Bon Voyage
by Jennifer Cain
"The most thorough and informative"- Missing in Travel
Fodor's
In preparation for our summer trip to Europe, my grandmother bought Fodor's Guide for Soft in the Head Travelers: Your Second Childhood, and diligently started reading in November. Now I know you can't always judge a book by its cover, but my grandmother transformed right before my eyes; I'd never seen her so alive in my life. On Thanksgiving, instead of falling asleep during grace and lying limply in her rocking chair with crusty dribble on one side of her chin for the rest of the meal, she rocked furiously back and forth, working up a storm across the table, as she flipped rapidly through the pages with her arthritic fingers, patches of sweat appearing on her fuzzy pink bathrobe. Only on the rare occasion would she stop for a breather and shed a few words of her newly found wisdom on the rest of us:
"Did you know they only give you thirty seconds to get your money out of the ATM before they suck it back in? How am I supposed to find where the money came out in thirty seconds when everything's written in European?"
I suggested that if she didn't want to deal with the hassle of rushing to find the slot on the ATM machine, she could carry more cash with her instead. Since Fodor's said that there were lots of pickpocketers in Europe we went to the travel store to get a money pouch. She carefully tried on each of the forty-seven different flesh colored pouches, ranging from Mocha-licious to Elephant-Tusk-Ivory, to see which one matched her skin tone best. She didn't seem to care that the whole purpose of a money pouch was to wear it underneath your clothing- where no one would see it. She finally settled on one of the more expensive black-and-white-special-edition-polka-dotted ones to help her remember Pouchie, her spotted Great Dane, while she was away.
A few months later we found ourselves side by side, my grandmother with her money pouch discreetly blending into her padded abdomen and myself with a flashy Le Champ purse precipitously hanging from one shoulder, as we consulted a map in a deserted corridor of a Paris metro station. Despite the fact that a huge sticker said that the green line was under construction, my grandmother still argued that we should take it because "that's what Fodor's says."
Just when I thought I was going to lose it and see what Fodor's had to say about the book of matches that I carry on me at all times, two gentlemen came up to try to help us decipher the map. When one of them reached to brush something off of my sweater I feared that some of my grandmother's drool had dribbled on it on the ride over (metros put her to sleep). Either that or my dandruff shampoo wasn't working, and I should have splurged on the extra strength formula. I was still trying to decide which would be worse when I heard my grandmother yelling, "Fuck you! Get the fuck off of her asshole! I'll call the police, you shitheads!"
They were actually reaching for my purse.
Such words coming from a 4'8'' elderly woman, whose wearing a shirt that says "Suburbia Knitting Club," caused this pair to back off and disappear down the other end of the corridor.
When we got back home my grandmother framed the page of Foder's Guide entitled "Protection: Oral Intercourse," and to this very day it hangs next to my graduation photo over her mantle.
"In order to form a global community, we must first learn how to understand each other."- U.N. Translator
English: The International Language
Some say English is the International Language. I admit that when I first heard Whitney Sue and Peggy tell our French airline stewardess that they didn't have to learn a foreign language because "all y'all speak English," I was skeptical. But soon my own experiences would convince me of the fact. Take this example:
When we got off our plane in Paris my mother was motion sick and asked me to take her to the bathroom. I'm the only person in my family who studies French, which meant I was the only one who could understand that the arrows that said "Toilette" were pointing to the toilet. On our way back to the luggage carrousel, where my Dad and sister were, a security guard stopped us. Apparently you're supposed to pick up your luggage before going to the bathroom in France. I later learned that this was outlined in the sixteenth volume of airport etiquette and procedures, published by Le Bureau de Tourisme francais. Unfortunately, I had only needed to read 1000 pages in order to win a prize for summer reading at the Berkeley Public Library (a pin that says "reading is sexy") and hadn't even gotten through all of volume one.
I tried to explain the situation en francais, but the security guard just kept on yelling at me, and I could barely get in a word of my broken French. He leaned in closer and closer, becoming cross-eyed before his threatening nose filled my entire field of vision, and he looked much like Cyrano de Bergerac. But, as soon as I switched into English he calmed down. We had forged a connection across the language barrier and come to a new level of understanding, one that would allow us to settle our differences without turning to violence. "Oh you are a stupide americaine." He said amiably. "Okay, you go back in zere."
Stupid American. Perhaps that is a bit more accurate than saying English is the international language. I know that when I had changed my mind on the airplane and asked for a Pepsi instead of a Sprite, the stewardess had gladly handed it over after I had confirmed that I was American, not British. But still, speaking the international language sounds a lot better than being a stupid American. Either way, whether its because others pity our stupidity or because we speak English, we can travel internationally, even if we've only studied Latin (R.I.P).
Unfortunately this doesn't necessarily hold true for those of us who are traveling within the United States.
My friend and I were returning home from visiting colleges in Southern California. We boarded our plane and had just learned all about what to do if oxygen levels in the cabin drop (Secure your own mask before helping the person next to you, unless you don't like them.), but due to air traffic control in San Francisco we would have a minor delay before taking off. Three hours of CNN inflight entertainment later, the stewardess announced that we would be unable to fly into San Francisco tonight and should all unboard the plane.
We exited and approached the customer service counter to find out what we were supposed to do. We weren't the only ones who had gotten in late, and employees were hastily trying to organize fuming, jet lag, customers into lines. A lady came up to us and started asking us questions and giving us directions in Spanish. "I don't speak Spanish," I said apologetically. Well apparently none of the employees spoke English, part of the reason why their lines soon became clumps and then just one massive crowd of confused passengers. The TV kept on showing the same message over and over. First it played in Spanish, then in Chinese, and then someone signed it out for those hard of hearing.
We ended up deciding to just stay overnight in the airport, and went to go get something to eat. Wanting something other than pizza or burgers (the only thing I had eaten while visiting dorms the past week), I decided to try something new and adventurous: papas fritas.
"Faites comme chez vous"- Citadinnes Apart'hotel, Paris
(A home away from home, only better)
Room and Board
The Receptionist gave us the key to room 512. Naturally we headed to the fifth floor. The sign indicated that odds were to the left and evens were to the right. We turned right and walked past room 500, 502, 504, 506, 508, 510, 514, 516…wait why wasn't there a room 512? We walked past all the rooms again, and when we still didn't see it we checked on the odd side of the building (just in case 512 was an odd number in France.) No, there still was no room 512. My sister reasoned that this must mean that our room was on the fourth floor. Of course, that made perfect sense. Why hadn't I thought of it?
So we went down to the fourth floor. But, believe it or not, we still couldn't find room 512. My sister then suggested that she check floors one through three, and I check floors six through eight. "Why don't we just go ask the front desk?" I asked.
The receptionist told us room 512 was in the tower. "That sounds exciting," my sister said happily. If our father's premier executive status on American Airlines had gotten us free saltines in the lounge at the airport, maybe our matching braces would get us extra pillow mints and an exotic tower view. We knew our tower status meant something special and raced up to the fifth floor of the tower and opened the door to our room.
It wasn't exciting.
The tower turned out to be the older, unrenovated part of the hotel. The beds were mere cots, perhaps a foot off the ground. Unlike the lodgers who used washers and dryers in the main part of the hotel, guests in the tower had the privilege of doing their laundry. By hand. Good thing we happened to pack a clothesline and clothespins.
While watching TV later that night, a chunk of peeled plaster from the ceiling fell on my sister's head, knocking her out, and giving me control of the remote. Early the next morning we learned that on the plus side staying in the tower meant you got live music and awoke to the screeching of the lady showering next door.
"Travel entails the exploration of new and exotic flavors."- Bon Appetit
Small Town Dining
We were going back East to spend Christmas with my relatives in New York. My father, frugal by nature, discovered that we could save $50 per ticket ($200 in total) if we flew into New Hampshire instead of New York City. In his excitement he forgot to factor in the additional $700 needed for a rental car and extra night in a hotel. Of course the problem with flying into a place like New Hampshire is finding a place to eat once you get there. Lucky for us our hotel happened to be smack dab in the middle of the New Hampshire gastronomical district. The lady at the hotel enthusiastically told us that not only were there a McDonald's and Jack N' the Box close by, but a renowned T.G.I.F's only fifteen minutes away. This certainly got my taste buds watering with excitement- anyone with half a brain knew that T.G.I.F. was where all the cool kids ate; after all it was the coolest TV show around outside of Arthur. However, coming from Berkeley, my parents were into the whole health and organic movement (organic apples, organic milk, organic rug cleaner) and weren't too enthusiastic about eating at a fast food chain. We settled for a joint all American grill/Chinese vegetarian restaurant. There was a really long wait, "So it must be good," my mother said.
We were seated at the non-smoking table, and the waitress, cigarette in hand, toed the 5' by 5' duck taped perimeter surrounding us. My sister ordered a fruit salad. The waitress said they only served fruit salad on Tuesday (today was a Wednesday), but she could bring her the tofu-steak-Oatmeal-fruit-salad combo instead. I ordered Chicken Chow Mein. How can you go wrong with noodles, especially when they cost $15? We waited a good hour or so for our food to come (the higher altitude in New Hampshire makes it take longer for water to boil), and when it did I was really, really hungry. The waitress handed my sister a bowl of fruit salad, a bowl of hot water, and a bag of sand like particles which we later learned was instant tofu and steak flavored oatmeal mix. "We were all out of chicken and Chow Mien," she said as she placed a bowl of shell pasta covered in New Hampshire soy sauce (regular soy sauce only saltier) in front of me. I was trying to pick up my pasta with the forksticks the waitress had provided when I heard a gagging noise and looked up at my sister. "It tastes like cement," she said pushing the bowl toward me. "Try it."
On the way back to the hotel we stopped by Longs and bought some Pepto Bismal. There was a line at the bathroom door that night.