Category: Travel

That One Chick #15

When I was a teenager,  coming home from a trip to the Middle East, a friend and I got stranded in Holland for four days. It could have been fun, but in anticipation of actually leaving the country on Saturday morning, we spent all our Dutch money–therefore had no food for that whole time. We had to live at the airport until we could get a flight out.  Being stand-by passengers in a foreign country, we held the same status as charity or non-paying passengers. In other words–we were considered the lowest of the low. Each time we got to the front of the line to get a boarding pass, the agent would say, “Paying customers first. Go to the end of the line.” With this method, we missed every flight out for four days.

It was a pretty strange situation because they had no water facets and you had to pay the janitors a tip just to use the restroom and again, we had no money–none. We had to wait until about 4am for the janitor to leave and then sneak in and drink from the sink facet, using our hands as cups.

By Tuesday morning we were pretty dang hungry so we slipped into the airport restaurant and waited until a fancy looking businessman finished his meal and went out. We rushed over and ate everything that he left behind. Even the parsley garnish tasted wonderful. We somehow pulled it off without being noticed and slipped back out to the airport. It was something at least.

That night when we finally got out and onto a plane headed to New York we were both so hungry and thirsty that when the flight attendant came by with the drink cart and peanuts, we both started to cry.

Cold, clean water never tasted so good.

When I was 16ish, I went with Laurie–my sister to the High Uinta Mountains, on a 20 mile hike with at 40 pound backpack. Or was that a 40 mile hike with a 20 pound backpack? I can’t remember. The truth is inconsequential here. I know it felt like a 60 mile hike with an 80 pound backpack–and so I intend to remember it that way.

Before we left, my dad bought me a pair of “really good” hiking boots. You know…to keep my feet safe. I guess that “really good” meant really, really ugly and stiff and…well, they didn’t exactly go with my outfit. They were dreadful. But I wore them and before we’d gone half way up the hill, I had a grandaddy blister on the back of my heel. We stopped to rest and when I took off my boot to look at it, one of the leaders said he’d “fix” it for me and promptly pulled the whole top off. My scream is still echoing somewhere up in them thar hills–I sense it somehow. So, to say that it was an uncomfortable stroll the rest of the way would be putting it mildly.

We were there in camp three or four days and I tried to walk around barefoot as much as possible to air out the blister so that it would heal faster. It worked like a charm…that is, until the night before we had to hike back out. I was running back from the river to the camp and I accidentally kicked a nailed tent stake. It cut a one inch V shape in the bottom of my foot and bled like a crazy thing. It swelled up so much that I couldn’t lace my boot up the next day. But they stayed on my feet–in fact, I could hardly get my boot off when we got back that night.

It was with a heavy heart that I gave those nasty suckers to Good Will.

Oh, and don’t tell my dad.

That One Chick #9

Ever wonder what the world looks like from the back of a camel? Well my friends–mystery solved…and now you know. This is the view from the top of a real live Egyptian camel. Now this particular dromedary has most likely gone the way of the dinosaur by now–since this picture is about 30 years old…the average life span of your typical camel–but the smelly memories live on…and on.

We paid exactly $2.50 for a camel ride to the base of the pyramids back in 1980–quite a bargain. But the tour guides warned us that the little herders who led the camels up the trail would ask us for more money–and be sure not to give it to them. Not sure what that was about, but I’m an obedient soul.  So sure enough, when the little man said, “I need more money for camel food,” I said, “We aren’t allowed to give you more.”  Sadly, this was no ordinary Egyptian camel man. Oh no. This clever fellow just smiled a funny toothy smile and said, “OK.”

Then, without a warning, he slapped the camel…

hard.

Of course the previously slow, calm creature now discovered his new purpose in life and torn up the hill like there was a bazooka at his back. In case you think that riding a camel should be about like riding a horse–let me clue you. Whoever put the running mechanism of the camel together didn’t actually think this through. At first step they pitch forward nearly sending the rider into orbit, but then when the back legs engage, that motion gives you a mighty yank backwards. So instead of a pleasant jaunt up the hill, it turns out to be a strange exercise in 12 forms of whiplash. But I haven’t actually gotten to the good part.

Once I got the hang of holding on I thought, “Well, at least I’ll be first up the hill. So that’s not so bad. I’ll just be up here all cool and act like, ‘what took you guys so long?'”

Yeah, that’s what I thought. But these smelly, nasty things are creatures of habit, no matter what speed they are traveling. So, the minute we got to the base of the pyramids–this sucker skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees–sending the cockly little rider flying clear over his head.

Oh, yeah.

When the rest of the happy caravan showed up,  they found the frugal American, laying in a sad, crumpled heap, spitting wads of sand off her tongue.

Of course the pyramids were incredible…beautiful…breathtaking…spectacular.

But if you’d like a tip–from the seasoned adventurer…

Give the herder guy the extra 20 bucks.

It’s much cheaper than spending two weeks scrubbing half the Sahara desert out of your ears.

Nope.

Not a big fan of camels.

“That One Chick” #7

When I was sixteen our family took a trip to Scotland, England and France to pick up my brother from his mission in London. We didn’t spend much time–a day actually–in France because, well, I don’t know why…poor planning perhaps. At any rate, we had jet lag so badly that when we took a tour bus to the Eiffel Tower, we opted to stay on the bus and sleep instead of going out and seeing the thing. I’ve regretted that a few times in my life.

We ate at a French restaurant–well, of course we did since that’s what every restaurant would be…in France. But this one had a really crabby waiter who didn’t like Americans–at all. I asked for a drink of water and he smacked the menu and said, “Where you see water on this menu?” It scared the heck out of me and I got a stomachache. I wasn’t hungry anymore so I didn’t order any food. That made him really mad and he started yelling a bunch of stuff in French. My dad finally just said, “Let’s get out of here.” So we left. Which probably made him even madder…if that’s possible.

I’d like to go back there someday and try that whole thing again…well, differently. I’ll try to behave myself…

and not ask for water.

Sheesh.

*Remember to comment on all the “That One Chick” facts posts during the month of February to be entered in to win our March 1, 2010 giveaway!