Leave the Lipstick, Take the Iguana

by Marcy Gordon

  On the first day, I was already prepared to toss one couple off the trip. The trouble began after a tour and tequila tasting at Pueblo Viejo, in the Arandas region of the Mexican state of Jalisco. We sat down to lunch with our hosts in a saloon-style building, complete with swinging doors. As the entire table toasted each other, Sally saluted our friend who had taken us on the trip. “To Julio,” she slurred. “To Julio’s margaritas. You’d probably have to blow him to get the recipe.” Our more modest distillery friends stared at their plates. Everyone else stared at Sally.

  An hour later, after a failed trip through the swinging doors resulted in Sally falling face down after the door hit her in the backside on the way out, she passed out on the edge of a fountain shaped like a shot glass. Her mouth gaped open, as if she expected the glass to tip and offer her more tequila. Her arms were stretched over her head, pulling tightly on her black, too short dress. The wind had blown her skirt up over her stomach, giving us a view of not just her black lacy underwear. That was Sally, always charming.

  We said goodbye to our hosts near the Sally fountain. Each time I spoke to someone, I tried to maneuver them so that they were facing away from the view. I didn’t want to be remembered as that woman who was on the trip with the drunken exhibitionist.

  In the van on the way to the next distillery, I passed around one of several bottles of tequila that we’d been given by our new friends at Pueblo Viejo. There were no cups, so my husband pulled out his pocketknife and deftly cut our empty water bottles in half and I began to pour. Sally and her boyfriend, Todd, quickly turned up the volume on a spat that had apparently begun in the morning.

  “I should have known better than to let you hold the watch. You’re so irresponsible,” said Todd, his voice already tequila-foggy. His skinny frame was folded into the back corner of the van.

  “I didn’t lose it. It’s here somewhere. Besides, it’s too expensive a watch for you to take on vacation,” retaliated Sally, who was propping herself up against one of the tinted windows, which gave her pasty skin a tinge of green.

  “You’re already drunk. It’s disgusting. I know you lost the watch, you bitch. Why don’t you just admit it?”

  “Bitch? I’m a bitch? You asshole. Get away from me!”

  Todd snatched Sally’s half-full glass of tequila from her, sloshing the liquid across the back seat, while the rest of us sneaked glances at each other and rolled our eyes hard enough to affect the tides. If they fought like this every day, it would be a long and painful trip.

  The fight wore on through our next distillery visit, and by dinnertime, they weren’t speaking to each other. I was amazed it had taken them that long. Sally sulked back at the hotel, and Todd accompanied us to the first ten minutes of dinner, until he slumped in his chair and had to be carried back to the hotel. Sally insisted they stay in separate rooms.

  By breakfast, it seemed as if the fight was forgotten. Todd wore his watch on his tanned wrist, and nobody said a word about its sudden appearance.

  In the van that day, I thought of a plan to avoid another painful day of fighting. I admit, I briefly considered dosing their food or drink with something to make them sleep, but a quick survey of the other travelers turned up only the relatively harmless Advil and Imodium. I turned to Plan B. Since Sally and Todd were already driving me crazy and they seemed to lack the talent of spacing their drinking out through the day to avoid getting hammered before dinner, I had decided to get rid of them early. I poured a small amount of tequila in everyone’s water bottle cup except their two cups, which I nearly filled. They were sitting up near the front of the van this time, so they didn’t notice the difference. The small amounts were finished quickly.

  “Come on, you drink too slow. Look, we’re already finished.” I held up my empty cup to illustrate, and Sally and Todd quickly chugged their tequila and offered their cups for a refill—which I provided gladly. I relied on their competitive nature and figured they would want to match what they perceived to be everyone’s level of drinking.

  I ignored the stares from my fellow travelers, knowing that they’d approve of my scheme when I got a chance to explain myself. It was harder to ignore the elbow in my ribs and angry glare courtesy of my husband. “I’m putting them down early,” I whispered to him, hoping he’d be discreet in passing the word around. After a while, I noticed the smiles and winks of appreciation. I hoped my plan would work.

  That day, Sally and Todd passed out before dinner, and I was thankful for such a simple secret weapon. Too much tequila for them allowed the rest of us to finally enjoy ourselves. Unfortunately, word of the plan hadn’t gotten around to everyone quickly enough, and my friend Robert was lost by dinnertime as well. I spent every day for the rest of the trip making sure that Sally and Todd had full glasses so that we could delight in our evenings without their company—and I could avoid a Mexican prison.

  Jill K. Robinson is a freelance writer and editor. Her work has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, World Hum, Journey, Lonely Planet, Frommer’s and more. When she’s not traveling, she’s at home in El Granada, California, or Guanaja, Honduras. She’d prefer to drink good tequila than use it as a weapon.

  DIANE LETULLE

  Cabin Pressure

  Her tank was full. Her options empty.

  The pressure had been building for hours. My hands gripped the grey wheel of the Citroën until my knuckles were white. A clammy sweat lay heavily on my forehead. Fat raindrops mocked me as they flowed across the windshield. I had been driving through the French countryside since morning. And I had to pee like nobody’s business.

  The day had begun serenely enough. I was midpoint in an eight-day trek that sliced back and forth across southwest France, starting near the Atlantic coast at Bordeaux and heading east to the Perigord Noir and the castle-strewn land of the Dordogne River.

  I had spent the night at a comfortable stone farmhouse after a day touring the medieval village of Saint-Émilion, an oenophile’s dream of rich red wines. In the morning, I filled up on the ubiquitous baguette, butter, and homemade jam of French bed and breakfasts, and then stepped outside, eager for another day of solo travel. A light mist covered the landscape, and diffused sunshine gave the lime green vineyards a fuzzy glow.

  After breathing in the cool morning air, I reached for the door of the grey sedan. Just as any mom will appreciate a hotel room—“I don’t have to make the bed!”—or a restaurant meal—“I don’t have to do the dishes!”—so I appreciated this rental car, where, clearly, no child had ever kicked muddy sneakers against the back of the driver’s seat, nor dropped greasy fries that would be discovered in crevices years later, nor left a red crayon that would permanently melt into the fabric seat cover in the summer’s heat. As I entered the immaculate black interior, I felt happy and free—or as free as a mother of two can be. It helps to put an ocean between you and your kids.

  With a bottle of Evian and maps, and I was ready for the long drive to my next destination. It was a mild fall morning and the scenery was picturesque. First there were acres of vineyards, long straight rows of green across softly arching stretches of land. Then orchards, where ripe plums just lay on the ground. I pulled over and grabbed a few off the wet grass. After rinsing one with my bottled water, I took a bite. The taught blackish-purple skin snapped under my teeth and my mouth filled with sweet juice. Now this was road food!

  My route wound its way through numerous old villages. I was fascinated by a church whose stone façade was cut like a lace doily. A half dozen bells dangled on it like showy earrings on a cabaret singer. I stopped and took some photos. This was what I loved about driving as opposed to train or plane travel—the opportunities for discovery, the ability to pause and soak it all in.

  After the first hour, a heavy rain began, and I got serious about driving safely on the slick foreign roads. And then I felt it. The first twinges of the need to relieve myself.

  While Europe’s countrysides possess numerous charms, convenience is not
among them. Deep in the country, I knew there would be no public restrooms for miles, so I soldiered on, fiddling to tune in NRJ—the French radio station that reliably pumped out bass-thumping dance hits.

  Finally, the two-lane road grew to four, and the farms and vineyards gave way to factories and outlet stores. I pulled into the parking lot of a supermarché. Inside, I searched the perimeter of the store, walking with that hip-twitching gait that comes with trying to hold it in. Tracking down an employee, I inquired about the restroom in French.

  Asking for the bathroom is one of the most essential language skills of foreign travel, right up there with being able to say yes and no. I can ask for the bathroom in French, “Où est la toilette?” Italian, “Dove il gabinetto?” If I don’t know how to say “Where is,” I can simply use the word for bathroom and inflect my voice up while raising my eyebrows, such as “Baño?” in Spanish.

  The woman flatly replied, “La clé est perdue.” The key is lost. I wanted to ask her, “How does this happen? How do you lose a bathroom key and never replace it or change the lock?” I wanted to grab her by her loose red supermarket shirt and shake her thin French shoulders and say, “But where do you go to the bathroom?” Instead, I retreated from the store, promptly setting off a high-pitched alarm as I removed a fabric band blocking a closed checkout lane. I walked as fast as possible—considering it would be less embarrassing to run—and returned to my car: spirits low, bladder full.

  The drive continued and my anxiety increased. I desperately wanted to pull over and run behind a tree. But the roads were frustratingly barren of any vegetation higher than my kneecap.

  As I drove, my eyes darted back and forth, scanning both sides of the road for any sign of a toilet. And then I saw a dull concrete block of a building. “Yes!” I whipped my car into a small parking lot, where three male gendarmes were standing around smoking. I ignored them and went into the damp building whose once white stucco walls were now peeling and yellowed. The esthetics were secondary, however. What mattered was that I had succeeded in my quest.

  My feeling of euphoria vanished as I walked into a small stall area and found a Turkish toilet: a hole as big as a coffee can with a porcelain surround. I remember being shocked by this seedy answer to nature’s call as a young woman of twenty-one on my first trip to Paris. However, it was far better than nothing, so I pulled down my tan travel trousers and squatted. Ahhh … the undeniable pleasure of release.

  I tossed the tissue into the hole, zipped my pants, then turned around to flush. There was a metal water tank above my head with a pull chain. Simple enough. But also, a handwritten sign on a piece of notebook paper taped to it. “Tirez doucement.” Pull gently. Okay, that much I knew. There were more French words that I couldn’t translate, but I didn’t worry about them. I pulled gently on the chain. Nothing happened.

  At that point, I had two choices. I could walk away, my urine having gone into the hole, but the used toilet paper still wadded near the top of the bumpy porcelain floor. I opted not to be the “ugly American.” I would try again to properly flush this contraption. So, I pulled slightly harder. And then, a gush of water that I can only compare to heading downhill on a Six Flags log flume, shot out of a pipe, filled up the toilet hole, and headed straight up at a perfect angle towards the lower half of my body. In two seconds my pants and legs were soaked with water that had mixed with my pee and the built up bacteria of the Turkish toilet. I screamed.

  While I am not a prissy woman, this was unsanitary beyond any situation I had ever personally been involved with. I stood there dumbfounded and paralyzed for two minutes. I had solved one enormous problem—where to pee? Only to be immediately confronted by another—what to do after being soaked by toilet water? I took a deep breath and drew upon every ounce of traveler’s savvy I could muster. I left the building, where the gendarmes had scattered. I scowled, imagining them laughing at my scream, and wondered if they stood around hoping for a good chuckle from hapless tourists who soak themselves.

  Pushing that thought aside, I pulled clean jeans, underwear, and socks out of my suitcase, and returned to the bathroom, where I gave myself an unsatisfactory sponge bath from paper towels and put on the clothes to continue on to my destination.

  Later that evening I settled into another bed and breakfast. I took a long shower, where I scrubbed every inch of myself with the mini hotel soap. I washed my pants with water as hot as would come out of the tap. When I felt like I was no longer crawling with microbes, I got dressed in sweatpants and walked to the back of the inn, where a small refrigerator held a box of wine. I poured myself a plastic cup of inexpensive Merlot and returned to sit on a rattan chair outside of my room. I sipped the fruity wine and sighed. I saw the black outline of fir trees against the indigo skies, and I heard cattle lowing, just like in the Christmas carol. As the wine warmed my insides, I forgot about the day’s trials and fell back in love with the French countryside. This feeling of acceptance and vive la différence lasted all the way until the next afternoon, when I lost the rental car and spent two hours learning that every exit from the walled town of Sarlat looks exactly the same. But for the moment, as I watched the clouds drift across the starry country skies, I was once more content in the pleasures of the road.

  Diane Letulle is writing a memoir about her journeys in wine country. Her travels have taken her across North America, from Napa Valley to Niagara on the Lake and all over Europe, from Portugal in the west to the Republic of Georgia in the east. Diane writes a blog called Wine Lover’s Journal, contributes to numerous wine websites, and teaches wine classes in New Jersey. She recently was a featured presenter at the International Wine Tourism Conference in Perugia, Italy. Diane is the mother of two children, who have learned to tolerate their mother’s itinerant ways.

  SPUD HILTON

  Sometimes a Language Barrier Isn’t

  If only we could talk like the animals.

  Don’t take this the wrong way, but if there’s a language barrier between you and an elephant, it’s probably your fault.

  It turns out that elephants, along with having great strength, excellent long-term memory and a talent for being nifty metaphors (the “elephant in the room” being the, well, obvious one), also have the ability to talk to each other through the ground.

  Pachyderms can chat using infrasonic sound, frequencies too low for humans to hear, that can carry through air, water, forest, earth and rock—as far as 2.5 miles.

  Quite literally, there is no communication barrier among elephants.

  While I freely admit my shortcomings in conversing with elephants, I am a little thankful for the language barrier considering what I imagine they have to say:

  ‘TREE TASTY. TIGER BAD. WATER COOL. STOMP HUMAN INTO JUNGLE COMPOST.’

  Simply, not all language barriers are bad.

  That was the case, anyway, during an afternoon spent in the dry sauna that is Tunis with a pair of fellow travelers, only one of who spoke French, the default language for Westerners in Tunisia. The French-speaker, a Boston psychiatrist, told our cabbie he wanted to buy a rug—which is akin to asking a car dealer, ‘Do you have anything more expensive?’

  Apparently, ‘ka-ching’ is universal.

  We arrived at a magnificent complex of shops, once the home of the regional bey, and were swept efficiently to an upstairs room, where we were welcomed, seated and plied with cardamom-scented tea. The head merchant, who out of pure coincidence turned out to be the cabbie’s cousin, launched into his heartfelt welcome, followed by his initial sales pitch—all blessedly in French.

  Suddenly, all my worries about endless haggling over carpets I did not need and could not afford disappeared. I simply shrugged my shoulders and smiled sheepishly, avoiding even the French phrase for ‘I don’t speak French.’

  Without the common language, I was no longer a potential buyer. My inability to generate even simple phrases in French—I was equally as likely to converse in elephant—had become my only armor.

&nb
sp; The merchant disregarded me as politely as possible and turned back to the Boston shrink (who I think was spoiling for a fight) and the two launched headlong into a match of strategy and wills reminiscent of a Crusade-era siege.

  Years later and miles away, I strolled into the Oman mountain village of Al-Hamra, in which every street was a side street and the mud-brick homes seemed at once ancient and temporary. A group of men and boys sitting in front of what could charitably be called a convenience store—the convenience being that you could stand in the middle of the room and still touch every product—beckoned me to sit with them, in Arabic first, then with hand gestures.

  I kicked off my flip-flops and sat, feet tucked underneath to avoid cultural faux pas. We took stock of our lingual assets: One teenage boy in the group had maybe thirty words of English; I had seven Arabic phrases. And yet, during the next hour we swapped personal stories, laughed, argued and sang, mostly through gestures, drawings in the dirt, inflection and an embarrassing amount of pantomime (think Marcel Marceau on powerful narcotics).

  It was among the best conversations of my life.

  I considered the benefits of our language barrier: We had to work harder and earn understanding; nothing was taken for granted; there was no tricky syntax or semantics to misinterpret or that might accidentally offend.