the one star

My good buddy Paul Solomon had just made the wise decision to part ways with our then employer and planned a visit to my London abode in celebration.

Most of my London visitors followed a similar pattern, and Paul was no exception.  They'd come to London, sightsee while I worked for a few days, before jetting off with me for a long weekend somewhere.

We jumped on the train after work on a Friday afternoon and were in Paris by 6 or so.

Arriving at the hotel I liked, a nice little family run Rick Steves' place in the Marais, we bellied up to the desk.  The clerk said he had no reservation in my name.  Now, I know I'd sent a fax, but really had no idea if I'd received a confirmation.  I swore there was one, but who really knows.  He was nice enough, saying we could stay at their sister hotel ... if we hopped on the Metro for a few stops.

We said, "Thanks but surely we could find something in the neighborhood".

From the Bastille up the Rue Saint Antione and back we stopped in every place we saw.  First on the main drag and then on the side streets.  There were a plenty of places, but they were all full.  Finally about to go back and grovel for the sister hotel room, we decided to try our luck at the one place we'd been avoiding.

Just a door with a small barely lit sign over it, brandishing some nondescript name and one lone black star.

We walked up the long flight of stairs and were stoked to learn they had a room.  However, the clerk was going to make us take a look first.  Not a good omen.  We went up another flight and headed to the last room down the hall.  He opened the door and I'm fairly certain we busted out laughing.

On the way back downstairs he showed us the hallway bathroom and the pay shower (which you needed to get a key from the desk to use).  I thought to myself, "you should be paying me to shower in there!"

Not wanting to spend the rest of the evening running around looking for a room, we decided to take it.  Going back up to drop off our bags after paying we literally started taking pictures.  The floor was so slanted the you could see right through into the hall via the space between it and the door.  There was one bed, and I emphatically called "FLOOR".  This was not necessarily in being nice to Paul, but because I thought the thick shag carpeting looked safer than the sketchy bed.

Having later lived in Africa for two+ years, I can say no hotel there grossed me out half this bad.

We arrived back after a healthy evening of Parisian rabble-rousing (I believe we were denied entry into a taxi) only to find the place stunk like rotten eggs.  We slept with the window open on that coldish November evening.  I came back from the shower after a morning run laughing historically, as I'd dropped the soap and there was no way in hell I was going after it on that floor.

The funny thing is, this place totally worked.

We left early, stayed out late, and did Paris up very well.  When your room is that bad you'll use any excuse form going back (at least while sober).

Going on 12 years, Paul and I still talk about this place fondly.

[Paul Solomon was approached to corroborate this blog post.  He wanted to underscore both the putrid smell upon returning the first evening as well as the general grossness of the shower the next morning.  His attorney/lovely wife have advised him against further comment].

death by 1000 cuts

I'm not really sure how Stephanie and I settled on Morocco as a honeymoon destination.

Our only real requirements were some place neither of us had been to with decent weather in late November.  Monsoon season in the Pacific and the pain of getting to someplace like Bali made it unappealing, and neither or us was too hot on South America.  We also wanted to be far away and with limited contact.

Morocco really fit the bill.  We left the day after the wedding, via Madrid, arriving in Tangier.

We had 17 days and the idea was to travel Morocco north to south.  From the taxi ride in to town, I knew I'd like Tangier.  It had that perfect juxtaposition of modernity and tradition ... headscarves and bluejeans, calls to prayer and pop music blasted from cell phones, and incredible old city with rusty satellite dishes littering the skyline.  Old meet new.

I tell people now, we spent three days in Tangier and were rarely if ever not lost.  I've never seen a city that was such a literal maze, forget street signs there were not even landmarks.  I think it took us two days to get find our hotel without paying a kid.  We were lost, the good kind of lost, in an interesting city just past the reaches of the cruise ship day trippers.

Somehow I'd forgotten a razor.

It occurred to me I could stop by one of the countless barber shops and get an old fashioned shave, they had signs up advertising the service in window paint.  After sloshing through the blood stained floor of the meat market, a missed but ominous sign, we dropped in on a local barber.

I chewed the fat with the 20-something barbers in French for a few minutes before I sat down in the chair  and Stephanie buried her face in a magazine.

What I assumed would be an actual straight razor (and was going to demand had been properly cleaned), was to my surprise just a holder for two disposable blades.  To me, they looked like what you'd buy at a Home Depot for household or construction use.  My man pulled the blades out of their paper packaging and slapped them in.

On-y-va.

I had a little of the hot towel treatment, and a lot of cool cream, before he started.  It was pretty uncomfortable, normal for not having a shave in a few days.  Not too long in I knew I was getting nicked but didn't think too much of it.  It hurt but he didn't hit a jugular or anything.  He went on and on, eventually grabbing a towel or something wipe me off.  Just when I thought I was in the clear, I noticed him grabbing a bottle of greenish liquid which he proceeded to slap on my face.

I was officially on fire.

Not wanting to look like a total wuss but pretty much writhing in pain, I paid up and we quickly fled.  In the light of the street, Stephanie laughed that I was bleeding pretty good.  I found a darkened window to look myself over in and sure enough I had a dozen or so little but productive bleeders.

Of course we had to walk up a massive hill, and then in circles for half an hour trying to figure out the way to the riad we were staying at.  Upon arrival, I was finally able to wash the alcohol off and tend to my small but painful wounds.

Stephanie and I still joke about us meandering through the medina while I bled from a million tiny cuts.

Darwin

Having been fortunate enough to travel to some of the worlds stranger nooks, a question I get a lot is "where is the craziest place you've ever been?"

There is no question, the answer is Darwin.

Tucked off a peninsula facing the Timor Sea on the north coast of Australia, it is the sort of place Aussie's can't believe you've been too.  Hell, they struggle to figure out if they've known anyone who's been.

I'd been hopping around solo on an Australia Airlines air pass for a few weeks.  Through Sydney to the beaches of Perth, back to Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef, and was headed up to Kakadu National Park.  I almost didn't make it, twice.  An Italian couple I'd met on a live aboard "learn to dive" boat had nearly convinced me to go down the coast back to Sydney with them.  Then a Dane on the flight in from Cairns almost had me tagging on to Alice Springs and Ayers Rock.  But I'd done a ton of research and wanted to check try this "adventure camping" thing out, see a bit of the aboriginal lands.

We had only been on the ground for like 30 minutes when on the free minibus from the airport into town, an ancient looking aboriginal man jumps out in front of our speeding van with his hand gesturing to stop.  I have no idea how the diver stopped.  He layed on the horn and eventually the old guy realized he wasn't getting any money, we kept on into town.

It was like a million degrees and at least 90% humidity.

I took off on a run, and had to turn back.  There were attention crocodile signs on the path and I was not just scared but melting.  I was fairly new to this getting off the beaten path thing, and my comfort zone was about to get crushed.

I passed by a park over-run by what I later learned to be gas huffing aborigines on my way to a grocery store to pick up some snacks for the national park trek.  Inside a dude literally dropped next to me in the aisle and started bleeding on the floor.  The supermarket employees were responsive but didn't seem shocked, I'm sure I'm making it up but I swear I heard "cleanup in aisle 6."

Over dinner at a pub I heard the barkeep regaling the regulars of kicking out a drunk miner the other night, and "kicking his ass for good measure."  Later that night on my way home I saw this was not an isolated incident.

It's not like there was nothing else going on in these seemingly normal, functioning town.  I think that is what made it so nuts, one minute you were in a sleepy provincial town full of pink perl shops and backpackers ... and the next there was someone keeled over on the sidewalk.

Kakadu National Park was wonderful, and I am really glad I got the chance to go.  I shared a tent with a BBC sports guy, an Australia nut on like his 5th visit.  There were killer waterfalls, crocodile baiting, some crazy 4x4 rides, and some really interesting aboriginal cultural stuff (as well as plenty of nice aborigines), and tasty wallaby kebabs over the fire for dinner at night.

On the way out of town, I took my only ever airport shower before an overnight flight to Sydney.  I met a priest and some nice locals, who assured me though the problems I encountered were real, I'd had a pretty bad run of luck in what I saw.

I'll tell you this, my time in Darwin was 48 hours I don't think I'll ever forget.  

throwing in the towel

It had been a long time coming.

It was a little over two years since I'd touched the ground stateside. The plan was to meet up with a Peace Corps buddy after closing up our respective loose ends, and snake our way through the safer bits of West Africa to some place cheaper to fly home through (avoiding a painful connection in Paris).

The trip was edgy from the start ...

I'd been dodging sketchy expats in Lome (Togo), a crazy prostitute fight at the hotel's beachside bar in Busua (Ghana), and a hilariously horrid attempt at convincing some PCVs in Tamale (Northern Ghana) that we were current and not former Peace Corps volunteers (so we could crash in their guest house).

I'm not sure why but I was starting to take more interest in what was happening at home.  In retrospect I think I was beginning to loosen up my homesickness guard, which had been up for so long.  I was texting my brother in law for college football scores, emailing old friends, etc.

I don't think I really noticed this at the time.

Along the way my traveling partner, Brendan, woke up with stomach movements that were literally shaking the bed up by the Burkina Faso border.  It sounded like a chainsaw starting in our room, and worse from the bathroom down the concrete hall.  How he made it through an epicly slow, hot, and painful minibus ride from the Burkina border to the capital (Ouagadougou) still amazes me.

After crossing Burkina Faso (by ancient train, a dilapidated 4x4, and walking when the road became impassible) to see some pretty amazing waterfalls and present a sacrifice (bloody chickens) to some "sacred" catfish, we were back in the capital staying at a large guesthouse run by ancient french nuns.  I loathed leaving the compound because there was a gang of taxi drivers and "guides" waiting to heckle me into paying for their "services".

People we thought would help out in Ouaga, were lame.  It seemed like we were getting picked on for being white everywhere we went in Burkina, getting chased out of a market by dudes yelling "racists" in Francophone West Africa is a bit discomforting.

I snuck off alone one afternoon to see what my options were at a travel agency, getting home from these far flung places requires a bit of planning.  Either I was done with West Africa or it was done with me.

I went to an exhilarating, if long, mass at the Cathedral.  It was there I made up my mind, I was coming home.  That night I told Brendan I was done, which he was remarkably cool with.  He convinced me to keep going on to Niger.  We had plans to meet up with a couple of friends and go up north into the Sarhara.  We made arrangements and left the following morning.

What followed was an incredible time ...

Niger, hell even the bus ride there, was like a breath of fresh air.  After our horribly lame experience in Burkina I almost kissed the ground at the border.  Niamey was awesome, and our trek out to the Sahara was legendary.  Meeting new friends, drinking in experiences, and pushing my boundaries.

I think of it often.

We went to the bar that last night and had one of those only-in-Africa nights ... beers flowing and food bought off vendors heads while listening to Afro-pop under the cover of a starlight sky.   I gave what I had left of value and not on my back to Brook and Ethan who were returning to Benin for their second year before dropping them off at the bus depot on my way to the airport at 2am.

What I am most thankful for is that I was able to come home on my own terms, I didn't leave a broken man as I'd seen so many others.  Oddly, this I owe to the fact I knew I was done.  

It means a lot I was able to leave a place that meant so much to me on a high note.  I only hope others are so lucky.

Theres a word for that? Really?

Living behind Harrod's was nice and super convenient. In addition to the insane cafeteria on the ground floor of the department store, there was an awesome little Russian place tucked back there and a few decent pubs.

I was especially fond of the bright yellow Lamborghini that Fayed's other son (not the one who crashed with Diana) kept parked overnight on the street. Nothing like classing up the street a bit.

Of course my place was a hideously expensive corporate flat so my employer was nudging me to get a place to live. Thankfully, they would still be paying so I didn't mind too much.

After striking out in Marylebone (mostly several year leases), I followed a friends suggestion and went out to see a few places in Fulham. I saw a handful of places scattered across the neighborhood, none of which were very appealing. They were all fairly hard to find, and I was totally wiped out.

Having taken the afternoon off, I happened by a pub and stopped for a pint. Chatting up the bartender I learned that Madonna lived nearby, before taking my second outside to enjoy the spring sunshine.

I was the only one there for the most part, outside of a couple. From the looks of it they'd been shopping all day on The King's Road and were imbibing a few pints to cool down. Their conversation grew louder and angrier as they moved inside for another round. I don't remember what they were bickering about but all of the sudden as I turned my head the woman tossed the contents of her 20oz pint glass in the guy's face. Not skipping a beat, he grabbed the glass and proceeded to pound it into her forehead.

Glass shatters, woman bleeding, beer everywhere. She runs downstairs to the loo, he takes off outside, and the barkeep and I look at each other like ... did that really just happen?

Sticking around long enough to make sure the woman was OK (some bleeding but not too bad), I got the hell out of there.

Upon my arrival at the office the next morning, I was still a bit shaken up. I recounted the storing in graphic detail to my colleagues who were floored. "Tom saw someone get glassed yesterday ... in the middle of the afternoon ... in Fulham!" Lance exclaimed to some latecomers.

I was like ... "There is a word for that? A verb? So, this sort of thing is a regular enough occurrence that it has a name? Really?"

To which his reply was, "You've never heard of anyone getting glassed before? It happens all the time, in some of the grittier pubs almost nightly. Now not usually involving a woman and not in Fulham or in the middle of the afternoon, mind you, but ..."

I was shocked by what I saw, they were shocked by where and when I saw it.

lost in the supermarket

After two plus years, an unplanned overnight in the Newark airport, and 5500 miles from Niamey I was home.

Only it didn't feel like home, frankly it didn't feel like anywhere.

I holed up in my sister's house for a few days, terrified of having to talk to anyone. I'd been in West Africa for 27 months, and while I was aware I had changed a good deal I don't think I was prepared for how much "home" had changed. When you're away, the idea of "home" is stuck in time. The longer and further away you are gone, the worse reentry is.

After a few days I managed to go to Comp USA, I'm not sure what I bought but I remember stumbling through the check out conversation and saying something in French.

A week or so later I was all proud of myself, I'd made it to my condo in the Gold Coast and was doing better. There was just one problem ... the supermarket. It was daunting. I'd be in there for like an hour, and come out with one bag of random groceries. Living downtown without a car, I had to go every few days ... and it sucked.

In Benin, there are a handful of smallish supermarkets Cotonou (the capital) and they are generally filled with stuff you don't really want (like imitation Oreos), stuff you shouldn't be buying on your salary (when food on the street costs $1 or $2 anything pre-packaged is a bad deal), and stuff you couldn't use if you wanted (like frozen pizza ... no ovens or freezers). I generally went to the supermarche's to pick up a few things ... syrup, spices, and snacks ... on my way out of town. Say once every month or two.

Conversely in Chicago supermarkets we relatively cheap, filled with stuff I actually wanted, and convenient. This should have been awesome. But it sucked. It was the amalgamation of all the things I was having trouble with ... interacting with strangers, seemingly endless choice, and acting like I belonged.

But I didn't have a job, and I needed to eat.

Takeout or delivery seemed wasteful, both because of cost and the fact I was having trouble eating american food. I could eat my weight in ingamme pillet but only half a plate of what my excellent cook of a sister served. So I went to Jewel, every day to two. Once while stuck like a deer in the headlights in the ice cream aisle, a woman actually asked me if I was OK. Humbling.

I am guessing it took a month or two, but I eventually turned the corner :).

This picture is framed in my parents' house

Every time I go back for my annual pilgrimage to Motown, I enivatably see this photo. It sits in the bedroom I shared with my older brother alongside pictures of my 3 siblings, their spouses, and my parents now 9 grandchildren.

It never ceases to make me laugh. Ever.

The picture was snapped by my then future Peace Corps post-mate Becky outside Bohicon, Benin ... the town where we would spend the next two years. It was our first visit to our future home and we had just been out to the neighboring village of Lissezoun to get introduced to a future friend and all around great dude named Mathieu.

Like any good Beninese host, our meeting started and ended with shots of local moonshine know as Sodabe. Lonely Planet calls this very local beverage (the palm tree it is distilled from grows in like a hundred mile range) an alternative jet fuel for NASA. We had some local fried snacks, toured a small library Mathieu built for the local youths and downed a few shots.

Only having been in West Africa for a month or two, my stomach was not yet ready for prime time. The parasites (ghardia, amoebas) and bacteria (of various flavors) were just moving in and getting acquainted with my insides and all lubed up with grease and thrice fermented palm sap.

Needless to say, I was far from regular.

Local travel in Benin is usually via small beat up mopeds called Zemijahn's. Going outside of any decent sized town means bumps on dirt/sandy/rocky roads. I was in a line of four of these, with a current PCV (Xotchil), Becky, and our new French friend (Delphine) when I just couldn't take it anymore. We bouncing around on sketchy shocks halfway between town and this village and I made my driver pull over. I was set to eminently explode.

I hadn't been around long enough to learn to carry a role of toilet paper or better yet a 99c pack of baby wipes hand carried from Walgreens to the Dark Continent, and I had just enough time to grab some maize leaves.

I ran up a small hill looking for a semi-private place to unload.

My three female traveling companions were losing it, and asked that I pose for a quick picture. Somehow I held off the ensuing deluge long enough for this photo to be captured before retiring further down the other side of the hill for some much needed privacy and a deep cleanse.

Please don't tell my mom, I'd hate to have her take the picture down :).