Spring Break: Who Needs Panama City

It was a good train ride.  The majestic Rhine Valley gave rise to evergreens thawing from a cold continental winter; the vineyard's terrace highlighted only by the contrast of soil and vine.  The castle remains, though in ruins, cast haunting regal stares on us below, still waiting for the next wave of North men, vigilant to the last.  But we are from the west.  And the horseless carriage plowing along the west bank of the river shielded us at times from the years of long ago.  We were not there for a history lesson, I had studied that enough in my classes, it was Spring Break.  Being March, I had a parka over my swimwear. 

Now, I can hear the question: why would you go to Germany for Spring Break?  Why not Miami, Panama City, or South Padre Island perhaps?  Oh sure, I missed the hedonistic right of passage for jail bait and collegiate brass polisher alike.  Hilariously embarrassing after stories aside, what do I want with a bunch of inebriated, and often underage, hooligans whose quest for liquid divinity supersedes common sense and human courtesy?  If I wanted to be subject to the whims of mass appeal, I'd turn on a TV.  And in reality, Germany has everything that the usual Spring Break haunts have but with better accents.  So it was, with a sense of adventure, an escape of the routine and an addiction to not be like everyone else, I set off with the cheapest tickets to Europe: Chicago to Frankfurt, Germany. 

So, for this Spring Break, avoid the temptation of the Gulf.  The usual hot spots are just an extension of the parties you have already and will continue to attend on campus.  Try the less traditional locales.  Bars and clubs are still more than happy to entertain you and take your money.  You can still meet others you can hang out with throughout the week.  So, go on, pack your parka and gain a unique experience.  Remembrances and sobriety are optional.  

Like a Virgin

Every time I travel I inevitably get the feeling, at some point, as though it was my first time away from home.

On a recent trip to Italy, the feeling of experiential virginity washed over me.  The trip was a fluke.  My friend won the trip.  Seriously, he won it, sweepstakes and all.  I thought that only happened on TV and in horror movies.  It was a trip for four, airfare, rental car, accommodations at an agritourismo outside of Florence, and a wine tasting were all included.

As the cast, my friend, his pregnant wife, myself and my partner, assembled at the airport, I could tell this would not be the usual travel experience my partner and I typically have.  We are the bed and breakfast, hostel, and occasional couch surfing type.  No amenities, all meals sourced locally, no chains.  We love open air markets and grocery stores.  We have never rented a car, rarely stay outside walking distance from basic necessities, and have never been with anyone beside ourselves.

We met my friend at the airline ticket counter.  The airport was busy, but the beach ball belly of his pregnant wife and suitcases that could smuggle mules tend to stick out.  As I walked toward them, I could see security start to circle, their talons on their radios.  Just before I reached them, one agent spoke, loudly enough, “Ma’am may I ask you to . . . Oh my!  Congratulations.  When are you due?”

I was nervous traveling with a soon to be mother.  What if she went into labor in Italy?  In the car?  While driving some absurdly steep and windy road?  I know nothing of how babies are born, stork?     Then I laughed out loud.  Women in Italy have babies, too.  I reminded myself.  And, my friend can rub her feet.  I hear that feels good.

Sitting comfortably in my coach window seat, I thought of the adventure, of Italian wine, the Tuscan hills.  I would be enjoying the same vistas that for two millennia have pleased people the world over.  I have never seen the movie Under the Tuscan Sun but saw the stage I would soon grace.

During the long flight over the Atlantic, I thought I would speak with Lauren, the mother to be.  I asked her about her job as an elementary school teacher.  About curriculum, state and federal standards, students and their parents.  Each new topic ended with some reference to pregnancy, newborns, and was generally preceded by “When the baby gets here . . .”  Then it dawned on me.  “Have you ever been overseas before?” I asked.  Her response “I've never been outside the county.”  Her eyes were wide with worried fright.

I was speechless.  I had to give her credit, though.  She was traveling thousands of miles.  To a country where she did not know the language, with two strangers she has never met before, no expectations (except maybe the worst), no knowledge.  She must have really trusted her husband.

The trip started out on a hilarious note.  She was white knuckled on the seats of our new rental car (an Audi, literally 106 miles on it) as we maneuvered the roads southeast of Florence.  Screaming, for the safety of her unborn child.  When we finally arrived, about thirty minutes later all she mustered  was a frantic “I have to pee.”

Everything was new for her.  “How do I get my hair dryer to work, I don’t see any plugs?”  to “What is that man saying, his hands are all over the place.”  It was not as funny as the trip went on.  And I could not help but remember my first trip anywhere.  I thought I was pretty smart deciding on Ireland and Scotland because they speak English.  At least that’s what I thought until I arrived.  They may as well have spoken another language.  But, here she was, somewhere where they were really speaking a foreign tongue.

I started to feel bad for her.  Her hormones were swinging wildly.  She had no idea what to do.  One hand was always caressing her beach ball, somehow assuring her soon to be daughter everything was ok while at the same time reassuring herself that her bump was still there.  Even at the end of our week, she looked panicked, fearing the worst.  About the only time I saw her smile: eating a cannoli outside the Uffizi.

But, it got me thinking.  Everywhere we go and everything we do while we are there is a new experience.  Some small part changes, even if we repeat the process.  But perhaps most importantly, we change.  Our principles may not, but our priorities do, our personal states of affairs.  There is a large world out there to discover and experience, but what we learn changes based on whatever filter we use to screen the outside world.  Our impact on others change as we change, as we evolve into global legionnaires, doing battle not with our surroundings, but with ourselves as we struggle to break the bonds to the land beneath our feet and our notions of how the other half live.

I instantly reverted back to that state of mind, where the possibilities were endless, where just around the corner would be something I personally have never seen, and would be seeing it for the first time, to touch the door and move the handle and step though to a new world.

I learned a lot from this trip and from Lauren.  You never know what baggage people bring with them, whether as the traveler or the local.  But, mostly, I learned that everyone loves a babino.   

Traveling with Parents

It was just like being a teenager again.  Could I sleep in?  Could I stay out just an hour later?  Would I have to ask for Dad’s permission?  It was all these thoughts and more when I traveled with my . . . Dad.

The thought of traveling with a fully life experienced parent (whew, glad I didn’t use “senior citizen”) initially heralded that adolescent wanderlust that fueled my daydreams to far away lands.  “I have been to Ireland several times before,” I thought, “but, this time, it’s totally different.” 

It did not take long for the novelty to wear off.  There were serious matters of concern.  What is the availability of prescriptions?  Of doctors willing to see a tourist?  Insurance?  Sure, Ireland has the internet; WebMD to the rescue.

The patriarch had his own questions.  Being a man of fixed means, and this college graduate facing the “Great Recession,” he pondered, and possibly feared, “where will we stay on such a tight budget?”  “8 hours on a plane,” he said, “and it’s a felony to tamper with smoke detectors in the lavatory?” 

I shrugged many of his concerns off, naively thinking “what is the worst that can happen?”  After all, I had yet to have a serious injury or medical situation occur in my previous adventures.  But the friend of old age is the blind sided mishap, the blip on the screen suddenly appearing or, even worse, disappearing.  While Dad started the logistical research, I checked and double checked all safeguards. 

European cell phone?  Check. 

Emergency numbers?  Check. 

Written list of medical ailments and scripts?  Check. 

Instructions on the international sign for help should an airplane spot us?  Check. 

As the date drew nearer, though, the excitement began to show.  The worries appeared less worrisome.  “Hey,” Dad would whisper at conversational lulls, as though the secret of life were to follow, “we’re going to Ireland.”  I laughed and thought that for three weeks I might be babysitting a child. 

The two flights we took to get to Dublin were eerily expedient.  No delays, no having to run a marathon for the connecting flight.  It must have been the calm before the storm.  We landed slightly ahead of schedule.  There was no rush off the plane (we only had a carry on bag each), no hurry to get though passport control.  And, when I realized that the airport had changed since I was last there and had no idea where to catch the bus, there was no feeling of impending doom.  Huh, so this is what retired life is like. 

The next three weeks were some of the best traveling I have ever experienced.  It was experiential travel at its best.  Some of our adventures can only be prefaced with “you had to be there.”  Not because I am a terrible storyteller, though stories do get better with each pint, rather they follow plots from a Disney inspired Twilight Zone, misfortune could lay just around the bend, but magically the clouds parted, the sun shone, and the glass slipper fit.  And, I must confess, it was due in large part to traveling with pops.

There must be a secret handshake all old men know.  Their penchant for finding other old men defies logic.  Their gift of conversation, of turning lemons into a dry martini with a twist, is what traveling is really about.  Sure, we saw the sights, took the obligatory selfies and photos we still have yet to decipher.  But, it is the stores that are legendary.  Homer’s Oddyssey replaced with “remember that one time in Ireland.”  Each story predicated upon someone that Dad had a conversation with.

Amid all the pre-flight checks and concerns, the blatently obvious was overlooked: that life experience trumps all.  Well, that, and a gallon bag of airline rum bottles.  So, dust off grandma and grandpa and go.  Sure, you don’t even know the handshake.