Molly and I had been walking the damp streets of London all day and decided it was time for a well deserved pint. We found a crowded corner pub in Earl's Court and quickly ducked in out of the rain. The room was wall-to-wall with people but we quickly snagged a newly vacant high-top table and two stools in the center of the floor. We ordered our pints and leaned in over the table to discuss the events of our day. On all sides of us were more high-top tables and stools, all smashed together in an uncomfortable, claustrophobic cluster. Next to us sat a real bruiser of a guy. Muscular, with a tattered All Blacks rugby jersey, shaved head, and one swollen black eye. In our peripheral vision we could see that he was eavesdropping on our conversation. We leaned a little closer to each other and continued talking. He craned his neck in our direction. We leaned in further. He slid his stool over and was now perpendicular to our table. Molly and I, with our foreheads almost touching at this point, turned to acknowledge him. Smiling, he set his beer down on our table. A table barely big enough for two glasses of beer and four elbows. A table now breaking all the rules of size and space with three glasses of beer and six elbows.
"Hey Mates! Where you from?" he asked in a thick, possibly Australian accent. He was smiling even wider and revealing a few broken teeth.
I hesitated, wondering if we were in for some sort of trouble. He looked back and forth between Molly and me, waiting for our answer. Impatiently he guessed, "I bet you're from the United States!"
"Um, yeah. Yeah, we are," I replied cautiously. He looked satisfied with our answer and pleased that his first assumption was correct. He tilted his stool back and enjoyed his triumphant moment of accurate guesswork. Molly and I attempted to lean back in and pick up our coversation where we left off but a burst of energy struck this guy and he thrust his head in between ours before we could close the gap of private conversation.
"I'm Charlie, from New Zealand," he announced as he offered an open palm for a friendly handshake.
"Jonathan." Hand shake.
"Molly." Hand shake.
"What brings you youngsters here? You on holiday?" he asked.
"Yeah. We're here in London for a few days and then we're heading to France," Molly explained.
"How long you going to be in ol' France? Two, three weeks?" Charlie wondered.
"No. We only have eleven days for our whole vacation. We'll be in France for maybe five or six days and we are hoping to stop in Dublin on our way back to the United States," I said.
Charlie sprayed his beer out of his mouth and on to the floor. "You've got to be f***in' kidding me! Why are you cramming everything in to such a small f***in' holiday?"
We seemed to have hit a nerve here. I explained that typically in the United States we only have two weeks of vacation every year, three if you're lucky, and this was our one big trip for the year.
"Two weeks?! Two f***in' weeks? Really? That's it?" asked Charlie, gradually calming a bit from his intial outburst.
I felt slightly insulted. A little embarassed. So in a skeptical tone I asked, "Well, Charlie, how much vacation time do you get in New Zealand?"
"Four to six weeks for the average bloke. But I have a system of my own. Work six months, travel six months."
"How do you afford to do that?" Molly asked.
"I don't keep a car or a flat. I work for six months, hard yakka, save all my money, and then pick a place and settle in for a while. Been doing it for almost thirty years now."
"Where all have you traveled?" I asked.
"All over Europe, South America, Africa. Oh, Singapore! I had some good times in Singapore just pissin' about. You want to see the most beautiful red sunsets? Spend some time on the beaches of Singapore. One time I lived in a little shack on the beach there. Drank beer and fished all day. I had a little scooter that I would ride into town to get food and supplies.You can live there for practically nothing. If you start to run out of money you can teach the local blokes English for a couple of hours a day and make enough to stick around for a while longer."
Charlie was showing a soft, almost romantic side as he talked about Singapore. I looked at Molly and could tell that we were both starting to like this guy.
I asked Charlie, "What kind of work do you during the six months that you are actually working?"
He searched for an answer. "Um...construction," he said unconvincingly.
"Really?" I questioned.
"Well, no. Not actually. I do a little bit of odd job stuff. Just enough to afford a plane ticket to Columbia." He reached both of his arms out, pulled us in under his wings, and whispered discreetly, "I move drugs from here to there."
We tried to not to look too shocked. I'm not sure we did such a good job hiding our surprise. Now all these thoughts were racing through my mind. How did he get that black eye? I assumed it was from playing rugby but maybe it was a drug deal gone bad. Is he dealing drugs in London? Is that why he's here? Is he going to try to bring us into his scheme? Will we be accomplices? Does he have a gun?
Charlie must have sensed our nervousness because he sat up straight and said, "I'm just here in London visiting a friend for a while. I'm on holiday too."
"Oh...that's...nice," Molly and I said simulataneously.
"Look, here comes my friend now," Charlie said as he pointed across to the room to a middle-aged blonde lady maneuvering through the crowd with two full glasses of beer. She approached our table and set a beer down in front of Charlie. "This is Natalia. Natalia, meet Molly and Jonathan. They are here on holiday from the United States."
"Hello," she said in a thick Eastern European accent as she nodded politely.
"Natalia is from Serbia. She used to be a f***in' prostitute! That's how we met," Charlie said as he laughed happily.
As uncomfortable as Charlie's no-secrets-at-this-table approach to conversation was, I had to appreciate that he just saved us the embarassment of having to ask Natalia what she did for a living.
"I don't do so much anymore," Natalia made sure to add in slightly broken English. "When I was young girl, Serbia was dangerous place. My family was so poor. I came here because I want better life. It's not better life here. Things so expensive and it hard to make good wages."
As Natalia told her story I looked closely at her face. The deep creases and lines of a hard life where dusted over with lots of makeup. In her eyes was a sweet sadness. She continued, "I miss Serbia. I miss my family. I have not many friends." When she mentioned that she didn't have many friends she put her arm around Charlie as if to assure him that she counted him as one of her few actual friends.
The mood of the conversation was getting too solemn for Charlie so he brought up the subject of his travels again. "I spent a lot of time in your United States in the 80s. Have you guys heard of Escobar?"
"Pablo Escobar?" I asked.
"Yeah! Pablo Escobar! I worked for his operation. The Americans loved the cocaine. I would travel with shipments and help with distribution. When my work was done, I would get paid and then usually just stay in the country for a while. Miami! That's a great f***in' city!"
We were at a loss for words. Charlie was not. "Things were good until the United States got serious about the War on Drugs. In the late 90s they really came down hard on Columbia and business has been tough ever since. It's easier to transport and sell in places like Thailand and Mexico now."
We didn't have much to offer at this point of the conversation. Neither did Natalia. Clearly, Charlie was the only globetrotting drug trafficker at this table.
Charlie turned to Natalia and said, "You know, these two here only get two weeks of holiday." Natalia looked at us with pity in her eyes. "What a shame," she said. After all she had been through in her life, she felt bad for us because of our limited quantity of vacation days. Go figure.
We told Charlie and Natalia about how much we love to travel. How even with the challenge of shortened vacation time, travel has opened our eyes to new possibilities and helped us meet so many unique and interesting people, present company not excluded. They agreed with our sentiments and shared wildly beautiful stories from their own personal adventures. Here we were, two twenty-somethings from the United States, a Kiwi drug smuggler, and a Serbian hooker, all finding some common ground and enjoying each others' company.
After a few more stories from Charlie and Natalia, and a couple more beers, it was time for Molly and I to head back to our hotel. As we stood up to leave we thanked the couple for a memorable evening. Natalia approached and gave us each a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. Charlie gave Molly a hug and then stepped sideways and placed himself firmly in front of me. He grabbed the back of my head and pulled me toward him so that our foreheads were touching. He looked intently in to my eyes and I could see that he was beginning to get misty-eyed. His voice was shaky when he said slowly, "You have the ability to do whatever you want. Take your wife and go see the world, brother!" He quickly embraced me and gave me the kind of hug usually reserved for long-time comrades. As we exited the pub we turned back and Charlie and Natalia were standing side by side, watching us leave. They offered one last wave goodbye. Molly and I floated back to the hotel, high off the pleasant fumes of the experience.
0 comments Labels: ANECDOTES, holiday, London, New Zealand, Serbia, travel, vacation days
It is a chilly Easter Sunday morning in Paris and today Molly and I are preparing to depart from Beauvais Airport to Ireland. Last night, to prepare for our morning commute, we walked the route from our hotel to the Metro station and took the necessary sequence of underground trains to the central above-ground train depot where we would catch our ride to Beauvais. Beauvais is a little town about one hour north of Paris and because of the distance, we have to take the train. It's worth it though, as flights from Beauvais are almost half the cost of the larger Charles De Gaulle Airport. We were careful to note the exact amount of time it took to get to the bus depot. When we set our alarm before bed we allowed for a few extra minutes in case checking out of the hotel or packing our bags took a little longer than usual. As usual, we needed those extra minutes and a few more. Nothing that we couldn't handle though.
One thing we didn't plan on however, was the Easter Sunday Metro schedule.
It seems that on Easter Sunday, the Paris Metro only runs half of the regular number of subway trains. We have three trains to catch on our way to the depot. Instead of five or ten minutes between arriving trains, we are waiting almost twenty minutes for each train. We didn't figure on this. Easter Sunday is devouring our alotted bank of time. We're starting to get anxious as we look at my watch and see the hands cranking their way to the departure of our above-ground train to the airport. If we miss that train, we might miss our flight! As the final Metro Train stops at the depot, we rudely push our way to the sliding doors and with a death grip on our luggage, burst from the platform and run to catch our train. Something isn't right, though. This is not where we got off during last night's practice session.
WE GOT OFF AT THE WRONG STOP!
We're on the opposite side of the depot, but it's fine. We'll just follow the signs and we still have...seven minutes before our train leaves the station. The signs say the station is up on the next level. Just run! Not so easy. The escalators are broken down and roped off for repairs. Where are the stairs? How can there not be any stairs?! Let's find someone to help us. We are spinning in confused circles. Nobody in sight! How can there be no one working in this place today?! Oh, Easter Sunday.
My watch reads seven-oh-five and that means our train is gone. We're deflated. We're exhausted. We're lost in a train station.
It's twenty minutes later and we are staring at the place where our train to the airport sat less than one half hour ago. The next train won't leave for over an hour and it will be too late to catch our flight. Molly is waiting sadly in the cafe' and I am in line at the ticket window attempting to exchange our train passes for the later train, a train that will not get us to the airport on time but will get us there nonetheless. The girl at the ticket window could probably care less about our predicament but I am telling her every grisly detail anyway. She is smiling and saying that I'm in luck. The later train just happens to be an express train directly to Beauvais. It's twice as fast as the other train and has no stops. She says it will arrive only twenty minutes later than the first train that we missed.
WE CAN MAKE IT!
Molly and I are now sitting in the plush comfort of the express train, snacking on croissants and sipping coffee. The French countryside is whizzing by in a blur and we are happy again. Once we arrive in Beauvais, we will catch the shuttle bus for a short twelve minute ride to the airport. Next stop, Beauvais.
Wow, Beauvais is a tiny little town. It's peaceful and quaint and totally silent. Departing the train we post up at the shuttle bus stop. Looking to the right we can see an older man standing slightly hunched, wearing a newsboy cap and smoking a hand rolled cigarette. Across the street we see a suspicious looking middle aged guy with a pencil thin mustache wearing a Member's Only jacket. He's pacing the sidewalk and watching our every move. We hope that the shuttle comes soon. We are getting impatient and a little freaked out by the constant staring of Mr. Member's Only and decide to head in to the train station to inquire about the shuttle.
The shuttle doesn't run for another three hours. We are reminded that it's Easter Sunday. Thanks, we almost forgot.
We are handed a list of cab companies and we head to the pay phone to call for a ride. This one looks good. No answer. Try the next one. No answer. How about this one? Nothing. Every cab company appears to observe the Easter Sunday transportation blackout. Mr. Member's Only is waiting outside of the phone booth like a chubby, poorly mustachioed vulture. He offers us a ride. We decline and walk away. The cigarette smoking old man, who I just noticed has a patch on his jacket shaped like a car and some official enough looking logo, looks at us and says two words, "Taxi? Aeroport?" Oh yes, thank you. Mr. Member's Only is disappointed. As we walk with the old man to his car Molly is tugging my sleeve and whsipering that she doesn't feel good about this. We get to the car and see that it's not a taxi at all. It's a faded blue beat up two door hatchback from the early 1980's. He pops open the trunk and we detect the faint smell of urine. He points for us to put our bags in. I ask him how much the ride will cost. He wants twenty euros. Molly's nervous panic rubs off on me and we give him the universal facial expression for thanks-but-no-thanks and start back to the station. He looks angry as he waves us away with a flip of his hands.
Mr. Member's Only has been watching this whole exchange and he now makes another attempt to lure us in to his car. He is undercutting the old man by five euros. But he is just too darn creepy and we decline again. Another check of the time reveals that we need to be at the airport in thirty minutes or we miss our plane. We have made it this far and I don't want to give up. I am going out on a limb and against Molly's wishes as I approach the old man and signal that we'll take his offer. "Twenty?" he says. I reach in to my pocket and to my horror pull out only twelve euros and change. He flips his hands in disgust again. I scan the area for an ATM but there is none. There doesn't seem to be a bank or business in the entire town. We have been defeated. Twelve minutes away is the plane that we almost caught. The morning has been a rollercoaster ride and now we are sick to our stomachs with hopelessness. Molly and I exchange heartbroken glances and head to the station to take a seat and mourn our loss.
All of the sudden we hear someone whistle. It's the old man. He is waving us over to his car. I approach humbly and hold out the twelve euros and change. He gives me a look of pity and shakes his head as if to say, "I can't stand to see you two stupid kids stuck here. Come on." I am grateful and excited. Molly is still terrified. She is convinced that this is going to turn out bad.
What if he takes us out in to a field, steals our stuff, and then leaves us? Or even worse...KILLS US?!
We can't think like that now. We have to get to the airport. Let's go!
Our luggage goes in the back. I ride shotgun. Molly clears the garbage off of the rear seat and hops in. The old man gets in and I make sure he knows we need to get to the airport in a hurry. I speak in French but he doesn't seem to understand. I try English but he doesn't comprehend that either. I have no clue as to his nationality. Maybe Italian? He just nods and says, "Aeroport," then out of nowhere adds, "NO POLICE!" That doesn't sound good. He repeats, "NO POLICE!" and raises his eyebrows in anticipation of my agreement. I say, "Oh no, no police." He seems pleased. He rolls another cigarette and we're off. The windows don't roll down and the smoke and urine smell are making us ill. I try to hand him the money but he won't take it. He lifts a pile of envelopes and newspapers from the dashboard and motions for me to stash the money under the pile. Turning to look at Molly I can see that she is still awaiting our robbery and possible murder.
Like a gift from heaven, the road signs indicate that the next exit is the airport. We still have time to catch the plane! We exit the road and can see the airport to the right. The old man makes a left. We can see the planes getting smaller as we head in the wrong direction. Was Molly right? Are we going to end up dead in a gutter somewhere? I start to squirm in my seat and Molly's knuckles are turning white as she grips the door handle. The old man pulls in to a residential neighborhood. Oh great, we'll end up dead in someone's basement! He brings the car to the curb, turns off the ignition, exits the car, and unloads our bags on the street. We're confused. We get out and meet him behind the car. Before I can ask what is going on, he stoops down, looks past us, and points to a worn out dirt path that leads to a small patch of woods behind the houses. "Aeroport." We thank him, grab our bags, and head down the path. We trek through the small wooded area until it opens up to a big field, revealing the airport in all of it's half-priced glory. We have five minutes before the flight check-in desk closes. We sprint to the facility and reach the check-in desk with only two mintues to spare.
We made it.
Molly tells me to look out the big windows to the passenger drop off area. A police car has pulled over an illegal taxi, a gypsy cab, driven by Mr. Member's Only. They have detained the driver and passengers and are searching the car and luggage. That could have been us if we went with Mr. Member's Only. We would have made it to the airport only to be stopped just short of checking in. Instead, we were delivered to a secret path by a dirty old professional who gives discounts and who knew to avoid the police and hide the money. Suddenly, the beat up car, the smoke, and the urine smell didn't seem so bad after all.
He was buzzing all over the reception hall. This young, dark man in a baby blue short sleeved dress shirt tucked neatly in to chocolate brown slacks cinched tight around his narrow waist. From the kitchen to the tables and back again, he moved with purpose and precision. Expressionless except for a sweet smile flashed at those whom he passed on his short, repeated routes. In a room full of old familiar faces, his was new. I heard the event coordinator mumble something to him in French to which he nodded acceptingly and continued his busy motion.
Dinner time arrived and the assigned seating placed this stranger to the right of my wife and me. A few introductory words were delivered over the public address system by the event coordinator as to why we were here (a thirtieth anniversary celebration for a couple we know) and what was being served for dinner (lasagna, salad, ciabatta bread with olive oil for dipping, Sangiovese wine). As the food was dished up I turned to the young stranger and asked his name.
“Jo-NAS,” he answered in a deep French accent.
I gave my name, my wife’s name, as well as my mother and father’s names who were sitting across the long table from us.
“Where are you from Jonas?” I asked.
“Benin. In West Africa.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“What brings you to the United States?”
“I move to Cincinnati. For good,” he replied in just slightly broken English.
We tried to impress Jonas with what little French we knew. After four years of French in High School my father can only remember how to say, "Shut your mouth." Our French vocabulary being what is was, we returned to asking him questions of general nature. Each of his replies were met with the angled head nods and eyebrow raises of genuine and eager interest from those at the table.
I could not help but notice the distinct characteristics of Jonas’ face. Bright, almond shaped eyes; a vibrant white smile; smooth skin the color of a coffee bean. One feature stood out from all the rest though. On the apples of Jonas’ cheeks were a series of scars. The scars numbered three to each cheek, perfectly spaced from right to left, about one inch in vertical length. I couldn’t pinpoint why, but these scars gave this otherwise reserved and quiet young man a sense of depth and wisdom.
After busying ourselves with eating for a few minutes I presented Jonas with another question.
“What did you do for work in Benin?”
“I was a Youth Advisor.”
“Is that a government assigned job or something?”
“No, it is NGO job.”
I showed a look of confusion.
Jonas picked up on this and elaborated, “S-O-S – N-G-O.”
“Oh, OK I understand,” I lied.
“What was your responsibility there?” questioned my mother from across the table.
“In Benin I help children. Girls from age of twelve, boys from age of fourteen. From this ages children becoming adults. They have changes in mind and body. I help them learn about next steps in life. ‘You try this job. You learn to do this skill. This is what to expect next.’”
“I see,” I said as his role became clearer. “Do you work with their parents on this?”
“You see, the children and the parents do not…discuss…communicate about these things.”
“Is that a part of the general culture?”
“Yes. The parents and children do not talk close about things. Most of children at that age leave home and come to live in small…it is like a small village. It is job of Youth Advisor to listen to the children and help them from then on.”
I could tell that my mother was taking this information in, processing it, and allowing it to hit her emotionally. She and I have always had an open dialogue, especially through my teenage years and she was having trouble grasping the idea of a parent sending their child off to gain a close relationship with a total stranger who would then help release them in to adulthood. Then, Jonas delivered this:
“Sometime though, the parent drop off baby to us,” he said as he made the gesture of laying an infant down to rest. Both arms stayed extended, hands turned up as he continued, “One, two weeks old. They have baby and they are scared. They don’t know what to do. They just leave it outside of door for us to find.”
My mother gasped as her face saddened. “Oh no! Just a little baby?! Does this happen often?”
Jonas lowered his eyes and softly whispered, “Yes.”
Jonas’ expression showed that no matter how many times he had seen a baby abandoned, he never got accustomed to it.
He continued to open up with confidence. “As a boy, my parents were separated. I am the oldest child. I had to raise my three sisters.”
“How old were you?” asked my mother, almost breathless with emotion.
“Eight years old,” stated Jonas with a proud smile, a smile so big that his scars almost disappeared.
Loudly, my mother exclaimed, “YOU WERE ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD AND YOU RAISED THREE LITTLE GIRLS! I am going to have to hug you!”
Jonas was surprised and laughed out loud.
I leaned over and told him, “She’s serious. You had better get ready.”
With that, Jonas stood up and walked to the end of the table with outstretched arms to meet my mother half way. He stood about a foot taller than her and as she wrapped both arms around his core and buried her head in his chest, he turned back and looked at me with that big, beautiful smile. He patted my mother’s back as she squeezed him tight and then returned to his seat next to me. I put my arm around his shoulder. Jonas was now my brother.
In addition to the regular musings found here, Land, Air, and See will have several reoccurring features.
FIVES: Lists, countdowns, tips, and rankers brilliantly and conveniently arranged in groups of five.
ANECDOTES: True travel tales from personal experience written in vivid story form.
PHOTO FICTION: Each entry will feature one photo taken by my lovely wife and travel partner, Molly Grace, accompanied with a fictional account about the scenes and subjects found in the photo.
