The Perils of Civilization

I was looking forward to a night in a hotel.  I craved a cozy bed, pillows thicker than a slice of bread, and, most of all, privacy.  After sleeping on the top bunk in overcrowded hotels for three weeks, I was ready to return to a physical space that resembled my life at home. 

But, alas, my wishes were only partly realized.  When I booked a European tour with Con-tiki, I bought one additional night’s stay at the Royal National Hotel in London.  I had made the arrangements months ago, but I expected the place to be posh.  I mean, royal is in the name.  The Overlook Hotel from The Shining would have been more appealing.

 

Much to my consternation, I discovered upon opening the door that I was sharing this room with someone I never met.  Our twin beds are two feet apart.  

Sleeping in a large room with multiple strangers allowed for anonymity, but this set-up allowed no room for shyness.  If you farted in the dark at a hostel, you'd have a legitimate mystery and enough space to hide your embarrassment in the shadows, but there is no room for secrets in this cramped hotel room.  I had planned to hand-wash my socks and underwear in the sink.  Then I would splay them all over the room to dry, but I abandoned this plan.  I thought it impudent to expose my undergarments with a roommate bound to barge in any moment. 

After the initial awkwardness, I accepted my fate and vowed to embrace this night’s rest lying next to a complete stranger.  In order to learn more about this man before meeting him, I inspected the tag on his luggage.  He arrived in Heathrow Airport the day before.  His name is Brok, and he flew in from Malaysia.  The pair of jeans strewn across the carpet alerted me to his gender.  The Malaysian airport seemed to signify he was Asian, but his Lonely Planet Europe guide was printed in English.  Superior detectives would have found meaning in these clues.  When I met him later that night, he told me he’s from Australia.  He is a very confident and cordial fellow with impeccable comedic timing.  He’s the sort of guy I would want my sister to date if I had a sister.     

Although I only received half of the privacy I wished for, staying in the Royal National Hotel in London enabled me to see what life was truly like in the past.  To achieve this effect, museums were not as successful in their attempts to bring historical artifacts to life.  In my hotel room, there is a giant box television from the 1990s.  When I pressed the ON button on the set, nothing happened.  Oddly enough, I flicked a switch on the wall and the local news turned on.  The image was grainy, and the people spoke tonelessly as though their voices were filtered through those old telephones with spirally cords.  I tried to change the channel, but the button did not work.  I suspect if I called guest services, they would send up a rare electrician who specializes in cathode ray tubes. 

 
When I took a shower in the narrow tub, the water sprayed me as though erupting from an inverted geyser.  A vent opposite the nozzle blew hurricane winds that forced the shower curtain to flap wildly.  The curtain clung to my wet skin, so I placed it on the outside of the tub to avoid its embrace.  Although I was free of the curtain’s clutches, this minor change turned the bathroom into a small pool. 

The air from the vent and the aggressive spout spit water all over the place.  The curtain absorbed some of the blasts, and the water trickled down to the bottom and dripped onto the minor lake forming on the floor. 

Slightly mortified but at the least refreshed, I stepped outside the tub and into the ankle-deep puddle, and thought, “This must be what life was like during the first hiccups of indoor plumbing.”  After the violent experience, I vowed to take the rest of my baths in the River Thames. 

To make matters worse, I was down to my last pair of underwear, and I desperately needed to wash my clothes before beginning a 35-day tour through Europe.  Since I would be living in a tent for the next five weeks, I vowed to find a rinse cycle before leaving English-speaking lands.  I discovered a card advertising laundry service for the equivalent of $30.  I wondered if my clothes would be hand-washed with imported soaps made from the fats of endangered species and then flown to France where they could dry in the elegant breezes of a lavender field. 

The placard also indicated that while the housekeeping staff promises to fold items carefully, they will not bother to sort the darks from the whites.  Should you lose a button or perhaps misplace the engagement ring you left in the back pocket of your jeans, the hotel staff will not be held responsible. 

 

As I did not wish to pay this outrageous price, I searched the streets for a Laundromat.  I stumbled upon the closest one I could find within a two-mile radius situated in a quiet neighborhood.  For one wash cycle, the price was eight dollars.  If you wished to dry your load for an hour that would cost you an additional eight dollars, but I could not guarantee that would do the trick for my extra-large load.  I calculated that detergent would cost me at least four dollars, but the smallest bottle had a 16-load capacity.  I could generously donate the rest of my detergent to the washer-less citizens of London, or waste time trying to find a smaller packet of detergent, or use none at all. 

Due to my unfavorable options, I guiltily surrendered to the most expensive laundry service I have ever encountered.  

Should I return to this godforsaken hotel, I will use the sink and hand-wash my clothes with the complimentary bar of soap.  If I’m feeling particularly bitter, I’ll leave the faucet running all night, too, just to even the score. 

Don't Do This at Home

I surprised myself when I plopped down on a cushy leather couch in the cramped lounge of the Oxford hostel.  Usually I retire to the semi-privacy of my bunk bed and hold a book in front of my face to avoid eye contact with my fellow hostellers.  A pretty blond woman with glasses and soft, unintimidating features was already seated on the couch.  Due to her gentle appearance, I sat next to her devoid of any self-consciousness. 

On the television, there was a singing competition between all the European nations.  The singer who represented Austria was wearing a dress but sported a thick beard as well.  I turned to the woman next to me.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the man on the screen.

“It is a singing competition between all the countries in Europe,” she answered.

“No, I mean that guy singing. Is he a man or a woman?”

“I don’t know.”

With the ice successfully broken, I began to systematically turn this stranger into an acquaintance.  Her name is Annika, and she is from Finland.  She interns at a travel agency in London and decided to visit Oxford during the weekend. 

“Can’t people make their own travel arrangements?” I asked.  “It’s not difficult to book a hotel.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why people can’t,” she said.  “Most old people call me because they don’t know how to use the computer.”

We talked about where we have been.  She worked as an au pair in Boston and met her boyfriend’s family in Chile.  Finland and Chile are on opposite sides of the globe.  I don’t think you could pick two countries that are farther apart, yet the two managed to meet in Boston.  After hearing this, I recalled my Chilean friend Benjamin’s words, which I heard in Liverpool:  “These days the borders are becoming invisible.”

When Annika asked me where I’ve been, I proceeded to talk endlessly about my volunteer trip to Ghana.  Since I hadn’t done much talking in the past few days while I was marooned inside an empty hostel in rainy Cardiff, a flood of words gushed out of my mouth.  I was binge-socializing.  I can’t say that I had full control of my thoughts because I was intoxicated with words, but I knew that after this brief flood, a drought was due.

I told her about Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux, the book I was reading at the time.  Theroux travels by land from Egypt to South Africa and educates the reader about each country he visits along the way.  I explained how the book made me rethink my volunteering efforts.  For one month, I taught English and French to young Ghanaians living about an hour’s drive from the capital city of Accra. 

I wouldn’t say I was so naïve and idealistic as to believe I was changing the world.  My main motivation was to add some excitement to my credentials and even to boost my resume.  My upbringing was relatively normal.  I lived a safe, somewhat sheltered life that translates to dry reading material.  A trip to the third-world was just what I needed to spruce up my existence and save me from the perils of mediocrity. 

My endeavors were not entirely heartless.  I was also motivated by my Togolese friends whom I met at the restaurant where I worked.  My friends were dishwashers at the restaurant and janitors at the airport.  They worked menial and unfulfilling jobs for ninety hours a week to send money home to their families.  Compared to these guys, I was privileged to live in a trailer park and still own thirty pairs of shoes as an adolescent.  These guys were working the crappy jobs that white Americans wouldn’t take, so I wanted to put myself in their position and see where they came from.  What were they escaping?  I wanted to find out, so I went to West Africa.

While I was engaged in a battle to improve the English of a few small-town kids, I believed I was making a slight difference, but Theroux made me think otherwise.  Theroux is not a fan of donor aid because African nations often grow dependent upon outside help.  Volunteers take jobs away from the natives.  As long as there is unemployment in Africa, there will be poverty.  The greedy and seedy governments need their citizens to remain poor so that the affluent politicians can stay in power.  If all the volunteers had stayed at home and contented themselves with their comparatively pristine childhoods, then local Africans would be forced to fill in those jobs. 

I began to wonder if charitable efforts may do more harm than good on a grand scale.  Volunteers can help a few individuals, but they can’t change an entire society.  When is the last time a foreign population peacefully invaded a country and improved social welfare?  Exploitation is a more likely outcome.  The citizens of a nation need to fix their own countries. 

 
“When you have a cold,” I said to Annika, “your body fights off the sickness by raising your body temperature until your fever breaks.  If you take medicine, the pills will reduce your temperature.  Your symptoms won’t be as severe, but you’ll be sick for a longer period of time.”

 

Volunteers, I was learning, only alleviated the pain, but they did not eliminate the disease.  We are a very caring and cooperative species, so we offer help to our fellow humans.  We are too kind and too humane to stand idle while others suffer.  Reading Theroux’s work has nearly persuaded me to let nature run its course.  Our sentimentality is indirectly destructive. 

If volunteers were to stop working all over the developing world, educational opportunities may be lost.  If we stopped sending food, water purifiers, and other supplies, the death rate would most likely increase in the beginning.  Sacrifices would be made, but eventually the locals would have no option but to change for the better or else perish.

Or certain nations could thrive without the help of outsiders.  Donor companies could be trying to force a square peg into a circular hole.  Maybe African countries need to adapt into a different kind of society devoid of Western influence.  When I was in Ghana, all the kids wanted to go to America.  Even though none of my students had been there, they wished their country was more like the United States.  Why should we impose our standards onto them?

 

We may assume that certain African countries are undeveloped because their societies do not resemble ours.  Compared to countries like England or Germany, African nations have catching up to do.  But maybe they shouldn’t plunge forward into the modern world of capitalism, cars, and overpopulation.  Maybe they should move backwards to the simpler lifestyles embraced before Europeans invaded. 

After I concluded my unprompted lecture, I asked Annika about Finland and the Finnish language.  A former roommate of mine knew how to speak Russian.  When we were discussing useful languages to learn, he mentioned that it was impractical for an outsider to learn Finnish.  The only people who speak Finnish are people from Finland.  Since Finland does not have any former colonies, its language resides largely within its borders.  In order to be qualified for more job opportunities, many people in Finland learn English, the language of international business. 

“Does your grandma speak English?” I asked Annika.

“No.  Only Finnish.  My parents were the first generation to learn English,” she said.

“So you speak English, and when you have kids they’ll learn even more English.  By the time they have kids, Finnish may take the back-seat.” 

“The Finns are too proud to let their language go,” Annika said. 

As an American sitting on an imported couch in England conversing with a Finnish woman while watching an international singing competition, I realized how important it is to retain and celebrate cultural differences before we all bleed into a Spanglish-speaking mulatto species.  But, realistically, this will never happen. 

I remembered an exhibit I saw that day in an Oxford museum about Darwin’s discovery of evolution and adaptation.  Biodiversity enabled creatures on Earth to survive.  Some animals developed fins to swim through water while others learned to walk upright, and the rest grew wings and took to the skies.  The species diverged and became different so that we could more effectively share the planet’s resources.  If we all walked on land and left the sea empty, we’d run out of food.  Even the human race needs to be diverse to ensure the survival of our species and our separate cultures.

As the English language creates its own sunset-less empire, I wonder how this will affect the make-up of the world.  Will our separate nationalities flourish symbiotically, or soon will there be languages that follow the panda as endangered species?  Will Facebook homogenize a cultural blend?  I suspect these questions may only be answered by great-grandchildren who haven’t been born yet, but I am consoled by the number of close-minded, stubborn people I’ve met.  These are the kind of Americans who are outraged when schools encourage students to learn Spanish due to the rising Latino population.  “In America we don’t speak Mexican,” a proud American will say.  At least we can rely on these people to never abandon their language and culture. 

     

 

Smoking Fags (Cigarettes)

I don’t think I could live in a crowded British city because the sidewalks provide inadequate space, there’s always a possibility for rain, and it seems like nearly everyone smokes here. 

At the hostel, I met a British man named Sam who was rolling a cigarette.  His job at a rental car service was stressful, and the stress visibly infiltrated the rest of his life.  He appeared very bitter and resentful toward Americans who generally don’t read the insurance claim forms and are surprised when they must fork over cash after totaling a car that doesn’t belong to them.  I decided not to pursue this topic and instead focused on the work of his fingers.  I asked him why smoking cigarettes seemed to be the national sport in England.

“Before 2006, you could smoke everywhere:  restaurants, clubs, even airplanes,” Sam said.  “It’s very popular here and always has been.  I think a few years ago, like, seventy percent of people who could smoke smoked.” 

Sam exaggerated a little, but a lot of people used to smoke in England.  In 1974, 51% of men and 41% of women smoked cigarettes, almost half of the population.  Nowadays, roughly one-sixth of the English suck on cancer-sticks.  The average English smoker goes through 750 cigarettes per year, compared to an American smoker puffing on just over a thousand.  

In 2012 census, the national smoking rate in the United States dropped significantly since 1965, when 42% of adults smoked compared to today’s number of 21%.  Poorer areas like rural Kentucky and West Virginia show a smaller decline.  I might smoke, too, if I lived in Kentucky and had limited cultural resources.  There are places in America where walking around Wal-Mart is considered fun because there is nothing else to do for the unimaginative mind. 

 

In more populated, urban areas such as New York City, D.C., Miami, and southern California, smoking rates are depleting much faster, probably because they have more options for entertainment and stimulation.  Residents in popular locations may also be more health conscious due to the sex appeal associated with areas such as Miami Beach or Los Angeles. 

My theory is that working-class people smoke not only to escape the stress of the job, but to keep themselves busy.  Smoking is a distraction from undesirable tasks and an oral fixation.  A disciplined mind will use free time to improve health and status through self-education or exercise.  A determined person with long-time goals should realize that smoking hinders one’s health and finances, and ultimately is a horrible idea if you want to make progress.  But failures, dissatisfaction, or lack of opportunity could motivate a person to pick up the self-destructive habit.  This is evident in the extremely high rates of smoking in countries like Greece, whose economy crumbled after the worldwide recession in 2008. 

Several actors in the Golden Age of Hollywood were constantly followed by gray plumes.  The Don Drapers of the fifties added even more allure.  But the habit is no longer associated with beauty, sophistication, or success.  Smoking is linked with poverty, depression, and lack of cultural enlightenment.

As I watched Sam sprinkle tobacco onto white paper and roll that into a tube, I wondered if those stupid and nagging car-renters poked too many holes in his happiness, and now he has to fill in those gaping wounds with cigarettes.  He said he preferred the taste of pure tobacco, and he didn’t have to smoke too many to achieve the desired effect.  On his pack of tobacco, there is a giant label that says SMOKING KILLS, and I contemplated what effect he was trying to find.

Sam justified his habit by claiming that smoking didn’t kill as many people as alcohol did.  In my mind, the numbers didn’t matter; death was a likely possibility.  Hippos in the wild kill more people each year than alligators do, but that doesn’t motivate me to jump into a swamp full of gators.

I thought he needed to find another hobby.  Maybe if he could revel in the satisfaction of a hard day’s work, he wouldn’t need to smoke.  If literature satiated his curiosity, he could replace cigarettes with books.  If he could truly love a woman rather than look upon her with a possessive gaze, he would have no emptiness that needed to be filled.    

A Chase in the Park

The sun’s rays were softening and diminishing with each minute that ticked away.  Sunset was scheduled in just shy of an hour as I walked north along the river’s edge in Cardiff, Wales.  Bute Park was on the other side of the water, but the first walking bridge I encountered was fenced off.  I continued onward until I reached a small waterfall on top of which was a bridge with no barriers.  I traversed.  

On the opposite side of the river, I came upon yet another fence.  A few locals nonchalantly climbed over it by using a stone that seemed designed for aiding trespassers.  The ascent looked easy.  A woman approaching me from beyond the barrier hoisted one leg over the fence as though mounting a horse and then swung her other leg over and hopped onto the ground.  Her fluid motion led me to believe this was a habitual practice and, therefore, not frowned upon.  I, too, hurdled the fence and sauntered into the forbidden Bute Park, which officially closed fifteen minutes ago.   

There were exercise stations spread throughout the park.  I managed to do ten pull-ups at the first station, and at the next I climbed the monkey bars.  By this time, the light was fading, and a soft grey shadow spread across the fields as the sun began its disappearing act.  A few cyclists and joggers whizzed by me in both directions.  I was comforted by their presence.  At least I wasn’t the only one trespassing.  If I were caught by the authorities, not only could I plead ignorance since I am foreign, but I could also indicate that everybody else was doing it, too. 

I continued my childish game of exercise and gripped two horizontal poles, bent my legs, and lifted them off the ground.  As I shrugged my shoulders and inched my sweaty palms forward on the bars and traveled leglessly, I noticed a middle-aged man wearing a black beanie pass me on his bike.  Since he was traveling in the opposite direction, I could see his face but the scant light concealed any remarkable details beyond a generic description:  white man, brown hair, average height.  I thought nothing of him until I reached the next exercise station when I spotted him walking his bike a few paces behind me.  Maybe he had reached the barrier and decided to head home. 

 
While inventing explanations for the man’s presence, I traveled onward up the concrete path when I reached a fork in the road.  The left arced around a garden and led into the center of the park, whereas the right curved toward the river again.  I chose the path on the right, and the strange man followed.  As I inspected the outskirts of the garden away from the pavement, I saw him approach me.  Before he could pass me, my eye was attracted to these vibrant flowers in the middle of a field, so I jogged toward them and snapped a photo in the depleting sunlight.  

As I was composing the picture, the man passed me on the right and headed up a dirt path surrounded by trees.  I could smell the marijuana on him. 
 
Darkness was falling, and images of Deliverance briefly flashed across my mind.  Horrid thoughts of being raped by a savage man in the wilderness motivated me to seek the shelter and safety of the hostel.  I reached the path again, and in front of me I saw the man at a three-way intersection:  the dirt path he took, the pavement I was treading on, and the fenced-off bridge.  He was standing still, as though waiting for divine intervention to choose his path for him.  Or maybe he was waiting for me to decide.

I approached him confidently and yet casually so as not to show the fear rising inside me.  I did not want him to know what I was thinking.  At this point, my rational hypotheses regarding his behavior no longer seemed applicable.  I was convinced he was following me for reasons unknown to me, and I wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.  If not for the combination of moonlight and light pollution from the city nearby, I would have been swathed in complete darkness.

The man was still standing near the intersection.  When I came within a few feet of him, I could make out the stubble on his beard and the gray hairs that clung to his temple. 

He fit the image of The Bad Guy invented by my grandma to prevent me from making noises after bed-time.  After tucking my brother and me into bed, she told us not to talk, or else The Bad Guy would hear us outside.  Apparently, he strolled around the neighborhood after dark listening for the hushed conversations of children.  When he heard a naughty boy talking after bed-time, he would knock on the door, and the adult in the household would have to give up the child to The Bad Guy.  If you were caught, he would eat you. 

Although I had never completely believed this cannibalistic folklore, I never completely doubted it either, so I usually stayed quiet after lights-out.  Although my grandma never recounted this tale in much visual detail, I had always imagined The Bad Guy would have black stubble and rough skin on his face.  In my mind, he wore a brown cowboy hat and always squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, because he never wanted you to know what was going on inside his head.

The man in the park was wearing a black beanie, not a cowboy hat, but he stared at me intently while I considered my escape route in my calmest manner possible.  I tried to compose myself as though stumped with a decision of which brand of yogurt to buy, but really the alarms inside my cranium were blaring at full-blast and my terror level was elevated to RED.

As a last resort to convince myself I was being silly, I considered that maybe the man worked at the park and he was corralling the final visitors and encouraging them to exit promptly.  But then again, if he were a park ranger, he would’ve reminded me that the park was closed.  He didn’t say a word to me, so I went back to assuming he was a creep who either wanted to steal something that I needed or give me something that I didn’t want. 

I started crossing the bridge, which had no barrier on this side of the river.  As I reached the fence at the end, I looked behind me.  The man was rapidly walking his bike on the bridge toward me.  If I didn’t jump over this fence now, I would be trapped between the barrier and this mysterious stranger. 

I gripped the cold, metal bars, slick with rainwater and swung up my legs over the railing.  For a brief second, I envisioned slipping on the wet terrain and falling prey to the maniac, but instead I landed on the trail and began walking briskly toward the streets of Cardiff, relatively illuminated compared to the dark park.  I did not want to immediately run because I did not want to alarm the man and let him know I was aware of his intentions.  He had a bicycle and could catch up to me with relative ease, so I was forced to strategize.  I watched him over my shoulder and waited until he was preoccupied with hoisting his bike over the fence.  With his attention diverted, I sprinted up the path until I reached the sidewalk. 

I learned this trick from my days running cross-country in high school.  When you round a bend, you should quickly surge ahead because your opponent can’t see you.  When the path straightens out again, your opponent’s morale is debilitated because seemingly you increased your pace, but really you didn’t. You have a brief speed burst and then resume your previous pace.  This illusion is enough to widen the gap and discourage the pursuer from catching up to you.  He realizes now that he’ll have to expend more energy than expected——energy he may not possess.

On the sidewalk, I blended into a crowd of pedestrians and shrouded myself with the hood of my rain jacket.  I ducked inside a convenience store and pretended to search for a Reese’s candy bar.  From reading numerous detective novels, I learned that if you are being followed, never lead your pursuer directly to your safe haven.  When I was fairly certain I evaded my tail, I headed toward the hostel.

In all fairness, the man may have been riding home, and our paths could have been coincidental.  My paranoia could have dramatized the entire episode, but I prefer to think he offered me a sinister look when I met his gaze at the crossroads.  Without that menacing stare, there would be no adrenaline rush, no suspense, and ultimately no story.  I face such little danger these days, so it is nice to have a taste every now and then.        

If Portraits Could Engage in Small-Talk

To seek shelter from the rain in Cardiff, I perused an art gallery where I finally learned the difference between a Monet and a Manet.  Previously, I wasn’t very intrigued by art museums, but with little else to occupy my time I soon discovered I’d rather stare at paintings than at rocks labeled as natural history. 

I found myself skipping the portraits of rosy-cheeked aristocrats wearing curly, gray wigs.  For the most part, I passed by the paintings of pudgy human-beings taking old-school Selfies.  Like characters in indie films, the subjects stared vacantly into the distance toward the frame and away from the viewer. 
 

 

I pretended that they were real people in drive-thru windows and wondered what we would talk about.  Judging by their pretentious outfits and their stern looks, these painted people didn’t look remotely interesting.  I imagined that if we could speak to one another, we’d be criticizing the outfits of the museum’s patrons and scoffing at their lack of taste.  Of course, if this were true, the speaking-portrait probably wouldn’t address me in the first place because I was wearing the same pair of cargo shorts and same pull-over for the last five days.

 
But maybe the people in the portraits were, in fact, scintillating conversationalists, who loathed their own outfits and hated posing for this bleak portrait because this particular moment——this frozen frame——didn’t fully represent their true character.  I changed my interpretation.  If these fictional creations had a life beyond their frames, maybe they would rather be wearing their pajamas curled up in bed with the popular literature of the day.  I was judging them based on a stereotyped opinion of rich snobs and harbored resentments toward strangers different from me.  But why was I imposing these distasteful personalities onto two-dimensional canvasses? Why was I avoiding these portraits as if they were real people, like I avoid aggressive salesmen, army recruiters, and panhandlers asking for spare change?

I evaded eye contact with the illusion of eyeballs, just carefully selected layers of paint, and instead gravitated toward countryside scenes and landscapes.  I remember standing, transfixed, while inspecting John Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral from a Meadow.  The massive painting is large enough to be a dining-room wall.  The people and horses are blurry, but small details like grasses, branches, the wagon-wheel spokes were composed of hard lines like crisp scratches on the underside of a CD.  I was attracted mostly by the contrast of light and darkness in the clouds——the chiaroscuro as the art students would say.  Rays of sunlight seep through a puffy bed of cumulous.  A rainbow arches over a darkened cathedral.  Nearby, a trio of horses pulls a wagon through a shallow creek for whatever reason.  Gazing at the painting, I felt as though I were spying while perched atop a small hill.  I could see them, but they weren’t looking at me. 

I wondered what my painting preferences said about my character:  Am I not a people-person?  Am I a detached observer rather than someone who directly and confidently confronts others?  Although I dislike small talk, I enjoy discussions that I would like to consider as intellectual, but the mood for socializing must strike me.  When I am strolling around the town, generally I prefer to be left alone to maintain my interior dialogue.  If walking through Little Italy in New York, for example, I will cross the street simply to avoid confronting an ad-man who will coax me into eating at his restaurant.  Even when I shop for discounted dress clothes at Macy’s, I try to duck into fitting rooms before salespeople can badger me.

Although I avoid these encounters, I love to talk.  However, I am developing a philosophy to be economical with my words.  Anybody who knows me can attest that I often deliver impromptu sermons about a recent film I’ve seen, or my outrage at the lack of bike lanes in a city.  The force of these torrents build up in my mind, and although my words falter at first soon they come gushing out.  Once I realize I’ve said enough, I shut up and go about my business. 

My theory is that a person can really only say maybe one or two brilliant things per day, so one should be carefully select topics of discussion.  I am currently fighting the urge to make unnecessary comments on various stimuli in my environment. 

Yesterday, for example, I was watching a Subway commercial wherein a small boy samples a raw cucumber, as presumably his eight-year-old stomach is very particular about what types of greens he consumes.  Immediately after nibbling on the vegetable, the boy voraciously nods his head, indicating to the sandwich artists that yes, a resounding yes, he will have cucumbers on his six-inch sub. 

As there was no one else in the living room with me but my aunt’s small dog, I said to the dog, who is incapable of human speech, “Yeah, right, like that happens at Subway.” Nobody gets that visibly excited about a transaction over raw vegetables, but that’s not the point.  The point is, I said something just to say it.  Although sometimes these kinds of comments can be enjoyable, mostly they don’t lead to any substantial discussion, and they only further exacerbate a bad habit of speaking for the sake of speaking. 

There are so many instances in daily life that require polite conversation with strangers, but many times these encounters nearly follow a script.  I have certain automatic responses, an arsenal, if you will, which I have prepared to use when participating in conversations I want no part of.  Using these stock phrases is a way of having a conversation without really engaging and using up mental energy. 

Everyone has their go-to responses.  I say “indeed” a lot as an affirmation, and that word has stuck with me.  While I consider what to say, neurons are firing in my brain.  When I first learn a word and search for a relevant verbal application, my neurons are struggling to blaze a trail like forlorn hikers lost in the thick Amazonian jungle.  With each successive journey, my neurons create paths from synapse to synapse.  The more I use the word “indeed” the clearer that trail becomes, and the less mental energy I have to expend when considering a response.

When I speak to a cashier, usually she asks me how my day is going, but I always give her a generic response, “I’m doing well.  How are you?”  Typically, she says she is fine.  If she has some spunk, she’ll complain about the long hours with the incessantly beeping scanners. 

Aside from these encounters, the usual, small-talk dialogue is unspecific, and ultimately we glean very little about how our days are truly going.  In these cases, we again are speaking simply for the sake of filling the airspace with the words we expect to hear.  Sure, small talk is friendly and harmless.  I once read an advice column about how to conduct myself at an interview, and the writer advised me to avoid heavy subjects and instead comment on the weather.  How can I distinguish myself if I speak about what everyone else does?  These repetitive syllables and often obvious statements become so commonplace as to blend into the background noise. 

 
We have so much power over our words, so we should use this to our advantage.  The way we speak is part of our personalities.  Each expression we articulate is a choice that represents us and makes the internal external in the same way the design of a shirt can reveal who we are.  As an aspiring writer who is paying thousands of dollars for an education in which my main goal was to learn more words and effectively string them into legible sentences, I try to increase my vocabulary by reading and then use these new words in my speech, just to add a little flavor. 

The exploration for a unique verbal or written descriptions reminds me of a Monet painting of lily pads floating on water of pink, green, and soft blue hues.  Monet’s objective with this blend was to capture the brief impression of light reflecting off the water, rather than focusing on the water itself.  To achieve this, he tried to visualize the lily pads as though he were seeing them for the first time.  Rigid structures did not interest him.  He was more concerned with capturing a moment that could not be replicated.     

The Tourist Trap

Gloomy weather seems a frequent occurrence in the United Kingdom.  My original plan was to rent a bicycle and ride through Cardiff’s vast park by the River Taff.  As the precipitation and moderately cold temperature prevented me from enjoying such a pleasant ride, I was forced to entertain myself by traveling inward.

At first I read Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux in which he recounts his journey from Cairo, Egypt to Cape Town, South Africa.  Having written several books about his train trips through Africa and Asia, Theroux is well known in travel literature.  He taught in Uganda and Kenya during the 1960s and speaks a few local languages, so he knows the African continent quite intimately. 

I went to Africa for a month when I volunteered to teach English in a small Ghanaian town generally unfrequented by foreigners.  Compared to Theroux, I am a novice at navigating dusty back-roads in remote areas.  Initially to my annoyance, Theroux flaunts his ability to confidently traverse the continent by using desolate and often dangerous routes.  Undoubtedly, this type of travel is unnerving if you are accustomed to constant mile markers, gas stations, and general signs of civilization. 

I once traveled nine hours on three separate makeshift buses that sped down pothole-ridden roads.  These “bus drivers” are seemingly intent on killing everyone inside.  A collision with another uninspected hunk of metal seems inevitable.  My friend, who had been to Africa before, advised me not to look out the windshield, or I’d only grow frantic.  The drivers always go insanely fast, and they often drive in the wrong lane to avoid giant craters in the road.

When this happens, your life is out of your hands.  You gave up control when you decided to board the rickety van stuffed with sweaty Africans.  These things crash all the time, but you try to forget that.  Seatbelts are a luxury, and therefore not included in this ride.  The van can comfortably seat eight passengers, but there are twenty of you crammed inside this AC-less machine.  If you wreck, chances are, one of you is flying out the windshield.         

Theroux argues that tourists avoid these dangerous routes and instead fly into the international airports and then proceed on paved roads to luxurious lodges situated near safari parks.  In the process, Theroux believes, tourists completely bypass the real Africa:  the bustling streets, the questionable hotel rooms, and the armed bandits lurking on the outskirts of town.  Real travelers, the author seems to suggest, cross borders on foot, even that means being shot at by shifta gangs in the bush.

With the ceaseless rain the background, I reflected on this in the relative warmth of a Welsh hostel.  With nowhere to roam without getting soaked, I pondered the difference between a tourist and a traveler. 

In certain crowds, the word tourist harbors a negative connotation.  They are often viewed as unwanted, ignorant pests who only visit the monuments and restaurants highlighted in their Lonely Planet travel guides.  The places constantly filled with an endless tide of tourists are deemed traps.  Once a popular spot becomes overrun with foreign visitors, a location may lose its authenticity and become tacky. Locals and seasoned travelers avoid these places as though they literally are infested.

Before I entered a new city, I was usually nervous because I didn’t know my way around.  Most of all, I wanted to hide the fact that I was a tourist, as though it were a rash I was ashamed to display.  I realize now that this sensation was caused by my fear of failure combined with an American inclination to conquer and control my environment.  I was one of those stubborn roamers too proud to admit that I was lost and needed help.  In order to reach this epiphany, I needed to struggle with my self-image.  I needed to accept that I was a tourist and convince myself that it isn’t a pejorative label.    

 

In the beginning of my trip, I took awful pictures of grand architecture.  I would stop at a famous building, lean back, and compose a tilted picture that fit roughly 10% of the building within the frame. 

Some of my pictures of landmarks included other people taking even worse and more titled pictures of the same landmark. 

I took these photos because I felt like I had to.  I envisioned upon my return that my friends would ask me, for instance, if I saw Big Ben in London.  How could I go to London and not see Big Ben?  Everyone else apparently felt this same urge, but why did we believe a visit to Big Ben was compulsory?

Did I snap a photo of Big Ben to prove that I was there and that I held that clock tower under my gaze for the briefest of moments?  Or did I take that picture so my friends and family back home could travel vicariously through my eyes and my amateur photography?  Or am I merely preserving these moments for future bouts of nostalgia? 

I suppose I took a picture of Big Ben for all of those reasons, but the puzzling thing is that I already knew what it looked like before I visited London for the first time.  I was making no discovery to show off to my friends.  Even they, some of whom never left America, can picture Big Ben in their minds thanks to Peter Pan and Google Images. 

Modern technology has certainly made the world smaller and debunked several myths about far-away lands.  Although I am sitting at my dining room table in St. Petersburg, Florida, I can see Big Ben on my laptop screen.  So what was I doing in front of that clock tower in London? What difference does it make that I see these monuments in person?    

Honestly, sometimes there is no difference.  I saw Big Ben in London, and months after my trip I’ve never thought about it again until now.  A common argument is that you should visit these places before you die just to say you’ve been there.  I have found that crossing off monuments like items on a grocery list is a very unfulfilling process.  My life is no more enriched because I laid eyes on the bricks that when combined create the clock tower that is Big Ben.  I don’t recommend traveling to see things, but rather to change the way you see things.  However, there is no sure-fire way of accomplishing this, so you have to wander around.  You can’t expect to be moved by every attraction and every city.  But by having the courage to leave home, you increase your odds of stumbling upon something wonderful, even if it means you’re following a horde of those “pesky tourists.”   

If I never went on the walking tour in Edinburgh, I never would’ve found the evidence to hail it as my favorite city.  And I made that discovery while on a touristy jaunt with strangers.  While in Philadelphia, I visited Independence Hall in and felt nothing, but I had a transcendent experience with a cheesesteak at Jim's Steaks, the number one recommended restaurant on South Street.  In a similar fashion, I was unmoved by the spectacle of the Mona Lisa but in awe of the sheer size and bloody history of the Coliseum. 

Although I hesitate to join large crowds, I often found myself in one, lining up to see a prized possession of the world.  I realize I was being hypocritical when I labeled tourists as unoriginal and pretentious with their Selfies in front of the Eiffel Tower.  I thought I was somehow different from the masses.  I didn’t want to be engulfed by a featureless blob and lose my individuality to the herd. I did my best to navigate the back-streets, but inevitably I found myself at a mainstream destination.  I simply could not escape the current.  I couldn’t visit Paris and bypass the Eiffel Tower.  Anybody who does that is just begging to be different for the sake of being different.

My shyness and initial discomfort in the claustrophobic presence of strangers motivated me to find a quiet spot for dinner or to appreciate a solitary view——just a sliver all to myself.  But I realized that I was in the wrong place for this.  What I was looking for can be found in the wilderness or in dodgy alleys, where I have reason to fear the company of bears and bandits.  But at Europe’s popular destinations, I joined my fellow tourists, and we paraded down well-worn streets.           

Practical Uses for Obsolete Fortresses

I’m tired of looking at ten-thousand-year old rocks.  So I learned about the early inhabitants, but now I can’t keep track of all their names.  I’ve been perusing museums of the United Kingdom to learn more about its history.  Tracing an ancient land’s stories back to its origin is exhausting work.  After visiting nine museums and two castles in the past two weeks, I’ve certainly learned a great deal, but by no means am I an expert.  

The advantages of growing up in America are becoming clearer to me.  At least in our schools, our American history textbooks were not very thick.  Most of us carry the important bullet points in our wallets.  We remember Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin, and we vaguely recollect the guy on the twenty dollar bill. 

In England I am having difficulty correctly arranging royal names on a timeline, but then sometimes I think, “Why bother?” So the Romans came over for a visit then the Normans or Anglo-Saxons arrived.  Or was it the Vikings?  History certainly does repeat itself:  over and over again, various groups invaded and conquered foreign lands.  Sometimes it’s nice to know who came knocking, but how can one effectively use this knowledge? 

When I visit museums, I believe I’m merely collecting data, which I will briefly ponder and then stow away for a long time.  I can imagine using historical tidbits at a social gathering, but I wonder if this strategy would benefit me.  Who eagerly flocks around the pedantic know-it-all regurgitating historical facts at a party?  Not many, I would surmise.  So if retelling the history of Wales won’t likely win me any friends, what is the purpose of knowing these tales?

Of course, I could use these facts to inspire fiction like George R. R. Martin drew upon Scottish history to create A Game of Thrones.  Should I find a history buff, I could at least ask him or her moderately informed questions.  Mind you, this isn’t the kind of history that teaches you not to repeat the same mistakes.  Assuredly, I need not be reminded that it is impolite to enslave a foreign population. Nor is it good manners to drop a bomb on innocent civilians.

Instead, the kind of history I explored in the United Kingdom is somewhat mythical.  I say the word mythical because many people weren’t very enlightened back then.  These people thought blood-letting was a smart medical procedure rather than a means for an expedited death.  These people lived in castles and frequently chopped off their opponent’s heads.  The world of fortresses and motes may prove useful for survivors of a zombie apocalypse.  (Cardiff Castle would be an exciting location swap for The Walking Dead... if only they were in Wales instead of Georgia.) 

I don’t want to suggest this medieval history is useless, but I don’t see too many practical applications to the real world.  After all, one of the main reasons tourists flock to old castles and churches is because they are so unlike our steel monoliths we build today.  When the ancient edifices become surrounded by chain restaurants and parking lots, you can easily see that we don’t live in the auld times anymore.  Our modern architects combined with global capitalism has severed our ties with the glorious past wherein knights fought in clunky armor and a dragon sighting was a possibility in remote territories.

Visiting these museums and parading around the castle’s grounds is really the only feasible mode of time travel.  Even though knowing these ancient stories might not win me a girlfriend, it’s nice to periodically escape the 21^st century.    

Why We Worship Sports Teams

Upon opening the doors to the bar, I felt like I was intruding upon a sacred ritual.  Everyone was silent; their eyes were glued to the TV screens.  The score was 3-3 with only a few minutes left.  Like most of my American friends back home, the thrill of “football” eludes me, as do some of the rules.  Plus, I have no idea who is who.

“Which team is Liverpool?” I asked Ben.  He too was transfixed by the men kicking the white ball at each other.

Ben is from Chile, where he recently graduated with a degree in business.  He was here to backpack around the UK and parts of Europe.  His parents saved up the money for him to explore the world, and he was able to cut costs by living at home, a normal trend for twenty-somethings in Chile.  In Chile, he explained, young adults are very dependent on their parents and the maids hired to do the housework.  Judging by how slowly he sorted his clothes, I could tell he was not accustomed to doing his own laundry. 

“The white ones,” Ben answered, not speaking of race but instead indicating the players with white jerseys.

“I feel like an ignorant woman watching American football.  I have no idea what’s going on.”  The joke was lost on him.  Maybe it was an example of gringo humor, an American style of rowdy comedy that Chileans find stupid.  Most likely, Ben was too focused on the game to process my simile. 

The Liverpudlians kicked the ball near the net, but the other team kicked it away toward the other end of the field.  The locals in the pub saw this as a reason to get upset and utter curses like Bloody shite! I observed this repetitive action to be the reason why I and my fellow country-men largely ignore the world’s most popular sport.  Soccer, to me, seemed a series of disappointments.  The game oscillates between false hopes and yet another letdown.  But there was always the potential to score, and this opportunity always hung in the back of the fans’ minds and seized their bodies with nervous anticipation. 

Before watching the World Cup, I thought soccer was a silly game, and the low scores translated to unproductive offenses.  While I still believe that there are too many players on the field, I have grown to respect the game.  The main reason I changed my mind is the camaraderie of the fans, who love those athletic strangers just as much as the guy sitting on the next barstool.  I can imagine European countries going to war with each other over a scrappy soccer game.  (In fact, during the World Cup, the Brits burned Italian flags in the streets after being eliminated in the first round.)  The fans exude heavy doses of energy, and sometimes they get too boisterous, but the great thing about soccer is the national pride it brings out of people, even if it makes them crazy. 

I remember watching the US game versus Ghana in the first round of the World Cup.  My flight was delayed at the JFK Airport, and I stood outside a restaurant’s dining area and watched the game while I waited for my plane.  A huge huddle of fans surrounded me, and we all stood there for twenty minutes and obstructed foot-traffic in the airport.  When the US scored the go-ahead goal, the crowd erupted with excitement and caused such a spectacle that the restaurant servers recorded the scene on their smartphones.  Only soccer could have created this spontaneous congregation.  We were from all over the country.  We were waiting for our planes to take us to back home Pennsylvania, Virginia, Minnesota, and Massachusetts, but that didn’t matter.  We were all cheering for the Americans. I’m not saying the sport made me feel like I knew these strangers any better, but it was comforting to know we were all hoping for the same outcome. 

Back at the pub in Liverpool, the teams on the TV tied at the end of regulation.  As disgruntled fans found their way to the exit, Ben and I sat down at a table.  He ordered a Jack and Coke and sipped his whiskey concoction.  He asked me about my writing, as he saw me jotting in my notebook in the hostel kitchen.  I told him about my last journal entry.  I did my best to explain what I learned from visiting The Museum of Liverpool and an exhibit on the Beatles.  From there, I combined those lessons with my thoughts on succumbing to homelessness, which was a rampant problem in Liverpool.    

During my brief visit, I began to understand how the physical space of a nation can often determine the habits and mindset of its people.  Specific environments encourage certain creatures to evolve in order to thrive in their homelands.  The chameleon, for instance, has adapted to blend into its surroundings to hide from predators.  Peacocks, on the other hand, developed radiant plumage to attract mates.  Just like animals, people develop skills to use their land to their advantage. 

The Liverpudlians’ primary income source came from the international shipping docks.  Liverpool was able to become a working-class town all because rising sea levels created the city’s river.  This dominant mode of life gave the city a distinct personality.  The geography of the land shaped its people, and, in turn, they became emotionally attached to the land. 

After a few moments of silence, I segued into the manly topic of sports.

“I read in a book about England,” I began, “And the author compared its soccer teams to American sports teams.  Our teams in the States will relocate to a more profitable city, but that would never happen in England.”

If Liverpool’s football team moved to a different city, I suspect many of its fans would follow. 

“That’s true,” Ben said.  “If there is no money, the team will move somewhere else.”

“Like how the Seattle Sonics moved to Oklahoma City.  Now Seattle doesn’t have a team.”

Although these movements are saddening because fans are abandoned, these capitalist pursuits are practical.  Why pay players millions of dollars if not enough people show up to watch the games and buy the merchandise?  However, when sports teams are viewed as businesses and their games as products, communal feelings begin to fade.  I do not feel connected to strangers who happen to own iPhones or wear Nikes or drive Toyotas.  The business side usually lingers in the background.  The main component of sports is emotional attachment to teams. 

Rooting for sports teams is a form of social bonding.  When I root for the Pittsburgh Steelers, I’m part of an in-group, which defines itself by everything that isn’t included.  We value the members of our clan, and we support each other against our enemies.  We hate the Ravens because they aren’t Steelers.  Their opposition to our forces gives us life.  We should respect our opponents because if no one opposed us, there’d be no reason to play.  But not all football fans are noble warriors. 

Nearly every aspect of fandom is a bizarre form of worship except the selection of one's favorite team. Ultimately, many fans become irrationally attached to teams for very practical reasons, even though it initially seems the decision was not made consciously.  When I started rooting for the Steelers, there was no meet-cute.  I never thought about choosing a favorite team.  My answer was automatic, and I never questioned it.  But when I analyze why I chose the Steelers I believe it is because nearly everyone around me did.  Although I didn’t consciously admit this to myself, I probably wanted to fit in with my fellow fans.  By sharing common interests with others, I would feel less alienated. 

From an evolutionary standpoint, the group survived better if everyone was on the same page.  Loners and outcasts were banished because they threatened the safety of the union.  Maybe we have not shed ourselves of this primal instinct, and that is why we cheer for the local teams and growl at our adversaries.  I have a friend from my hometown who roots for the Dallas Cowboys, even though their stadium is thousands of miles away.  He always liked to see people suffer, so it was only natural he rooted against the home team.  My brother once liked the Rams because of Kurt Warner.  It is possible that my brother wished to emulate qualities of Kurt Warner, so by watching him and following his team he hoped to become a more successful leader with a winning image. 

The selection of our favorite team undoubtedly has psychological roots whether we can recognize them or not.  On the surface, many of us root for the home-town teams because their games are always broadcasted, and our houses lie within a certain radius of the stadium.  I didn’t choose to be born in western Pennsylvania, but because that happened I stood a likely chance of becoming a Steelers fan.  On a more visible level, fandom is passed down through generations, and these family ties add emotional depth to one’s connection to a particular team.  Memories of watching games with my family make the tradition more enriching.

When we watch our favorite team on Sunday, there is a communal energy and a sense of belonging that envelopes us and tingles our nerves.  Touchdowns are more thrilling and losses are more disappointing if they happen to our team.  Our local teams represent us, the fans.  In turn, we cheer them on while they’re on the national stage.  Rooting for your favorite team is not always about winning, although the competition is known to cloud a man’s judgment.  Being a fan is about forging connections with your neighbors and knowing that in some small way you share the same sliver of identity.