All the Roadrunning

I am coughing.  As expected.   

I suffer from what is perhaps one of the most bizarre allergies known to mankind.  I appear to be allergic to none other than the USA itself, finding myself coughing my lungs out no matter where I am within the 50 states (I am not allergic to St. Thomas or America Samoa though).  It does not matter if I am in Boston, Miami or Austin, I cough and I cough often.  London, Delhi, Prague?  No coughing.  Santiago, Melbourne, Saigon?  No coughing there either.  New York, California?  A whole lot of coughing. 

Generally, the allergy attacks me within the first twenty-four hours of my crossing the border, whether by land, air or sea.  It then remains my incurable enemy until the moment I cross the border once again, on my way out of the country.  It is as precise as a Rolex, as certain as the nightly presence of the pad thai vendor at the corner of Khao Sao Road and Soi Rambutri in Bangkok.   

Pills and cough drops have proven powerless, therapeutic teas with exotic names completely useless.  Meditation (both sitting and walking), sauna sessions and simply pretending to be in a foreign country have brought absolutely no relief whatsoever and at times caused great embarrassment (usually when I pretend that southern Florida is actually Dhaka, Bangladesh – the people here just don’t appreciate a good tissue-less blowing of the nose).       

Anyway, for the time being I am ok with having this allergy, simply because I know that I will be leaving the country again soon, in 9 days from now.  When I walk back onto the Queen Mary 2 on July 8^th, the cough will undoubtedly remain, that is until our fine Captain maneuvers the vessel out under the Verranzano Bridge just after sunset and towards international waters.  By the time I wake up for work the following morning, my allergy will have once again vanished for no understandable reason.   

At least I have a valid excuse for my more than frequent trips overseas.  It’s for my health of course!  Who in their right mind wants to deny me good health?  You can tell me it’s time I finally settle down, time to end the constant travels, but you certainly would not want me to suffer in the process.  Would you? 

Now that I think of it, I am also allergic to cats.  But only American cats.  Honestly.  When I am around my sister’s hissing ‘Sheba’ or my friend’s ugly ‘Patches’, my eyes instantly swell shut, my face inflates like a bag of Orville Redenbacher and my inner ear tickles so intensely as if I am the victim of some cruel interrogation technique.  Cats in other countries have no affect on me whatsoever.  I could hold them in my lap and lick their fur clean or even use them as a pillow and still I would resemble the non-inflated version of myself.           

What does all of this mean?  Is my body trying to tell me something?  I just may be destined to forever wander the planet, to be forced into exile by the unknown cause of my “spasmodic contraction of the thoracic cavity.”  Could I be so lucky?

Even my doctor friend is dumbfounded and unable to offer a reasonable explanation of my situation.  Although he did suggest a treatment that involved a game of Scrabble and some blueberry muffin tops, not surprising once I discovered that he actually studied to become a podiatrist.  

If anyone else out there has any suggestions, please let me know.  Maybe there is another baffled traveler in the world suffering from this strange disorder too.  It would be of great help to find the cure, not only to eliminate this annoying cough, but more importantly so that I can return to using tissues to blow my nose.

After thirty-six hours of hearing unmistakably American accents, eating unmistakably American food and finding both tissues and toilet paper in every bathroom, I have finally admitted that I am back in the USA.  It is always a strange and semi-torturous adjustment period for me, as I lament the end of another adventure while discovering with each passing year that the ‘comforts’ of home are not so ‘comforting’ anymore.   

I used to return from India or Southeast Asia and run straight into a boiling hot shower, often spending several minutes offering freshly plucked and sparkling clean hair strands to the gods of pipes and water boilers.  I prefer cold showers now.   

Although I have a car to drive, a washing machine to use and a street full of mega-stores and chain restaurants to visit, I see them as mere luxuries, no longer necessary now that I am perfectly content with walking until my feet are sore and washing my clothes in a bucket until my knuckles bleed.  Besides, the stores over here do not really sell me anything I particularly need and my stomach certainly has no objections to living off of freshly cooked, flavorful street food for all eternity.     

I know that this bitterness will pass of course.  It’s just that returning home always represents the reality of not being able to remain on the road forever (either due to financial or self-inflicted mental obstacles).  But I know the drill; the desire to explore does not merely disappear amid the conspiratorial attraction of all things American.  Instead, I will soon be hearing barely audible whispers, aiming to tempt me with their gentle tones of persuasion.  “Mozambique… Bolivia…Mongolia…Uganda” they will say, causing me to stumble and stutter and begin to wonder how long it will be until I am on the road again.  When I start to miss the vendors with baskets of cucumbers on their heads and the feel of grotesquely dirtied, partially torn, foul-smelling rupee bills, I will find safety in the realization that I have not lost my way.     

And because of that comforting thought, I am now ready to once again deal in clean, crisp dollar bills for the time being.  I am ready to purchase my cucumbers, not from a head, but from a supermarket.  My clothes will be clean when in public and I will resist the urge to eat my Bang Bang Chicken & Shrimp with my hands when visiting the local Cheesecake Factory.  My driving shall be in an orderly and safe manner and in a vehicle that has been deemed ‘road worthy’ by the proper automobile authorities.  I shall make my own tea, finally accepting that nobody sells fresh cups of it on my doorstep.  I offer my sincerest apologies to the Florida tri-rail conductor whom I tried to bribe for a first-class seat (he can still keep the dollar though).  And I will abandon my formation of a lobbying group whose intention was to replace the words ‘road’ and ‘street’ with the phrase ‘public toilet’ on every sign in the country.   

For all those who read this, you now have my word that I will do my best to re-adjust while being as little a nuisance as possible.     

But if you happen to see me burning my trash in the middle of the street or leading my goats on to the bus with me, please do not call the police.  A warm embrace and reminder of where I am shall suffice and I promise you, my goats and I will simply walk away.

These posts detail the world of ´ship life´ – the life of crew members on board cruise ships.  It is a world I once said goodbye to and it is a world I will briefly be returning to shortly.

This adventure took place between mid-April and the end of June 2008.  What began in Delhi as a journey into the unknown ended up heading in a familiar  direction, although one that I never had expected.

Last week I did celebrate the Midsummer Festival, although I must make a few clarifications from my last post. Yes the Swedes danced around a pole, however, I was most pleasantly surprised to discover that it was not actually a burning pole, just a normal, non-burning version. Prior to this discovery, I had spent sleepless nights trying to devise an acceptable excuse for not wanting to don the white robes and hood that I assumed would be handed out before the ceremony began.

And yes, old Croatian folk songs were most definitely sung, just as one would naturally expect at a traditional Swedish festival. But the singing did not take place during the dancing. Instead, several overall-clad Croatian folk stood under the shadows of the historic barn in an almost opening ceremony-like concert, strumming their guitars and mandolins, singing words that nobody in the audience could understand. But everyone was smiling and some were even swaying back and forth, rocking in slow motion to the catchy ditties that their grandparents never sung to them when they were children.

This celebration was unfortunately hampered somewhat by the typical on again off again rainstorms that plagued the afternoon. But overall, Midsummer was a success and the evening´s festivities were more than enjoyable, except for the customary shots of Dill & Cumin-flavored aquavit (local liquor).

A few days later I boarded the bus for the journey to Oslo, Norway. The ride across Sweden took six and a half hours and actually left me in quite a sour mood. I simply could not believe that we arrived into Oslo so late. Lateness never happens here, absolutely never. Or so I thought. We were scheduled to arrive at 3:30pm and I was livid when the bus rolled into the Central Bus Station at 3:36pm. How dare this bus driver ruin my belief that Sweden is the most organized and efficient place on the planet? Could he not have made up the six minutes somewhere en route? It was chaos I tell you. I still get tense when I think about it.

And then a friend of a friend of a friend met me at the station, most generously offering me her hospitality for my 16 hour stay in Norway. After taking me on the whirlwind tour of Oslo, she gave me the keys to her apartment while she and her boyfriend were at work. And so I returned to their comfortable pad to rest and relax before I had to leave for the airport at 4am.

Although, when I opened the door to the apartment, I was greeted by none other than a massive pit bull with a giant blue ball in its mouth. It looked like she was devouring planet earth. I immediately froze and it jumped up and down. I remained frozen and it growled, ran around in circles and proudly displayed its two inch fangs. I tip toed into the apartment, not wanting to disturb the possible family of pit bulls that might be hiding around the corner, ready to pounce and attack.

Well, it turned out that there was only one pit bull. And her name was Sassy. But for the next couple of hours, however, I was forced to sit still on the sofa, very still, while Sassy jumped on my lap, licked my arms and lunged for my face every so often. My constant shaking and sweating were ample displays of fear that this dog luckily did not pick up on.

Instead, Sassy finally tired herself out and fell asleep in the bedroom, allowing me to begin breathing again, although as quietly as possible of course. As time passed, I also eventually abandoned the escape route that I had devised upon hearing the first of Sassy´s numerous growls. And considering that this route had required me to leap off of the fourth floor balcony and onto a wooden children´s playground structure, I was quite relieved.

So, I am happy to report that I have survived all of the brutal risks and terrifying dangers of Scandanavia that were thrown directly in my path. Now I must simply survive my flight home, a journey that certainly cannot be classified as ´short´ nor ´direct´. I will now spend multiple hours not only on three separate flights but in between as well, at the fine airports of Amsterdam and Washington D.C., before arriving back in Florida.

And once I arrive, it will already be time to get organized yet again and prepare for the next journey. I have less than two weeks before I step foot onto the Queen Mary 2 and I must transform myself, both mentally and physically, from a backpacking traveler into an officer on the most luxurious ocean liner in the world. Its not an easy thing to do.

I´m still in Sweden.

In fact, Friday is the Midsummer Festival, which takes place on the longest day of the year over here. Although, since every day that I have been here has lacked any darkness whatsoever, I am not entirely sure what to expect. One Swede informed me that the festival commemorates the potato harvest, another said it was the end of the season for making hay to feed the horses. However, most of the Swedes I have asked have simply admitted that they had no idea what the Midsummer Festival actually celebrated.

I have been invited to a ´traditional´ celebration during the day, which apparently involves dancing around a burning pole in the middle of a large field while singing old Croatian folk songs and drinking shots of the Scandanavian liquor aquavit. This odd event is then followed by a dinner of smoked salmon, herring and gingerbread cookies and a party at a golf course. I´ll let you know how that one goes.

I have now visited several castles around Lake Malaren and have hiked across some if its islands. I toured the Vasa – an old naval ship from the early 1600s that sank 20 minutes after leaving its dock for the first time. But it was then rediscovered 338 years later and raised to the surface, 97% in tact, its excellent condition attributed to the low level of salt in the region´s waters. Only in Sweden would they build a massive museum complex to proudly display what has to be one of the most embarrassing naval disasters of all time.

And so, as I continue to observe people purchasing ice cream by sending text messages on their cell phones and as I continue to contemplate why packages are delivered to the supermarket for pickup instead of to your home or the post office, I can not help reaching the conclusion that Sweden is an even stranger place than India. Honestly, nowhere else do people purchase such high quantities of bag-in-a-box wine.

But regardless, I do plan to remain in this quirky, yet lovable land until Monday, the day when I will jump on board the elongated yellow Swebus Express and travel across the country to Oslo. I will spend two days there before catching my flight back to the states, giving me a week and a half to mentally prepare myself for my stint back on board the ship.

And before I end this entry, I want to wish my sister a most happy birthday today!

Now that four days has passed here in the land of Swedes, I am finally over the fever that attacked me during my drastic change of location. And as much as I was hoping that Sweden would turn out to be the ¨India of Northern Europe¨, it has naturally turned out to be exactly what it is, Sweden.

Auto rickshaws and their bicycle cousins have transformed into Saabs and Volvos. Every breath of air is so ridiculously fresh that it is almost as equally disturbing as a lungful of Delhi´s thickly polluted version. It is peaceful wherever you go, not much rushing around taking place at all over here. The scenery is simple – a flat landscape where the purest green abruptly changes into the purest blue. You need to wear sunglasses just to look at the grass. Sunset does not come so early, actually, it barely comes at all. Where I am, the sun officially sets at 11pm and rises at 3:30am, however, it fails to get dark in between, the blazing ball of fire always lurking just below the horizon. It is light enough at 2am that you could drive around safely without your head lights on.

Everything is always organized and on time. The trains and buses are simply never late. Everyone waits for the traffic lights to change before crossing the street (and this is not Manhattan, there are seldom any cars approaching at all!), driving faster than 30 mph is considered dangerous and grounds for being committed. There are bicycles everywhere, people of all ages choosing to avoid the unaffordably high prices of petrol. Despite having relatively warm weather for only two months a year, Grandpa Gustavsson and little Bjorn continue to bike around even in the middle of winter. Many a Swede have proudly displayed the scars on their bodies that resulted from mid-winter bicycle accidents.

Even with it being June now it is still cold. Temperatures are struggling to reach 50 degrees during the day, which is the same as 0 degrees to me. After so many years now in hot climates, anything under 70 degrees requires me to pull out my winter wear. It even hailed yesterday, leaving an inch layer of ice on the ground in some places.

But it is summer nonetheless and the Swedes refuse to let something as silly as extremely low temperatures stand in the way of their enjoyment of this warmest of seasons. People are sunbathing in bikinis in the parks, wearing short shorts and sitting outside to eat their meals. I have yet to see one person wearing winter attire, even at night when it drops to 40 degrees. They simply refuse to have their short summer taken away and so the entire nation defiantly denies the cold. As a result, it appears that they really do end up feeling warm in the end, enabling them to actually think it is summer weather and therefore to make the most of the summer months. Meanwhile, I went shopping for a winter hat and gloves and began sewing my own long underwear.

It is a beautiful, atmospheric country. An expensive, beautiful and atmospheric country. It seems that every time I step out into the streets I end up spending $100 and all I have to show for it is an empty muffin wrapper and a tiny packet of tissues. But, the people are kind and warm and down to earth, just what you want in a ´people´. And I say this despite their widely held belief that it is quite normal to cut off ones small toes if they become bothersome after the age of 25.

I am flying to Stockholm on Monday morning.

India has served its purpose. This land of contrasts and colors and camels has sorted out my head as only it can do. It has led me to finally chart a course for my near future, ending the constant floating between dreams and temporary ideas.

And after so much time spent in India over the past 7 years, I am no longer surprised by much, and this includes the unexpected direction I shall now head. You see, my grand plans were merely an outline, a fantasy created to match the one I had experienced while working on board the cruise ships.

When I flew to India two months ago, I envisioned a course that included wild and dangerous adventures to wild and dangerous countries. But the situation unfolded differently. I found myself to be completely comfortable over here, at ease amid the constant madness, skilled in the game of survival that is constantly being played out. I needed to come here once again, to hear the music and devotion, to taste its flavor, to feel the thickness of its air upon my face. India is where my mind is free from defilement, it is where clearer decisions can be made.

I leave India with the understanding that my course, no matter how it proceeds, will remain my personal adventure. As long as I do not stray from the knowledge I have gained during my years of travel.

With that in mind, I fly to Sweden, a country I have yet to visit. I will visit a friend and spend some time in Europe. I plan to remain there until the end of June. And then what?

Well, at the start of July it appears that I will find myself in a place that I am all too familiar with, a place that I had said farewell to some four months ago. No, I am definitely not making a full return to ´ship life´. Instead, I will be spending a mere seven weeks back on board the Queen Mary 2 in order to help cover my old position during someone´s upcoming vacation. My ex-boss at Cunard Cruise Line asked me if I would do them this favor.

In addition, these two months in India have been an excellent jump start to my career as a writer. I have almost completed the book I have been working on and will soon need to start the search for a publisher. I have also begun receiving some serious interest in my travel articles, prompting the need to sit down and continue writing as much as possible.

And so, with all of these new developments, it seemed logical and worthwhile to pursue such opportunities over the next couple of months. But upon completion of my short contract on the cruise ship, I will re-examine, and possibly head to Africa or South America. All I know is that this re-calculated course feels necessary despite my initial eagerness to wander off and explore the remotest parts of Tibet (a visit to which has been made nearly impossible due to changes in China´s visa policy after the their Tibet crackdown two months ago).

I certainly intend to detail my upcoming return as Tour Manager on board the Queen Mary 2, where I will live and work among 1200 other crew members from around the world. This is not just some ordinary community that I will enter, as you will understand upon reading my ¨Farewell to Ship Life¨ article. I therefore invite you all to remain tuned in to my summer of posts, to my first-hand account of an underworld, the one I call ´ship life´, that you will never believe actually exists.

For two days we walked through squalid streets, lanes and fields containing shocking amounts of refuse and waste, both human and animal. The 120 degree temperatures typical of the pre-monsoon season created such an unbearable stench that the public urinals of Delhi suddenly seemed pleasantly aromatic. The massive 16th century mosque and palace that we had come to visit was often only barely visible through the thick screen of trillions of flies surviving off of the garbage and ferociously trying to enter our mouths. There was no electricity in the village, and hence, no fans, and often no water, to provide relief in our guest house room. As we lay drowning in sweat, the massive black biting ants teamed up with the mosquitos to attack us non-stop throughout the night as hundreds of mini-cockroaches invaded our backpacks.

It was a tough couple of days in the village of Fatehpur Sikri, some 20 miles outside the city of Agra. Although the palace and mosque were definitely worth a visit, their grandeur was easily overshadowed by the troublesome conditions. When we finally boarded the Kerala Express train for our return trip to Delhi, we agreed on what we needed to do once back in the capital city.

We needed to feel normal. We needed to spoil ourselves.

In some countries there is a uniqueness of being able to ski the slopes in the morning and surf the waves in the afternoon. In India, it is also possible to be in two very opposite environments in a very short period of time. After spending the morning among some of the poorest people on the planet, amid piles of trash and shit up to your waist, you can sit in an air-conditioned, upscale ice cream parlor in the evening, eating spoonfuls of chocolate sundae among the wealthy.

Not only did we indulge in cool and creamy deserts but we also visited trendy coffee shops, leafy, immaculate parks (Lodhi Gardens – well worth a visit!) and one of the fanciest cinemas I have ever stepped foot in. As Indiana Jones drove through the jungles of Peru last night, we grabbed handfuls from our tub of popcorn and laughed out loud simply because we needed to. When the ´cinema waiters´ passed by during intermission asking if there was anything they could do to further enhance our experience, we asked for nothing as we were already far more than satisfied.

And now, well, let´s just say that I thoroughly enjoyed my high-pressure shower and I anticipate a most comfortable night´s sleep in my room of cooled air, without having to swat and scratch and itch. Actually, I anticipate a few of these glorious nights, which will most likely be the last few that I will have in India during this visit.

My time here is coming to a close as it is simply time for me to move on. I have a few options at the moment and a decision should be made shortly. Meanwhile, if you need to get in touch with me, I´ll either be watching ´Iron Man´ at the cinema or drinking a Passionfruit Milkshake in the comfy cafes of Connaught Place.