Plane Rides and Great Adventures

Flying long distances requires proper pre-flight preparation. This is probably a somewhat individually tailored process so what's good for me may not work for you. As some of you may know, one of my habits of good personal heath involves the ingestion of copious amounts of fluids and the natural result of such an action, frequent urination. One great bit of good fortune during the St. Catherine's years was inheriting a classroom almost directly across from the bathroom. Large quantities of diluted beverages could be enjoyed relatively pain free. However on a long flight this potentially presents a real problem. Forseeing this I went into action early and began dehyrdating myself several days in advance (which worked out well seeing as how I had to drive to St. Louis the Wednesday before and less stops equaled faster travel). Pulling a window seat on flight day made this early action key.

Not only do I like my fruit drinks watery, I also like my air watery. I've had big problems in the past with irritated dry nasal tissue on airplanes and had planned to stop by the drug store the day before leaving and buy a bottle of that nasal spray people who spend too much time in the ocean use. I got hooked on the stuff in prior days and concluded that if it worked during the cold, dry days of winter; it should work on an airplane. A potentially disasterous situation nearly arose when I didn't make the trip to the drugstore as planned and was left to improvise on the morning of the flight. My solutions was a true bit of genius, vasoline. I would take a tube of vasoline with me and generously coat the inside of my nose with it. It worked out so well it has now become my first choice solution.

Everything about the flight started out rather smoothly, no problems checking in or getting through security. The flight turned out to be a Korean Airlines flight so I would have the added benefit of early cultural emersion. My next strategy for surviving a long flight is to get situated and to go into what I like to call Prisoner of War mode. I sit quietly, block out the rest of the world, come to grips with my situation and let my mind wander where it may. Before too long I found myself running through all the memorable travel experiences from my past. I first went back to my first great trip, my journey to Germany with the Army and how the polyester-fueled body heat radiating from my legs overcame the chemical forces of cohesion found in the gum I had attempted to dispose of in the small ashtry built into the armrest but instead somehow found its way under my left leg. After 8 hours the domination of chemistry was complete and as I attempted to stand and leave my seat and enter that inviting aisle which would lead to my triumphant escape from the plane, I found a long neon green tenacle of gum stretching from my leg to the seat.

Next I recalled a cross-German road trip my friends and I took to attend a music festival that involved one burned out clutch mid journey, the near miracluous acquistion of another vehicle (and the concomittant dumping of the first), and best of all, the leaving of one Mick Harney at the show a hundred miles away because he was a drunken idiot and was probably too busy trying to be every Germans' friend instead of meeting where it was clearly agreed to meet after the show and the rest of us where tired and wanted to go home. Leaving your drunk, shirtless friend on a mountain halfway across Germany is something you only do when you're young. All turned out well so I consider it a bit of sheer brillance from a time gone by; with the advent of the cell phone something like this probably doesn't happen any more.

Of course there was also the time my brother Matt and I flew home on a summer visit from Germany and in our excited state of anticipation and bliss, made nice with the stewardess on our Royal Dutch Airlines flight (ahh the Dutch). She gave us a set of those plastic pilot wings they usually dole out to kids AND took us up to the cockpit to meet and greet the pilot. Ahh those pre 9-11 days, to have known them is to have loved them.

TIme travels fast when it's disconected and I soon found myself remembering perhaps the most uncomfortable bit of travel my middling life has ever known, the bus ride from Lae to Goroka during my Peace Corps stint in Papua New Guinea (PNG). It first must be admired for the inherent bits of trust and simplicity associated with it, very much in keeping with the Peace Corps spirit. Three of us (myself, Jessica Eberly, and of course Joey Rios); all on different islands, all of us basically incommunicado; decided to take a trip back to our PNG roots in Goroko. There were no emails or phone calls or anything of the sort, just a decision to be in Lae on a particular day and a healthy dollup of trust. I got off the plane at the Lae airport (which consists of a small room you never enter a long metal outdoor table they throw you luggage on) and hoped my friends would be there, they were. The next day we board our "bus" which consists of a miniturized version of the minivan, quite commonly found in the developing world. I'm not sure of the maximum capacity of such a vehicle but it's safe to say these types of guidelines are thrown out the window in a poor country when there is a buck (or kina in this case) to be made. There were probably about 15 people and their luggage stuffed into this beast as we began our journey down the only "highway" to be found in the entire country. It is truly amazing the kind of contortional discomfort one can endure when there is no choice in the matter and when you couple this with the burning desire to pee, you gain a sense of personal strength able to carry you through the obligatory horrors of life that are sure come.

No discussion of the PNG can end with out mention of the last great adventure attempted while on these islands, the scaling of volcanic mountains overlooking Rabual. Rabual had evidentally at one time been quite a place, a jewel of the pacific. Unfortunately in the mid 90's it was buried under ash. If you imagine a fish hook, Rabual consisted of the bottom curvy part surrounded by ocean on three sides, the pointy hook part consisting of three mountains ascending straight out of the ocean. It was always my desire to climb to the top and peer out over this crazy place I had somehow ended up in. Time was running short, my days were quickly coming to an end when Joey decided to pay a farewell visit before we both went back to our stateside homes. It all seemed so perfect, I had spent two years of trial and triumph and I would climb to the top, reflect, and metaphysically relight the memories of an experience I could never have foreseen. Knowing of my desire, one of the office ladies at my school decided to take care of everything. She was from the village at the base of the hill and would arrange for a boy to meet us in Rabaul and lead us up the mountain. The day before our big adventure Joey and I venture to Rabual and walked through the ash covered wasteland to a hotel surrounded by nothing but crumbled walls, ash, and (interestingly enough) a couple more hotels (who is staying in these places?). Once inside the air conditioner immediately goes on, the TV quickly turned to MTV Asia, a call is placed to room service, and a pizza is ordered. Joey being of the vegetarian order, we get the standard no meat pizza and begin to enjoy. Oddly enough we soon learn that in PNG ham is considered a vegetarian delight. Joey stops eating, a call must be made to correct this misdeed. At this point it occurs to me there is room for opportunity. Why give back a nearly whole pizza when it's just going to be discarded? No, that would be wasteful; much better for me to eat half of it and THEN make the call for it's replacement. Air conditioning, MTV Asia, and the mild pleasure of hotel pizza; Peace Corps volunteer heaven. The next morning we awake and set out on our journey. We arrive at the meeting place to inevitably find ourselves completely alone. We wait, but we already know, we wait some more, but the truth is there unsaid; nobody is coming. It then dawns on us that we're not idiots, we're Peace Corps volunteers, long known for their spirit of adventure and we decide to go it alone. It seems pretty simply, just keep walking uphill and you'll get to the top. Being a tropical country it's not quite that easy, our mountain is covered with the kind of thick vegetation one might expect to find on the set of a bad Vietnam movie. We see somthing that looks like a path and follow it; all is well, all is well, ... all is not well. We're taken to a spot of little decision, our path has led us to a ridge surrounded on three sides by jungle covered ravines. Severe rationalization can be both a blessing and a curse. We weigh our options: a mountain struggle in front of us; air conditioning, MTV Asia, and ham-infused vegetarian pizza behind us. We took the rationalization as a blessing and chose the hotel life. From this arose wisdom which will forever guide our lives, Some Mountains Are Not Meant To Be Climbed.

Continuing on I remembered the time after the Peace Corps while living in California that I came home for a wedding and stayed for a funeral, a pretty lame two-for-one.

After this I drew a bit of a blank, surely this wasn't my last worthy travel story, it was 8 years ago. I then remember all those great times I had on my semi-annual Appalachia adventures with St. Catherine's. The latest occuring last fall during the my last tumuluous days at the school. Why they asked me to go I'll never be quite sure, I guess the school considered me good enough as long as nobody else wanted to do it. The thing that sticks with me the most is the ride home and how I let my sour mood overcome me, how a person I genuinely liked, Sarina Singh, became my mortal enemy with our only civil connection being the bag of skittles located on the floor between us. Sometimes you reflect on moments past and just think you owe the world an apology, this is one of those times.


All these thoughts of travel took me up to dinner time where I had my first connection with the eldery Korean lady seated next to me. Of course she ordered the very American beef with noodles while I prefered the Korean dish on offer. The name of the dish was given to me several times, each time it whistled by in a breeze of short, bouncy syllables. I have since come to learn that the names of Korean dishes are much like something you would hear babble out of Pebbles Flinstone. A shocking contrast to my first oversees experience in Germany. If you tried to talk that fast in that language you would surely either trip and fall or vomit due to the unsustainable diaphragmic convulsions required. The dish I had consisted of a container of rice and a second container of neatly organized pieces of vegetables and beef. Having obviously been painstakingly arranged, I began eating it piece by individual piece. Then came the human connection, she turned to me, began to gesture and speak. The words meant nothing, but she seemed to be motioning to me to mix the rice into the dish. It is very hard to escape your language, no matter how useless it may be. I quite futily responded in english "Oh, should I mix it?"; she responded in Korean. She then helped me, she tore open the package of sesame oil and poured it in, she monitored me as I efficiently mixed my once neatly organized meal into a mass of ricey mush. Somehow we had gotten through it together. And then it dawned on me, isn't that what life is really all about.

Someday I'll actually get to the Korean portion of this thing, but it just takes time.