From Here To Mediocrity

In my lifetime, I've walked out of Penn Station onto the grimey, frenzied streets of Manhattan, say a dozen times. That's probably being generous. Undoubtedly every time I make that walk, I start off in the wrong direction from my intended destination. It's all a pulsing, honking, hurrying Jackson Pollock painting that my feet carry me into, and rather than stop and deduce my next steps, I just get shoved one way by the mass of humanity, and it's always the wrong way. I hit the first well-marked intersection and realize that I want to numbers to get bigger, not smaller. (But the avenue numbers to get smaller, not bigger.) Seems like there should be a sing-song mnemonic to help new arrivals: "If you smell pee a-flowing, then it's north you're going." See, honey, I told you this was the right way! Traveling alone allows you make make wrong turns without judgment or ridicule. Wrong turns, wrong decisions. Walking from Penn Station at 33rd and 8th to my ho...

Pop tarts, check. Frosted blueberry, two to a crisp silver pouch that reminds me of astronaut food. Sustenance for a long voyage ahead. I travel nowadays with these tasty, processed treats as reliable in my kit as chapstick or sunglasses. Something from my childhood, maybe? I don't specifically recall Pop tarts in the station wagon, jammed with sleeping bags, puzzle books, and siblings. I'm sure Mom bought them a few times as durable, mess-free car snacks, so I connect them with travel. Same with those single-serving boxes of breakfast cereal, shrink-wrapped within an inch of its life, and my sisters and I anxiously waiting for tomorrow's morning meal, 500 miles from home, just so we bust open and grab the coveted Froot Loops or Sugar Smacks. Conversely, we knew the trip was coming to a close when the only losers remaining were Corn Flakes and Product 19. Pop tarts, likewise, are travel food in my head. I dont think I've ever eaten one at home. Busting out the travel bl...

     On the long flight home from Istanbul to Washington, DC, I watched the movie "Wicked" on the little seat-back screen. The obnoxious kid in front of me insisted on reclining his seat for most of the trip, so I got to watch it about eight inches in front of my face. I had heard it was an excellent adaptation of the stage musical (that Becky and I saw on Broadway way back in 2004 with the original cast of Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenowith). One thing I noticed this time was the clever way the writers played with the word "good." There was the obvious theme of Good vs. Wicked, and the fact that Glinda was known as the "Good Witch." Was she really good, you had to wonder, with the path that she had chosen? Was she a "good friend?" Who's good in the movie vs. who's right? Is honesty good? Is being nice good? Is being wonderful good?      The writers also played with the phrase "for good." (The sequel, in fact, is called "Wi...

     T raffic in Egypt and Malta is, to use a technical term, "nuts." I didn't get behind the wheel of a vehicle for two weeks. I'm thankful for that and, I believe, most of the motorized population of the Mediterranean should be thankful as well.      The best way to describe street traffic in Egyptian cities is to think back to science class when you watched films of red blood cells zooming through healthy arteries and veins. Everything is bumper to bumper, but not flowing in straight lines. Rather imagine little steel blobs slipping between other steel blobs to get in front.  Bulls through Pamplona.    Most urban highways in Cairo had no white dotted lines, and if they did, they were regularly ignored by every single driver. Three designated lanes on the highway could easily fit five cars side by side. Shoulders were just another lane. And why bother with turn signals if you're never really going to commit to staying in a lane for longer t...

     On my day in Gozo with Edward, we drove together and looked around and chatted, but then at times, he dropped me off at a site to explore on my own; when I was ready to move on, I could call him to pick me up. At my leisure, no pressure. Previously, I had told him I wanted to see the "cart ruts." Strange grooves carved into the limestone bedrock under your feet, parallel lines that run for miles like long-forgotten train tracks. Like a proper tour guide, he made it part of our agenda. What I didn't know was that unlike all the other ancient sites I had visited in Egypt and Malta, the cart ruts weren't really a tourist attraction. There was no signage, no "exhibit," no exit through the gift ship. They're just these rock formations out in the middle of nowhere. Edward had dutifully printed a Google satellite map for me with bright yellow arrows showing where the cart ruts might be found. No words, no signposts, no help as to where these things might b...

     Blame Jay's wife, Kathy.      From our first meeting Hany was very clear about how we should avoid the inevitable swarm of souvenir sellers. They're looking for folks exactly like us, ready to pounce. At each ancient site, we would need to run a gauntlet of pushy vendors, maybe twenty or thirty booths on both sides of a narrow outdoor passageway or sidewalk, chocked with scarves, t-shirts, magnets, dolls, pyramids, cats, crocodiles, and creepy plastic King Tut heads.       Don't engage with them, admonished Hany.  Don't window-shop or lookee-loo at the colorful displays of trinkets. Don't be enticed by their offers to "come inside, take a look, no hassle." Don't answer their questions: "Where you from? U.S.? England?" Don't fall for their compliments: "Hey, pretty lady," or "Hey big American, like Rambo, hey?" Don't be polite with this scourge, even though everyone in the tour group seemed like a nice person. ...

     Two aspects of the Egyptian financial culture I had to wrap my head around were 1.) the value of the Egyptian pound, and 2.) tipping.      Side note: Egyptian money is gorgeous. Shorter but taller than U.S. bills (like the euro), they come in a variety of colors with national icons of sphynxes and mosques and ancient statues on them. I don't know, maybe foreigners think U.S. money is lovely (I doubt it), but I thought this stuff was frameable as artwork.      Also, I never saw any coins in Egypt. Hany, at one point, mentioned a "piastre," and 100 piastres equals one EGP. But those coins are essentially worthless, because 1 EGP equals about two cents USD. A can of soda typically costs 150 EGP, that I'd pay for with a 100 pound note and a 50. Nothing improper about it, but the concept of paying 150 anythings for a drink takes a while to get used to. My American brain sees a bill with a 50 or 100 on it, and automatically interprets it as a ...

     I've wanted to write about my tour group's last full day in Egypt, but I haven't found the time. Currently I'm back in the cavernous Istanbul airport, trying to return home, only to find my flight to Washington has been delayed almost three hours. Plenty of time now.      On Friday, we flew from Luxor north to Cairo to start our final day. We all looked forward to the cooler Mediterranean temperatures, but I was sad that I was going to be the first to leave the party later that night. The agenda for the day felt like Intrepid wanted to wrap up our experience in a unique and celebratory way, part house party, part final exam. Overall, I felt like it was a way to connect Egypt's glorious and extensive past with its friendly and inviting present.  All week, we investigated and gazed upon the country's ancient history. Friday could be considered "Egypt Today."      To start, with Hany's careful oversight, we were all pros getting throug...

     In the 1990s, a popular show called "The X-Files" followed the paranormal adventures of Scully and Mulder, a pair of mismatched FBI agents. They had shadowy associates to help them solve the unsolvable. One group was three IT/conspiracy nerds who called themselves The Lone Gunmen (after the JFK conspiracy that Oswald couldn't have been the only shooter). The irony, of course, is that if you're a group of three, how can you possibly be "lone"?      When I described my travel plans to friends, I said that in Egypt, I would be in a tour group of "solo travelers." A few times, I got a response similar to The Lone Gunmen. You're a group of solos? Wouldn't that be a chorus?      Yes, indeed.      I certainly wasn't brave, or foolhardy, enough to attempt to get through the terra incognita completely on my own wits. Too vast, too different, too alien (to me). So, for nine days, I traveled solo with a band of seven others. Life-lon...