(The following is one half of an actual telephone conversation overheard at 6 a.m. in the lobby of an undisclosed Motel.)
“Good morning, Red Lion SEA-TAC. John speaking.”
“…”
”For what night?”
“…”
“Ok, and for how many guests?”
“…”
“Two Adults, great. Would you like a Queen-size bed…, two doubles.., twi…”
“…”
“Two doubles, June 7th, no problem. I’ll double check to make sure that’s available. Oh, it looks like we have plenty of rooms available June 7th. How long will you be staying?”
“…”
“Perfect. Two adults, two double beds. Arriving June 7th, departing June 8th. That comes to $89.53 after taxes.”
“…”
“And what name should I make the reservation under?”
“…”
“Thomas. Mrs. Claire Thomas. Great. Looks like it’s all set, I just need to ask you one last question before I finalize the reservation. Mrs. Thomas, are you from the city or from the country?”
“…”
“Are you from the city or from the country?”
“…”
“Oh no, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that we have two types of rooms. Some face the road out front and others face the forest out back. People from the country find that the traffic noise from the road out front keeps them awake at night while people from the city find that the noise from the crickets out back keeps them awake. The elevator sometimes makes a loud chime noise late at night, but that’s only at the South end of the motel. I’ll put you in the North-end.”
“...”
“The country? Excellent. I’ll book you a room on the backside of the North wing. I expect that a few crickets won’t be anything new for you. We don’t want the traffic to keep you awake.”
“…”
“That’s what I thought. Now there is one more thing I must bring to your attention. There is a police firing range just past the forest at rear, but I can assure you that we’ve never had any complaints because the police wait until after lunch to begin shooting.”
“…”
“Oh no, never any problem before. We just like to let people know in advance in case anything comes up, that’s all.”
“…”
“Okay then, your reservation is completed. Two for the 7th.”
“…”
“Happy to assist you today Ma’am.”
copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald
The Moroccan School of Meat
I like to eat. Especially between sunrise and sundown.
You probably know the hollow angry feeling when you go hours without a meal, right? Have you ever observed a smoker who needs a nicotine fix? Okay, imagine not just yourself, but everyone in the city, no, make that everyone in the country, going without food or cigarettes from sunrise to sunset. Now take that vision and throw in some garbage, mud houses and the odd donkey. Welcome to Morocco during Ramadan.
By my second week, I’d managed well enough. An occasional hidden snack here or there, but for the most part the pattern was the same: starve until sundown and then eat like a king. I entered the town square as the sun decided enough was enough and the air-raid siren began to wail, signalling it was now time to put food in your mouth. I was famished. A wonderful smell hit my nose: barbeque. I walked straight up to the vendor, bought a sandwich and I bit in. Finally: food, wonderful food. Nothing could beat barbequed meat after a day spent fasting. I looked over at the vendor with a mouthful of hot meat and asked him: “What kind of meat is in this sandwich?”
“What type of meat? In this sandwich there is heart…and what do you call it, oh yes: fat”
I choked down my feed thinking how, under different circumstances, I would choke up my feed, and left the town square. A row of sheep’s heads smiled at me from the counter of the street side butcher shop and I noticed an official-looking certificate on the exterior wall just behind a long-tailed carcass hanging from a metal hook above the sidewalk. Dog? Likely. A customer brushed up against the skinned beast, allowing the certificate to come into clear view. Despite not being able to read Arabic under normal conditions, my mind was fortified from a heavy dose of heart and fat. I was able to read the certificate clearly. It said:
“The Moroccan School of Meat was established to ensure the quality of meat Morocco-wide. Its rules are few, but well-followed by all purveyors of meat from North to South, East to West.”
Rule 1: Meat must never be refrigerated
Rule 2: A mop and bucket is a labour-intensive cleaning method. A cat is automatic and self-cleaning.
Rule 3: All chicken's feet/heads should be given to dogs. Dogs must march around the city streets proudly showing off their prize before eating.
Rule 4: All meat must be cut on wood. This wood must never be washed. Water and soap may cause the wood to rot, this will make future meat taste bad.
Rule 5: Chickens must be transported live and in an inverted position, held by their legs. If waiting for a bus, the chicken must be allowed to stand with one leg tied to a bicycle or other stationary object.
Rule 6: At least 4 cats must always be present on the street outside every butcher shop.
Rule 7: Public distaste for cow tongue is prohibited.
Rule 8: All blood from animal products must flow out of a butcher's shop, across the sidewalk and into the street on its way to the storm drain. There must be ample room for no less than three thirsty cats or two thirsty dogs.
Rule 9: Heart and fat make a delicious combination.
Rule 10: All meat must be transported through crowded markets and be touched by several children before reaching a butcher shop.
Rule 11: All meat products will be hung from metal hooks over the sidewalk and must be inadvertently bumped by no less than ten people before being sold.
Rule 12: All sheep and/or goat heads must be transported by bicycle.
Rule 13: After arriving by bicycle, all sheep and goat heads must be displayed facing the street upon open-air counter tops with either their tongues hanging out or parsley/assorted garnish jammed between their teeth.
Rule 14: All fish heads must be left on the street in plastic containers. It is a crime for cats to eat fish head. Fish heads must be eaten by kittens.
Rule 15: It is impolite to laugh loudly if a tourist approaches your butcher shop, pointing to a piece of dead animal and asks: "What's this?" Preferably, butchers should emit a small chuckle or a wait-until-they-turn-the-corner 'knee-slapper' outburst.
copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald
You probably know the hollow angry feeling when you go hours without a meal, right? Have you ever observed a smoker who needs a nicotine fix? Okay, imagine not just yourself, but everyone in the city, no, make that everyone in the country, going without food or cigarettes from sunrise to sunset. Now take that vision and throw in some garbage, mud houses and the odd donkey. Welcome to Morocco during Ramadan.
By my second week, I’d managed well enough. An occasional hidden snack here or there, but for the most part the pattern was the same: starve until sundown and then eat like a king. I entered the town square as the sun decided enough was enough and the air-raid siren began to wail, signalling it was now time to put food in your mouth. I was famished. A wonderful smell hit my nose: barbeque. I walked straight up to the vendor, bought a sandwich and I bit in. Finally: food, wonderful food. Nothing could beat barbequed meat after a day spent fasting. I looked over at the vendor with a mouthful of hot meat and asked him: “What kind of meat is in this sandwich?”
“What type of meat? In this sandwich there is heart…and what do you call it, oh yes: fat”
I choked down my feed thinking how, under different circumstances, I would choke up my feed, and left the town square. A row of sheep’s heads smiled at me from the counter of the street side butcher shop and I noticed an official-looking certificate on the exterior wall just behind a long-tailed carcass hanging from a metal hook above the sidewalk. Dog? Likely. A customer brushed up against the skinned beast, allowing the certificate to come into clear view. Despite not being able to read Arabic under normal conditions, my mind was fortified from a heavy dose of heart and fat. I was able to read the certificate clearly. It said:
“The Moroccan School of Meat was established to ensure the quality of meat Morocco-wide. Its rules are few, but well-followed by all purveyors of meat from North to South, East to West.”
Rule 1: Meat must never be refrigerated
Rule 2: A mop and bucket is a labour-intensive cleaning method. A cat is automatic and self-cleaning.
Rule 3: All chicken's feet/heads should be given to dogs. Dogs must march around the city streets proudly showing off their prize before eating.
Rule 4: All meat must be cut on wood. This wood must never be washed. Water and soap may cause the wood to rot, this will make future meat taste bad.
Rule 5: Chickens must be transported live and in an inverted position, held by their legs. If waiting for a bus, the chicken must be allowed to stand with one leg tied to a bicycle or other stationary object.
Rule 6: At least 4 cats must always be present on the street outside every butcher shop.
Rule 7: Public distaste for cow tongue is prohibited.
Rule 8: All blood from animal products must flow out of a butcher's shop, across the sidewalk and into the street on its way to the storm drain. There must be ample room for no less than three thirsty cats or two thirsty dogs.
Rule 9: Heart and fat make a delicious combination.
Rule 10: All meat must be transported through crowded markets and be touched by several children before reaching a butcher shop.
Rule 11: All meat products will be hung from metal hooks over the sidewalk and must be inadvertently bumped by no less than ten people before being sold.
Rule 12: All sheep and/or goat heads must be transported by bicycle.
Rule 13: After arriving by bicycle, all sheep and goat heads must be displayed facing the street upon open-air counter tops with either their tongues hanging out or parsley/assorted garnish jammed between their teeth.
Rule 14: All fish heads must be left on the street in plastic containers. It is a crime for cats to eat fish head. Fish heads must be eaten by kittens.
Rule 15: It is impolite to laugh loudly if a tourist approaches your butcher shop, pointing to a piece of dead animal and asks: "What's this?" Preferably, butchers should emit a small chuckle or a wait-until-they-turn-the-corner 'knee-slapper' outburst.
copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald
Shagadelique
Every year on June 24, the Canadian province of Quebec celebrates its "national" holiday, La Fete de St. Jean Baptiste. Booze is drunk, fireworks are launched and people raise their fist in what is arguably the strongest show of inebriated national pride for any territory on the face of the Earth not officially a nation.
This year, while celebtating St. Jean with hundreds of festive Quebeckers at a raging house party in suburban Montreal, I overheard a friend, Anais, say something to the effect of: "Elle a shagé avec lui, pas plus" (Translation: She shagged him, nothing else.)
Now this piqued my interest. I pushed the dirty shagadelic thoughts of a celebrating Quebecoise from my mind and thought to myself: Did Anais just use "shag" as a French verb? In the past tense? I'm not sure about you, but back in my day, when we learned French in school, they never taught us how to conjuagate the verb "shag." No, in the wonderful French-learning world of english speaking public school, shagging was definitely out of the question. Even in the past tense.
Fast forward to four days later. I'm in New York minding my own business and finishing up the remains of my 99 cent McChicken on the side walk on some quiet street in the West Village when who do I see? None other than the man responsible for a generation of native French speakers who euphemistically describe faire l'amour, Mike Myers.
So, of course, I stroll up to Wayne/Austin/Dr.Evil/Shrek et al, shake his hand, praise his work, get a pic and provide him with a business card for this website. All in all about the most surreal and awkward 60 seconds of my life. Funny how one minute you can be lost in your own thoughts enjoying low-priced processed poulty and suddenly happen across the reason every single person on earth knows every single word to Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. It's not every day you meet a living legend. But some days you do. Or did. There's that past tense again.
Anyhow, Mike's probably the most normal guy I've ever met. Scarily normal. He was even with his wife who stood on the corner, tapped her her toe and checked her watch. Eeerily normal, but in an absolutely unforgettable kind of way.
Did I tell him about his linguistic influence on the masses of Quebec? Alas, no. I forgot. Call me evil if you will, call me not worthy if need be, but remember, be thankful for good old words. That's the beauty with writing words instead of speaking words: Forget to bring up that fun little anecdote about some random overheard french conversation during a chance encounter with a multi-talented pop-culture influencing cathphrase creator? You did! Well then just get yourself in front of a computer and fire the words in there exactly how you imagined. And this time, include the word "alas" without receiving an Austin Powers-strength judo chop from a man wearing a wedding band.
And, be able to write, "You put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong syllABle." while completely alienating all but the hardcore Mike Myers fans.
Mike always puts the right emphasis on the right syllable, even in French.
This year, while celebtating St. Jean with hundreds of festive Quebeckers at a raging house party in suburban Montreal, I overheard a friend, Anais, say something to the effect of: "Elle a shagé avec lui, pas plus" (Translation: She shagged him, nothing else.)
Now this piqued my interest. I pushed the dirty shagadelic thoughts of a celebrating Quebecoise from my mind and thought to myself: Did Anais just use "shag" as a French verb? In the past tense? I'm not sure about you, but back in my day, when we learned French in school, they never taught us how to conjuagate the verb "shag." No, in the wonderful French-learning world of english speaking public school, shagging was definitely out of the question. Even in the past tense.
Fast forward to four days later. I'm in New York minding my own business and finishing up the remains of my 99 cent McChicken on the side walk on some quiet street in the West Village when who do I see? None other than the man responsible for a generation of native French speakers who euphemistically describe faire l'amour, Mike Myers.
So, of course, I stroll up to Wayne/Austin/Dr.Evil/Shrek et al, shake his hand, praise his work, get a pic and provide him with a business card for this website. All in all about the most surreal and awkward 60 seconds of my life. Funny how one minute you can be lost in your own thoughts enjoying low-priced processed poulty and suddenly happen across the reason every single person on earth knows every single word to Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. It's not every day you meet a living legend. But some days you do. Or did. There's that past tense again.
Anyhow, Mike's probably the most normal guy I've ever met. Scarily normal. He was even with his wife who stood on the corner, tapped her her toe and checked her watch. Eeerily normal, but in an absolutely unforgettable kind of way.
Did I tell him about his linguistic influence on the masses of Quebec? Alas, no. I forgot. Call me evil if you will, call me not worthy if need be, but remember, be thankful for good old words. That's the beauty with writing words instead of speaking words: Forget to bring up that fun little anecdote about some random overheard french conversation during a chance encounter with a multi-talented pop-culture influencing cathphrase creator? You did! Well then just get yourself in front of a computer and fire the words in there exactly how you imagined. And this time, include the word "alas" without receiving an Austin Powers-strength judo chop from a man wearing a wedding band.
And, be able to write, "You put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong syllABle." while completely alienating all but the hardcore Mike Myers fans.
Mike always puts the right emphasis on the right syllable, even in French.
Free Lunch
That's the sweater I got from Ben and Judy. I know, amazing. This sweater was my ticket to a free lunch in Boston. How you ask? Ah, it goes a little something like this:
Previous to my encounter with Ben and Judy I'd made an apointment with a fellow named Ezra Dyer in Boston. Ezra's a writer for The Improper Bostonian, Automobile Magazine, Esquire and probably lots of other stuff. He's, like, one of the best funny young writers I've seen yet, totally. Go to his website. It's good: http://www.ezradyer.com
Anyhow, I rolled into town to chat about some stuff with him. I got absolutely rocked on parking. $16 for 90 minutes. It's pretty lame to show up for a lunch meeting without enough cash on hand to pay for your meal, but Ezra eyed the loon sweater and came up with an idea. No, make that a scheme. "Hey, I think I've got an idea. It's win-win. I'll pay for lunch. Here's the deal: we've got a little space that opened up in this issue of the Improper, you wanna come back to the office, take a few pictures and have 85 000 copies of you wearing a loon sweater printed and placed on newsstands for the masses of greater Boston?" Ezra knew a good marketing strategy when he saw it. Twenty minutes later we're back in the offices of the Improper Bostonian making bi-weekly regional magazine history. I didn't get a modeling credit, but the free lunch was more than enough to seal the deal.
There is such a thing as a free lunch, you just need to cloak yourself in waterfowl themed sweaters and get ripped off on parking to get it.
Thanks Ezra, and thank you Mr. Loon.
PS
If anyone's in Boston, hook Ezra up with an iced coffee. He loves 'em.
New England Toque Trick
The first two postcards took six weeks to deliver. My plan was to deliver the next three in a mere six hours. A hat trick. Well, that's how it was supposed to transpire.
Numero Tres:
Think of the most cliché South American Chuck Norris-enticing hilltop drug lord compound you can imagine. Now add a rugged Toyota to your vision. Weston Massachusetts, just west of Boston. I'm not sure if the addressee, 'Rice', earned his money from the cultivation of coca leaves on the hillsides of remote Columbian valleys, or went the legal route, but one thing was certain: Rice had cash. Tennis courts, swimming pool, three car garage, the whole kit. (Actually, I didn't see the swimming pool when I was there, but saw it on the satellite photo when I google-map searched the address. So it's there all right, believe me. It can be seen from space. . I'd give you the address to prove it, but I'd probably put myself into about-to-get-sued-by-high-priced-lawyer territory.) I looked around to make sure Chuck Norris didn't lurk in the trees ready to pounce with a Delta-Force III like attack on the compound. Chuck was either busy filming infomercials for suspect exercise equipment manufacturers or can hide extremely well. I knocked on the door.
"You must be Rice."
"No, I'm her father."
"Oh, I see."
"She's down in New York for the week. I'll let her know you dropped by…"
"Okay."
"Thanks for dropping it off for her."
So Rice was a kid on holiday with her mom in New York City. Dad was on the phone and didn't seem like a chat. Be on the lookout for yet another dodgy piece of exercise equipment hawked by Chuck Norris on Late night TV.
**********************************************
Just over the border into New Hampshire sits the quaint little town of Lee. Lee is fortunate to sit within the state that has 'Live Free of Die' as its motto. 'Live Free or Die', top shelf as far as State mottos go. A bold attention grabbing motto if there ever was one. Apparently Lindsay and Catherine have the same attitude when it comes to postal service. They didn't pay for postage, and proved it by answering the door with their living bodies. Actually, Catherine's daughter, and Lindsay's sister, Brooke, sent the card for them. She lives free too.
Brooke posted the card a few months before on a tip to the Galapagos and Peru. Catherine and Lindsay were excited and surprised to have somebody actually come and deliver their card. Catherine looked over at me, absolutely beaming, "You know, we were at the postcard barrel too, on a separate vacation a few weeks after Brooke. We hoped her postcard would still be there, but I guess somebody took it."
"That'd be me."
"You know what else though? We put another postcard in the barrel with this address on it. We got back here after a month traveling through Ecuador and when we checked the mail, our postcard was already here."
"That sort of takes the fun out of the barrel."
"You can say that again."
That sort of take the fun out of the barrel"
"You don't have to tell me twice. We we're hoping to meet somebody like you!"
"Thank you."
"No, thank you. This was very nice of you."
Maybe they saw me holding my car keys, or the fact that I'd told her twice, but the drop off was short. I was Maine bound after only a few minutes. On the way out of Lee, I noticed a sign that indicated all persons under 18 years of age must wear a seatbelt—State Law. Faced with the choice between living free or certain death, I unclicked my seatbelt. A few minutes later I crossed into Maine and grudgingly buckled up after seeing a sign that said: "Click it or Ticket: Maine State Law. Freedom would need to wait for another day, duty called; there was another postcard to deliver.
***********************************
Now, I really wanted to deliver postcard number five before it got too late. I looked at the address: Standish Maine. I checked the blue digital clock, licked my finger and held it up to test the wind direction, made a quick calculation, and stepped on it. Today's other deliveries were appetizers, this was the Maine course.
Standish appeared through the windshield at 9:30 pm. I made it in record time without hitting a Moose--not that I had any close calls or even saw one, it's just the sort of thing you imagine happening while speeding recklessly through the Pine Tree State at dusk. Never ask for directions in Standish Maine. Gas station, pizza joint, hot dog stand, ice cream shack, you name it. All useless. "I don't know, I don't live here, I just work here." The number of respectable door-knocking minutes left in the day became fewer with each dead-end response. In a last ditch effort I went to the grocery store, cracked open a local street atlas and found the street I needed. About half a mile away. I could get there before it was too late. If I didn't hit a moose.
I rolled up to a darkened house at quarter to eleven. Either nobody was home or they were asleep. Or used reading lights.
If you fold down the back seats, and a 1990 Toyota Corolla station wagon becomes an instant tent. I never thought Maine was cold in June. My sleeping bag sat on the shelf back home. I froze. If you're shorter than 5 foot 10, I'll rent the car for $20 a night--with a pillow. And a toque. It might be chilly.
I woke up with the warm sun around 6:30 am and drove to the house. A man, presumably Ben, stood at the doorway with a warm cup of coffee. I stumbled out of the car into the blinding sunlight, a disheveled toque-clad sleep-deprived wreck still shivering from the cold of the night, "Hi, I've got a postcard addressed to Ben and Judy."
"You got our postcard? Great! We put that in the barrel a few months ago." He extended his arm, we shook hands and said, "I'm Ben, Judy's downstairs." He sized me up and added, "Do you want a coffee?"
"Ben and I are so excited that you actually came here to deliver the postcard!" cried an out of sight voice I took as Judy. She climbed the stairs towards the Kitchen. "We put two postcards in the barrel and the other one, if you can believe it, was mailed to us…" She rounded the bend and took one look at me with the instinct of a caring mother, "You look like you could use some breakfast."
"So, why didn't you show up last night?" said Ben.
"Oh, well I couldn't find your place. Nobody in town knows where your street is. I didn't get here till quarter to eleven. All the lights were out and I didn't want to knock"
"You should've! We were up reading until after eleven. We've got reading lights. You could've slept in the guest house." I bit my lip, recalled my frigid sleep, and as I sat down to a piping hot plate of breakfast, removed the toque from my head in a show of attempted respectability. Judy's jaw dropped as she gazed upon the personal grooming catastrophe upon my head. She put the plate of toast on the table, placed her hands on her hips and shot me a stern motherly smile. "Kyle, would you like a hot shower?"
"Yes." I replied, as if obeying an order.
Breakfast was unbelievable. Warm toast. Warm eggs. Warm bacon. Warm conversation. Hot coffee.
Their house overlooks the most stereotypical Maine landscape you can imagine. A picture perfect lake bordered with pine trees and rolling hills. The same lake that Judy helped clean up a few years back for a project that garnered her a medal of honor from the governor of Maine. Ben takes water samples on nearby rivers as a volunteer. Ben told me great story about a pair of loons he watches cruise around the lake. I looked across the table at Ben's shirt. It featured a picture of a loon on the water with a title: Watchic Lake. I inquired, "Ben, is that Watchic Lake out there?"
"Yes." He replied.
"Is that loon on your shirt the loon you were just talking about?"
"Yes."
This was getting better by the minute. Not only were Ben and Judy hospitable enough to invite me into their lakefront Maine home, Ben wore a t-shirt that showed the waterfowl viewable from his lakefront Maine Home. This was too good to be true. I'd just gone from being a frozen car-raggled scumbag to a guy with a belly full of breakfast in a warm house with two of the friendliest people of all time. As far as freelance postcard delivery goes, this was heaven. I felt like the next thing Judy was going to look over at me and invite me to stay for a week.
"So do you want to stay for a week?", said Judy, without a hint of sarcasm.
"Uh, yes. Of course. Who wouldn't? It's just that I've got to go back home. My girlfriend's got some stuff planned for us this weekend."
"Well, the door is always open. Come back anytime with your girlfriend."
"We will."
Ben looked down at his shirt, then glanced up at me with a smile. "Hey, I think I've got another one of these shirts—would you like one?"
"Yes."
This was heaven.
Judy told me how she grew up in Minnesota, Ben in Connecticut. They met in California and then moved to Maine. Now officially retired, they spend much of their time traveling the globe, checking off places from their personal list. They're the kind of couple airline executives dream about.
Ben came back into the room with a shirt in his hands. "Well, I couldn't find a t-shirt, but I've got a sweatshirt with a loon on it. How does that sound?"
"It sounds like the best thing I've ever heard."
He passed me a nice white sweatshirt that featured, as promised, a loon and the caption: Standish Maine. Judy looked over at me, "Hey, and you won't freeze tonight if you sleep in the car."
"Exactly."
Breakfast was inhaled and Judy and I strolled downstairs. "Here's the shower. Feel free to use our towels." She then gave me a sly look and pointed down the hallway, "And right down there is guest room you could've slept in last night. A heated guest room."
"Next time."
"Yes, next time."
I looked past Judy and saw a map of the world on the wall. The map was absolutely peppered with hundreds of orange pins. Nearly every state was hit, as well as South America, Africa, Asia, everything. It was like a game of RISK and they were winning handily. I turned to Judy and asked, "Are these all the places you've been?"
Judy looked over at me, with her confident sly motherly grin and said, "So far."
Numero Tres:
Think of the most cliché South American Chuck Norris-enticing hilltop drug lord compound you can imagine. Now add a rugged Toyota to your vision. Weston Massachusetts, just west of Boston. I'm not sure if the addressee, 'Rice', earned his money from the cultivation of coca leaves on the hillsides of remote Columbian valleys, or went the legal route, but one thing was certain: Rice had cash. Tennis courts, swimming pool, three car garage, the whole kit. (Actually, I didn't see the swimming pool when I was there, but saw it on the satellite photo when I google-map searched the address. So it's there all right, believe me. It can be seen from space. . I'd give you the address to prove it, but I'd probably put myself into about-to-get-sued-by-high-priced-lawyer territory.) I looked around to make sure Chuck Norris didn't lurk in the trees ready to pounce with a Delta-Force III like attack on the compound. Chuck was either busy filming infomercials for suspect exercise equipment manufacturers or can hide extremely well. I knocked on the door.
"You must be Rice."
"No, I'm her father."
"Oh, I see."
"She's down in New York for the week. I'll let her know you dropped by…"
"Okay."
"Thanks for dropping it off for her."
So Rice was a kid on holiday with her mom in New York City. Dad was on the phone and didn't seem like a chat. Be on the lookout for yet another dodgy piece of exercise equipment hawked by Chuck Norris on Late night TV.
**********************************************
Just over the border into New Hampshire sits the quaint little town of Lee. Lee is fortunate to sit within the state that has 'Live Free of Die' as its motto. 'Live Free or Die', top shelf as far as State mottos go. A bold attention grabbing motto if there ever was one. Apparently Lindsay and Catherine have the same attitude when it comes to postal service. They didn't pay for postage, and proved it by answering the door with their living bodies. Actually, Catherine's daughter, and Lindsay's sister, Brooke, sent the card for them. She lives free too.
Brooke posted the card a few months before on a tip to the Galapagos and Peru. Catherine and Lindsay were excited and surprised to have somebody actually come and deliver their card. Catherine looked over at me, absolutely beaming, "You know, we were at the postcard barrel too, on a separate vacation a few weeks after Brooke. We hoped her postcard would still be there, but I guess somebody took it."
"That'd be me."
"You know what else though? We put another postcard in the barrel with this address on it. We got back here after a month traveling through Ecuador and when we checked the mail, our postcard was already here."
"That sort of takes the fun out of the barrel."
"You can say that again."
That sort of take the fun out of the barrel"
"You don't have to tell me twice. We we're hoping to meet somebody like you!"
"Thank you."
"No, thank you. This was very nice of you."
Maybe they saw me holding my car keys, or the fact that I'd told her twice, but the drop off was short. I was Maine bound after only a few minutes. On the way out of Lee, I noticed a sign that indicated all persons under 18 years of age must wear a seatbelt—State Law. Faced with the choice between living free or certain death, I unclicked my seatbelt. A few minutes later I crossed into Maine and grudgingly buckled up after seeing a sign that said: "Click it or Ticket: Maine State Law. Freedom would need to wait for another day, duty called; there was another postcard to deliver.
***********************************
Now, I really wanted to deliver postcard number five before it got too late. I looked at the address: Standish Maine. I checked the blue digital clock, licked my finger and held it up to test the wind direction, made a quick calculation, and stepped on it. Today's other deliveries were appetizers, this was the Maine course.
Standish appeared through the windshield at 9:30 pm. I made it in record time without hitting a Moose--not that I had any close calls or even saw one, it's just the sort of thing you imagine happening while speeding recklessly through the Pine Tree State at dusk. Never ask for directions in Standish Maine. Gas station, pizza joint, hot dog stand, ice cream shack, you name it. All useless. "I don't know, I don't live here, I just work here." The number of respectable door-knocking minutes left in the day became fewer with each dead-end response. In a last ditch effort I went to the grocery store, cracked open a local street atlas and found the street I needed. About half a mile away. I could get there before it was too late. If I didn't hit a moose.
I rolled up to a darkened house at quarter to eleven. Either nobody was home or they were asleep. Or used reading lights.
If you fold down the back seats, and a 1990 Toyota Corolla station wagon becomes an instant tent. I never thought Maine was cold in June. My sleeping bag sat on the shelf back home. I froze. If you're shorter than 5 foot 10, I'll rent the car for $20 a night--with a pillow. And a toque. It might be chilly.
I woke up with the warm sun around 6:30 am and drove to the house. A man, presumably Ben, stood at the doorway with a warm cup of coffee. I stumbled out of the car into the blinding sunlight, a disheveled toque-clad sleep-deprived wreck still shivering from the cold of the night, "Hi, I've got a postcard addressed to Ben and Judy."
"You got our postcard? Great! We put that in the barrel a few months ago." He extended his arm, we shook hands and said, "I'm Ben, Judy's downstairs." He sized me up and added, "Do you want a coffee?"
"Ben and I are so excited that you actually came here to deliver the postcard!" cried an out of sight voice I took as Judy. She climbed the stairs towards the Kitchen. "We put two postcards in the barrel and the other one, if you can believe it, was mailed to us…" She rounded the bend and took one look at me with the instinct of a caring mother, "You look like you could use some breakfast."
"So, why didn't you show up last night?" said Ben.
"Oh, well I couldn't find your place. Nobody in town knows where your street is. I didn't get here till quarter to eleven. All the lights were out and I didn't want to knock"
"You should've! We were up reading until after eleven. We've got reading lights. You could've slept in the guest house." I bit my lip, recalled my frigid sleep, and as I sat down to a piping hot plate of breakfast, removed the toque from my head in a show of attempted respectability. Judy's jaw dropped as she gazed upon the personal grooming catastrophe upon my head. She put the plate of toast on the table, placed her hands on her hips and shot me a stern motherly smile. "Kyle, would you like a hot shower?"
"Yes." I replied, as if obeying an order.
Breakfast was unbelievable. Warm toast. Warm eggs. Warm bacon. Warm conversation. Hot coffee.
Their house overlooks the most stereotypical Maine landscape you can imagine. A picture perfect lake bordered with pine trees and rolling hills. The same lake that Judy helped clean up a few years back for a project that garnered her a medal of honor from the governor of Maine. Ben takes water samples on nearby rivers as a volunteer. Ben told me great story about a pair of loons he watches cruise around the lake. I looked across the table at Ben's shirt. It featured a picture of a loon on the water with a title: Watchic Lake. I inquired, "Ben, is that Watchic Lake out there?"
"Yes." He replied.
"Is that loon on your shirt the loon you were just talking about?"
"Yes."
This was getting better by the minute. Not only were Ben and Judy hospitable enough to invite me into their lakefront Maine home, Ben wore a t-shirt that showed the waterfowl viewable from his lakefront Maine Home. This was too good to be true. I'd just gone from being a frozen car-raggled scumbag to a guy with a belly full of breakfast in a warm house with two of the friendliest people of all time. As far as freelance postcard delivery goes, this was heaven. I felt like the next thing Judy was going to look over at me and invite me to stay for a week.
"So do you want to stay for a week?", said Judy, without a hint of sarcasm.
"Uh, yes. Of course. Who wouldn't? It's just that I've got to go back home. My girlfriend's got some stuff planned for us this weekend."
"Well, the door is always open. Come back anytime with your girlfriend."
"We will."
Ben looked down at his shirt, then glanced up at me with a smile. "Hey, I think I've got another one of these shirts—would you like one?"
"Yes."
This was heaven.
Judy told me how she grew up in Minnesota, Ben in Connecticut. They met in California and then moved to Maine. Now officially retired, they spend much of their time traveling the globe, checking off places from their personal list. They're the kind of couple airline executives dream about.
Ben came back into the room with a shirt in his hands. "Well, I couldn't find a t-shirt, but I've got a sweatshirt with a loon on it. How does that sound?"
"It sounds like the best thing I've ever heard."
He passed me a nice white sweatshirt that featured, as promised, a loon and the caption: Standish Maine. Judy looked over at me, "Hey, and you won't freeze tonight if you sleep in the car."
"Exactly."
Breakfast was inhaled and Judy and I strolled downstairs. "Here's the shower. Feel free to use our towels." She then gave me a sly look and pointed down the hallway, "And right down there is guest room you could've slept in last night. A heated guest room."
"Next time."
"Yes, next time."
I looked past Judy and saw a map of the world on the wall. The map was absolutely peppered with hundreds of orange pins. Nearly every state was hit, as well as South America, Africa, Asia, everything. It was like a game of RISK and they were winning handily. I turned to Judy and asked, "Are these all the places you've been?"
Judy looked over at me, with her confident sly motherly grin and said, "So far."
Right Hand Man
Gas to get to Shawinigan from Montreal: $10
Small serving of poutine to settle the nerves: $3
Priceless souvenir from the office of the Prime Minister: Well, priceless
“Dom, let’s go and visit the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Good point. Let’s go.”
That’s how it started. August 5, 2003. The dog days of summer were in full effect. We were bored. And hungry. All the best stories stem from indifference and an empty stomach.
We pulled up the office of the Right Honourable Jean Chrétien in Downtown Shawinigan, Quebec. The elevator was broken, so we climbed the stairs to the second storey. Tucked away in a little corner was the office of Jean Chrétien. It was easily the crappiest office I’ve ever seen. It made Money Mart look like a gleaming crystal palace. I loved it. It was perfect. How many world leaders can say they have their home office in a decaying rural strip mall next to a poutine shack? I can’t say I’m the most patriotic flag-waving Canadian of all time, but some things just tug at your heartstrings with national pride.
We entered the office and were greeted with a gleeful “bonjour” by the receptionist. I told her in patchwork French how I’d come all the way across Canada from Vancouver to see the office of the Prime Minister—not his flashy showroom office in Ottawa, but the real deal--the office he’d held for more than four decades. I asked if there was possibly a photo of Mr. Chrétien, perhaps an autographed photo of the Right Honorable maybe lying around the office somewhere for a big fan. She was extremely pleased to have such a proud supporter on the premises and told us to wait a minute, she had the perfect souvenir for us, les vrais supporteurs de Monsieur Chrétien.
She went to the back to find the perfect item that would satisfy our hunger for a nationalistic propaganda party-platform promoting souvenir. I looked over at Dom, “So this is the Prime Minster’s Office. Huh, what do you think?”
“I think it’s weird. Let’s go get some poutine.”
“Yeah, we will, but we’ve gotta get a souvenir first. The receptionist is going to totally hook us up.”
“She’s probably going to find some crappy picture of Jean Chrétien and put it in an envelope. I bet it won’t even be autographed.”
“What? You think?”
“Oh yeah, for sure. She just wants us to get out of here.”
“Dom, I came the entire way across the country to get here, remember? The least we’ll get is an autographed picture. The distance demands it.”
“No way. I guarantee you’ll get shafted. This office demands it.”
“Okay, I bet you a poutine that the picture will be autographed.”
“Oh, you’re on. It’s a deal” As she extended her right hand and added, “That’s about the best thing you’ll find in this building, hot gravy and curd cheese atop a mountain of fries.” I shook her hand and considered the statement. “That may be true, but there’s no way I’m leaving here without a good souvenir. You know what we need? We need an insurance souvenir--something real good that we can ‘borrow’ if we get the shaft and you win the bet.” I winked at her and searched the room with a pair of shifty eyes for the perfect item.
The walls were covered in large framed pictures of the Prime Minister with foreign dignitaries. Mr. Chrétien had met a considerable number of impressive people over the years. The most impressive picture was of Chrétien with Jacques Chirac. A large wood frame encased the timeless picture of Chirac’s right hand met with the right hand of Chrétien. The two elder statesmen had surely met many times over the years, this photo served as a testament to the strength of their personal relationship. Chirac’s grin was massive. He seemed to wink at us.
“Dom, is Chirac winking at us?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a funny face he’s got, that’s for sure.”
I gazed into the penetrating eyes of Chirac. His Gallic features had an uncanny intensity, even for a world leader. My gaze lowered from the framed photo to the desk below. Upon the desk sat a Canadian flag, brand new.
“That’s it!” I said in hushed excitement.
“That’s what?”
“I know what we need to do.”
“What’s that?” She asked in quiet suspense.
“I’m going to take this flag.”
“What? No, you’ll get caught.”
“Dom, I’ve got to, the situation demands it.”
“Kyle, you are not going to steal a flag from the office of the Prime Minister.”
“Just watch me.”
And she did.
The receptionist emerged from the back room with a triumphant smile on her face. “I’ve found you a very nice photo of Monsieur Chrétien. C’est une tres belle photo de lui.” I took the envelope, shook her hand, and said thanks. We went outside and opened the envelope. Sure enough, it was an 8 by 10 photo of Chrétien with his trademark grin. Belle, but sans autograph. Dom looked up at me, “Ha! I told you.”
“Okay, you win the bet, but I’m the one with a Canadian flag from the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Touché”
I paid for the poutine and we made our way back to the car. Dom was happy to fill her stomach, I was happy to make up for the lack of autographed photo.
Later that night, back at our place, Dom and I flicked on the news. Our eyes were met with the sight of Jacques Chirac and Jean Chrétien standing side by side. The President of France stood abreast the Prime Minister of Canada atop the observation tower at La Cité de l'énergie. The observation tower towers over the town of Shawinigan. It stands as a monument to Quebec’s electricity-generating prowess. As the news cameras flashed, we watched Chirac extend his right hand to that of Mr. Chrétien. The flashes increased to strobe-like intensity. Chirac glanced towards the TV cameras and a flash caught his eye, causing him to wink. I looked at the flag, then over at Dom, “Hey Dom?”
“Oui?”
“Is that Chrétien shaking hands with Chirac at the top of La Cité de l'énergie?”
“Oui.”
“In Shawinigan?”
“Oui.”
“Today?”
“Oui.”
I reached my right hand out, grabbed the flag and raised it up to Dom’s nose. A massive grin broke out across my face, “Dom, did we just steal a Canadian flag right from under the nose of the Prime Minster of Canada?”
Well you know what she said.
Copyright © 2005 Kyle MacDonald
Small serving of poutine to settle the nerves: $3
Priceless souvenir from the office of the Prime Minister: Well, priceless
“Dom, let’s go and visit the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Good point. Let’s go.”
That’s how it started. August 5, 2003. The dog days of summer were in full effect. We were bored. And hungry. All the best stories stem from indifference and an empty stomach.
We pulled up the office of the Right Honourable Jean Chrétien in Downtown Shawinigan, Quebec. The elevator was broken, so we climbed the stairs to the second storey. Tucked away in a little corner was the office of Jean Chrétien. It was easily the crappiest office I’ve ever seen. It made Money Mart look like a gleaming crystal palace. I loved it. It was perfect. How many world leaders can say they have their home office in a decaying rural strip mall next to a poutine shack? I can’t say I’m the most patriotic flag-waving Canadian of all time, but some things just tug at your heartstrings with national pride.
We entered the office and were greeted with a gleeful “bonjour” by the receptionist. I told her in patchwork French how I’d come all the way across Canada from Vancouver to see the office of the Prime Minister—not his flashy showroom office in Ottawa, but the real deal--the office he’d held for more than four decades. I asked if there was possibly a photo of Mr. Chrétien, perhaps an autographed photo of the Right Honorable maybe lying around the office somewhere for a big fan. She was extremely pleased to have such a proud supporter on the premises and told us to wait a minute, she had the perfect souvenir for us, les vrais supporteurs de Monsieur Chrétien.
She went to the back to find the perfect item that would satisfy our hunger for a nationalistic propaganda party-platform promoting souvenir. I looked over at Dom, “So this is the Prime Minster’s Office. Huh, what do you think?”
“I think it’s weird. Let’s go get some poutine.”
“Yeah, we will, but we’ve gotta get a souvenir first. The receptionist is going to totally hook us up.”
“She’s probably going to find some crappy picture of Jean Chrétien and put it in an envelope. I bet it won’t even be autographed.”
“What? You think?”
“Oh yeah, for sure. She just wants us to get out of here.”
“Dom, I came the entire way across the country to get here, remember? The least we’ll get is an autographed picture. The distance demands it.”
“No way. I guarantee you’ll get shafted. This office demands it.”
“Okay, I bet you a poutine that the picture will be autographed.”
“Oh, you’re on. It’s a deal” As she extended her right hand and added, “That’s about the best thing you’ll find in this building, hot gravy and curd cheese atop a mountain of fries.” I shook her hand and considered the statement. “That may be true, but there’s no way I’m leaving here without a good souvenir. You know what we need? We need an insurance souvenir--something real good that we can ‘borrow’ if we get the shaft and you win the bet.” I winked at her and searched the room with a pair of shifty eyes for the perfect item.
The walls were covered in large framed pictures of the Prime Minister with foreign dignitaries. Mr. Chrétien had met a considerable number of impressive people over the years. The most impressive picture was of Chrétien with Jacques Chirac. A large wood frame encased the timeless picture of Chirac’s right hand met with the right hand of Chrétien. The two elder statesmen had surely met many times over the years, this photo served as a testament to the strength of their personal relationship. Chirac’s grin was massive. He seemed to wink at us.
“Dom, is Chirac winking at us?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a funny face he’s got, that’s for sure.”
I gazed into the penetrating eyes of Chirac. His Gallic features had an uncanny intensity, even for a world leader. My gaze lowered from the framed photo to the desk below. Upon the desk sat a Canadian flag, brand new.
“That’s it!” I said in hushed excitement.
“That’s what?”
“I know what we need to do.”
“What’s that?” She asked in quiet suspense.
“I’m going to take this flag.”
“What? No, you’ll get caught.”
“Dom, I’ve got to, the situation demands it.”
“Kyle, you are not going to steal a flag from the office of the Prime Minister.”
“Just watch me.”
And she did.
The receptionist emerged from the back room with a triumphant smile on her face. “I’ve found you a very nice photo of Monsieur Chrétien. C’est une tres belle photo de lui.” I took the envelope, shook her hand, and said thanks. We went outside and opened the envelope. Sure enough, it was an 8 by 10 photo of Chrétien with his trademark grin. Belle, but sans autograph. Dom looked up at me, “Ha! I told you.”
“Okay, you win the bet, but I’m the one with a Canadian flag from the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Touché”
I paid for the poutine and we made our way back to the car. Dom was happy to fill her stomach, I was happy to make up for the lack of autographed photo.
Later that night, back at our place, Dom and I flicked on the news. Our eyes were met with the sight of Jacques Chirac and Jean Chrétien standing side by side. The President of France stood abreast the Prime Minister of Canada atop the observation tower at La Cité de l'énergie. The observation tower towers over the town of Shawinigan. It stands as a monument to Quebec’s electricity-generating prowess. As the news cameras flashed, we watched Chirac extend his right hand to that of Mr. Chrétien. The flashes increased to strobe-like intensity. Chirac glanced towards the TV cameras and a flash caught his eye, causing him to wink. I looked at the flag, then over at Dom, “Hey Dom?”
“Oui?”
“Is that Chrétien shaking hands with Chirac at the top of La Cité de l'énergie?”
“Oui.”
“In Shawinigan?”
“Oui.”
“Today?”
“Oui.”
I reached my right hand out, grabbed the flag and raised it up to Dom’s nose. A massive grin broke out across my face, “Dom, did we just steal a Canadian flag right from under the nose of the Prime Minster of Canada?”
Well you know what she said.
Copyright © 2005 Kyle MacDonald
Back from the edge
Back in Montreal today. Buenos Aires to Montreal: 2 flights. 8 Hour layover in Miami.
As we stood in line next to the fuselage waiting to board American Airlines flight 1366 from Miami to Montreal, a group of 'VIP-ish dudes pushed their way to the front of the line, somewhat rudely, but in a 'don't mess with us we're wearing suits and are surrounded by guys wearing security earpieces' type of way. I stood there, in the sweltering South Florida afternoon tarmac heat creeping in from around the entrance to the plane holding a heavy package turning the fingers of my right hand purple and huffed to myself, almost out loud, "Dude, who do you think you are? The president or something? We've been standing here for ten minutes, you think just cause you're sitting in first class you can barge in past the rest of us? Huh?"
The man passed, entourage and all and we got on board and everybody enjoyed a routine flight to Montreal. We got off the plane, walked up the ramp to see the VIPers getting into a planeside limo, cop cars everywhere. "Dom, there's those pushy dudes, looks like the one in the back is the kingpin. Must've screwed up real big, full police escort, the whole kit."
I spotted the Gate attendendant. "Hey, what's that guy who thinks he's president or something?"
"Who that guy?" (pointing) "He's the president of the Dominican Republic."
Close one. Need to remember that one for next time. Think before speaking. Check.
Picture below:
-On the left is A Star Wars special edition medium sized drink cup from Burger King formerly filled with Dr. Pepper.
-On the right is a book entitled Postcards From the Edge, bought from a used bookstore in Cuzco, Peru.
-Both involve Princess Leia (AKA Carrie Fisher) and both were finished by yours truly in Concourse E at Miami International Airport immediately prior to my near public insult of the President of the Dominican Republic. Neither left nor right item involves postcards in any way. While Carrie Fisher does profound justice to the double side-bun hairstyle on the cup, her book fails to live up to its title. Postcards From the Edge involves no postcards, no edge, and most importantly, no double side-bun hairstyles. The book I will write about the Message in a Barrel postcard delivering adventure will attend to each of these very important issues...especially double side-bun hairstyles.
You can take my well-thought-out word for it.
As we stood in line next to the fuselage waiting to board American Airlines flight 1366 from Miami to Montreal, a group of 'VIP-ish dudes pushed their way to the front of the line, somewhat rudely, but in a 'don't mess with us we're wearing suits and are surrounded by guys wearing security earpieces' type of way. I stood there, in the sweltering South Florida afternoon tarmac heat creeping in from around the entrance to the plane holding a heavy package turning the fingers of my right hand purple and huffed to myself, almost out loud, "Dude, who do you think you are? The president or something? We've been standing here for ten minutes, you think just cause you're sitting in first class you can barge in past the rest of us? Huh?"
The man passed, entourage and all and we got on board and everybody enjoyed a routine flight to Montreal. We got off the plane, walked up the ramp to see the VIPers getting into a planeside limo, cop cars everywhere. "Dom, there's those pushy dudes, looks like the one in the back is the kingpin. Must've screwed up real big, full police escort, the whole kit."
I spotted the Gate attendendant. "Hey, what's that guy who thinks he's president or something?"
"Who that guy?" (pointing) "He's the president of the Dominican Republic."
Close one. Need to remember that one for next time. Think before speaking. Check.
Picture below:
-On the left is A Star Wars special edition medium sized drink cup from Burger King formerly filled with Dr. Pepper.
-On the right is a book entitled Postcards From the Edge, bought from a used bookstore in Cuzco, Peru.
-Both involve Princess Leia (AKA Carrie Fisher) and both were finished by yours truly in Concourse E at Miami International Airport immediately prior to my near public insult of the President of the Dominican Republic. Neither left nor right item involves postcards in any way. While Carrie Fisher does profound justice to the double side-bun hairstyle on the cup, her book fails to live up to its title. Postcards From the Edge involves no postcards, no edge, and most importantly, no double side-bun hairstyles. The book I will write about the Message in a Barrel postcard delivering adventure will attend to each of these very important issues...especially double side-bun hairstyles.
You can take my well-thought-out word for it.
Uruguay
That's me enahancing a spectacular Uruguayan sunset with an equally spectacular jacket. Notice the fist. Notice the eagle.
Two down: Montevideo Uruguay
Now for a Geography grad this may surprise you, but before getting to Uruguay I knew only three things about Uruguay:
1:Uruguay is not Brazil
2:Uruguay is not Argentina
3:Homer Simpson once pointed at a map of the world and said "Hee hee! Look at this country!:'You are gay.'"
That's it. Four years spent looking at maps to get a B.A. in Geography and that's all I've got.
"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"Two random people who picked your Uruguayan-addressed postcard out of a barrel on a deserted Pacific island."
"Two random people who picked your Uruguayan-addressed postcard out of a barrel on a deserted Pacific island who?"
"Two random people who picked your Uruguayan-addressed postcard out of a barrel on a deserted Pacific island and can't come up with a punch line cause we're useless in Spanish and you're a 60 year old Uruguayan lady speaking Castellano through an old-scratchy intercom and even if we were standing face to face you'd likely be as confused as us, probably scared to your wits based on my eagle-emblazoned clothing alone."
"Que?"
"Uh....¿habla Ingles?"
Postcard number two. Montevideo Uruguay. The plan was perfect: Spend a month and a half crossing South America from Quito to Montevideo before our plane out of Buenos Aires on May 30th. By then, of course, our Spanish would be polished up to a shine and we'd have a fun afternoon with the postcard's addressee. Problem is, nobody told us that Uruguayans speak Castellano Spanish with a curiously Italian-like accent at a rapid-fire, tongue-rolling velocity that would give an M-16 an inferiority complex. Gone were our days of traveling on Gringo-filled Andean buses to destinations where linguistic inferiority is greeted with encouraging patience. Our Spanish was stretched to its maximum but we were losing the patience of our deliveree second by second. Fast.
There we were, trying to convince Lelia that we were doing her a favor by delivering her mail, not two deranged mumbling psychos taunting her from the street by means of a conveniently-placed intercom box. It took a few hair raising minutes where confusion reigned supreme, but we finally figured out that Lelia's intercom-muffled shrieks of "Quién es?!" were simply a question: "Who sent the postcard?" Lelia gave up on technology, stomped across to the overhanging balcony and hung her head over asking for what was surely 'the last time' before calling the police, "Quién es?!" I glanced at the 'from' address on the postcard, and said meekly, "Andrea?" then looked up to gauge whether to stand or flee. Lelia's face broke out into a grand smile and she cried with delight, "Andrea! Ah!, Esto es bueno....MUY bueno! Si!, Uno minuto, uno minuto." Her face appeared as the door opened. We were met with a joyous but skeptical look as the door was inched open. The armor-piercing Castellano equivalent of "Whoareyoutwo,whatareyoudoinghereandhowdoyouknowAndrea?" shot out of her mouth, hitting my ears with its full brunt. My ears reeled from the verbal onslaught, saying to me in unison, "Well pal, looks like you're on your own with this one, we're outta here, goodnight."
We looked at Lelia, looked down at the postcard, then back at Lelia. "Es un postal(postcard). Andrea. Por tu. Si?"
"YesIknowwhatapostcardisbutwhatIdon'tunderstandiswhyyoutwoarehere, whoyouareandwhatthiaisallabout."
"Si, es bueno. Un postal por tu. Si, Andrea. We don't know her."
"Sowhyisitthatyou'retheonedeliveringthispostcardtome?"
"Uh, well, in this place in the Galapagos there's this barrel and it's, uhhhh, full of postcards, and, uhhh....."
"Que?"
"Well, it's a long story, it involves a barrel, postcards, us, and now...you. I'd like to explain everything. Do you have a minute?"
"No.Ineedtogotothedentist.Now.Youcomebackhereonfridayat4pm ,okay? 4pm.Friday.Here.Bye.Gottago."
"Okay, we'll be back at 4pm on Friday. Here. 2 days from now."
So we killed two days between postcard drop off and meeting. Montevideo isn't the worst place to spend two days. Dollar for dollar, probably one of the cheapest places to eat high-quality meat-based meals on the planet. Favorite meal? Easy. The "Canadiense" (Canadian) is a fine hunk of steak blanketed with a layer of ham, which is topped by a layer of cheese, which is topped with a layer of egg, over easy. The whole contraption is perched atop a mound of fries. Total cost, including half-litre of wine: $3 USD. Heart attacks don't get cheaper than that.
So where were we, oh yes, Lelia's apartment. Friday, May 27th. 4pm.
Either Lelia goes to the slowest dentist of all time, or she'd gone for another dentist appointment just prior to our scheduled meeting, because when we arrived at her apartment for the second time that Friday, her top lip was frozen. She pointed to her stationary top lip and offered, "Dentista, anestésico, es congelado."
I'm not sure if you've ever tried to understand a sexagenarian Uruguayan speak Castellano through an upper lip filled with novocaine, but it isn't exactly the sort of thing I'd recommend after a night spent filling your body with low-price grease-based protein-centric restaurant meals served with astoundingly-cheap wine.
It was rugged, Dom estimated our comprehension somewhere in the 20 percent range. I, being the eternal optimist, put the figure higher, more like 21 percent. Volumes of highly interesting material were lost as words tumbled out of Lelia's half-awake mouth onto our all-asleep ears, but some good bits were gathered, namely, Andrea.
Andrea is Lelia's daughter. She works on a private yacht for some ultra-rich family from Monaco. Andrea left Uruguay 20 years ago for a life on the high seas, working for the big cruise lines out of Miami and the Mediterranean. Lelia misses Andrea like crazy, and was absolutely delighted to hear news from her, any news at all. Andrea dropped the postcard in the Post Office Barrel a few months previous on a trip through the Panama Canal to the Galapagos Islands. She was currently on her way up the West Coast of the U.S. to Alaska. Lelia became quite emotional talking to us about Andrea, not quite Barbara Walters Special emotional, but definitely into Oprah territory. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she described how tough for her it was to have a daughter roaming the earth, far from home. The novocaine began to wear off and her top lip started to tremble as she explained how nice it would be if Andrea spent more time in Uruguay. Just when I thought the dam would burst, Lelia straightened up, looked strong and said with a tight smile, now fully formed, "In December. That is when I will see Andrea again. December."
We hadn't understood much verbally for the better course of an hour, but one thing was clear through the universal language of emotion: Lelia truly missed her daughter. Our postcard delivery stirred up emotions within Lelia ranging from glee, sadness to outright confusion. We waved goodbye to Lelia as she stood at her doorstep with a red scarf blowing in the wind, ready for the future, waiting for the future, needing the future. We promised to stay in touch and send her another postcard, this time from Montreal, by established postal service. Unlike some chance-encounter temporary-travel-acquaintance mail promises, I intend to keep my word on this one. Lelia will get her postcard, and her December.
Above: Envelope for postcard, "To" side
Below: Envelope for postcard, "From" side
Above: Lelia holding picture of Andrea.
Below: Lelia sandwiched between two red shirts: Kyle (with eagle), friend of Lelia (eagle-less).
My Uncle The Agent
“You think he’s stopping for us?” My girlfriend Dominique said, pointing to the car pulled over 500 feet down the road. “Nah, he’s just taking a leak,” I said as the passenger hopped out and did just that.
We were stranded at a piss-poor location on Autoroute A63 just south of Bordeaux, France. The previous ride was a letdown of only ten kilometres that came after a three-hour wait. Our only chance of getting a ride was to convince a passing motorist that we were worthy enough to ruin a faithful marriage with his gas pedal by committing an extra-marital affair with the brake pedal. “Wait, check it out!” I shouted, picking up my backpack. Clearly using his right hand for the call of nature, the man waved his free left hand our way. He’d apparently halted for more than simple roadside relief. Having never been waved at by a urinating man, I assumed the custom was to wave back. I did. He continued his activities with both hands. Leery of taking a ride from somebody so blatantly shameless,fs I looked over at Dom and asked,
“Whatcha think? It’s gonna be these guys or a long wait”
“I don’t know...looks kinda sketchy,” she squinted and watched the man zip up his pants.
“Well, the next ride might be worse. Grab your bag.”
When hitchhiking, it’s smarter to err on the side of caution when accepting a ride. It’s better to be stuck somewhere than take a suspicious ride. Having said that, each ride is sized up according to your current situation. When you’ve got slim pickings, you take what you can get. “Bonjour,” said the passenger in Portuguese-flavoured French as we approached the two-tone Peugeot. Top burgundy, bottom rust. “Bonjour,” we said as he offered his right hand. I weighed hospitality versus hygiene and hesitatingly returned the gesture. Hygiene could wait -- we had ground to cover. We peeked in the window of the car. A moustached driver sat in the front seat holding the collar of a growling white pit bull. “Do not mind him. My dog is a friendly friend.” as the dog tried its best to eat his way through the passenger window. Gesturing towards our backpacks with his now-famous right hand, the passenger offered, “Give me your sacs. I will put them in the trunk, no?” “No, It’s okay. We will sit beside them in the back seat.”
“Mais no! There will be better comfort if you use the trunk. I insist!”
“No really, we’re cool with them between us. No problem.”
The driver screamed at the passenger in broken Portuguese/French, visibly upset at our refusal to place our bags in the trunk. I sensed this was a huge problem bringing our bags into the car. The passenger explained, “My uncle wants to show you our hospitality by placing your sacs in the trunk. There is no room in the car for your backpacks. He insists”
Granted, the bags would take up a fair bit of room in the tiny car, but I was much more keen to be sitting beside my backpack than having it in the trunk. If our stuff was in the trunk, the driver could simply speed away from us when we got out of the vehicle, leaving us in the dust without any of our belongings. The ride was dicey enough as it was. I put the ride in jeopardy by giving the driver an ultimatum. “No, we will bring our bags in the car with us. If you will not let us do that, we will not take your ride.”
The driver argued with the passenger briefly again, raised his hand in defeat, and motioned to the tiny rear seat.
“O.K., but it is then your discomfort, not mine!” He said, in disbelief of our priority for backpack security over back seat comfort. Comfort could wait, we had ground to cover.
“On y va” choked the driver as he stood on the gas pedal and lit the cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth. The vehicle lurched onto the highway with us wedged into the rear seat upholstered in shedded dog hair. The passenger rolled a joint with his right hand and held back the snapping pit bull with his left.
“Friendly dog, non?”
“Non”, I thought.
Running on a set of what was surely oval-shaped tires, the car shook violently as we picked up speed. As the speedometer nudged past 165km/h, the plastic dashboard couldn’t hold on any longer. It leapt from its moorings and cleared the steering wheel and the dog, landing on the two men’s laps. The driver recoiled forcefully causing the back of his seat to snap off its supports, and fall onto my lap. The dog barked and the passenger looked for his dropped joint. Traveling at more than one hundred miles an hour in a vehicle visibly held together by duct tape with a dog barking, a man looking for a burning joint and a reclined driver against my stomach, I glanced quickly over at Dom. The look on her face confirmed our suspicions: “Pot laced with crack? -- Check.” Without slowing, the driver miraculously grabbed the dashboard from the jaws of the hungry pitbull and refastened it while the passenger triumphantly held up his undamaged, lit joint. The seat was deemed beyond repair and rested on my knees. My legs began to fall asleep and the men posed the four questions asked to every hitchhiker:
“Where are you going?”
“What are your names?”
“Where are you from?”
“Do you want to smoke?”
Declining free drugs for the tenth time in as many days, Dom replied in Quebecois French “We’re from Canada.” This answer brought the strongest reaction from the men.
“Ahhh, foreigners.” they replied in unison, “It is not easy for us foreigners to hitch-hike in France. The driver looked at us in the cracked rear-view mirror “We are from Portugal. We know the difficulty of finding a ride in France. A Spanish man or a Portuguese man? He will pick you up. But a French man? Never. I will find you a Portuguese man”
It was settled then. We had ourselves an agent.
“We are going a different direction from where you are going, but my uncle will make a detour for you.” Said the passenger, looking at his uncle with admiration.
I quickly offered, “Nah, that’s okay, we can get out at the junction up ahead and find another ride there.” “No. I will go further in your direction,” replied the driver sternly.
When a drug-induced duo toting a hungry pitbull insist on making a detour for you, two thoughts run through your mind: They might be on a happy ‘high’ or they are about to tie you up and steal all of your stuff. You will either soon be waving goodbye to your driver reflecting on their generosity or you will be soon be standing on the side of the road in a foreign country possessing little more than the dirty pair of underwear you have on.
The driver, correction, our agent added, “We will take you to a rest area and I will find you a ride” Dominique and I exchanged glances. We might be lucky enough to leave the car with our backpacks but we knew first-hand the difficulty of getting rides at rest areas. The previous month, we spent the better part of a day stranded at a rest area south of Munich. Still in the grips of twitching hangovers from five days at Oktoberfest, we passed the morning with our thumb extended towards German-engineered vehicles attempting to break the sound barrier. Fetching little more than a sore arm, we changed our tactics for the afternoon by canvassing the picnic tables, bargaining for a ride with sausage-eating Bavarians. Nobody gave us a lift. We ended up taking a taxi to the next town. Based on our unsuccessful rest-area experience soliciting rides from lederhosen-clad ‘Shumachers’ bound for the Alps, our future seemed dismal.
The wounded Peugeot limped into the absolutely worst place to be stranded: A deserted tree-lined rest area. No toilets, no food outlets and worst of all, no stopped vehicles. The wall of trees made it impossible to indicate our ride-seeking intentions to passing motorists. Our hearts sank, but as we followed a bend around a thick grove of trees, a large tractor-trailer truck with an encircled letter ‘P’ on the rear bumper came into view. A man sat beside the truck eating a bagged lunch. Our agent exclaimed energetically “Portuguese! Portuguese!” Obviously excited about finding the promised Portuguese driver, he brought the car to a quick shuddering stop and used all his might to pull his hefty body from his demolished seat.
The agent strode confidently towards the trucker, winking back at us. The two men acknowledged each other like old friends and the agent took on the persona of a professional negotiator. The case was pleaded for giving us a ride South and the trucker seemed to offer little resistance, looking in our direction and nodding frequently. Amazed by the agent’s comfort under ad-libbed third-party hitchhike negotiating, Dominique observed and whispered quietly, “It looks like he’s talking to his uncle!” The two men shook hands. The agent called us over.
As we approached, the agent took on a serious look and motioned to the truck driver: “I have kept my promise. I have found you a Portuguese man. Now you must promise me something.”
“Sure, what is it?” I asked, hoping he didn’t want our backpacks as a signing bonus.
“You must promise me only one thing.” Pointing his finger at us to drive the point home. “You must promise me that you will go to Portugal!” His face broke out in a wide grin. “This man will take you there,” gesturing to the nodding truck driver stuffing his face with a baguette.
We assured the agent that we would keep our promise and visit his homeland. We shook hands to seal the deal and moments later we waved goodbye as our agent and his nephew started out of the rest area in a whirlwind of blue-smoke. After brushing the last traces of dog hair off our backpacks, we turned our attention to the amused-looking truck driver. He sat there, finished his bread and shook his head as if in disbelief at our agent’s negotiating prowess. He cleared his throat, pointed towards the fleeting Peugeot and said in flawless French:
“He seems like a nice man, your uncle”
copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald
We were stranded at a piss-poor location on Autoroute A63 just south of Bordeaux, France. The previous ride was a letdown of only ten kilometres that came after a three-hour wait. Our only chance of getting a ride was to convince a passing motorist that we were worthy enough to ruin a faithful marriage with his gas pedal by committing an extra-marital affair with the brake pedal. “Wait, check it out!” I shouted, picking up my backpack. Clearly using his right hand for the call of nature, the man waved his free left hand our way. He’d apparently halted for more than simple roadside relief. Having never been waved at by a urinating man, I assumed the custom was to wave back. I did. He continued his activities with both hands. Leery of taking a ride from somebody so blatantly shameless,fs I looked over at Dom and asked,
“Whatcha think? It’s gonna be these guys or a long wait”
“I don’t know...looks kinda sketchy,” she squinted and watched the man zip up his pants.
“Well, the next ride might be worse. Grab your bag.”
When hitchhiking, it’s smarter to err on the side of caution when accepting a ride. It’s better to be stuck somewhere than take a suspicious ride. Having said that, each ride is sized up according to your current situation. When you’ve got slim pickings, you take what you can get. “Bonjour,” said the passenger in Portuguese-flavoured French as we approached the two-tone Peugeot. Top burgundy, bottom rust. “Bonjour,” we said as he offered his right hand. I weighed hospitality versus hygiene and hesitatingly returned the gesture. Hygiene could wait -- we had ground to cover. We peeked in the window of the car. A moustached driver sat in the front seat holding the collar of a growling white pit bull. “Do not mind him. My dog is a friendly friend.” as the dog tried its best to eat his way through the passenger window. Gesturing towards our backpacks with his now-famous right hand, the passenger offered, “Give me your sacs. I will put them in the trunk, no?” “No, It’s okay. We will sit beside them in the back seat.”
“Mais no! There will be better comfort if you use the trunk. I insist!”
“No really, we’re cool with them between us. No problem.”
The driver screamed at the passenger in broken Portuguese/French, visibly upset at our refusal to place our bags in the trunk. I sensed this was a huge problem bringing our bags into the car. The passenger explained, “My uncle wants to show you our hospitality by placing your sacs in the trunk. There is no room in the car for your backpacks. He insists”
Granted, the bags would take up a fair bit of room in the tiny car, but I was much more keen to be sitting beside my backpack than having it in the trunk. If our stuff was in the trunk, the driver could simply speed away from us when we got out of the vehicle, leaving us in the dust without any of our belongings. The ride was dicey enough as it was. I put the ride in jeopardy by giving the driver an ultimatum. “No, we will bring our bags in the car with us. If you will not let us do that, we will not take your ride.”
The driver argued with the passenger briefly again, raised his hand in defeat, and motioned to the tiny rear seat.
“O.K., but it is then your discomfort, not mine!” He said, in disbelief of our priority for backpack security over back seat comfort. Comfort could wait, we had ground to cover.
“On y va” choked the driver as he stood on the gas pedal and lit the cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth. The vehicle lurched onto the highway with us wedged into the rear seat upholstered in shedded dog hair. The passenger rolled a joint with his right hand and held back the snapping pit bull with his left.
“Friendly dog, non?”
“Non”, I thought.
Running on a set of what was surely oval-shaped tires, the car shook violently as we picked up speed. As the speedometer nudged past 165km/h, the plastic dashboard couldn’t hold on any longer. It leapt from its moorings and cleared the steering wheel and the dog, landing on the two men’s laps. The driver recoiled forcefully causing the back of his seat to snap off its supports, and fall onto my lap. The dog barked and the passenger looked for his dropped joint. Traveling at more than one hundred miles an hour in a vehicle visibly held together by duct tape with a dog barking, a man looking for a burning joint and a reclined driver against my stomach, I glanced quickly over at Dom. The look on her face confirmed our suspicions: “Pot laced with crack? -- Check.” Without slowing, the driver miraculously grabbed the dashboard from the jaws of the hungry pitbull and refastened it while the passenger triumphantly held up his undamaged, lit joint. The seat was deemed beyond repair and rested on my knees. My legs began to fall asleep and the men posed the four questions asked to every hitchhiker:
“Where are you going?”
“What are your names?”
“Where are you from?”
“Do you want to smoke?”
Declining free drugs for the tenth time in as many days, Dom replied in Quebecois French “We’re from Canada.” This answer brought the strongest reaction from the men.
“Ahhh, foreigners.” they replied in unison, “It is not easy for us foreigners to hitch-hike in France. The driver looked at us in the cracked rear-view mirror “We are from Portugal. We know the difficulty of finding a ride in France. A Spanish man or a Portuguese man? He will pick you up. But a French man? Never. I will find you a Portuguese man”
It was settled then. We had ourselves an agent.
“We are going a different direction from where you are going, but my uncle will make a detour for you.” Said the passenger, looking at his uncle with admiration.
I quickly offered, “Nah, that’s okay, we can get out at the junction up ahead and find another ride there.” “No. I will go further in your direction,” replied the driver sternly.
When a drug-induced duo toting a hungry pitbull insist on making a detour for you, two thoughts run through your mind: They might be on a happy ‘high’ or they are about to tie you up and steal all of your stuff. You will either soon be waving goodbye to your driver reflecting on their generosity or you will be soon be standing on the side of the road in a foreign country possessing little more than the dirty pair of underwear you have on.
The driver, correction, our agent added, “We will take you to a rest area and I will find you a ride” Dominique and I exchanged glances. We might be lucky enough to leave the car with our backpacks but we knew first-hand the difficulty of getting rides at rest areas. The previous month, we spent the better part of a day stranded at a rest area south of Munich. Still in the grips of twitching hangovers from five days at Oktoberfest, we passed the morning with our thumb extended towards German-engineered vehicles attempting to break the sound barrier. Fetching little more than a sore arm, we changed our tactics for the afternoon by canvassing the picnic tables, bargaining for a ride with sausage-eating Bavarians. Nobody gave us a lift. We ended up taking a taxi to the next town. Based on our unsuccessful rest-area experience soliciting rides from lederhosen-clad ‘Shumachers’ bound for the Alps, our future seemed dismal.
The wounded Peugeot limped into the absolutely worst place to be stranded: A deserted tree-lined rest area. No toilets, no food outlets and worst of all, no stopped vehicles. The wall of trees made it impossible to indicate our ride-seeking intentions to passing motorists. Our hearts sank, but as we followed a bend around a thick grove of trees, a large tractor-trailer truck with an encircled letter ‘P’ on the rear bumper came into view. A man sat beside the truck eating a bagged lunch. Our agent exclaimed energetically “Portuguese! Portuguese!” Obviously excited about finding the promised Portuguese driver, he brought the car to a quick shuddering stop and used all his might to pull his hefty body from his demolished seat.
The agent strode confidently towards the trucker, winking back at us. The two men acknowledged each other like old friends and the agent took on the persona of a professional negotiator. The case was pleaded for giving us a ride South and the trucker seemed to offer little resistance, looking in our direction and nodding frequently. Amazed by the agent’s comfort under ad-libbed third-party hitchhike negotiating, Dominique observed and whispered quietly, “It looks like he’s talking to his uncle!” The two men shook hands. The agent called us over.
As we approached, the agent took on a serious look and motioned to the truck driver: “I have kept my promise. I have found you a Portuguese man. Now you must promise me something.”
“Sure, what is it?” I asked, hoping he didn’t want our backpacks as a signing bonus.
“You must promise me only one thing.” Pointing his finger at us to drive the point home. “You must promise me that you will go to Portugal!” His face broke out in a wide grin. “This man will take you there,” gesturing to the nodding truck driver stuffing his face with a baguette.
We assured the agent that we would keep our promise and visit his homeland. We shook hands to seal the deal and moments later we waved goodbye as our agent and his nephew started out of the rest area in a whirlwind of blue-smoke. After brushing the last traces of dog hair off our backpacks, we turned our attention to the amused-looking truck driver. He sat there, finished his bread and shook his head as if in disbelief at our agent’s negotiating prowess. He cleared his throat, pointed towards the fleeting Peugeot and said in flawless French:
“He seems like a nice man, your uncle”
copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald
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