The Thong Also Rises

by Jennifer L. Leo

  I ended up shopping for panties in the small Egyptian town of Marsa Matruh. On the main commercial street I first asked a saleswoman where I could find ladies’ underwear. It soon became clear that sign language would require me to engage in pantomime unacceptable by any culture’s standards. I pulled my travel diary out of my pack and drew a pair of panties for the woman. She smiled knowingly, and wrote down under the picture what I believed was the name of the store where they were sold. She told me to walk up three blocks and to look for a woman in a headscarf.

  I walked up three blocks and asked one shopkeeper after another about the underwear store, showing them the lady’s inscription in my diary, modestly hiding the panties’ picture with my thumb. They all shook their head with a mischievous smile, invariably directing me farther down the road. The last shopkeeper who got to peek at my diary smiled broadly and, with a wink, pinched his hips with his forefingers, mimicking sexy panties. “Yes?” he purred. All color drained from my face as I realized that what that woman had written down in my diary was not the name of the store, but the Arabic word for panties! The shopkeeper signaled for me to follow him and led me to the infamous ladies’ underwear store run by an old white-robed man (who also sold ladies’ headscarves, hence my confusion).

  The old man presented me with a selection of oversized granny undies that seemed to date back to the Second World War. Wearing those, the only male I could ever hope to catch would be of the four-legged kind at best, as I suspect even Habibi would refuse to give me a second look. I settled for two pairs of electric pink and yellow parachutes that set me back a grand total of seventy-five cents. Not a bad investment considering I can wear them again during the last trimester of my first pregnancy.

  A week later I was back to wearing thongs. But I never rode a camel again.

  Christine Michaud-Martinez has lived, worked, and traveled extensively throughout the Middle East. Her stories have appeared in Sand in My Bra, Whose Panties Are These?, BootsnAll.com, Worldhum.com, and Vagabonding.net. Recently wed to her beloved Cuban amore, she divides her time between Havana and Montreal.

  MICHELLE M. LOTT

  Size Does Matter

  But can he get it up and down without all of us screaming?

  I FULLY INTENDED TO GET DOWN TO THE WEIGHT I PUT on my original driver’s license application—someday.

  As I recall, I spotted myself five pounds at the time.

  Back then, I didn’t really think of it as lying per se.To me, it was more like setting a goal. But, as I splatted out in a vinyl airport lounge seat, I realized I had yet to reach it. In fact, judging by the snugness of my waistband, I had probably raised the bar a little over the years. But I had it covered. Thanks to my big, beige, but not-too-bulky sweater ballooning around me, everything from my neck to just above my knees was concealed in my own personal khaki cocoon. With my bulges hidden and overall shape obscured, I looked like a giant Weeble—a Weeble who clearly favored neutrals. But no one could see my overgrown parts wobble.

  Feeling securely camouflaged, I decided to tackle my excess tonnage another day, and deal with a bigger problem: surviving my connecting flight.

  Now, I am not really afraid of flying in a plane—it’s the crashing part I’m not so thrilled about. I know it’s a fairly pedestrian affair for most people, but the act of defying gravity is not a casual thing for me. Still, experts insist that flying is safer than driving in a car. Which is a small comfort given that I live in Houston, where driving is the city’s most popular contact sport.

  In my limited flying experience, I have gone through the grab-your-drink, hold-on-tight, and pick-a-religion-any-religion sort of turbulence that simultaneously tests your cardiac, digestive, and bladder functions. I have also been stuck on the ground in a plane for upwards of two hours in the Texas summer heat, because—it was announced after the first hour or so—they were having trouble getting the door closed. I am not kidding. I consider it a badge of honor that I stayed on that plane. But it was big and full of people, and I still believe there’s safety in numbers.

  Which is why I do feel pretty safe flying, actually. As long as I’m on a huge, hulking monster of an airliner, I tend to have lots of company. You see, I figure the Big Guy upstairs can aim his magnifying glass at cars and pick them off like ants with nary a second thought. But with airplanes, he’s got to think long and hard before he decides to let a whole load of passengers go down.

  Of course, this theory goes out the window once you get on a little plane. Logically, if you look at them, you would think size alone would give them a great advantage over large jets. After all, they are smaller and lighter, and you would think it would be a whole lot easier to keep them up there. You would think that, but you would be wrong.

  Just watch the news, and you will quickly recognize that little planes are the mobile homes of the aviation world. The Big Guy seems to enjoy watching them get tossed and thrown around like ice in a blender. Which is why people refer to them euphemistically as puddle jumpers, worm burners—or connecting flights. It just sounds better than crapshoot commuters.

  When I made my reservation, I thoroughly questioned the ticket agent as to the nature of the aircraft involved. I wanted assurance that the plane was of substantial size and construction. That it did not come out of a box. That duct tape and paper were not part of its structural integrity. That it could not in any way be described as “cute” or “little” or “tiny,” as in “Awwww, what a shame that cute little tiny plane got smashed into such cute little tiny pieces.” That it was a plane that he, himself, would actually feel quite comfortable flying on—along with all that he valued in this life: his dog, his big screen TV, and, perhaps, assorted loved ones.

  The agent convinced me that yes, he would indeed board the same aircraft I would be flying on without hesitation— due to its significant strength, remarkable reliability, and, of course, its fairly elephantine proportions.

  The prop plane I got on reminded me, once again, that men are prone to bouts of uncommon generosity when it comes to the comparative dimensions of certain things. Because my plane was, well, uh, much smaller than I expected. Frankly, it looked like a slightly more aerodynamic form of a Ford Pinto.

  I tried to remain calm. All told, there were maybe four or five passengers, plus a flight attendant. We could have easily fit in a rental car and completely forgotten about this coffin with wings.

  To rid my brain of thoughts of imminent peril and pain, I settled into the comfort of my baggy sweater and concentrated on a lighter subject: my plan for a less expansive version of myself—assuming I made it back home. I imagined the salads I would eat. The desserts I would politely turn down. I saw myself sweating off the parasites that had attached themselves to my body: Abdominis poochis, Hippus hippopotami, and Arsus huges.

  The flight attendant interrupted my visions of the newer, thinner, non-parasitized me with a jolting request. Before we could take off, it seemed someone had to volunteer to move to a different seat to balance out the weight of the plane.

  This is absolutely true.

  Well, I panicked like Jenny Craig caught sneaking into a Krispy Kreme shop.

  Were we all going to die because I still had five—O.K., ten—pounds to lose? Was it finally catching up to me after all these years?

  Everyone else seemed stunned, too. It’s not every day that attention is so pointedly and publicly directed at your body mass—collective though it may be. Perhaps we were all thinking the same thing: maybe Twinkies really can kill you. Maybe that brownie binge was going to do us in. Maybe we all had to answer to our maker for every extra slice of pizza.

  Finally, some brave soul got up and moved. I didn’t have the nerve to turn around to look to see who it was. I was too ashamed of myself. And my girth.

  The flight attendant seemed satisfied that we were ready to go.

  I held my breath all the way to my destination.

  For what it’s worth, during the beverage service, I requested water. An
d I did not eat the cookie that came with it.

  But, I did do a lot of thinking on that flight. I decided it was time to make peace with the fifteen pounds I had put on. Life is just not worth living without a certain amount of cheese and chocolate to get you through.

  We landed safely back on earth, and I had survived my little trip on Just Lucky I Guess Airways. And that was cause enough to eat my cookie in celebration. From then on, I vowed it would be jumbo jets or nothing. Because when it comes to planes—along with certain other things—bigger is definitely better.

  Michelle Lott lives in Houston, Texas with three cats and a dog. A veterinarian by trade, she turned to writing when her pets grew tired of listening to her stories. Her love of cheese and chocolate remains boundless, and she refuses to seek help for it.

  Not long after having major back surgery, I decided to travel. I flew to Palm Springs in first class, the extra room being just what I needed. A few days later, my onward flight to Las Vegas in a smaller plane had no first class, so I had to fly economy on what promised to be a full flight. We were originally scheduled to depart at 4:25 P.M., but a series of automated phone alerts told me the flight would be delayed until 5:40, then 6:30, and finally 7:15. By sheer happenstance, I checked the flight status online at 5:30, only to learn that the flight had been changed back to 6:45. I raced through commute traffic to the airport to find the terminal empty. Where was everyone?

  I made it to the gate just in time to board, but I was the only one in the boarding area, for a flight I knew was nearly booked because of the seat choices available at the time I booked my ticket.The gate agent informed the crew that the passengers were ready to load—all one of them. When I looked questioningly at her, she said that due to the delay half the booked passengers had been bused to Ontario Airport for a direct flight, and the other half had rented cars and driven. The impatience of these people allowed me to have a once-in-a-lifetime experience—I had the whole plane to myself! All those automated phone calls and the mad dash to the airport had rewarded little old me with a private jet and my very own personal stewardess.

  —Susan Brady, “Celebrity for a Flight”

  JENNIFER COLVIN

  Heave-Ho

  It’s up the mountain with Chuck we go.

  FOR WEEKS IN FRANCE, I FELT LIKE THE CARTOON RABBIT in the Trix commercials who almost gets the cereal before it’s snatched away. “Silly American, France is for sophisticated people!” I imagined being scolded in that sing-song voice each time I mangled a simple French word, wore the wrong outfit to a restaurant, or did the cheek-kiss thing only twice instead of four times.

  But here at the finish line for a Tour de France stage in the Pyrenees mountains, surrounded by bicycles and booze, I was as close to being in my element as I’d ever been in France. Sitting with my bike on a grassy hill in front of the giant TV broadcasting the race, plastic cup of wine in one hand, cheese in the other, it was easier to pretend that I blended in with the Europeans around me.

  When American Lance Armstrong crossed the finish line first, taking possession of the prestigious yellow jersey from French cyclist Francois Simon, my boyfriend and I cheered politely, but not too loudly, with the rest of the crowd. However, the American college boys in front of us, wearing matching blue U.S. Postal cycling caps and baggy khaki shorts, let loose. One shook a bottle of champagne, and after a brief struggle, popped the cork, spraying his friends and some of the nearby crowd.

  “Whoo-hooooo!” he yelled as he doused his buddy. “Take THAT, ya Frenchies!”

  Not to be outdone, the other guy pumped his fist in the air. “Yeah!” he shouted. “Yeah!”

  A few people nearby looked at the boys and sighed. “Americans,” they seemed to say wearily, before ignoring them. Rolling my eyes, I sighed too, hoping that my American accent had gone unnoticed.

  “Tourists,” I said under my breath like an insult. For once, I wasn’t the one committing a faux pas. I looked at Bob and smiled.

  “What?”

  “They should know better,” I said smugly as we started riding down the mountain. But my self-satisfaction soon faded as the altitude, sun, and alcohol took their toll. I was dehydrated, and was quickly developing a headache. Exhaust fumes from the hundreds of vehicles stuck in a traffic jam on the mountain road saturated the air, and my little headache sprouted like a pop-up sponge.

  When we got to the town of Arreau, just before we were to ride over another mountain pass, I realized I couldn’t go any farther. I collapsed on a bench in a quiet square near the center of town while Bob went to find aspirin. He returned with a round white pill nearly the size of my fist and a glass of water.

  “Were you at the pharmacy or the veterinarian’s?” I asked.

  “It’s like Alka-Seltzer,” Bob explained as we watched the pill dissolve into a mass of fizzy bubbles in the glass.

  It can’t be that bad, I thought as I gulped down the mixture. By the time Bob returned the glass to the pharmacist and came back, I was feeling better and willing to try riding again. Bob, however, had other plans.

  “We’re going to hitchhike,” he announced.

  Great. I’ve never liked hitchhiking because of the rejection. Plus, there’s the pressure to perform. When accepting a ride from a stranger, I’ve always felt like I’ve entered into an unwritten pact: it’s the driver’s job to provide the transportation, and it’s my duty to provide polite but engaging conversation, leaving the kindly stranger with a good story to tell friends back home.

  “I can make it over the pass. Let’s just ride,” I pleaded.

  Bob shook his head. “You’ll never make it.” I knew he was right.

  A steady stream of traffic was headed over the pass to the next day’s race course. I smiled and tried not to look sick as I held out my thumb. Elderly couples driving big RVs eyed us suspiciously and sped past or avoided eye contact all together. Younger couples in European two-seaters drove by and shrugged “sorry” at us.This wasn’t working.

  It shouldn’t be this difficult for a Lycra-wearing blonde to get a ride, I thought. I glanced at Bob. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days and he looked like the hippies we saw in the grocery store stealing dog food by stuffing the bags down their oversized pants. We were not conveying the wholesome image I wanted to project.

  “Here, stand back a bit,” I told Bob as I smiled at the next car. The driver slowed and pulled over.

  We introduced ourselves. The man was Dutch. “We have bikes,” I apologized. “But look! They’ll easily fit in your trunk!” I knew I was being too cheerful, desperately so, but I couldn’t stop speaking in exclamations.

  “I know, I know,” the man said impatiently. “I saw the bikes—that’s why I stopped.”

  Once we were on our way, I turned on the charm. Holding up my end of the hitchhiking bargain, I asked the man’s teenaged son, sitting in the front seat, about school. As the car wound up the twisting mountain road, I tried to make interesting comments about the Tour de France, but I started to get queasy. Horrified, I realized I was getting car sick. I looked over at Bob for help with the conversation, but he was staring out the window at the mountains.

  I leaned forward, pretending to sit closer up front so I could have a more intimate conversation with the driver, but I really just wanted to concentrate on a steady spot on the horizon. When we went around another sharp corner, I realized if I did get sick, I’d barf into the front seat directly between the man and his son. I might as well rob them and slash their tires while I was at it, and then I could officially become the worst hitchhiker ever. My stomach rolled.

  “I don’t feel very well,” I whispered to Bob.

  We’d been traveling together long enough for Bob to know exactly what that meant. In one smooth motion, he emptied his small backpack and handed it to me for use as a vomit receptacle. Not wanting to throw up in the backpack, I put my hand up to my mouth, hoping that I’d discreetly spit up whatever was in my stomach and catch it in my cupped palm. My stomach convu
lsed. When I started to throw up, Bob calmly reached across me to open the car door. I stuck my head out of the moving vehicle and barfed on the road as the driver slowed to a stop. A line of cars were stuck behind us on the narrow road, unable to navigate around my head sticking out of the open door.

  With nothing left in my stomach, I started heaving. I was not holding up my end of the hitchhiking bargain. Awful retching noises emerged from deep in my gut, and there was apparently no end to them. The cars behind us started to get impatient. Someone honked. No, this wasn’t charming at all. ‘There’s nothing left! I told my stomach in desperation. Stop it. Just stop it!

  I started to think about how I had probably ruined this man’s belief in being kind to hitchhikers—he might never pick up another hitchhiker again. I felt so bad about this, the retching actually intensified. Now, several cars were honking. European girls probably never took this long to throw up. I didn’t want to be just another American behaving badly abroad, but I was.

  When it was over, I took a deep breath, pulled my head back in the car, and closed the door. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised. “I’m done,” I announced.

  “And now that you got it out, you feel better?” the man asked. His son looked at me, alarmed.

  “Oh, yes!” I said cheerfully, falling back into my happy hitchhiker persona. “Much better!”

  The man hadn’t asked, but I felt I had to tell him anyway. “I didn’t get any in the car, you know.”

  He didn’t seem to be worried about it. He shrugged a little, as if to say either way was fine with him. “That is quite something!” he told me. “Now you can say you spit up on the famous Col d’Aspen, the route of the Tour de France!”

  Be cool, be cool, I thought. “Yes,” I agreed. “That is quite something. So what’s the weather like in the Netherlands in the fall?” We started chatting about rain.