Guest Post: How to Eat in Thailand

Posted on May 23, 2013 by lisafindley

Hannah Esper is a good friend of mine from our days working together in Chicago. She’s now a journalist and editor living in Michigan. She visited me in Chiang Mai in February this year, and we had a wonderful time seeing the sights and sampling the tastes of Thailand together. I asked her to write up something about her week there, and she obliged with this lovely piece on the things she learned about food in Thailand. Thanks, Hannah!

Many people asked why I had chosen Thailand as my destination to meet Lisa on her trip. The decision was an easy one for me as I had worked as a server at a Thai restaurant when I was younger and had become accustomed to the food and culture. Thai food is still my favorite cuisine and I felt rather knowledgeable and excited about it going on this trip.

As was a main goal of mine, Lisa and I ate a lot during our week in Chiang Mai. Most everything was as delicious as I was hoping for. There was also a couple disappointing dishes as well. The following is list of what we discovered on our culinary adventure:

1. Atmosphere is not a good indicator for quality/taste.

Vats of delicious curry

One of the best meals we ate was at this tiny place that was near our hotel. I wouldn’t quite call it a restaurant, as it was more like the back of someone’s house, as many places were. There were two tables in the alley that was basically a woman’s backyard. We were served on mismatched plates and silverware, and served our dishes one at a time, since there was literally one person cooking the food. It was pretty common in Chiang Mai, in fact, for dishes to come at all different times, which made eating with others interesting.

The worst meal of the trip was at a cute, kitschy bar called “The Wall” that was owned by a Westerner. Adorned with Pink Floyd memorabilia, the bar served mostly Western food, including french fries without salt, and a terrible attempt at Pad Thai.

2. You often will not receive what you order, but it’s fine!

One of the vegetarian places we tried

As was true at the backyard “restaurant,” mentioned above, you often don’t receive the exact dish that you ordered. The menu might say the chicken is fried, but it comes out grilled. Or the menu says the dish has broccoli in it but you actually get broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms. The most exciting surprise is… when you ask for mild spice and it comes out burn-your-insides spicy! The food was always delicious, though, so we didn’t mind these modifications.

3. Vegetarian options are plentiful; you just have to look for them.

Massaman curry, yum

Thai food is great for both meat-eaters and vegetarians alike. The Thai restaurant I worked at in high school was a hot spot for all the vegetarians and vegans in town. In the states, tofu is a common protein option in most dishes at Thai restaurants. In Thailand, however, most food vendors serve dishes with the traditional protein that is intended for that particular dish. Tofu is often served in Pad Thai but not many other dishes. Fortunately, there were many restaurants in Chiang Mai that served strictly vegetarian food. After a couple days in town, Lisa and I got better at finding them. At these restaurants, traditional dishes were served with meat substitutes, but we found that most dishes were so flavorful that it wasn’t even necessary. We were content with just the rice/noodles, vegetables and curry.

4. Expensive does not equate to better.

Hannah with the best meal of the week

Probably the best food we ate in Chiang Mai was bought on the street, and cost less than $2. The first night I was in town, Lisa and I went to the Saturday night market, which had many vendors selling cheap eats on sticks. I did not partake in the meat-on-a-stick, but Lisa enjoyed it. I did, however, eat fried banana with condensed milk and it was quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. The Sunday night market had even better food and we enjoyed the best Pad Thai of the trip. The cook had a huge bowl of the pre-made ingredients, which she tossed in the wok with some fried egg and sauce and served up in a banana leaf.

5. Fruit shakes – a surprising delight.

One of the many fruit shakes consumed that week

On every corner. Every fruit combination. All delicious and cheap. Check out our favorites.

6. Nobody cooks Thai likes Thais.

With the meals we cooked at Asia Scenic Cooking School

Since moving to Mississippi a few years ago, my mom has been going through Thai food withdrawal. We bought her a wok and she’s begun to cook her own Thai dishes. She’s even started teaching other Mississippians who’ve never had the pleasure of having good Thai, or any Thai, for that matter. Her dishes are good… but it’s just not the same.

Over the years, I’ve attempted to replicate dishes from my old restaurant. I picked up a few things while working there, but I just can’t get the tofu as crunchy or rice as sticky. During our trip, Lisa and I took an excellent cooking class at one of the local schools. We learned to make a couple traditional dishes, including curry paste, and were sent home with a simple recipe book. Everything we made that night was incredible. Now that I’m home, I will try yet again to recapture the tastes of Chiang Mai.

Guest Post — Innocents On The Road! The Misadventures Of A Blameless Chicago Boy Exploring the Land That Lies Beyond The Skyline, Part III

Posted on January 27, 2011 by lisafindley

This is Part III in a series. Read Parts I and II here and here.

Part III, In Which Our Hero Triumphs Over the Familiar of a Dark Arts Practitioner

Our next misadventure picks up some time later, in the fall of 2010. Comedian Jon Stewart had announced his intention to hold a “Rally to Restore Sanity,” his answer to the polarized extremism of the contemporary political climate, and his sometime partner Steven Colbert, in his pseudo-right wing persona, announced a simultaneous “Rally to Keep Fear Alive.” This joint event would be held in Washington, DC on Saturday, October 31^st, Halloween.

I thought the idea was funny, especially as it was at least partially intended to mock excessively well compensated professional jagoff Glenn Beck. But it did not occur to me that I would attend myself, until my dad proposed that we do so. I think he really wanted to show up Beck. He knew I was a huge Stewart/Colbert fan and is a great fan of road trips, the non-disastrous kind. At first I wasn’t sure I wanted to go because Halloween in Chicago is usually pretty awesome, especially the previous year which I’d spent hanging out with this blog’s hostess (Hello Lisa), but this did seem like one of those great once in a lifetime opportunities that I’d be a fool to miss. I posted my ruminations about this on Facebook, which was the fashion back in those days, all of my friends strongly encouraged me to go, and of course, I’d do anything for the old man. Consultation with friends and their plans indicated this might not be quite as fun a Halloween as last year anyway.

I had certain deeper misgivings as well. I am a huge fan of Stewart and Colbert, watch them most every night when I have the chance. And Stewart’s passionately felt but moderate and independent minded liberal politics have always pretty much seemed a mirror image to my own. But I had to admit he may have been going too far down the moderate road with this endeavor. The general thrust of the statement he was trying to make was that the American political landscape had been hijacked by extremes and the voices of reasonable people who lie in the middle are getting drowned out. Honestly, who disagrees with that? It’s like saying you like puppies. And I definitely have problems with people on what I consider the far left, a group which includes many close and beloved friends of mine (Hello again Lisa). I think their tone is often too strident and I think they often think more idealistically than realistically. I don’t care for old school sixties organizations like Code Pink, which confuse disrupting free expression with exercising it. But ultimately my differences with them are more about strategy, tactics and style than they are about substance, whereas my differences with folks on the far right are more my contention that they should be beaten with sticks, an issue of substance on which their position is probably the reverse. And seriously, when was the last time you heard about Code Pink?

As tempting as this pox on both their houses business is, it’s just not true that “both sides” are equivalent in America today. The left is not bringing guns to town hall meetings. They’re not setting off bombs and they’re not murdering doctors, and while some on the left made deplorable jokes about assassinating George Bush, a whole lot fewer people actually tried it than have with Obama. You don’t hear about it much but it happens a lot.

And anyway, however moderate and reasonable Stewart’s audience might be, they are overwhelmingly seen as liberal. Hell, that’s what liberal used to mean. And considering the fact that Republicans were about to retake the United States Congress with an agenda pretty far removed from the restoration of sanity, maybe it would have been a better idea for thousands and thousands of liberals to spend some time volunteering for Democratic candidates instead of going to a big party in DC with their favorite comedians.

All of these nagging misgivings were eventually overtaken in my brain by “Jon Stewart! Colbert! Woo!”

By this late stage of the year, I had exhausted all my vacation time because I can be an imprudent sort in some respects. This meant we couldn’t depart until late Friday afternoon and had to be back ideally Sunday sometime. We had toyed with the idea of flying. But it would have been a thousand bucks for both of us by the point we looked into it. The sticker shock put me off immediately, spending that much (of my father’s) money on this adventure was surely a terrible idea. No, we would just have to press on through the night for the entire epic thirteen hour drive from Friday to Saturday morning. I had booked one of the last available motel rooms in the DC area, where I hoped we would be able to grab maybe three hours’ sleep before assembling with the other multitudes.

Though the rally was theoretically a nonpartisan affair, my dad had brought some of my vintage Obama for Senate signs to demonstrate where we stood, firmly, in an election that had taken place six years earlier. If we’d had some Obama for President signs, or better yet, “Democratic Congress: Please Give Them Another Shot” signs, we would have brought them but you’ve got to work with the resources that you have.

I inherited my political junkie orientation from my dad and we spoke grimly about the prospect of impending Republican rule. I suggested that this Rally to Restore Sanity event might be even more necessary a year or two from now. What if a whole movement sprouted out from this day, a counterpoint to the Tea Parties? “What do we want?”
“The opportunity to sit down and discuss our problems like mature adults without being mean to each other!” “When do we want it?” “Whenever it is convenient for you!” Probably not, but if it did, we would be there for the start of it.

Of all my road trips recounted here, this was the one most dominated by, well, the road. It competed with a college trip to Philadelphia as the longest one I’d ever been on. Somewhere in, once again, Ohio, I encountered a rest stop phenomenon that may be commonplace but that I found slightly surreal. There would be a set of businesses, a Burger King, a Pizza Hut, a Starbucks and a BP Station, say, and across the street, there would be the exact same Burger King, Pizza Hut, Starbucks and BP Station. My dad is not one to pay particular attention to this sort of thing so I ask you dear reader: That’s kind of weird isn’t it? It was like parallel worlds facing each other. Maybe my brain wouldn’t have fixated on this so much if it didn’t want to go to sleep as badly as it did. But I had miles to go… Like way more miles than Robert Frost had to go on that horse.

As the night wore on, my father and I, switching off the driving duties, had adhered to an unspoken pact to travel cheerfully at excessively high speeds. We had a motel to get to, and oh, 90 miles an hour seemed appropriate when there was nothing else on the road for what felt like 90 miles. My dad had a little GPS gadget that predicted the time when we would arrive at the destination. The time would get earlier as the car went faster. I made it a personal game while driving to make the time display go backwards.

At about four in the morning on Saturday, October 30^th, Halloween for all practical purposes, my dad was driving, we were passing through Bedford County, Pennsylvania about two hours from our destination. Again so tantalizingly close when misfortune struck, this time with the kind of vicious, overwhelming force designed to crush what plucky optimism you’d managed to hold fast to through previous misfortunes because this misfortune doesn’t like the cocky look on your face.

Completely without warning, a deer ran in front of our path. There was less than a second to process this realization before impact. I can’t even recall exactly how I became conscious of it. My father may have shouted something along the lines of “DEER!” I was sad that we had killed a deer. And shocked of course. But I did not, in the first few seconds, grasp the full implications for ourselves. I thought, “Terrible tragedy that, how carelessly and ploddingly we tread on God’s green earth… But I’m sure we will quickly recover from the no doubt minor damage to our vehicle and be on our way.”

Exiting the car, however, we saw the picture of a very damaged automobile. The whole front appeared to be completely wrecked. I was prepared to speculate that among many other things, the deer had almost certainly taken out the alternator.

I started mentally sputtering. What…who…why…Burger King… “nonpartisan rally”? What the FUCK? Why the hell was this happening to me AGAIN?

The all but mindless hunk of venison for which I had moments earlier felt sorrow became the target of my rage. The deer and my father’s car had destroyed each other in a symbiotic symphony of doom. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that jumping in front of speeding cars was fucking STUPID, Bambi?

Or perhaps you were a familiar, the servant of some evil wizard? An evil wizard opposed to the elevation of American discourse? Or was there some other unknown cause you gave your life for? Thanks a lot, deer. Hope you’re enjoying your fucking Deer Valhalla where all the deer martyrs go or something. You blow.

At this point, I knew the drill. There I was once again. Broken down on another rural highway, running my ass off just to determine where the hell I was. This was definitely getting old. Then the sheriff’s deputies arrived, an older man and a younger one. We explained what happened. Their tone was generally polite until they asked my dad for his license and registration, for some reason, the latter was in the trunk rather than the glove compartment. That’s when the deputies saw the big Obama sign, and the tone changed a bit. Bedford County, Pennsylvania is not Obama country. The young deputy became heated.

“Exactly how fast were you going to do that much damage?” the younger deputy started asking. My dad initially ignored this and kept talking to the older deputy, whose tone remained relatively respectful. When the younger deputy persisted with the question, my dad, himself a Chicago Police veteran albeit for a brief time, favored the boy with a withering glance and answered in a tone dripping with disdain that my words cannot capture, “I have no idea how fast I was going,” the clear implication being “And you don’t either.”

My dad is awesome.

The younger deputy said he would have to look for the deer and shoot it if it was still alive, which it wasn’t. I thought I detected a bit of sadness in his voice for the poor beast, which made me like him just a bit more.

Once we were, again, dropped off at a motel, my dad engaged in some charming banter with the female desk clerk, which, apart from being contemptuous of authority, is one of the things he’s very good at. It was now past 5am and when we adjourned to the motel room, my dad and I decided that we would have to forgo the Rally, which was both a relief and a disappointment. It frustrated me to have traveled so far for nothing but neither of us was in any condition for standing in a big crowd having gotten no sleep whatsoever. At least I’d kept true to the “Keep Fear Alive” portion of the event. My dad was now pessimistically saying it may be days before we can return home as the nearest rental car agencies are closed all weekend.

I absolutely refused to countenance this talk. I couldn’t wait until fucking Monday to go home, as I had no days off left, and if I did, I was sure as hell not going to waste it on the road. I’m going to get home and I’m going to get home now. I furiously combed the Internet for some means of escape. The nearest city I’d heard of was Altoona. If I’d heard of the place, I reasoned that they must have cars available for rental on Saturday. They did, from 9am to noon. It was close to 6 now. And Altoona was fifty miles away. No public transportation of course. And no taxi companies in the sense I was familiar with, but after my dad and I conversed with the clerk we discovered there were people in the area who would give you a ride as a sort of side business. She gave me a phone number and I called to arrange a pickup at 9am. I managed to get an hour of precious, precious sleep before having to be on the road again.

Our driver was a diminutive, elderly man in U.S. Air Force fatigue pants. He and his wife were friendly I’m happy to say, they asked us where we were from, and we told them Chicago.

“Chicago…” the man said. “I think I might have met another fella from Chicago once.”

As if Chicago were some obscure, remote region he’d only heard of on occasion. We are a rather world famous metropolis you know. Or perhaps, they were just too polite to repeat what they had heard. They asked us if we had Chicago accents and we said we supposed we did.

We managed to rent a car and head home. It looked like I’d be home for Halloween after all. I texted a few friends to ask them what they were doing. I told my friend Molly that it looked like I would be coming home a bit earlier than anticipated. With no more prompting than that, she texted back “Oh no! Did you destroy another car out of state in a political endeavor?” I responded “If I told you the answer was yes…I’m not even going to bother coming up with something witty here, the answer is yes.”

If I have a regret about these misadventures in this strange “other” America, it’s that I never really tried to reach across these perceived (largely by myself) cultural and ideological divides. I always adopted meek and unthreatening postures and never once tried to engage anyone I met in a forthright, honest conversation about things. Perhaps this silence is one of the reasons these sort of divides exist. Or perhaps it really does maintain a sort of tense peace.

Oh and a bit of a footnote to the previous entry, I found out that the TV series Glee is set in Lima, Ohio. I kind of love that, because I don’t think the Klan would have liked Glee.

My dad and I found out, not long after our return home, that his 1.5 year old car was not in fact salvageable, making my (blameless!) automobile death count three. Marc told me that I would have to undergo some sort of powerful exorcism from a seriously hardcore priest or shaman before he would ever allow me into any car of his again, though he has already yielded on that threat.

And hey, much as we can joke about my streak of bad luck, that’s all it was, bad luck, it’s not that I’m really cursed because we’re all grownups here and we know curses aren’t real. As I write this, I’m preparing to drive back to Ohio for a friend’s wedding. I am firm in the conviction that absolutely nothing will go wrong…

Guest Post — Innocents On The Road! The Misadventures Of A Blameless Chicago Boy Exploring the Land That Lies Beyond The Skyline, Part II

Posted on January 26, 2011 by lisafindley

This is Part II in a series. Read Part I here.

Part II, In Which Our Hero Misses A Play But Learns That All Ohio Is A Stage

The next road trip of note took place just a few months later, in May of 2009. Another of my best friends, Reina Hardy, was a playwriting grad student in Athens, Ohio. She was having a play produced, which I’d read before and loved but never seen performed, at a high school elsewhere in Ohio. I wanted to see the show so I planned to drive out there. This would be very different from the quick, purposeful jaunt of November. This would be me, alone. And it would be EPIC. One of the paradoxes of my personality is that I am very social, with many friends that I love and wish to see often, but I also love and crave solitude. I am a lone wolf at heart. I’ve always liked the idea of just driving across the country by myself. Stopping in roadside bars and restaurants, getting to know different people, occasionally having to bust heads and break hearts. Beautiful women would try to cleave me to them but ultimately they would understand that I was meant to return to that open highway where I belonged. Always driving into the sunset, a man alone, lost in the romance of the great American road…searching for…redemption. For what? I’m not sure. But that sounds right.

Of course I had no wheels of my own so I planned to rent a car. When I told my father of this plan he said that it would not be necessary, and he would let me take his, which I often drove anyway, for the weekend. My dad is generous to a fault, a fault which will shortly become clear. He did mention that the car was twelve years old and probably not long for this world, but it “should be fine”; we Leahys are above all optimists, at least by Irish standards. You would think I might be concerned given my recent experience with another old car but what, me worry? It was certainly cheaper than renting a car, things were looking up!

So the play was going to be Saturday, my plan was to arrive then. But I would depart Friday night, to break up the six-hour journey. My plan was to stay at a motel in Indiana, and soak up some America. I wound up departing fairly late on Friday night, maybe 9pm. I was thrilled. I had a tall ship, and a star to sail her by. Which was Mapquest.

My dad’s car was indeed old, and probably one of the last cars in the world not to have a built-in CD player. I’d had some sort of adaptor Discman thingee but it had broken. So for entertainment while driving I checked out audio cassettes (cassettes!) of the original radio version of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It was glorious, but around midnight I wanted music so turned on the radio instead. It was growing darker, ever darker. I was the only driver on the road. Somewhere about an hour east of Valparaiso, home long behind… the radio decided to play the Decemberists’ “The Rake Song,” which I had not previously heard.

The song is about a man murdering his young children and casually describing it in grim, cold blooded detail, what they used to call a murder ballad. Did I mention I was alone on an unfamiliar road at midnight? I think I did. The song transfixed and chilled me. Hey radio. How about you try being just a wee bit less creepy for a little while? Would that be okay? I returned to the comfortable world of Douglas Adams, and decided it was motel time.

Checking into a motel by myself. Certainly not the first time I’d done it. But it somehow felt badass. I slept pretty late into the following morning, had myself a nice diner breakfast and got on the road again. Things were going great. Sunshine, good traffic conditions on the open road, got about halfway through the epic Hitchhiker’s saga, which was good because that meant I could listen to it on the drive home. It was now about 4pm, the show was going to start at 7:30. By my calculations I would reach New Albany in two hours with about 90 minutes to spare. Smooth sailing. Because I was a hoopy frood who knew where his towel was.

But remember that this is a tale of misfortune and the cruelty of fate. My dad’s car suddenly lost all forward momentum and the folly of taking a twelve-year-old car on a three hundred and fifty mile road trip became clear. I pulled over on the shoulder of the highway, to avoid being smashed out of existence by some other speeding vehicle. I desperately tried to start the engine and failed, dead in the water. And so I had to repeat the drill I’d learned in Indiana six months earlier, only this time it fell to me to determine where the hell I was, because a tow truck can’t come if it doesn’t know where you are, which, beyond knowing what highway I was on and what direction I was going in, I didn’t. I had to find the nearest road maker, which was not visible to the naked eye, which meant I would have to run for a long ass time, which I got to doing. At least it was daylight for a little while longer. It was warm for May, at least it would have been in Chicago, and the running made it a lot warmer. Jesus these markers are pretty far apart if you’re a pedestrian, which I guess you’re not supposed to be on a highway.

As I run, not yet seeing the object of my search, I slow down, as I let the shock and horror of my predicament wash over me. I am stranded far away from anyone who knows and loves me, with no immediate means of getting anywhere else, the possibility of ever seeing home or civilization again grows dim, and it occurs to me I could just stay there, on the side of the highway forever. Go native. Become a scavenging barbarian. Let my beard grow as my clothes become rags. Try to catch fish from the nearby stream. Throw stones at the passing cars, those metallic monster reminders of a world which rejected me… But soon I see the sign telling me where I am and hope is restored. I run back to the car and make the necessary phone calls. I inform my dad of my plight, and tell Reina that it looks like I won’t make it to the show. Reina tells me her parents, who have also come from Chicago to see her, can take me back home. I tell her that I must stay with the car in the hopes that it can be repaired. But it is Saturday, relatively close to dusk. And it won’t be until Monday that an auto shop will be open to assist me. Which means I’m stranded for the weekend. Various people, from the deputy who responded to my initial call for help, to the clerk in the hotel I checked myself into, suggested in a tone of hope that “It could be the alternator.”

When the tow truck arrives, the driver tells me he can haul my car to the nearest major town, Lima, Ohio, a place entirely unknown to me that is nonetheless about to enter my consciousness forever more.

This tow truck driver is older than the last. And quieter. This makes me uncomfortable. I’m simultaneously afraid to make conversation and afraid not to. It’s strange. It’s the whole culture gap that is at the fringes of what this article is about. I’m often a bit nervous around older adult men who are from a different social class than myself. Or is it class exactly? I mean I know plenty of blue collar guys whom I get along with great, I mean my dad is a union carpenter. And it’s not just the geographical distance either because I’ve had this experience plenty of times in Chicago. There’s just this kind of aggressive quiet with certain guys. Like they’re thinking that you’re thinking you’re superior to them because you’re a middle class kid with a bachelor’s degree even though that’s totally not what you’re thinking, and maybe they’re also thinking they’re actually superior to you because you don’t know shit about cars or electricity or tools or anything that’s actually useful when in fact you’re totally grateful that people do know about those things and you wish you did… And maybe this detour into my neuroses isn’t strictly necessary. He dropped the car off outside of a Midas, now closed of course, and I told him I’d find my lodgings on foot (we’d passed a few on the way).

I crossed into the threshold of a nearby McDonalds. Thanks be to the sainted Ray Kroc for covering the globe with these outposts of civilization to provide comfort to all afflicted wanderers. I sat and read some comic books with my chicken nuggets, fries and Coke and tried to collect myself. A nice little respite from the trauma of the previous few hours. I hoped to make the spirit of that respite last a while. So I checked myself into a Marriott. No tiny motel room for me. If I was going to be stuck in some distant nowheresville like Lima, Ohio I was going be stuck in a big pile of luxury. What I saw immediately surrounding the hotel, however, was far from that. It was a post-industrial decline middle American hellscape, or as some prefer to term it “The Real America.”

What depressed me about the place were not the big box stores and cheesy chain restaurants I could see all over the place, because unlike a lot of snooty urban elitists I actually rather like those things (well maybe not Walmart because I know too much about it, but its competitors aren’t more than slightly better in the end, still, it seems to me that the distinction to be made is that a lot of America’s giant corporations are evil because evil is profitable to be evil, Walmart is evil because they seem to enjoy it). What depressed me were vast, empty lots, making me wonder if non-retail businesses had once been there, in some lost, legendary time of economic strength that actually benefited ordinary people. And the fact that so many of the faces I saw seemed kind but sad.

I am trapped inside a Bruce Springsteen song.

I am very happy that by sheer whim, I had brought my laptop with me. This meant I could repurpose my weekend from its original intention of visiting my friend into a sort of writing retreat. I had the opportunity to spend the weekend writing, hanging out in a hotel and basking in glorious solitude. I was still disappointed in not getting to see Reina and her play, and plenty anxious about the automobile situation, but all things considered, these circumstances were not too bad.

I have loved hotels since childhood, and one of the primary reasons is swimming pools. I bought some trunks at one of the big box stores. American flag trunks. It seems appropriate.

I decide to learn a little bit about where I am by looking Lima, Ohio up on the old Wikipedia, because at this late hour, that’s a lot easier than firsthand observation.

For one thing, it appears that Lima was a major font of Ku Klux Klan activity in the 1920s. That’s always the kind of thing you’re excited to hear when you’re alone in an unfamiliar place. And this is not a thing of the distant past, as the town’s politics have remained ultra-conservative. In the 1950s, the town’s newspaper denounced public libraries as a socialistic endeavor. This is the kind of thing I’ve often said as a satirical joke. Turns out Lima, Ohio was ahead of that favored quip in my repertoire decades before my birth.

Whatever passionate views I might hold about other subjects, including a general disapproval of violence, are secondary to this overarching principle: If you’re against public libraries you need to be punched in the fucking face. Hard.

Wikipedia’s magic also told me that Lima’s opera house had once been a major site for vaudeville performances. However, Lima audiences were so unreceptive to their humor that “Lima” became a codeword for a stone faced audience. Supposedly they originated the joke “First prize is a week in Lima, Ohio. Second prize is two weeks in Lima, Ohio!” since adapted to many other towns.

One of these young performers was named Spencer Tracy, who found himself performing in Lima for months and hated it, desperately calling up producers in New York to get him a gig there. Decades later, while filming the western Bad Day at Black Rock in a hot, desolate California town, someone is said to have ventured that it was the worst place in the world to be stuck in. Tracy replied, “Then you’ve never been to Lima, Ohio.”

Hollywood elitists have an insufferable way of looking down their noses at traditional American institutions like the Klan.

Wikipedia also confirmed my diagnosis about rust belt decline. This hard hitting online reference article obviously made me a bit anxious about the place in which I’d found myself. On the other hand, I was in a Marriott, and that was pretty sweet.

Sunday was pretty much a day of reading, writing, instant messaging with an unnecessarily guilty Reina, swimming, eating, watching cable and walking around. Or at least attempting to do the latter. This area of Lima appeared to have been built with barely the faintest notion that human beings could ever or would ever be pedestrians, even as an afterthought. In Chicago, we have a remarkable innovation called “sidewalks” that allow you to traverse great distances with no means of propulsion save those of your own body! Mind you I’ve tread on these wholly remarkable pathways not only in the big city but in other places as well! Why, I’ve even seen them in Champaign-Urbana! But obviously Lima’s wise town fathers view such amenities as the work of the Devil and have worked hard to prevent their town from being infected by the socialist corruption they bring with them.

Instead, this area of Lima provided me with a kind of unholy mixture between grass, gravel and dirt that seemed designed with at least as much of an eye towards entrapping and killing pedestrians as towards providing them with assistance. But I am a powerful and experienced walker, and was in no mood whatsoever to be entrapped and killed, so I wasn’t.

Monday morning came and I was able to confirm pretty quickly that the car was not salvageable, at least not without spending thousands of dollars that would be better invested in a new car.

We have now learned, from these two experiences, that “Maybe it’s the alternator,” while often said in a tone that seems intended to give comfort, is in fact an ominous portent. It’s code for “This car is fucking dead.” If you are ever in the hospital, dear reader, and you hear someone say that it might be the alternator, prepare to make peace with this life.

I was a bit sad in my entirely too sentimental, anthropomorphizing way. This was the car I’d learned to drive in. Gone back and forth from college in, taken girls on dates in… It deserved better than this ignoble death in Ohio.

But it was also liberating. I now knew what I had to do, which was rent a car and get the hell out of this godforsaken pit.

I settled into the car, excited to be returning home after a fun but stressful three day sojourn. I turned the key to the ignition. The radio was on. Rush Limbaugh. Of fucking course.

And of course, this car being of more recent vintage, it had a CD player and not a tape deck, meaning I would not be able to finish my Hitchhiker’s. Sigh. But fortunately I did have a Jonathan Coulton CD in my laptop which provided similar levels of dorky joy.

On my way out of town I stopped at a Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant and sat and read the book I’d had with me the whole weekend, an anthology of H.P. Lovecraft stories. Somehow reading H.P. Lovecraft at a Ruby Tuesday’s encapsulated the entire weekend for me. Over my cheese covered chicken sandwich and fries, I began to read his novella “Shadow Over Innsmouth,” whose protagonist/narrator recounts the tale of being trapped in a strange and terrifying little town. It begins as follows:

During the winter of 1927-28 officials of the Federal government made a strange and secret investigation of certain conditions in the ancient Massachusetts seaport of Innsmouth. The public first learned of it in February, when a vast series of raids and arrests occurred, followed by the deliberate burning and dynamiting – under suitable precautions – of an enormous number of crumbling, worm-eaten, and supposedly empty houses along the abandoned waterfront. Uninquiring souls let this occurrence pass as one of the major clashes in a spasmodic war on liquor.

Keener news-followers, however, wondered at the prodigious number of arrests, the abnormally large force of men used in making them, and the secrecy surrounding the disposal of the prisoners. No trials, or even definite charges were reported; nor were any of the captives seen thereafter in the regular gaols of the nation. There were vague statements about disease and concentration camps, and later about dispersal in various naval and military prisons, but nothing positive ever developed. Innsmouth itself was left almost depopulated, and it is even now only beginning to show signs of a sluggishly revived existence.

Complaints from many liberal organizations were met with long confidential discussions, and representatives were taken on trips to certain camps and prisons. As a result, these societies became surprisingly passive and reticent. Newspaper men were harder to manage, but seemed largely to cooperate with the government in the end. Only one paper – a tabloid always discounted because of its wild policy – mentioned the deep diving submarine that discharged torpedoes downward in the marine abyss just beyond Devil Reef. That item, gathered by chance in a haunt of sailors, seemed indeed rather far-fetched; since the low, black reef lay a full mile and a half out from Innsmouth Harbour.

People around the country and in the nearby towns muttered a great deal among themselves, but said very little to the outer world. They had talked about dying and half-deserted Innsmouth for nearly a century, and nothing new could be wilder or more hideous than what they had whispered and hinted at years before. Many things had taught them secretiveness, and there was no need to exert pressure on them. Besides, they really knew little; for wide salt marshes, desolate and unpeopled, kept neighbors off from Innsmouth on the landward side.

But at last I am going to defy the ban on speech about this thing. Results, I am certain, are so thorough that no public harm save a shock of repulsion could ever accrue from a hinting of what was found by those horrified men at Innsmouth. Besides, what was found might possibly have more than one explanation. I do not know just how much of the whole tale has been told even to me, and I have many reasons for not wishing to probe deeper. For my contact with this affair has been closer than that of any other layman, and I have carried away impressions which are yet to drive me to drastic measures.

It was I who fled frantically out of Innsmouth in the early morning hours of July 16, 1927, and whose frightened appeals for government inquiry and action brought on the whole reported episode. I was willing enough to stay mute while the affair was fresh and uncertain; but now that it is an old story, with public interest and curiosity gone, I have an odd craving to whisper about those few frightful hours in that ill-rumored and evilly-shadowed seaport of death and blasphemous abnormality. The mere telling helps me to restore confidence in my own faculties; to reassure myself that I was not the first to succumb to a contagious nightmare hallucination.

Yeah. Pretty much.

I pointed my rental car west and never looked back…

Guest Post — Innocents On The Road! The Misadventures of a Blameless Chicago Boy Exploring the Land That Lies Beyond The Skyline, Part I

Posted on January 25, 2011 by lisafindley

This week will feature a three-part guest post by the witty and delightful Rory Leahy. He is, in his own words, “a Chicago writer, actor, producer, raconteur, occasional shiftless layabout and Artistic Director of American Demigods, a theatre company whose next production will be Erratica: An Academic Farce, running from April 21st through May 14th at Second Stage Theater.” He’s also a road warrior of the most terrifying kind; he kills cars and stealthily blames it on the alternator. Observe:

Part I, In Which Our Hero And His Companion Singlehandedly Change The Course Of American History

It’s appropriate that I come to the good Lisa Findley’s blog to tell this tale, or rather tales. For this is a blog mostly about travel that also dips into passionately felt left wing views. This story is, in a broad sense, a little bit about how these two can intersect, and how uncomfortable it can feel when one ventures outside one’s geopolitical bubble. Mostly though, it’s about misfortune. And the kind of disasters that can befall a well intentioned soul through no fault of his own because the gods are cruel. That well intentioned soul being me. In the past two years, I have embarked on a handful of cross country road trips. Three of them, which probably constitutes the majority of a handful, have been the death voyages of the automobiles I was traveling in. Three times, in two years, the vehicles ceased to function, forever, with me in them, as either a driver or a passenger.

One begins to take it personally.

November, 2008: Barack Obama is about to be elected President of the United States. This is personal for me, and honestly, kind of surreal. I first met Obama almost six years earlier, when he was an unknown state senator taking the big shot blah blah blah. He was a long shot at the time, but his charisma was overwhelming. My girlfriend at the time tells me that I told her “Take a good look, cuz this guy’s gonna be the first black president” back in 2003. You can ask her if you don’t believe me. She’s from Oregon. Oregonians don’t lie. Anyway, I may have believed that but I had no idea it would be so soon. I’d fallen out of regular political activism by 08, but my best friend from high school, Marc wanted to be part of the final assault. He proposed that we take a trip to Indiana, our nearest swing state, on Election Day and help get out the vote. So we got in his girlfriend’s generously loaned car and we pointed it southeast.

Whatever disappointments folks have felt since, there was an amazing feeling in the air that day. The Bush/Cheney empire was about to fall. We were gonna rock this thing Battle of Endor style. Then we were gonna go back to Chicago that night and celebrate with friends like dancing Ewoks. I have to confess that’s the part I was looking forward to most, the social part. That’s just the kind of party animal I am. Marc was a bit more idealistic I think, wanting to do his part. I already felt like I’d done my bit for the cause and was resting smugly on my laurels, but I was happy for a day off work and a road trip anyway.

On the two hour plus journey, Marc and I played one of our favorite games, mocking right wing rhetoric, gleeful at the impending triumph of Islamo-Communist revolution.

“I can’t wait for Christianity to be outlawed!”

“I know, that’s going to rock!”

“I hate America so much, you have no idea.”

“No I totally do, because I am also a liberal and wish to see our way of life destroyed. How long do you think it will take to build the gulags?”

“I’m thinking maybe 90 days max. The genius of it is, the patriotic Americans will be building their own prisons, it’s very efficient.”

“We’re going to execute the entire Bush family, like the Romanovs, right?”

“Oh yeah, for the next hundred years there will be legends that like, Jenna somehow survived but no one will be able to prove it.”

“I’m assuming Cheney is Rasputin then?”

“Oh definitely, he’s gonna be shot, stabbed, poisoned, drowned and finally beheaded…”

“But he’ll keep coming back.”

While we were joking outlandishly I’d like to point out that a lot of what we said turned out to be true, at least metaphorically.

We reported to the campaign office, an auto workers union shop on the outskirts of Indiana, and were given our assigned addresses. These were the addresses of registered Democrats. Our job was to knock on their doors and make sure they went and voted. If they were elderly or disabled, our job was to call the office and make sure they got rides to the polls. There were always dangers in this sort of work. They were registered Democrats according to the best information but no information is perfect, and you never know when you’re walking into hostile territory. And on a couple of occasions we did. One gentleman held his nose and waved his hand in a “PU” gesture saying “Obama? You’re gonna be sorry four years from now!”

Maybe but probably not for the reasons you think.

Then there was the dog. We find ourselves in a somewhat rundown neighborhood where a mangy cur is just wandering the streets alone. When he sees us he starts growling and barking at us menacingly. This is a bit scary. We immediately retreat, walking slowly like you’re supposed to do. But the dog keeps following us and growling, just a few inches behind us.

“I’m going to kick you in the head.” Marc warns, to no apparent effect. Both of us are pretty sure we can take this flea infested asshole but we don’t really want to have to. After what must be a block, the beast finally gives up his pursuit and turns around.

Fucking Republican dog.

But for the most part, our canvassing was uneventful, people told us they voted or were going to, we gave them directions. In three cases, we met up with people who needed rides to the polls. We called headquarters to arrange it. So that was three people who were going to vote that otherwise would not have. We were determined to win this state, and would credit ourselves with the victory.

At last the time came to head home. Grant Park. Dancing in the streets. Great moment in history. Ewoks. This was gonna be good.

Maybe 20 minutes out of Indianapolis we notice billows of smoke coming out of the engine. This is not happening. Because it’s. Just. Not. We apparently had an overheated engine. We pulled into a gas station and purchased large quantities of coolant fluid. Which seemed to work. For a few minutes. Then it started again. Marc and I were humanities dorks who knew nothing about cars. We desperately tried to figure out what to do. These desperate attempts yielded no appreciable results.

The car came to a dead, sputtering stop as Marc pulled it over on the shoulder of the highway. Next to a cornfield. I did what any responsible 21^st century adult does in a situation like this. I called my dad. He doesn’t really know much about cars either but a fair sight more than us. My dad spoke to Marc briefly. He said, optimistically, that it might be the alternator. We called 911, and waited for a deputy to come meet us. The deputy would make a report and put us in touch with a tow truck. Marc wanted to call his girlfriend Kelli, the owner of the car, to inform her of what had transpired. He asked me to leave the car for a moment so they could have a bit of privacy, which was understandable, but vexing on a midwestern November’s night.

“Sure guv’nor,” I grumbled, “Just throw old Rory to the elements, he doesn’t mind a bit.”

I turned away from the car and my eyes fixed on what was in front of them. Corn. Rows upon rows upon rows of corn. Or maybe they were soybeans. Like I can tell the difference.

The evening grew later. It was past 7 now. People were texting me. Results were coming in. This was not how I wanted to get the news of victory at all. I listened to Marc negotiate with the tow company on the phone. Initially, we clung to desperate hope that we would reach home that night, a hope reflected in the defiant tone of Marc’s initial round of negotiations.

“I need my car towed with me in it to Chicago. Tonight. I don’t care how much it’s going to cost. Wait….how much is it going to cost?” We conceded to cruel fate that we weren’t gonna get home that night and agreed to be driven to a motel and drop the car off at an auto shop in the hope of its eventual repair. We would celebrate our victory in an unfamiliar and probably hostile land. There would be no Ewoks.

It’s possible that a couple of obscure X-Wing pilots might have suffered engine failure and gotten lost after the Battle of Endor, thus having to spend the night in a motel and miss the party, but there’s a reason Return of the Jedi did not focus on those characters.

After a seemingly interminable wait, the tow truck arrived; we were pretty excited to see it. The driver, I am happy to say, a very friendly sort. Young, perhaps a couple of years our junior. He had a shaved head and a big, bushy beard. He expressed his condolences for our plight and we talked about that. It’s sort of hard for a political junkie like me to comprehend that people are capable of talking about anything else on the night of a presidential election, but I was relieved that he did not ask us what a couple of Chicago boys were doing getting stranded on a rural Indiana highway, and we did not allude to it. As John Cleese so memorably admonished: “Don’t mention the war.”

My goalposts for the evening had obviously moved. We weren’t gonna make it home for the party, but I wanted to get the big news from a TV in a warm room. A text informed me that we’d won Ohio, which pretty much sealed the deal. The final word though… Marc later chided me, rightfully so, for my rather self-centered attitude. A bad night would have been a night in which Obama lost.

I was happy that we found ourselves ensconced in a motel room ahead of said final word and we immediately flipped on the TV, and for the first time in hours, recovered some enthusiasm. Eventually, we got the official word we’d been waiting for. A solemn anchor confirmed in a solemn anchor voice that Barack Hussein Obama had been elected President of the United States on the historic night of November 4^th, 2008. Marc and I jumped up on our respective motel beds and gave each other a high ten, at which point we collapsed back into those respective beds. We were damn proud of the bit of work we did, and while we haven’t gotten our hoped for liberal paradise two years later at least we beat Dr. Strangelove and Serena Joy.

We watched Obama’s acceptance speech at Grant Park, the event we couldn’t make it to. At one point during his speech he thanked all the people who couldn’t make it, but who had worked so hard, making phone calls and knocking on doors because they wanted to improve the direction of their nation.

“That was us, you know.”

“Damn right it was.”

The state of Indiana went for Obama. By a 1% margin. Despite our misfortune, and despite the fact that poor Kelli’s car never was repaired, Marc and I slept the sleep of the just…

Guest Post: Running Down a Dream

Posted on October 5, 2010 by lisafindley

I warned today’s guest poster, Ms. Sara OD, that if she did not give me a title for her post, I would make one up for her. As you can see, she did not give me a title, so we’re going with a Tom Petty song that does relate to the post but in a kind of cheesy way. Ah well!

I am pleased to introduce you to Ms. Sara OD, a veteran traveler and academic. She has lived in Germany and driven around Australia, and one time we hung out with some swans in Ontario. She holds a Bachelor’s in Philosophy and Psychology, with a Master’s in Religious Studies, and she is working on a Master’s in Library Science. So if you feel the urge to travel, she can find you reference books on where to go, while pondering the larger questions of why you might pursue such a quest and how that relates to your childhood, all with a delightfully understated sense of humor. Obviously, she comes highly recommended. Please enjoy her first post with us here at Stowaway, and be sure to show your affection/ask your questions/request wallaby pictures in the comments.

Running Down a Dream by Ms. Sara OD

The other day I was talking to a coworker about travel and he said something along the following lines: “A lot of people travel to find themselves, but it always seems to me more like running away.” At the time I think I nodded and let this comment slide, intent on going back to making lattes and omelets. But it didn’t sit well with me throughout the day (the comment, not the omelet).

As an avid believer in the transformative power of travel it shook me to think that maybe it was all a sham. It was like being told there was no Santa Claus by Janelle Morris in 1^st grade the week before Christmas (this may or may not have actually happened… and Janelle Morris may or may not be a jerkface). I began to ponder the possibility that all the hype about “expanding one’s horizons” and “absorbing new cultures” and “eating stinky foreign cheeses” was actually a cover-up for our inability to tolerate a humdrum existence. Is travel really just a form of escapism? Are we using geographic variation and cultural discontinuity as an unguent for our overworked, understimulated souls? After looking up the word “unguent” I came to a conclusion: My coworker is an idiot.

Although no one would deny that part of the appeal of travel is “getting away from it all,” it also allows for some serious self-discovery. I’m not saying that every time you visit your cousin in Toledo you’re going to re-envision your place in the universe. Nor am I saying that, ala Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love, we ought to romanticize the unfamiliar to the point of saccharine-induced nausea. What I am saying is that when we open ourselves up to certain experiences, certain fears even, we reveal bits of ourselves that would otherwise remain dormant. For me, fear is essential to travel. When we travel, we intentionally displace ourselves, both spatially and culturally. I imagine the thrill of travel is closely related to the thrill of watching horror movies. How much discomfort can I handle? How far can I push myself? How many more stinky foreign cheeses can I eat?

the stinkiest of cheeses this side of France -- Stilton (photo from http://www.recipetips.com)

The semester I spent in Germany during a study abroad my senior year of college was one of the loneliest and most revealing times of my life. Although my language skills were advanced enough to allow me to competently order a sandwich, this surprisingly did not facilitate an effortless transition into German society. There was always a tangible otherness about me as I fumbled through the different arenas of German life. Everyday tasks became streaked with uncertainty. And to this day I don’t know why it’s necessary that German laundry machines have so many options.

About two weeks into the program there was a day that, like any other day, I was watching dubbed episodes of The Cosby Show. (Until you’ve heard Bill Cosby speak German, you don’t know the meaning of the word “disconnect.”) I decided I’d had enough of Huxtable family values and determined that this particular day was a day of significance. There was an unidentifiable weight to it. Although still not adept at public transportation, I stuffed my German dictionary into my backpack and headed off toward the train station with no idea of where I intended to end up. I don’t distinctly remember that walk to the station, but I do remember the overwhelming buzz of freedom. I remember embracing my solitude. I remember the abandonment of fear. I remember that I should have worn more supportive shoes. Our story ends rather lamely with our heroine going to see a movie in Hamburg (a mere 30-minute train ride away). This is a particularly lame ending given that the movie was The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. But poor adaptations of awesome books aside, the point is not that I wasted twelve perfectly good Euros, but that I reached deep down inside to waste those Euros. Going to see a movie stateside would in no way have tested me in the same way that going to see a movie in Germany did. Eventually I ventured beyond the movie theaters of Hamburg, but that experience will always stick out in my mind as the day I recognized something in myself that, until that point, had been obscured. Only once I experienced that sense of displacement was I able to find the requisite verve to see a truly terrible movie.

University of Hamburg campus from the river

Hamburg, Germany -- not a bad place to see a bad movie (photo from http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de)

I know our dear Lisa has discussed many of these themes before much more eloquently than I have done here. I know she has talked about the fear, the solitude, and the sense of self that travel instills in the serious traveler. And what it comes down to is not a cliché about “overcoming fear” or “becoming who you were meant to be,” but a real moment of the self confronting the self. So travelers, know that you are not running away — or at least not only running away — you are also running toward. Toward what is up to you.

Guest Post: 3 Easy Steps to Becoming a World-Class Postcard Correspondent

Posted on June 28, 2010 by lisafindley

Dearest fellow travelers, please join me in welcoming to these pages one of the great comic writers of our time, a dear friend of mine and world traveler in her own right, Mlle. O’Leary. She has lived in Venice, New York, Seoul, and northern Ohio, and she’s traveled all over, from Dublin to Tibet. She’s a skilled postcard writer and the perfect person to guide you all in that dying art. Here we go!

Postcards: mini works of art

You’ve set the itinerary, you’ve broken in the backpack, you’ve burned any necessary bridges and left for adventures in greener pastures. You’re doing amazing, interesting things every day. Or maybe you’re doing the same old shit only now you’re doing it abroad! There is one thing you should seriously do when you travel and rarely does anyone think to do it. You should send postcards. You don’t, do you. But you buy them right? Ask yourself this: do you hand your written postcards over to your friends after coming back home, maybe with their first name written in the address column? If you answered yes, you are a terrible person. Yes, you are. Your friends hate this and they just put up with three weeks of your mass-emails. Stop it.

This post is part appeal, part advice on the plight of the postcard. It is easier and easier to send an email out to everyone at once telling them that you are still alive, now broke and loving life. So with the internet in a growing stage of ubiquity, postcards seem more and more like an afterthought. A hassle. But they aren’t. Postcards are fun. They are timeless. More to the point: they are quick, or at least they should be. There are five things you need to write and to send a postcard: a postcard, a stamp, a pen, an address, and a message. Of these five things, three hinder sending the most. Here is some troubleshooting advice:

1. I don’t have stamps/didn’t get them/don’t know where the post office is (and similar iterations)

Get your stamps immediately. Even if you’re going on a huge hike or a crazy long train ride you will be in a major city before and after. Yes, this will take a little effort on your part but that’s part of the fun (see below). Many airports have post offices within or just outside customs (I believe this is the case with Greece’s airport). Other countries have dual Bank & Post Offices, making it a great catch-all: grab some currency, buy some stamps, spend the rest on beer. Kiosks are a great place to inquire for stamps, if you really have an aversion to post offices after your cousin was shot by a mail carrier. By picking up stamps ASAP you can write and send your postcards out at whim, which is the whole essence of the postcard.

2. I forgot your address

You planned the trip, right? Make ‘addresses’ part of that to-do list. Get the ones you need and keep them handy at all times. Some write them all in the back of a travel journal. Others fold up loose-leaf paper and stash it in pockets or carry-on. Tattoo street names and zip codes on your partner’s arm (always ask first). I used the Contacts feature on my iPod while traveling. Find a method that works best for you. If this falls through, depending on your country of choice, you are bound to have internet access at some point. Send an email to your desired recipient. I would much rather receive that email than another link to your Flickr account (a photo’s worth a thousand words but that don’t mean I can cash in on it).

3. I don’t know what to write

It’s the size of an index card. What did you eat today? Cobb Salad? Was it good? Did you find it weird they serve Cobb Salad in Bangkok? There, you’ve used up all of the space without even remarking that maybe you should have ordered Pad Thai. Focus on one cool/weird thing and you’ll send your friends postcards without sentences like “the weather’s really great!” or “I’m really enjoying seeing everything.” Which means you’ll be sending your friends really wonderful postcards! See? Easy.

It all boils down to accessibility. Keep everything in reach, always: stamps, postcards, addresses, pens. This makes it easier, which makes it stress free, which makes it fun, which makes you do it more frequently, which makes it easier. And then your friends won’t think you’re a dick. They will know you’re a good person.

The fact is that postcards – and sending postcards from their place of origin – are invaluable to the travel experience. Postcards can be your MacGuffin to hilarious antics. They can force you to learn more than “Hello!” and “Bathroom?” They can push you off the major tourist circuits: rather than stopping by the souvenir stores around major sites, seek postcards out in old bookstores, quirky shops, even grocery stores. And then look around. Chat up the proprietor. You might make a friend. You might find your newest favorite place in the world. You might even walk out with better postcards. If you’re taking any excuse to seek out undiscovered places, why not the excuse to write to your friends?

Maybe you’re somewhere without a recognizable writing system. Or maybe you’re in a land that missed out on the Indo-European fad (Magyar, I’m looking at you!). “How much are stamps?” isn’t the first thing you’re going to learn in a new country, which will make you seem that much more impressive. Ask a local to teach you some phrases. Hell, go all out:

“Are those the most interesting stamps you have?”

“Who is that man? Why are you honoring him? Oh that isn’t an honor?”

Sure, you’re bound to screw up but you only stared learning the language at the airport. Give yourself a break and keep at it. Remember: English is becoming the dominant language across the world. These exchanges might be a dying breed if you don’t make the effort. Take advantage of every opportunity. Even by asking for postcards.

You will also LOOK COOL writing postcards. There is only so long you can spend looking pensive in front of your Moleskine and that’s twenty minutes. This is a great way to unwind, take some deserved downtime. If you’re traveling alone, bring them to dinner. And yes, you will look cooler with a stack of postcards in front of your meal than your diary. Come on.

There used to be a tactile sense to our correspondence. Now, hardly anyone writes letters. People write postcards if they write at all and as more people forget to write postcards, the intimacy that comes with physical mail becomes more endangered. But the postcard comes with its own type of intimacy: with its limited space, the postcard asks for a snapshot of the writer’s feelings and for that moment, that second, the writer thinks only of the recipient, with no expectation of receiving anything in return. Unlike a letter, a postcard is not expected to have a return address. There’s no room for it. There’s no immediate way to respond in kind. The postcard exists solely for the recipient’s pleasure. That is what makes postcard sending so beautiful. Go send a few today.

**********************************************************************************

Keen to start writing postcards? Not going anywhere for a while? Maxed out your friends’ patience? Try www.postcrossing.com. Get mail from strangers, but not like that.

Guest Post — Tourist/Non-Tourist

Posted on November 16, 2009 by lisafindley

Dearest fellow travelers, it gives me great pleasure to introduce a guest post from Sessily Watt, a good friend and fellow K alum. A few weeks ago, she and I were discussing the comments on the Great Expectations post, and about what it means to live in a different country rather than simply visit it for a short time. Sessily is a writer living in Chicago, and her post reflects on her time spent living in Ecuador in 2005. Enjoy!

*********************************************************************************************

We were standing on a sidewalk between several medical buildings, in the middle of a tour of a small hospital in Ecuador, when the woman approached us. (Or maybe she was our guide through the buildings, and it was at this point that she asked us about who we were. Time has passed. The memories have shifted.) After a flurry of conversation she was under the impression that some or all of us were medical students, and offered for us to come and observe a birth that was happening at that very moment. She led us back through the buildings to the doorway to the delivery room, where it became clear that observing a birth meant all ten of us (nine students and one of our program directors) crowding into the delivery room and its doorway. Four of us had already felt uncomfortable as we approached the room, and our discomfort increased. We waited a moment, but it was soon clear the rest were planning to stay and watch, so we left them there, walked out of the building, through the waiting area where the pregnant woman’s family was waiting, out the front door to a set of benches in front of the building. We sat down.

Out on the benches, we were split again by the cause of our discomfort. Two, male, were personally uncomfortable with watching a woman give birth. Two, female, were uncomfortable that we had been welcomed into that room without permission being asked or granted from the woman who was lying on that table with her legs spread. Our fellow students were back in that room, with their cameras out. We waited.

The nine of us had been together in Ecuador for five months at this point. One of our program directors, who was with us that day, had led us on three previous trips as a group. We had already passed through that stretch of time where we got on each other’s nerves, and now we were a more or less cohesive group. The people who chose to stay in that delivery room and watch the birth were (and are) perfectly nice, lovely people. I enjoyed traveling with them. But I judged them for staying in that room.

Traveling, especially as a tourist to another country, can lead to a sense of entitlement to see anything and everything. In my opinion, the people who stayed in that room were acting out that entitlement. They weren’t medical students. Their presence served no purpose for the woman lying on the table. They were simply there to see what it was like. (In the case of at least two people, who have since gone on to medical school, I can see how this experience was edifying. And, who knows, maybe in some way it will prompt them into actions that improve the delivery of medicine, etc etc, but those benefits move us further and further away from that woman on the table who was not helped by them and who did not give her consent for them to be there.)

A study abroad program like the one in Ecuador is designed to encourage students to take part in society as if they aren’t tourists: we lived with host families, attended an Ecuadorian university, and ended the program with an internship/volunteer position in an Ecuadorian organization. One would hope these experiences would lessen that feeling of entitlement to see everything. To a certain extent, we lived in Ecuador for six and a half months, rather than traveling there. Especially during my last month in the country, volunteering at an organization where I worked with Ecuadorians, Germans, and French, I felt like I had found a niche for myself. I woke up in the morning, rode the bus for eight stops, picked up a copy of El Comercio from the newsstand, and walked three blocks to the corner building where the organization had a series of rooms on the second floor. Sometimes I went to lunch with my coworkers, sometimes I walked to a sandwich place that was nearby. My coworkers and I tutored kids in the afternoon. Some afternoons I was bored, others I was outraged, or sad, or content. In the evening, I visited with my host family for a little while before I went to bed. Some nights I went out. By living in Ecuador I learned that I enjoy large cities, can’t imagine living without public transportation (though I grew up in a small town without it), and when I’ve moved to a new place I feel anxious about leaving home until I get out and walk around, take a bus or two, and maybe get lost. Without living in Ecuador, I may never have considered moving to Chicago.

La Casa Amigos, where I volunteered during my last month in Ecuador

But no matter how well designed, a study abroad program couldn’t make us Ecuadorian, and the trappings and support of the program at times increased the feeling of being a tourist. When we went on the program-designed trips, we traveled in our own bus, a little bubble of pirated American movies and Seinfeld episodes. There were always nine of us to compare to all of them, emphasizing our differences. Like any other tourist, we were there to see the country, to experience those cultural differences we heard about in our pre-trip lectures. Perhaps even to “broaden our horizons.” Yes, there are real benefits to exposing ourselves to differences–not to mention that it can be a lot of fun–but that focus on cultural differences, in combination with other factors, leads to forgetting that those people aren’t there to open themselves up for us to examine.

the bus we traveled around in for our program trips

Every traveler has a different line they draw in how far they will go to experience it all. The other students in my program didn’t feel uncomfortable with their experience in the delivery room. The doctors were fine with their presence. The woman supposedly thanked them after it was all done (cynically, I ask, “Did she even know why they were there?”). As a very private person, I imagine that my line comes much earlier than others. By not staying in that room, I may have missed out on an amazing experience. I’m willing to imagine there are other instances where, if I had been willing to press a little harder, to dig in a little more, I might have had other theoretically amazing experiences. But.

I traveled by myself once while I was in Ecuador, right at the end of my time there. Throughout that trip, I often felt different from the people I was with, and like I didn’t belong. But it was during that trip I felt the least like a tourist. I wasn’t there to see the sites. I wasn’t there to see what life was like in this coastal city. I was there to visit a specific person, because I thought I would regret it if I didn’t visit her. It was in those moments when I was living my life and just happened to be in a country different from the one I grew up in–traveling by myself, volunteering–that I felt like I had the clearest glimpses of Ecuador.