Don’t be this guy. Photo by newsbiepix

Anything from Austin Powers

The original Austin Powers movie came out in 1997. Chances are good that you don’t even know that you are quoting from the movie while walking through Kmart. You are. You have incorporated vernacular into your language from a decade-old film about a man in a ruffled purple suit.

Two grown, straight men shouldn’t be calling each other “baby”, let alone telling each other to behave with a come-hither voice. What are you, homosexuals?

“Not So Much”

The perpetuation of this saying is driven by dimwitted people who are trying to be clever. An effective punchline five years ago, this saying has now been drained of any power by continual, misappropriated use.

At best, you sound like a reality show star when using it. At worst, you sound like you went to Community College.

Photo by feuilllu

“P.S.”

“P.S., we forgot to get milk!” can just about send me to the moon. Am I supposed to reply “PPS, let’s just buy a cow!”? Is there supposed to be a post-post-postscriptum after that? “PPS, screw the milk, let’s have sex when we get home.”

It’s all so, I don’t know, pee-esque.

“Right?”

The British are the real heroes of affirmation, having mastered the “yeah?” decades ago. “It’s a good burger, yeah?” Somehow, though, it’s cute and entirely Kingdom-y when they go there.

Americans (Californians?) have taken their stab at the same concept and failed in a way that make a Zune Media Player look like a triumph. “I know, right?” has become the new “like”, making people with any pedigree sound like the sort who get Kid Rock tattoos. On their face.

Go ahead, say it. You’re the new Valley Girl.

“I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.”

Photo by daychokesnight

Mother of God. Give this one up. This was h-i-l-a-r-i-o-u-s the first time it was used and has not been funny since. You did not throw up a little bit in your mouth, because if you had, you would have probably gagged, then spewed all over the tile floor. Throw up a lot, or get out of the game.

If you say this, you probably say it too often. Take stock.

“Dear…”

This is pandemic. “Dear Facebook, I hate your new design.”

Facebook is not listening to you. Also, we’re very aware that there is no body to your letter and that your “Dear” is a precursor to about seven words. Signing your name at the end doesn’t make it any cuter.

This should join the list of that make someone a social media DB.

Literally

This is the most obvious of all. People say it constantly. I have had fantasies of shock collars that could be placed on the English speaking population, jolting the definition back to its intention (word for word).

I agree with David Cross, who has a bit about sportscasters misusing this term. “He literally ripped his head off on that play.” No, he didn’t.

You know that you’re incorrectly using this one and you’re embarrassed by it. But you still do it, which makes “literally” the #1 to work on.

All pics by Tom Gates.

I’M NOT MUCH FOR handholding. Or extended hugging. Or for feeling vulnerable. Ask the ex’s. They’ll tell you what caused them to kick me to the curb – my ridiculous independence and need to hold onto it, even in moments when I’m not supposed to be holding it all together.

This moment, though, finds me somewhere on the border of drama and melodrama. It’s a state of being that I can only call ‘away-sickness’, a term I’ve adopted for when I feel the pull to leave home and can’t. Most people want their down comforter and indoor plumbing – I crave a straw bed and a boxed hole in the ground.

I moved to Los Angeles three months ago, following a year of worldwide wandering, during which I lived in twelve countries over twelve months. The idea of the trip was to embrace the concept of slow travel on a level that many haven’t – going places and then planting my fanny for thirty days. What I didn’t expect is that this would leave me homesick for twelve countries, all of which adapted and adopted me.

The cracks in my everything’s fine persona showed themselves in February, when I purchased a 44 ounce bottle of Heinz Ketchup.

I looked down and realized that this wasn’t a pit stop on my trip, that I was buying at least fifty burgers’ worth of red stuff, and that even my disgusting eating habits couldn’t substantiate that much condiment craving for less than three months. I lived here.

I tried to fill the hole. I went on $14.00 trips to the salad bar at Whole Foods. I decided that I ‘needed’ to play Ghostbusters on an Xbox and lost a dozen hours attempting to annihilate the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man. While drinking.

I made out with guys I hardly knew. I played dumb Snow Patrol songs that made me feel weak and great Nada Surf songs made me feel the inverse of brave. I went emo on a Secret level, buying a big cork board and hanging reminders of my trip – a punched train ticket, a pack of dice from a German toy store, the Metallica ticket from Argentina, my Lothian bus pass.

I hit post-travel bottom after getting close and personal with a bottle of Malbec, doing what everyone does after downing a whole bottle of vino: I posted a pitiful song lyric on Facebook.

Immediately my friend (a jedi in world travel) called me. He knew what a twit I was being and wanted to spare me of my cached woe.

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t explain.”

“It’s OK. You won’t ever be able to. Just stop posting stupid shit. You look like an idiot.”

“OK’.”

We started talking about how much I hated a rooster that hid under my hut in Malaysia, and how most mornings I wanted it dead in time for breakfast, on account of its need to begin cock-a-doodling just after I’d entered a perfectly buzzed sleep (you can get bootleg beer even in Taman Negara Park if you know the right people). I was trying to figure out how I’d become so nostalgic about something that bothered me so much at the time, and why it was something so inane that I kept coming back to.

Other things flushed from my brain. Like Neri, a student from a small town in Italy. He was assigned to my ESL classroom for month of “camp” that even the stupidest student realized was really school that involved monotonous songs and construction paper. To say that Neri tortured me would be an understatement – spitballs from straws, soccer balls tossed across the classroom and tantrums about any kind of accountability for these things.

His grandfather came to the school after the woman running the program finally realized that I couldn’t control this pinball child. The grandfather’s answer was swift and simple: He beat the tar out of the boy in the school courtyard while we all watched. The next morning Neri showed up with translated English sharpie’d on his palm and offered dutiful apology with tears and sincerity. One day later, he was flipping over desks and dumping paint on the ground.

I am sure that Neri is being rapped in the head right now for some poor behavior and that he has come to expect this treatment. I think about what would have happened if I had stayed in the small town in Tuscany. Could I have broken the cycle? Could I have helped him? Did I abandon a cause that was supposed to be one of my life’s biggest challenges? Or is this child simply an asshole?

And now I’m here, in the perfectly painted room with the washing machine humming, the pool outside, lit with underwater lamps and the smell of flawlessly maintained flowers wafting into my window. I have a great job and am surrounded by great people. Yet I question.

Last weekend I went to a workshop about how to connect with ‘kindred spirits’ and build community. As much as I was enamored by most of the other people in the room, I didn’t feel like they were my lot. How could I be surrounded with such evolved, cool people and not feel a connection with them?

It hit me on the second day. My kindred spirits are travelers.

It scares the hell out of me that I don’t know how to connect with my people unless I’m at a guesthouse in Laos or climbing a mountain in Chile. I don’t know why making a thrifty dinner with three new friends in Queenstown is more exciting than sitting down at a fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills. I don’t know why I need to meet people that I’ll never see again and why the time I spend with them is more powerful than many of my lifelong relationships.

Last night I tried like hell not to look at the photos from my trip.

I hadn’t given them a solid look since I’ve been back. But like anything, the more I told myself not to, the more I needed to see them.

If you’re a traveler, you get this. They made me feel everything at once. I felt sad, thrilled, joyous, festive, embarrassed, empowered, weak, lonely, powerful, doomed and unstoppable all at one time.

One other thing I keep coming back to is a Talking Heads song. One minute and fifty one seconds into “Once In A Lifetime” David Byrne declares that there is water at the bottom of the ocean. Just like that. “There is water at the bottom of the ocean.”

I keep thinking about how last year I found out that there is, indeed, water at the bottom of the ocean, and that you need only travel to find it. It’s one thing to logically process that there are amazing things in amazing places. It’s another to gape at them from two yards away.

This is the high I will chase as long as I live. I will do my best to remain in light.

@traveldudes

@velvetescapes

@traveldesigned

@theplanetd

@ShannonRTW

@savvynavigator

@journeywoman

@andrewghayes

@earthXplorer

@collazoprojects

@Brillianttrips

@IsabellesTravel

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Crappy photos by author, who had had a few cocktail by the time he got to snapping.

THE EXPATRIATES of Buenos Aires all came together at a club called Sugar, for the purpose of seeing Barack Obama sworn in as the 42nd president. The dive-y club in Palermo was having a Moment, having marketed their venue as the only place to see the event live, with superior sound and on a big screen. As it turns out, the operation was really a jerry-rigged computer projector with a herky-jerky picture and intermittent sound.

Classic movie setup in Bs.As.

Anderson Cooper’s normally competent voice came through at intervals. “Arriving in the. And here you can see. For which we have all been waiting.”

Nobody seemed to care that they were watching the event on a setup that rivaled those found in most adult movie emporiums.

The room was filled with people who all had one thing in common; they had fled America, short term or long term. A majority of the permanent residents seemed to have left post-Clinton, none of them imagining then that they would eventually bump into a president who promised to unite the country, if not the world. They were Bush-haters, thrilled to have a big ‘ol target on which to blame their problems.

“America went the way of chain restaurants. It was McAmerica”, explained Bill, a former engineer from Georgia, who was slurping down an ethnic meal consisting of a Budweiser and chicken wings. He then broke into a diatribe I have heard many times. It involved him recalling things that he remembered before The United States had gone tits-up, things that were placed memories, romantic visions that existed for the purpose of justifying his geographic displacement.

Imagine, for a minute, an antique Coca Cola vending machine. The old-fashioned kind that dispensed small, adorable bottles for a nickel. We’ve had this image placed into our brains mostly through advertising, or at least from a film studio’s clever prop department. It is an image that feels incredibly American – an image that reeks of small town comfort.

The truth is that you may have probably only run into a handful of these in your life, most likely in a setting where they are intended to be flashback-y and kitsch. You’re not foolish enough to believe that the world would be transformed if we could still plop down a nickel for a miniature soda.

But I really think that this is the deluded, romantic vision that guys like Bill are holding onto. He needs to think that the Coke machine is still important. He left America in search of things that never even really existed in his life, things that he had convinced himself would make him happy. Bill wants a nickel coke and instead he’s gotten Barrack Obama.

I recently had dinner with a former New Yorker, who is now living in Buenos Aires. He rolled his eyes as he explained that many Expats were thinking of returning to the USA now that Bush was leaving office. As I began talking to more folks at Sugar, it indeed seemed this way.

Barbara left home after her husband cheated on her, leaving her a stockpile of cash awarded by an “asskicking judge”. In Argentina she found that her money went further, that healthcare was cheaper (often free) and that she could make money by fact-checking for a US based company.

Now, she said, things were changing. Inflation was approaching 35% a year and little things were starting to nag at her. “I miss salad dressing. I know that sounds stupid. But they don’t make it here – you cannot find a bottle in the grocery to save your life.” Obama and blue cheese were promise enough for her to consider a move back to Kentucky.

News cameras were present, looking for easy pickup shots that they would use to cut into the nightly news. Several seats were reserved for journalists; men in sandals and jeans who ate nachos with such ferocity that I could only imagine their first below-the-belt encounter with a female.

Behind me sat the two girls that I’ve been trying to avoid for all of my traveling life; sorority sisters from Tennessee. Their voices are always impossible to block. They mix eloquent words from AP English class with idiocy. “This is like, so monumental. All of my African American friends are like, so proud.”

The telecast proceeded mostly as I had anticipated it would. There was hissing when George W Bush was announced for his last puzzled-looking shot as a president. The crowd’s fury turned to pandemonium as Obama made his way to the screen. It felt more like watching Hulk Hogan enter a wrestling wring than it did a president approaching a deus. Then, thankfully, there was silence as he was sworn into office.

The moment did not provide the chills that I had wanted it to and I wondered if this was because I was not in America, surrounded by people who had no choice but to slug through the next four years of turmoil. I was surrounded by people who had made a life outside of The United States, yet still held some kind of buyer’s remorse with this decision.

Their quality of life had improved but they had traded their American soul in return. These were people who were constantly looking to justify their decision and maybe, just maybe, the man on the screen in front of them was going to make America a better place than where they currently sat. Which would make them very wrong about many things.

It felt like they all secretly wished it hadn’t happened.

Community Connection

Were you traveling or outside of the country during Obama’s inauguration? Tell us about it in the comments below.

The Mexican construction workers were yelling again. They had been yelling for days, mostly tossing jokes about each other’s moms. Normally I enjoyed the backdraft of their conversation, which wove its way up from the floor below, through the clanky heater ducts and into my high-rise office.

This time the yelling was different, though. Urgent. Things about God and curse words and then more things about God.

My assistant was at the office door with a look. A very bad look. Pointing.

My window faced downtown, about fifty blocks from where half of the World Trade Center was smoldering. The fire was in its midsection, like it had just received a swipe from Wolverine. Something was sticking from its chest, dripping fire.

We turned on the TV. The television gave us the answers. The plane. The crash. The quivery tone of the commentators who weren’t yet thinking about how famous this moment might make them.

We piled into a different corner office, this one with an unobstructed view of both The WTC and The Empire State, which stood eight blocks from our window. We watched the television, then the window, then the television. Four of us in this office. Four of us dumfounded.

We watched the second plane hit the second tower. The soundproofed glass saved us from any noise. Someone had hit the mute button yet still the action took place. A plane from the sky hitting a building on the ground.

I had been to a party on the WTC’s top floor two nights before. I remembered how the building swayed in the wind, as it was designed to do. I remembered putting my Red-bulled head against the window, looking down, thinking that a building like this shouldn’t even exist. It was an unearthly feeling, looking down from that high.

People were in there now.

People were in there, dying. Thoughts started to crank through my head that I didn’t want to have. Were the people in the planes alive? Would the people at the top half be able to get down? Would helicopters fly to the roof or was that something that only happened in movies? Why wasn’t there a superhero who could blow cold-freeze breath on the flaming crack?

I had my camera. I took pictures. I felt like I shouldn’t be taking pictures, knowing that I was documenting death. I would later have them developed and would be so disgusted with myself that I would keep them in a box until last December, unearthed only after bravely consuming a bottle of Chianti. You are looking at the pictures now, in this article.

There were many minutes where nothing happened. We weren’t crying. We weren’t hysterical. We weren’t rushing to the phones. We weren’t running for the stairs. We just stood there, immobilized, twenty-four stories in the air, watching two 110 story buildings burn.

The first building fell. It had never occurred to us that this would even happen. We chanted along with the whole world. “Oh my God.”

Behind us the television was running a loop of the plane crashing into Tower Two. In front of us Tower One thwumped. It looked like someone had taken the legs out from underneath it. The dust and ash and building parts flew so far uptown that, for the first time, we started to think about our own safety.

That’s when we became scared. Imagine that? We had been watching all of this and forgotten to be scared. But then the news started talking about a plane in Washington. Fighter jets started roaring into lower Manhattan. The Empire State sat there looking at us, tapping us on the shoulder.

My father called me. I hadn’t spoken to him in ten years. “What’s going on down there?” I thought about the letter. How he had threatened me. About him running me around the house when I was a kid because I was too fat to be a baseball star. About how I made him sick to his stomach and I disgusted him and how I should get out of his sight. And then, about the Mexicans below who were still yelling. If he was here, he would be calling them Spics and telling me that they were stealing my scholarship money and how they were all lazy bottom feeders, almost as bad as the…

“Don’t ever call me again.”

We watched the second building fall with the same shock that we felt when the first one collapsed. The debris seemed to fly further uptown this time. People were watching from dangerously close rooftops now and I wished I could scoop them up and drop them safely on the sidewalk.

There was no more World Trade Center. It was just fucking gone. We said that. “It’s just fucking gone.”

“Can we go?” Somebody in the office was talking to me. I realized that I was in charge. The boss. I felt like a parent must feel after bringing their first baby home. Was this the right move? Of course it was. Yes, we could go.

The streets of New York took on the feeling of a fire drill. Everyone was filing out of their buildings, unsure of where to go. People cursed their cell phones for not working. Everyone seemed to be unable to find something or someone. Marbles were bouncing through everyone’s brains. Mass scale confusion.

We Manhattanites were under lock and key, unable to leave the island or communicate with the outside world. I wanted to call my mom. I wanted to tell her that I was OK but I didn’t want to tell her that I had spoken to the man it had taken her twelve years to divorce.

The planes crashed and crashed again on television. And in my head.

I went outside twice in two days. The first was my typical morning run to the deli. The man who had been serving me coffee for five years greeted me with trembling hands and apologies. He was of Middle Eastern descent. I realized how stupid it was that I hadn’t ever asked him his name.

I was thinking about how to console him, when a cop came in and walked straight up to the counter. “How long you known me for?” he asked in a direct and near-angry manner. The man answered. “Three years?” The cop nodded and handed him a piece of paper. “These are my three numbers. If anyone fucks with you, you call me and I’ll come over and bust in their fuckin’ head.”

That night I went out to find a beer and maybe someone to talk to, even though I didn’t know what to say. I wandered through Chelsea, its streets filled with other zombies hoping to live again. I passed Rawhide, with its blacked out windows and barbed-wire logo. It was a bar for the muscleboy leather scene, a pit-stop for those who might later end up in a mask or a sling. A sign out front announced, “Free Beer Tonight. Come In And Hug Your Daddy.”

Only a guy with daddy issues would think this funny. So I laughed and laughed.

Community Connection

Where were you on 9/11? What do you remember? Please share in the comments below.

The author. Not pictured–sticky notes above map.

My bags were greeted at the airport by two adorable drug dogs. They had taken to treating the carousel like a ride at Disneyworld, sitting on the conveyor belt for minutes at a time, pretending to sniff bags but really just slacking off.

I knew where the dogs were coming from. I went to Chile knowing that this was the moment I would really have to start writing a book, which was a rotten feeling. Little notebooks would have to be purchased, little notes would have to be inserted into them and little me would have to make sense of it all.

With this in mind, I did exactly what all writers do. I came up with distractions to put the process off even longer.

The first came in the form of a physiotherapist from The Netherlands, a man so in shape that I couldn’t even be attracted to him, knowing that if we got naked together I would simply leak fat onto his perfect frame.

Michael told me over a traditional Chilean meal why he was traveling. He had gotten into his career because he wanted to help people, realizing too late that his job would really consist of covering doctor’s asses against malpractice suits and filing paperwork.

Santiago, Chile.

He was taking some time off and trying to figure out how to actually help people, with the possibility of somehow working with war veterans. He threw it my way in plain clothes. “I am too young for this bullshit.”

Next I met up with Robert, a photographer originally from DC, who had started an entertainment-based English website in Santiago.

Robert had also become disillusioned with his job in America, which had something to do with Economics (not exactly a “party” career to begin with). He moved to Santiago and began taking pictures, mostly of student protests. His head was quickly split open by a rock, an event that he talks about the way some people talk about a delicious lasagna.

Cathy, a fellow travel writer, asked me to consume large quantities of beer and French fries with her. I accepted only because it was a foray into the culture of Chile, not because I follow French fries around like a cartoon character that drifts through the air after smelling a cooling pie.

Cathy was rather gorgeous and had men eyeing her from three picnic tables away. I attracted only the attention of those aghast at the amount of potatoes I could consume per minute.

We got to talking about Chileans, and South Americans in general. I brought up how unbelievably attached the couples around town had seemed, hanging from each other and gnashing faces, only seconds after exhaling a shared Marlboro Light. She explained that being attached is en vogue, en masse.

In Santiago, being mounted by a lover in public is a lot like showing off new sneakers or a Beemer.

The more make-outty you can be, the better for your reputation. It is for this reason that people hang out drinking beer until all hours, devouring Someone Special on the white plastic chairs that always adorn the curbs of the bars here.

I cautiously suggested that women seemed to suck face with a bit of buyer’s remorse, sometimes actually gazing at me while kissing their passionate boyfriend. She confirmed that I was not imagining this, explaining that it seems as if the women adorn the men out of some sort of duty. A woman may have somewhere better to be but it is her job as girlfriend to make a spectacle of their relationship.

The second item on my list of customs had been haunting me since Argentina. Never, in my life on this planet, have I seen mothers fawn over their children so much. It hasn’t been uncommon to see a mother kiss their son ten times in five minutes, even if he is fourteen and wants no part of a PDA.

Once I noticed this trait, I began to recognize that it was sort of creepy. The mothers seemed obsessed with their child’s every move.

My philosophy became that the mothers, who seldom seemed to have a husband in tow, have transferred the appalling affection that their husbands formerly gave them, before the zing went out of the thing. Children solve the problem, allowing for endless adoration. Until puberty when, like I said, the whole thing just gets weird.

Cathy’s take was also interesting. She felt that Americans put too much emphasis on “one moment” for affection (a birthday, a goodnight kiss), making that one moment mean everything in the world. The South Americans, she suggested, have completely flipped this premise, choosing a quantitative approach to showing their love.

I headed back to my dorm room, looking for more distractions. The only other inhabitant was a woman who would not stop talking, not for a second. She was about thirty and unable to be in a room with others unless she was chatting, yammering, expounding or cooing.

When others spoke, her eyes grew into saucers of interest, her breath held for the moment that she could pounce into the conversation with trivia about tree sap, Bolivia or meningitis.

Within minutes I was looking for any escape from her conversation flytrap, trying desperately to think of something –anything – that could be important enough to take me away from this lady. It turns out I had the perfect excuse.

I started writing the damned book.

Community Connection

Have a note you’re interested in submitting? Send it to david [at] matadornetwork.com

photos by author

In what seems like less than a decade, Firenze’s famous beauty and charm has gone directly into the crapper.

The city has never been particularly effective at fighting miscreant ink but now it’s turned into a real doghouse. The markings are everywhere, even eye level on the walls around the Duomo. Alleyways and small streets are tagged dozens of times. Many large, wooden doors are blasted with paint. Signs are hardest hit, rendering bus schedules useless at many stops.

It seems like a great time to be a police officer in Florence. There are endless amounts of tourist photos to be taken, plenty of texts to be written and bottomless espressos to be sipped from tiny paper cups.

Cops in the city center socialize in circles, looking as if they might break out a hackysack at any moment. Bus and train station rent-a-cops seem to come standard with headphones and MP3 players. They all love to whistle.

Perhaps the police’s apathy makes Taggers work harder for attention. The words don’t support this theory though. They are banal tags, mostly names and initials.

There is no hint of artistic aspiration, like with the murals of Santiago or the clever Banksy’s that turn up in London. One can only picture 15 year old nimrods doing what 15 year old nimrods do; defacing and running.

It’s a frustrating thing, the lack of purpose involved in all of this. It makes the streets look like the set of a bad 1980’s rap video. There’s no “fuck the police” or political statement, no reason given for the defamation of centuries-old buildings. It’s just a bunch of crap spray painted on a wall.

One person seems obsessed with tagging the word “yogurt”, as many as ten times in a five block radius of The Uffizi. Another person has taken to simply dumping buckets of paints on ATM’s.

There is probably much that I don’t know about the war on graffiti here. Police squads that roam the street at night. Or perhaps a commission has been called.

Maybe the mayor isn’t taking 3 hour lunches and instead sits in his office, pining over how his city is being devalued. Maybe the tourism commission, whose Information Points are even tagged up, are not operating with blinders on.

Maybe there’s a master plan in the works to make Florence beautiful again, to make it look less like the inside of a toilet stall.

Or maybe nobody gives a shit.

The author’s note on this photo: “I have no idea who this is.” Feature photo: Conscious Vision.

Days since leaving home: 150

Countries: 8

Blisters popped in the bathroom of a train: 2

Makeout sessions in a treehouse: 1

Hours spent on planes: 81

Fantasties about quesadilla grande from Tortilla Flats in NYC 150

Number of upgrades to business class: 3

Chinese meals eaten in Paris over 24 hours: 2

Times gone to grocery store without environmentally-friendly bag purchased specifically for grocery shopping: 11

Times gone to grocery store: 11

Number of people befriended on anti-depression drugs: 4

Scorpion Fish nearly touched: 3

Dollars spent frivolously on sneakers: 160

Tim Patterson

Pictures taken in which it looks like Matador contributor Tim Patterson and I are on our honeymoon: 8

Days that I enjoyed being in India 1.2

Nights slept in India with picture of Jesus present: 7

Imodium Emergencies: 3

Imodium Emergencies Not Handled In time: 1

Times nail-clipper thingy has been bought and lost: 4

Number of Ambien left in a bottle of thirty: 6

Times my mother has figured out how to check her email since I’ve been gone, despite explicit instruction, notes, private tutoring, etc: 0

Subpar pizzas eaten: 6

Hours spent in buses designed for short Asian legs: 18

Times I’ve fantasized about snuffing out a dorm snorer with a pillow: 7 to 20

Girls who have mistakenly hit on me: 7

Girls who have still tried to kiss me even after “the talk”: 2

The statue.

Times a little turned on by a statue: 1

Number of pictures on my camera with people whose names I can’t remember: 12

Number of these people who are friends on Facebook: 10

Number of museums I’ve been to in five months: 5

Longest number of days without shaving: 3

Longest wait for a visa: 5 days

SIM cards purchased: 8

Hours spent looking for Wi-Fi in foreign countries: ∞

Community Connection

For more on Tom’s journey, as well as his epic adventures with Tim Patterson, check out Tim and Tom’s Excellent Adventure, and Whilst Traveling via Eurail.

Have a good “By the Numbers” you’re interested in submitting? Please send to david[at]matadornetwork[dot]com.

Photos by Tom Gates.

Gare Austerlitz

Paris Austerlitz Station at dawn. A security guy roams the building on a Segway, thus stripping himself of any authority.

The coffee shop contains one employee breaking open bags of filters, her face giving away the disbelief that she’s pulled this crappy shift. Two late-teen looking girls clutch their bags with a remember-what-dad-said look. The board is lit up with departures but no gate numbers. The hall is train-less.

This is the best time to travel. Back at home, I have a terrifically difficult time pulling myself out of bed before ten. Out here I book morning trains and force myself out of bed. The jump from the top bunk always marks the moment that I am asleep (up there) and the moment I am awake (when my gross motor skills jar to life, in an attempt to save my life as my feet hit the cold floor.)

A conductor is whistling, destroying the quiet vibe of the big, hollow room. The clock strikes six. I yawn and everyone follows suit. The whole thing is more of a mingle than it is a morning rush. I count ten people eating croissants. I am definitely in France.

Paris To Cahors

I board the train, pushing the button that opens the doors with a wheeze. I will push through Chateauroux, Limoges and Brive, at which point I will switch to a second train. Five hours, door to door.

You could not have paid me to fly. I’m a Theroux-ist, falling for these big beasts that rock and sway and creak and arrive where you want to go, not thirty miles away at a deceivingly-named airport. Every promise about plane travel has become a lie, with the exception of the time you make up in the air. The day that I pay extra in an exit row is the day that I invent a time machine and be done with it.

The Eurail Pass made things simple for me. I had imagined agents rolling their eyes at my mangled French and instead got a lightning-fast transaction, my booking complete in seconds. The train was rather gorgeous and “stoked me out”, as my friend Brian likes to say. I fell back into my chair and basked in a tray table that was big enough to simultaneously hold my coffee and laptop, which is all that I want out of life.

We rode through misty fields. Little houses with chimneys and men who looked like Girard Depardieu. Enough goldenrod to make anyone reach for a Zyrtec. Castles that looked too fake to be real. I fell asleep and dreamed about being at the bottom of a well.

Toulouse To Girona

Another station. Rap plays through the speaker of a teenager’s phone. It sounds tinny and I lament the death of fidelity. The artist raps in French and mimics American hip-hop, sounding just as big a clown as ours do. He wants money. He want cars. He wants fame. He demands it. What a goddamned bore.

At the counter. I hand her my Eurail pass and try my French. She laughs and makes my booking in English, trying to teach me how to say things in French at the same time.

She shows me how to talk with phlegm in my syllables. She is more than a booking agent. She is my savior. I will never see her again.

I get on the train and listen to Husker Du really loud and consider losing ten pounds. Then order a croissant from the trolley.

Girona to Parpignon

Another early morning. A flap of skin hangs from the top of my mouth. Nobody told me that tapas could be hot, too.

I’m on board the SCNF, which is wonderful and punctual. I sit across from an elderly couple. The man yells as he talks and the woman hushes him after every fourth word. I don’t need to speak French to know that they’ve been together for years and years. She smiles as she shushes, looking at her man in a way that suggests the kind of toleration that comes with adoration.

The train is magnificent, a real sleek beauty that doesn’t befit my CBGB’s t-shirt. Ruby carpets and black, pinstriped seats. It pulls out exactly on time, rolling past the graffiti that accompanies just about any stretch with concrete walls. Much like the French rappers, any retard with spray paint seems to tag nowadays. I strain to see some genuine art and come up short. Just lots of names and initials and wasted paint.

Parpignon to Montpelier

How did people survive travel before the advent of the walkman/discman/iPod? They are next to me, talking nonstop. Three American girls.

“Like. Like. They like. Ugh. Seriously.” The poor dear can’t even get three words out. “Like, I know Greg. I mean, I KNOW him, you know? Seriously.” I catch the rhythms of their inflection, a sing-songy bastardization of English.

“I am sitting in traffic” (up) “and there is this guy behind me” (up) “ and he is like freaking me out.” (down) “Like, have you ever just been creeped out by someone for like, no reason?” (up) “Seriously” (down).

I have the backwards seat, the solo one that pits my knees against the opposing traveler’s shins. They are two sleepy girls with airline sleepmasks. I can only hope that their eyes are closed by behind the masks, because their mouths are puppy-like and drooling. Their bags lay unattended, passports out in the open. Somewhere, their mothers are worrying, and not needlessly. Their daughters are idiots.

The train is a Talgo. It smells like the sawdust and ammonia that is used to clean the Tilt-a-Whirl after somebody spews a funnel cake.

The girls across the way don’t stop talking for three hours. They’re from a reality show generation. More talking means more screen time. “Dave Matthews. I like, can’t even put him into words.” The earphones are in her ears, the music playing as she talks.

I am certain that they are what keeps me from returning to America. I tell myself that it wasn’t the sinkhole that had become my life. It was these girls. It was their fault.

Community Connection

Need more info about the Eurail? Here are Craig Martin’s Top 10 Tips for Eurail Passes.

The author’s houseboat, highly flammable

I went to Alleppey in order to scratch the itch of two childhood memories. Cruising the backwaters on a houseboat seemed like some kind of circle-of-life-y thing that I just needed to do.

The first memory is of riding The Jungle Cruise, an attraction that I begged to board during our annual family enema at Disneyworld. My whining would begin in Hall Of The Presidents and would not be snuffed until we’d rounded corner into Fantasyland. I was only happy when our very fake boat made its way down the more fake chlorine river, passing the most fake animals.

My second memory is of watching The African Queen, a film that always seemed to be on our television. I never complained because it seemed to elevate my my father’s mood to the point where he became possible to survive. I saw this movie at least twenty times by the time I was ten, understanding even then that I was always going to be more of a Hepburn than a Bogie.

And so I went out in search of my own river adventure.

Booking a boat in Alleppey was a breeze. With over three hundred in circulation, I had my pick of the litter and decided on one that looked like a fancy bale of hay. It was an old-school model, propelled by a burly man holding a thirty-foot pole.

The newer ones looked a bit too South Beach in comparison, tricked out with motors, satellite dishes and flatscreens.

I figured that if you’re going to float through canals on a piece of wicker, it might as well be on something authentic and flammable.

My hopes for a boozy staff were dashed when I met Captain Sensible, a stern man who obviously did not fancy nonsense. I did manage to get chummy with Chef Bloodbath, who came to me and asked for a band-aid, having chopped a significant portion of his finger into my lunch.

The boat was surprisingly sturdy and was designed for the crew to hang out in the back (talking about the guests) and the passengers to hang out on in the front (wondering what they’re saying). I was the only guest.

My room contained a sun-faded picture of Jesus, the holes in his hands bleeding brown and his Daughtry haircut turned some shade of dark blond. It made what was surely a bad day for him look even worse.

The twenty hour trip did an excellent job of showing off the canals, some quite remote and others meandering through the backyards of local houses. During the first hour we passed concrete walls that were spray-painted with the communist sickle, a bird eating another bird, children screaming, women doing their washing, and agitated roosters.

I grew antsy after a few hours, probably still expecting animitronic hippos to come popping out of the water. I came to realize that this is what they meant by Slow Travel, a term surely invented by the kind of people who walk around with crocheted bags and nylon sandals.

Unable to naturally chill, I popped a Panadol and downshifted into the groove of the river, my ears doing that buzzy thing that happens when paracetemol hits the system. I started to have deep thoughts. Thing like why ducks still swim, despite the fact that they can fly.

Captain Sensible parked the boat at 6pm, at the end of what I guess was a cul-de-sac. A beautiful sunset transpired.

Music began playing from something sounding like a bullhorn.

Mosquitos undertook suicide missions.

Parents sent their children out to purge their pre-bedtime energy, men worked on their motors and curious smells wafted from kitchens.

It could have been a Tuesday night in Connecticut. Except here I was on a river in India.

I spent the night eating a delicious dinner, drinking Kingfisher and watching the lizard-things devour anything that approached the deck’s lone light bulb. My newfound zen-ness relaxed even my thumbs, allowing me to defeat Bowser in a Nintendo DS battle that had been a long time coming.

I listened to Jimmy Eat World’s Clarity on the boat’s bow, doing that thing where a record somehow seems completely new after the 200th listen.

I woke in the morning upon the advice of Bloodbath, who was at my door saying “wake up.” I rubbed my slept-in contact lenses deeper into my cornea and dragged myself towards coffee. The world had already woken up around me, everyone rushing to get to somewhere, either by boat or by path.

The journey ended rather abruptly. We poled our way back towards town, quickly reaching the departure dock. The crew jumped off the boat and scrambled toward the next guests, who were waiting to jump on. It was easy to see that the whole thing was going to be repeated again, as if on an endless loop of of personal fulfillment.

Come to think of it, that’s how things ended on The Jungle Cruise too.

The realization came at a guesthouse in remote Laos, the kind of place that miraculously hovers inches above the ground on six concrete blocks. I was coming home from a night of desolation drinking. The generators had long since expired and I had only a flashlight to guide me.

A sleepless night on an inch thick mattress awaited. The fan clanked with a unique beat, as if trying to keep up with some arcane drum ‘n bass song that the big-pants people liked in the late 90’s. I wasn’t expecting to see the snake, curled up next to my bed.

“SNAKE! DO YOU SEE THIS? SNAKE! IS ANYBODY ELSE SEEING THIS?”

No one came running. No concierge, no guest-relations expert, no complimentary upgrade or oh-my-gosh-sir. I bravely threw Three Cups Of Tea at the snake, pissing it off enough to do that thing where it revealed, yes, it could stand up too.

That night I slept in the unlocked room next door and decided, well, that’s that. No more of this reptiles-under-the-bed nonsense. I would have to swallow my pride and become a…ugh. Flashpacker.

And so it went for the past year. I hunted online for mid-range deals, becoming an expert at finding better accommodation for twenty bucks more, happy to spend the extra dough in order to avoid the poop-smeared toilets at Hostel Incontin-ental. Guesthouses and teepees only became a viable option when everything else was sold out.

Then my day job went bye-bye, my 401k stopped growing and we all started loudly cursing airport taxes.

I was resigned to travel the world for 2009. That extra $20 per day had suddenly become more important for the survival kitty. Flashpacking went right out the window. I moved back to rooms with lime green paint jobs, roosters under the floorboards and showers with pervy peekholes.

I’m not alone. I’ve been away for three months and it’s startling to see the adjustment that has taken place since I was away in early 2008. Mid-level guesthouses, some only open a few months, look positively grim at night. There’s no hiding it when only two rooms have lights on.

You’d think that this would encourage a shift in pricing but it’s been my experience that they’re holding onto that +$20 rate, playing a game that probably won’t pan out in the long run.

On the other hand, cheapies are packed to the rafters and I’ve bumped into quite a few of my fellow former-midscalers along the way. We’re all bargaining out here, quite happy to remind the owner that his “eco-tourist property” is really just a series of termite-ridden huts, and that his nightly solar-powered electricity will last only about as long as a good lay. We’re politely elbowing for the room that faces the garden and violently face-masking for the bulkhead on flights.

I’ve opted out of guide books in most countries. This week in Laos I splurged for a $5 PDF of the always-dependable Travelfish guide, somehow feeling better about giving money to the little guy and content that I pocketed the extra twenty bucks.

I use hostel booking sites that don’t require fees, rather than Expedia or Hotels.com. I find myself pillaging Kayak and Cheapflights for the best airfaires, then booking directly with the airlines so as to avoid their racking fees too.

I call airline reservation lines until I get the right agent, usually a wrinkled warhorse in Houston or Chicago. She will sometimes hit magical F keys and, after a pause that makes my heart pound, will come back with a “Well, would you look at that?”.

These women (and lispy men named Charles) have been pulling backroom shenanigans for years and are often thrilled to speak with a system-scammer. We reminisce about the days of back-to-back Supersavers and how it used to be glamorous to working the counter at LAX, and now it’s just a goddamned mess. A goddamned mess, I’m telling you.

I know which airline websites will charge me for baggage at the last click and which of their competitors won’t. I’ve turned back towards train travel, knowing at least that I won’t end up 30 miles from town and swallowing an unexpected $20 cab ride. I’m also reading all of the fine print, like when I discovered this week that my Eurail pass would snag me a £100 discount on the Eurostar.

This thriftiness has also made me savvy about things like travel insurance. I’ve spent hours comparing policies on insuremytrip.com and reading about other policies on message boards. I’ve pondered just how much my limbs are worth, since every policy tends to pay out per limb lost (multiple amputations often yield three cherries and a bigger payout).

I’ve opted for a more expensive policy than the one I’ve used in the past because, after really getting into the nitty-gritty, it smells about as good as a post-sauerkraut fart. I’d rather splurge a bit up front than get hit with a thousand dollar morphine drip later.

You know what else? The cheapies are thrilled to see me again. They may not have painted the joint since Carter was president but they sure appreciate the business. Gone are the dour faces and the year of entitlement that follows a rave Lonely Planet review. Conversely, the mid-level employees seem pissed off and resentful, angry that I might ask them to bring down their prices, or that I used two towels.

This isn’t to say that bargains aren’t to be had. I recently caved and spent $100 for three nights in a Bangkok five-star. I locked myself in the room for days, thrilled to spend my CNN time with sheets over 200 count. Checking into a guesthouse the night after, I felt ridiculous for having spent the money, but not for spending so much time being seduced by Anderson Cooper’s dreamy eyes.

Truth be told, I’m having a better time traveling now than I have in years. I’m writing this article from a ‘splurge’, a riverside residence that sits just north of budget. A travel agent in Vientiane tried to sell me two nights here for $100, “breakfast included!”. I pondered plunking down my Visa, and then walked outside to call the hotel directly.

I got it for $10 a night.

Tom, hanging with ‘the creature’.

21/3/09

Patterson:

3 days ago I projectile vomited from an auto rickshaw in Varanasi, India, on the way to the train station. This was after a week of flights from Vermont to Chicago to Colorado to New York to Brussels to New Delhi to Kathmandu.

The night train from Varanasi to Calcutta was only mildly miserable, and I found a cheap room off Sudder Street with peeling yellow wallpaper.

The next morning I flew to Bangkok, landed mid-afternoon, took a cab to the massive computer center in Panthip, bought a replacement AC adaptor for my laptop, caught another cab to the bus station, bought a ticket to the Laos border and waited for the night-bus with my head in my hands, feeling the fever come on.

Tim, ‘recovering’ with ‘the creature’.

All night, I alternated between curling against the bus window and lurching down the aisle to spray liquid yellow shit into the can.

Crossing into Laos, I got caught in a rainstorm. I sheltered in a café, asked to use the bathroom, then promptly shit my pants. Disposing of my boxers in the bathroom garbage can, I free-balled through the rain to the guesthouse Tom had chosen, Lani Guesthouse, a lovely inn tucked down a back-lane next to a quiet temple.

I knocked on the door. Tom was at the desk, typing. He jumped up and gave me a big hug, then instantly recoiled. “You’re soaking wet,” he said. “You don’t even know the half of it,” I replied.

That night I slept for a solid 12 hours. At some point Tom took the photo of the creature on me. Now, thanks to antibiotics, I’m back on my feet, and this little adventure can properly begin.

Gates:

Patterson and I immediately set up a domestic partnership. It was simple. First he needed confirmation that his hair had gone Play-Doh Barbershop out of control. 5’9” whiteboys from Vermont don’t need fro’s – no hesitation in telling him yes to that.

Second, he needed a Manny, on account of his shitting sickness. I did my best, hunting around town for foods that bind. Third, he needed somebody who would sit silently near him, completely ignoring his presence and typing on this laptop. This was gonna be perfect.

22/03/09

Gates:

We did the sunset on the Mekong thing again, which is always pretty amazing. We sat at tables at the end of river bend, watching kids play soccer and eating cashews that had been fried up in oil, then coated with salt (I had to ask that they be placed on the other side of the table, lest I would eat them all in two handfuls).

We gave another bar a shot but it pretty much sucked. I ordered a Full Moon Rising cocktail, which looked exactly like water that’s had different color paintbrushes dipped in it.

For dinner, I made us go to a place called Sticky Fingers and I ordered nachos and yes, I’m That Guy.

But. Full redemption. I stumbled upon the best cocktail I’ve ever had, called Tom Yum Martini. It’s vodka that has been soaked in chili, added to fruit juice that’s been mulled in lemongrass and ginger, added to sugar water. Fuck me with a chainsaw, that was good. I had two.

My lips were fiery and had a freshly colagen’d look to them but heavens to Betsy, was I happy. We had a bizarre dinner with two interesting dudes, both 19 year+ expats in Laos. We listened as they debated the issues of the day with gusto and an American accent that I missed. “Oh, that fucking place…” “What a pile of horse shit that was..”.

The other side of these guys was all heart – each of them have been doing things for this country that could only help it, for no other reason than to just do it. They were equal parts Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Buffett. Then Tim bailed, probably to drop his innards into our toilet again.

I hung back and talked to a 24 year old from Washington. He grew up on a weed farm. I came home to a room that smelled like farts. Well not exactly like farts. More like cashews.

22/03/09

Patterson:

Note to Tom: was this the rat shit?

The other day Tom got his ass stuck on the toilet. We had moved from lovely Lani Guesthouse to a cheaper backpacker joint by the river and, while this new room is perfectly serviceable, according to Tom there’s rat shit in the bathroom and the toilet seat is cracked.

This crack is what pinched Tom’s butt-cheek. “I thought something had reached up and grabbed me,” he said.

For those who are concerned about my wellbeing, thanks. I’m on Azythro and although I haven’t enjoyed a solid yet, I can now fart without worrying about the dreaded accidental shart.

I admit the room smelled like farts when Tom got home last night, but I deny bailing from Sticky Fingers. We were both on our way out the door when Tom spotted a hot guy alone at the bar and got the same look on his face that he gets when he’s about to order a Beer Lao.

I wasn’t about to stick around.

Gates:

First: Mouse shit. There’s mouse shit on the bathroom floor. Second, I’m so excited that Tim is coming along so quickly, able to spot hot guys with ease. I’d suggest that he liked dudes if he didn’t stop hitting on Japanese girls.

I had to admit, that’s a cool move. To be a granola-looking Vermont kid, to walk up to a Japanese chick and start talking in their language. Rapidly. Then be able to drop “Oh I lived there for a couple of years.”

[Editor's note: where are those pictures?]

They melt every time, no matter how obvious a come-on it is. Patterson’s got a passion for these girls that rivals Rivers Cuomo. These Japanese girls do it to him every time.

We’ve taken to holing up in Joma Café, which has Wifi, aircon and incredible home-made soup. We sit there like an elderly couple, locking up tables for hours on one order of lemon shakes. I’ve been downloading Battlestar Galactica episodes, which is surely why everyone in the place wonders why the Wifi is So Damned Slow Here.

Vientiane is coming up faster than I thought it was. I was here just one year ago and found it to be somewhat sleepy. It’s now growing at a positively Vietnamese pace, with guesthouses going up on every corner. One afternoon I watched an entire storefront went up on a 7-Eleven knockoff, then went inside and bought a bottle of water that was priced 10 cents more than the other, non-flashy 7-11 knockoff next door.

They’re getting it – increase the price if it’s perty-er. We’ll go to the perty-er one, no question.

Patterson:

Yeah, Vientiane is a heck of a lot fancier than I expected. It’s not a tourist boutique like parts of Luang Prabang, but there are plenty of foreigners here, some shops selling golf clubs and a handful of upscale cafes that cater to WiFi addicts from Connecticut. (Both Tom and I are actually from Connecticut. In fact, our fathers are from the same town, Durham).

But yeah – people are doing a brisk business in the capital of Laos these days. When I arrived a new ATM was going in on the corner by our guesthouse and yesterday two Swedish girls were already withdrawing kip.

I love the riverfront – ramshackle restaurants and beer gardens with fresh chicken and beef, live shrimp and fish and glum frogs all displayed out front.

The sunsets here make me want to paint watercolors, something I haven’t done in years. Around 7 pm the river is painted pink with a blood-orange streak where the sun is falling and kids are running around on the sandbar, playing soccer or going for a swim.

We found a great little bar for the sunset yesterday, pretty much the very last one if you walk west along the river out of town. There were just a few tables and not much on the menu besides warm cashew nuts and Beer Lao. An adorable puppy was playing under our table. I tried to be its friend but it didn’t like cashews.

Feature photo and photo above by Aaron Appleton.

Robbed at gunpoint. Chased by a pack of wild dogs. Swallowed by a rioting mob. Attacked by a black mamba. These might sound like plot points for a new Indiana Jones flick, but really they are just events in a year of Aaron Appleton’s life as a self-described “avant garde ethnomusicologist”.

Aaron travels nine months of the year recording vocalists from developing countries, in hopes of creating an album that combines these sounds with those of producers from the USA, Portugal, The Netherlands and Australia.

An Ethno-What Now?

Photo by by Aaron Appleton.

Aaron is just one example of a growing number of people who have made recording world music into a career. Ethnomusicology is a relatively new field, with the official term only being coined in the 1950’s.

Loosely, it’s the anthropology of music. Most ethnomusicologists travel intensely and have a natural curiosity for how music translates as a cultural phenomenon. Music is recorded at source, in many cases creating a record of sounds that have previously never been documented.

Adventure In Sound

Most recording is done on the fly. A background in audio recording is imperative because so many variables present themselves in different environments. Skill aside, ingenuity and a duct-tape-fix-all mentality can often come in handy.

Says Appleton, “I’ve worked in very rural areas with no electricity, using a recording method called ‘binaural recording’, where I place some tiny microphones in my ears and capture the audio with a small battery operated recorder.” It’s not always Abbey Road Studios.

Study

A degree makes obtaining grants much easier and can help prepare students for a positive interaction with different cultures. There are over sixty universities offering programs worldwide.

Even if a school does not offer the specific program, some will agree to an individually tailored education program that can be designed to allow for similar experience.

Networking

Photo by by Aaron Appleton.

As connecting directly with indigenous musicians is the fastest way to find local talent, networking with other ethnomusicologists is essential to advancing a career. Several groups serve as a hub, including:

Also important are: The International Association Of Sound and Audiovisual Archives and Smithsonian Folkways.

Aaron recommends a start by “searching out national cultural councils and organizations, or just going to universities and meeting with professors from the music or anthropology department.”

Grants and Funding

Ethnomusicology isn’t necessarily the job for anyone looking to make mountains of cash. Grant competition is fierce, with the The Fullbright as The Holy Grail for students looking to break into the field. Most newbies to the field work a second job in order to fund expeditions.

Appleton himself spends his summers fighting wildfires in the USA to increase his savings.