Firmly convinced that buses are the way to travel, Megan Lyles has talked her photographer boyfriend into traveling with her by bus from New York City to Antarctica and helping her document the trip. (The final leg will have to be done by boat but that’s not her fault.) You can follow along at www.meganlylcenter.
The first day I entered a public restroom in China I faced the ultimate toilet challenge. I had memorized the Chinese character for “women” to help minimize my anxiety. I would have figured this one out anyway, as next to the Chinese characters there was a picture of a high-heeled shoe for women and a cigar for men! My initial amusement turned to horror as I walked in and saw two rows of doorless stalls on raised platforms. I walked down the hallway with increasing levels of fear. I was distressed by the fact that the white ceramic “squat pots” weren’t there. In fact, in their place was a long cement-lined trench that ran right through the stalls, from first to last, on both sides. Fear and confusion overtook me as I walked down the center aisle, trying to formulate my plan of attack. I knew I needed to squat, but the entire process was unclear to me. Do I straddle? What direction do I face? Why is there one long trench instead of individual bowls? What happens to the crap?
With trepidation, I pulled my pants down, placed one foot on either side of the trench and squatted, looking away from the hole. To my surprise, my neighbor’s urine started flowing down the trench in my direction, headed for the hole beneath me! I quickly stood up, but of course I still needed to pee. I tried to squat and relax again, but the second I heard the sound of flushing from the toilet furthest “upstream,” the entire plumbing system became shockingly clear to me! I jumped back up and watched in disbelief as this gush of water carried a ghastly pile of crap past me to the hole below my squat spot. I then realized that traveling in China was going to be challenging, amusing, and always an adventure.
—Konnie Landis, M.D., “Chinese Toilets 101”
JULIE EISENBERG
The Princess and the Pee
Close-quarter combat takes on new meaning to her highness.
ME, AN ADVENTUROUS TRAVELER? WELL, OF COURSE I like to think so. Sure, maybe not the kind that kayaks, canoes, or cavorts with local villagers in Third World countries, but I am willing to give up mascara for a week. I have also radically redeemed my pack-aholic ways of battering airport baggage scales with bulging suitcases closed only by application of ample butt pressure.The daredevil in me trusts I will survive our next vacation, a Windjammer Caribbean cruise, on only the barest of fashion essentials. Goodbye evening-wear, daywear, and five-extra-outfits-just-in-case wear—I’m now a one flip-flop pair, low-maintenance kind of gal!
Windjammers proudly proclaim to be the anti-cruise cruise ships.They eschew the frivolities of luxury liners, with their chichi cappuccino bars and tuxedoed attendants. Aye, instead prospective travelers are hooked by a pirate-like, devil-may-care voyage upon small, historically renovated ships decked in teak and sailcloth. Passengers are invited to help hoist sails, sleep on deck underneath the stars, or drink dinner away without ever slipping on the family jewels, or even a pair of shoes.
The glossy brochure guarantees that this is the trip for me:
Windjammer shipmates are a motley crew of interesting folks from all over the United States and abroad. You won’t know if the guy or gal sitting next to you is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or an Average Joe.
Well, O.K., even though this description encompasses everyone in the free world who can shell out the price of a ticket, I’m convinced I am one of those interesting, motley folks willing to forfeit plump pillows and Pérnod in favor of a genuine seafaring adventure. Yo ho ho!
I admit, however, I cannot conceal my trepidation concerning our bedroom quarters, particularly when we booked late and were issued what the brochure describes as a below-deck “Standard Cabin.” I scan the description, believing I can make do without the in-room coffee maker, but am downright bewildered to learn the only accommodations worthy of mention are “upper and wider lower berths, private head and shower.”
I can do this. I am The Adventurer.
To demonstrate my newfound flexibility, I assure my husband—who annoyingly doesn’t seem to need any assurance—that our bunk beds are really a clever convenience—why, we can use the upper berth for extra storage space! From the particular angle in the brochure picture, the lower bunk appears wide enough for both of us. Maybe not like queen size-with-goose-down-filled-comforter wide, but surely large enough to accommodate late night snuggles.
It will be romantic—I am fairly certain.
We are greeted at a small pier in Saint Maarten by the cutest little launch boat that sputters us across the bay to meet the S. V. Polynesia. The 248-foot schooner stands regally against the blue velvet of evening sea. The weather is warm, balmy, and luxurious. To my surprise, I temporarily forget the havoc the humidity will wreak upon my hair. Instead, I whip out my brightest bandana and tie it over my head, handkerchief style, like the fashionistas I had spied upon in South Beach. I silently congratulate myself on copying this chic, but oh so casual, just-protect-me-from-the-wind style for my New Adventure Look.
The bed is smaller than I thought.
As promised, the bottom berth protrudes farther out than the top—but only by mere inches and I’m not sure what the architects had it in mind in offering this up. While the lower birth might more readily accommodate an obese person, or even a horizontal sexual act, I am certain it was never intended to sleep two adults, unless I imagine, those adults happened to be two medium-sized midgets who don’t mind spooning.
“I get the top bunk!” my husband cries excitedly.
He is triumphant. As a boy growing up in a small apartment, his older brother always got the top bunk. Now, several decades and thinned hairs later, he feels avenged and is grinning with smug satisfaction.
Still, I am resolute, flexible, and flowing. Until I see the bathroom.
While I might have fallen for the sleeping under the stars schtick, they really pulled a good one over Adventure Girl by neglecting to mention that the bathroom is actually broom-closet-size, all-in-one shower, toilet, and sink. My husband marvels at the economy, noting he will be able to wash, urinate, and shave all at the same time. I, however, am noting the sensation of my behind pressed against a slick, wet toilet bowl while peeing. I am also sighing with a fond remembrance of the bathroom from last year’s luxury hotel we snagged for a song on the Internet. While admittedly not nearly as efficient as the Polynesia’s accommodations, it did boast a sunken marble tub equipped with a remote-control television. Perhaps the playful, lurking threat of being electrocuted while flipping channels in the bubble bath is adventure enough for me.
With the wind slowly leaving my sails, I unpack while my husband christens the head with an inaugural whiz. As he finishes, we bump sideways past one another and I squeeze my extra large toiletry bag into the tiny, three-sided wire grid shelf hanging on the bathroom wall. While I may have been willing to forego makeup, it is downright ludicrous to think I might survive without my assortment of Clinique moisturizers and creams.
I was beginning to feel like the only woman in Egypt who wore out her underwear from both sides. I’d wear it right side out during the day, and turn it inside out for the evening. Sometimes, by the time I retired, I was afraid it wouldn’t be dry by early the next morning. Each night, I’d anchor my bra and panties to the table on my balcony with ashtrays—hoping that the same breeze that was aiding them in drying wouldn’t blow them over the balcony, and down the Nile.
—Bonnie Mack, “A Loaded Suitcase but Nothing to Wear”
“Argh,” I cry in my new pirate voice. The weight of my bag is too heavy for the little shelf and under pressure it bursts away from the wall.The translucent, mesh-clothed bag tumbles and plunks like a lead anchor directly into the toilet bowl, which, in turn expels its water all over the little broom closet bathroom floor.
Just as my quivering hand retrieves the bag, which is now spi
lling liquid from inside-out all over my legs and feet, my husband happens to mention he neglected to flush. I am no longer that soft, cuddly Jack Sparrow of a pirate. I am Blackbeard and I am out for blood.
“What do you mean you forgot to flush the toilet!” I shriek, as this seems—at the moment—to be an act of insanity on par with suffocating small kittens.
“It’s a small ship and I wanted to help conserve water?”
On dry land, when I am not dripping in a puddle of someone else’s pee I might find this response endearing. Instead I manage to use the word “fuck” ten times in one sentence.
He promises that if I will just come out of the bathroom, he will rinse everything with disinfectant, but I can’t move. I am paralyzed in pee.
“I am not coming out and tracking pee all over the carpeting all over this room!”
“Well then let me come in,” he pleads patiently, hoping to placate a urine-soused lunatic.
“You can’t come in. First of all, we probably both can’t fit in here, and second of all, then we both are going to track pee.”
“Hon” he sighs. Do I sense the weensiest bit of exasperation in his voice? “There is nothing wrong with urine. It is completely sterile. There are people who actually drink urine. There is even such a thing as urine therapy—you can look it up on the Internet.”
I can’t stand the way he keeps referring to it by its formal name, like he is paying homage or something. And therapy? I have now lost all sense of rational thinking and am convinced that while I may be a crazy germaphobe, my husband has, at best, turned into a dead ringer for the Professor from Gilligan’s Island and at worst, has been secretly participating in a satanic cult, drinking piping hot cups of urine while I was away at my Monday night yoga class.
I am wondering whether any of our Caribbean itineraries offer quickie divorces. I am spewing the “P” word uncontrollably. I am turning into Porky Pig with Tourette’s Syndrome.
“W-w-well now what do you suggest? Should I just soak my contact lenses in your p-p-pee? And what about my cotton balls that are now drenched in your p-p-pee? How about if I just use your p-p-pee to cleanse my p-p-pores? In fact, why don’t we dump out this whole bottle of Clinique cleanser and you can just re-p-plenish it with your miracle p-p-pee!!!”
Ever a man of patience, or perhaps soothed by years of drinking urine elixirs behind my back, my husband is finally able to convince me to sit down on the toilet as he lovingly and tenderly wipes the pee off my feet and rinses all of the contents of my bag in warm, soapy water.
To diffuse the mildly tense start to our vacation, or perhaps to avoid being held captive at sea with a madwoman for seven days, my husband suggests we quell rough waters with a trip above deck to snuggle underneath the stars. Begrudgingly, I agree. I am willing to forgive the watershed of our first evening, at least satisfied that I will have something to hang over his head for the rest of our married lives.
We grab thick rubber cushions off the lounge chairs and cuddle close under our woolen blankets. The gentle sway of the ship feels like a luxurious king-size waterbed and the zillions of luminescent stars winking in the sky are my personal pay-per-view movie. I am gently lulled to sleep in my husband’s arms, dreaming of a cocoa-butter tan and sun-teased blond highlights that will be the envy of all my co-workers.
With each passing day, I am adjusting to my floating Winnebago lifestyle. Our cabin quarters have been transformed to a cozy, cool underground bunker after too many hours basting in the hot Caribbean sun. I am even enjoying my lower bunk. It is surprisingly refreshing to have a few evenings of respite from the fog of my husband’s breath against my face. Still, I relish the comfort of having him near and knowing he is just one bed above me, sleeping in what I have affectionately dubbed “The Loft.”
My inner pirate is thriving. I help hoist sails, drink more than my fair share of rum swizzles, and disco dance on Lingerie Night in teddy bear pjs, the cool, weathered teak floors tingling under my bare feet. Captain Casey, or just Casey, as he prefers to be called, commands the Polynesia with a charismatic blend of machismo and cutting comedy, salting his daily stories with expletives and edgy wisecracks that leave us in stitches. In keeping with his religious objection to formalities, he prefers baseball hats and tropical shirts to officer dress. One evening after sunset and swizzles, he sets up the floodlights and diving board so we can swim right off the side of the boat. It is an exhilarating experience, but when Casey suddenly grabs the ship microphone and bellows out to us, “Look out! Shark!… Just kidding!” my insides freeze for a nano-second, but then I am laughing hysterically. Life just shouldn’t be taken so seriously, you know what I mean?
It is our last day at sea. As much as I am looking forward to resuming our conjugal sleeping arrangements, I’m also sorry to leave. Disco dancing will never be quite the same, and I’ll miss Casey’s antics and his most vigilant Windjammer edict “No whining!” which seems written expressly for recovering prima donnas like me.
Later that night my husband awakens from a deep sleep needing to use the bathroom in a way that men of a certain age always do. Not wanting to wake me (perhaps still skittish from my minor proclivity to certain irrational tendencies), he gently closes the bathroom door behind him without turning on the light, relieving himself in utter darkness. When finished, still semi-conscious with sleep, he blindly gropes and gives a hard turn to the doorknob, which to his horror, sends a shock of cold water exploding from the wall, dousing him from head to toe. Instinctively, he flinches and panics, fearing the ship has sprung a leak, and is bursting a geyser of frigid water into our cabin.
It takes a moment before he gets his wits about him and realizes that in his bleary stupor, his hand has mistaken the knob for the door with the one for the cold shower spray and there will be no need for anyone to write a screenplay about our brush with a Caribbean iceberg. Meanwhile, I sleep soundly, dreaming equal parts rum swizzle, Johnny Depp, and golden doubloons.
As he recounts the story of his comeuppance to me early the next morning, I can only smile to myself at the discovery that even those without princess complexes are prey to the perils of small sailing vessels. I roll over in my lower bunk and fall back into a peaceful slumber, the gentle sea slowly rocking me toward home.
Julie Eisenberg lives in Miami, Florida. She and her husband Randy just bought their first fixer-upper boat, a twenty-five-foot trawler, which they plan to live aboard on weekends in the Florida Keys, once the mold-encrusted toilet, air conditioning, and 1970s orange-plaid upholstery are refurbished.
A tour group is not like family. A tour group is an endless, round-robin blind date. You utter the same information about yourself over and over and over again. By the eighth, ninth, kajillionth time you tell someone what you do and where you’re from, you’ll start making up stuff just to make yourself sound interesting—to yourself. I estimate I shared my personal data approximately one hundred times over the course of my travels. By the ninth rehash, I was telling people that I was a part-time rodeo clown and married to a rich, elderly Weimaraner.
—Mary Jo Pehl, “Your Tour Group and You”
MARCY GORDON
Gently You Have to Avoid a Frightening Behavior
It was an emergency in a foreign tongue.
LAST YEAR I DECIDED TO IMPROVE MY SCANT KNOWLEDGE of Italian and enrolled in a three-month intensive course at the Università per Stranieri in Perugia, the world-renowned language school for foreigners in Umbria, Italy. As part of the total immersion method, your first lesson starts in the basement of the university during registration week where you wait in line for hours with confused and disoriented people from all over the world—China, Japan, Germany, Taiwan, Russia, and Spain—with only one language in common—Italian.
while waiting in line for a permit of stay, I helped a completely bewildered Australian couple decipher their enrollment papers and informed them that they had been standing in the wrong line for the last two hours and then directed them to the registrar�
�s office. Later, in another endless line, a girl from Japan wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt and a Hello Kitty backpack told me that Hello Kitty was “in-ten-sho-no-lee i-row-nic.” Any previous doubts I had about Hello Kitty’s intentions were now cleared up.
After negotiating the chaos of registration I received my student ID and could now eat for cheap in the student canteen as soon as I found out where it was. As I asked for directions, I noticed the Japanese girl, and the couple from Australia I had helped earlier, watching me intently. I set off for the cafeteria and all three followed me. I immediately jaywalked across four lanes of speeding traffic figuring I would lose them, but that only set in their minds that I was brazen and well versed in Italian culture. At the next intersection they caught up to me and I confessed I had no idea where I was going, only a vague sense of the general direction.The Australians said they didn’t care where we ended up—they were just relieved to be with someone who spoke English.
They followed me down a steep dirt trail that led all the way from the top of the Mercato into an underground storage area where once our eyes adjusted to the dark we found three Ethiopians smoking a joint and unloading crates of lettuce from a service elevator. The three fellows quickly unloaded the remaining crates and left without a word. We decided to take the service elevator back to the top and as soon as the elevator doors closed we discovered there were no control buttons on the inside. Then the lights went out and the elevator began to move DOWN! Hello Kitty girl began to squeal like a pig to slaughter, which in turn caused the Australians to start laughing hysterically. When the doors opened we found ourselves deeper in the bowels of Perugia than seemed possible. Armed with my flashlight and some matches from the Aussies, we found a stairwell and climbed our way up towards the light. Six flights later we reached the top of the market, just a few feet from the dirt path where we had begun, and coincidently only a few yards from the cafeteria entrance.The Aussies, blessed with a robust sense of humor, appeared to have enjoyed the whole experience, but the Japanese girl seemed positively pissed. I guess she missed the non-intentional irony of the situation.
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