The man dropped us off at the town where we were staying. I made it out of the car and over to the side of the road by the campground, barely waiting for him to drive away before I started hurling again. As I leaned on the guardrail, I was vaguely aware of a nearby couple who were eating dinner in front of their camper. Bob struck up a conversation with them, and between spasms of barfing, I was dismayed to overhear their nationalities. For the second time in one day, I was throwing up in front of more nice Dutch people. I started making the horrible retching noises as the couple continued eating. To distract them, Bob turned the conversation to the politics of the Tour de France.
I was grateful that Bob had taken over the entertaining duties and was doing his best to charm his new-found friends. It was a little odd, though, how no one seemed to mind that I was doing so much throwing up. I wondered if it was common for Americans to puke in front of the Dutch. Perhaps this sort of thing, like the college boys earlier, was to be expected and ignored, much in the same way one would ignore a cute, but improperly trained puppy.
Instead of fighting it, I decided to accept the situation. I would just ride out the heaving as gracefully as possible. My mind started to wander. I heaved again, and thought about how my abs were going to be sore the next day—they hadn’t gotten a workout like this in ages.
The Dutch couple still seemed oblivious to my awful behavior. God bless the Dutch! And then, like an athlete in her finest moment, I had a flash of clarity where everything faded to the background and I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, and the heaving stopped.
I stumbled, exhausted, over to where Bob was still talking with the Dutch couple.They chatted with me about the weather for a few minutes before sending us off with their map and best wishes. I was kidding myself to think that I’d ever fit in here in France—I’d always be just another awkward American. But in the Netherlands, well, perhaps that’s where my not-so-graceful attempts at socializing and my tendency towards car sickness might go unnoticed, if today was any indication.
“So, Bob, what do you think about going to Amsterdam?”
Jennifer Colvin has traveled extensively with her husband Bob, who has been faithfully by her side while she’s gotten car sick, bus sick, train sick, and gondola sick in a variety of countries. Her stories have been appeared in various print and online publications, including the anthologies Sand in My Bra and A Women’s Europe. Between trips, she lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area.
JULIA WEILER
R-Rated Rescue
Wonder Woman puts the “ass” back in assistance.
I AM A VETERINARY TECHNICIAN AND INCURABLE bleeding-heart, so travel presents me with a unique problem. Even while on the road, I am unable to let go of my inexorable desire to heal every broken, sick, needy, or otherwise pathetic creature that has the good fortune to cross my path. If the animal happens to be feline, my desire to aid the distressed creature is especially relentless. I keep a veterinary first aid kit in my backpack for this reason and will do almost anything to help a cat, sometimes even to the point of faux pas.
During several glorious weeks on a small island in the gulf of Thailand, I set out for a day hike with my husband and a few friends. We had barely covered any ground when we came across a most upsetting sight. On the steps of a beachside café in the baking sun, a small black cat lay parched in the heat. She was sick, injured, and dying alone. Tiny armies of biting ants rifled through her fur and crept into her ears and nostrils. Her obvious pre-mortem suffering tore at my soul.
“Not much you can do for that one,” someone in the group offered, eager to end the interruption. That might be true, I thought, but I needed to at least try, and if nothing else I could offer her a more peaceful passing. I scooped up the limp, little cat and wrapping her in a sarong headed home. Back at my rustic bungalow, just feet from the water’s edge, I sat on the veranda and assessed my patient’s condition. With my trusty vet-bag at my side and a reluctant husband as assistant I began my work.
A few hours later the “project cat,” as my travel mates had labeled her, was alert and could even hold her head up. Although she still had a fight ahead of her, life seemed to be back on her side. Knowing that she would be a long-term patient I set up a blanket for her inside the bungalow. This activity and its consequence did not, to say the least, please my husband. Although he had shown honorable patience in my undertaking, he drew the line at sharing our sleeping quarters with a sick, flea-ridden cat that couldn’t control her bladder.
Despite an impassioned though squeaky protest, I lost the ensuing battle and pouted my way outside to see what accommodations I could provide on the veranda. The area was enclosed by a railing except for a small opening at the top of the stairs. My concern was protecting the little cat from any nocturnal intruders, namely the beach dogs who had probably caused her current predicament. Determined to prevent any canine invasions, I built a barricade of rattan chairs to block the entrance until morning. Confident in my modifications, I moved my patient outside and tucked her snugly into bed.
After double-checking the perimeter for safety, I ducked back inside the bungalow to bed down for the night. Hot and tired from the day, I stripped down to my birthday suit and sought refuge in the comforts of my mosquito net–draped bed. As I crawled under the covers next to my husband, we giggled over the day’s adventure and the good fortunes of “project cat.” Amends made, I drifted off to sleep as sounds of the ocean waves soothed my subconscious. All was calm, yet somewhere in the dark distance the faint sound of barking dogs whispered an ominous premonition.
Early the next morning, not long after sunrise, I awoke to streams of glorious sunshine cascading through my windows. As I drew in the sweet splendors of waking up in paradise, I was jolted suddenly from my tropical bliss. I remembered my patient on the veranda as a cold, sickening sensation of something about to go wrong chilled me. It was then that I heard it, the loud crash of my barricade coming down followed by the deafening roar of angry dogs.
I bolted up in bed throwing covers haphazardly to the side. I leapt from the sheets and in the process, became entangled in the mosquito netting. As I struggled to get free I glanced at my husband in hope of assistance, but still fast asleep, he remained ignorant of the disaster in progress. After several agonizing and unassisted seconds, I was free and on my feet. I sprinted towards the door and, in my haste, was as unaware of my disposition as my husband seemed to be of the ruckus on the veranda.
I raced outside and stopped only to grab a rattan chair, which I waved menacingly above my head like a fierce tribal warrior. There must have been at least five dogs on the veranda, all of which were drooling and intent on having cat for breakfast. Teeth bared and growling, the mangy beasts threatened violence. I could see the little cat frozen in the corner, her eyes the size of saucers. She seemed to utter a silent prayer as she quickly counted the number of lives she had left. The dogs edged closer. I jumped protectively in front of the little cat just in the nick of time.
The frothy-mouthed mongrels had us surrounded on three sides, but in my mother bear’s fury, the pack was no match for me. “BAAAD DOGS,” I screamed while I swung the chair and fended them off like a crazed lion tamer. “Wax on, Wax off,” my inner-karate-kid hollered as I spun and high-kicked the air. Whizzing and turning, my hair flying wildly, I held the dogs off one after another until at last, whimpering in defeat, they were gone. Euphoric, I felt like a super hero. I was Wonder Woman…Super Girl…The Feline Avenger…I was…CLICK CLICK…teehee…Errr…what was that???
My reverie was quickly disrupted by a growing cacophony of strange yet familiar sounds. CLICK…CLICK… WHZZZ…teehee. My adrenaline began to recede and a weird sinking feeling steadily took its place as a cool morning breeze registered on a patch of flesh not normally exposed to weather. I realized then that in my race to the rescue, I had neglected to put on any clothes. I was bare-ass naked. CLICK…WHZZ…tee heehee.
I reluctantly turned towards the noise. To
my horror, there just fourteen feet in front of me in the small lagoon beyond my veranda, a large group of giggling Japanese tourists stood ankle-deep in the water. They were armed with every type of camera or video recording device imaginable; all of which were pointing right at me. Disrupted from their tidal pool explorations by my burlesque spectacle, they had captured the entire show on film. Still snapping away, they apparently expected an encore.
CLICK…WHZZZ…teehee.
I picked up the cat and showed the poor bedridden feline to my audience as if this would explain my ridiculous behavior. “See, I saved this dear, little kitten from those killer dogs. I’m not nuts…it was an EMERGENCY.” My attempt at communication only fueled their now explosive laughter. CLICK…CLICK…teehee. Chagrined, desperate, and painfully aware of my nudity, I did next what any good, feline-rescuing, exhibitionist, kung fu fighting, super hero would do…a modest curtsy followed by an immediate exit.
As I backed into the bungalow, gingerly holding the cat as a makeshift modesty shield, I turned to notice my husband standing at the window. “Can you believe that just happened?” I asked him incredulously.
“What I can’t believe is that you ran out there naked,” he replied casually. As I was about to react to his maddening remark, I noticed that he was munching a handful of honey-roasted peanuts as though he’d been watching a movie. “Chomp…chomp…crunch…I mean, DIDN’T YOU SEE ALL THOSE PEOPLE?” he added, “They were taking pictures you know.” I shot him my best Persist-And-You-Shall-Die look as I prepared a bed for the cat indoors.
Over time my patient enjoyed a full recovery, and a few days before we left the island, a German woman who owned a shop there sweetly offered to adopt the little cat. Giving her up was difficult, but I knew she would have a happy, canine-free environment in which she could safely explore the remainder of her nine lives. I gratefully accepted the offer and on our last day tearfully handed her over. As we said our final goodbyes, the shop owner requested that I pose with my former patient for a snapshot memento. I happily agreed and proudly held the little cat in my arms, but as I smiled for the camera, I felt for just a brief moment, overdressed for the occasion. CLICK…teehee.
Julia Weiler has done everything from schlepping gourmet coffee to working in the veterinary field, but these days you will find her behind a camera, trying her hand at documentary filmmaking. When not filming, editing, or researching, she enjoys scuba diving, kayaking, surfing, hiking, gardening, and any excuse to travel.
ANN LOMBARDI
Mein Gott, I’ve Fried His Underpants
Living a dream in Switzerland, mostly.
AFTER THREE MONTHS OF BLITZ BACKPACKING ALL over Europe, I couldn’t wait to reach Switzerland, the perfect refuge for my travel-weary bones. My return flight home from Zurich was three weeks away, and visions of tranquil pastures, alpine lakes, and creamy chocolates danced in my head. How could I pass up the alluring “Ferien Auf Dem Bauernhof” (Farm Vacation) program touted in the tourist office brochures? I was sure it would be a cross-cultural eye-opener for this city slicker, housework-challenged American. So, I plopped down a finder’s fee, scooped up the address of my host farm family, and hopped a train to the country for my long-awaited taste of rural life.
Rolf and Ruth Sprunger welcomed me into their 400-year-old farmhouse, nestled high in the hills of Basel-land. The tiny village was a good hour’s walk, through vast forests and fields, from the town of Liestal. And the old farm? It was the place of my dreams: a contented menagerie of dairy cows with huge hand-painted bells, horses, pigs, hens, goats, and a half dozen assorted dogs and cats. I delighted in the bountiful cherry and apple trees, organic veggie gardens, and the best homemade hazelnut carrot cake this side of the Atlantic.
The dark, worn wooden floors with secrets of centuries creaked musically throughout the house. A heavenly aroma of freshly baked wholegrain bread floated room-to-room from the wood-burning kitchen oven. I was in my element, and honestly didn’t miss any of my usual creature comforts, like central heating or upstairs toilets. For those brisk autumn nights, I already had mastered the art of starting the fire in my very own bedroom furnace and warming up the nifty mini-pillows filled with cherry pits, which kept my feet toasty under the fluffy goose down quilt. I was intrigued. Such an uncomplicated, peaceful existence! This truly was life the way it was meant to be, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.
I have to admit, though, there was one habit of the meticulous Swiss I found impossible to understand. For some odd reason, the Sprunger family had an obsession with ironing anything made of cloth, including every imaginable item of clothing worn by their army of children…fourteen of the rascals, to be exact. Who ever heard of pressing denim work coveralls, or heaven help us, bed linens!? Now this was really going overboard with the Martha Stewart thing. Naturally one of my daily chores was to tackle those mammoth piles of ironing, a job I truly dreaded. To my credit, however, I never once complained, reminding myself that hard work builds character.
One afternoon on a particularly gorgeous autumn day, I plotted to finish my ironing duties in record time. No numb hands and fingers for me today! Nor was I about to stay cooped up indoors with such beautiful weather beckoning me out to nature. Halfway through my ironing at the bottom of one pile, I spotted three pairs of the fanciest men’s underpants I had ever laid eyes on. They were those skimpy, low-cut European ones made of nylon net, the kind no red-blooded American male I know would ever be caught dead wearing. I immediately guessed the fancy briefs had been inside that festively wrapped birthday package a giggling Frau Sprunger had presented her hubby just a few days before. Of course I realized instinctively these underpants were not to be ironed. Carefully folding all three pairs in the precise Swiss manner I had been taught (in thirds, with the fronts facing up), I carefully laid them aside on the ironing board while I continued to plug away.
Seconds later the family Saint Bernard bolted in out of nowhere, scaring the bejeevers out of me. I froze, too stunned to react to the mushroom cloud of foul-smelling smoke growing bigger by the minute. Mein Gott, I had knocked over the scalding iron! It had hit the prized skivvies dead center. My first impulse was to run. Regaining my composure, I managed to unplug the hissing iron, grab a kitchen spatula, and frantically scrape the iron’s underside. My efforts were in vain. A sticky glob of melted, charred nylon was plastered all over the bottom. And worse, the underpants were ruined, hopelessly welded together at what used to be the crotches. I decided then and there not to say a word to the Sprungers; that is, not until I had bought both a new iron and underwear. Thankfully, the next day Lady Luck took pity on me, and amazingly enough, I found the perfect replacements. Somehow I just never got around to fessing up to Herr and Frau Sprunger. Why spoil a relaxing vacation?
My memorable farm stint came to a close all too soon. The last day of my stay, I received a surprise farewell present from Mr. and Mrs. Sprunger. It was a lovely Swiss travel scrapbook with a handwritten note inscribed “To our favorite American visitor.” Touched by their thoughtfulness, I peeked inside the album. My jaw dropped. On the very first page were a sketched smiley-faced iron…and a neatly glued chunk of Herr Sprunger’s fried underpants.
Ann Lombardi is a twenty-two-year veteran travel consultant and former E.S.L. teacher with a knack for misadventure. Ann’s zest for travel has lured her to Europe, South and Central America, Asia, and the Caribbean. Among her fondest exploits are crashing on a runaway Lapp reindeer sled, being trapped in a phone booth during an alpine blizzard, finishing dead last in the Berlin Marathon, bailing out of a glider plane near Bern, hitching a ride on an Amish horse and buggy, touring Moscow with a black marketer, and getting tear-gassed in curlers outside a Seoul hair salon. She hangs her backpack in Atlanta, Georgia, and you can find out more about her at The TripChicks.com.
LUBNA KABLY
Killing Me Softly with Your Stare
Do I know you?
On a lop-sided ramshackle bus
We ride from day to
day
We bounce and we bump
As we rattle along, we rattle along our
way…
I JUST COULDN’T GET RID OF THIS TUNE. IT KEPT playing over and over in my head. I had clambered into this rickety bus to see the magnificent Mysore Palace and the famous gold throne. A five-hour journey from Bangalore, in South India, would take me to the smaller town of Mysore.
I knew there was something wrong. It was not just the slippery-looking, skinny guy who had donned a dazzling red polyester shirt and tight “Levy” jeans (yes, this was the label). True, he was gaping at me and I was uncomfortable with his unwanted attention. But, there was something else that was amiss and I could not place my finger on it.
I shrugged off my feeling of unease and settled into a window seat. I plugged in my Walkman, partly to drown the silly ditty still resounding in my head, and decided to make the best of it. My cold stares kept the “polyester” man away from the middle row where I had seated myself.
I soon knew what was wrong, or at least I thought I did. As a luxury air-conditioned coach overtook us on the dusty road, belching smoke as it shot past us, I knew I had made a big mistake. This bus, in which I was seated, was not for tourists. It was a regular state transport bus, which plied at frequent intervals between Bangalore and Mysore and ferried locals.
Anyway, even if I was not on the luxury coach we were definitely moving towards Mysore. Having recently shifted to Bangalore, this was my first trip in South India and I was looking forward to a glimpse of the royal splendor. For now, the only splendor on display were the colorful dresses worn by the schoolgirls. However, the dazzling red polyester shirt was an aberration.
The Thong Also Rises Page 17