by Marcy Gordon
PRAISE FOR TRAVELERS’ TALES HUMOR BOOKS
Sand in My Bra: “Ridiculous and sublime travel experiences.”
—San Francisco Chronicle (Grand Prize Winner, NATJA)
“Sand in My Bra will light a fire under the behinds of, as the dedication states, ‘all the women who sit at home or behind their desks bitching that they never get to go anywhere.’”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Thong Also Rises is a shoot-margarita-out-your-nose collection of travel essays stretching across the globe and into every area of embarrassment that you’re thankful didn’t happen to you.”
—Playgirl
Whose Panties Are These?: “Freakin’ hilarious…destructively funny stories of everything that can go wrong on the road for women, from having to buy velour panties in a very public Indian market to pondering the groundshaking question, ‘Is my butt too small?’ in Senegal.”
—Student Traveler Magazine
More Sand in My Bra: “These true stories are full of bust-a-gut laughter.”
—Powell’s Books
What Color Is Your Jockstrap?: “Some stories are howlingly funny, and one, about a bot fly, will gross me out forever.”
—Goodreads
There’s No Toilet Paper on the Road Less Traveled: “Anyone who plans to travel should read this book. And then stay home.”
—Dave Barry
Last Trout in Venice: “Traveling with Doug Lansky might result in a shortened life expectancy…but what a way to go.”
—Tony Wheeler, founder of Lonely Planet
Not So Funny When It Happened: “Noted travel writer Tim Cahill has collected the best humorous travel pieces in one funny-bone volume.”
—Chicago Tribune
Hyenas Laughed at Me and Now I Know Why: “Great for killing time waiting in the car.”
—Goodreads
A Rotten Person Travels the Caribbean: “P.J. O’Rourke and Paul Theroux in a blender.”
—Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Devil’s Highway
FICTION
Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls: “This book is very sick. Highly recommended.”
—J. Maarten Troost, author of The Sex Lives of Cannibals
Edited by Marcy Gordon
TRAVELERS’ TALES
AN IMPRINT OF SOLAS HOUSE
PALO ALTO
Copyright © 2012 Solas House, Inc. All rights reserved.
Introduction copyright © 2012 by Marcy Gordon.
Travelers’ Tales and Travelers’ Tales Guides are trademarks of Solas House, Inc.
Credits and copyright notices for the individual articles in this collection are given starting here.
We have made every effort to trace the ownership of all copyrighted material and to secure permission from copyright holders. In the event of any question arising as to the ownership of any material, we will be pleased to make the necessary correction in future printings. Contact Solas House, Inc., 853 Alma Street, Palo Alto, California 94301. www.travelerstales.com
Art direction: Kimberly Nelson Coombs
Cover design: Kimberly Nelson Coombs
Page layout and photo editing: Scribe Inc.
Interior design: Scribe Inc., using the fonts Bembo, Journal and Savoy
Author photo: Candice Caballero
Production: Natalie Baszile
ISBN 978-1-60952-053-3
To Mom for instilling in me the love of travel and to Dad for showing me life is best viewed through the prism of wit and humor
Table of Contents
Introduction
The Horse Whisperess
LAURA DEUTSCH
USA
Appendix Over and Out
KRISTY LEISSLE
Ghana
I Had a Passion for the Christ
MELANIE HAMLETT
Florida
Giving Dad the Bird
LORI ROBINSON
South Africa/Botswana
Easter Island and the Chilean with the Brazilian
KIRSTEN KOZA
Easter Island
Why You Worry?
KATHLEEN MILLER
Brazil
Thunda Chicken Blong Jesus Christ
AMANDA TURNER
Vanuatu
Motorcycle Mama
LEIGH NANNINI
Greece
An Indian Wedding Nothing Like the Movies
NICO CRISAFULLI
India
Ciao Bella
CHRISTINA AMMON
Italy
Any Bears Around Today?
KIM MANCE
Canada
Packaged in Puerto
LAUREN QUINN
Mexico
Turkish Foreplay
CHERYN FLANAGAN
Turkey
Monkeying around in Paris
DAVID FARLEY
France
Going to the Dogs with My Mother
SUZANNE LAFETRA
Minnesota
The Spice is Right
MEGAN RICE
Mexico
Drug Money
KATIE EIGEL
Amsterdam
Karma at the Colombo Airport
JESSICA LANGLOIS
Sri Lanka
Hollywood Fiction
TROY RODRIGUES
USA
Naked with a Passport
ALLISON J. STEIN
Germany
The Nakuru Scam
SYLVIE DOWNES
Kenya
Embedded in the Boot
JENNIFER MASSONI
Italy
Advice for Closet Cougars
JILL PARIS
France
Mt. Fuji in a Trash Bag
SARAH KATIN
Japan
Flashed in Fallouja
KELLY HAYES-RAITT
Iraq
Ditching First Impressions
KIMBERLEY LOVATO
France
Safari Sickness
JULIAN WORKER
Nepal
Meeting Mosquito
JOSEY MILLER
Brazil
Wasted in Margaritaville
JILL K. ROBINSON
Mexico
Cabin Pressure
DIANE LETULLE
France
Sometimes a Language Barrier Isn’t
SPUD HILTON
Tunisia
Pricier than Prada
PEGGY EXTON JAFFE
Italy
Thank the Good Lord for Duct Tape
BREGE SHINN
Prague
Acknowledgments
About the Editor
Introduction
Travel starts with an empty bag. Before we arrive at our destination, we give thought to what we should bring or leave behind. We all have our weird preferences when it comes to packing our necessities and travel talismans. For some it’s a lucky hat, a fresh journal or, in the case of one friend, a stuffed plush toy (a Japanese cartoon character named Domokun) that she poses and takes pictures of in front of landmarks around the world.
As a kid it was ingrained into me to always travel with crackers, chewing gum and tissues. When I was sent off flying solo at nine years old to New York, my mother handed me a small bag with Dentyne gum, Kleenex, and those orange-color Lance Toastchee peanut butter crackers.
For years I followed my mother’s advice and carried crackers out of loyalty to the family tradition. Then one day, I stopped. I didn’t tell my mom. I felt I had betrayed her by abandoning crackers, but it allowed me to explore new snack vistas. Crackers are not practical for long-distance travel, unless of course you are the type who enjoys snorting pulverized
dust out of a cellophane sleeve. Instead, I began to bring crush-proof snacks, like cans of Pringles and mini M&Ms in little plastic tubes. But I could barely make it past the pre-boarding announcement without opening the Pringles and eating the entire can. Then once on board, I’d have to break open the M&Ms to counteract all the salt ingested from the Pringles. If the need for emergency food ever did arrive, my supply would be depleted before the plane ever left the gate. I realized an emergency food supply should be just that, something for an emergency—not tasty, but sturdy.
Magazines, newspapers and, especially, travel websites are always offering up advice on packing by “experienced travelers.” But the articles about people who smuggle live animals taped to their body intrigue me. Creatures, like budgies, snakes, monkeys, spiders, hamsters and, yes, iguanas. Who better to give packing tips than someone who can fly eight hours with a python in their pants or a baby lemur in their bra? I can’t imagine getting by security with a corkscrew, much less a seal pup in my parka.
Our baggage usually contains material items to make our journey more comfortable, or safer, or in some cases less lonely. But the real travel essentials are stories—the tales we bring with us, and the stories we take back home.
When I was twelve I went on a whirlwind tour of Europe with my parents. At a tiny hotel in Genoa, Italy, we found a violin had been left behind in the room. My dad took it down to the front desk where by some massive misunderstanding he thought they wanted him to play it. So he took the thing out of its case and gave it a go. As he was coaxing the most God-awful and torturous sounds from the instrument, the actual owner of the violin walked in to see if it had turned up. Oops.
We took that story home with us and laughed about the incident for years. It became part of our canon of travel experiences. But as I got older I began to wonder about the story the violin owner might have told his friends and family: “… and then I walked in and saw this crazy Americano playing my violin!”
More recently, while waiting for a flight home from Croatia with some fellow travel writers, I told the story of how I once took a lengthy entrance exam as part of an apprenticeship program in the film industry. One section of the test had a list of everyday objects such as a hairbrush, a brick, a tea cup, and a 3x5 card—and asked for five alternative uses for each item other than its intended purpose.
Under Name 5 alternative uses for a brick, I wrote down: paperweight, pestle, doorstop, hammer and weapon. For the 3x5 card I listed: shim, blotter, ruler, funnel and weapon. On hairbrush I came up with a backscratcher, strainer or colander, foot massager, soil aerator and, once again, a weapon. Somehow I’d latched on to the idea that, in the right hands, anything could be used as a weapon.
At the gate we were called together as a group and asked several security questions. Had anyone approached us to carry anything on the plane? Where were we going? Where had we been? What was the reason for our trip? Then the agent said: “Is there anything in your bag that looks like a weapon or could be used as a weapon?” I stole a quick glance at my friends and saw they each had identical purse-lipped cat-who-ate-the-canary looks. Oh please don’t let them start laughing, I thought to myself. Or worse, offer up that I’d passed a test by describing objects as inherently dangerous. The airline employee looked directly at me, awaiting an answer. I wanted to reply that EVERYTHING in my bag could be deadly. But I thought better of it and said no. “Nothing weapon-like in my bag.”
The most dangerous thing I had was my story.
In this collection you’ll find stories of regret for things packed, such as Jill Paris and her red push-up bra, or Suzanne LaFetra with too much arctic clothing, and in the case of Kristy Leissle, a first-aid kit without enough bandages. There are also stories about letting go of mental and emotional baggage, such Laura Deutsch’s corporate mask, Kimberley Lovato’s sense of propriety, Josey Miller’s fear of heights or Lori Robinson’s rigid relationship to her father. And then we have stories of things that were left behind but might have come in handy, as in Nico Crisafulli’s sobriety, Jill Robinson’s morals, and Katie Eigel’s guilty conscience, which luckily reappears in the nick of time.
These stories were selected not only for their comedic value, but also for how they provide a deeper examination of the human condition when parsed with wit, intelligence and hilarity. Each story reminds us that the most essential thing to bring when you travel is a wash-and-wear sense of humor. In the words of Karl Malden: “Don’t leave home without it!”
Next time you pack I invite you to lighten up, let go of unnecessary baggage and, most of all, disregard conventional wisdom and advice. I encourage you to leave the lipstick and take the iguana. It might make things more interesting and I can’t wait to hear about it.
MARCY GORDON
Sebastopol, California
LAURA DEUTSCH
The Horse Whisperess
A frazzled lawyer discovers the business end of horsemanship.
Here in marin county, home to the hot tub and peacock feather, I thought I knew the alphabet of self-realization, abs to Zen. But I would have to travel to the base of the Santa Catalina Mountains to become enlightened by the Equine Experience.
My gears were grinding in overdrive from my work as a law firm marketing consultant. Desperate for a tune-up, I dialed 1-800-SPAFINDER.
When I explained my situation, the spa specialist didn’t hesitate. “Miraval. They cater to people like you.” She moved on before I could ask what she meant. “And they offer a fantastic workshop, where you attain enlightenment by grooming a horse.”
I laughed.
“Don’t laugh.” She sounded offended. “It’s profound. You learn a lot about yourself.”
With a Ph.D. from the Woody Allen School of Obsessive Introspection, I was skeptical. My psyche has been plowed, fertilized and tilled, and I hoped there wasn’t too much more to unearth. But this travel agent, whom I imagined in a warren of cubicles at some isolated outpost with an 800 number, had passion for her horse experience. I was intrigued.
Six months later, I ended up at Miraval, less than an hour from Tucson. My plan was to sleep, do yoga, and get a massage every day. Practicing mindfulness on vacation, once I arrive at mindlessness, I figure I’m there.
As a former lawyer, cross-examining other guests on activities they’d enjoyed to date came as second nature. Workaholic lawyers from New York gave two thumbs down to workshops where they were told to write about their work, then make believe they were their work.
“Are you from New York or California?” one asked. “California? You’ll like it.”
But even the most corporate, Ivy League, untherapized among them touted the Equine Experience.
It sounded simple. First you groom a horse. Then you get it to walk, trot, and canter, using nonverbal cues. Thinking I should do something beyond the vege, I signed up.
There were just two of us, me and Val, a buoyant real estate broker. Wyatt, the therapist cowboy, would shepherd us through the experience.
We sat on bales of hay and got some basic facts. To the horse, you are a predator. But the horse is more powerful than you are. Horses don’t understand words including “whoa” and “giddyap.” They do understand body language. They pick up on threats and fear, and they will react.
Moving into the ring, Wyatt demonstrated how to groom Monsoon, a two-story ton of horse with a ticklish spot. He taught us how to approach the horse and where to touch him to establish rapport.
The first task was to clean Monsoon’s hooves. When Wyatt pinched the tendons of Monsoon’s foreleg, the horse raised his hoof and dropped it into the cowboy’s hand. Sometimes. Wyatt cupped the hoof in his hand and cleaned out the dry, caked mud with a sharp hook. On to the next hoof. Then, Lordy Lordy, he turned the horse around to get to the other side, by placing the side of his rib cage against Monsoon’s. Keeping a hand on the horse’s back, he walked around Monsoon’s rump, never losing contact.
When a horse feels fear, I’ve been told, it may kick out
its hind legs and run. A comforting thought as I imagined sashaying around the beast.
Then Wyatt curried and buffed Monsoon, brushed his face, combed his black forelock, mane and tail. Piece of cake.
Suddenly Val’s elbow was piercing my ribs, her eyes riveted to the vicinity between Monsoon’s rear legs.
Wyatt was on top of things. “What do you notice?” he asked. Briefed by yesterday’s participants, I went to the head of the class.
“His male organ is extended.”
We learned this is a good thing.
“That means he’s relaxed,” Wyatt commented. Very relaxed, I thought. And not Jewish.
Wyatt anticipated our every thought. “Don’t worry, he won’t urinate on you.” Well, almost every thought.
“Okay, choose your horses,” he said. “Who wants Monsoon?” Neither of us moved.
“What about Si Si?” he asked, indicating a horse half Monsoon’s size, a speckled gray. I paused.
“Maybe you don’t feel affinity for either horse,” suggested Wyatt.
Yeah, right. I don’t feel affinity for a horse named Monsoon who’s two stories high, has a ticklish spot you’d better avoid, won’t lift his hoof even for the master horseman, and when he’s groomed elongates his gelded organ so fully you could use it to measure hectares.
Val volunteered to take Si Si. I was led back to the barn.
I chose a brown gelding, an Arabian beauty, tall, dark and handsome, reaffirming the wisdom that women are attracted to animals who look like them.
His name was Adieu. Perfect, given my state of relationships.
Time to groom. Now picture this. I’m standing in the middle of the ring, afraid to get near the horse. I’m a successful business owner, a mature executive at the top of my field, and I begin to cry. Fearful he’ll kick me in the face or pick up his hoof and slam it into my delicate hands.
“What’s your fear level on a scale of one to ten?” asked Wyatt.
“Six,” I said. Liar, liar.
“What’s it about?” Power, authority, the obvious answers. The people who kick you in the face, metaphorically. I couldn’t admit I knew it would ruin my manicure.
“That’s good,” said Wyatt. “He knows you’re afraid; now he doesn’t feel threatened. Back up and approach again. With confidence.”