Wake Up and Smell the Shit

by Kirsten Koza

  A car! I spot a car at a stop sign. I pump hard. At about 30 feet away, I realize it’s a cop. A cop! Never in my life have I been so happy to run into law enforcement. Any other day and I would steer clear of the police. I hate them. But today I need their help. Protect and serve, that’s what they’re here for, to protect and serve. I am only 20 feet away when the cruiser rolls off in the opposite direction. I stop my bike, raise my arms in the air, wave my hands back and forth and yell, “Wait, stop, wait, I need your help, wait, stop, wait.”

  The car continues on its way. I reach to the ground, pick up a pile of loose gravel and toss it as far as I can. The small-scale meteor shower of grit lands across the cop’s trunk and rear window, giving off the sudden clatter of hard rain. I immediately regret what I have just done.

  The car comes to a sudden halt and then ever so slowly reverses until its bumper is just a couple feet in front of me. Expecting the worst, I walk my bike up to the driver’s door. The window lowers to reveal a pot-bellied police officer with a chubby face and a bushy mustache. I wait for a scolding, a “What the fuck?” or “Are you out of your mind?” But instead he simply gives me a look of bewilderment and waits for me to speak.

  “I’m sorry sir, but I seem to have gotten myself lost.”

  “Well luckily you got my attention, because to be perfectly honest, I didn’t even see you there.”

  I am somewhat awestruck. Luckily?

  “Where ya headed?”

  “Just need to find a motel for the night.”

  “Oh jeez. Well, ain’t gonna find nothin’ out here. Gonna haf to go clear into Knoxville I reckon. Thas gonna be your best bet. And we’re talkin’ a good 15 miles.”

  “That’s fine. If you could just point me in the right direction, I would be very grateful.”

  “Well let’s see. Gonna go straight ’til this road ends, take a left and then your first right. Few miles down and there’s a church. Take a right, no wait a second, a left, yes, a left at the church. Follow that ’til it ends, and then ’nother left and ’nother right and that road should take you clear into the city. From there, well, you’re gonna haf to stop and ask where the closest motel is.”

  “All right, let’s see if I got this. Straight until this road ends, a left, a right, another left at the church, one more left and then a right.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Thank you so much officer. Don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Well, that’s kinda what we’re here for. Good luck.”

  The car pulls away and I follow behind, the gap between us getting larger by the second until I am on my own again. “Left, right, left, left, right,” I sing the cadence out loud, over and over.

  I follow the directions and am surprised to find them spot on. The fields gradually evolve to houses with green yards, churches, schools, and parking lots. But no stores, no food, and no water. By the time I pass a sign that reads Entering Knoxville City Limits, it is dark. Traffic has built up, and it’s Friday night of Memorial Day weekend, and I know that people have been drinking. I have no lights on my bike, but there is only one thing on my mind—water.

  Store! I hurry inside and beeline it toward the drink cooler. I grab a Gatorade and pour it down my throat. At this moment it is the single greatest thing that has ever touched my tongue. It’s as if God herself squeezed heavenly nectar from between her loins and delivered it to Earth for this precise moment.

  I grab two more bottles, an armful of snacks, and drop them next to the register. The guy behind the counter is short and fat with a receding hairline, goatee, and sideburns that hang down to the bottom of his jaw, his fat jaw. If I had to guess, I’d say that he most likely lives in his mother’s basement and is obsessed with online role-playing games. I’d bet that in some alternate universe he has magical powers, secret potions, and a pet dragon. But in this universe I hope that he has good directions to the nearest motel.

  “Motel, let’s see,” he says as he rings me up. “Gonna wanta go straight at the light, down a little hill, and you’ll see a McDonald’s. Swing a right. There’s gonna be a whole shitload of stores and restaurants and what have you. Take a left where the Target used to be. Follow that for, I’d say, a good four or five miles. You’ll come to a major road, lots of lights, lots of motels down that way.”

  “Where the Target used to be?”

  “Yeah, gonna wanna take a left right before that.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I head out the door. Where the Target used to be—how the hell am I supposed to know where the Target used to be? Fuck it, I’ll stop somewhere and ask somebody else. Now that I’m finally thinking straight, I grab a flashlight, turn it on, and snug it under a bungee cord on my saddlebags. That way a drunk driver can see me before he hits me. I ride through the light, take a right at the McDonald’s and hug the sidewalk as I pass a “shitload of stores and restaurants.” Just as I’m about to stop and ask for new directions I catch sight of it. At the top of a giant pole climbing maybe 40 feet in the air is a white sign with two faded red circles, one inside the other—bull’s-eye—“where the Target used to be.”

  I take a left before the sign, follow a darkened road for four or five miles, holding my breath every time a car passes from behind. I come to a major road, lots of lights, motels as far as the eye can see. I find the shoddiest looking one and purchase a room from the Indian desk clerk. As I enter my room, a sense of relief fills my body. This horrible day is finally over. It’s strange, even after dealing with a terrible hangover for the first half of the day, I could really go for a couple of beers. But I know I shouldn’t, and so I don’t. But I did notice a soda machine before I got to my room, and a cold refreshing soda sounds pretty damn good.

  I walk out to the machine and am as happy as a man can be when I see that it carries Pepsi. I love Pepsi. It is by far my favorite liquid in the entire world. Don’t get me wrong, there are other great colas out there, but for my money nothing compares to the sweet, crisp flavor of Pepsi. I remember a few years back, spending fourteen days in county jail, the first thing I did when I got released was buy a Pepsi; not a beer or a cigarette. A Pepsi. And now that I’ve seen the button on the machine, I have the same craving as I did that day. I slide a dollar bill into the slot, and it immediately spits it back out. I try a crisper bill and it does the same. Motherfucker! I hurry back to my room, rifle through my bags, and find exactly three quarters, the only three quarters that I have. Back outside, one at a time, they drop into the vending machine. I press the button that says Pepsi on it. Clunk, the aluminum can falls to the bottom. I reach down and grab it. What the fuck is this? A Diet Pepsi. There is nothing in the world that my taste buds hate more than the artificial sweetener used in diet sodas. Motherfucker! You’ve got to be shittin’ me! Fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch cocksuckin’ motherfuckin’ bullshit!

  Back in the room I set the unopened Diet Pepsi on top of the television and turn it on. Exhausted, I remove my clothes and slide underneath the sheets. I stare at the screen and barely process the moving colors in front of me. A movie is playing, but I don’t know what it is. I recognize Meryl Streep, but who’s this other actress? Uh, Anne Hatha-what? Hathaway, that’s it. What movie is this? Oh, I know, The Devil Wears Prada—the last movie on Earth that I would ever want to watch. I grab the remote off the nightstand and click the channel button. Nothing happens. I try the number buttons. Nothing. The power button. Nothing. I’m too tired to get up, so I leave it on and find myself somewhat enjoying it.

  What a day, what a day. A bad day almost always starts with a hangover, but I know that never again, as long as I am alive, will it ever end with me in a fleabag motel in Knoxville, Tennessee, staring at The Devil Wears Prada and an unopened can of Diet Pepsi.

  Jon Penfold lives in Portland, Oregon, where he’s always looking for his next adventure. For more of his stories, please visit jonpenfold.com

  SPUD HILTON

  The Holy Grail
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br />   Yoo-hoo, Dan Brown?

  STANDING IN THE DOORWAY TO THE CATHEDRAL IN VALENCIA, SPAIN, I couldn’t help but think: Man, da Vinci didn’t have a clue.

  “Está aquí?”

  “Sí.”

  “En la Catedral?”

  “Sí.”

  “The Holy Grail?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  The man taking tickets looked as though most of the salt in his salt-and-pepper hair was the result of people like me asking the same question three and four times. But in my defense, I had just unlocked one of the greatest secrets of the past two millennia pretty much by sheer dumb luck. I had succeeded where others had failed—Percival, the Knights Templar, Indiana Jones, Monty Python—and I wasn’t even looking. All this talk about the chalice being a da Vinci-coded metaphor for Mary Magdalene, flushed away.

  It turns out that the thirteenth-century Gothic cathedral, a blimp-hangar of a basilica built on the Plaza de la Reina in central Valencia, features some popular attractions for the tourists: a bell tower with a 207-step spiral staircase and an amazing citywide view; two paintings by Goya; the mummified arm of St. Vincent the Martyr; and, oh, by the way, a little trinket called the Holy Grail.

  Yeah, that Holy Grail.

  It seemed at the time as if that little fact was something the cruise director should have mentioned in the port briefing, even in passing: “Yes, folks, you’ll find Valencia is a terrific, friendly port whose main attractions are the great shopping bargains and yummy Spanish paella, especially in the lovely plaza next to the church with that Holy Cup thingy.”

  Sure, cruise lines would rather not tell you everything about a port so you’ll be more inclined to take the packaged excursion, but this seemed kind of extreme. It’s a little like arriving at Skull Island and having the cruise staff tout the scenic, white-sand beaches and the colorful local culture, but neglect to mention the 20-story gorilla with a weakness for petite blondes.

  It seemed, also, that the easiest job on the planet should be director of tourism for the city of Valencia. You arrive at the office, have a cup of coffee and then prepare for the toughest decision you’ll make all day: should the next campaign emphasize the excellent climate, miles of beaches and historic district, or the fact that our city has exclusive display rights for the single most important relic and tangible icon of faith for, oh, say, a few billion Christians worldwide?

  O.K., that’s decided. Let’s go to lunch and have yummy paella.

  But I had already been to the tourist information office (not more than 100 yards from the cathedral), and no one made mention of grails, holy or otherwise. Maybe they were waiting for a leading question, such as, “Um, I don’t suppose you folks have any enormously well-known and historically sought-after relics lying around?”

  Similarly, in the guide put out by the Valencia Tourism & Convention Bureau, the first of only two references to the artifact isn’t until Page 23, a 25-word description that doesn’t get much more in-depth than that it was at the Last Supper. The second entry is even shorter, and both ranked in importance below El Tribunal de las Aguas (the Water Court), where local farmers settle irrigation disputes.

  It turns out the Santo Caliz (Holy Chalice), a red agate cup with elaborate gold handles, was sent to Spain by Pope Sixtus II and soon-to-be-martyred St. Laurence when Rome was under siege in 258 A.D. According to one version of the story, it bounced around eastern Spain for a few hundred years, through the hands of monks and kings, until it was given to the church to hold—pawn-shop style—when Don Juan, King of Navarre, needed money to fund a small war. He never raised enough cash to get it out of hock, so the church has owned it since, moving it to the Cathedral of Valencia in 1437.

  Apparently, nobody sent out a memo, so people have been looking for it for centuries.

  I began to wonder what other mysterious missing relics are simply scattered around Spain. Is the Lost Ark of the Covenant really lost, or just buried under a stack of old hymnals in the cathedral at Barcelona?

  Inside Valencia’s cathedral, after admiring the Goyas and St. Vince’s arm, I decided that before “discovering” the grail, I should prove myself worthy, Arthurian knight-style, by climbing the bell tower. At the top (207 steps and 30 overfed German tourists later), Valencia stretched in every direction, an unpretentious working city—probably the type of place where people wouldn’t think to exploit a holy relic.

  Had this thing made its way to, oh, say, Florida, the “cathedral” would likely be a glass and polished-steel monolith at the center of a sprawling theme park called Grail Land or Holywood. After a day of standing in line for the Water-to-Wine Log Ride and the KrazyKwest roller coaster (souvenir photos of riders are labeled “In Remembrance of Wheeee!”), the family would sit down for Chalice Cheeseburgers at the Last Supper Saloon.

  Maybe it’s best that it’s kind of “lost” in Valencia.

  As I descended the tower, questions swirled under my hat: Is it possible they’re trying to keep it a secret? Is there a Valencia Code? Do I need Tom Hanks’ mullet to break the code? Who dusts the Holy Grail?

  Once back in the sanctuary, I found that the ticket guy was gone and the Chapel del Santo Caliz had closed for the day. No Holy Grail. My sacred quest, however brief, would have to wait for some other day.

  I went back to see St. Vince’s arm again and put five euros in the donation box—I thought it might go toward the effort to find the rest of the poor guy—and headed for the door.

  Next quest: yummy paella.

  Spud Hilton is the travel editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, where since 2000 he has written about, reported on, and been hopelessly lost in destinations on six continents. His attempts to divine, describe, and defy the expectations of places—from Havana’s back alleys to Kyoto’s shrines to the floor of a hippie bus in Modesto—have earned ten Lowell Thomas Awards and have appeared in more than 60 newspapers in North America, several of which are still publishing. Spud also writes the Bad Latitude travel blog at SFGate.com and plays cornet in an early New Orleans traditional jazz band. A version of this story was previously published in the San Francisco Chronicle.

  SCOTT MORLEY

  The Spittle Express

  “Various other forms of behaviour perceived as antisocial in the West are considered perfectly normal in China. The widespread habit of spitting, for example, can be observed in buses, trains, restaurants and even inside people’s homes. Outside the company of urban sophisticates, it would not occur to people that there was anything disrespectful in delivering a powerful spit while in conversation with a stranger.”

  —The Rough Guide to China

  I’D READ THE WARNINGS. THE CHINESE LIKE TO SPIT. BUT AFTER A YEAR IN Korea (spitting with the best of them), I assumed there wasn’t much I hadn’t seen when it comes to sputum. I was wrong. The average person in China sees spit as a multipurpose wonder formula: add to rice as a flavor enhancer; splatter on floors to keep the dust down; apply to neighbors’ faces as a cleaning agent; apply to tables for the same reason; use on sliding windows and doors as a lubricant, plus it also stops sunbeams.

  My first experiences with Chinese mucus were rather mild. I noticed that when the Chinese got together to stare at me, they’d blow their noses in my direction or would pick their noses and roll the boogers around in their fingers before offering me a handful of peanuts. They’d spit on my shoes or on their own shoes, or they’d spit on the floor and then would sit or lie down on top of it.

  My aversion of flying phlegm increased when I was with my travel partner, Ted, on a bus trip to Hohhot. We sat in front of some serious country bumpkins, dressed in knit wool and fatigues. One of them had eyes as yellow as yolks. And he had a cold, or allergies. He kept grunting and blowing snot-jets from his nose onto my neck.

  I’m pretty cantankerous and frank regarding certain issues, and I turned and glared at him. But he acted as if I wasn’t even there. I received some spray from his nose right into my eyes. I made
nasty upset-sounding noises (which didn’t require translation) at him and wiped my face with my bandana, making sure he understood exactly how much I disliked the scenario. But it didn’t work. He and his friends were getting a kick out of this.

  Ted suggested they knew exactly how much I hated it, and to ignore them. I was sure they thought it was funny to see a white person, probably the only one they’d ever seen, acting uppity on a third-class bus. I didn’t quit miming upset, and he didn’t quit blowing his nose on my neck. At the next stop they left, and at Hohhot Ted took a train south while I took a train to Turpan and Urumqi.

  The travel expert at the train station had told me these spots would be very hot this time of year. It was March, so I had my doubts. I’d lived in a high northern desert before. It was not hot there in March. But he insisted it was hot. I’d bought a ticket, wanting to see the Uighur, and wanting to ride a horse across wild country, and wanting to be able to tell people I’d been to one of the remotest spots on the planet.

  It was not warm on the train ride. The wind blew constantly, rocking the drafty coal-fed train back and forth on the tracks. Outside you could see dirt and snow flying through the air in swirls. The ground was pitted like an old minefield. The only people on the train were so hillbilly they were possibly more scared of me than fascinated.

  To add to the cold and grit, the floors, seats, and tables were covered with slimy spat-out sunflower seed shells. Nobody minded. Children were laid down on the floor, where they played with the filthy piles. The children, like everyone else, were dressed in knit-wool jumpsuits but theirs had giant holes in the rear ends revealing their bare butts. This would not have been so bad, except that because of the lack of diapers the children were allowed to shit anywhere. They shit in the aisles, on the tables, and on the floors right next to the sunflower seed piles.