by Randy Ross
Me: “I’ll certainly add Tug’s to my itinerary. Do you have a long-sleeved, SPF 50 shirt with a hidden security pocket?”
Clerk: “Got you covered, bro. In Phuket, Shooters offers an epic all-night back rub.”
Me: “Another must-see. Do you have 30-percent DEET insect repellent?”
Clerk: “No worries, my friend. And in Koh Samui, definitely check out The Curious Finger Body Spa.”
In the end, I spend $500 with the knowledgeable salesman and avoid shaking his hand.
Tuesday: Book Accommodations and Activities
Since I recently learned to windsurf and can now sail from point A to point B without help from the Coast Guard, I reserve two weeks with the recommended outfit on Venezuela’s Mojito Island, and then e-mail another top-rated company on the Greek island of Cyclonos.
Me: “Can I walk from the hotel to the windsurfing area?”
Response in fractured English: “the hotel ist 3,5 – 4 km faraway from beach. If need per walking time 45 minute.”
After another six e-mails, it’s time to buy.
Me: “Let’s do this.”
Response: “Please to pre payment 50%.”
Me: “Can I pay by credit card?”
Response: “we have no creditcard maschine or can use a creditcard-No. If notpossible to make payment transfer?”
Translation: I’m supposed to wire $500 to someone I’ve never met, who speaks second-grade English, and lives in a country I’ve never visited. This doesn’t strike me as a particularly smart investment. I wire the money.
That night, I have trouble sleeping and treat myself to an Ambien.
Wednesday: Visit Travel Clinic
A nurse wearing a black hoodie under a starched lab coat hustles me into her office. Her skin is paler than a snake’s belly. Her computer sports a bumper sticker: “I stop for entrails.”
“Where you headed?” she says, tracking something outside her window.
“Venezuela, Greece, South Africa, Thailand, Vietnam, and Australia,” I say, watching her watch what is probably a squirrel.
“Sounds like fun.”
After clicking at her keyboard a little too long, she looks directly at me for the first time. “You’re going to need seven shots and we’ll need some blood.”
My hands grip the armrests. I feel myself rocking in my chair. A breath is stuck in my lungs.
“A newbie, eh? You’ll be fine,” she says, handing me pamphlets on malaria and chikungunya fever. Then she starts doling out prescriptions. “If you get the runs in Venezuela, take Ciprofloxacin. In Thailand, take Azithromycin. In Vietnam, take Pepto-Bismol daily—it can turn your tongue black, but some women like that look.”
By the time she finishes with me, I’m afraid to leave my apartment, never mind the country.
That night, I pretreat with two Ambien and get five hours of splintered sleep.
Thursday: Finalize Flights
My travel agent calls. “We’re all set! Just come down, pick up your tickets, and the journey of a lifetime can begin.”
“What’s the final price?”
“It’s a little more than we quoted, but still a deal at $6,180.”
“Can I get an e-ticket?”
“This itinerary is too complicated. I’ve got a stack of fourteen paper tickets—it’s about half an inch thick, Very impressive.”
“How many red-eyes?”
“One, two, three . . . five, but that’s how we kept the price down. One thing: For trips like this, we recommend travel insurance. You know how it can go, life being what it is.”
“How much?”
“About $700, but it includes the works: trip cancellation, lost baggage, medical expenses, repatriation of remains, and loss of a hand, a foot, or an orifice—just kidding about the orifice.”
I pop open a beer. “Oops. That’s my other line, let me call you back.”
As I hang up, I hear him shout, “Remember: this is more than a vacation, it’s a life-changing experience.”
The tab has now topped $12,000.
I have a bad night, complete with full-body twitching, staring contests with the alarm clock, and rapid eye movements so violent I worry that my eyeballs will be pitched from their sockets. Treatment: three Ambien with a Heineken chaser.
Friday: Counteroffers
Haven’t heard from Abe in a week. Finally he calls. His cousin Denise, the hard-partying yoga instructor, is single and up for a date. At Abe’s wedding, I noticed Denise and was taken with her. But at the time, she was also taken—by her fiancé.
Maybe I’m not meant to go anywhere; maybe I’m meant to be with Denise.
Later, Rachel calls. A friend of hers is starting a website and needs a contract editor. He’s got an office on Newbury Street. “He used to read your magazine column and already got a good reference from your ex-boss. Just send a résumé by Monday.”
Upshot: I could blow $12,000 and end up as a bag of remains or earn $30,000 and spend three months in a cushy office in downtown Boston. A woman and a job. I can always take the trip next year or, better yet, never. Hell with my deposits.
That night I get nine hours of deep, chemical-free sleep.
Saturday: The Phone Call
“Hi, Denise. It’s Randy Burns, Abe’s friend. We met at his wedding. What’s going on?”
“The usual, I’m doing sun salutations in my french maid’s outfit.” She laughs. I laugh. Then I hear a puffing sound followed by a breathy exhale. I picture smoke slipping out from between her lips.
“Are you really six two?” she asks.
“I’m five eleven, why?”
“Abe said you were six two. No biggie. How are things at Business Week?”
I reach for a beer. “I was at Personal Computer Computing Week.”
“Abe said you were the editor at a national business magazine. So, I just assumed.”
“Actually, I was a senior editor with the emphasis on was.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m no great shakes, either. I’ve put on some weight since Abe’s wedding.”
I pop open the beer. “Ooops, that’s my other line. Can I call you back?”
Fucking Abe. Why would he lie like that? Maybe this is a ploy by him and Rachel to get me to stay. Are they jealous? Trying to save me from myself?
That night, no sleep.
Sunday: The E-mail
While updating my résumé, I get an e-mail from Ricki.
Hey Burns:
Read your post about planning a trip around the world. What a laugh! We just got back from Southeast Asia. You won’t last a minute! If you go, can I borrow your HTML book? And if you don’t come back, can I have your mountain bike? Ha ha.
P. S. If you reach Asia in one piece, avoid Cambodia. The State Department just issued warnings about typhoid, Japanese encephalitis, and street gangs throwing battery acid. We skipped it.
—RRRRRR
We? Who the hell is “we”?
After three months of planning, it’s finally August 27, the night before I leave for Venezuela, my first stop. Abe has organized a bon voyage dinner at the Minuteman. I arrive on time at eight, and the gang is already sitting at a corner table, a prime spot to watch the Red Sox and Yankees game on the big screen.
Abe’s “I beat anorexia” T-shirt is stretched across his 250-pound frame and he’s yelling at the TV. I come up behind him and apply a man-hug. “Where’s the little missus?” I ask.
“Probably home watching tranny wrestling.”
I grab an open seat between Abe and Lenny. Abe pats my smooth-shaved head. “My little pet, did you call Denise?”
“Not much point. I’m going away for four months. I’ll give her a holler when I get back.” I don’t mention her weight gain.
“So you’re really going through with this?” he asks.
“All locked and loaded.”
Lenny offers a high five without looking away from the TV. “My man, my man, my brave little man.”
I tug t
he lapel on his seersucker suit and point to his white loafers. “You look like the little old pedophile from Pasadena.”
“A single guy has to be ready for action in any way, shape, or form.” Lenny always says he’ll never settle. He always says he’ll never stay in a hotel that doesn’t offer fresh wheat grass juice. Lenny always says a lot of things.
Rachel is sitting across from me and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. “We’re all so proud of you.”
She’s OK, they’re OK, I’m OK.
“I thought Josh was coming,” I say.
“Either the Scientologists got him or he’s still with that girlfriend all the time,” Abe says.
I stifle a comment about friends who disappear once they’re hooked up.
Lenny leans toward me, still looking at the TV. “Josh’s girl is packing on the pounds. Poor guy.”
Abe cuts in. “You two aren’t happy unless the woman is wasting away on an IV drip.”
“Ricki wasn’t that thin,” I say.
“And neither was Karen Carpenter,” Abe says. “And Karen Carpenter was probably saner. I mean that in a good way.”
He pats my head again, turns to the waitress, and orders a Guinness for me.
Lenny quickly changes the subject. “Get all your shots?”
“Got poked more times than a Saigon bar girl,” I say.
“Smart,” Lenny says. “I just read that the State Department issued another dengue warning for South America. They said it’s carried by mosquitos.”
“I don’t think there’s a vaccine for dengue,” Rachel says.
“I’m bringing clothes impregnated with bug repellent,” I say. “Plus 30-percent DEET spray for exposed skin.” My hands grip the armrests. “The guidebook says dengue shouldn’t be an issue.”
Abe asks: “Now that you’ve blogged about leaving the country for four months, want us to clean up your condo each time you get robbed?”
“No worries. My Uncle Heshie is going to house-sit.”
“Uh, oh,” Abe says.
“Who?” Rachel asks.
“My uncle,” I say. “He’s a successful shoulder surgeon, owns a nice place in Manhattan. I let him use my place, he may let me use his.”
“Isn’t he the sixty-year-old who dates twenty-somethings?” Lenny asks. “The guy with a Hooters gold card?”
“It was my mother’s idea.” I feel myself rocking in my chair. I take a deep, full breath and let it out to the count of fifteen.
Later, after the Sox lose, Lenny and Rachel stand and say they’re going to the bathroom. They’re probably going to pay the bill. Abe turns to me. “Burns, you’re going to have a rotten time. Why are you doing this?”
I look into my beer as if there might be an answer inscribed in the foam. I turn the drink coaster over and read the Guinness advertising copy. Finally, I just come out with it: “I don’t know.”
Lenny and Rachel return with a slice of deep-fried cheesecake with a candle. “Brother, you have to come back in one piece,” Lenny says. “Otherwise, who’s going to wash my pooper when I’m old and alone?”
Rachel says, “Burns, come back with a wife.”
“Or at least the thrush,” Abe says.
I blow out the candle.
We share the cake four ways, put our forks down, look at each other, and smile.
“Should I bum some cigarettes off the bartender for old time’s sake, the end-of-night, Chronic Single’s Club smoke?” I ask.
Rachel looks at her watch. “I’ll have to pass. Arturo doesn’t like it when I smell like smoke.”
Abe looks at the TV. “Amy says I’m too fat to be smoking.”
Lenny watches a woman in tennis shorts bend to tie her shoes. “Not tonight, my brother. My throat’s a little scratchy and tomorrow I have a date with a babe from the prostitution ring. Got to be on my game.”
I check my watch: ten o’clock. I don’t repeat Lenny’s line about miserable married people who go to bed early. I watch the three of them shuffle out the door. Then I turn to the TV and watch the defeated Red Sox players shuffle off the field. The bartender offers me a cigarette.
I’m about to blow twelve grand. I better come back with something that doesn’t require antibiotics: a job, a woman, or at least some fodder for my Match profile.
CHAPTER TWO: VENEZUELA
The true adventurer sees his glass as half full, even when there are things swimming in it.
—WALLACE PITTMAN,
Solo Salvation: Travel the World on Your Own
On August 28 at 6:20 A.M., I depart for Venezuela with one piece of luggage—my new $200 backpack crammed with overpriced travel clothes, medications, water-purifying tablets, earplugs, nose plugs, dust masks, safety pins, bobby pins, duct tape, Scotch tape, surgical tape, Allen wrenches, and other gear recommended by Pittman’s guidebook.
As the flight attendant discusses water landings, sweat collects beneath the money belt strapped under my pants. I glance at my seatmates, two elderly women sucking on hard candies and chatting in Spanish. They don’t seem worried.
The plane engines hum, my seat hums. I imagine a whirlpool without water, a massage that won’t require a tip. I tighten my seat belt low and tight across my lap and close my eyes.
Last year I went to France and came back in one piece. But Venezuela is a little more dangerous than France. OK, it’s a lot more dangerous than France. OK, it has one of the highest murder rates in the world. And at the Caracas airport a driver is picking me up at the international terminal just to take me the hundred yards to the domestic terminal because it’s not safe to walk around outside unescorted.
But if some greaseball draws a weapon, I’ll just fork over the decoy travel wallet around my neck containing twenty dollars and an expired Macy’s charge card. Pittman knows all the tricks.
As I’m adjusting the decoy wallet, I hear a loud crack and clutch my seat cushion, which I’ve heard can double as a floatation device. A cloud of cinnamon stings inside my nostrils. The old Spanish lady next to me is chomping a Fireball. I sneeze into the sleeve of my moisture-wicking oxford and resume my personal inventory. A hidden security pocket in the shirt contains photocopies of my passport and credit cards, plus United States consulate phone numbers for the seven countries I’m visiting. My money belt holds my wad of plane tickets, $500 in cash, and a list of Western-trained doctors on each continent. I e-mailed myself scanned images of my tickets, passport, and immunization card. I’ve taken every precaution recommended by the guidebook and the State Department. The rest is up to fate.
Cr-a-ck!
Damn foreigners can never eat quietly.
The flight attendant announces something in Spanish. Around me, passengers cackle in Spanish. This is what it’s going to be like for the next four months—surrounded by foreigners, which I guess makes me the foreigner. This better be worth it.
My biggest concern: What to do if I descend to the Dark Place? I can’t just call Abe. Or Lenny. Or Rachel. Or Moody. That would mean admitting defeat and a costly international call. Hopefully I’ll make new friends in Venezuela. Beautiful, surgically enhanced friends. Then I’ll call Boston. Collect.
There’s a tap on my arm. I instinctively cover my money belt with my hand. The old woman next to me smiles and hands me a Jawbreaker.
“Gracias.” I smile and slip the wrapped candy into another security pocket. Once we’re airborne, I look out the window at a puffy summer sky, a divine pillow top, a pasture of meringue, deep and untracked.
Cr-a-ck!
My seatmates laugh, an elbow brushes mine. I relinquish the armrest and stare at the ceiling. The seat belt sign goes off. The drink cart is free to move about the cabin.
I wash down two Ambien with a beer and don my sleep blindfold.
Nine hours later, the plane touches down in Caracas. Except for the Spanish signage, the terminal looks like any other: Day-Glo carpets in psychedelic patterns, kiosks advertising Chivas Regal, and steel, stone, and glass objets d’art dangli
ng from the ceiling. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
There is one thing unique about this place—most people milling around the terminal are dark-skinned like the Latinos who work at my health club. But these people aren’t wearing Minuteman uniforms and sneakers; they’re wearing suits and pointy shoes. Mercenaries. Banana republicans. Friends of Hugo Chávez.
I follow the other passengers to the exit and spot a blonde at the end of a long line. She’s pulling a paisley wheelie and wearing a navy blazer with black flats. White, preppy, about my age, probably unarmed.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Is this the customs line?”
“Yes, it is. Are you American?”
She has white skin and a delicate Spanish accent. An outlier?
“I’m from Boston,” I say.
She smiles. “I was just on Nantucket visiting friends.”
Her hand brushes mine. I flinch and automatically cover my money belt. We both look at my hand on my crotch. I feel my face redden.
“I’ve read some bad things about crime down here,” I say.
She glances at my backpack and SPF 50 bouldering pants, and then gives me a playful squeeze on the arm. “Don’t believe everything you read. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve never worn a leaf blower and there are no live chickens running around my living room.”
She laughs and introduces herself as Bennie. As the line inches forward, we chat about her life in Venezuela, her family’s Mercedes-Benz dealerships, and the local economy. She doesn’t mention Hugo Chávez and I don’t ask. My arm still tingles from her touch.
I whisper, “Where can I get the best exchange rate for my American dollars?”
“Try a hotel or local store,” she says casually, as if I were asking about postcards or Pepto-Bismol.
I squeeze her arm, lean in, and whisper, “Isn’t that illegal? Is there a chance I’ll get arrested?” And subjected to a little South American-style justice?
Bennie smiles and answers in her outdoor voice. “Just don’t change money in front of a policeman, unless you want to give him a cut.” She hooks her little finger around mine and pulls me toward her. Her breath smells of wintergreen. “I promise you’ll be fine, pinky, pinky.”