The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

The Caribbean was one of the first places I visited abroad. (The first was Toronto, Canada, but I don’t count that trip because I’ve been given honorary Canadian citizenship by the Happy Couple, eh.) But I loved it so much that I gave myself honorary Caribbean Island citizenship. It is all-encompassing and applies to every island regardless of the country to which each respective one belongs. I didn’t go so far as to create fictitious passports—that would be something a crazy person would do—but I have started wearing a conch-shell bra and a Rasta hat. The bra chafes, but the hat works well enough except when the temperature peaks above 75 F.

Guana Island, Tortola

Researching Caribbean islands both obscure and those inundated by the masses has become one of my travel-related past times. I’ve found many islands that are completely uninhabited and touched by man’s littering, territory-marking ways. I’ve read about several, but have visited only a few of these precious gems—one in the Dominican Republic and the other in Turks & Caicos. Visitors can get lost literally and figuratively, in the beauty, which is why head counts are of great importance for tour guides…but that’s another topic for another time.

Nicolas Cage likes the Caribbean so much, he bought one of these uninhabited islands, which is one of many reasons why he’s financially screwed. (According to a Huffington Post article, he also owns a couple mansions in New Orleans, a couple castles in Europe, multiple homes across the U.S. including in Las Vegas, Malibu, Rhode Island…the list goes on; paid half-a-million smackers for a Lamborghini owned by the Shah of Iran, etc. and blah di blah, blah.) No worries, Nick—knock out a couple more bad movies and you’ll be back in the game. (I digress, but only because I was in awe of the number of ostentatious purchases that came from one pocketbook.)

When my millions land in the bank, I probably won’t buy an island, but will strongly consider purchasing a significant chunk of one upon which I will perch a thatch hut—houses in the Caribbean don’t have a long life expectancy. My furnishings will include a hammock, one of those twitchy “Don’t worry, be happy” singing fish and a garden hose rigged for a shower. Until then, I am applying to become Johnny Depp’s groundskeeper for Little Halls Pond Cay, a 45-acre Bahamian island he purchased in 2004 for $3.6 million. I would comb his beach any day.

Little Halls Pond Cay—Johnny Depp's sizable sandbar

Bill Gates and Eddy Murphy also own islands because, well, because they can. At the rate the rich and famous are gobbling up islands, I’m surprised any are left for the native inhabitants and the bourgeois visitors.

But there are islands left—ones that beg to be explored and appreciated. I hear that call and will do my damnedest to comply. Oh, sweet Caribbean, I’m coming for you.

I wasn’t sure what to expect given that every day in Hollywood is like Halloween. I imagined a scene akin to the Gay Pride Parade combined with costumes from all of the annoying reality television shows that are all the rage. I imagined drunken revelry, public indecency and angry Jehovah’s witnesses trying to save us all with Sharpy-scrawled messages on placards. I imagined conflagrations aplenty. I was correct on many counts (save for the fire), but oh, there was so much more at the West Hollywood Halloween Carnival 2009 and beyond…

Father Pervy and The Naked Cowboy. Giddyup

(The real Naked Cowboy looks more like a blonde Billy Ray Cyrus…oh, and he sells t-shirts, CDs and hand-painted guitars…of course he does.)

Our group consisted of M the jailbird, Deutsch as Father Pervy (and yes, those are fishnets) and Christine and Joey as Yoko and John. With road pops in hand, we made our way to the Halloween Carnival on the portion of Santa Monica blocked off for the party. It’s best that I not describe what I saw, but rather share with you visual aids. Only then can you fully appreciate the bevy of costumes and the creativity of the crazy Halloween-goers in LA LA.

Scrabble innuendo

The male Latino version of Amy Winehouse

Yoko and John -WAR IS OVER!

One pair of about 2 million gay-shas at the carnival

Sassy jailbird M guilty of? Breakin' hearts...

Trained killer extraordinaire (i.e., me) wielding foam nun chucks

I also had a plastic sword that I kept dropping every 20 steps and overall, misplaced my weaponry on a regular basis. My inability to keep these items close was one of the reasons why I was deemed The Worst Ninja Ever. One of the other reasons was because I ran from a perverted priest (yes, there were others on the loose besides Father Pervy) who chased me down the sidewalk with his vestments pulled to his waist. All I could hear was the Jailbird’s voice, “Run, Ninja, run!” And so I did.

However, I did have a few moments of sword play with other ninjas and a few samarai whether they wanted to or not, I climbed and trimmed trees and I had all of my accoutrement in hand when I came home on Saturday night..or rather early Sunday morning. Kudos to The Best Ninja Ever.

Non sequitur

As we were driving down Santa Monica, M asked me if Halloween in Chicago is anything like the spectacle in LA. The answer? Nope, not even close. The droves of people combing the streets and bars were nothing like Chicago where people dress up, but aren’t quite as religious about it. That, and it was 70 degrees, which tends to make people more apt to play than the gray, 40-degree weather in Chicago. Ah, it’s good to finally be free of my Vitamin D deficiency compliments of a glorious sun and the Swiss cheese-esque ozone.

So my first Halloween in LA was festive, fun and I was able to wear the ninja costume that I love so much. In fact, if there wasn’t a risk of being institutionalized and subjected to electroshock therapy, I’d dress like a ninja every day—even Christmas.

I received some disturbing news last night—Bob and Dav-eed, two of my Chicago gays, were abducted and held captive by the Puerto Vallarta police. For 500 pesos, they were able to buy their freedom. Obviously, they weren’t interested in staying any longer in the same city as their Federali captors, so they booked the first flight back to Chicago. They are both understandably traumatized; Bob told me at one point, he really believed he and Dave were going to be killed.

They’ve agreed to write a post detailing what happened. But, I wanted to write about it in advance to warn anyone planning a trip to Mexico that the danger of abduction is quite real. You can find travel warnings for foreign countries at the following site: http://travel.state.gov/travel/cis_pa_tw/cis_pa_tw_1168.html.

Stark news aside…I’m on a frantic dash to find a Halloween costume. What does this have to do with travel? Absolutely nothing, unless you count the trip I’m making to the Halloween parade on Santa Monica. Pictures to come. And now, to find a ninja suit somewhere in Hollywood.

When I traveling home to see my parents, it’s no easy feat; nor is it cheap. I’ve often lamented the fact that for the same cost of an airline ticket to Dodge City, I could purchase one to several different cities in Europe, e.g., Amsterdam, Milan, Frankfurt…you get the idea.

This pains me.

But, I love my parents and they derive much joy from filial visits. With that in mind, I grit my teeth, shell out a ridiculous amount of cash (most of it spent on the puddle jumper flight from Denver to Dodge City—go figure) and take one for the team (Teamwork makes the dream work! she says while flaunting jazz hands).

I had come to terms with this expense, accepting it as part of my holiday season…until this year. I heard a news report stating that airline tickets for the 2009 holidays were going to be more expensive than usual, but I had no idea that airlines were going to start charging enough to buy a new plane per passenger. (Besides, I think I heard it on FOX, so I didn’t believe it.)

When I began researching prices, I felt more than a little violated after seeing an increase of $200. Airlines stated that fewer flights and fewer travelers were the cause of the increase. I call bullshit. It’s not enough that many airlines are charging for bag check and that they charge for both headphones and food. No, no, they want more. But where does it stop? Will those traveling soon be required to hand over their scalp, body parts and children? Oy.

I am going home for Christmas, but it won’t be via Dodge City. Instead, I’ve opted for a flight to Wichita and a three-hour ride in my sister’s minivan, which will be big fun—she always brings the beer.

The Web sites where I find the cheapest airfare for the U.S. are Kayak, Expedia, Cheap Tickets and Travelocity.

Venice Sunset

Ah, traveling. When I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it—where I want to go, how to get there, sometimes even questioning why. In my spare time, I plan trips all over the world to the last detail including reference checks of tour companies specializing in destinations where I prefer not to travel solo. Africa is on that list and is my next adventure. (Travel dates to come, depending on how much money I make between the lemonade stand and plasma sales. Anyone need a surrogate?) I planned my trip with no time or financial constraints in mind because otherwise, what’s the point of an imagination?

My itinerary is roughly this: A flight into Capetown where I spend a few days exploring. Next, imbibing in wine country and a leisurely tour of the Garden Route, which will take maybe a bit longer than one week. From Cape Town, I join a safari tour that includes the sand dunes in the Namib Desert; watching wildlife from the safety of a very well equipped jeep (including a full tank of gas and maybe some raw meat to distract a critter that might be interested in me as a meal); and white-water rafting in Victoria Falls. Those are highlights on my safari, but I’m willing to incorporate other destinations as long as the mosquito spray and netting both hold out.

But wait, there’s more. Next, I fly to Bazaruto, an archipelago off the coast of Mozambique, for a week of exploration and diving in its unspoiled waters and coral reefs.

Bazaruto, Mozambique

In my imagination, the sharks are friendly and speak fluent English, but with a British accent. They take me diving because I grow gills under water. While I’m there, I snag Clive Owen as my husband. Erin Owen…kind of rolls off the tongue with a lilt.

(Sure the photos look as though we are in separate milieus, but I can assure you, he was staring right at me when he popped the question.)

Enroute home to the States, I’ll stop in London to see a few friends I made while I was on walkabout. There, I’ll let the arrows painted on the street guide my gaze so that I don’t get smacked by a car. Going tits up isn’t on the agenda just yet—I still have myriad trips yet to take.

For current travel information about Africa, I like the Go2Africa e-newsletter. The information covers the entire continent including safari tour companies, lodging, hotel, guides, maps, etc. If you are looking for a reputable safari tour operator, Go2Africa.com is a great place to start your research.

When undertaking a marathon travel extravaganza—the kind that requires you to pack clothes for two different seasons, cancel car insurance and relinquish worldly goods to a storage company whose employees may be rifling through the box marked “Panties”—it helps to plan ahead. But a fine line exists between being organized and anal retentive. I prefer spontaneity over having every minute of my vacation scheduled on an Excel spreadsheet. But that’s just me.

When I left for Europe, I booked hotels for the first four cities in which I was to stay before leaving the States. It worked out well enough, but I would have preferred to extend my stay at a few places. But because I had already booked and partially paid for the hotel in the next city, it wasn’t financially feasible. So, I opted to book on the fly.

I used Venere for the majority of my hotel reservations because it is the most reliable Web site and it is easy to use. It lists amenities, patron reviews and a map so that you can see in what part of the city a hotel is located. I wasn’t crazy about the full pre-paid option though only because my schedule seemed to always change at the last minute. Also, if you are in need of a certain amenity, oh, say wi-fi, call the hotel to ensure it exists. There were several hotels in Italy that, upon arrival, didn’t have what had been promised. Yeah, try finding an Internet cafe in Rome at 10 p.m.—not fun. (On an aside, if you are in search of inexpensive lodgings in Florence, Hotel Monica is tremendous). To get an idea about customer service, check the hotel’s reviews on other Web sites such as Trip Advisor, Orbitz or EasyToBook.com.

Cross-referencing site reviews worked most of the time for me with the exception of the tick-infested bed at Hotel Alessandra in Palermo. For the record, Lyme disease wasn’t on its list of amenities. Also, be advised that the star-rating system used in the States doesn’t apply to European hotels—a four-star hotel there might be a two- or three-star hotel here, unless you opt to stay at a chain such as Marriott. Anyway, those are a few lessons I learned. If even one of my suggestions helps you avoid pestilence or a rude ass at the front desk, then my work is done here.

Travel and be well.

Drinks with the Hungarian Eurail crew

My first trip abroad totaled nine days for which I brought a suitcase roughly the size of me. I calculated and figured that 15 wardrobe changes per day sounded about right and, of course, each outfit required a specific pair of shoes. Well, throughout my trip I used about one-quarter of the crap stuffed in my Samsonite U-Haul, exerting valuable energy hauling it around that could have been used to tip pints. The only upside was that it had wheels; unlike my backpack, which I learned to detest after carrying the albatross around Europe for two-and-a-half months.

I hadn’t pondered my suitcase/backpack conundrum since my return in August. That is, until I received a press release for a motorized suitcase with a giant fluorescent handle called Live Luggage. I suppose it is to the travel sloth what the Little Rascal is to the person who hates walking. But still, I can see myself embracing this bit of technology (after selling plasma for 2 years—see price below).

The Classic Series is a hard case made of the same material as a car bumper. Probably not even the luggage handlers at the airport could destroy it, though they’d give it a damned fine attempt. The Hybrid Bag is my preference because it has both an overnight bag and a laptop bag that zip on the front. But this is the fun part—they can be removed easily and zipped together to make one carry-on. Deeee-lightful. I would no longer have to frantically stuff one bag into another already overstuffed bag in the security line when I realize I have one carry-on too many. (This usually happens when my flight is scheduled for 8 a.m. or earlier).

Anyway, both product lines feature the same motorized function which activates when sensors detect a curb or a gradient. The price seems exorbitant to me though—probably because I’m a freelance writer whose druthers is to maintain a tolerance to vodka rather than invest in a wheeley case. One could buy the better part of a KIA for the price—395 pounds. To those of us relying on the stellar dollar, the conversion is $645.28. Like I said, the better part of a KIA…or an entire Yugo.

Even though I just came back from a two-and-a-half month walkabout through Europe, I’m craving yet another adventure. Sure, it took well over a month to detox from that trip—I’ve been hard-pressed to leave my very small area of Hollywood, save for one train ride. But I’m a homebody (so to speak) no more. My nomadic side is emerging again and I’m pining for a trip to Borneo, Australia, Bhutan, Cook Islands—anywhere I’ve never been before. Shake your heads all you want—it doesn’t hurt to dream. Never did I think the universe would hand me the opportunity to traverse Europe from North to South and a lot in between in one trip.

When I get the opportunity to travel extensively again there are a few things I would do differently. I would stay longer than four days in any given city. In fact, I would pick just one, rent an apartment and stay for a month or two or three. I would bring packets of oatmeal (there is a surprising shortage of it in Europe). I would take time to see the city’s surrounding areas. I would drink more of the local wine (unless it sucked horribly). I would take more photos of the locals. I would try all the local cuisine, except for anything brain-based. I would invite my Mom to stay—for awhile, anyway. I would sit in more cafes and read more books. I would buy a roundtrip airline ticket—then again, maybe not. I would bring more books written in English—again with the shortage. I would write. I would study the language, or at the very least, the culture. I would seek out more local shops. I would smile more on the outside, even if the hand gesture is rude beyond belief. I would Skype my friends more. I would be.

Chicken skin

There was much drama at Hotel Alessandra (Palermo) last night. I awoke around midnight because I felt something crawling on my person. I didn’t freak too badly until I flicked on the light and saw two ticks—yes, bloodsucking beasts that wanted to eat my life force—crawling on my pillow. I flipped. After mashing both of them into goo, I carried a blood-soaked napkin (I can only assume the residual was mine) to the guy at the desk explaining, with visual aids, what I had found. Judging by his complacent reaction, this is a common thing. Either that, or he didn’t give a shit. The Laid-back LOP morphed into the insane-in-the-membrane LOP.

I wasn’t just pissed, I wanted his scrawny ass on a platter. I was none too quiet about my findings, but this was only after he essentially dismissed the issue. He then threatened to call the police, and I urged him to do just that. He tried to quiet me when new guests arrived, but I wasn’t really in the mood or mind-frame to be shushed by a prepubescent hotel lackey with badly gelled hair and zero customer service skills. I told said guests of my findings and walked out the door with my belongings. I found a non-infested hotel where I immediately performed a self-cavity search. (Yeah, it’s not pretty, but it was necessary.) And I washed my hair a multitude of times. I went to sleep around 5 a.m., only to wake at 6 a.m. to catch a train to the airport. By the way, I’m in London. Yeeeaaahhhhhh. It’s raining and 60 degrees, but no matter, I have yet to encounter a tick. Unless I count the guy on the tube who obviously had not taken his medication.

I didn’t post as much as I wanted while in Lipari because the Internet connection sucked at my hotel. But, my last night was Thursday and I spent it at a barbeque with a few of my new local friends. I’m easy to spot…Sasquatch girl. I’m in desperate need of a fur trimming.

Alessandra, Paulo, Johnny, Julia, Moi, Christina, Gianluka

This was after I took a scooter ride around the island. The only drawback to this little slice of quasi-Grecian paradise is that all the beaches are rock, but that’s why God made water shoes.

Salina is one of the islands in the Aeolian archipelago

I’ve been a recovering Catholic for about 10 years. I have no regrets, save one—that I didn’t figure out sooner that the Catholic church is a money-grubbing occult. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a firm believer in the Big Guy upstairs and I think he likes me well enough. But the Catholic church has, in my humble opinion, some very skewed views on right and wrong.

I was forbidden entry into the Duomo di Milan today. Not because I was cracked out, packing heat or wearing a giant body condom. No, my sin this particular day was that I attempted entry wearing…yes, wearing a tank-top. I had a skirt on too, but I assumed you knew I wasn’t bottomless.

Hipocracy is one of the primary reasons I dislike the Catholic church. It allows some priests to molest little boys and girls with little or no repurcussions, yet it’s considered disrespectful and unconscionable to have bare shoulders in a church. God made all my parts, so what of it if I pop in to say “hi” and let Him know that the upkeep of said shoulders is coming along just fine? And what if I was naked? What of that? I don’t recall much Catechism because I blocked much of it from my memory, but it’s common knowledge that Adam and Eve were initially naked. Right there, in the garden under God’s sky and view just hanging out, cavorting and probably smoking a joint (God made marijuana, too, so it’s possible that Cannabis made its first appearance in Le Garden of Wahoo!).

A ridiculous rule, really; one of many initiated and promoted by a man-made doctrine.

And that, my pretties, is my rant for today. I promise I’ll be happier tomorrow when I’ve had sleep. Oh, by the way, Milan is just a stopover until I travel to my next destination tomorrow (that would be Saturday).

Peace