humans are funny

Category: trains

  • 2009: I love your oddness and all that stuff I did during you.


    Remember that trip I went on? It was that really fun and soul-searching one that had me skipping through Southeast Asia, India, and strange places like Papua New Guinea? Lasted about 9 months?
    It’s over!
    I know it’s been over for a while. I know this.
    But I still can’t believe it. It consumed me for all of 2008 and 2009.
    Now that I’m unemployed again, I’ve had time to reflect on 2010. It’s gone so fast. And furious. Not really furious. But fast. And busy. And where did it all go? I don’t know, but I already miss it. And I miss 2009. And I know I’m not supposed to dwell on the past, but I must indulge, just this one time. This one tiny time. Ok, along with several other times because the past is what brought me to right now, and I’m pretty psyched about right now even though I pretend to complain about it. I wrote this poem on the road. And, now, here is my updated response:

    I miss being a foreigner.
    But it’s nice to talk about grilling and Legos and have people understand.

    I miss being detached from everything.
    But knowing the details makes me feel important.

    I miss having absolutely no responsibility.
    But it feels grown-up to be responsible.

    I miss getting lost on purpose.
    But I secretly love my iPhone GPS.

    I miss monks.
    Yes, actually I really miss monks.

    I miss being able to bargain for every single thing.
    But I don’t miss bargaining for every single thing.

    I miss making instant new friends every day.
    But there’s nothing like sharing wine with old friends.

    I miss trusting total strangers.
    Oh wait, I still do that.

    I miss not knowing what celebrities are doing.
    Why am I obsessed with Spencer and Heidi? Please help.

    I miss being completely unfindable.
    But I also like hiding in my own bed.

    I miss wearing the same thing every day.
    Oh wait, I still do that too.

    I miss the unbridled curiosity about me and my country.
    But it’s nice to walk to a store without anyone asking a question. Sometimes.

    I miss forgetting what day it is.
    I’m pretty sure it’s Thursday.

    I miss not worrying about my career or the future or finances.
    Maybe I should stop doing that now.

    I miss not knowing where I’m going until I step outside.
    But I vow to do that more often.

    I miss big fat meals of stuff I’ve never heard of for three bucks.

    And strong Asian women who want to take me under their wings.

    And reading entire books on long bus trips.

    And real, silent wilderness.

    And trains filled with curious people who share food and smiles.

    And hour-long conversations in the language of hand gestures.

    And I just miss Traveling. I miss the whole damn thing. But I’ll see it again soon.

    For now: Living by the beach & Souplantation it is. I know a few guys here in Venice who speak only in hand gestures anyway, so it’s almost like Traveling.

    Yeah, that’s me in 2009. Me and my friend, The Great Barrier Reef. Now I’m drinking coffee and listening to hipsters talk about their bicycles.

  • Merde-y Moments

    India taught me to live in the moment. If you worry about the crowd of shark-like rickshaw drivers ready to devour you upon arrival, you’ll miss the beauty of the train’s passengers and scenery.

    So, I’ve been doing it– living inside each moment, proud to be noticing a sidewalk’s graffiti rather than worrying whether a cab will ever come.
    But the moments have tricked me! Jerks. They piled up, fighting for my attention, attacking me with French pastries and wine and late night conversations and more French pastries.
    And now, all of a sudden, the moment is here. The moment where I get on a plane and return to my own country. That moment has surprised me, and I don’t like it. I’m not ready.
    “Go away!” I scream.
    But the moment is still here. I am on a train to the airport and a man with a wireless credit card machine is yelling at me for not having a ticket.
    “Go away!” I scream again.
    I close my eyes, but when I open he’s still there! And I’m still on the way to the airport. Merde.
    “Merde!” I yell at him. “There were no signs about a ticket so I’m not paying you fifty euros. Go away.”
    I close my eyes again. Open. Still there. Still on way to plane.
    “Go make some signs,” I yell. I do not like this moment.
    Catalina cannot control laughter as she pays my fine for me. She assures me that the mean fine man will go immediately to his home where he stores extra poster board and will cut out some arrows to make signs.
    I still hate the moment. I am not living in it. I refuse.
    Alas, I find myself at the airline counter. They ask me thousands of questions. They don’t understand why I was in a Muslim country for a month. They think I’m a terrorist. They ask me why I keep closing my eyes and mumbling about signs.
    I prove that I am just a traveler by writing down my email and blog address. All you terrorists out there: just get a blog and you’ll get through customs.
    I guess I get on the plane but I don’t remember because I refused to live in that moment.


    Whose face fits in such a large hole? The French really have a problem with signs.