of coconut soup, honey glazed chicken, and papaya salad that we caught up; they told us all about Penang and we told them all about Singapore and Indonesia.

“So tomorrow, noon, at the pier,” I said quietly, standing outside their guest house in the pitch black side street. It was midnight and I silently hoped the gate to our guesthouse was unlocked. I knew it would be though; the family we were staying with was considerate to a fault. Each night, the grandmother brewed us a fresh pot of tea and we sat on the porch listening to a concert of crickets.

“We’ll be there,” Meredith said, opening the door quietly. “Sleep well guys.”

Sean and I walked back to our guesthouse silently, holding hands and admiring the moon and stars. We both thought the stars looked brighter in Asia. I was so thankful that while I was overjoyed to see Meredith and Mikey again I was also perfectly content to be with Sean. After six weeks of constant companionship, I was neither sick of him nor eager to be rid of his presence.

The sun was high in the sky when I spotted our friends walking along the water front. In Meredith’s hand, I spied my favorite Thai candy/gum. We weren’t sure which it was but we ate it hoping it was the prior.

Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves plowing through the Andaman Coast’s green water. Pink, purple and red scarves tied proudly to the bow of our long tail boat fluttered in the wind as our captain happily steered the vessel through the soft rolling waves. Tall crags jutted from the ocean, some in peculiar shapes like a chicken or certain male body parts.

The sea spray relieved the scorching heat and soon enough we found ourselves on Ko Phi Phi Don island scrambling through its hidden cave network, soaking up Vitamin D on its sublime white sand beaches and tempting monkeys from trees with plantains and imitations of Curious George.

Feeling wholly happy in the moment, it was easy to forget about everything else we had seen and experienced and simply relish in the beauty of mother nature and friendship.

Wild Cameron Highlands

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:38:00 GMT

I couldn’t have located Malaysia on a map one year ago. For that reason, I found it extremely ironic that I would probably die in the Cameron Highlands.

“Are you ever scared?” Sean asked hesitantly from the front seat of the Land Rover, eyeing Daniel warily.

“Yes.”

“Well fuuuuuuuuck,” our friend Mikey exclaimed clearly hoping for another answer as his blue eyes searched wildly for an escape route.

Good luck Mikey, I thought. I too had already considered jumping out of the Land Rover multiple times. However, with a sense of dread, I soon realized there was no way out of this hell except through it.

On we drove.

First, I should tell you that South East Asia is not safety conscience. Second, I should tell you that yesterday it poured for six hours; streets turned into rivers and entire roads washed away. Third, and most importantly, I should mention that the four of us- me, Sean, Mikey, and Meredith- are unequivocal idiots. This was natural selection at its finest.

I stared at the seven golden Buddha statues glued to the dashboard of Daniel’s Land Rover, and found myself reciting the Four Noble Truths. Prince Siddhartha, more commonly known as Buddha, believed that the cause of human suffering was desire. At the moment, I agreed wholeheartedly. I desired an experience of a lifetime when I boarded the plane to Bangkok, and now I paid for it dearly.

The engine screamed and I tried my hardest not to look to my left. It was difficult to avoid the temptation for a few reasons. First, I was practically sitting on Mikey’s lap. Second, a 200 foot cliff plunged downward not one foot beside me. There was no guard rail. Of course there was no guard rail; we weren’t driving on a road. No, two hundred feet up the side of the Cameron Highlands, Daniel, our driver, decided to proceed straight up a path covered in thigh-deep mud created from yesterday’s torrential downpour.

We were on our way to see a big flower.

Yes, I was about to die in pursuit of a flower. If I had been a world renowned botanist seeking a new discovery, it may have been worth it. But I was just Jackie, stupid Jackie, going to see some flower of which I didn’t even know the name.

The engine quieted and I tried to lie to myself and say there was nothing to fear. We all knew that wasn’t true though. Just two days before, 30 Thai tourists died when their bus lost control and careened off the treacherous road that led to the Cameron Highlands. Every time the Land Rover lost all traction and slid sideways, I wondered how our families would know we died. No one really knew we were in the highlands let alone snaking up the side of a mud covered mountain.

The grisly truth was we could not turn back even though we all desperately wanted to, Daniel included; the path was just wide enough to accommodate the Land Rover. Daniel couldn’t stop or the SUV would slide backward and the doors could not open on either side. We had no choice. We had to press forward.

So I bit my tongue, closed my eyes, and pretended I was somewhere else.

I had been doing that a lot since we arrived in Asia. The first time I noticed myself doing it was when I was hanging on to Sean for dear life as we sat on the tailgate of a pickup truck. It was filled to the brim with Thais and we sped through the early dawn mist from Chumphon to the ferry dock. Sean and I had been the last passengers to load into the pick up and naturally there was no space for us. The driver lowered the tailgate and patted it, indicating we should sit on it. Eyeing Sean skeptically, I followed suit as he climbed aboard placing our heavy backpacks on our laps. I comforted myself with the knowledge that if the driver made too quick a movement and we flew off perhaps the backpacks would cushion our falls. My fears seemed to be misplaced though as the local Thais behind us simply grabbed onto our clothes to keep us on the back of the truck. They were our human seatbelts. For the entire forty minute ride, I said small thanks to the universe each time we whizzed around cars and scooters and remained firmly seated on the truck.

The second time was on the catamaran. Waves crashed ashore as we waited to board but I was foolishly hopeful. Within two minutes of debarking, I was green. The catamaran jumped the waves rolling from side to side; sea spray coated us in salt. I spent the duration of the three-hour ride with my head in between my knees desperately trying not to puke.

The third time was on an overnight train from Chumphon to Butterworth. An Iranian man befriended us. I liked him just fine until he started singing Celine Dion. Every Celine Dion song he knew. It was a lot.

And here I found myself again, two weeks into this 10-week trip, coping with “new and exciting” experiences by drifting off into Lala Land. This time, scaling up the side of a mountain, I found myself at Sweet Laurette’s coffee shop in Port Townsend sipping on a Café Mocha and reading War and Peace. These fantasies worked so long as I could stay focused. The constant whining of the engine, the unsettling sliding sensations, and the gasps of Mikey, Meredith, Sean, and ever so painfully Daniel, interrupted my attempt at self-medication.

Ever so tensely, we inched up the mountain side. It felt like a lifetime. When Daniel whooped gleefully, I opened my eyes and my heart stopped. We had made it. Just 50 feet in front of us was a turn about. Daniel slid the Land Rover into the space gracefully and turned off the engine. The five of us sat in silence for a few moments relishing in the stillness of the moment. Finally, Daniel turned to us, a big smile on his stupid Australian face.

“What a ride Mates.”

He opened the door and reached beneath the seat to grab maps, water, and granola bars. My legs felt stiff as I walked around the small clearing. My whole body was tense and my muscles ached already. The drive wiped me out. Looking around, I could tell everyone felt the same way. As Sean loaded our ponchos, leech socks, and water bottles into our backpack, I tried not to focus on the thought hanging over my head like a storm cloud: we had to drive back down that damned mountain.

“Alright guys,” Daniel said, rounding us up like cattle around the topographical map unfolded across the steaming hood of the Land Rover. “We’re here. The trail starts here, the flower’s there. It’ll be about a four hour walk but the trail will be muddy. Sugar, you’ll have a hard time.”

Of course he was looking at me. I just laughed.

“And why’s that?”

“You’re so short.”

Gee, thanks. But it was true. For the first time, I realized I was the Frodo Baggins of the group. Everyone else towered at least one foot above me, Mikey and Daniel even more.

“The mud will be past your knees so walk on the sides of the trail when you can.”

I nodded.

I could deal with mud.

So we set off into the Malaysian jungle. Daniel led the way and I lingered in the back navigating the trail carefully so the mud wouldn’t swallow me hole. Thick vegetation reached out in all directions. Bamboo shoots dripped streams of water, birds flew overhead, and everything smelled incredible.

I felt rejuvenated as I traversed streams, climbed over fallen trees, and clung to vines to scale small cliffs. The past two weeks had been one jarring experience after another. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to be jarred. It was why I wanted to go to Asia. Europe, both times I went, had been like dessert: indulgent, sweet, and short lived. Meandering through Asia was a test of patience, open mindedness, throwing caution to the wind, and embracing differences. I needed all of those things desperately. Just as badly as I needed to see the poverty in Bangkok, the friendliness of the Thais, and the deep contentment that could be cultivated by living more simply, I too needed a break from it all. Breaks put things into perspective. And in the Malaysian jungle, I found fresh air to breathe, space to move, and a moment of silence: essentially, the perfect place to reflect.

Traveling isn’t always easy or fun. In fact, for Sean and I, more often than not it is stressful and painful. We don’t take package tours, we don’t fly from destination to destination, and we don’t pay more for comfort. We travel overland on busses, scooters, tuk tuks, and pick ups the locals use. We stay in guest houses and live like the locals live. We don’t (often) eat at Westernized restaurants and we don’t speak a lot of English.

It is uncomfortable, it is hard to adjust to, and it is sometimes frankly downright terrifying. But the day I stop traveling will be the day it is no longer scary, uncomfortable, and challenging. I don’t travel for a hobby, I travel to grow and learn and hopefully become a more tolerant, compassionate, well-rounded human being.

So I didn’t feel so bad that my heart stopped five times on the ride up the mountain or that I was already sick of curry or that I hadn’t slept well in four days or that I had eaten at the same (bad) restaurant three times in a row simply because I liked talking to the owner. And I didn’t feel so bad that in the serenity of the Cameron Highlands, I was being myself completely: happy to be in the jungle, worried about the car ride down, and anxious for everything to come.

Growing is painful so I allowed myself to be my neurotic self instead of trying to be some fearless traveler I thought I should be. I could not stop myself from worrying about the future just like I couldn't stop myself from being giddy with excitement that I was in a jungle in Malaysia. The only thing that mattered was that I wouldn’t let myself and my fears stand in the way of the experience just like I wouldn’t let the fear of the unknown, the discomfort of being in a third world country or the frustrations that came with the territory of backpacking ruin the lessons of this trip.

So by the time we reached the flower, four feet in diameter, I was covered in mud but thankful we took the time to come. I may be no botanist but I could find value in wandering through a jungle still filled with aboriginal villages in pursuit of a little adventure, a little more knowledge, and being jarred to the very core.

Growing is painful.

It has to be.

Weightless Bokeo

wannabevagabond — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 17:06:00 GMT

Gravity let go of me.

Soaring above the jungle, the world around me is silent except for the constant zzzzzzzz of metal scraping against metal.

Oddly enough, it’s a sound I enjoy.

It’s a sound of liberation.

For 30 seconds, I am weightless.

For 30 seconds, I defy nature and fly.

It ends too quickly.

From the safety of the tree-top platform, I look out over the Bokeo Nature Reserve. The canopy is solid. Branches sway from side to side as wildlife commute through the dense jungle. From far off, I can hear the cry of a bird. I keep my eyes peeled for a Gibbon, a primate on the brink of extinction. China has logged much of Laos but the Bokeo Nature Reserve is protected land where large cats, elephants, monkeys, birds and other creatures can roam safely.

The torrent of sweet, warm air rushing past my face as I swing from tree to tree dries the sweat from off my face. Laos is miserably hot and it's not even the dry season yet. I try to imagine the jungle parched but cannot fathom it; everything is moist and vibrantly green due to the swelling rivers, teaming lakes, and short but powerful rain storms.

There is something special about this hole-in-the-wall country. Surrounded by China to the north, Vietnam to the east, Cambodia to the south, and Thailand to the west, one expects little in the way of backpacking hot spots but there in Laos lies the appeal. South East Asia has been open for backpackers for thirty years. It's absurd to see someone riding an elephant in Chiang Mai, Thailand holding a Starbucks coffee. The world is shrinking but Laos remains Laos.

Mountains shred the landscapes, rivers snake through villages, and oxen roam the busiest roads. Something in the water causes my pulse to slow and my blood pressure to drop. Perhaps it's because I can't compare my life with the one before my eyes; locals grow their own food, build their homes from local materials, and spend their day working a trade: cooking, building, creating. They move slowly as though they have nowhere important to be.

In mountain villages, backpackers go to local homes for meals. There are no menus nor signs indicating a business. That's because it's not a business for these people. It's a lifestyle. One family cooks and others come. It's an expectation. People matter. They are the only things that matter.

Sean and I sit on the ground with our two European friends Emily and Dave. Plates of rice, chicken, and vegetables are spread out around us. Cups of tangy tea are drained and then refilled by our gracious host, an elderly Loatain woman who sits with us. We cannot communicate verbally with one another. Four languages are spoken around this table but we don't need to speak to understand one another.

We sit in silent contentment and compainship. The jungle is a cocophony of sounds, and our evening soundtrack rings in twilight; above all, the river roars nearby. Occasional snippits of creaking branches sound like an uneven drum beat. The tempo is moderated by the ever present cry of birds. It's a beautiful melody.

If I could choose one place to stay, it would be Laos. The beauty of the land and people and lifestyle are simply intoxicating. It's Laotains' simple lives. It’s their clear values: people matter. Not money. Not stuff. Not time. And above all, it's the experience of being in a country that has not quite managed to join the modern world.

Over a quiet cup of tea in comfortable company, it’s easy to feel deeply rooted satisfaction.

I could stay here forever.

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture

wannabevagabond — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 13:57:00 GMT

“Hey lady, ten postcards one dollar!”

I look down as I walk and sure enough Molly is still following me.

“You see,” she declares proudly, shuffling through the souvenirs. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. You buy from me!”

Molly is four years old. She’s wearing a red bandanna tied around her wavy black hair, a long white tee shirt, and nothing else. For a moment, I pretend she doesn’t exist. After all, it’s easier that way.

You see, my Cambodia is the land of endless rice paddies, Angkor Wat, noodle soup, and the delightful bamboo railway. Looking down at Molly forces me to acknowledge another Cambodia, her Cambodia: welcome to the country of land mines, famine, genocide, child sex slaves, and extreme poverty and desperation.

“You buy from me!”

I shake my head, smiling softly.

No Molly, I think to myself. What I will do is take you home, where ever that is, put on your shoes, if you have any, drop you off at school, if you even attend one, and pray for a better life for you; one not consumed with begging and pain and poverty.

I don’t do any of those things though. Instead, I kneel down and fix her bandanna that has untied by her small ears.

“Where did you learn to count so well?”

Molly drops the postcards into her basket, and her smiles widens.

“Sally.”

I wonder, who is Sally? I wonder if Molly was taught to count to ten just so she could stand outside Angkor Wat, a temple that has endured genocide, civil war, and hundreds of years of life on this tumultuous planet, just so she could beg for one dollar.

“Well, you are a very smart girl."

Molly smiles again, but suddenly it falters.

“So you no buy from me?” she asks, chewing on her lip.

For a fleeting moment, I toy with the idea that she’s been taught how to pout but I dismiss the thought at once. No, written clear across Molly’s face is genuine, child like despair. At four years old, Molly understands all too well that money means food in her belly, clothes on her back, and a roof over her head.

“I’ll tell you what though: why don’t we get two ice cream cones?”

It settles my churning stomach that ice cream causes Molly to forget all about her job. She skips over to the booth with me and chows down happily on her strawberry ice cream bar. For a few moments today, she can be a four year old child.

“Bye bye,” Molly says as she runs away abruptly, her basket in hand and ice cream forgotten on the table, to prey on two Japanese tourists.

“Bye bye!” I yell at the vulture, but she doesn’t even turn around.