All the Roadrunning

Things are already rocky between Keren and I. Our match is not as perfect as I had initially boasted about. Her politeness and overwhelmingly positive attitude are still as welcome and refreshing as ever, but it is her completed work that leaves little to be impressed by.

To tell you the truth, I think I have to let her go. In reality, she always seems to understand each task at hand quite well, replying to my emails with clear, to-the-point rewording of my instructions. Her regular bi-hourly status updates always help to instill a vigorous boost of confidence that the work is being done professionally and as thoroughly as possible.

And when that email arrives stating: “Task Completed! :)” – I flex back in my chair, smile widely at my brilliant idea of hiring a VA and open the attachment.

Each time though, my face immediately tenses and I plunge into a two minute period of near tears and pretending to kick over every chair in the apartment. I then sit back down and write an immediate reply to Keren, usually starting with the abrupt line of: “What is this? It is not what I had instructed and which you had confirmed!” I proceed to type several more lines that generally fluctuate in tone between amused bewilderment and feigned passionate rage before I delete the whole thing, drink some orange juice, eat a plum and laugh about the fact that I have a semi-useless virtual assistant in the Philippines.

Ordinarily, I would try to stick it out and plod through the tough times. Not one to simply quit on something (or someone) when faced with a slight obstacle, I believe that people must work together through the challenges in order to achieve the success and happiness they both seek. I am just not sure if that success and happiness is possible in this instance.

And to complicate things even further, unfortunately, my sweet Keren has some fierce competition. His name is Sridhar and he lives in Bangalore.

This young Indian man has been emailing me every few days with such enthusiastic phrases as “Awaiting your need for best assistance possible” and “Please write soonest with WHATEVER task you need immediate and most satisfied completion with”. This guy really wants my business.

Any budding entrepreneur would certainly be impressed and intrigued by Sridhar’s eagerness to please and I am certainly no exception.

For now, I have devised what I consider to be a reasonable, albeit risky, solution to my problem. I am using both Keren and Sridhar at the same time. I know what you are thinking and the answer is ‘no’, they do not know about each other. Given the fact that one lives in the Philippines and the other in India, I am hoping that this geographical distinction will enable me to survive this temporary secret life unscathed.

Sridhar is working on his first project as I write. He too seemed to understand my instructions effortlessly and even after the failures of Keren, I remain fully optimistic in Sridhar’s ability to produce quality results. If he succeeds, I will have to free myself of Keren and create a pact with Sridhar.

I have also given Keren one last chance by sending her a simple, yet time-consuming task. Maybe she will redeem herself and create further confusion for me in this dramatic VA tale. Or maybe she will perform poorly once more and consequently set me free in the process.

At the end of it all, I am content in the understanding that life is all about change. If Keren needs to be replaced by Sridhar, so be it. One day, Sridhar will most likely need to be replaced as well, and probably by Svetlana, another assistant out there in the vast virtual world looking for work.

Everything that arises, must someday pass away. Although the great Buddha most likely did not have virtual assistants in mind when speaking those words, I am certain he would agree this concept of existence surely applies in this case. That thought alone comforts me as I await the results from each, knowing that soon, a decision must be made.

Her name is Keren.
Not Karen. Keren.
And I must tell you, she is absolutely lovely.

It took a long time for me to find her but now that I have, I anticipate that we will be quite close for quite some time.

Already we email each other almost every day and we even talk on the telephone once in a while. The first thing she ever wrote to me was, “Anything you need, I am here for you.” And she even added a colon/parenthesis-created smile at the end. Does it get any better than that?

To have someone so attentive to your needs and so dedicated to keeping you happy at all times is something that few people get to truly experience. But now, my friends, I have entered that sweet realm of bliss, I have joined those selected few. And it is even more rewarding than I could have ever fathomed.

Keren is my new VA. That’s right, my very own virtual assistant. I hired her one week ago and for basically no reason at all. But with each passing day, the decision has proven itself to be one of the smartest I have ever made. Infinitely smarter than when I attempted to bring a blue burqa and a box of Osama bin Laden candies back into the USA from my trip to Afghanistan.

Here’s how it works – I email Keren a task that I need completed, she rephrases it so that I know she understands, she begins working on it and I go to the beach. In the end I need to dish out $3 per hour of work she performs. Most of the projects I send her take less than 2 hours, so after one full week of employing Keren, I owe her $18. Not bad at all considering that by having her complete any web research and organizational tasks I need done, she provides me in return, not only efficient results of the highest quality but also valuable time that I can use more productively.

Did I mention that Keren lives in the Philippines? I don’t think I have. But guess what? She does! And it makes it even better for two distinct reasons. First, I can send a task to her before I go to sleep at night and as a result of the 12 hour time difference with her home of Ormoc City, I wake up to find the task completed and waiting for me in my inbox. Second, I have a Virtual Assistant named Keren from the Philippines! How cool is that?

The process of finding sweet Keren was similar to being given four days to test all of your favorite video game systems, then choosing your absolute favorite to keep for yourself. You are not required to pay for the system itself, instead you must pay for every hour that you spend playing games on it!

Using a website that specializes in connecting those seeking ‘help’ with those offering to work for you, I posted my needs for the world to see. Within four days I had 17 ‘bids’ from agencies and people in China, India, Pakistan, USA, Lithuania and Philippines. They each sent me messages detailing their capabilities, skills and their hourly rates, often adding such curious lines as “I would be happy to use me for you Sir” and “We promise our work can be delivered with ‘almost’ 100% accuracy every time.”

I ‘interviewed’ each person through email and even on the phone (some actually called me so that I could interview them!), during which time I asked such questions as “Could you find me a place to live in the Canary Islands?” and “Are you able to contact a particular sandal maker on the streets of Varanasi and order some shoes for me?” The answers to such questions were always “Certainly” or “No problem at all”, making this a very difficult decision. I just had to keep asking questions until I could whittle the original seventeen down to my favorite one. And that one was Keren.

In all honestly, everybody needs a Keren, even if you don’t think you do. During this past week, I have made more progress on ideas that I have always wanted to dedicate myself to, simply because she is doing the boring, frustrating and time-consuming tasks that I could never gather enough motivation to work on. And she does it all without complaining and always with a smile on her face. Actually, with a smiley face in her email but that works just as well for me!

If you are thinking about it, have a look at elance.com, type “virtual assistant” in the search box and prepare yourself to be amazed…

Yesterday I went grocery shopping for perhaps the first time in about six years. Apart from the obvious lack of need while working on the ships, there was also a complete lack of need while traveling around India, Southeast Asia or wherever I have been. Twenty cent fresh samosas from the streets of Delhi beat a can of Bumble Bee tuna any day.

But despite my extended absence from large food stores worldwide, I felt oddly comfortable yesterday behind the steering bar of the sturdy, metal grocery cart within minutes. But to the lady whose heel I smashed into and to the elderly gentleman whose hip I rammed and probably fractured, my sincerest apologies that my initial rust was shaken off at your expense.

I spent exactly 49 minutes in the store, a lot longer than I had anticipated. Most of the time was spent wondering what exactly I would do with a jar of mayonnaise the size of a gas pump, why donut peaches exist and how many other shapes pickles can be sliced into.

When I could not remember which aisle had the containers of soy milk, I fell into a panic and sped chaotically along the shiny floor, criss-crossing the entire store wondering what kind of world we live in where the soy milk is not located right next to the regular milk. In fact, it was on the other side of the store, right next to the oatmeal and across from the frozen peas. I am thinking about writing a letter to the manager because that is just not right.

My total bill came to $79.89, an amount I considered to be reasonable for covering all of the basics – fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread, cereal and yogurt…and Bumble Bee tuna of course. I even bought a 12-pack of Yuengling after convincing the cashier that I was in fact over 21 despite having forgotten my driver’s license. He did have to call over his supervisor for advice, but she simply glanced in my direction from about twenty-feet away and yelled out, “I guess he looks 21!” I sure do.

As I drove out of the parking lot, with my bags of goodies ever so neatly placed in the trunk exactly as a responsible grocery shopper should do, one of my favorite songs came on the radio, “No One to Run With” by the Allman Brothers. Naturally I began to dance, right there in the driver’s seat of my mid-size rental car, beating my hands on the steering wheel, shaking my head all around and screaming out such phrases of excitement as “Woohoo!” and “Alright now!”

I turned onto Atlantic Avenue just as the sun faded beyond the neat rows of planted palm trees, creating a most eye-pleasing combination of colors splattered across the sky. I observed the people walking on the sidewalks and the children riding their bicycles, the dogs running in the park and the line of four cars waiting to use the drive-up ATM while the regular ATM at the front of the bank had nobody waiting at all. ‘This is life on land’ I thought to myself, and for a moment I began to think about how happy I am to be off the ships.

And then I accidentally ran through a red light. I immediately turned the music off and nervously looked around in every direction. Would I be caught?

No, not this time. No police in sight. Nodding exaggeratedly to myself in defiant relief, I cranked up the music once again and continued dancing, having completely forgotten what I was thinking about a few seconds before. All I could think about now was sinking my teeth into a sweet donut peach.

*For the time being I will be staying in Florida, at least for a few weeks. This decision has been made as it is the easiest and most hassle-free way for me to get organized. And it is warm and the beach is just down the road.

The lights were dim and flickering.  The sweat dripped from my face, oblivious to the blasts of cool air from the air-conditioner.  It was difficult to think.  My heart beat was erratic and nervous and I could not sit still.  The expectations, the disappointments, the hope, the disbelief…at times it all compounded into an unbearable pressure, forcing me to fidget uncontrollably while trying as hard as possible to concentrate.   

I waited patiently for my turn, trying to keep my eyes focused and my face expressionless.  I knew what I needed to do but there was still time for the person next to me to destroy my plans.  Munching on a stale chocolate chip cookie, a million different scenarios flashed before me. 

Eventually she yelled out “42!”, while smiling widely and nodding her head in self-approval.  I had observed what just happened and as a result I immediately slouched down into my chair, with my head dropping instantly in disgust and my eyes beginning to water.  I knew I was finished.  In one move, my grandmother had crushed my plan, she had ruined my clever strategy for which there was no back up. 

I struggled for a moment to regain my composure, fully aware that I had no one but myself to blame for allowing a sure victory to elude me.  Careless moves and over-confidence gets you nowhere in the world of Scrabble, a lesson I painfully learned this past weekend. 

Not about to completely surrender without a final gasp, I momentarily pressed ahead as if life was abundant with cheerful seven letter words.  But my only option now was to put down an ‘o’ and ‘b’, making the words ‘to’ and ‘bat’ and embarrassedly declaring a pathetic score of 6 points.  I give my grandmother credit though, as she refrained from any snickering or name-calling, instead maintaining her focus and playing as if the battle was still a dead heat.  It is this type of unselfish, composed scrabble playing that proves why she is a champion and I merely an amateur. 

As we played out the last few meaningless rounds, I tortured myself internally by trying to determine where it had all gone wrong.  Yes, I know that had my grandmother not put the word ‘quoin’, meaning ‘an exterior angle of a wall’, with the ‘q’ on a double points space and the entire word in a triple word area, I would have finished her off with the word ‘jax’ in the same spot, earning 75 points.   But did I really think that she would leave such a gem of an opportunity open for me to use?  My unacceptable lapse of judgment produced a measly 6 points and handed her the victory once again. 

During my visit with my grandmother over this past weekend, I was forced to play scrabble 9 times, with some games starting as early as 10am and others as late as 11pm.  She clearly knew what she was doing, attacking me at my weakest times, taking advantage of my post-cruise ship exhaustion and systematically reducing my reasonable intelligence to moldy pudding.  Out of the 9 games, she won 8.   

I did secure one glorious victory however, thanks to the ‘Scrabble Players Official Dictionary’ which allowed me to use the word ‘zineb’ (an agricultural fungicide) on my second to last turn, a word that my grandmother refused to believe was real.  But it was right there on page 897 of that greatest of books, right there in print for all to see, allowing me to taste the sweetness of scrabble victory.  And despite my grandmother declaring this victory to be ‘controversial’ and ‘under review’, I left her home in Glen Cove yesterday knowing that nothing will ever steal this moment from me.   

*By the way, this is not the same grandmother that fed me cole slaw for four straight days a few months ago.  It’s the other side of the family this time. 

I am now in Florida visiting with my mother and sister, having arrived last night courtesy of Jet Blue.  And although I have not yet decided exactly where I will live, I expect a decision to be made shortly.  The choices have been narrowed as I derived at the seemingly reasonable conclusion that I only need a place for one month, just to get myself sorted out.  After that month, I will look for a more permanent place, if I choose to remain in the country of course.   

So for now, I must carry on with my search.  I do thank everyone for your input and ideas of places for me to live and as always, you just might see me pop up exactly where you recommended.    

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.