My dear friends: I've been amiss with my travel logs, I know. I've
started several, but never finished them. Truth is, I went through a dip
and wasn't coming up with my favorite flavor of ice cream, but I'm back
on track. Now that I know what the hell I'll be doing with my life for
the next year, I feel purposeful and excited. It's disconcerting to be
stuck in cluelesshood without a map and coordinates plotting out the
route to the final destination of happiness. I know, I know, happiness
is not a destination, but the journey itself. Clichés aside, my reality
is that to become comfortable with the discomfort of not knowing takes
an exhausting amount of attitudinal aerobics and infinite patience. In
the meantime, I cling to the ever illusive idea of pulling into
Happiness's driveway after a long life’s drive and bellying up to the
bar for a beer and a rest.
I think what I'll do is piece together
the false starts of the logs of the past four weeks and then send in a
separate account the story of the highlight of this trip--befriending a
pair of homeless people on Christmas Eve. I've visited them every day
without fail and taken notes on our conversations. They unknowingly
possess a great amount of wisdom, compassion and joy and have dispelled
the misconceptions I had about the homeless. My time with them has been
transformative.
I believe we last left off in travel log #3 with
the trials and tribulations of living with Kiti, the cranky cat. Her
demeanor has settled, but not her stomach. Just yesterday I put on my
ropers to take a bit of Texan into these tapa bars and when I pushed
through the swinging door from the living room into the dark hallway, my
sole hit a patch of Purina Meow Mix puke and I came within a gnat's
nose of busting my ass. Then there was the gross factor of cleaning off
my boot. I drug that foot all the way across the Plaza Mayor hoping to
clear the crevices. Despite her digestive issues, I have grown to love
Barf Bag and will miss her warm body curled up on mine.
I´ve
disregarded tradition this trip by beginning the travel missives with
something other than the plane ride to the undertaken destination. There
is a story to be told, and here it is:
As if to get back at me
for making fun of previous seatmates, the Universe left me unaccompanied
for the 7 hr and 10 min flight on Aer Lingus from Washington to Madrid.
Where in the world did they come up with a name like Aer Lingus for an
airline? I couldn’t help it; every time a crew member addressed us on
behalf of Aer Lingus I thought of Captain Hook having oral sex. Anyway,
perhaps I was issued solitude for the duration of a flight across the
Atlantic to reflect on why I derive gratification from poking fun at
people on planes. For example, I wasn’t going to write about this,
because I had decided it contrary to good karma to publish my
observations (criticisms) of others, but it’s just burning me a new one
to tell you about the West Texas farmboy who was at my side on the
flight out of Dallas. Beside, I need an example to prove my point about
why it’s wrong to make fun of people, on planes.
“This is my first
time flying,” Opie turned to me and announced with a smile that would
more suitably go with a full stringer of catfish than an airplane ride.
Not knowing quite how to respond to this confession I said, “Oh, it’s
not that bad,” and immediately felt the doofiness of that response. Why
was I assuming he was anticipating an unpleasant experience? He didn’t
seem nervous. To the contrary, his bulging fishstringer smile
complimented a face glowing a few shades pinker than his red crew cut.
He’s probably taken short flights all over a rodeo ring since he could
walk. Shoot, this is a pony ride for a seasoned cowboy like him.
However, when he pulled money from the 3 x 4 inch flap-faced, leather
wallet chained to his beltloop to pay for a Jim Beam and Coke, I thought
maybe he just has a good pokerface. Really he is scared shitless and
needs a stiff drink to calm his nerves. On the other hand, he didn’t
look a day over 21, so maybe he was just enjoying the excitement of a
new freedom, like a kid riding his bike no-hands for the second time.
In
keeping with good southern manners, he sure was polite. “Ma’m, how’d
you get your seat to go back like that?” he asked with a big catfish
grin. If he hadn’t been looking straight at me, I would have answered
with Robert De Niro’s classic, “You talkin’ to me?” “Ma’m” is a social
phenomena to me. I was raised to use it along with “Sir” anytime
I was addressing an adult, and I still do use it in circumstances of an
extremely respectful demand. When I am addressed with it by anyone
who’s age would make it biologically impossible to be my child, however,
it makes me feel, well, more mature than my age.
Of similar
significance is the distinction between, “Señorita” and “Señora.” Two
summers ago while traveling in Colombia I noticed I was addressed with
both. Since turning 40, though, it’s as if I have “old maid” tattooed on
my forehead and I’m never called anything but Señora.
Anyway, due
to my impure thoughts of Opie, my request for a fascinating, wealthy
Spanish seatmate to charm into inviting me to his/her summer home in
Malaga was denied. Opportunities for human interaction abounded despite
that, given that my seat was diagonal to the lavatory, which meant I
could inspect and, if so inclined, interrogate anyone waiting in line. I
also had the good fortune of lateral alignment with the galley where
the flight crew takes smokeless cigarette breaks and throws each other
under the bus. A live soap opera performance, just for me. The red-head
with her hair in a beehive cornered the English, gay attendant to tell
him he better not cross the hussy that’s crew leader today. She’s nice
to your face, but piss her off and she will make your life miserable.
She went into great detail to support her assertion. Wise for his age,
the strapping, young Brit only responded with, “Hmm, I’ve never had a
problem with her.” Shortly after, red-head dragged a female coworker
into the galley to see if she was anymore malleable.
The benefit
of sitting alone is less exposure to germs. You never heard such hacking
and snot slurping in your life on this flight. It sounded like an
orchestra of infected body organs performing a sickly symphony of Ode to Flem Extraction:
"cough, cough, cough, cough…sniff, sniff…sniff, sniff….blow, blow,
blow, blow..hack, hack…hack, hack." From the moment that concert
started I began visualizing my white blood cells morphing into
Incredible Hulks, multiplying like rabbits and standing as bouncers at
every possible entrance to my immune system. It worked for four weeks.
Then I stayed out dancing dancing and overindulging until 4a.m. Not
surprisingly I came down with a nasty one that has kept me voiceless and
up coughing for days . A full night's rest and a day of apartment
confinement has done the trick. Only a trace of raspy remains.
I’ve
visas to get, a house to rent, a new language to learn (Portuguese for
Brazil), tourist site facts to memorize, new friends to enjoy and much
more, so I’d best get on it. Look for “Under the Awning of Los Alamos”
coming to a blog near you.
Much love, G
