A Barbary Ape Tried to Eat Me and My BLT

A Gondolier in China, How It All Begins

2007-09-16T21:23:00.000-04:00

Our story begins when my good friend, Andrea, calls me in early July to chat about her plans to travel to Macau, China. She’ll be training a group of gondoliers who are opening four rides in the second-largest building in the world, the brand spankin' new, Venetian Macau.
Having previously spent 2004-2005 gondoliering in Vegas (and hating it, as rowing around non-stop in circles singing "Santa Lucia" incessantly and answering stupid tourist questions all with an Italian accent, did not prove to be fun for me.) Although after re-reading that sentence, I've decided to think twice about that notion and sign up for more punishment, this time in China.
Prior to my drastic dash from hell in Vegas to living it up with my sister in D.C., Andrea had told me she was planning to sign up for the China trip, so I knew it was coming. As usual, when I find out there's someone else in the world doing something more interesting than me, I get a spastic twinge in my gut, and jealously wish I was the one going. Especially when said adventure includes foreign countries and getting paid well. I express this sentiment, as I'm coming off a loathsome career with Enterprise rent-a-car and wishing I had remained a gondolier, if only to move to China.
Months pass, and I start putting my new life together, by enrolling in the Aveda Institute, a cosmetology school, in order to launch a new career as a make-up artist. I begin my short-term career as a shift supervisor at Starbucks in order to receive part-time medical benefits, as I am a recent victim of knee surgery.
It's a particularly uneventful day at Starbucks, and my shift is dragging. I’m on break, sitting in my favorite window nook, watching with amusement as colorful passer-bys dodge puddles and raindrops. My mobile rings. I consult the screen, see that it's Andrea, and decide not to answer. She's a talker, and I only have five minutes left of my break.
I do decide to check her message, and my heart begins pounding with excitement.
Andrea: " I just had an idea, and I can't believe I didn't think of it before! You should call and ask if you can come to China, since we need people desperately, and Helen's not running the program. Gwen's running the program, and she likes you, so I think you should just call and ask."
Helen is my ex-boss, also known as the spawn of satan, and her and I had a scuffle about me quitting two years ago because I only gave her two weeks notice, as opposed to a month.
The rest of my shift passes in a daze as the grain of hope is embedded in my brain, and shoots upward at sunflower pace, growing and invading the very core of my being. I know without a shadow of a doubt, that if given this opportunity, I would sit, roll over, shake, and play dead. Tell me to jump and I will. Now the concern is, what if I’m getting excited for nothing?
I call Andrea immediately, and wait anxiously as she e-mails me all the contact info for Best Agency. I shoot them an email right away and find that this idea has gripped me so feverishly, that I’m unable to sleep, as I keep re-checking my e-mail to see if they’ve responded. Finally, Karah e-mail me to call her.
I dance a silent jig in a circle around myself and get on the horn. Karah states that Gwen doesn't necessarily remember me, and I might need to re-audition. My heart sinks, as the reason I don't have a career in the performing arts is due to my acute hatred for auditioning. I suppose it could be compared to a corporate individual who possesses a fear of interviewing. Except that I've been blessed with outstanding interview skills, and have never failed to get any position I've applied for. Why then, this fear of auditioning? Because I think it's a huge pain in the ass. A lot of time and energy gets invested in something that more than likely won't pay out.
In the past, my need to perform was great enough that I was able to overcome this debilitating condition and I actually beat the pavement looking for jobs, like any starving artist. And I found some. These days, however, I just can't be asked. Other ambitions have taken hold of my heart, and provide me with a easy excuse to throw in the towel, and never bother auditioning again. But now, here I am, dearly wanting to go to China, and hearing that I may have to audition, either by submitting a recording or singing over the phone. I announce to my sister-
Me: "I'm not re-auditioning, I just won't go if that’s the case."
Cara: "Don't they need people desperately? I think they'll let you go no matter what."
Cara gets a gleam in her eye as I tell her about the opportunity, as she's clearly relishing the idea of an end to me mooching free room and board off of her. Feeling discouraged and defeated, I respond to Karah’s inquiry.
Me: "I’ve already been trained, and I worked on the water two years ago. I passed the audition then, and I'm single, ready and willing to go to China at the drop of a hat. Do you need me to sing on the phone right now?"
Karah: "Oh no, I couldn't judge that! Don't worry, I talked to Gwen and she wants you to definitely come for the 1st phase."
Me: "Er, I have to be in a wedding in Alaska from Aug. 22nd-27th, so I was thinking phase 2? Since it starts on Sept. 2nd?
Karah: "No, no, no, she needs you for phase 1. We'll fly you from anywhere. How about if we fly you out from Alaska on the 27th? Why don't you email me all your flight info, and we'll work something out?"
Me: "YAY! I'm going to China, I'm going to China, I'm going to China!"
I run downstairs to inform my roommates with a whoop and a scream. Then I immediately call Andrea and relay the good news. I’m seeing her in less than a week, anyway, at her house in the Hamptons, but I’m too excited to hold this in.

I have a funny feeling in my gut, though, and I can't help but wonder if I really have a job. How did I manage to dodge the re-auditioning bullet? And could I sign a contract or something so I have proof that I'm really going? After e-mailing back and forth for about a week with Karah, she expertly dodges the contract issue.
Karah: "No, no, a contract comes much later, let's just take it one thing at a time."
Deciding to believe her, now the only thing weighing on my soul is the Mike Gillespie issue. Mike has played a feature character in my life, as well as other blog entries. I had talked him into moving to D.C. and getting a job with me, rather than living in his parent's house in po-dunk Pennsylvania. I'm used to persuading Mike against his will to do such activities as: Shit in the woods, go on a Polish pilgrimage involving kneeling on concrete, travel through Romania with no money and end up bribing the conductor to get through Yugoslavia, etc. Mike is my adventure buddy and my best friend. Now that I've dragged him to D.C., I can't bear to leave him behind a mere week after he's moved out. What to do? I've got to convince him to come.
Mike, of course, is reticent at first. He claims he's not a singer. I claim they don't care, they're so desperate for gondoliers willing to re-locate to China. He counters with the idea that his parents will hate it. I parry with the observation that he's not doing anything with his life anyway, besides waiting for the navy to call, and contemplating working at Starbucks with me. In the end, I wear down his resistance, and he has a memorable phone audition with Ron, in which he sings in German and then follows up by sight-reading "Santa Lucia" that he had picked up at the library the same day.

The best part was the head shots. Mike was unwilling to pony up the cash to have a set done professionally, against my better judgement. Having been in the industry so long, I know the repercussions of having an inexperienced, ghetto headshot. But determined to help him in his quest, we research techniques for doing your own on-line. We come across an interesting theory about taking pictures of yourself in the bathroom mirror in the pitch black. Adorning him in my sister's tight, v-neck work-out shirt. (And what a sight, my 6'3" friend looked sporting that.) Against his grumbles, I spiked his hair up with water, turned out the lights, and stood on the toilet, taking hundreds of pictures of Mike, which we then converted into black and white on i-photo.

Frostbitten Eyelids in Finland

2007-09-04T20:40:00.000-04:00

Poor Lace, all she wants to do is go to Greece, but I won't let her, because it's my one chance to hit the nordic countries while I'm in Europe. Mind you, it's Christmas break, but what of it? We're both burly girls from Alaska, we can handle the cold!

We compromise and begin our trip in Germany and Spain (her choices, as I'll be traveling to both more extensively this summer). We only have two weeks together to see all of greater Europe. Since it's my week to choose, I drag her on a whirlwind sojourn to the north. A few days in Amsterdam, a day in Oslo, a day in Stockholm, followed by a day in Helsinki, and then a ferry ride back to Germany.

The affliction leaves it's first impressions upon arrival in Stockholm. Perhaps the trudge through the waist-deep snow, shivering and wet in our thin pajamas, after leaving the train in the dead of night, and trying desperately to locate our cozy boat hostel is what does me in. When I awaken in the morning, I notice my eyelids are raw, red, and bloated. They're sore to the touch, but I shrug and move on with my day of sight-seeing.

The situation goes from bad to worse when we reach Helsinki in time for my 21st birthday, Jan. 6, 2003. I know my birthday shares an international holiday, the 12th day of Christmas, otherwise known as the epiphany. But since I'm from America, a place where we most certainly do not celebrate this holiday, it's never affected me before. It's a holiday reserved for countries such as Mexico, and apparently, Finland.

Lace and I valiantly wrap scarves around ourselves and trudge through the frigid, biting wind. The cold, dry air is whipping and stinging our faces with each step. We desperately visit each site in Helsinki, but everything is closed. The best we can do is photograph the picturesque architecture of the round Russian-style churches from the outside, while I hum the theme song of "Tetris" under my breath.

The icy weather causes my swollen eyelids to crack in minute spots, and my lids are rapidly filling with pus and blood, as infection settles in. Soon I can barely see out of the slits in my face, formerly known as eyes. Some birthday.

Before long, Lace and I throw in the towel and journey by train to the ferry station, content to eat a birthday dinner of stolen hostel rolls and nutella on the floor of the station. On our way, we make the accquaintance of Casanova, a suave American buck of 24 years, who is in Finland to surprise his ex-girlfriend with an engagement ring he created for her. He purchased the rock, and took a jewelry class in order to make and engrave the band himself. His ex has no idea he's coming.

I'm impressed by this, as I find it both gutsy and romantic, so I decide we can be friends. Until he makes the following comment-

Cas: "Excuse me, but I can't help but notice your eyelids are extremely swollen."

I attempt to roll my eyes at him, but instead, end up clutching at my face and wincing, as any sudden eyeball movements send knives of pain coursing through my veins.

Cas: "Do you mind if I take a look?" His warm hands steady my face at eye level, and he gazes at me shrewdly, his mouth a mere inch from mine. I briefly consider kissing him, and inquiring if I can keep the engagement ring for myself, but then I realize that I resemble the blind witch from Bakersfield, and reconsider. I make a feeble attempt at a joke.

Me: "My friends call me Squinty Mcgee."

Cas: "You've frost-bitten your eyelids." He states this matter-of-factly. "My ex said the exact same thing happened to her." The moment is lost as he drops my face and resumes a neutral pose, continually gazing at my eyelids in abject horror while chatting cooly with Lace out of the side of his mouth about whether Scotland is it's own country or part of the UK.

My mind is racing, as I envision a future involving my eyelids changing from red to blue, and at last black, then inevitably shriveling and falling off. I'm holding them in a glass jar, fragile as butterfly wings, and trying to convince a first-year medical intern to please attempt to re-attach them for me. Growing up in Alaska, I'm well aware of the nine stages of death from frostbite (or is that hypothermia?) While the rest of the nation was studying normal topics, such as nutrition and sex ed during ninth grade health, us Alaskans were burdened with quizzes on frostbite, hypothermia, and boating accidents.

The panicked images are interrupted by a horn signaling our chance to board the ferry and ride back to civilization (and certain death). I take a moment to rearrange my features into what I hope consists of a calm expression, and hasten to grab my belongings, and board.

Once Casanova finds out it's my 21st birthday, he insists we head to the bar and drink up. I protest that I'm going to sleep so I can build up my immune system and fight off the impending infection.

Cas: "Then I'll bring the booze to you," he announces and slips off to the bar leaving me behind to mope in my room on my birthday. To my surprise, he reappears moments later with a bucket of ice and several mini-bottles of alcohol. We indulge, but I'm nowhere near in the mood to get drunk, as my eyes are positively burning. He regards me thoughtfully.

Cas: "We really need to fix you, don't we?" (What a problem solver! Swoon.) He grabs my chin and swivels my head this way and that, checking out my horrific malady from all angles. Deftly he reaches up and plucks a single eyelash from each eye. I yelp with pain.

Me: "What did you do that for?" Again, I attempt to glare, but am thwarted by the tears streaming from my eyes. He looks at me expectedly, as if he really thinks brutal-eyelash-pulling will result in a miracle cure.

Cas: "Not good enough," he murmurs, and gazes at Lace.

Cas: "I need ice, a pillowcase, and a rope." He barks, and Lace scurries about like a scrub nurse, collecting the necessary goods. I watch in fascination as he fashions an eye mask out of the pillowcase, fills it with ice and ties it around my head with the rope.

Cas: "Now, sleep on your face tonight, and you'll feel better. I'll come check on you in the morning." He pats me on the head, and I oblige, like a good patient, by blindly groping my way to the bedside.

I attempt to sleep facedown. Easier said than done, and I spend one of the most uncomfortable nights of my life in this manner. When I can stand it no longer, and the fiery sun is starting to peak out from behind our scuffed, rounded window, I stumble to the bathroom to check on my progress.

I stifle a scream of disgust when I look at the inside of the pillowcase and it's a pile of blood and pus. All of that oozed out of my eyelids? Disgust gives way to morbid fascination and then delight, as I regard myself in the mirror and realize that my eyelids have shrunk down to their normal size, in the matter of just a night! This is the best birthday present yet! I want to hug my frostbite savior and I dance a little jig in the bathroom to show my appreciation. Smiling broadly upon a new day, I bustle about getting prepared for breakfast. Then I make the unfortunate discovery that I have nowhere to dispose of my biohazardous waste. I check for a wastebin in the bathroom. Nothing. A wastebin in the bedroom? Nothing. A trash barrel in the hall? Still nothing.

I glance nervously at Lace's gently snoring face, not sure how she'll handle the disgust of said bloodied pillowcase. What would Jesus do? I decide he would wash the pillowcase out in the bathroom sink, and leave it there, completely visible. It seems kinder than a surprise attack, like a pillowcase lurking in the shower, or tucked into a corner of the bed. I turn on the tap, but am too disgusted to commence with the chore of scrubbing out my infectious bodily fluids. Instead I try to hide the worst of it, by wadding it up tightly into a ball, washing my hands thoroughly, and whistling dixie as I skip up to the cafeteria to indulge in breakfast.

I glance at my watch, 9:01. Lace set her alarm for 9:00, and if I'm fast enough, I can make it to the room to warn her of the monstrousity residing in the bathroom sink. I take the stairs in two and am rounding the corner of the hallway leading back to our cabin. As if on cue, at 9:05, I hear a blood-curdling scream being issued from cabin 268.

Introduction

2007-08-30T20:52:00.000-04:00

It all started when a monkey assaulted my older sister, Cara. It leapt onto her head in the middle of a crowded Moroccan town square. If it had only been one monkey, I might never have caught the travel bug. But fortunately, there were two monkeys. The second monkey leapt onto her head to brawl with the first monkey. Cara started screaming, and her friends had to step in, and yank apart the dueling monkeys, thus liberating a frightened Cara. She escaped with only a cut on her nose, where a stray claw had accidently swiped her. Lucky for her, she didn't get rabies. Lucky for me, I went on an adventure to rival hers, which would change the course of my entire life.

I blame it on the monkey. I hadn't thought much about studying abroad until she told me this particular story. It was a "right place at the right time" scenario. I was spending a particularly miserable summer between first and second year of college, looking for something more definitive in life; something more adventurous, something more extreme. A monkey on the head sounded like just the ticket.

I researched, and found two study abroad programs on-line, one semester in Vienna, Austria, and one in Florence, Italy. Not exactly the type of places you go when you want to be attacked by a monkey, but I only meant it figuratively, after all, what I was really looking for was adventure. What I found was adventure, and a monkey.

Title Story, Circa 2003

2007-08-30T18:59:00.000-04:00

I'm preparing to embark on a week-long sojourn across Morocco with Debra. Since this is my last chance to hang out with my future roommate, Captain Control (aka Amanda), we decide to take a bonding trip together to the infamous Rock of Gibraltar. The idea of a British-owned territory, on the Southern tip of Spanish soil, which overlooks Morocco, is an adventure not to be missed. We hop on the local bus and race to the rock.

The bus rolls over the crest of the hill, and the sunlight staggers us momentarily, dazzling our eyes as a plethora of pubs, kitschy tourist shops, and red phone booths lay scattered in the foothills before us. We are in Britain! But we're still in Spain! We are positively chomping at the bit to indulge in overpriced English treats and kitschy souveneirs. We're dying to speak our mother tongue, and exchange euros for pounds. But first things first, we head straight to the rock, and abandon the village 'til later.

We pony up a little extra cash to take a tour. We'd rather be safe than sorry, as we've heard there are heathen apes roaming the land freely. The van fills with fellow tourists, and our passive-agressive tour guide surges forward, racing up the side of the rock, the van lurching and swaying dangerously around the corners.

We're starving, as it's getting on mid-day, and neither of us had the foresight to order breakfast. We inquire as to whether there's going to be a stop, so we can grab a quick bite from the gift shop. The guide informs us that everyone else wants to buy postcards anyway, so he'd be happy to cease his boring history lecture and let us indulge our touristy whims.

I'm wondering if this last comment is directed at me, since he noticed my head starting to nod as he droned on and on in a monotone about the history of the moors. I have greater concerns, however, when I make the unhappy discovery that English country equals expensive country. I settle on a BLT which looks and smells delicious, but costs the equivalent of 15 US dollars, and half of my daily budget. Captain Control discovers a banana in her pocket, and crows happily that she is spared the fate of spending unnecessarily on overpriced gift shop fare.

Me: "This better be a damn good BLT." I grumble, licking my lips in anticipation of the first, glorious, $15 bite.

We head outside the building to partake in our lunch. After paying such an outrageous price, I'm eager to savor and enjoy every last morsel. The other tourists are spread out, chain-smoking and chatting, so we decide there's plenty of time, and set up camp on the left side of the van, preparing to eat. I've barely removed the cellophane wrapper on my sandwich, when a giant specimen of a barbary ape (some 20 yards directly ahead) whips his head around on his neck faster than I thought humanly (or apely) possible, and sizes me up.

I freeze, the sandwich extended halfway to my lips. Without a sound, the ape charges. Everything seems to go in slow-motion, and I experience what the victims of "When Animals Attack" must endure. It feels like hours, but in a matter of seconds it's over. Our eyes lock, and the ape races towards me, going full tilt. My feet are frozen to the ground as if they're planted in concrete. Do I run, hide, or play dead? Even if I had the time to make a decision, I wouldn't be able to move, so paralyzing is my fear. I hear spectators screaming in terror, like an empty echo ratting around the distant corners of my brain, as one long-fingered monkey hand closes around my left thigh, and the ape heaves himself on top of me, using his other extremity to knock the sandwich from my right hand in one fell swoop.

Clutching his prize, he trots back to the fence he calls home, and proceeds to pick through my sandwich, a look of disgust etched across his featues. I watch with dismay, as he discards $10 worth of bread and LT, and nibbles daintily on the bacon. To my left, Amanda is standing dumb-founded, jaw hanging slack, still gripping her banana like a lifeline.

Seeing her banana shakes me from my fear-induced reverie, and I start to feel indignant.

Me: "What the hell? You're holding a banana, for christsakes! What kind-of ritz-ass ape goes for the bacon instead of the banana?"
Guide: (Nonchalantly) "Oh yeah, I'm probably supposed to mention not to eat outside of the van, or the apes will attack." He looks bored, shrugs, and flicks cigarete ash onto his shoe.
Me: "These apes are running amuck! Aren't you supposed to protect me for that!?" I thrust a shaky finger toward my attack ape, who's now regarding me with a superior expression.
Me: (bitterly under my breath) "Yeah, I'll bet you enjoyed that bacon, didn't you?"

We head to the top of the rock, where baby apes of the cute variety are clamboring across the laps of tourists eager for food and photo ops. Amanda takes a picture with "a darling one" perched on her shoulder. I won't get near those beasts with a ten foot pole, so I spend the majority of the tour scowling at apes from the safety of the van window.

Not a moment too soon, the tour van makes it's final descent down the steep hill, to return us to the safety of the British village. As we head past the now infamous gift-shop-of-terror, I see my attack ape squatting on the fence, licking his chops, and surveying the shop door for his next innocent victim. Determined to snap a picture of the ungrateful bastard, I whip out my camera. I swear I'm not making this up. He winks at me, flips me the bird, and high-tails it out of there, leaving me shaking indignantly in his wake, sans photo.

Adventures in Flying, Part Deux

2007-08-28T23:05:00.000-04:00

Post-reception, and I'm traveling with a glass of wine and a glass of champagne in my belly, so already the return flight is off to a good start. Add to that the fact that I'm flying with some wedding companions; fellow writer, Kelly Manning, the "other" Kelly, and old high-school chum Daniel Llenas. We regale each other with tales of "when animals attack" and I top everyone with my barbary ape scenario. We're all feeling a little too lazy and tired to try and get seats next to each other on the plane. This is my first mistake.

I've got the aisle seat next to an older, wizened, Alaskan couple. Since it's the red-eye, everyone settles in immediately to sleep. I look back at a sea of snoozing faces. Jaws hanging slack, heads contorted at odd angles, a woman buried in a man's lap. I wonder briefly if they even know each other. I'm jealous, it doesn't matter how tired I am, insomina always sweeps over me once I'm buckled down into my cramped seat. I scrunch into a ball, and try to pretend I'm on a train. This attempt is thwarted by a screaming child seated directly behind us. The Alaskan man twists in his chair and admonishes the parents harshly-

AM: "Would you gain control over your child, and tell him to stop kicking my seat?"

The woman seated behind us is chagrined and starts cursing at her son under her breath. I have to bite my tongue to keep from cheering. Finally, someone who understands my opinions on child-rearing! The little buggers should be seen, but not heard. And preferably not seen either. I'm just happy that I didn't have to be the one to say something, for a change.

Halfway through the flight I realize that the plane is relatively empty, I just happen to be in a row stuffed with three people. Since I'm the single person, it makes sense for me to move to a row with one other person and give this couple their space. I look around, but all the single row people are completely stretched out across their row of seats, snoozing with mouths gaping open; lucky bastards. I can't exactly roll up on them and tell them to move. And I am sitting in my assigned seat already, and really, I just can't be asked to transport all my crap. I cast a guilty look at the couple, but they appear to be asleep, so maybe they don't mind. I sigh. I'm the only person wide awake on this whole damn flight, and as a result, beverage carts have become obsolete.

I'm getting to the point of near-hibernation when I catch a whiff of a scent so foul it's all I can do not to gag. It takes me a second to realize that someone is secretly farting, spewing out Silent But Deadlies right up my nostrils and into my brain. I glance wildly about trying to identify the culprit. I suppose it's human nature to want to know- "Who farted?" But as SBDs are indeed silent, there's no way of knowing. And what would I do if I found out anyway? Tap the person on the shoulder pleasantly and say-

Me: "It appears that you've been farting in your sleep. It's the nastiest odor I've ever smelt, and if you would kindly stop, I might be able to get some shut-eye tonight. Thank you!"

I'm glancing to and fro, imagining myself starring in my own Scooby Doo mystery of "whodunnit." I eye my neighbors across the aisle suspiciously, it smells like it's coming from that general direction. But then I'm accosted with another fart through the air ducts, and it's just so strong! It has to be the Alaskan couple next to me. There's no way around it.

If it was one or two farts, it would be mildly understandable. But this is an onslaught, a bomb raid of one farting attack after another, and I am standing directly in the cross-fire. I try everything to wriggle my way out of it. Burying my nose into the pleather seat, putting my arms around my head on the tray table. But there's no way out. I'm trapped on an airplane reeking of methane. Never in my life have I been in such a precarious situation.

When the plane lands, I sprint off of the smelly abomination as fast as my stubby little legs will carry me and jog down to baggage claim, gasping for fresh air. My second mistake of the evening is that I neglected to print out my flight itinerary, and even conveniently forgot to jot down my flight numbers.

I love traveling with myself. I'm so completely laid-back and unprepared. I just roll up to airports, pop my credit card into the e-ticket machine, and hope for the best. As a result, I suppose, I've had some of my greatest adventure stories when things don't work out as planned. But I'm hoping today isn't one of those days.

If I had the foresight to print out my itinerary, the ticket agent in Juneau would've been able to check my beastly bag all the way to D.C. But because I don't, I now have to fetch my bag from baggage claim, re-check it, go through security, find my gate, and get on my connecting flight, all in one hour.

I'm the first one at baggage claim (as if running did any good, this part always takes forever, anyway.) And sure enough, a kindly gentleman worker informs me-

KW: "Oh, we haven't even received the bags from your flight yet, it'll probably be on one of these three carousels."

He waves his hand, indicating three enormous carousels that are not even within walking distance of one another and shrugs non-committally. I groan, and spend the next 20 minutes pacing back and forth between carousels like an angry, savage, guard dog, ready to rip out someone's throat.

I grab my broken bag and fly to the American ticket counter. (Well, as fast as a little person with a busted knee, towing two huge backpacks and a laptop can fly.) Panting, I arrive in the nick of time, as they have a sign posted that states you must be checked-in 35 minutes prior to flight time. Damn, these airline bastards are picky these days. Breathing a sigh of relief, I heave my monster at the check-in lady and hustle to security.

The security line resembles a human diagram of the large intestine. It's an utter cluster fuck, with masses of lines weaving in and out of each other, and winding around and around in a riot of circles. I stroll to what I interpret as the end of the line, and hope for the best. With about 15 minutes to spare, our Lady of the Line announces they've opened another, less populated security lane down on the other end. Mass chaos breaks out and the people in front of me jostle each other for the chance to break out into a run and get first dibs on a spot in the new line.

Being the experienced travel I am, I know to hold fast and my line will magically surge ahead as everyone bounds away searching for greener pastures. Sure enough, I'm through in 5, and on the plane in 10.

I'm sitting by the window, utterly exhausted from the night's events. Fortune smiles on me, and I fall into a head-nodding daze. I must have been a sight, because at the end of the flight as I'm groggily collecting my belongings, my friendly seat-neighbor girl asks-

NG: "Did you have a nice sleep?" With a hint of a snicker, and a grin on her face.
Me: "I guess. I took the red-eye last night and didn't sleep at all. I'm flying from Alaska to D.C. and it's a rough haul. How long was this leg?"
NG: "Four hours."
Me: "Damn, I guess I slept through it all."
NG: "Yes, you did!" And she starts cracking up in a way that suggests my head was either buried in her shoulder, or I was snoring up a storm to entertain and annoy all of my neighbors. I cringe and grab my stuff, not wanting to hear any vivid details of my embarassing sleep gymnastics. Time for the next flight.

Dallas to D.C. passes in much the same manner. Only this time I force myself to sleep, or attempt to sleep, the entire time, with my eyes buttoned tightly shut, until we're ready for the final descent. The captain announces it, and the bright D.C. sunshine hits me square in the eyes and dazzles me momentarily. We draw closer and closer to our destination, and I watch as cars, monuments, and freeways grow and wiggle through the port-hole window. The strangling shadow of Alaskan melancholy finally lifts, and a new feeling surges through me, one I've been waiting to feel for the last five days. Homecoming. I'm returning home.

Marital Bliss

2007-08-28T20:22:00.000-04:00

The wedding festivities consist of a bridal shower, bachelorette party, rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, wedding, and two receptions. I thought it was called your special "day", not your special "week"?

I arrive in time for the bachelorette party, in which everyone gets exceedingly drunk. The hotel room is wallpapered with cut-outs of the male anatomy courtesty of Playgirl (and Kelly for providing it). Elizabeth recruits a ring of underage male strippers, proceeds to bite one on the ass, and sends them all packing fearing for their lives. Our bride, Kristie, spends the following day "puking and pooping" (her words) in recovery from said festivities.

The week takes a turn for the worse. The happy couple just wants to elope, and admittedly doesn't enjoy being the center of attention. The parents, however, have taken the wedding to heart. Kristie's mom has replaced her as the quintessential bridezilla. Kristie also finds out she's not allowed to invite her friends or bridesmaids to her own bridal shower. While this probably pisses her off, I consider it a lucky break.

Our next scheduled appearance is at Glacier Gardens for the rehearsal, and Sandy Beach the following day for the rehearsal dinner. Why the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner take place on two seperate nights, we have no idea. Also an interesting choice, to have the wedding semi-outdoors and the rehearsal dinner definitely outdoors, seeing how we live in Juneau, where it rains 360 days a year. Sure enough, it's raining and cold, but we manage to enjoy ourselves, dining on veggie burgers and bright pink cake, which several of the guys deem "too gay" to partake in. (They do seem to regret the color choice, though, as they gaze wistfully at my heaping serving of strawberry cake.)

The next day is the wedding, and I sit in the back row with Mike (Elizabeth's boyfriend) and make sarcastic comments. Not because the wedding is horrible, but because it's my personality to do so. Well okay, Kristie's dad marries them and gives a very Alaskan speech about our "crazy, materialistic world" and makes a few too many comments about how much thought Kristie and Ryan have put into this decision. (Thought? They've barely been engaged four months!) And the groomsmen did walk in to "When a Man Loves a Woman", but overall it's lovely, and Kristie, especially, is lovely.

I have to snicker because Kelly has previously informed me that she refuses to bow her head and pray when asked to do so at important events. (This conversation came about because Kristie's family is religious, and she was asked to do so at the rehearsal dinner.) Instead, she chooses to make eye contact with the other people (like her) who aren't praying and make them feel uncomfortable. Sure enough, I keep watch on her, and at the "let us bow our heads and pray" moment, Kelly scans the audience for innocent bystanders she can lock gazes with. I'm cracking up, and Mike elbows me, and hisses-

Mike: "Pray!" under his breath with a grin on his face.

There are two receptions. The first is the Christian family reception, which takes place immediately after the ceremony, in which no alcohol is served. Therefore, no typical wedding events take place; such as the bouquet toss, the toasts, or the wedding party being seated at the head table. Never before has the purpose of alcohol at a wedding become so clear. We all sit around, stare at each other, struggle to make conversation, and devour chocolate ganache instead. With nothing to do, we stand in the freezing cold as the wedding party takes more pictures than a Japanese family at the circus.

We take a ride in a limo (I'm invited only because I'm considered Kelly's hot date for the night) to DIPAC, the fish hatchery, for the second super secret reception in which alcohol and dancing are served. It seems weird to outsiders, but the fish hatchery is prime location for a wedding reception in Alaska. There's a security guard, in the event of wedding partiers getting too out of control (or in case someone wants to incite a mass break-out and set the "little fishies free", which actually happened on a past occasion.)

I make it my personal mission to get people drunk and dancing. The reception is off to a bit of a slow start, but once we dim the lights, the party gets underway. I do find it interesting that a few guests are ignoring the bash, and have broken out the fish booklets to spend the evening gazing at the fish tank with rapture, identifying species of fish. (Only in Alaska). My timing couldn't be worse, and I have to leave the fest as abruptly as I came, since I'm due to fly home on the red-eye with some other party guests.

I manage to leave all the make-up I own in this world on the floor of Kelly's car, (and her mom calls later to inform us that my necklace and earrings have been spotted in her driveway as well.) I hug my favorite friend Kelly good-bye, and wave at my hometown through the SUV window as I pull into the parking lot of the airport. The Alaskan adventure is over.

You Can Never Go Home Again

2007-08-28T10:15:00.000-04:00

After the BBQ ass incident, Kelly and I recover, and gear up for dinner and drinks with some of my old, favorite partners in crime at the "Twisted Fish" (our hometown fancy restaurant.) I'm excited to partake in seafood, as the last time I lived here, I didn't even like it (horrors, I know).

We drive to the restaurant after returning from the wedding rehearsal. Kelly's feeling justifiably irritated, as the bridesmaids have endured a girlie scuffle over who stands where during the ceremony (typical wedding drama, somebody shoot me in the head, please.) The sight of a glorious rainbow hanging suspended over the harbor, where the float planes are idling and the cruise ships are lolling, momentarily lifts our spirits.

We roll into the restaurant, and I spot my old friends, who have all, er, expanded a bit (myself included). A romp of an evening ensues. Well, it starts as a romp, and ends in depression.

Maybe it's because the rain has been pouring non-stop, and Juneau is a gray and dreary world. Maybe it's because I have a bad attitude. I can't seem to put my finger on the reason why I've been feeling melancholy since my initial drive through town. Maybe it's because I've changed, grown out of the place, and no one seems to notice or care.

Whatever it is, I'm sorry to see I don't have much in common with my friends anymore. After the initial re-cap of life and the rummaging through of old yearbooks, I find myself with nothing left to say. It appears they're standing still in an isolated universe, and I'm moving forward, as I have been, for the last seven years.

After the glitz and glamour of clubbing in Vegas, going out in Juneau is a sad enterprise. And I was so looking forward to it, Kelly had assured me that it was fun, when we were a few years younger, back from college during the summer, and seeing everyone we knew out and about. Now when I see people I know, we uncomfortably avert our eyes, scan our brains to remember each other's name, and engage in the same conversation that I'm about to become immensely weary of.

Me: "Oh my god! How are you? What have you been doing for the last seven years? So, you're staying in Juneau? Me? Oh, I'm going to China to sing opera. I'm a gondolier."

At about this point, the conversation dries up, and we stand there, helplessly staring at each other and looking to beat a path of escape.

Our night of clubbing begins at the Alaskan, which is a hippie bar, consisting of a slightly older crowd. The bartender (a girl who's the quintessential Juneauite, whom I recognize from high school, but choose not to converse with, even though I know full well exactly who she is) conveniently forgets to give me my beer, so eventually, I get it for free. I nurse it slowly, while Lena dances with her fisherman boyfriend, who was in my brother's graduating class, and Lexie expounds upon her fear of flying, which is preventing her from going to Spain.

We move on to the Imperial, the "club" (aka, bar with a dance floor.) There's actually a line out the door, even though the inside is relatively empty, for the sake of "appearing" hip. I find this hilarious, but everyone else seems puzzled at my laughter, and proud of said line. We dance. I can't get quite comfortable enough to have fun. Maybe it's the recent knee surgery cramping my moves, or the creepiness of being at a club surrounded by drunk, native Alaskans. Maybe it's the stories of recent times when my friends used to smuggle alcohol into the bathroom of this pathetic place so they wouldn't have to pay for drinks.

Either way, I go home with an overwhelming sense of ickiness and a sadness foreign to my natural state of happy living. Juneau seems to be sucking away my soul, and I can't help but notice it's done a number on my friends as well. To be fair, I do get a chance to bond with my truly Alaskan friend Amy, who doesn't seemed affected by the destructive soul-sucking force, and is happily engaged after attending college at the University of Alaska Fairbanks.

The topper is when "last call" occurs around 2am (also bizarre when compared to Vegas) and a drunk guy slings his arms around Alexa (who thankfully, has retained her New York fashionista sensibilities from college, and not prescribed to the rubber rain boot wearing and sweatshirt era of Juneau dress) and my shoulders, slurring-

DG: "The only thing I regret about this evening is not dancing with you two, beautiful ladies."

I want to point out that I actually did dance a full two songs with him earlier in the evening, which were apparently not so memorable. He's interrupted by drunken guy #2, however, so he slinks out of the bar.

Drunken guy #2 also flings his arms across our backs and starts rambling with a thick accent, that neither Alexa or I can understand, and we keep shooting- "Help me, what the fuck is he talking about?" looks at each other. We manage to disentangle ourselves from him, and wade outside onto the sidewalk, which has become the late-night-dumping-ground for partiers emerging from downtown bars.

There's a cop car parked up the street, and it's occupant is standing on the corner, keeping a watchful eye on us as we leave the bar. I've seen several Juneau cops throughout this trip, and it interests me that a city containing 0 crime has such thrilling patrol action. At least we know the capital of Alaska is being protected!

Kelly and I manage to have a blast anyway, as we always do. Stomping through puddles at the beautiful Shrine of St. Therese, braving the rain hunting for bears at the glacier (which has also, depressingly, receeded away into the distance, and some day in the near future, Juneau will cease to host the world's only drive-up glacier). We stay up all night giggling, gossiping, and trying on outfits for the wedding. I teach Kelly how to pose for the bridesmaid side shot to make her arm look skinnier (a lifetime of being fat has made me the resident expert), and she teaches me that I can still wear a bra without keeping it snapped in the back.

We're such girls. We end up buying the same pair of shoes, and the same Alaskan beer sweatshirt (good thing we live across the country, and soon-to-be world from each other.) Who knew Juneau was a shopping mecca? Even though the nugget mall has become a failing enterprise (you can stand on one end and see the other), cute clothing boutiques have cropped up downtown, and the greatest shoe store I've encountered in this lifetime now resides in little ol' Juneau, AK.

I'm swelling with Alaskan pride, and yearning to buy everything I can get my hands on that represents my hometown. Because I'm such a vagabond, I own relatively little, and have nothing to show about my home or my travels. My ripe, old age is causing desire in me to remedy this situation.

Your Ass on a BBQ

2007-08-24T21:37:00.000-04:00

We're in Udder Culture, and I'm dreaming about ordering my old favorite, the brownie delight, when I see a youth sporting a choir sweatshirt.

Me: "Oh, you're in the JDHS choir? Great, I was in it too, from 1996-2000." I'm obviously over-enthusiastic, and the youth regards me with a blank expression of disdain.
Youth: "Lucky you, did you want to order something?"
Me: "I guess I'll take a low-fat 4-oz chocolate frozen yogurt."

No brownie delight for me, and no conversation with anyone interested in the fact that I've returned to town after seven years. Apparently, it's not a big deal to the rest of the world, and I just need to accept this fact and move on.

Kelly and I spend an interesting evening peddling contraband on the internet, (otherwise known as an illegal match.com profile for my sister, back in D.C., unbeknownst to her). We're not going to tell her either, until we get a few dates lined up. We decide against this plan after we discover we're required to pay 34.99 for the first month. (Cara finds out the following morning anyway, when the system administrator bombards her with e-mails about her profile and photo being approved.)

To better understand the next story, perhaps now is the time to thrust Kelly upon the world. She looks harmless to the casual observer, but upon closer inspection, there lies a raging loony within. We've spent our childhood together doing such activities as; attempting to synchronize our Paula Abdul cassette tapes for hours over our rotary phones, screaming "make me do the pose again!" while striking said pose, and dancing atop the sculpture classroom tables, and ordering pizza immediately after consuming mass quantities of food at the Circus Circus all-you-can-eat-buffet. She's also my marathon running buddy, and we've had some interesting encounters circling the strip at 3am, leaving drunks in our wake, in an attempt to beat the Vegas sunrise. This should provide a bit of background for the insanity to come.

I beg Kelly to go to Pizzeria Roma for lunch, and she readily agrees, as she informs me that hot guys now work there. Hot guys in Juneau? And delicious thin-crust meat pizza adorned with sundried tomatoes and feta cheese? Yes, please. We settle into our seats expectantly, and I'm surprised to see that, indeed, this place is positively crawling with good-looking male waiters. Kelly and I are drooling over a particularly hot specimen, a Greek adonis, who is strolling directly towards our table. I actually cheer out loud and punch my fist jubilantly in the air upon his arrival.

Me: (with glee) "Yes!"
Waiter: "Excuse me? Do you guys know what you want?"
Kelly: "Your ass. On a barbecue."

Who says that? I fall out of my seat, I start laughing so hard. Kelly has to give my order because I'm on the floor, crying. But the festivities don't end there.

What goes better with pizza than beer? We head to the Alaskan brewery next, where a stereotypical Alaskan man, complete with a zz-top beard, who's been around since the opening of the brewery in 1986, gives one of the most amusing tours of my life thus far. Complete with stories about eating the bitter hops and regretting it for the next two hours, to drinking from 8am to 8 pm, in typical Alaskan fashion, this old codger has seen it all.

Homecoming

2007-08-24T17:19:00.001-04:00

At the Seattle airport, on my way home, I feel the adrenaline begin to kick in. (Well, as much adrenaline as can kick in after two glasses of pinot and seventeen hours of airplanes and airports.) I start to visualize my homecoming as if I'm a local celebrity. The yocals are stopping their trucks in the middle of the road and running out to scoop me into their arms, with shouts of joy, and leaps of glee. The prodigal son has returned! We hold hands, and dance off into the blazing aurora borealis in a hippie haze of peace, love, and freedom. Needless to say, this isn't exactly how it goes down.

Back in the day, the Alaskan airlines wing of the Seatac airport was a hub of socialization for Juneauites. Used to seeing someone I know in every corner, I glance wildly about in an attempt to reconnect with kindred spirts from my past.

Thus begins the first in a series of disappointments. I don't know anyone anymore. I think I recognize the guy sitting two rows behind me on the airplane, but what should I say?

Me: "Excuse me, do I know you from high school?"

Instead, I spend the flight curled up in a ball, with my back facing the tray table and my face smashed into the polyester seat. I'm attempting to sleep, and stealing occasional glances at said blonde boy. (Who Kelly later informs me is notorious playboy, Andy Dietrich, of whom legend was told in high school, and who I only knew by name, and vaguely by face.)

I notice the dress and demeanor of my fellow travelers is changing the further I head out west. Instead of the business attire of Washington D.C., the crowd is now sporting brown rubber boots, beat-up North Face fleece jackets, and a riot of unkept hair. I relax with a smile. I am returning to my people.

I always say, when people didn't fit into society on the East Coast they kept heading further and further west. So what happened when they didn't fit in on the West Coast? They headed to Alaska! There's an old saying for women when it comes to meeting men in Alaska-

"Where the odds are good, but the goods are odd." Although the ratio of men to women may be 10:1, the choices are reclusive hermits with excessive amounts of facial hair, or downtown hippies who don't understand that there's a universe beyond Juneau.

Excitement mounting, we skid onto the runway and I crane my neck for my first glimpse of Juneau through the port hole window. Setting foot in the airport, I am assaulted by a strangely familliar, yet hauntingly different feeling. The Juneau airport is hilarious, it's an international hub that's the size of a shoebox. Prior to arriving, the flight attendant announces-

"You can pick up your bags at the baggage claim."

That's right, there's only one carousel here. I spot Kelly right away in the "throng" (handful) of people waiting for their loved ones, and we head down the escalator to claim my busted bag. I spy another girl I remember from my childhood, Blair Ramsdell. But does she recognize me? We make eye contact, and it's uncomfortable. What do I do now? Run up and embrace her? (I know, I wouldn't put it past me either.)

Me: (a trifle too bubbly) "Hi! I'm Colleen Dilts! Do you remember me? I haven't been back in seven years!"

That would be a little too weird for even me.

The first thing that strikes me as we walk out into the night is the lack of city lights, and the cold temperature. It dawns on me how much has happened in my life since I last lived here. I've seen the world, lived in big cities, purchased real estate, endured relationships and careers, obtained a college degree, and now it's all coming full circle. Everything looks a little shabbier, a little grayer, and a little more pathetic than I remember it. The architecture especially, is no sight for sore eyes. It's as if the buildings and signs were resurrected in the seventies and left on the hill to die. It's 11pm on a Wednesday night, the downtown temperature sign reads 53 degrees, and not a soul is stirring. We're the only car on Egan drive (our main drag, a two-lane highway, that is oddly devoid of any street lights).

To be fair, the scenery is as strikingly beautiful as ever, if not more so. The mountains still rise vertically out of the sea, the mist still clings to the mountains, and the evergreens peek out behind the mist. It's impossible to truly recognize it's greatness as a disillusioned youth, counting the days until you're set loose upon the world.

Kelly and I wander out again during daylight. We zigzag back and forth across town, in her parent's rust-dotted Subaru, the national car of Alaska. I remember the 15 minute drive being described as a "commute" in my childhood, with my parents rolling their eyes at the prospect of having to drive from North Douglas island all the way to the Valley. Now, this seems utterly ridiculous. The sleepy town of Juneau doesn't know what the word "traffic" is. We head downtown and park in a free space, to avoid paying a whopping 50 cents per hour. At least the parking is shockingly cheap, for a tourist mecca.

I'm disturbed to discover all the downtown shops have been rearranged. They're all still here, but it's as if my memory is playing tricks on me.

Me: "Um, wasn't Mail Call on the other side of the street? And what happened to Rainbow Foods? What's this new restaurant doing here?"

Kelly: "Yeah, Mail Call's across the street now, and Rainbow Foods grew and it's in the old radio station building, and this is a brand-new restaurant."

Mail Call is an old Juneau favorite of mine. It used to be a post office cum the-only-porn-store-in Juneau. My high school chums Jesse and Greta felt the need to take me there for my 18th birthday during our lunch break. (We also registerd to vote and called the phone psychic, but that's another story.) The front of the store is a closet-sized run-down post office, for mailing god-knows-what, since there are other bigger and fancier post offices in town. It's all an excuse for what dwells in the back of the store; racks of porn, and dusty shelves lined with sex toys. There's a disturbing little hole in the wall where the creepy propieter watches us as we giggle over a copy of "Bear" and try to act like the sex toys don't make us nervous.

Most of the shops I so fondly recall are still here, but it's as if a tornado has swept through the area, picked everything up, and set it all back down un-touched, and in a different order. I rub my eyes and we trudge through the rain to Silverbow Bagels, so I can enjoy my old-time favorite, the super cinnamon bagel. The guy working at the bagel shop also looks familliar, but again, not quite familliar enough. I realize I have let too much time slide past without returning, and now no one knows my name. It's not like a po-dunk town in the south where I'm the only person who has left. I might be the only person who hasn't come back in seven years, but everyone else has relocated by now too, is getting married, starting careers, and having babies. Apparently, I have to make a concentrated effort to see people I know around town.

These near-sightings continue over the next 48 hours. Next, I recognize a teacher's aid that everyone hated in middle school, named Cricket, at Valentine's coffee shop. Not exactly someone I want to run and hug. And what are the chances she's going to recognize me? Then there are people I think I recognize, that probably aren't those people at all.

Me: "Wasn't that Ishmael Hope, our spirit leader, senior year?" And, "I know I know that girl from somewhere."
Kelly: "What are you talking about?"

The food has paled in comparison to my memory also. The cookie at the Alaskan fudge company wasn't gooey and delicious, and the super-cinnamon bagel seemed to have sprouted raisins over the last seven years.

Adventures in Flying

2007-08-24T01:04:00.000-04:00

The trip starts out painlessly enough. I check-in with my e-ticket, and I’m whisked through security. I can’t believe my luck when I end up in an almost empty plane and am granted the back section completely to myself. I stow my bags and make the fatal error of placing my exceedingly important money belt in the pocket in front of me. The Sacred Money Belt contains such necessary goods as; my birth certificate, social security card, passport, credit cards, etc. I realize I’m executing a potentially fatal maneuver, but I figure a strict reminder not to forget will do the trick. I chant this mantra over and over again in my head-

Me: “Do not forget, do not forget, do not forget.”

I forget. I can’t help it; I’m distracted by the flight attendants. I’m overhearing a riveting conversation regarding the truth about airline safety. This is the eavesdropping jackpot! Stewardess #1 chides us over the intercom-

S1: “Folks, please do not shove your bags into the overhead bin with so much force, the light above will break!” She turns to her cohort, “I’m so paranoid, and I’ve been on two flights this last month where that happened!”
S2: “I know, I was on a flight last week and it caused a two-hour delay!”
S1: “Last time, the engineers came on and repaired it with masking tape! I couldn’t believe it, there was glass everywhere, and the light wasn’t working, and we were told to take off anyway! How safe is that?”

I don’t do a very good job concealing my gaping wonder. I’ve gotten so used to spying on people comfortably behind a pair of sunglasses that I’ve forgotten you can’t actually stare at people unabashedly with your jaw hanging slack. I keep making mistaken eye contact with Stewardess #2, and she hastens to get rid of me.

S2: “We’re going to move you. Trust me; you really don’t want to sit back here by the noisy engine.” She winks at me conspiratorially, and I have no choice but to oblige, and follow her into the masses seated in the middle of the plane. I’m placed in a section of two seats (not three), by the window, with no one sitting next to me. This sucks. I’m no longer able to lie flat, surrounded by empty seats, and a plethora of interesting flight attendant commentary to listen to. I wonder if I can protest that I like noisy engines, and desperately want to remain in my assigned seat, but it’s too late. She’s already bustling around the plane with an armload of fleece blankets.

Resigning myself to an uncomfortable fate, I partake in my other favorite waiting-for-the-plane-to-take-off activity, which is watching the signal people. (Flaggers?) I just love them, with their orange signals, knee pads, fluorescent vests, and ear muffs. If I ever worked at an airport, that’s what I would do. Forget fetching bags of puke from angry customers or the stress of having to land planes in hairy situations. I would want to be the tiny neon dot on the ground, waving the planes in.

Our flagger is priceless. Exceedingly scruffy and lackluster, he waves our plane out of the gate, and I watch him double over and examine the bottom of our plane with a growing look of concern on his face. As we’re slowly backing away, he signals another flagger, and they both get on their knees, pointing and peering beneath our plane. They converse briefly, shrug, and we’re on our way, taxiing down the runway with increasing speed. I can just imagine their conversation goes something like this-

F1: “Hey, check it out! Bucket-loads of hydraulic fluid are leaking out of the engine!”
F2: “Sweet, could mean there’s a crack in the engine.”
F1: “Maybe we should say something.”
F2: “Nah, it’s more interesting this way.”

I glance wildly around me to see if anyone else has noticed this exchange, but I appear to be the only concerned party. Fearing for my life, we take off, and lurch dangerously to the left. The captain makes a friendly comment about turbulence, but I know better. The engine is about to explode and we’re all going to tumble to our deaths.

What I should fear is not the end of my life, but the end of my trip before it’s even begun, seeing how I’ve left Sacred Money Belt behind. I don’t even realize it, until Stewardess #1 brings it to me. I yelp with panic, and she pats me on my head sympathetically (with just a touch of condescension.) No matter, I’m too busy cursing myself for my stupidity. Unfortunately, I can’t say this is the first time I’ve made this mistake. Um, more like the fourth? The first time was in high school, when I sprinted all the way across O’Hare (second largest airport in the world) in platform heels and a little skirt. (I excited a group of Asian businessmen who were also running to catch a flight.)

AM: “Look at her go! She’s kicking our asses and she’s in heels!”

I arrived panting, at the gate, only to discover that the door is already locked, with the next flight preparing to take off, while holding my camera hostage. Again, a kindly stewardess takes pity on me and opens the door, allowing me to retrieve the goods.

Shivering with fear at this near disaster, I manage to curl up (not so comfortably) and sleep. My head is nodding and I’m suspended between sleep and wakefulness. I love it when your head actually rolls onto your chest, and you yank it upwards, glancing suspiciously around to see if anyone noticed you snoring, or worse, drooling. Brings back memories of falling asleep in a puddle of drool in high school French class, and Mme. Spence waking me up with a stern reprimand-

Mme: “Colleen, you’re on my list!” I never did get to find out exactly why being on her list was considered such a dire threat.

We land with no sign of an exploding engine, and I’m excited to discover that the gate for my connection is H10 and I’m flying into H13. Should be an easy connection. Would be, if today wasn’t the day I chose to ride the short bus to school.

I glance at the departure screen before getting comfortable and pulling out my computer. I’m tapping away when I notice the computer clock says its 12:35. I frown, and consult my ticket, which indeed, states we should be boarding at 12:30. I have a moment of panic, as I’m the only one sitting at the gate, there aren’t even flight attendants. Something must be wrong.

I rise from my seat, struggling to balance my open computer, backpack, Sacred Money Belt, and laptop bag (don’t want to leave my baggage unattended, after all!) and shuffle back to the departure screen. Glancing between my ticket, the screen, and my gate, it looks like everything is on-time and ready to roll. I sit back down, feeling more and more uneasy as the clock on my computer creeps towards 12:45.

Fear escalating, I trudge back to the departure screen for the third time, only to stare quizically at the same information, and scratch my head. As I’m walking back to my seat I have the mind-blowing realization that there’s been a time change, and the clock on my computer is now an hour ahead.

I smack my forehead with an open palm. How long has it been since I traveled? Did I even go to all the countries represented by the brightly colored patches on my backpack?

A grandmother and her two granddaughters join me on the bench. This is my personal hell, as there’s nothing I hate more than loud children. And these children are of the obnoxious brand. They’re staring at me with their beady, gluttonous eyes as I’m munching away on a bag of potato chips. I glare back at them. There’s no way I’m sharing with a bunch of rug rats. They get the message, sulk, and pull out identical Discmans. To my horror, they start singing along loudly with childish voices. I look around to see if anyone else notices this extreme irritation, but everyone is regarding them with a certain degree of charm and acceptance.

I consider moving, but then decide since I was here first, they should be the ones leaving. I steal myself for another glance in their direction. The youngest one has constructed a cat’s cradle out of her chewing gum and is playing with her sister. I’m utterly disgusted by this, and upon closer inspection, I realize that Grandma is snoozing away with her head thrown back against the seat and her mouth open. Perfect. The disgust turns to vomit as they start to eat the ABC gum twined around their grubby fingers with great zest.

It’s time to board the plane, and I’m ecstatic right off the bat because there are male flight attendants! I happen to think male flight attendants are the greatest thing since sliced bread, perhaps even better than signal people. “Todd” shows me to my window seat, wedged next to Granny and Gramps. It’s okay, because I don’t mind old people. After all, I spent every holiday with my grandparents as a child. It's those damn babies that make me nervous.

Granny and Gramps are restoring my faith in humanity, as they intertwine hands and settle into their role as the cute, romantic, old couple. That is, until Gramps starts hitting on our stewardess unabashedly. (Yes, my happiness is premature as I discover we are not in Todd’s section of the plane after all, or any other male steward for that matter.) I watch as they flirt openly in front of Granny, who doesn’t seem to mind. What the hell?

I feel uncomfortable, having witnessed this private exchange, and keep my fingers crossed that Granny and Gramps won’t feel the need to converse with me throughout the course of the flight. I plug into my i-pod and close my eyes, as an extra measure of discouragement from conversation.

Every time I open my eyes on this flight, it’s traumatic. The first time, I realize I’m sitting behind the world’s most affectionate couple. Yuck. The second time, my head is turned all the way to the left, and I open my eyes and find myself staring at Granny’s gigantic earlobe. Really, it’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen, I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. It’s the size of a dinner plate! Uncomfortably, I finger my own earlobes and wonder if the hoops I'm currently wearing will cast a similar fate upon me. Throughout the course of the flight, I find myself staring obsessively at her earlobes, as if I might drown in their great depth. Every time she glances my way, I feel a surge of guilt at getting caught peering inquisitively, and I jerk my head back, while simultaneously screwing my eyes shut, so she’ll think I’m sleeping.

Four hours and twenty minutes goes by awfully slow in this manner. The drink cart makes its first pass, but I decline. The drink cart passes again, and I’m getting amped to order. The stewardess completely skips me! I can't believe it! It’s as if I branded myself a non-drinker the first time around, and now I don’t even get the courtesy of an option. The decision has been made for me. I won’t be drinking anything on this flight.

I’m relieved when we touch down in Seattle, and I scurry down to baggage claim to meet Stella, who I’m going to spend my five-hour layover drinking heavily with. We'll be regaling each other with tales of when we used to dance in Vegas together.

My monster of a bag finally emerges on the conveyor belt, and it’s come completely undone. My underwear and tennis shoes are now flopping out of the gap in my bag, on display for the world to see. My bag has, how shall we put it? Seen the world. It's been lined with duct-tape, sewn with dental floss, tied with knots, and embedded with safety pins in it's spine. Basically, it's ready for retirement. The safety pins have become utterly mangled. I mange to salvage one, and pin the bag back together, but barely. It’s hanging on by a single strand, and I have no idea how it’s going to make it to Juneau. (Or China, for that matter.)

The Dragon Boat Border Patrol

2007-08-19T15:36:00.001-04:00

Cara and I drive to Baltimore, fueled by two-day-old fried rice (I'm having premonitions of life in China) with the musical "Wicked" blasting on the car stereo. I'm hanging my head out of the window, howling along and simultaneously catching flies. We meet up with Cara's friend Dawn, who lives in Baltimore. I'm on a mission to hunt down the sloth who calls the Baltimore aquarium home.

On our way to said aquarium, we stroll across the water front. It's positively reeking with the stench of raw eggs. What better activity to partake in than swimming? We don't exactly dive straight into the pollution, but it's almost as bad, because we decide to take a magnificent dragon boat ride.

I spy some typical touristy paddle boats, only these are adorned with gigantic plastic purple dragon heads and tails, bobbing along in the wake. I'm always attracted to kitschy activities, and today is no exception. It's like my very own cheesy Disney ride! Grabbing Cara and Dawn by the hands, I drag them to the dock so we can rent our own Barney, and paddle around in an extremely clustered and limited manner.

Paddle dragons are bouncing off each other in a series of bumper-car-esque collisions. The front of our dragon, "Chessie", is badly cracked. Our dragon apparently has encountered several battles, and is looking a bit worse for the wear. It doesn't elicit much confidence in the boat's ability to stay afloat, but no matter. We're already severely handicapped since the enormous dragon head blocks driving visibility completely.

After paddling for ten mintues, craning our necks to see where we're heading, and avoiding mishaps with other dragons, we grow tired of the immediate area we're only allowed to paddle in. We're wondering what would happen if we just lit out of here, paddling as fast as our stubby, little legs will take us (which, in this decrepit dragon is uncomfortably slow), and head out for the open ocean, never to return. How would they react? They can't come after us, we are in our own boat, (if you can even call it that) after all.

We soon find out they can come after us. Our intention all along has been to take turns paddling (it's surprisingly tiring, either that or we're surprisingly out of shape, probably the latter.) Cara and Dawn trade places, and Cara decides she enjoys the view more standing broadly across the back of Chessie, with her hands on her hips, surveying the ocean scene in the manner of proud shrimp boat captain, Forrest Gump, standing astride his "Jenny." I hiss at her-

Me: "What are you doing? Sit your ass down!"
Cara: (Defiantly) "No. The view is way better up here and it doesn't smell nearly as bad. Besides, it doesn't say anywhere that I can't stand."
Me: (reading aloud from large sign posted in front of boat). "All participants must remain seated at all times. What do you think that says?" I hear shouts being issued from the dock. "Jesus christ, they're yelling for your ass to sit down!"

Cara sits begrudgingly. We cruise calmly to the center of the quagmire of twisting and turning boats, when a motor boat carrying a youth wielding authority comes screeching away from the dock.

Teen: (speaking to manager over radio) "Which boat, the purple dragon?" He cuts a sharp corner and starts aiming at another purple dragon, which is bobbing harmlessly nearby. We think we're in the clear, until he rounds on us.

Teen: (angrily bellowing) "Hey you! My manager told me to come pull you guys in! You are NOT allowed to switch seats! He licks his lips and cracks his knuckles agressively, clearly relishing his role as good cop/bad cop. "I'm just gonna give you a warning this time, but I better not see any more funny business."

Dawn: "We didn't know, I swear, we'll never do it again!"

Everyone on the water is staring at us gleefully, as if they've just witnessed a crime being committed. The guy from the other purple dragon even asks us if we're okay, and lets us know he's got our back, as if the border patrol was going to rough us up, and a riot was forthcoming. He obviously wants in on the flouting-of-authority action.

Me: (to Cara, in most annoying manner possible) "I told you so, why in your right mind would you think you're allowed to stand on the boat?" Maybe it's the gondolier in me, having spent copious amounts of time drooling my way through safety training at the Venetian. "Maybe the fact that they require us to wear hideous orange life vests should have tipped you off?"

Once I'm done playing the annoying sister, I realize that getting pulled back to shore is exactly what this dull ride needs to spice it up. So I start brainstorming ways we can make this happen. How hilarious would that be?

Me: "I have an idea, once our 30 minutes is up, let's make a run for it, and see if the dragon boat border patrol will tow us back in and ex-communicate us from the ride!" Dawn wasn't having it, but she does let us linger on the water for a few extra minutes, in case the nazi in the motor boat comes zooming out again to inform us that, according to his stop watch, our ride is over.

Unfortunately, it doesn't happen, and we move on to the rather less eventful aquarium. Maybe it would be more exciting if the sloth wasn't so far up the damn tree that all we can see of him is a postage-stamp size block of fur on his butt. Maybe it would be more exciting if it didn't cost 22 bucks, and require us to wait three hours before entering. Either way, it's lame, and the sloth's name is Rosie.

Free Lube Jobs, Come and Get It!

2007-08-12T23:00:00.000-04:00

"Hi, Rob? This is Colleen. You don't know me, but I was calling to inquire about the free lube job that you advertised on the fence here at King's Dominion amusement park. It looks like you wrote it with a sharpee pen, right before the entrance to the Volcano roller coaster. Please give me a call back, thanks, byeeee!"
(Transcript from actual voicemail message.)

I love amusement parks, but I hate waiting in lines. To pass the time, I come up with one of my greatest schemes yet- I'm going to whip out my cell phone and dial all the "for a good time call..." phone numbers that are graffitied across the park. I cross my fingers for a live person, but instead I get Rob's voicemail. I'm wondering if he wrote the message himself, or if one of his friends did. (Perhaps an ex-girlfriend?) Either way, I'm excited that he has a deep, sexy voice, and I'm eager to get to the bottom of the "Who does that?" mystery of writing-on-bathroom-walls. I'm not having luck getting ahold of any other culprits, so I'm going to have to hang my hopes for answers to this universal question on a return call from Rob. It hasn't happend yet, but the jury's still out. I'll give him 48 hours. (Although, if I said that on your answering machine, would you call me back? I didn't think so. Not even out of curiousity?)

My new friend, Jimbo, saves my cell phone bill by keeping me entertained during my next bout of line-waiting. He's playing a sports announcer, and doing a running commentary on speed slide participants. (You know, the super scary, steep, 60 mph, feel-like-your-free-falling, enema-inducing type of water slide?)

Jim: "Nice! I think her boob fell out! And that was a definate wedgie."
Jim: "We're getting some crack on this one, boys."
Jim: "How's that for cheek peek?"

I'm pretty excited for my review. Taking a flying leap onto the slide, 2 seconds later, I arrive at the bottom, prying my swimsuit out of my ass crack (where it's become unsettlingly lodged). I flash Jimbo the thumbs-up. Cara comes down the slide next and gives me my report.

Cara: "Here's what he said- disappointingly, no crack. He was expecting more from you in that area. However, you made up for it with a quality wedgie, and the top of your tank crept up pretty high in the back. Overall, an excellent display."

None of the lines at the amusement park quite compare to the experience of waiting 50 minutes at the KFC drive-thru on our way home. And no, I don't mean 15 minutes, I mean 50 minutes. 30 of which are spent parked next to the speaker box, eagerly awaiting the hunger-reducing sound of "May I take your order?" By the time Cara and I arrive at said box, we have already put in a good 15 minutes of time just waiting for the two cars ahead of us to place their orders. And we'll be damned if we're not going to get the new Biscuit Bowl!

Backing up to the beginning: We can't figure out if the person driving the Escalade in front of us is a guy or a girl, so henceforth, it will be referred to as Schmale (She-male). Schmale is a total prick, and the person working the drive-thru is an idiot. Schmale also happens to be an idiot. (Still not sure how this explanation necessitates a 50-minute wait time, but I digress.)

DT: "Um, can you say all that again?" (After Schmale has ordered two bags worth of food.) Schmale repeats order about seventeen times, continually amending, making changes, and just generally being an asshole. I mean, clearly the kid's a retard, could you go easy on him for the sake of everyone else in line?

DT: "Is there anything else I can get for you?" Schmale proceeds to change the entire order once again.

Cara and I rejoice when it is our turn to pull up to the speaker. We'll even make it easy, all we want is a biscuit bowl. 5 minutes turn into 10, 10 turns into 15. The cars behind us decide to leave. We wonder if we should leave, but we're a little too annoyed, amused, and curious about what the hell is going on. We start to have a running dialogue about the action occurring in front of us.

Me: "Look, it says Schmale owes 25.51, that means they're going to have to prepare a lot of food."
Cara: "Ooohh, here comes the drink cups."
Me: "Uh oh, the drink cups are getting sent back."
Cara: "The price just changed to 24.46."
Me: "Why are they having a 5-minute conversation? I want to see some action!"
Cara: "Damn, did Schmale just throw that food out of the window? What a dick!"

The car behind us honks. Schmale and drive-thru worker crane their heads to examine us, as if realizing for the first time that we've been sitting here for 30 minutes.

Cara: (addressing 2nd line of cars behind us through driver window) "We've been sitting here for 30 minutes, you guys might as well just go." We sit through five cycles like this, of cars lining up behind us, and Cara sending them on their way.

This situation has become ridiculous. Especially in light of the "We strive to get your order in 60 seconds" sign that is prominent outside Cara's window. After 50 minutes go by, our food is finally in our hands.

Me: "What happened?"
DT: "We got their order wrong, and they refused to get out of line, sorry about the wait."

We didn't even get a discount for all of our troubles. But finally, the long-awaited, glorious biscuit bowl is in our hands. We've been craving this item ever since spying a billboard on the freeway during our trip to Philadelphia last weekend. We sink our teeth into the first bite, passing the bowl back and forth eagerly (as if it was a different type of "bowl", and not just some crappy fast food). The verdict? It sucks.

The Great Smithsonian Adventure

2007-08-10T21:26:00.000-04:00

I know I've left my dear readers (all 2 of you) in the lurch as to the results of The Great Smithsonian Adventure. The truth is, I couldn't bring myself to go until today. It's a raging inferno outside, 100 degrees with 80 percent humidity. Today's the first day it's cooled off enough for me to encounter the bloody heat.

I'm feeling pumped to don some dorky tourist gear, but have to think twice, due to said weather. So here I am, in sport shorts, tennis shoes, a visor, (don't worry, it's nerdy) a tank top, and LOTS of sunscreen. Dumb maneuver #1, showering prior to stepping into sweat bath.

Dumb maneuver #2, getting off at "L'Enfant Plaza" instead of the metro stop aptly named "Smithsonian." Seems like a no-brainer, right? But I'm a "local", and therefore privy to such top-secret knowledge as the fact that several Smithosonian institutions are actually located closer to "L'enfant Plaza" than "Smithsonian". This is true, if you also know which exit to pop out of once you return to the glaring light of day. "L'enfant Plaza" happens to be one of those extraordinarly large underground stations, which encompass all of, like, 17 blocks. I get off at the farthest possible exit, and end up in some random federal building, where I'm getting frisked for entering.

I finally reach the national mall, and I'm already hungry, hot, and exhausted. I head to the native american museum first, because I love their tribal dining facility. Having previously enjoyed an exquisite meal that included eel salad, a bloody buffalo steak, and some delicious salmon, I was ready for my second gastronomic experience. Remembering how succulent the buffalo was last time, I decide on a buffalo burger, with fries and a soda. Once I'm sitting, I take a look at my food and realize I just paid 14 bucks for a damn happy meal. To make matters worse, I'm surrounded by people munching away on various unusual entrees. I consider asking if they'd allow me to exchange a burger with a bite already taken out of it.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm the world's worst orderer? I should start making other people do it for me. I should've tapped the shoulder of the guy standing in front of me and said-

Me: "Excuse me, but do you mind choosing what I'll eat today? You see, if I do it, I'll just end up eating some shit."

Or maybe I could go with the subtle "I'll have what he's having" approach. But I digress, I'm getting distracted from my original intent to people watch.

After five minutes of listening to thinks-he's-so-damn-smart-dude expounding upon native american theories with his ever-attentive companion who's just trying to get a word in edgewise, I was ready to throttle him. What good is having an overly intellectual conversation with yourself? If I was her, I wouldn't be impressed. This dude was just talking to hear himself talk. I decide to move on, since Cara and I calculated that I would be spending approximately fifteen minutes in each museum in order to squeeze in all nineteen in one day. I throw away the remaining seven dollars of lunch and head to the air and space exhibit.

Can I help it if I'm seduced by the planetarium and IMAX movie theatre? Ooh, and they have kites in the gift shop? I live for that shit. Once I reach the theatre and see that Tom Cruise is narrating the film, I turn on my heel and head to the planetarium. (I hate Tom Cruise). Instead, I get to listen to Robert Redford wax nostalgic about the big boom theory. The eternal rule-breaker, I stealthily check to make sure the usher is busy with the projector. Then I slip to the floor to enjoy the movie laying on my back, while everyone else cranes their necks to peer at the ceiling. The downside of this plan is that more than one spectator treads on me on their way out.

Rubbing my newly bruised hand, I head to the modern art museum. Did I say I live for IMAX? I actually live for modern art. Or rather, I live for all the psuedo-intellectual people peering intently at pieces entitled "Black Dot" and expounding upon their depth, because they're so artistically inclined. Today's favorite work was a random hunk of beeswax covered in plaster, called "Child at Soup Kitchen." I stared at it for about five minutes, trying to make out a face in the wax. Nope, just a hunk of crap. For all you Juneauites out there, I found a partner piece to the "Nimbus". (You know, that hideous hunk of twisted neon green metal in the courtyard of the AK state museum?) I found "Nimbus 5", a simillarly awful chunk of blue plexiglass.

Lucky me, I was in time to catch the 3pm tour. Even luckier me, it was a private tour. Even luckier duckier me, the tour guide was hilarious and waaaayyy too into modern art. She kept tossing me tough questions, like a teacher trying to trip you up during an oral exam. But when it comes to modern art, I can play with the best of 'em, and I parried with some pure gold bullshit, if I do say so myself. (And I do.)

TG: "What stands out to you immediately upon entering this room?"
Me: "The juxtoposition of the placement on the wall of each piece."
TG: "What specifically about their placement do you find interesting?"
Me: "It's what the artist does with the negative space. He put as much thought into how he was going to place the art on the wall, as he did to the art itself. He's saying they're equal in their artistic merit. Like, if he had made a different choice, it would be a completely different work of art.
TG: "You're right, when he gave us our tour, he spent as much time explaining the space between as he did talking about each individual piece."
Me: "I think he exaggerated the random placement of each piece to show the audience that chaos in and of itself is order."
TG: "Exactly! You're so brilliant!"

I walk away having convinced my tour guide that I am the young, modern messiah of art. I'm feeling smug, because I happen to believe most modern artists are laughing their way to the bank, while their audience trips over themselves to analyze random squiggles and blotches of paint. Come on, I could paint that with my eyes closed. I leave the museum with my retinas aching from over-exposure to neon flasing lights and Sylvester Stallone's torso during the video installation portion of our tour.

I'm starting to feel burned out, but I bravely soldier on. The african art museum, the asian art museum (was that the Freer exhibit?), and some other art museum all blend together in my mind. The temperature is creeping up dangerously and I am in desperate need of refreshment. I head over to the natural history museum for some diet coke. I'm disconcerted, as I watch a youth dig a grubby finger into his nose. He shakes out a heinous bogey and flings it at an unsuspecting skeleton of a wooly mammoth. Having lost my appetite for dinosaur bones, I'm relieved when Julie calls and inquires what I'm doing tonight.

Me: "Getting the hell out of here." The museum is alarmingly packed wall-to-wall with screaming children.

Easier said than done, this time I go to the "Smithsonian" metro stop, and fight my way through the rush-hour crew queuing eagerly to get home after a long, hard day. I'm heading down to the platform, when out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Kevin, a 21-year-old ex-barrista, who used to flirt mercilously with me.

Shit! He can't see me! I told everyone at Starbucks I was leaving for China ten days ago! (I just didn't feel like working anymore, can you blame me?) I attempt a dodge-and-weave maneuver which is a little more advanced than my recuperating-from-surgery left knee can handle, and the next thing I know, I'm tumbling, and pulling over a metallic trash can with me, as I crumple to the skanky subway floor. Kevin's head whips around at the sound of the commotion.

I cringe, curling into the fetal position in order to hide, while simultaneously concocting a wild story about having flown back to DC for two weeks while the Chinese government sorts out my work visa. I feel like Meg Ryan in "French Kiss", during the scene where she's frantically crawling away from her ex-husband covered in food. Only I'm covered in trash, and I'm not crawling on some posh hotel floor. At that moment, the train doors open and he hops on. I breathe a sigh of relief and brush trash off myself as I wait for the next train to approach.

The train is crowded, but I manage to find a seat. I'm given a large berth as a result of my trash-eating experience. A homeless woman, also smelling of trash, isn't afraid to approach and takes the seat next to me. She reeks of pee and alcohol, and is busy smearing bright red lipstick on her cheeks. She asks me for money, but since I never carry cash, I don't have any to give. Then she asks me to pick her chips up off the floor. At least I can do this, and as I'm bending down, a good samaritan hands me two bucks to give her. Next she asks if we can help her out of her seat. After an extended bout of pushing and grunting from me, and a lot of heaving and pulling from good samaritan, she is able to totter off the train.

Good samaritan sinks into the seat next to me and wipes sweat from her brow.

GS: "We never know what will happen to us in this life. You were good to her."
Me: "No, you were good to her, I didn't have any money."
GS: "She had angels surrounding her and helping her today."

I don't know about "angels", but I did feel like I put some change in the ol' karma bank. Time to take another shower.

The Porcelain God

2007-08-05T01:06:00.000-04:00

I spent last night at Capitol City Brewery by Union Station, followed by the Irish Billy Goat pub. Unfortunately, there was nothing billy goatish about the joint, so I was rather disapointed. I was expecting brutish wooden tables, icy cold pints, and animal heads to be mounted on the wall. Instead, I got to hang out in a small rectangle of plexi glass and steel. So clearly not deserving of an Irish name. I don't think they even served Irish beer.

We had more success at Capitol City Brewery, where we made best friends with our waitress, who felt the need to sit down and tell us her life story. Mind you, we even got the full round of pics. The kid she adopted from her unstable cousin at the tender age of 19, the surgery report from her last bout of cervical cancer. After suffering through these excessive unpleasantries, we thought for sure we would get a wee discount on our bill. Nope, I think we were just expected to leave an extra-large tip after all the too-personal attention.

It was one of those nights- me worshipping the porcelain god at 5 am, while cringing at the memory of some unsavory drunken behavior. Cara waking me up a mere 3 hours later, so we could get on the road, while questioning me on the state of the living room, and especially her hand-crafted coffee table. It's currently littered with debris of an unpleasant nature and various wine stains. (Umm, I can't remember?) So much for being able to hold my liquor post-college. Thank god for McDonalds. The hangover gods must have invented those spectacular sausage egg mcmuffins, aka, alcohol sponges, which saved the road trip and the day at the theatre. That'll teach me not to pay for my mistakes.

X-mas Incompetence

2003-12-27T22:01:00.000-05:00

I am currently in Australia!

This long day's journey into night begins on Christmas. An appropriate time for any journey to start, Holly and I are leaving a rain-streaked, lazy, family X-mas in Vegas to embark on the "flight from hell" to Sydney, Australia. Our first leg, to LA, goes off without a hitch, until all hell breaks loose.

We're sitting on the plane, miserably squished between a window and a stern-looking Japanese businessman who doesn't speak any English, as we're waiting for the flight to take off. Waiting, and waiting, and did I mention waiting? As it turns out, this flight is fated not to take off for another couple hours. Apparently, there are some lights in the cabin, that, goshdarnit, just won't go off when they're supposed to, when the rest of the lights are extinguished. So we're waiting for minor repairs to occur. Our plane actually takes it's place in line for take-off. And then it DRIVES BACK TO THE GATE. Holly and I are dismayed, but she decides to take a dromamine, and spend the first half of the flight in peaceful oblivion. I sit there, digging my fingernails into my face, until I too, decide that sleep shall be the best option.

It's not that the flight is extremely crowded, because it's not. But there certainly isn't a row big enough for two girls to move to together. The math seems pretty logical to me. There are three of us sitting in a row for three people. Wouldn't it be better if one person moved to another row rather than two? Wouldn't it make the most sense if our Japanese friend simply removed himself to one of the rows of four seats in which only one other person was sitting? Apparently not, cause his seat is HIS seat, and his ticket says he must sit in that particular seat number. Blast the Japanese and their rule-abiding society! May I also say something about the hard-working factor? While Holly and I are doing one of four things; a) sleeping with our mouths hanging open while our vocal chords are slowly sapped of all moisture, b) munching on our prolific stock of sweets, c) reading crappy girly magazines, or d) swooning over Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom, as "Pirates" happens to be our in-flight movie, this man is content to do schoolwork the ENTIRE time. Mind you, this flight lasts about 20 hours. Excuse me while I vomit off the side of the plane.

Our Japanese neighbor was small chuckles compared to the emotional needy pilot, who made such speeches as: "I'm not apologizing again for the delays, it's not our fault, we're doing everything we can and deserve some appreciation." Holly and I were practically rolling around on the floor, we were laughing so hard. Guess we don't have any respect- cause if it's not US Airways' fault, then whose is it?

Although the best part of the evening happened before we even got on the plane. The incompetent airline worker looked at my ticket and said:

AW: "So, you're flying into LA today?"
Me: "Actually, we're flying into Sydney, and need to check our bags all the way through."
AW: "You're not flying to Sydney. It doesn't say that here."
Me: "Er, yes it does. Try unfolding the entire page and actually reading it."
AW: "It says you're flying out on the 27th. So you're spending a couple days in LA."
Me: (while patiently pointing at the paper like a kindergarten teacher explaining the blatantly obvious). "Look, here it shows me leaving Las Vegas and arriving in LA today. Here it shows me leaving LA today, and arriving in Sydney on the 27th because of the time difference."
AW: "Hmmmm (as if he still doesn't believe me). Let me check the computer."

At this point, Holly and I exchange exasperated looks, which don't pass the incompetent airline worker unnoticed.

AW: "Look ladies, it's Christmas, and we don't want to be here either."

I have to bite my tongue to remind him that, actually, I do want to be here, seeing how it's my vacation, and I'm going to Australia! And incompetence has nothing to do with Christmas. Maybe if he was irritable with us, that could be his excuse. But he was a bloody retard, and the only acceptable excuse for that would go something like:

AW: "I'm sorry, I can't read an itinerary even though I'm trained to do so, because I'm going through an intensive course of progressive brain surgery that has altered all the training stored in my right lobe." Or a simple, "I haven't slept in 48 hours" would do just fine. But the "It's-X-mas-and-I-don't-want-to-be-here" excuse just wasn't going to fly.

Incompetence was the theme of the day. We next encountered it at Burger King. We already didn't want to be paying for overpriced fries, but there seems to be a perennial airline rule that no meals will be served within three hours of approach or take-off. So we had no choice but to wallow in excessively priced airport fare. We stood at the damn Burger King counter for a half hour, only to discover that the pimply-faced teenage worker had thrown our order away, and it would take thirty more minutes to prepare another one.

We nixed the fried food and made it to Australia in one piece; thanks to an extensive supply of Twix bars. We didn't cause too many airline fights, and we even found a hostel in Wooloomooloo, so I could pay homage to the god of Russell Crowe.

Lesbian Whore

2003-10-05T01:36:00.000-04:00

I am currently in Reno!

Why would I visit Reno's lame, wanna-be strip when I could be living it up on the real deal in Vegas? Because this weekend is the ol' UNLV vs. UNR game. I drove up here to visit Cornelius with G-funk and J-funk. The ride up started out innocent as a lamb, pure as driven snow, complete with a Disney sing-a-long, until it was rudely interrupted by none other than yours truly.

"Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down!" We sing gleefully, taking the corners a little too fast (which later resulted in a speeding ticket.)

"The best little whorehouse in the south, guys, we HAVE to go!" I proclaim, upon sight of the billboard, obviously a spin on the famous "best little whorehouse in Texas". G and J were game, and we pull off into a nearby gas station, where we decide to inquire as to where the famous whorehouse is. Since it was my idea, the responsibility of asking for directions inevitably fell on me. So while G and J were pretending to admire a stand of Slim Jim's, I was making a complete ass of myself.

Me: "So... What is there to do here in Pahrump? We're from Alaska, and we were wondering what the main sight is...?" (Now I'm trying to be tactful for once, and phrase this gently, so I don't have to blurt out- "We're looking for the whorehouse!")
GA (gas station attendant): "Well, you can gamble."
Me: "Oh no, that's okay, we currently live in Vegas. Anything else?" (I swear, it was like pulling teeth, just trying to get the man to say "whorehouse".)
GA: "Well, I'm not really from here, so I don't know...." (I hear distinct snickering from Joanna and Greta over by the Slim Jim display.) Realizing I had no choice but to go for it, I blurt out,
Me: "Um, aren't there, like, whores running around on the streets here? I mean, it is famous for being legal, isn't it?"
GA: "I wouldn't exactly say they're "running around on the streets"", he finishes, while fixing me with a steely gaze.
Me: "Look, can you just tell me how to get to the chicken ranch?" (GA staring at me like I'm a complete asshole, I mean, what's a girl like me going to do at the chicken ranch?) But he directs us anyway. We get back into the car, and boldly drive straight up to the front door.

A whore is dangling her leg lazily off the edge of the porch and sits bolt upright when she hears our car pull into the drive.

LW (lesbian whore): "Howdy ladies! Come with me into the bar and I'll get you started!"
Me: "Uh, get started on what?" I whisper to J and G as we follow her into a bar that is packed with whores in period costumes waiting for their "regulars" to show up.

LW is loud and proud and a little too interested in three school girls, if you know what I mean. She shows us her internet resume and presents us with a detailed "menu" of parlor tricks that we can order, should we want to venture into the rest of the house. At this point we're wondering how far we'll go to get a peak at the inner chambers, before we have to pony up some dough.

I decide the jig is up, and tell LW that we're really just there for the souveneir menu and a t-shirt for Cornelius. But in an attempt to press my luck, I ask if she wouldn't mind giving us a complimentary side tour of the sitting room and bedrooms where guests have been so famously entertained. She winks, conspiratorily, and has an animated discussion with her grand-pimp-daddy, begging him to allow her to break the rules, just this once.

PD: "Sorry ladies, the rest of the house is off limits unless you're a paying customer."

So that was the end of that. LW walks us out to our car and hugs us good-bye, (and J maintains that she tried to cop a feel).

Alice in Crackland

2003-09-07T17:02:00.000-04:00

As an alumni of the 2002 UNLV Edinburgh fringe festival, I really wanted to support the 2003 crew. It's a bit sad that I only made it to one of their shows. And even sadder still, that the show I happened to make it to was Margot's. How can I best capture her in words? She's all of four feet high, she's about a hundred years old, her hair is bigger than she is, she's Jewish, and she's hilarious. You would know what I'm talking about, if you ever had to prance across a stage in front of an international audience barefoot in a prom dress with your hair in a side ponytail making sadistic cat growling sounds. (In case you were wondering- I was the narrator for this crazy "Alice in Wonderland" cracked-out thing we did in Edinburgh.) Imagine a female Kramer as the door mouse in our Alice in Crackland- that would be Margot. She is the weirdest choreographer known to man. Still, we were pretty amused watching her flounce across the stage with her big hair bobbing in her wake.

I convinced Joel to come with me to watch Louis perform (who I'm completely in love with in that idolistic-no-way-in-hell-it's-ever-going-to-happen since he's my teacher and more importantly, he's gay, the chair of the deptartment, did I mention completely gay, attached, and utterly beautiful)? Can I add that the reviews discuss in detail his rippling muscular sinews as he strips down to his underwear? Needless to say, I was ecstatic to see him, and more than a little disaspointed when we ended up stuck in a music room practicing church songs all night.

A fun fact about Vegas is that it has more churches and gambling facilities sharing the same zip code than anywhere else in the world. Apparently, there's a market in the music community for cantoring several of these masses each weekend at 50 bucks a pop. Desperately in need of a get-rick-quick scheme, I dusted off some of the old Catholic standby's, "Be Not Afraid", "Eagle's Wings", etc. (Unfortunately, no Polish pilgrimage revival of "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" this time.) And then we ended up at Carrow's across the street, drinking milkshakes with our choir director, while I reprised everyone with travel tales. I'm not sure how this happened, I'm not really one of those do-gooder-brown-noser-kickin'-it-with-the-teacher-types. (Then again, I chose to spend the entire evening inadvertedly praising the lord rather than drooling over my naked, sinfully gay dance teacher. Maybe the tides are turning?) Once the conversation turned into a discussion of male cheerleaders and their thumbs sometimes sliding up their female counterpart's bung holes, I felt much more in my element.

I miss public transportation now that I've been back in town for a week and already had an accident in Holly's car and a flat in Joel's car. The rest of the evening was comprised of an adventure called, "Let's figure out how to fill Joel's tires with air." This entailed us rolling up to a gas station, fumbling with the manual, which took the time to print "See backside left-hand door, to locate air pressure measurment" without actually telling us what the magic number was. Wouldn't it have been easier to simply print '33' in the instruction manual? Because sure enough, we couldn't find a '33' or a '35', or whatever the damn number was supposed to be, printed on the inside of his very old car. We did, however, consult the random Mexican people who came to the pump equipped with air mattresses to be filled. They told us to go with '33, so we did, and hopefully his car doesn't explode anytime soon.

Night Swimming

2003-09-02T16:47:00.000-04:00

My roomates, Amanda, Stephen, and I decided to illegally go "night swimming" in our appartment pool. This resulted in a lot of dead brain cells, because of our breath-holding competition. Stephen kicked my ass due to his elementary school swim team experience, which I found pretty disgraceful, since I'm an opera singer and should have the lung capacity of a whale. (Do whales even have lungs?) But I impressed him with my high school dive team experience, and then we tossed around the self-named "falafel." (You know, one of those floating noodle things- do those have names?)

After the swimming adventure, I tried to go to sleep, it was 12:30. I woke up again at 2, because there was a wild storm positively raging outside my window pane. The deadly kind, when the thunder claps simultaneously with the lightning. A moment of panic as the urgent thought; "Oh man, I don't have renter's insurance! What if a tree crashes through this house?" raced through my head. Had I taken a second to reflect and realize that there are no trees in Las Vegas, I wouldn't have had this concern. Such thoughts make me realize how much I'm turning into my mother, always worried about ridiculous things. It also makes me aware of the fact that I have been way too stressed out lately thinking about "practical concerns". I have seven dollars to my name, what valuable possessions could a tree possibly destroy?

First Day of Class

2003-08-26T17:02:00.000-04:00

My life is completely out of control. Picture this: I'm sitting in my appartment, realizing that I'm completely strapped for cash, (this never would've happened if my damn purse hadn't been stolen, I would've had a 1,000 dollar pillow of money to ride on until I got my life figured out.) Instead, I come home completely penniless, with a bank account in the red. I look desperately around my room for something to sell. The only thing I have in abundance are clothes and shoes, and now that I'm used to having only three outfits, it should be an easy sell.

Thinking my backpacking days are over (for the time being, anyway), I put the ol' monster to good use a final time and head off towards the Buffalo Exchange, a trading post for clothes. The only problem being that the clothes have to be really cute, vintage, or brand-name for them to sell. After two backpack loads in the blazing heat of a Las Vegas Sunday, I come home with an additional 40 bucks, having sold a mere ten items of clothes. The situation has now gone from sad to desperate. Besides having no money, apparently, I'm also a candidate for TLC's "What Not To Wear."

I work for two terrible hours in Holly's dad's auto parts warehouse. Picture me, all dolled up in a little, white sundress, after attending my first day of class. I roll up to work in a dirty, hot, smelly warehouse and start sorting car parts. I manage to completely bungle my job, and rearrange all the car parts in the wrong way. When Holly's dad shows up to access my proud work, he nicely tells me that I did it all wrong. I hate this job.

My first day of school is also hell. My first class is conducting with the evil George Stelluto. He decides to sit around all day asking broad, metaphysical questions and then making fun of us for trying to answer. It gets so bad that other people actually express sorrow for me. Conversation between Holly and some kids from my class-

Kids: "Yeah, George is such an asshole. "
H: "My friend, Colleen, was saying how condescending he was, and how much that class sucked."
Kids: "Wait, was she that vocalist girl in the front?"
H: "Yeah."
Kids: "Man, I felt bad for her, he ripped her a new one!"

Back in the U.S.A

2003-08-23T18:43:00.000-04:00

I am currently in Las Vegas!

I am back in the USA. First impressions? It is a relief to run errands here. Everything is so much simpler, and more efficient when I can actually go into my bank and speak English!

My school loan goes through and pays my tuition. Which means I have seven dollars to my name. I can't buy a cell phone yet, I can't even buy groceries or necessary goods for the appartment, which I am currently living in illegally.

I thought obtaining a credit card would be easy. Who knew that having no credit, no job, and no money would be held against me? So I've given up on the credit card. I'm just going to have to live a miserable, penniless existence for a few weeks until I get a job and my first paycheck.

There's some major plane drama on the way back that involves a delayed flight and an overnight stay in Atlanta. So Holly shows up the day before to pick me up, and I have to call her to pick me up again.

So she does, and we immediately get into a car accident. When it rains, it pours!

The Cesspool of Mankind

2003-08-19T16:14:00.000-04:00

Ah, London. The cesspool of mankind.

We are here with my sister's friend Cat. (Short for Catherine, but because we call her Cat, it makes for some fun moments of purring and growling on red double-decker busses. Don't ask.) Cat loves flirting (and has a knack for attracting some real wankers), she loves dancing salsa, and she's a lot of fun.

Not that it matters, because I am a huge party pooper right now. I'm burned out to the max. Really, after thirteen months abroad, I just can't be asked.

I am not looking forward to the airport shuffle. I am not looking forward to dragging my shit (half of which is Cara's) to the evil London Gatwick airport, which is dead far away. Nor am I looking forward to spending another night alone in this flea-infested hostel. Yes, I spent nights in Egypt hotels for one dollar. Yes, I camped and shit in the woods. Yes, I slept on the ground outside of the Florence train station. And yes, I stayed in sketchy hostels with thirty people per room. So where am I inflicted with the worst bug bites/rash of my entire life? Yep, London, on my last night. It's an absolute cesspool.

But I love it.

Caught Red-Handed, Stroking the Wrong McMuffin

2003-08-15T07:38:00.000-04:00

We embark on a 27-hour bus ride from hell, which is about as appealing as eating my own toe lint or washing my hair in a toilet. (The latter is something I have not yet done, as desperate for a shower as I've been at times. I have, however, flossed my teeth with my own hair. Don't be grossed out, it's all part of living out of a backpack.)

I attempt to sleep with my skull rebounding off the safety glass, leaving gross varicose-like greasy squiggles across the windows. The irritating man in front of me feels the need to crank his chair back as far as it goes, so in silent retaliation, I dig my knees into his back. In an attempt to save money, we actually drag half of a pizza all the way across three countries and on two different busses, only for it to slide out of the box and decorate the pavement in Berlin.

We change busses in Vilnius, at the tender hour of 5am. My face is permanently adorned with lines from the seat, and my eyes are crusty with sleep. Having worn the same pair of underwear for an infinitely unspeakable period of time, I hasten to the bathroom (or the squatter I should say) to change. Feeling a thousand times better, I cheerfully stroll out of the bathroom, whistling and swinging my arms, a little too deftly, because my dirty underwear sails out of my grasp, unknown to me. There it lay, offending the floor of the main terminal, for an early morning audience of many. An older lady has to tap me on the shoulder, mutter some words in Lithuanian, and point at the dirtied article of clothing in order to bring my attention to it. With my head hanging, I shuffle my feet in reverse, and do the walk of shame to retrieve the underwear. Oh, the embarassment.

The next leg of our trip consists of several too-loud movies dubbed into Russian, and me trying to escape from them by listening to Chris Rock and Adam Sandler. This means just adding more obnoxious to the already obnoxious. We stop at a lovely little outdoor resteraunt (you wouldn't do this on Greyhound, truly a unique European bus experience), and are served a two-course meal, which is included in our fifty-nine dollar ticket! We enjoy minestrone-esque soup, a beautiful slab of schnitzel, garnished with seasoned potatoes, and a fat pile of cole slaw.

Our ride comes to an end at 1:30 in the morning. We're dumped off into the cold of a Berlin night, and at this point, we actually don't want to get off the bus. We're not looking forward to seeking accomodation heavily clad in backpacks and long faces. We drag ourselves to the only establishment in Berlin that I know of, the dreaded Zoo hostel. Even though it's two in the morning, all the knobabouters, er, I mean busabouters, are still up partying. Luckily, we squeeze into the last three beds, and collapse to go to sleep. Only at that point, I can't sleep, it's as if all my tiredness from the bus has been sapped by the long, dreaded walk through oblivion with our heavy packs. (But I did have this really freaky dream, where I was attacked by this huge, tyranosaurus rex-like dog that tried to eat me, while all my friends, new and old, watched indifferently, no one attempting to save me. I wonder what that means... Any thoughts?)

This morning (in Berlin finally), we go to McDonalds (surprise surprise). While I'm waiting for my egg mcmuffin and orange juice, the cashier is placing an egg mcmuffin on a tray, so I assume it's mine. I'm in the middle of explaining to Mike how much I've been craving an egg mcmuffin, and to emphasize my point, I stoke the muffin lovingly. This is all fine and dandy, except it turns out I'm stroking an egg mcmuffin that doesn't belong to me. I don't realize there's a man behind me waiting for the exact same order. He busts to the front of the line, snatches his tray, and defiantly glares at me. I've been caught red-handed, stroking someone else's egg mcmuffin!

Gambling Virgins

2003-08-13T15:17:00.000-04:00

We spend an entire day in the exotic city of Riga; only to sleep, shower, and lay around watching the BBC news. We opt for the "unrenovated" rooms at a three-star hotel. After two overnight trains, we're exhausted and ready to enjoy some luxury, which includes going out to a fancy dinner. I get a delicious fried squid in a shrimp sauce concoction (sounds a little too fishy? Don't worry, it's not.) Mike gets some type of lemon sauce delight, and I don't know what Trent gets, I'm too horrified listening to his racist jokes.

Trent: "How do you fit 6 million and 3 jews into a car? 2 in the front, 1 in the back, and 6 million in the ash tray. What do you call Mexicans parachuting out of an airplane? Air pollution."

Quite appropriate jokes, considering we just got back from our Crackow visit to Auschwitz! I can't believe I just repeated that slander on-line.

We stroll through the old town of Riga, and it's lovely. Then we decide to go sleep some more. This must be the most amazing thing about youth. You can sleep all day long, yet still go to bed at night, and wake up 12 hours later. So we do just that, barely waking up in time to check out at noon. We then wander through an enormous and exciting market place on our way to the bus station, where Trent assures us we can catch a bus to our coastal destination of Jurmala, Latvia. This is not so, as usual, our fine friend Trent is mistaken. (I think I'm still mad at him for the ridiculous liberal vs. conservative discussion from the previous night, in which he discloses that he will, indeed, vote for The Bush again.)

The marketplace is a wonder. Four US dollars gets us two loaves of bread, a hotdog, a pizza, a humongous hunk of excellent cheese, a pack of meat sticks resembling slim jims, a bag of grapes, and three bananas.

We make the executive decision to just jump on the bus to our next destination, Kleipeda, a port town in Lithuania, because we need to find out about a ferry back to Germany.

So we jump on the bus, after having spent every last Latvian cent, and meander our way to Kleipeda. We're restless, it's a five-hour bus ride, we're hot, and I decide to keep us entertained by reading out loud (yes, I'm such a librarian at heart).

We're driving along, and we're about 30 minutes from our destination, when I notice that we're pulled over at the infamous "Pelanga", a destination I'd seen on a postcard in Vilnius, which contained several swimsuit-clad bodies strolling along a fine, white sand beach. At the time, I gazed at the postcard dreamily.

Me: "This is the beach, you guys, we should go." Cara responds
Cara: "Actually, I think that's just the Lithuanian word for beach."

Upon discovering that Pelanga really is a town, I exclaim with child-like wonder-

Me: "I knew it was real!"

We impulsively decide to get off the bus. The fact that we had seen a camping site about 3 km back added to the decision. We take a taxi to the camp site, where we pay a whopping 7 ooglie mooglies (my name for any currency I can't pronounce the name of), which is the equivalent of fifty US cents each.

Mike, of course, is creeped out by the fact that he's actually camping for real for the first time, in an actual campsite, that isn't part of the pilgrimage. I'll give him credit for being scared because it is a pretty sketchy area. We wind the night away with me teaching those two gambling virgins how to play "real" blackjack.

I'm feeling terribly claustrophobic all night long, and it's raining, so it's not the most comfortable of circumstances. Add to it the realization that we have to catch a flight in three days, and we're halfway across Europe. With my heart set on the ferry, imagining myself in the swimming pool with a cocktail in hand, watching the sun set as our boat jets across the Baltic sea, we set out for a travel agent to see if it's possible. It's not. The ferries are booked for weeks, as are many of the express coaches to Berlin. We do, however, after much pulling of teeth, manage to secure a ride to Berlin, from Vilnius. 27 hours on the bus, somebody kill me please.

Prior to leaving, we spend a rather enjoyable day at the beach. The small, lovely town of Pelanga is just about deserted, so we're pumped for a private beach. But when we emerge onto the beach, it's like being in California, with many bodies per cubic inch. We laze about in the sun, and I attempt to enter the freezing Baltics. I immerse myself up to my neck and enjoy swimming around in the nasty pollution. We pay a small girl with a scale to weigh and measure us. Having heard pilgrimage success stories of people losing up to forty pounds, we were sure we had at least lost ten. Sadly, we didn't lose a single kilo. In our disapointment, we treat ourselves to a large, angry, and extravagent dinner.

Boyscouts with Guns

2003-08-11T04:08:00.000-04:00

After our sprint from Catholicism, Cara wants to indulge her obsession for H&M. The highlight of our day in Warsaw consists of another forced march across the city in order to find an H&M that doesn't exist. We walk another 10 km, it's like the pilgrimage all over again, and about the same in spiritual significance, seeing how we end up at a KFC. (At the end of ten days in Poland we were supposed to end up in a church where the statue of Mary cries blood, and other healing miracles occur. Right up there with KFC, in our book.)

The good news is that the extra long crispy chicken sandwich is the equivalent of 75 US cents. Afterwards, we decide to visit the all-time famous Warsaw ghetto, which has been turned into a park. Highly disapointing when you expect to see a rubble of buildings with the occasional body strewn across it. Nope, they transformed the wreckage into a park with a lame statue commemorating the ghetto that once was there.

We cruise past the old square and take a closer look at the main sights we marched past when starting the pilgrimage five days ago (fresh, uncertain virgins that we were then, little did we know the pain lingering ahead!) Warsaw is a delightful city, we listen to multiple street artists playing the accordion and carving wood (although not at the same time), and afterwards we catch an overnight train to Vilnius, Lithuania.

Random, I know, but I've always wanted to go to the Baltic States. Prior to boarding the train, we meet a kid from Iowa named Trent, who's traveling by himself. He asks if he can accompany us, until he breaks off and goes to Estonia, which will be sad, because he's a riot.

All four of us get seperated into different compartments. The ride is pretty uneventful, except for the part where we get free goods, such as cookies and washcloths! I'm sharing a compartment with two french girls. Cara scares the crap out of them by marching into our compartment at 7am and asking me to accompany her back to her room, which has been emptied out. We crawl into her small bed, and are lying there together, when the conductor bursts in, gives us a funny look, and asks if we want coffee or tea.

We aren't prepared for the fact that the train rolls in roughly two hours early, (and there's an hour time change to boot). We fling ourselves out of bed, hurriedly pulling on our shoes, when the conductor bursts in unceremoniously with a stream of Polish which we take to mean-

PC: "What are you doing!? We arrived at the last stop five minutes ago!" Sure enough, the train is no longer moving, and the words "Vilnius", loom outside our window.

Groggy-eyed, we take our time in the train station, arranging yet another overnight train ride to Riga, and taking turns in the scary bathroom with squatters, peeing through holes and washing our faces in sinks that don't work.

Trent has an obsession with sampling bathrooms all over Europe. He rates each country based on whether they host clean facilities or not. The Baltic states so far aren't doing too well.

The weather is erratic all day, and we get caught in a downpour, so we head into a resteraunt for lunch. Mike orders the mysterious "beer" pizza, which he ends up hating, because it's covered in peppers. (Mike cries from the mildness of tabasco sauce. Wuss.)

We go see a movie, and I cause a ruckus by ripping open my snack pack, only to have the contents spray across the laps of everyone in our row. We're getting hussled by a cabbie on our way to the train station, so we decide to end the ride early, and walk the rest of the way. First, we stop at McDonalds. (I have eaten more fast food abroad then I have during the entirety of my life put together), but I guess that's what happens when you're a budget traveler with under 300 bucks left over from your student loan.

On this train ride, we're ecstatic to discover that the seats of our compartments turn into couchettes, and we get ourselves settled into a gigantic bed. The conductor is not appreciative of our efforts, because she bursts in and starts cursing us out in Lithuanian. We get the gist of what she's saying, that we're not allowed to lay down, because we only purchased seats. We decide to plead ignorance, and spend a quiet night sleeping in our illegal couchettes. Nobody else joins our compartment, so why does she care?

We're awakened around 5am, by some disgruntled boyscouts with guns stamping our passports and scowling at us, like we're planning to smuggle drugs into their country.

The Polish Pilgrimage

2003-08-09T06:26:00.000-04:00

Why is there a blog update, when I'm supposed to be on a freakish religious pilgrimage across Poland? Yep, you guessed it, I'm a quitter. Cara, Mike, and I cut our losses and run for the border. FREEDOM! We last for four days of torture. Among other things, Mike learns how to crap in the woods, which really freaks him out. Why do we leave? Well, there are many reasons. But, let's start at the beginning.

Day Prior to Actual Pilgrimage: We reach Dominika's house, via the address she gives us. The first of a long series of small panics set in. We have no idea how to enter, as it appears no one is home. Just as the cabbie's driving away, leaving us standing there with way too much of Cara's baggage, and an expression of despair on our faces; Dominika, three yippie Chihuahua dogs, and a family full of Poles come lumbering into the yard to let us into their home.

Chaos ensues. We meet the family. There's Uncle, who manages to converse with Cara in French, while pulling out his pension plan, brandishing a fist in the air and loudly extolling the horrors of capitalism. There's Dominika's mom, who's adorable, speaks English with a thick Polish accent, and uses the word "awesome" excessively. There are two naked baby cousins. There's an older cousin, Isidora, who takes us to buy hair dye. Last but not least, there's Grandma, who has dementia and is constantly giggling about God-knows-what.

I'm determined to get my hair done in Poland for a cheap price, but it ends up being expensive and doesn't turn out like I planned. For all our efforts, I now have blonde and red stripes, and I look like a zebra head. The dying process lasts all afternoon, which leaves Cara and I to babysit the naked little cousins. This is an interesting experience, due to the language barrier. They ask us questions in Polish and we smile and respond with-

Us: "I have no idea what you're talking about." They're good kids, they choose to play make-believe games and babble to themselves, which at least keeps them out of my hair (literally.) Have I mentioned that I hate kids?

We're not sure what the hell is going on. There's mad chaos in the household. A Russian masseuse stops by to give Dominika and her mom hour-long massages. The whole family goes wedding dress shopping, but since I have dye in my hair, Cara and I are left behind to make friends with the dogs. I'm worried about Mike, but I tell them he needs to be picked up at the train station at 6:30, coming in from East Berlin.

6:30 comes and goes, no Mike. No Dominika. No one. 7:15 comes. Dominika calls and asks for a description of Mike. Turns out she's at the wrong station. She heads to the central train station, and her entire family trots about asking tall guys with country-name t-shirts who are wearing socks and sandals (turns out I'm wrong about the last one, he doesn't bring sandals for the pilgrimage) if they are Mike. To my relief, he's located, and a half hour later brought home.

We take the last showers that we will take for ten days. (Mike wants to kill me, I assured him that we would be staying in fully-equipped camping facilites, just goes to show how little I know what to expect on this pilgrimage...) We spend the night on the floor.

Day 1 : We're roused from peaceful slumber at the unsettling hour of 4:30am. We dress ourselves with bleary eyes, choke down a cup of tomato soup with rice, and head out to our first of many long, boring, Polish masses. Problem #1: The three of us are not practicing Catholics although we were all raised Catholic. In fact, we lean slightly towards the "atheist" side of the religion spectrum, so what are we doing on a religious pilgrimage? Good question, one we probably should have asked ourselves prior to embarking.

At least watching the boyscout cops trying to stop passer-bys from wandering into the street, and failing miserably is enough to entertain us during the mass.

When the mass is finally over, (and this isn't the first time we will kneel on concrete), we line ourselves up against the Warsaw wall and wait for our group to pass so we can jump in with them. We are in the "green" group, the so-called "rock" group. Loud and proud. The military groups kick off the walk, literally, with a choreographed heel click, and we're on our way. Our group is out in the front of the pack. It's an amazing experience (to begin with). The streets are lined with people crying and waving, because they're so moved by our presence. This pilgrimage is a monster. The route we're on includes 4,000 people, split into 19 different groups, designated by colors. It's all a bit confusing; there's our group, the "green" group, the "neon green" group, and the "green and white" group.

Problem #2: No one speaks English. Not that we expect them to, but the entire pilgrimage consists of prayers and songs in Polish, broadcast over loud speakers that the "neon nazis" (you'll understand this title soon, as they comprise problem #5) have strapped to their backpacks. These backpacks also contain a long cord, that we pilgrimas grasp while we walk, thus seperating us from traffic on the freeway. (Yes, we are walking on the freeway.) It's a bit claustrophobic, and during this first leg, we find ourselves wishing that the crowd will thin out a bit, so we can stop stepping on each other's heels. We assume that once we get out of Warsaw, this will be the case. Problem #3: Never assume anything about this pilgrimage, cause inevitably, you'll be wrong.

We don't thin out, but we do reach our first stopping point, where there's an excellent spread of open-faced sandwiches (you'll hear more about these later too). So far we're vastly impressed by the food. We're expecting a dash of soup and crust of bread, as we're to be entering a time of fasting. This is not the case (yet). During the second break, the food is absolutely amazing, and we're stuffing everything into our mouths that we can get our hands on.

My feet are still going strong. We discover we're not without English speaking friends. But they're few and far between. There are some Aussies in our green group. An old priest and a couple from his congregation, as well as my new best friend, Daniel, a fellow backpacker who's jumping into the pilgrimage just for the day (he has the right idea). The green group proves to be quite welcoming, and gives us Americans and Aussies a special shout out.

Our day (and all the days that will follow) are seperated into chunks of walking, resting, setting up camp and taking down camp, masses and appels (more on those later) and sleeping. Problem #4: Complete boredom.

The first day I'm loving it. Polish people step out of their houses, wave to us, and offer food and refreshment, for free! I can't believe it. In America, everyone and their mother would be setting up booths and jacking up the prices in order to make a profit off of us weary pilgrims. It's amazing to see a community in complete and total support of each other.

Problem #5: The neon nazis. The people who run the pilgrimage are completely insane about the rules. We're told we can't wear tank tops. This just isn't going to fly, as it's super hot and sunny, and I am damn well showing my shoulders if the men are allowed to. This doesn't stop the neon nazis from telling us no fewer than five times to cover up. But we're not the only ones who choose not to listen to them.

Problem #6: Perhaps it's our disdainment for rules, but we're soon viewed as "Americans." I don't think it helps that Dominika advertises us as such. (And may I say that Mike, Cara, and I are extremely well-traveled individuals, and more culturally sensitive than the vast majority of Americans), however, we stick out. We're instructed to say "We're American", in response to any inquiries about why we're breaking the rules.

This ends up backfiring, and we discover that while it's okay for the Polish people to break the rules, it's not okay for the "Americans" to do so. All of a sudden, everything we do wrong, is because we we're "American." This ends up being the biggest reason we leave the pilgrimage. This, and the boredom factor.

Anyway, back to the first day. At one point, I'm given a huge green flag, and have to carry it for 7 km, which is a bit of a struggle. Now I know how Christ must have felt, shouldering the cross! The total distance we cover the first day is 40 km, and the last 5 are definately the hardest, as I'm just beginning to get blisters. I'm really getting into the idea of the "Polish" experience. Here we are, experiencing an authentic pilgrimage, seeing the countryside, and getting off the beaten path and into the heart of the people. I am amped and ready for more, as the first day concludes.

We set up camp, fetch Daniel a ride back to Warsaw, and poor Mike is stricken with the runs from a scary pate open-faced sandwich, and he has to frequent the nasty outhouse. As if it isn't traumatizing enough that he has to cram into a tent for the first time, and sleep on the ground with a bunch of girls.

To make matters worse, we're forced to go to mass. This is the beginning of the end. Dominika and her cousin wuss out during the last leg, and catch a ride back to the camp with the medical team. By the time we show up, limbs aching, all we want to do is crawl into bed, as we have to rise early in the morning and do it all over again the next day. We ask if we can skip mass, and are told flat out that we can't.

This has been our intention all along, as we aren't interested in sitting through long, boring, Polish masses. But now it appears we have to attend them, as well as the appel, which is a sing-along at the end of mass, (a completely seperate ceremony) in which we sing the virgin to sleep. Not that we can even participate, because again, we don't speak Polish. Although I do manage to entertain myself by pretending to sing along, muttering nonsensical syllables, based on the shapes of the singing mouths. Finally we're allowed to go to sleep.

Day 2: The food starts to thin out a little, but there's still a large multitude of open-faced sandwiches available. Today and the two days to follow start to wear on in the same pattern. Walking, stopping, praying, while my blisters are growing. Dominika and Isidora are constantly wussing out, and leaving the three of us to fend for ourselves. Which is how we end up marching with the Polish military for the afternoon, and how I end up screaming "Gesu!" and smashing my fist into the air with a bunch of men in camoflage. (Jesus!) It's a pretty funny sight. Although the best sight is when we stop at the Maximillian Colbert church for a quasi lunch break, featuring Mike trying to sleep by propping his forehead up on his clasped hands, in order to look deeply in prayer. Our feelings of disillusionment, boredom, and resentment are starting to set in.

This is nothing compared with how we feel by the end of the day. The three of us manage to start wandering on our own (the military group are suprisingly the least nazi of the lot) and we brek free from them during a compote break. So much better. We've been wanting to stroll around on our own the whole damn time.

We have, however, no idea where we're going.