Weekend Escape1: Playa del Carmen, Mexico
It was 5:15 P.M. Friday January 7, 2005. Winter break had proven to be a bit rough for me as I wrenched out the insanity of a relationship gone south from my person. Unmasking its truth had taken its toll on my emotions and my school life work. Like most people, I needed to get away, collect my thoughts and find my groove again. It was a “no-brainer” to make my way to a familiar stretch of beach and let it provide me some therapy. I had four days to let the ocean works its magic starting with a Long Island and a nice stroll through the town. Later, an unexpected personality would make the scene.
Playa del Carmen is located ah hour south of Cancun, Mexico. The small town was a secret to most of the world. But, like most good secrets, word gets out. And before you know it, you’ve been had—you’re exposed. A Carnival cruise ship docked at the pier down the beach was proof.
The town offers two great beaches, a full nightlife, beautiful people from around the world and in most places few Americans. Yes, it is paradise with no real concerns other than where and when to meet people to dine and enjoy the view over drinks.
The sun was still out and the street was full of people wandering back in from the beach. My friend and classmate Kaliff (a.k.a. K-Dog) was dragging from the flight and the hustle of the day’s events. Agreeing on the evening’s plan, we walked down the famous Fifth Avenue dodging shop venders, Mariachi groups and the occasional tourist attempting to speak Spanish. Before long, Kaliff found himself in a money shot with a few Club Med girls I introduced him to while taking in a latte (yes… coffee. It’s coffee time any time around the world around 6:00.)
As we made our way down the road, a familiar smile, walk and laugh caught my attention—“Emily,” I said quickly stepping in her direction. “I had a feeling you were near by and wondered if we were going to run into each other,” she said hugging me and kissing my cheek. We spoke briefly the previous week about being in Mexico around the same time. Three years had passed since we’d spoken. For reasons that seemed unexplained, we had lost contact with each other and our efforts to ‘touch base’ with each other had failed.
Now a local celebrity and recording artist in multiple countries and languages, Emily walked as if the world was at her feet. “Nice. How was it that I managed to get her out,” I thought. I gave her our plan for the evening, and we agreed to meet up the next day on the beach if we missed each other that night. Within moments, I resumed Kaliff’s guided tour of the town and its hot spots.
While in Mexico, it’s critical to discover two things: the best money exchange booth and the best taco vendor that’s open late. Later that night, we discovered that finding a taco vendor would become a quest. It was like Monty Python’s Quest for the Holy Grail only we looked for tacos. We searched for tacos and we got pizza. It was nuts. Of all the places in the world, you would think tacos grow on trees in Mexico. But no! Not so much.
11:00 P.M. came in a hurry. We got to the Blue Parrot’s beach bar in time t watch people stream in to watch a few stage performers start the evening out. Eventually the dance floor flooded with people making it the place to be. We would find ourselves in the middle of the crowds the following nights losing track of time, our sunburns, relationship issues and our lives as graduate students. The life we live seemed to matter a little less in light of the moment and a serious hunger that developed from dancing.
Missing Emily the first night was made up for by her presence on the beach the following days. We caught up with the happening of our lives and discussed some of our history. All this was done while taking in the sun, tropical drinks and salsa, chips and guacamole. Being able to relate to an old friend about things past and present is a rare opportunity. It’s a chance to learn about yourself, express things maybe left unsaid or undone and develop a good sense of peace about life then and how it relates to your life now. It was a welcomed experience.
On my last night in town, I found a taco place at the other end of town that expressed its dislike of tourist with a sign that read “For Locals Only” (only it was in Spanish). Yeah. Intimidating. I, however, wanted a beer and a taco. I was feeling pretty local and walked in singing an old school mariachi song. I knew the words like the back of my hand. I was in my element. Several of the men watched me curiously wondering if I was from some other part of Mexico or someone who could read Spanish. After a couple of odd stares and some small talk, a couple of the guys joined in on the singing removing any doubt that I was just touring. I left the place satisfied with my singing talent and having found the “taco grail”. Ha ha ha.
Speaking Spanish is second nature to me. My step-father is from one of the northern states in Mexico. He privileged me on some of my early childhood summers with living in the town he grew up in as a kid. I got an “education” on how good I had it living in the projects of the U.S. He did it to remind me of the importance of sharing what I had and giving to others that had less. I learned how to barter in the markets, shoot a sling-shot, build fires, handle knives and rifles as well as a number of other things that were necessary to just live from day to day.
Part of every summer experience included going out with some of my poorer cousins to live in the streets. We often slept in abandoned buildings, under bridges and periodically under the stars depending on where in the city we would end up. It wasn’t the real life experience of being homeless because I could always go back to my grandmother’s home if an illness or injury was beyond my control. But otherwise, it was the real deal. Having no money, no bed or much else makes you extremely resourceful and appreciative of simple things like a cool nights breeze. Qualities and an awareness of life I would come to appreciate in my later years.
My step-father’s family were at best poor but culturally rich. Hence, the mariachi music I was able to belt out along with a certain number of other phrases that worked to convince the “locals only crew” that I was one of their own. I was maybe a little more fortunate but the same; the feeling brought other memories to mind. “Nice,” I thought making my way to town.
After much dancing, eating and enjoying some of Mexico’s best beverages, we came to the last day of our trip. Kaliff slept in late (as usual) while I sat out in the sun watching the parade of people march by on their way to the beach for another day of fun. Nirvana’s remake of an old Bowie song played in my head as background music to their march and my studying for a couple of make-up finals. It was time. There it is.
We passed upon the stair. We spoke of was and when. Although, I wasn’t there, He said I was his friend. Which came as a surprise. I spoke into his eyes… I thought you died alone, a long, long time ago. Oh no, not me. We never lost control. You’re face to face, with the Man Who Sold The World. I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home. I searched for form and land. For years and years I roamed. I gazed a gazeless stare, at all the millions there. I must have died alone a long, long time ago.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Part III: The Short Stories: "The Seatle Show."
Weekend Escape 2: The “Seattle Show.”
It was 4:00 P.M. and the subway ride was getting long. Ronald Reagan International airport, despite its name and location, isn’t the friendliest or cleanest airport I’ve been to, but, compared to JFK International in NYC, it was pleasant. I was departing a day and a half early from the SACA group’s NCLC trip to Washington D.C. where we took a walk up Capital Hill to tell a few people the chiropractic story. I left my friend Kaliff with an Irish terrorist we met at one of the museums the previous day. Ha ha ha. “Good for him,” I thought as I made my way onto the plane.
The past few days of walking up and down the Hill was a workout. As much as I enjoyed the historical and political value of the trip with my colleagues, I really felt it was a solo adventure. It was a rare occasion to find NW students during the day and sporadic at night as “tradition” had given way to individualism. Exploration of the city dominated the trip. Not a big deal. It was, overall a descent experience, but it was time to get the action.
I was going to attempt to find two people; Sierra the Seattle girl who had began her college career at NYU last Fall, and an old friend and actress named Liz who had moved to the big city to see if she could do it her way…blah, blah, blah. I had 23 hours to find both of them in no particular order but at least one of them so as to avoid paying an outrageous price for a hotel room or being homeless.
As you might expect, the airline lost my bag (why I never check bags), or as they put it, “the bag didn’t make the plane ride up (as if the bag randomly developed a personality of its own), but it’ll be in tomorrow.” Nice. My bag apparently decided to have a personality of its own and took the scenic route up. I had the clothes I wore into town, no camera and I was leaving in less than 21 hours. I was really hoping my bag might join me for the trip home. “No worries,” I thought because subway riding in NYC is a little more hazardous then in Europe or other places in the country. Traveling light was the better option in light of my bags disappearance.
Now approximately 9:00 p.m., I was on my way to lower Manhattan to find the Coyote Ugly bar. It’s where my friend Seattle (Sierra’s nick-name.) had been working. She managed to meet someone who knew some guy’s girlfriend that got her the job as one of several bartendering superstars. Hard to believe, so I had to see it for myself.
We met on my last trip to Europe in Venice, Italy where Major, a former classmate, met me during our Spring break vacation. Seattle and I kept in contact and eventually met up again at summer’s end. The Seattle trip was an awesome experience that contributed to a certain number of other events ending a dodgy relationship last Winter with a gal I kindly refer to as “the blond terror.” Now seven months later, we decided to take a crack at meeting up again. All I had to do was catch her or visa versa. Up until that point, I had gotten one message indicating she would be working the night of my arrival, and if I was going to find her, it would have to happen on-the-fly. It was a small challenge.
So, there I was on the subway making my way to a small piece of hell or a whole lot of heaven depending on your religious take on things. Arriving at the infamous bar, I passed the line of waiting people making my way to the entry. The doormen in NYC pick who they want in their bar and make everyone else wait giving the place a certain level of ambiance. As a Lord of the Nightlife (something one of my patrons would call me), I would accept cash bribes and overlook some things for the right dead-president. Knowing this, I gave the guy a smile and an Italian handshake. With a bit of banter, I was in. A quick pan of the room lead me to one of the back bars where I found I had missed the ‘Seattle show’ by some number of minutes. Now, I needed to make the call, “ the actress now—requiring me to leave the scene. Or, the actress later—sticking it out a bit longer on the lower end possibly catching Seattle.” I thought.
∆
It was 12:30 p.m., and I had yet to hear from Seattle. Polishing off another cocktail for the evening, I made my way to the subway station; it was time to meet Liz at a Columbia University bar in Uptown. Meeting Liz would at least secure me a couch for the night but would really cut Seattle out of the picture. It was either a couch or a subway bench. Having had a similar experience in the Netherlands, I opted for the couch.
I wanted to catch the girl. She was still interested in the ‘people arts’ learning. Her study was progressing much faster than I anticipated considering her place in life and age, but it was what I had hoped. “The framework,” is a number of topics on human behavior and the things that have evolved from it since the dawn of time. There is nothing new under the sun, says the Psalmist. Topics from conversational hypnotic methodologies to behavior analysis, cultural assimilation and the necessity of self-exploration were its matrix. Her mastery of the material would make her dangerous and able to command anything she wanted from anyone and likely get it with a smile. All the books I gave her to read or recommended to her couldn’t give her experience. She was a sleeping.
∆
After a few more cocktails and getting lectured on my necessity to live in NYC, I finally made it to the sofa. As time and thoughts of my life drifted by, my phone rang. It was 4:00 a.m. when Seattle decided to call. “Lotus on 10th and 14th, 15 minutes,” is what she blurted out and then hung-up. The Lotus was on the other side of Manhattan. It was 30 minutes by cab and impossible by train. “Do I go back to bed and find her tomorrow and risk missing her all together, or do I get my coat and get to it?” Tough questions that aren’t the easiest to answer half asleep. So, I made the call, literally, and got Seattle back on the line. No deal. She opted for the next day meet and greet. I went to bed knowing it was going to be some other trip somewhere else in the world before we would meet up again. I was content to find a place to camp out for the rest of the night.
The next day I spent at one of Liz’s performances and brunch with a few of NYC’s working actors. I shopped at Century 21, saw the World Trade Center site, mailed a few postcards out to friends and family and sat in what seemed the center of the world. I gazed a gazeless stare at all the millions there. I must have died alone a long, long time ago. It was an experience I hoped to share, but no deal. I made my way back to JFK to find my bag waiting for me as I was mistaken for some actor on E.R. Yeah. Funny. There it is.
It was 4:00 P.M. and the subway ride was getting long. Ronald Reagan International airport, despite its name and location, isn’t the friendliest or cleanest airport I’ve been to, but, compared to JFK International in NYC, it was pleasant. I was departing a day and a half early from the SACA group’s NCLC trip to Washington D.C. where we took a walk up Capital Hill to tell a few people the chiropractic story. I left my friend Kaliff with an Irish terrorist we met at one of the museums the previous day. Ha ha ha. “Good for him,” I thought as I made my way onto the plane.
The past few days of walking up and down the Hill was a workout. As much as I enjoyed the historical and political value of the trip with my colleagues, I really felt it was a solo adventure. It was a rare occasion to find NW students during the day and sporadic at night as “tradition” had given way to individualism. Exploration of the city dominated the trip. Not a big deal. It was, overall a descent experience, but it was time to get the action.
I was going to attempt to find two people; Sierra the Seattle girl who had began her college career at NYU last Fall, and an old friend and actress named Liz who had moved to the big city to see if she could do it her way…blah, blah, blah. I had 23 hours to find both of them in no particular order but at least one of them so as to avoid paying an outrageous price for a hotel room or being homeless.
As you might expect, the airline lost my bag (why I never check bags), or as they put it, “the bag didn’t make the plane ride up (as if the bag randomly developed a personality of its own), but it’ll be in tomorrow.” Nice. My bag apparently decided to have a personality of its own and took the scenic route up. I had the clothes I wore into town, no camera and I was leaving in less than 21 hours. I was really hoping my bag might join me for the trip home. “No worries,” I thought because subway riding in NYC is a little more hazardous then in Europe or other places in the country. Traveling light was the better option in light of my bags disappearance.
Now approximately 9:00 p.m., I was on my way to lower Manhattan to find the Coyote Ugly bar. It’s where my friend Seattle (Sierra’s nick-name.) had been working. She managed to meet someone who knew some guy’s girlfriend that got her the job as one of several bartendering superstars. Hard to believe, so I had to see it for myself.
We met on my last trip to Europe in Venice, Italy where Major, a former classmate, met me during our Spring break vacation. Seattle and I kept in contact and eventually met up again at summer’s end. The Seattle trip was an awesome experience that contributed to a certain number of other events ending a dodgy relationship last Winter with a gal I kindly refer to as “the blond terror.” Now seven months later, we decided to take a crack at meeting up again. All I had to do was catch her or visa versa. Up until that point, I had gotten one message indicating she would be working the night of my arrival, and if I was going to find her, it would have to happen on-the-fly. It was a small challenge.
So, there I was on the subway making my way to a small piece of hell or a whole lot of heaven depending on your religious take on things. Arriving at the infamous bar, I passed the line of waiting people making my way to the entry. The doormen in NYC pick who they want in their bar and make everyone else wait giving the place a certain level of ambiance. As a Lord of the Nightlife (something one of my patrons would call me), I would accept cash bribes and overlook some things for the right dead-president. Knowing this, I gave the guy a smile and an Italian handshake. With a bit of banter, I was in. A quick pan of the room lead me to one of the back bars where I found I had missed the ‘Seattle show’ by some number of minutes. Now, I needed to make the call, “ the actress now—requiring me to leave the scene. Or, the actress later—sticking it out a bit longer on the lower end possibly catching Seattle.” I thought.
∆
It was 12:30 p.m., and I had yet to hear from Seattle. Polishing off another cocktail for the evening, I made my way to the subway station; it was time to meet Liz at a Columbia University bar in Uptown. Meeting Liz would at least secure me a couch for the night but would really cut Seattle out of the picture. It was either a couch or a subway bench. Having had a similar experience in the Netherlands, I opted for the couch.
I wanted to catch the girl. She was still interested in the ‘people arts’ learning. Her study was progressing much faster than I anticipated considering her place in life and age, but it was what I had hoped. “The framework,” is a number of topics on human behavior and the things that have evolved from it since the dawn of time. There is nothing new under the sun, says the Psalmist. Topics from conversational hypnotic methodologies to behavior analysis, cultural assimilation and the necessity of self-exploration were its matrix. Her mastery of the material would make her dangerous and able to command anything she wanted from anyone and likely get it with a smile. All the books I gave her to read or recommended to her couldn’t give her experience. She was a sleeping.
∆
After a few more cocktails and getting lectured on my necessity to live in NYC, I finally made it to the sofa. As time and thoughts of my life drifted by, my phone rang. It was 4:00 a.m. when Seattle decided to call. “Lotus on 10th and 14th, 15 minutes,” is what she blurted out and then hung-up. The Lotus was on the other side of Manhattan. It was 30 minutes by cab and impossible by train. “Do I go back to bed and find her tomorrow and risk missing her all together, or do I get my coat and get to it?” Tough questions that aren’t the easiest to answer half asleep. So, I made the call, literally, and got Seattle back on the line. No deal. She opted for the next day meet and greet. I went to bed knowing it was going to be some other trip somewhere else in the world before we would meet up again. I was content to find a place to camp out for the rest of the night.
The next day I spent at one of Liz’s performances and brunch with a few of NYC’s working actors. I shopped at Century 21, saw the World Trade Center site, mailed a few postcards out to friends and family and sat in what seemed the center of the world. I gazed a gazeless stare at all the millions there. I must have died alone a long, long time ago. It was an experience I hoped to share, but no deal. I made my way back to JFK to find my bag waiting for me as I was mistaken for some actor on E.R. Yeah. Funny. There it is.
Part III: The Short Stories: A Drunk. A Girl & The Scene.
Friday August 5, 2005 came in a hurry. Finishing my first week of finals for the summer trimester was draining. With three more finals left, a night on the town was in order to help keep things in perspective. I incidentally came into a pair of tickets for the Fashion Glamour Show and thought it to be the perfect occasion to catch up with my friend Courtney. The night’s events would consist of dinner, a fashion show and making it to Bellanotte where Courtney’s dating life would make its debus. Rumors are a dime a dozen in Minneapolis. One can never believe everything they hear and should take the time to seek out the truth about things to avoid being a blind believer. It was my intent for the evening.
Hours later, as I drove back to the Show (Bellanotte) to close out a tab and pick up my camera, a drunk guy ran out from a bus top shelter causing a chain reaction; an attempt to break, expletives flying out of my mouth, a drunk guy rolling across my hood, the same drunk guy hitting my windshield and rolling back unto the street as my jeep finally stopped. Yup. This was not the Master Card commercial I had bargained for earlier in the evening, but it was happening nonetheless.
“What the…,” is what I said putting my Jeep in park and dialing 911. As the guy got up, blood gushed out from his chin making his shirt look something like a starving artist might create with a gallon of red paint. He was going into shock and really drunk. As I questioned him, placing a gauze pad onto his chin, his friend and a host of other people stopped to witness the accident. Waving a penlight into “Patrick’s” eyes checking for pupil abnormalities, I engaged him in conversation and his ability to follow it. “Can you believe this…from somewhere in the clouds to this. No worries. I got it. I got it under control. It’s my job. It’s what I do. It’s why I get paid…to take charge of seemingly the impossible,” is what I thought. As the paramedics arrived and took over the scene, I began reflecting over the night’s events that necessitated my returning downtown.
In extreme situations, the potential for error goes up exponentially when one is too caught up in the event at hand. A detachment from the reality of the moment is necessary. This momentary lapse from the event gives one the ability to stay on task, not be distracted by emotions and prevents any attempts to answer the “why” question allowing one the abilty to perform. “Do the job and think about it later! Feel and understand what’s happening later. Feel and understand what’s happening later!” The detachment from reality works well in emergency situations buy not so much in relational ones where being in the moment can be the saving element in the relationship. Within a few moments, I killed the hazard lights on my jeep and proceeded to make it back to the Show (Bellanotte).
Bellanotte, where we spent the last part of the evening, is a high-class regional Italian restaurant that takes on a club atmosphere late nights. Celebrities, sports figures, the wealthy, the powerful, the beautiful and everyone in between makes the scene to contribute to its ambiance or have a small taste of the “good life.” The good life comes with a cost; one that many people understood and upheld with an Italian handshake normally lined with $20s, $50s and $100s to get past the front door and not wait. Being the lead doorman for the ‘show’ afforded me a certain number of benefits of which cash was the least important. Being able to shake hands and be on a first name basis with many of the city’s business owners, bankers, venture capitalist and millionaires is a priceless gift when it comes to business. The money one comes into is everybody’s and nobody’s at the same time. But, for the fleeting moments that it’s in your possession, use it to take care of others and occasionally pick up a thing or two for yourself. Ha ha ha.
Top fashion designers from around the world displayed their latest and greatest fashion designs down a multi-colored runway in the name of cancer research. The Marshal Field’s Glamourama Fashion Show is one of the premiere events hosted in Minneapolis. People go out of their way to attend—it’s exactly what we did. The B 52’s and The Pussy Cat Dolls provided the musical pace for the event making the evening more than amazing. The clothes were, as you might expect, fashion you may not opt to wear or afford. Either way, the models provided a certain kind of aesthetic entertainment that made the clothes work and time fly.
The limo ride, the fabulous dinner and the tickets were small tokens of appreciation from my regular patrons and a few of the business owners. My only responsibility was to pas out tips as a gesture of gratitude. All of it necessary to get one little girl to come out of her hiding place long enough and around the right people to get the job done. What was the job? It was merely to find out and show the number of other men they were not alone in their claim of Miss English. She’s like money—no one’s and everyone’s at the same time.
Molly, one of Courtney’s confidants came up to me the following night and asked, “Hey. Did you make it to the Glamourama show last night?” I replied, “You should know. You were on the phone with her last night during the event weren’t you?” Now wondering why she asked. “Courtney said you were working last night during the event and couldn’t go!” replied Molly. “Well, we did go, and it was the best time of my life. Especially the part when the rest of her men approached me to ask what the nature of our relationship was…friends at best. But, maybe not,” is how the conversations ended. There it is.
Hours later, as I drove back to the Show (Bellanotte) to close out a tab and pick up my camera, a drunk guy ran out from a bus top shelter causing a chain reaction; an attempt to break, expletives flying out of my mouth, a drunk guy rolling across my hood, the same drunk guy hitting my windshield and rolling back unto the street as my jeep finally stopped. Yup. This was not the Master Card commercial I had bargained for earlier in the evening, but it was happening nonetheless.
“What the…,” is what I said putting my Jeep in park and dialing 911. As the guy got up, blood gushed out from his chin making his shirt look something like a starving artist might create with a gallon of red paint. He was going into shock and really drunk. As I questioned him, placing a gauze pad onto his chin, his friend and a host of other people stopped to witness the accident. Waving a penlight into “Patrick’s” eyes checking for pupil abnormalities, I engaged him in conversation and his ability to follow it. “Can you believe this…from somewhere in the clouds to this. No worries. I got it. I got it under control. It’s my job. It’s what I do. It’s why I get paid…to take charge of seemingly the impossible,” is what I thought. As the paramedics arrived and took over the scene, I began reflecting over the night’s events that necessitated my returning downtown.
In extreme situations, the potential for error goes up exponentially when one is too caught up in the event at hand. A detachment from the reality of the moment is necessary. This momentary lapse from the event gives one the ability to stay on task, not be distracted by emotions and prevents any attempts to answer the “why” question allowing one the abilty to perform. “Do the job and think about it later! Feel and understand what’s happening later. Feel and understand what’s happening later!” The detachment from reality works well in emergency situations buy not so much in relational ones where being in the moment can be the saving element in the relationship. Within a few moments, I killed the hazard lights on my jeep and proceeded to make it back to the Show (Bellanotte).
Bellanotte, where we spent the last part of the evening, is a high-class regional Italian restaurant that takes on a club atmosphere late nights. Celebrities, sports figures, the wealthy, the powerful, the beautiful and everyone in between makes the scene to contribute to its ambiance or have a small taste of the “good life.” The good life comes with a cost; one that many people understood and upheld with an Italian handshake normally lined with $20s, $50s and $100s to get past the front door and not wait. Being the lead doorman for the ‘show’ afforded me a certain number of benefits of which cash was the least important. Being able to shake hands and be on a first name basis with many of the city’s business owners, bankers, venture capitalist and millionaires is a priceless gift when it comes to business. The money one comes into is everybody’s and nobody’s at the same time. But, for the fleeting moments that it’s in your possession, use it to take care of others and occasionally pick up a thing or two for yourself. Ha ha ha.
Top fashion designers from around the world displayed their latest and greatest fashion designs down a multi-colored runway in the name of cancer research. The Marshal Field’s Glamourama Fashion Show is one of the premiere events hosted in Minneapolis. People go out of their way to attend—it’s exactly what we did. The B 52’s and The Pussy Cat Dolls provided the musical pace for the event making the evening more than amazing. The clothes were, as you might expect, fashion you may not opt to wear or afford. Either way, the models provided a certain kind of aesthetic entertainment that made the clothes work and time fly.
The limo ride, the fabulous dinner and the tickets were small tokens of appreciation from my regular patrons and a few of the business owners. My only responsibility was to pas out tips as a gesture of gratitude. All of it necessary to get one little girl to come out of her hiding place long enough and around the right people to get the job done. What was the job? It was merely to find out and show the number of other men they were not alone in their claim of Miss English. She’s like money—no one’s and everyone’s at the same time.
Molly, one of Courtney’s confidants came up to me the following night and asked, “Hey. Did you make it to the Glamourama show last night?” I replied, “You should know. You were on the phone with her last night during the event weren’t you?” Now wondering why she asked. “Courtney said you were working last night during the event and couldn’t go!” replied Molly. “Well, we did go, and it was the best time of my life. Especially the part when the rest of her men approached me to ask what the nature of our relationship was…friends at best. But, maybe not,” is how the conversations ended. There it is.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Part III: The Short Stories: Living a life of faith.
Living A Life Of Faith…It was late August 1996 when I started driving home to Minneapolis. The last four months had been spent as both a missions and psychology intern by day. But, by night and before I made it into the office the next morning, I sang backup in a San Francisco Bay band and attempted to surf with a pack in Santa Cruz. The Californian experience was amazing, and it was time to pack my gear and get to my senior year of college. The trip would take around thirty-three hours of actual driving time.
Stopping at Justin’s place, a strange feeling of peace came over me. It was completely by chance (or in those days ‘divine appointment’) that I ran into him at all. The first time was at an open-air concert for Christian believers at Six-Flags amusement park. Jars of Clay was performing when, as if they waited for the right moment to start playing Flood, it started to rain. In the midst of the crowd’s frenzy, a strange yet familiar voice started yelling behind me. I turned to find Justin staring at me and a bit surprised. We exchanged stories of how we ended up there and agreed to have lunch in the upcoming week. We never did.
The second time we ran into each other was six weeks later at Candle Stick stadium in Oakland at the annual Promise Keepers conference. You would think that it would be impossible to run into anyone you know in a different state in a crowd of 60,000 men, but it happened. There we were, discussing how we missed out on lunch and how he should consider coming back to North Central Bible College to finish his bible training. The two strange encounters seemed to add up to a sign from the Almighty that Justin either needed to ignore or hear and respond. “But why now?” he asked. “It must be in the plan. The Almighty brought me here for a reason. Who am I to understand or fathom His mystery or His way. We’re obligated hear, decide and respond!” is what I said. It was the last I heard from him until the day I started my way home. He asked if my offer was still on the table: it was a free ride back to Minnesota in exchange for a little help driving and keeping me awake. I told him it was still good.
Twenty-four hours later, we were nearly across Wyoming on Interstate 90 just about thirty minutes from a town called Sundance. The sun was just starting to light up the sky. It was morning. “What time is it?” Justin asked waking up from a few hour nap. I had driven the entire way to that point and wanted a few hours of sleep to finish the drive home. We were only twelve or so hours away. I figured he could drive a few while I slept instead of stopping and losing time. “Not a problem. The weather is great, and the road should be pretty clear yet. It’s only 7:09 a.m.” Justin said taking the wheel.
My faith in the Almighty was growing. It took me to California. It brought me a new vehicle to get there in, and it provided me a place to live nearly free of charge; it was why I didn’t ask Justin for any cash for trip. I had received freely, and I needed to give things away the same. Every step I took in faith only brought me good things. I had no worries. I was being taken care of.
“Oh, no!” A cry that woke me from my sleep followed by a series of hard crashes and one large one, which was followed by a slide and spinning motion before we stopped. I knew what was happening. I just couldn’t get a visual on it. It was happening too fast. Within thirty minutes of taking the wheel, Justin fell prey to one of the simplest tricks of the road. He hadn’t bothered to look around and had stared intently at the road necessarily lulling him to sleep. He was awoken when my pickup started into the median ditch that separated the two directions of traffic. In his surprise, he over-reacted attempting to get back on the road putting the vehicle into a roll across the ditch and into oncoming traffic. To our dismay, the larger crash was a semi-truck that had been slowing down seeing the accident unfold but not before we hit. The collision sent us spinning back across the road. When we stopped, we were upside down.
“Are you alive?” is what I had yelled each time we hit to which Justin responded vigorously until the last crash, the semi-collision when he went silent. In a few seconds, I checked to see if I could feel my legs while attempting to elicit a response from him. I unsnapped my seatbelt and reached over for his—he was alive but unconscious. Attempting to get his seatbelt undone, I thought about the sermon I had preached two days before to nearly 600 people. All those people came to hear a young college intern speak to them about faith and what it is and how it works. Much like Joseph in Egypt, I was a stranger in a strange land (It meant different things to different people.). My best friend from Israel came to mind and his telling me not to get into an accident on the way home. I thought about many things and other incidences where my life should have been over in those few moments. I saw how they were all strung together; it was part of a plan; one I would understand later. I would deal with the emotions, feelings and questions later. The sweet scent of blood and smoke filled the compartment. There was work to do.
Managing to undo his seatbelt, I crawled out from my side of the vehicle to make my way around to his. He was still unconscious. I carefully moved him out through the window making the source of the blood obvious. He came to a few moments later. Attempting to jump up, we instructed him to lay still. One of the people who stopped attended the cut on his forehead. The semi-driver had radioed in for help and reported it to be at least twenty minutes away. In that time, I reassured Justin that the vehicle didn’t matter and not to worry about it attempting to keep him alert and in the moment. It was true. I wasn’t worried about the vehicle. I wasn’t worried about anything except for him going into shock. When help finally arrived, he was nearly out of it.
As the paramedics drove off with Justin, I spoke to the state trooper about what needed to happen next. “I need an action-plan. I’m due home in the next day or two.” I said with a little urgency. He looked at me oddly and asked if I realized how lucky I was to be alive. “You were just in a roll over vehicle accident traveling at a high speed. If that wasn’t enough, you were hit by a semi-truck going the opposite direction, which by some miracle didn’t crush you and sent you flying over yonder upside down… God must really like you.” I laughed. Then, I turned and cried quietly. I thanked the Almighty for being good to me and for giving me another day to live. It wasn’t my time.
There it is.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
True Stories: Part II-Planes, Trains, & Automobiles...
Part II: Planes, Trains, & Automobiles-The End Of The Story.
Friday April 23, 2004 approximately a week from the beginning of my summer trimester at NWHSU.
Compared to the near perfect weather in Venice, Ljubljana already started out on a bad foot. It was cold and rainy, and to make things ‘better,’ the city seemed to be right out of a documentary on “developing nations” or “lifestyles of the industrial class.” I actually felt like an American tourist—I had skipped learning the language, anything about the money and less about the culture. Immediately after this realization, I concluded to shorten my visit by a day and a half. It was I had finally gotten to the last part of a multi-country European vacation. I had traversed through Iceland, England, the Netherlands, Spain, Italy and now Slovenia. I visited old friends, places and memories of trips past while managing to take an inventory of my life. I was to turn 30 in six days. Not a big deal, but by certain standards in the world, I had nothing to really show for the time except life experience and a pile of school loans and a small plot of land in Spain given to me by my father as a “keep quiet bribe.” It was a subject I was attempting to remedy with an updated life plan.
Before long, the train stopped at the Italian customs depot. Located about a 100 yards from the Slovenian one, the two depots sat as mirror images of each other across the Italian/Slovenian borderline. “Double stamp Friday just like Subway,” I thought pulling out my passport and train ticket. As the customs officers made their way up and down the train isles, I polished off a cocktail took in the outside scenery. Mountains rose overhead making their contribution to the picturesque skyline. Large rock formations and an evergreen tree line covered their base. As the train began to pull toward the next depot, an obvious fog-like mist started to form on the foothills. The sun disappeared behind the train seeming to stay behind in Italy. The sky grew dark ahead, and in the distance, it was raining. I had hoped for better weather during my visit.
Exiting the train car, I ripped out a quick text alerting Jana, my Slovenian friend and contact, of my arrival. Raindrops fell heavy upon my head bringing to my attention to all the people eagerly awaiting their loved ones along the platform. The scene made me miss home and a certain someone I purposed not to extend an invitation to join me on the trip. A text message alert interrupted my thoughts and reasons why it needed to be the case bringing the scene around me back into perspective. “At the ‘meeting pole’ inside the station,” the text message read. Most train stations and airports in Europe have an area or zone called “the meeting place” where people coming from different parts of travel or new to the country could easy find their friends and family or be found by them if necessary. I started my way there again noting of my lack of enthusiasm about the weather.
After a quick reintroduction, we made our way to a pub scene in the north side of the city. Jana’s friends awaited our arrival and their chance to test their English skills. The night passed in a pub where the country’s classics where belted out in utter drunken happiness. “Ode to being alive and happy,” I thought as the Verve’s Bitter/Sweet Symphony played in my head muffling the singing to a quiet roar—it was soon silenced by violins playing in my mind, Cause it’s a bitter/sweet symphony that’s life, try to make ends meet ..you’re a slave to money than you die. I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down. You know the one that takes you to the place where all the veins meet- Yeah.
The next day and a half passed in similar scenes with many of the same people. I admit the poor weather inhibited my ability to enjoy the culture’s finer aspects or even fully appreciate the hospitality I was being afforded. The hospitality, as it is, comes with an understanding that you will return the favor if possible. The understanding was enough for me to continue in my disconnectedness. “Back to Venice,” I thought as Cold Play’s Clocks played again in my head putting this part of the trip behind me. Home. Home. Is where I wanted to go. Home. Home. Is where I wanted to go.
At the Italian depot, an over zealous officer asked me for my tickets and identification. As he looked at the passport and then me, he had come to the conclusion I was an illegal immigrant trying to make my way into Italy with a stolen American passport. He attempted to see if the picture seal had been broken while continuing to ask me questions on the purpose of my travel to Slovenia. After calling in the passport to the authorities and finding it clean, he said, “ You American’s think you can go where ever you please without any consideration of others.” Recalling a piece of graffiti in Venice that seemed to reflect the man’s sentiments (Gangster Bush.) on the matter. I replied, “That’s why I’m proud to be an American.” I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to hear that kind of response. Annoyed and being too proud to exchange any unnecessary conversation with me, he angrily stamped my passport taking note of its robust and diverse stamping history. I replied in Italian, “Good evening and thank you for doing such a thorough job. Certainly Italy is safe with strong men like you protecting her borders!” Again, he looked at me unimpressed. “Bastard!” I thought.
I was back in the sun. “Good evening,” I managed to yap at a coffee vendor in Italian. The scene was wonderful. Old buildings, warm people and the liveliness of tourist walking the streets made the extra day worth it. I sat and wrote in my journal with my friend Major most of the day. As I sat, a tall and thin platinum blonde walked by instantly catching my attention. Realizing the foolishness of whom I thought it was, my decision to not share the experience with my best friend Janey came back to mind.
It was my tradition to travel alone. The typical Let’s go to Europe book drives me nuts as it renders people perfectly capable of avoiding any danger/adventure in traveling. It’s also too easy to avoid speaking to anyone other than your travel mate(s). It was another reason I traveled alone; it requires me to do both—be social and remain open to new things. You can easily short-change yourself an adventure by having too much control of a trip experience. The remainder of the day was spent wondering if I had made a mistake in this instance by not inviting her despite her interest in joining me. The next day would remove all doubt of my decision.
Wednesday, April 28th. I was on my way home to celebrate Janey's birthday with her and end my European ‘fantasy’. That’s just it--it can be just a fantasy. Without sharing the experience with someone else, one might as well look at pictures and read about places, as your experience of them is more or less the same. Without ever really going and sharing the experience of a trip with someone else, it may as well not be real. In traveling alone, one learns the quick value of companionship—it brings meaning to the experience of travel and anchors you to reality. Companionship creates a special bond between the people/person who elect to share their experience with and you. I have yet to have a conversation with any piece of art, any famous building, statue or grave, but I have had many wonderful discussions with people around me bringing life to the adventure.
I’ve gotten to enjoy a rich and rewarding number of friendships that have sprung out of these types of travel experiences. Having known this about travel and expressing it over and over again to my friends and family, was why Janey wanted to make the trip. No number of text messages would make up for one shared moment of the experience and any flavor it might have put back into the relationship. I would attempt to rectify my mistake that day and in the weeks that followed to no real avail. I found myself on a plane to Seattle after the summer trimester following up on a personality I met in a grocery store in Venice. The Seattle trip would eventually kill the functional part of my relationship with Jodie (Or so I thought.). And I went home. Where I wanted to go. Yes, I went home. Where I wanted to go. And I went home. I phoned Sierra within an hour of my arrival. There it is.
Friday April 23, 2004 approximately a week from the beginning of my summer trimester at NWHSU.
Compared to the near perfect weather in Venice, Ljubljana already started out on a bad foot. It was cold and rainy, and to make things ‘better,’ the city seemed to be right out of a documentary on “developing nations” or “lifestyles of the industrial class.” I actually felt like an American tourist—I had skipped learning the language, anything about the money and less about the culture. Immediately after this realization, I concluded to shorten my visit by a day and a half. It was I had finally gotten to the last part of a multi-country European vacation. I had traversed through Iceland, England, the Netherlands, Spain, Italy and now Slovenia. I visited old friends, places and memories of trips past while managing to take an inventory of my life. I was to turn 30 in six days. Not a big deal, but by certain standards in the world, I had nothing to really show for the time except life experience and a pile of school loans and a small plot of land in Spain given to me by my father as a “keep quiet bribe.” It was a subject I was attempting to remedy with an updated life plan.
Before long, the train stopped at the Italian customs depot. Located about a 100 yards from the Slovenian one, the two depots sat as mirror images of each other across the Italian/Slovenian borderline. “Double stamp Friday just like Subway,” I thought pulling out my passport and train ticket. As the customs officers made their way up and down the train isles, I polished off a cocktail took in the outside scenery. Mountains rose overhead making their contribution to the picturesque skyline. Large rock formations and an evergreen tree line covered their base. As the train began to pull toward the next depot, an obvious fog-like mist started to form on the foothills. The sun disappeared behind the train seeming to stay behind in Italy. The sky grew dark ahead, and in the distance, it was raining. I had hoped for better weather during my visit.
Exiting the train car, I ripped out a quick text alerting Jana, my Slovenian friend and contact, of my arrival. Raindrops fell heavy upon my head bringing to my attention to all the people eagerly awaiting their loved ones along the platform. The scene made me miss home and a certain someone I purposed not to extend an invitation to join me on the trip. A text message alert interrupted my thoughts and reasons why it needed to be the case bringing the scene around me back into perspective. “At the ‘meeting pole’ inside the station,” the text message read. Most train stations and airports in Europe have an area or zone called “the meeting place” where people coming from different parts of travel or new to the country could easy find their friends and family or be found by them if necessary. I started my way there again noting of my lack of enthusiasm about the weather.
After a quick reintroduction, we made our way to a pub scene in the north side of the city. Jana’s friends awaited our arrival and their chance to test their English skills. The night passed in a pub where the country’s classics where belted out in utter drunken happiness. “Ode to being alive and happy,” I thought as the Verve’s Bitter/Sweet Symphony played in my head muffling the singing to a quiet roar—it was soon silenced by violins playing in my mind, Cause it’s a bitter/sweet symphony that’s life, try to make ends meet ..you’re a slave to money than you die. I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down. You know the one that takes you to the place where all the veins meet- Yeah.
The next day and a half passed in similar scenes with many of the same people. I admit the poor weather inhibited my ability to enjoy the culture’s finer aspects or even fully appreciate the hospitality I was being afforded. The hospitality, as it is, comes with an understanding that you will return the favor if possible. The understanding was enough for me to continue in my disconnectedness. “Back to Venice,” I thought as Cold Play’s Clocks played again in my head putting this part of the trip behind me. Home. Home. Is where I wanted to go. Home. Home. Is where I wanted to go.
At the Italian depot, an over zealous officer asked me for my tickets and identification. As he looked at the passport and then me, he had come to the conclusion I was an illegal immigrant trying to make my way into Italy with a stolen American passport. He attempted to see if the picture seal had been broken while continuing to ask me questions on the purpose of my travel to Slovenia. After calling in the passport to the authorities and finding it clean, he said, “ You American’s think you can go where ever you please without any consideration of others.” Recalling a piece of graffiti in Venice that seemed to reflect the man’s sentiments (Gangster Bush.) on the matter. I replied, “That’s why I’m proud to be an American.” I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to hear that kind of response. Annoyed and being too proud to exchange any unnecessary conversation with me, he angrily stamped my passport taking note of its robust and diverse stamping history. I replied in Italian, “Good evening and thank you for doing such a thorough job. Certainly Italy is safe with strong men like you protecting her borders!” Again, he looked at me unimpressed. “Bastard!” I thought.
I was back in the sun. “Good evening,” I managed to yap at a coffee vendor in Italian. The scene was wonderful. Old buildings, warm people and the liveliness of tourist walking the streets made the extra day worth it. I sat and wrote in my journal with my friend Major most of the day. As I sat, a tall and thin platinum blonde walked by instantly catching my attention. Realizing the foolishness of whom I thought it was, my decision to not share the experience with my best friend Janey came back to mind.
It was my tradition to travel alone. The typical Let’s go to Europe book drives me nuts as it renders people perfectly capable of avoiding any danger/adventure in traveling. It’s also too easy to avoid speaking to anyone other than your travel mate(s). It was another reason I traveled alone; it requires me to do both—be social and remain open to new things. You can easily short-change yourself an adventure by having too much control of a trip experience. The remainder of the day was spent wondering if I had made a mistake in this instance by not inviting her despite her interest in joining me. The next day would remove all doubt of my decision.
Wednesday, April 28th. I was on my way home to celebrate Janey's birthday with her and end my European ‘fantasy’. That’s just it--it can be just a fantasy. Without sharing the experience with someone else, one might as well look at pictures and read about places, as your experience of them is more or less the same. Without ever really going and sharing the experience of a trip with someone else, it may as well not be real. In traveling alone, one learns the quick value of companionship—it brings meaning to the experience of travel and anchors you to reality. Companionship creates a special bond between the people/person who elect to share their experience with and you. I have yet to have a conversation with any piece of art, any famous building, statue or grave, but I have had many wonderful discussions with people around me bringing life to the adventure.
I’ve gotten to enjoy a rich and rewarding number of friendships that have sprung out of these types of travel experiences. Having known this about travel and expressing it over and over again to my friends and family, was why Janey wanted to make the trip. No number of text messages would make up for one shared moment of the experience and any flavor it might have put back into the relationship. I would attempt to rectify my mistake that day and in the weeks that followed to no real avail. I found myself on a plane to Seattle after the summer trimester following up on a personality I met in a grocery store in Venice. The Seattle trip would eventually kill the functional part of my relationship with Jodie (Or so I thought.). And I went home. Where I wanted to go. Yes, I went home. Where I wanted to go. And I went home. I phoned Sierra within an hour of my arrival. There it is.
True Stories: Part II-Planes, Trains, & Automobiles...
Part II-Planes, Trains, & Automobiles- The middle of the story.
Wednesday April 21, 2004, 12:30 p.m.
After a couple of days of concerts, great coffee and the occasional bottle of wine, I was off to Barcelona, Spain, which was, to say the least, a stop-on-the-fly. I wandered around from one monument to the next. I streamed through new and old art museums. At the end of one day, I even sat and reflected about life while filling out a few post cards wondering what the rest of the trip would be like considering the last couple of days attempting to follow rule #1 for the trip—to not think of school or that bitch of a girlfriend I left at home. It worked for a while, but school would soon be at the top of my thought processing for unexpected reasons.
“Maybe we’ll catch up in Venice,” I mentioned to Marina as we dismissed ourselves in grand Spanish fashion with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The flight from Spain flew by with interesting accounts of Barcelona’s ‘hipster’ scene and the bombing in Madrid. “A couple of nights in Venice…then Ljubljana,” I thought as I made my way onto a bus heading towards town. In Venice, I met up with my friend and classmate Chris Major almost immediately after I got off the bus. We loosely planned the rendezvous a week previously in London. As in London, we made our way to a café to sit, drink and discuss how our trips had been to that point. In the process, a parade of tourists, locals and students passed by the Stadda Nova—the main street through most of Venice. During our conversation and crowd watching, school and my last experience in the Netherlands made their way to mind. I was able to put school on the back burner being in a good place with company, but the Netherlands incident managed to replay.
Three days previously, I was standing in front of a theater watching my friend Selma make her way home in the rain. The chorus from Cold Play’s Clocks started to play in the background of my mind (…nothing compares…). I was having a sensitive moment, and rightly so. We had passed the earlier part of the evening at a wine café recollecting people and times spent in museums and other ‘touristy’ places on earlier trips attempting to dry a little from being caught in the rain earlier. It was like a the ending scene from Lost In Translation where Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson embrace, whisper a few things to each other and part ways returning to their real lives, leaving the experience behind. Reality was calling, and the rain helped bring me back into it.
There are few times in life when what you think, what you experience and what you feel are all happening at the same time; it’s what I like to call a real moment. And even though the moment was only a few minutes, I knew it would last a lifetime and replay somewhere else, some other time with some other person. I was still chasing after my dreams and would hopefully meet someone to share the rest of my adventures with, but it would not be the Dutch. “There is no distance too great for who ever she is,” I thought even further in the background of my mind. A small reminder that life is bigger than we realize. As the scene closed in my thoughts, I could feel my stomach nagging me for some kind of nourishment. We wandered around Venice the rest of the afternoon hitting pizza places and gelato stands. Towards the end of the afternoon, Chris and I ended up at the local grocery store for dinner necessities.
Italian isn’t much like Spanish when attempting to order turkey slices for sandwiches or deciding which wine container is better than some other. It was interesting at least. Standing in the checkout line was only better due to the new international language of the Euro, which reads like dollars only worth more. You really only need to know how to read the numbers and not bother open your mouth leaving the check-out girl wondering if your having a bad day or just not in the mood to talk. Ha ha ha. We made our way out and ran into a couple of Americans, Sierra & Katie, who had also been standing in the checkout lanes. They were sitting and feasting away on the doorstep of a closed church; so we stopped and gabbed with them for a bit (as you would normally do when you find other people you can communicate to without sounding dumb) extending an invitation for a cup of Italy’s world famous coffee. Later that evening, I met up with the two, not really expecting them to show, in front of Major’s wife’s flat. We ended up making espresso and yapping about things I can’t quite remember. What I do remember was that they were from Seattle and were on their way to Austria the next day.
As I walked back to my room at Archies’ (a back packer type of Inn), the sounds of passing gondolas and traditional Italian music filled the air. I was in Venice. Yet, with all its splendor and history, I somehow wanted to go home. I was trying to make the best of the moment. For about five minutes, I stood on one of the canal bridges trying to identify what was sapping my energy. I needed to give it a name, embrace it and try to understand it. Then after holding on to it, fully separate myself from it. It seemed to be a small shred of emotion left from the day’s earlier recollections of the “girl friend” back home. “Identify it. Embrace it fully. See it for what it is and separate yourself from it,” is what I thought and probably said out loud leaving me to look like a crazy guy on a bridge. That’s the way it goes sometimes.
Old life lessons came to mind as I walked. Time, that intangible substance that connects our current life with our future one, is neutral. One can use it (time) to their advantage or let it be used to their disadvantage, if not conscious. The choice is really one’s own. Decide what the future will be and work to make it so. “I need to get on with my program and make it already to the world stage of business and life.” I had two more days of Venice. Then I would board a train to Ljubljana, Slovenia. ... to be continued.
Wednesday April 21, 2004, 12:30 p.m.
After a couple of days of concerts, great coffee and the occasional bottle of wine, I was off to Barcelona, Spain, which was, to say the least, a stop-on-the-fly. I wandered around from one monument to the next. I streamed through new and old art museums. At the end of one day, I even sat and reflected about life while filling out a few post cards wondering what the rest of the trip would be like considering the last couple of days attempting to follow rule #1 for the trip—to not think of school or that bitch of a girlfriend I left at home. It worked for a while, but school would soon be at the top of my thought processing for unexpected reasons.
“Maybe we’ll catch up in Venice,” I mentioned to Marina as we dismissed ourselves in grand Spanish fashion with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The flight from Spain flew by with interesting accounts of Barcelona’s ‘hipster’ scene and the bombing in Madrid. “A couple of nights in Venice…then Ljubljana,” I thought as I made my way onto a bus heading towards town. In Venice, I met up with my friend and classmate Chris Major almost immediately after I got off the bus. We loosely planned the rendezvous a week previously in London. As in London, we made our way to a café to sit, drink and discuss how our trips had been to that point. In the process, a parade of tourists, locals and students passed by the Stadda Nova—the main street through most of Venice. During our conversation and crowd watching, school and my last experience in the Netherlands made their way to mind. I was able to put school on the back burner being in a good place with company, but the Netherlands incident managed to replay.
Three days previously, I was standing in front of a theater watching my friend Selma make her way home in the rain. The chorus from Cold Play’s Clocks started to play in the background of my mind (…nothing compares…). I was having a sensitive moment, and rightly so. We had passed the earlier part of the evening at a wine café recollecting people and times spent in museums and other ‘touristy’ places on earlier trips attempting to dry a little from being caught in the rain earlier. It was like a the ending scene from Lost In Translation where Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson embrace, whisper a few things to each other and part ways returning to their real lives, leaving the experience behind. Reality was calling, and the rain helped bring me back into it.
There are few times in life when what you think, what you experience and what you feel are all happening at the same time; it’s what I like to call a real moment. And even though the moment was only a few minutes, I knew it would last a lifetime and replay somewhere else, some other time with some other person. I was still chasing after my dreams and would hopefully meet someone to share the rest of my adventures with, but it would not be the Dutch. “There is no distance too great for who ever she is,” I thought even further in the background of my mind. A small reminder that life is bigger than we realize. As the scene closed in my thoughts, I could feel my stomach nagging me for some kind of nourishment. We wandered around Venice the rest of the afternoon hitting pizza places and gelato stands. Towards the end of the afternoon, Chris and I ended up at the local grocery store for dinner necessities.
Italian isn’t much like Spanish when attempting to order turkey slices for sandwiches or deciding which wine container is better than some other. It was interesting at least. Standing in the checkout line was only better due to the new international language of the Euro, which reads like dollars only worth more. You really only need to know how to read the numbers and not bother open your mouth leaving the check-out girl wondering if your having a bad day or just not in the mood to talk. Ha ha ha. We made our way out and ran into a couple of Americans, Sierra & Katie, who had also been standing in the checkout lanes. They were sitting and feasting away on the doorstep of a closed church; so we stopped and gabbed with them for a bit (as you would normally do when you find other people you can communicate to without sounding dumb) extending an invitation for a cup of Italy’s world famous coffee. Later that evening, I met up with the two, not really expecting them to show, in front of Major’s wife’s flat. We ended up making espresso and yapping about things I can’t quite remember. What I do remember was that they were from Seattle and were on their way to Austria the next day.
As I walked back to my room at Archies’ (a back packer type of Inn), the sounds of passing gondolas and traditional Italian music filled the air. I was in Venice. Yet, with all its splendor and history, I somehow wanted to go home. I was trying to make the best of the moment. For about five minutes, I stood on one of the canal bridges trying to identify what was sapping my energy. I needed to give it a name, embrace it and try to understand it. Then after holding on to it, fully separate myself from it. It seemed to be a small shred of emotion left from the day’s earlier recollections of the “girl friend” back home. “Identify it. Embrace it fully. See it for what it is and separate yourself from it,” is what I thought and probably said out loud leaving me to look like a crazy guy on a bridge. That’s the way it goes sometimes.
Old life lessons came to mind as I walked. Time, that intangible substance that connects our current life with our future one, is neutral. One can use it (time) to their advantage or let it be used to their disadvantage, if not conscious. The choice is really one’s own. Decide what the future will be and work to make it so. “I need to get on with my program and make it already to the world stage of business and life.” I had two more days of Venice. Then I would board a train to Ljubljana, Slovenia. ... to be continued.
True Stories: Part II-Planes, Trains, & Automobiles
Part Two
Planes, Trains & Automobiles: The beginning.
April 15th hadn’t come soon enough. The winter trimester (not to mention this publication) had taken its toll on my energy. Anywhere away from home, school and the excuse I called a job sounded good. The further. The better. At some point earlier in the trimester I decided to go to Europe. It was my tradition after all. I was overdue a visit to the Atlantic to visit friends and places before the end of my golden year—April 29, 2006. There were still a few things to finish checking off on my “to-do-before-30 list”. One item was to visit and experience one new country; it would be Slovenia. Before I got that far, I would traverse through Iceland, England, the Netherlands, Spain and Italy.
Arriving into London’s Heathrow airport at 11:45 a.m., Major and I had the interesting task of getting to Stansted airport between 4:30 and 6:00 p.m. Heathrow is a good 20 minutes from the metropolitan train to the city center, and Stansted is almost an hour out of the London’s city center. A good part of our afternoon went into finding a pub and getting a couple of dishes of “bangers and mash.” The remaining time went to finding out how to get to Stansted. For a while, we enjoyed the scenery and laughed at the bartender’s commentary on gratuity. Soon enough we were on our way. Major was off to Venice, Italy, and I was on my way to the Netherlands. We would meet up again in just under a week.
“Hey. I made it to London, England. I’ll be in AMS around 9:40 p.m. and should be able to catch up with you close to 10:30 p.m. at Rotterdam Central. Let me know where to find you. F,” is what the text message read as I sent it to Selma. Her last e-mail from a couple of weeks back expressed welcome and a lot of disbelief at my potential arrival. All my plans to revisit her never worked out. Now, I was only a few hours away.
As the flight attendant announced our arrival to Schiphol, Amsterdam’s international airport, I started to become more lucid. It had been 32 hours since I slept last. Making my way off the plane and down to the baggage claim area seemed very familiar. I switched on my mobile. I was hoping the text message I sent a few hours back made it to Selma. If it had, she hadn’t acknowledged it. “No worries,” I thought as I walked through customs and toward the train ticket counter. The train to Rotterdam was due to leave in 15 minutes. I sent Selma another text message knowing the train ride was an hour long giving her enough time to text me back. I was tired, and it was starting to hit me.
On the train, I drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like 20 minutes as the train started to slow. “Hmm. Not the stop that’s on my schedule!” Realizing I had gotten on the wrong train sent a jolt of adrenaline through my body. I was now awake and quickly moving to the exit door to get off. Before long, I was in route back to the airport staying on the train until it reached Amsterdam Central. It was now 11:10 p.m. I began to wonder if I needed to give up getting to Rotterdam and Selma till the next day. It was something I was hoping to avoid.
Amsterdam’s nightlife was in full bloom. The fresh smell of “weed” drifted through the air like an overdose of bad cologne for a night on the town. Obnoxious tourist, drunk and lost, seemed to be flooding in and out of doorways everywhere at once as if it was a synchronized bar event. Some of the doorways belonged to bars while others were to live sex show stages. Off in the narrow side roads, I could see the red doors and lights of the famous Red Light district crowed by packs of men. And like wolves, they seemed to have saliva dripping from their mouths as their evening ‘dessert’ was now available to service their needs for the right price. “Life’s common denominator—sex.” I kept on walking. I needed sleep, and I needed it soon. It was then that my mobile’s alert went off.
“…That only took two weeks,” I spouted off opening the message. “Where are you?” is not what I was expecting to read realizing she must have waited for me at the station in Rotterdam. Changing direction, I asked where I should go to find her. Moments later the message came back and said, “Den Hegg.” I knew the name but not the town; it was a 30-minute train ride. So, I was off.
Along the way, Selma sent me the name of the bar, which I couldn’t pronounce and was certain to miss looking for it on my own. The possibility of missing her in Den Haag was big and would mean homelessness for the night. Ha ha ha. It was now 12:25 a.m. A line of taxi cabs had formed just outside of the station. I asked one of the drivers where I could catch tram #6 at which he replied were no longer running. Not after midnight. “Great!” I thought. “I’ll pay you whatever it costs for you to drive me to where that tram goes,” I said with an obvious look of eagerness showing him the names on the text message I had received earlier. He motioned a “yes” with his head, and we were off.
“In a cab. Be there in 10 minutes. What are the cross street names?” was the last message I sent to Selma. The cabby knew the place about as well as I did—not at all. Before too long, we arrived at a gas station where he got directions to the opposite side of the street. I could see the plaza. It was packed. I paid the guy and started walking. The first bar I went into and asked for directions (pointing to the names on my mobile screen) was worthless, as the bartender hadn’t heard of it before. A small sharp pain shot into my chest. “I could very well be in the wrong plaza,” I thought knowing I was going to miss Selma my first of two nights in the Netherlands. Worse. I would be homeless.
As I walked toward the next pub attempting to decide on a better plan of action till morning, I heard someone call my name. I was a familiar sound. Through the loudness of the plaza and now raindrops, I heard my name again only closer this time. I stopped walking and turned to see Selma. A Master Card commercial started to play in the recesses of my mind. “Plane ticket from London to Amsterdam: $75. Taxi cab fare from the train station to a plaza in the middle of nowhere: $20. Someone calling your name in a crowded plaza after 40 hours of not sleeping: Priceless!”
For all of a few seconds, every crappy part of my trip disappeared. There, only a few feet away, was the blonde Dutch I had crossed the ocean a second time to visit and to share a very small fraction of my life’s time. She hadn’t noticed me standing next to her so closely as she had apparently just started yelling out my name. But, when she did, she started laughing. We hugged for a moment and joined the rest of her drinking crew for a few more beers. Despite my tiredness, we stayed out till 3:00a.m. when we caught the next train to her place in Rotterdam. I passed out sometime after four.
Planes, Trains & Automobiles: The beginning.
April 15th hadn’t come soon enough. The winter trimester (not to mention this publication) had taken its toll on my energy. Anywhere away from home, school and the excuse I called a job sounded good. The further. The better. At some point earlier in the trimester I decided to go to Europe. It was my tradition after all. I was overdue a visit to the Atlantic to visit friends and places before the end of my golden year—April 29, 2006. There were still a few things to finish checking off on my “to-do-before-30 list”. One item was to visit and experience one new country; it would be Slovenia. Before I got that far, I would traverse through Iceland, England, the Netherlands, Spain and Italy.
Arriving into London’s Heathrow airport at 11:45 a.m., Major and I had the interesting task of getting to Stansted airport between 4:30 and 6:00 p.m. Heathrow is a good 20 minutes from the metropolitan train to the city center, and Stansted is almost an hour out of the London’s city center. A good part of our afternoon went into finding a pub and getting a couple of dishes of “bangers and mash.” The remaining time went to finding out how to get to Stansted. For a while, we enjoyed the scenery and laughed at the bartender’s commentary on gratuity. Soon enough we were on our way. Major was off to Venice, Italy, and I was on my way to the Netherlands. We would meet up again in just under a week.
“Hey. I made it to London, England. I’ll be in AMS around 9:40 p.m. and should be able to catch up with you close to 10:30 p.m. at Rotterdam Central. Let me know where to find you. F,” is what the text message read as I sent it to Selma. Her last e-mail from a couple of weeks back expressed welcome and a lot of disbelief at my potential arrival. All my plans to revisit her never worked out. Now, I was only a few hours away.
As the flight attendant announced our arrival to Schiphol, Amsterdam’s international airport, I started to become more lucid. It had been 32 hours since I slept last. Making my way off the plane and down to the baggage claim area seemed very familiar. I switched on my mobile. I was hoping the text message I sent a few hours back made it to Selma. If it had, she hadn’t acknowledged it. “No worries,” I thought as I walked through customs and toward the train ticket counter. The train to Rotterdam was due to leave in 15 minutes. I sent Selma another text message knowing the train ride was an hour long giving her enough time to text me back. I was tired, and it was starting to hit me.
On the train, I drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like 20 minutes as the train started to slow. “Hmm. Not the stop that’s on my schedule!” Realizing I had gotten on the wrong train sent a jolt of adrenaline through my body. I was now awake and quickly moving to the exit door to get off. Before long, I was in route back to the airport staying on the train until it reached Amsterdam Central. It was now 11:10 p.m. I began to wonder if I needed to give up getting to Rotterdam and Selma till the next day. It was something I was hoping to avoid.
Amsterdam’s nightlife was in full bloom. The fresh smell of “weed” drifted through the air like an overdose of bad cologne for a night on the town. Obnoxious tourist, drunk and lost, seemed to be flooding in and out of doorways everywhere at once as if it was a synchronized bar event. Some of the doorways belonged to bars while others were to live sex show stages. Off in the narrow side roads, I could see the red doors and lights of the famous Red Light district crowed by packs of men. And like wolves, they seemed to have saliva dripping from their mouths as their evening ‘dessert’ was now available to service their needs for the right price. “Life’s common denominator—sex.” I kept on walking. I needed sleep, and I needed it soon. It was then that my mobile’s alert went off.
“…That only took two weeks,” I spouted off opening the message. “Where are you?” is not what I was expecting to read realizing she must have waited for me at the station in Rotterdam. Changing direction, I asked where I should go to find her. Moments later the message came back and said, “Den Hegg.” I knew the name but not the town; it was a 30-minute train ride. So, I was off.
Along the way, Selma sent me the name of the bar, which I couldn’t pronounce and was certain to miss looking for it on my own. The possibility of missing her in Den Haag was big and would mean homelessness for the night. Ha ha ha. It was now 12:25 a.m. A line of taxi cabs had formed just outside of the station. I asked one of the drivers where I could catch tram #6 at which he replied were no longer running. Not after midnight. “Great!” I thought. “I’ll pay you whatever it costs for you to drive me to where that tram goes,” I said with an obvious look of eagerness showing him the names on the text message I had received earlier. He motioned a “yes” with his head, and we were off.
“In a cab. Be there in 10 minutes. What are the cross street names?” was the last message I sent to Selma. The cabby knew the place about as well as I did—not at all. Before too long, we arrived at a gas station where he got directions to the opposite side of the street. I could see the plaza. It was packed. I paid the guy and started walking. The first bar I went into and asked for directions (pointing to the names on my mobile screen) was worthless, as the bartender hadn’t heard of it before. A small sharp pain shot into my chest. “I could very well be in the wrong plaza,” I thought knowing I was going to miss Selma my first of two nights in the Netherlands. Worse. I would be homeless.
As I walked toward the next pub attempting to decide on a better plan of action till morning, I heard someone call my name. I was a familiar sound. Through the loudness of the plaza and now raindrops, I heard my name again only closer this time. I stopped walking and turned to see Selma. A Master Card commercial started to play in the recesses of my mind. “Plane ticket from London to Amsterdam: $75. Taxi cab fare from the train station to a plaza in the middle of nowhere: $20. Someone calling your name in a crowded plaza after 40 hours of not sleeping: Priceless!”
For all of a few seconds, every crappy part of my trip disappeared. There, only a few feet away, was the blonde Dutch I had crossed the ocean a second time to visit and to share a very small fraction of my life’s time. She hadn’t noticed me standing next to her so closely as she had apparently just started yelling out my name. But, when she did, she started laughing. We hugged for a moment and joined the rest of her drinking crew for a few more beers. Despite my tiredness, we stayed out till 3:00a.m. when we caught the next train to her place in Rotterdam. I passed out sometime after four.
True Stories: Part I-Remaining Calm and Collected When The Unexpected Happens.
Remaining Calm & Collected When The Unexpected Happens.
I was on my way back into Europe for the second time last summer. I had just finished a pre-professional class in General Chemistry and couldn’t think of anything better to do than to travel and take advantage of the time off before starting another set of classes for Fall 2002. It was August, and I was going to visit my Dutch friend Selma. We met in Madrid, Spain during an earlier trip I was on through Europe that summer—it was a fast, fun and full trip that started out as a cross-country drive from Amsterdam into Germany. It later turned into a series of train and plane rides through France, Spain, and Portugal and back into Amsterdam to make it home. Some years early on in my life, I became convinced that, “life goes by pretty fast. If you don’t stop to take a look around once in a while, you might miss it (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.).”
So, there I was on Northwest flight # 50 direct to Amsterdam from Minneapolis. I was chatting with Loren about my life, my love of travel and my trip plans when we finally arrived into AMS. It took a good 15 minutes to get off the carrier and another 10 minutes to get down the corridor when I began to advise Loren on keeping her personal goods in a safe place especially in the transfer halls. At that moment Loren stopped me in mid-sentence with a look of terror on her face. “I left my purse on the plane!” she said and started to make her way back to the gate. I’d like to think I’m calm and collected when unexpected things happen, but every now and then something comes up that makes it hard to pull off a James Bond-like smoothness.
I began to look for one of the flight attendants and see if they might be able to radio the remaining plane crew about the purse and have it located and secured. I can think of worse things that could happen to you when traveling, but I admit that losing a purse with all of your documentation is high on the list of things to avoid while traveling abroad. This situation seemed fairly controllable. At this point a few minutes had already gone by, and I figured it was time to start double timing it back to the gate and see if Loren had better luck. Finally, I ran into a couple of the flight attendants and made inquiry about Loren and her purse. They look at me as if I was speaking a foreign language, which, when I think about it, I was. English is one of two or three languages spoken by most Dutch people but not the first. They hadn’t seen her.
At this point, I was still calm and collected and continued toward the gate from which Loren and I had arrived. Finally, I saw a familiar face—it was the head flight attendant, Henna. I managed to have developed some level of familiarity with a few of the flight attendants from previous trips into Europe in my earlier life. Knowing people in the airline industry comes useful at times like that. As usual, we managed to have some dialog about our country’s “American-Cowboy” attitude in the Middle East. She had good news—she had found Loren’s purse and turned it into the head officer of the flight, whom later we find turned the purse into airport security. “Where’s Loren?” I thought. Henna didn’t seem to know and hadn’t seen her. She thought I knew and though we were traveling together. It’s why she offered me the information about the purse. “Hmmm,” I sighed. I had met Loren in Minneapolis at the gate while we were waiting to board the plane. You’d be surprised how being polite can go a long way in traveling culture. Apparently, we had carried on so well that Henna thought we were traveling together.
Now, I wasn’t sure what to do. I decided to check the gate anyway thinking Loren may have gotten her purse and was making a dash for her next flight. For a few moments, there was no one there…anywhere in the rest of the hall except a few airport police directing traffic. Then, I began to hear what seemed to be a woman crying. Sure enough, it was Loren. She was crying with good reason—the airport police followed by a couple of military personnel were bringing her into custody. She had managed to get back onto the plane without being noticed and got locked into it. I suppose she panicked and someone called the police. At that moment, she looked up and pointed me out. “He was sitting with me on the plane. He knows who I am!” she exclaimed. I thought, “This is not good.” I was being associated with a woman (who didn’t have any I.D., was found on an unoccupied airliner and happened to be hysterical) thought to have been leaving a bomb or something on the plane!
What happened next? Before I knew it, I was surrounded. “Calm and collected,” I thought, but I had started to lose it. One of the officers asked if I knew the woman and if I could I.D. her. I said, “Yes.” I began to tell him what I knew about Loren and her purse and that the head flight attendant had turned it into someone, but I wasn’t sure whom. “Nice way to start your vacation,” I thought.
I was still attempting to remain calm as I remembered a small 60-second digital video I shot of Loren at the gate in Minneapolis. I got the camera to take sound clips of the various accents one encounters while traveling. People like to talk about themselves when put in front of a camera. I offered it to the officer asking the questions, for which some I didn’t know the answers. He viewed the clip, and it seemed to verify most of what I had stated to him. Unfortunately, until the officials could locate the purse, we were going to have to remain in what was now detainment. And no sooner than I could put my camera away, a call came in on one of their radios. They found the purse with Loren’s stuff. What a relief.
Before long she was escorted to the next leg of her flight bound for Portugal. It had been put on alert as her bags made it to the plane and she hadn’t. You’re right! The Portuguese airline officials were trying to find her bag for safety purposes and had temporarily grounded the flight. Luckily, Loren did make the flight because of the official’s protocol. In the end, she stopped crying and gave me a hug and an email address. I wished her luck and went about my business of getting to Rotterdam and hopefully a beer with my friends. But before that, I needed a cup of coffee. It was only 6:55 a.m., and that last hour had seemed something like an eternity. There it is.
I was on my way back into Europe for the second time last summer. I had just finished a pre-professional class in General Chemistry and couldn’t think of anything better to do than to travel and take advantage of the time off before starting another set of classes for Fall 2002. It was August, and I was going to visit my Dutch friend Selma. We met in Madrid, Spain during an earlier trip I was on through Europe that summer—it was a fast, fun and full trip that started out as a cross-country drive from Amsterdam into Germany. It later turned into a series of train and plane rides through France, Spain, and Portugal and back into Amsterdam to make it home. Some years early on in my life, I became convinced that, “life goes by pretty fast. If you don’t stop to take a look around once in a while, you might miss it (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.).”
So, there I was on Northwest flight # 50 direct to Amsterdam from Minneapolis. I was chatting with Loren about my life, my love of travel and my trip plans when we finally arrived into AMS. It took a good 15 minutes to get off the carrier and another 10 minutes to get down the corridor when I began to advise Loren on keeping her personal goods in a safe place especially in the transfer halls. At that moment Loren stopped me in mid-sentence with a look of terror on her face. “I left my purse on the plane!” she said and started to make her way back to the gate. I’d like to think I’m calm and collected when unexpected things happen, but every now and then something comes up that makes it hard to pull off a James Bond-like smoothness.
I began to look for one of the flight attendants and see if they might be able to radio the remaining plane crew about the purse and have it located and secured. I can think of worse things that could happen to you when traveling, but I admit that losing a purse with all of your documentation is high on the list of things to avoid while traveling abroad. This situation seemed fairly controllable. At this point a few minutes had already gone by, and I figured it was time to start double timing it back to the gate and see if Loren had better luck. Finally, I ran into a couple of the flight attendants and made inquiry about Loren and her purse. They look at me as if I was speaking a foreign language, which, when I think about it, I was. English is one of two or three languages spoken by most Dutch people but not the first. They hadn’t seen her.
At this point, I was still calm and collected and continued toward the gate from which Loren and I had arrived. Finally, I saw a familiar face—it was the head flight attendant, Henna. I managed to have developed some level of familiarity with a few of the flight attendants from previous trips into Europe in my earlier life. Knowing people in the airline industry comes useful at times like that. As usual, we managed to have some dialog about our country’s “American-Cowboy” attitude in the Middle East. She had good news—she had found Loren’s purse and turned it into the head officer of the flight, whom later we find turned the purse into airport security. “Where’s Loren?” I thought. Henna didn’t seem to know and hadn’t seen her. She thought I knew and though we were traveling together. It’s why she offered me the information about the purse. “Hmmm,” I sighed. I had met Loren in Minneapolis at the gate while we were waiting to board the plane. You’d be surprised how being polite can go a long way in traveling culture. Apparently, we had carried on so well that Henna thought we were traveling together.
Now, I wasn’t sure what to do. I decided to check the gate anyway thinking Loren may have gotten her purse and was making a dash for her next flight. For a few moments, there was no one there…anywhere in the rest of the hall except a few airport police directing traffic. Then, I began to hear what seemed to be a woman crying. Sure enough, it was Loren. She was crying with good reason—the airport police followed by a couple of military personnel were bringing her into custody. She had managed to get back onto the plane without being noticed and got locked into it. I suppose she panicked and someone called the police. At that moment, she looked up and pointed me out. “He was sitting with me on the plane. He knows who I am!” she exclaimed. I thought, “This is not good.” I was being associated with a woman (who didn’t have any I.D., was found on an unoccupied airliner and happened to be hysterical) thought to have been leaving a bomb or something on the plane!
What happened next? Before I knew it, I was surrounded. “Calm and collected,” I thought, but I had started to lose it. One of the officers asked if I knew the woman and if I could I.D. her. I said, “Yes.” I began to tell him what I knew about Loren and her purse and that the head flight attendant had turned it into someone, but I wasn’t sure whom. “Nice way to start your vacation,” I thought.
I was still attempting to remain calm as I remembered a small 60-second digital video I shot of Loren at the gate in Minneapolis. I got the camera to take sound clips of the various accents one encounters while traveling. People like to talk about themselves when put in front of a camera. I offered it to the officer asking the questions, for which some I didn’t know the answers. He viewed the clip, and it seemed to verify most of what I had stated to him. Unfortunately, until the officials could locate the purse, we were going to have to remain in what was now detainment. And no sooner than I could put my camera away, a call came in on one of their radios. They found the purse with Loren’s stuff. What a relief.
Before long she was escorted to the next leg of her flight bound for Portugal. It had been put on alert as her bags made it to the plane and she hadn’t. You’re right! The Portuguese airline officials were trying to find her bag for safety purposes and had temporarily grounded the flight. Luckily, Loren did make the flight because of the official’s protocol. In the end, she stopped crying and gave me a hug and an email address. I wished her luck and went about my business of getting to Rotterdam and hopefully a beer with my friends. But before that, I needed a cup of coffee. It was only 6:55 a.m., and that last hour had seemed something like an eternity. There it is.
True Stories Part I: Helping A Perfect Stranger.
European Vacation: Helping A Perfect Stranger.
It was June and the second week of a two-week trip to Europe. I was a week away from starting my General Chemistry pre-requisite classes. As is my custom, I would make an effort to go somewhere on my time-off before it got busy. Without too much thought, I was on my way to Europe. I really like hanging out with the Europeans and being immersed in their various cultures and languages. It’s all about the people and the experiences you get to share with them when wandering around from city to city and country to country. The first week I spent in Germany visiting a couple a friends I met on Spring break in Mexico two months earlier. They saw to it that I experienced the best beer and dance places Dusseldorf had to offer and a few touristy ones for comparison. When the week was over, I headed to Spain.
“Thanks for the kiss,” Alicia said as I waved down a taxi for her. It was 2:30 a.m., and nightlife was well on its way. In the background, I could hear someone approaching. “Excuse me. Do you know of a cheap motel or hostel that is open still (translated from Spanish)?” the back-packer asked. For a moment, I assessed what he said and compared it with his appearance and overall condition (Rule #3: Nothing is what it appears to be.) and attempted to decide if he really needed help or was just trying to pull one over on me for some quick ‘pick-pocket’ cash. He looked pretty much like I do when I get off a transatlantic flight—a little disoriented and ready to pass out. We were all standing in the middle of Sol Plaza—a center of Madrid’s nightlife. I knew he was S.O.L. as far as cheap accommodations went and less likely to find anyone else to loan him a hand that late and dark out.
Deciding if I was going to help this guy or just blow him off was originally not on the evenings agenda (…send Alicia to where she came from, brush my teeth and go to bed a.s.a.p.) Yeah. I was feeling selfish. “I could just send him into the crazy night scene with bad directions and then go to bed,” is what I thought. What I actually told him was I could help him get to a hostel, but it had to wait till morning. The immediate problem was what to do with him till then. I had an answer, but waited until we got back to my pension room to tell him (The Pension was a secure environment, and I was less subject to ambushing like in many of the secondary street ways.). Fortunately for Roberto, I had flown in earlier that day and found a room near the plaza.
Who’s Alicia? She’s an American I met at the Philadelphia International airport while waiting for my connecting flight to Amsterdam—my rendezvous spot with the Germans. She was standing next to me in a food line as I smiled at her and said, “Nice boots!” I saw a gal getting a pair polished down the hallway. She replied, “I noticed you noticing them as you walked by earlier.” I felt a little embarrassed but still invited her to sit and converse.
Surprisingly, people like having the little things about them noticed especially if they put any time or effort into them. It was then that she noted an overlap in our travel itineraries in Madrid. “We could meet for a drink,” she said, as it was time to board our separate planes. Like most close encounter of the airport kind, it’s often better to just relish the moment of pleasantries and proceed as planned leaving the entire moment behind. However, there are exceptions, and I decided to follow up on the affair after my week with the Germans. We met in Sol Plaza where my plans had started to change as this stranger approached us.
I let Roberto stay on the extra bed in my room. When I awoke the next day, he was gone. “Did I sleep that deeply as to not notice him leave?” is what I thought and partially said as I started to race through my stuff to check for missing items while attempting to put on my shoes. I was more concerned about my camera then cash or my passport because you always should have them strapped to your body somewhere… Not kinda! Not sometimes! Always! I walked out of the room, down the hall and into the reception area. The owner of the pension was there and mentioned I had a guest. “A guest?” I said in Spanish. Thinking it might be Alicia, I turned to look around, but not before the owner kindly pointed out that my zipper was down. From around the bend, emerged Roberto. “Hey. Coffee?” he said in Spanish. Attempting to act like I was calm and collected and not just having suffered a minor coronary, I agreed.
Later that morning while Roberto was finishing his affairs at the hostel check-in desk, I was giving directions to a few people on how to get the nearest Internet café. Before long, I was back in Sol Plaza with a few of the packers sipping on a café con leche, sucking up the sun, relaxing and listening to the Europeans complain about American politics. I felt completely in my element and the rest of my trip was spent with an English-speaking crew of packers (A Brit. A Canadian. A few Aussies and a Dutch girl.) I had earned a few pointes with the crew, as Roberto was more than grateful I had given him a hand and told his tale on how we came to be acquainted to everyone. It paved the way for me to becoming really good friends with the Dutch and a few other key players from the European front. I cashed in on the invitation to visit the Netherlands when my summer classes were over. It would be my last trip out of the country (but certainly not my last invite to visit people), and it lead to my semi-arrest at the Amsterdam airport as I arrived. There it is.
I still believe in paradise. But now, at least I know it not some place you can look for. Cause it’s not where you go. It’s how you feel for a moment in your life. And if you find that moment, it last forever.
It was June and the second week of a two-week trip to Europe. I was a week away from starting my General Chemistry pre-requisite classes. As is my custom, I would make an effort to go somewhere on my time-off before it got busy. Without too much thought, I was on my way to Europe. I really like hanging out with the Europeans and being immersed in their various cultures and languages. It’s all about the people and the experiences you get to share with them when wandering around from city to city and country to country. The first week I spent in Germany visiting a couple a friends I met on Spring break in Mexico two months earlier. They saw to it that I experienced the best beer and dance places Dusseldorf had to offer and a few touristy ones for comparison. When the week was over, I headed to Spain.
“Thanks for the kiss,” Alicia said as I waved down a taxi for her. It was 2:30 a.m., and nightlife was well on its way. In the background, I could hear someone approaching. “Excuse me. Do you know of a cheap motel or hostel that is open still (translated from Spanish)?” the back-packer asked. For a moment, I assessed what he said and compared it with his appearance and overall condition (Rule #3: Nothing is what it appears to be.) and attempted to decide if he really needed help or was just trying to pull one over on me for some quick ‘pick-pocket’ cash. He looked pretty much like I do when I get off a transatlantic flight—a little disoriented and ready to pass out. We were all standing in the middle of Sol Plaza—a center of Madrid’s nightlife. I knew he was S.O.L. as far as cheap accommodations went and less likely to find anyone else to loan him a hand that late and dark out.
Deciding if I was going to help this guy or just blow him off was originally not on the evenings agenda (…send Alicia to where she came from, brush my teeth and go to bed a.s.a.p.) Yeah. I was feeling selfish. “I could just send him into the crazy night scene with bad directions and then go to bed,” is what I thought. What I actually told him was I could help him get to a hostel, but it had to wait till morning. The immediate problem was what to do with him till then. I had an answer, but waited until we got back to my pension room to tell him (The Pension was a secure environment, and I was less subject to ambushing like in many of the secondary street ways.). Fortunately for Roberto, I had flown in earlier that day and found a room near the plaza.
Who’s Alicia? She’s an American I met at the Philadelphia International airport while waiting for my connecting flight to Amsterdam—my rendezvous spot with the Germans. She was standing next to me in a food line as I smiled at her and said, “Nice boots!” I saw a gal getting a pair polished down the hallway. She replied, “I noticed you noticing them as you walked by earlier.” I felt a little embarrassed but still invited her to sit and converse.
Surprisingly, people like having the little things about them noticed especially if they put any time or effort into them. It was then that she noted an overlap in our travel itineraries in Madrid. “We could meet for a drink,” she said, as it was time to board our separate planes. Like most close encounter of the airport kind, it’s often better to just relish the moment of pleasantries and proceed as planned leaving the entire moment behind. However, there are exceptions, and I decided to follow up on the affair after my week with the Germans. We met in Sol Plaza where my plans had started to change as this stranger approached us.
I let Roberto stay on the extra bed in my room. When I awoke the next day, he was gone. “Did I sleep that deeply as to not notice him leave?” is what I thought and partially said as I started to race through my stuff to check for missing items while attempting to put on my shoes. I was more concerned about my camera then cash or my passport because you always should have them strapped to your body somewhere… Not kinda! Not sometimes! Always! I walked out of the room, down the hall and into the reception area. The owner of the pension was there and mentioned I had a guest. “A guest?” I said in Spanish. Thinking it might be Alicia, I turned to look around, but not before the owner kindly pointed out that my zipper was down. From around the bend, emerged Roberto. “Hey. Coffee?” he said in Spanish. Attempting to act like I was calm and collected and not just having suffered a minor coronary, I agreed.
Later that morning while Roberto was finishing his affairs at the hostel check-in desk, I was giving directions to a few people on how to get the nearest Internet café. Before long, I was back in Sol Plaza with a few of the packers sipping on a café con leche, sucking up the sun, relaxing and listening to the Europeans complain about American politics. I felt completely in my element and the rest of my trip was spent with an English-speaking crew of packers (A Brit. A Canadian. A few Aussies and a Dutch girl.) I had earned a few pointes with the crew, as Roberto was more than grateful I had given him a hand and told his tale on how we came to be acquainted to everyone. It paved the way for me to becoming really good friends with the Dutch and a few other key players from the European front. I cashed in on the invitation to visit the Netherlands when my summer classes were over. It would be my last trip out of the country (but certainly not my last invite to visit people), and it lead to my semi-arrest at the Amsterdam airport as I arrived. There it is.
I still believe in paradise. But now, at least I know it not some place you can look for. Cause it’s not where you go. It’s how you feel for a moment in your life. And if you find that moment, it last forever.
The True Stories: Part I-Story I: The Mexican Vacation.
THE CHRONICLES OF TROY
Originally Published as True Stories.
Trust me. It’s paradise.
This is where the hungry come to feed.
For mine is a generation that circles
the globe in search of something we haven’t tried before.
So, never refuse an invitation.
Never resist the unfamiliar.
Never fail to be polite.
And never outstay your welcome.
Just keep your mind open and suck in the experience.
And if it hurts, you know what?
It’s probably working.
You hope and you dream but you never
believe that something’s going to happen to you.
Not like it does in the movies.
When it actually does, you expect it to feel different…
more visceral…more real…
I was waiting for it to hit me.
Part One
European Vacation: On The Auto.
Over the incline of the road, I could see the taillights of another car on the right and a set of headlights quickly approaching us from the rear. “Am I driving too slow?” asking as I shifted gears passing 145 mph on the dial and the car on the right. There was enough time to turn and see a Mercedes fly by on the left. “No. It’s the way traffic is on the Auto,” Michaella replied turning up the music—German. We were on our way to Dusseldorf, Germany from Amsterdam with her friend Simone. As we continued racing down the roadway gaining on the Mercedes, pictures of the Mexican vacation on which I met the girls came to mind. In the background of my mind, despite the loud hip-hop playing, Sting’s Stolen Car plays.
It wasn’t my first trip to the Netherlands or Europe for that matter. Traveling by the seat of my pants came naturally to me. And when money and time allowed, I would make my way to world stage of adventure. I made friends easily and often found myself in their homeland visiting. The Germans were the perfect example of it.
Two months earlier, around March 23, 2002, I had gotten a couple of $100 round-trip tickets into Cancun, Mexico. A Swedish guy I knew from Chemistry class decided to buy the extra ticket and join me on the trip. I usually travel alone, but I decided traveling with a Swede might be fun. We ended up in a beach town about 40 minutes south of Cancun. Populated with Europeans, Playa del Carmen or “Playa” is a rustic town that serves as a get-away from most Mexican tourist traps. Having been to the Mayan Riviera a number of times and wanting to stay away from the Spring Break groups, Playa became the best solution for the trip. It offered all the benefits of European culture and really nice beaches without the eight-hour plane ride. It was here that I met the Germans at a Blue Parrot beach party. Like few things in life, you could count on the Blue Parrot Party being lit with torches, 2 for 1-beer prices, good dance music and the occasional loss of clothing.
On our first night just after midnight, the spotlights started to shine onto a few of the tabletops where the local girls would attempt to dance in some sort of synchronized fashion. Local citizens making a few dollars to support their families, their shopping habits or maybe a ticket to some other place—short of being pulled into prostitution, making the scene dressed like a Robert-Palmer video girl probably sounded good and paid better than selling fruit in one of those tri-pod bicycle hoppers. There’s a lot of money to be made at these types of vacation spots—you have only to play the right role and make people believe you like them. Anything short of looking perfect with a language deficiency doomed you to a ten-hour workday at least six days a week and then some depending on the season. I’ve seen it before in other countries with similar conditions; it was all too real and familiar. As the girls started to dance, the beach flooded with people from other bars trying to get in on the groove. I decided it was time to polish off my beer and join in on the action.
The crowd was unison in movement to the rhythm of the music. It was like a rave—hot and crazy. Before long, I ended up on one of the tables jamming having noticed the dancing girls really needed lessons. Not really paying attention and probably with a good beer buzz, I missed noticing the crowd that had started to form just below me. As I became self-conscious, I jumped off the table and join the rest of people below.
As I hit the sand, I noticed the spotlight operator followed me off the table with the light. Yeah. I wasn’t sure what to do losing my rhythm. Fortunately, the music started to change into some trans/disco tune and my having lost the music’s beat went unnoticed. Like in a music video, I made my way closer to the water. At this point, there was a definite group of people imitating my movements as if I knew what I was doing. Now feeling like Rickie Martin, I was lost in the moment and went on dancing until the music changed. It was time for a soda or something—wiping my head clear of the sweat I had managed to work up.
“Nice moves!” yelled a voice over the crowd from behind the bar. I looked around to see which member of the bartending team (On Monday’s the Blue Parrot ’s hosts the ‘hottest bartender in Cancun contest’) was yapping at me. The bar owner stepped over to introduce himself. “Carolina thinks I should offer you a job,” he said handing me a beer. I laughed inquiring what the job and pay might entail and who Carolina was (hoping she was from some exotic country). With a handshake and a planned lunch for the following day to discuss the job issue at greater length, I left to find my Swedish friend Kim working out a few beer issues. While I was out dancing, he had met a couple of Dutch people and the Germans. Putting more water and a couple of beers down, we walked the girls back to their hotel during which they invited us to join them the following day to tan. I left and went to the beach to catch the sunrise as Kim jetted off with the Dutch couple to some after-party.
I wrote in my journal (now missing):
March 26, 2002: Tukan Beach, Playa del Carmen, Mexico
The sun is starting to rise, and as it does, the early morning twilight is giving
way to a warm reddish glow. I’m on the beach again. I’m a little tired and still
a little buzzed. It’s Tuesday the second day of another trip to Playa—nice. This
is the first time I’ve managed to stay awake to see the sunrise. Amazing. Off to find my Swedish friend Kim…I think he’s going to get lost. Coffee sounds really good right now.
I found him later that morning having breakfast on the deck. I was right; he had gotten lost on his way back to the pension.
“Which exit am I …,” as Michaella pints to the sign on the road realizing it probably didn’t make sense to me. I laughed and told her about the first time I had tried to find them on the beach in Playa. The beaches in Mexico tend to be topless and then some on underdeveloped stretches down the coast. Contrary to popular belief, there are rules that need to be followed in such environments. On such rule is to be invited to tan with a person or a group of people while they’re in the near ‘buff’. This brings us to another dilemma; if you get invited to tan with someone, you better show up with them because looking around for a friend on a topless beach is like being blind looking around randomly for a person that look a lot different with less clothing. Not to mention the general lack in appreciation for looking –passer-bys. It just doesn’t work. She laughed also having gotten the same explanation in Mexico and brought up the kayaking trip asking about my shoulder. “It still gets a little numb now and then,” I said down shifting to slow the car for the turn-off. I remember that incident well. I thought my time was up and was going to be fish food.
It was Friday the last day of our vacation, and after a couple of days of scuba diving through some of the underwater caves followed by more tanning and a volleyball tournament, it was time for a near twenty-mile ocean kayak tour. We were due back to the CUN airport by early evening. As chance would have it, I was wiped out of my kayak by a wave put out by a passing ocean cruiser. I turned into the waves a little too late and ended going through one holding on to my paddle, which went with the wave hyper-extending my shoulder to the point of dislocation. I was now a noticeable distance from the other people and really couldn’t see them as I bobbed up and down in the waves. I was a little over a half mile away from the nearest shoreline. It might as well have been 10 miles as my arm was useless. I straddled my kayak and made my way to shore. As I arrived, I noticed the Swede followed in behind me. Without thinking about it or explaining to him what had happened, I had him hold my arm as I yanked my body away from him painfully snapping my shoulder back into place. It was still functional but starting to swell. Now it was a matter of getting back to the other side of the bay before my shoulder became too stiff to use.
It must have taken us enough extra time to get back as there was a boat on the way out to find us having thought some tragedy had occurred. (I suppose it was tragic, as I would never play competitive volleyball again without fear of my shoulder popping out of place.) After getting to shore, my shoulder had pretty much gone stiff with swelling and needed some medical attention. The girls were both nurses and happened to have some anti-inflammatory in their gear. It was they who had expressed a level of concern to the tour guide operator. She was an Italian friend of mine that figured it was either my time or I was putting on a show to get a sympathy beer from them that gave in and came out to meet us.
We had dinner and went through the normal ‘farewell’ rituals knowing that they’re exactly that—rituals. Well normally. I knew I would be in Europe sooner or later and expressed an interest in seeing what German life was like and more importantly what their lives were like to which they extended the offer to show me around should I make the scene.
As we pulled into Dusseldorf, “Hey, there’s a few people we’re meeting for dinner that want to meet you. I told them you write and have an interesting style of expressing things,” Michaella mentioned as we pulled into the place I would be staying. It was an awesome time. There it is.
Originally Published as True Stories.
Trust me. It’s paradise.
This is where the hungry come to feed.
For mine is a generation that circles
the globe in search of something we haven’t tried before.
So, never refuse an invitation.
Never resist the unfamiliar.
Never fail to be polite.
And never outstay your welcome.
Just keep your mind open and suck in the experience.
And if it hurts, you know what?
It’s probably working.
You hope and you dream but you never
believe that something’s going to happen to you.
Not like it does in the movies.
When it actually does, you expect it to feel different…
more visceral…more real…
I was waiting for it to hit me.
Part One
European Vacation: On The Auto.
Over the incline of the road, I could see the taillights of another car on the right and a set of headlights quickly approaching us from the rear. “Am I driving too slow?” asking as I shifted gears passing 145 mph on the dial and the car on the right. There was enough time to turn and see a Mercedes fly by on the left. “No. It’s the way traffic is on the Auto,” Michaella replied turning up the music—German. We were on our way to Dusseldorf, Germany from Amsterdam with her friend Simone. As we continued racing down the roadway gaining on the Mercedes, pictures of the Mexican vacation on which I met the girls came to mind. In the background of my mind, despite the loud hip-hop playing, Sting’s Stolen Car plays.
It wasn’t my first trip to the Netherlands or Europe for that matter. Traveling by the seat of my pants came naturally to me. And when money and time allowed, I would make my way to world stage of adventure. I made friends easily and often found myself in their homeland visiting. The Germans were the perfect example of it.
Two months earlier, around March 23, 2002, I had gotten a couple of $100 round-trip tickets into Cancun, Mexico. A Swedish guy I knew from Chemistry class decided to buy the extra ticket and join me on the trip. I usually travel alone, but I decided traveling with a Swede might be fun. We ended up in a beach town about 40 minutes south of Cancun. Populated with Europeans, Playa del Carmen or “Playa” is a rustic town that serves as a get-away from most Mexican tourist traps. Having been to the Mayan Riviera a number of times and wanting to stay away from the Spring Break groups, Playa became the best solution for the trip. It offered all the benefits of European culture and really nice beaches without the eight-hour plane ride. It was here that I met the Germans at a Blue Parrot beach party. Like few things in life, you could count on the Blue Parrot Party being lit with torches, 2 for 1-beer prices, good dance music and the occasional loss of clothing.
On our first night just after midnight, the spotlights started to shine onto a few of the tabletops where the local girls would attempt to dance in some sort of synchronized fashion. Local citizens making a few dollars to support their families, their shopping habits or maybe a ticket to some other place—short of being pulled into prostitution, making the scene dressed like a Robert-Palmer video girl probably sounded good and paid better than selling fruit in one of those tri-pod bicycle hoppers. There’s a lot of money to be made at these types of vacation spots—you have only to play the right role and make people believe you like them. Anything short of looking perfect with a language deficiency doomed you to a ten-hour workday at least six days a week and then some depending on the season. I’ve seen it before in other countries with similar conditions; it was all too real and familiar. As the girls started to dance, the beach flooded with people from other bars trying to get in on the groove. I decided it was time to polish off my beer and join in on the action.
The crowd was unison in movement to the rhythm of the music. It was like a rave—hot and crazy. Before long, I ended up on one of the tables jamming having noticed the dancing girls really needed lessons. Not really paying attention and probably with a good beer buzz, I missed noticing the crowd that had started to form just below me. As I became self-conscious, I jumped off the table and join the rest of people below.
As I hit the sand, I noticed the spotlight operator followed me off the table with the light. Yeah. I wasn’t sure what to do losing my rhythm. Fortunately, the music started to change into some trans/disco tune and my having lost the music’s beat went unnoticed. Like in a music video, I made my way closer to the water. At this point, there was a definite group of people imitating my movements as if I knew what I was doing. Now feeling like Rickie Martin, I was lost in the moment and went on dancing until the music changed. It was time for a soda or something—wiping my head clear of the sweat I had managed to work up.
“Nice moves!” yelled a voice over the crowd from behind the bar. I looked around to see which member of the bartending team (On Monday’s the Blue Parrot ’s hosts the ‘hottest bartender in Cancun contest’) was yapping at me. The bar owner stepped over to introduce himself. “Carolina thinks I should offer you a job,” he said handing me a beer. I laughed inquiring what the job and pay might entail and who Carolina was (hoping she was from some exotic country). With a handshake and a planned lunch for the following day to discuss the job issue at greater length, I left to find my Swedish friend Kim working out a few beer issues. While I was out dancing, he had met a couple of Dutch people and the Germans. Putting more water and a couple of beers down, we walked the girls back to their hotel during which they invited us to join them the following day to tan. I left and went to the beach to catch the sunrise as Kim jetted off with the Dutch couple to some after-party.
I wrote in my journal (now missing):
March 26, 2002: Tukan Beach, Playa del Carmen, Mexico
The sun is starting to rise, and as it does, the early morning twilight is giving
way to a warm reddish glow. I’m on the beach again. I’m a little tired and still
a little buzzed. It’s Tuesday the second day of another trip to Playa—nice. This
is the first time I’ve managed to stay awake to see the sunrise. Amazing. Off to find my Swedish friend Kim…I think he’s going to get lost. Coffee sounds really good right now.
I found him later that morning having breakfast on the deck. I was right; he had gotten lost on his way back to the pension.
“Which exit am I …,” as Michaella pints to the sign on the road realizing it probably didn’t make sense to me. I laughed and told her about the first time I had tried to find them on the beach in Playa. The beaches in Mexico tend to be topless and then some on underdeveloped stretches down the coast. Contrary to popular belief, there are rules that need to be followed in such environments. On such rule is to be invited to tan with a person or a group of people while they’re in the near ‘buff’. This brings us to another dilemma; if you get invited to tan with someone, you better show up with them because looking around for a friend on a topless beach is like being blind looking around randomly for a person that look a lot different with less clothing. Not to mention the general lack in appreciation for looking –passer-bys. It just doesn’t work. She laughed also having gotten the same explanation in Mexico and brought up the kayaking trip asking about my shoulder. “It still gets a little numb now and then,” I said down shifting to slow the car for the turn-off. I remember that incident well. I thought my time was up and was going to be fish food.
It was Friday the last day of our vacation, and after a couple of days of scuba diving through some of the underwater caves followed by more tanning and a volleyball tournament, it was time for a near twenty-mile ocean kayak tour. We were due back to the CUN airport by early evening. As chance would have it, I was wiped out of my kayak by a wave put out by a passing ocean cruiser. I turned into the waves a little too late and ended going through one holding on to my paddle, which went with the wave hyper-extending my shoulder to the point of dislocation. I was now a noticeable distance from the other people and really couldn’t see them as I bobbed up and down in the waves. I was a little over a half mile away from the nearest shoreline. It might as well have been 10 miles as my arm was useless. I straddled my kayak and made my way to shore. As I arrived, I noticed the Swede followed in behind me. Without thinking about it or explaining to him what had happened, I had him hold my arm as I yanked my body away from him painfully snapping my shoulder back into place. It was still functional but starting to swell. Now it was a matter of getting back to the other side of the bay before my shoulder became too stiff to use.
It must have taken us enough extra time to get back as there was a boat on the way out to find us having thought some tragedy had occurred. (I suppose it was tragic, as I would never play competitive volleyball again without fear of my shoulder popping out of place.) After getting to shore, my shoulder had pretty much gone stiff with swelling and needed some medical attention. The girls were both nurses and happened to have some anti-inflammatory in their gear. It was they who had expressed a level of concern to the tour guide operator. She was an Italian friend of mine that figured it was either my time or I was putting on a show to get a sympathy beer from them that gave in and came out to meet us.
We had dinner and went through the normal ‘farewell’ rituals knowing that they’re exactly that—rituals. Well normally. I knew I would be in Europe sooner or later and expressed an interest in seeing what German life was like and more importantly what their lives were like to which they extended the offer to show me around should I make the scene.
As we pulled into Dusseldorf, “Hey, there’s a few people we’re meeting for dinner that want to meet you. I told them you write and have an interesting style of expressing things,” Michaella mentioned as we pulled into the place I would be staying. It was an awesome time. There it is.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)