THE TRAVEL BUG HYSTERIA

I arrived at Heathrow Airport in London on an overcast morning. It was a long flight and I was moderately dehydrated after about eight of the eight ounce red South African mini-wines that were dolled out like Barbacoa Tacos in Mexico. British Airways has always been my favorite. They know how to treat their customers with the beautiful stewardesses with the bad teeth, excellent chicken curry, best curry I have ever had, breakfast tea at midnight, hot towels, black and white movies, jazz music and all that was missing was an ashtray for my cigar. I didn’t light one up because I would have been charged with war crimes, terrorism and God knows what else so I abstained. As it was my utility knife got confiscated at the X-ray machine by a rogue TSA agent with a neck tattoo. Some disheveled uniformed fellow tried to feel me up and I ran like hell. Nobody made much of an effort to chase me. For $7.25 an hour I would have been surprised had anyone given chase. Not my first incidence in an airport. As it is my travel privileges are restricted in four countries.

         So anyway, I arrived in London with swollen feet and a hangover. We had exited the plane and picked up a shuttle on the tarmac. I was crammed in with so many fat tourists that smelled like Bojangles I thought I might be sick. Beside me was a couple practically groping me as well as each other as if they didn’t do enough on the plane. At one point about three-quarters into the flight they snuck into one of the lavatories together. I saw them. In fact most of the plane saw them and the stewardess just shook her head. People that want to join the “mile high” club are lame. What a stupid club. Better them doing the dirty two-step in lue then in their seats in front of us. European tolerance is remarkable. In America that kind of behavior is a three year sentence in the clink and a million dollar fine. I just don’t see the appeal of having sex cramped into a stinking filthy airplane bathroom with germs and shit smeared everywhere. Who knows what gets people off? I am not a good traveler when it gets too crowded. I’m too much of a travel snob. I need a clean, working bathroom, a TV and a bed free of vermin. I travel with my own sheets. I also flip the mattresses in the hotel rooms. The fetid disasters I have come across are too crooked for description. The underbelly of the mattress is always clean and unused. Nobody gives a damn enough to flip a mattress, so I am always sleeping in a moderately sterile situation. If I could I would travel first class and find shelter in five-star resorts. Coach is too primitive. I begin throwing elbow jabs to create space. And cheap motels come along with all the cheap amenities. Take your pick schmendreck! Have a strain of syphilis on us for 20 quid a night. Of course the shuttle got held up and for ten wrenching minutes we waited while prodigious amounts of deadly perfume, stank breath and flagellation nearly melted the windows. We arrived like snails at the main terminal. As the doors swung open I rammed my way out of the vehicle knocking some dope over who was too busy text messaging to notice people were trying to escape, “Out of the way Genghis Khan,” I muttered. He rolled down the steps onto the damp tarmac landing with a thud, his glasses rattling across the ground. “You monster,” he shrieked. I considered a swift kick in the ribs would be sufficient but I was in a rush and hurried away. Maneuvering through airports can be as tedious rush hour traffic on the West Side Highway but thankfully I remembered the route through the maze to get to the customs desk. At least we don’t get quarantined anymore. Those were the good ole days being locked together in cells or on ships a ½ mile off the mainland with nothing but a bed pan to share, some itchy wool blankets and regret. Going through customs in England isn’t nearly as bad as some other places I have been, but you have to get lucky and get an actual English person helping you. I wasn’t so lucky and ended up with some emigrant who could barely speak broken English let alone the King’s English. The entire time I was sneered at. Being an American these days abroad is like being a leper. What do I care? As I moved through the airport I felt like I was in Flatbush Brooklyn. Maybe I was in some freak hyper time warp. I don't know what it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t the England I remembered. The country is getting so violent the native born Brits are hauling tail to Scotland and demanding the country secede.  I purchased six bottles of water, chugged two down right away and squirreled the other four in my carry-on for the next flight. London for me was just a pit stop. I next had to locate the buses and catch my ride to Gatwick Airport for the short flight to Austria.

         The amazing thing about London is that five minutes on the road and you are abruptly in the English countryside. I love the English countryside with the homesteads, cottages, patches of forests and open fertile fields. I stare out the window and can’t help but think about Shakespeare, hobbits and wizards. The place just has a way of stirring the imagination. Rarely is living in a quixotic locale as romantic as a fleeting glimpse of it. And so the places I call gems will be those places I never live so not to ruin their enchanting splendor.

         I liked Gatwick Airport until I reached the security checkpoint and the x-ray machines. Right off the bat they started to pick on me, probably because they didn’t like the way I looked wearing my t-shirt with Brewer and Shipley on it. I was dragged out of line and the only one thrown into the full body scanner. They then located the water bottles in my carryon and accused me of conspiring to make a bomb. I protested and extra security was called. They were big burly men with beards and batons. I could see in their smirks a back-alley attitude that got off on beating senseless American travelers. “We throw out the contraband,” one woman said to me.

         “Like hell you will,” I said and snatched the water away from her and downed all four in record time. They stared in horror as if I was chugging Nitroglycerin. I was so full I could barley make it through the rest of the security interrogation. I could tell the other passengers were glad that I was on the verge of being strip searched because it distracted the security personnel and they all made it through unscathed. I could see them laughing and pointing at me. Bunch of schmucks. I was sure water poisoning would be my demise but miraculously I survived and without getting my head pounded in.

         My flight to Salzburg was easy. I had my own seat and a pretty stewardess to attend to me. She looked just like Amanda Seyfried, of Red Riding Hood fame, with a British accent. I think she had eyes for me. I considered inviting her to join me for a couple days of sightseeing around Salzburg but how long were the fireworks going to last before we were at each other’s throats.

         I could see the snow capped Bavarian Mountains coming into view and I knew we were getting close. I could see the cubed patches of farmlands and rolling green hills. The baroque architecture was visible from 10,000 feet. Salzburg Austria is paradise to me. It is my island. Most people think of paradise and rattle off various French sounding names of volcanic outcrops a stone’s throw off the equator. Islands make pretty pictures, but the reality is grim: poverty, gunrunning, drug smuggling, poisonous snakes and spiders, hurricanes, sunburn, skin cancer, coups and pickpocketing, human trafficking, malaria, tuberculosis, ringworm, cannibalism, you name the vice or disease, form of political corruption or method of being killed it can all be found in the islands. So for the most part I steer clear of them. I do buy the calendars with the palm trees and white sands, China blue oceans and pink coral. Every now and then they throw a picture of a pretty blond in a bikini reposed in a beach chair or baking on a towel to liven up the loins but we all know that most beach goers are overweight and ugly.

       We landed hard at W.A. Mozart – Flughafen Salzburg (Airport). It was like coming down on an aircraft carrier in an F-18 with both engines out. A couple German women on board let out guttural howls, a baby cried, but we all made it. The pilot had introduced himself as Wendell. Who names their child Wendell? Like spindle. With a name like that you knew there was going to be trouble. I nearly gave up my seat to wait for the next plane upon hearing the name recited over the loud speaker. If it hadn’t been for the pretty flight attendant I would have switched planes. It is a name that gets caught on your tongue and got caught in the speaker momentarily before sufficiently offending our ears. So having practically crash-landed I was not the least bit surprised. We exited the plane as we did at Heathrow, down a flight of metal stairs onto the tarmac. The air was cool and smelled fresh. I looked off at the mountains disappearing into the clouds and felt euphoric. I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of oxygen in the air or my excitement but either way I couldn’t wait to get into the old town and find a bar. Getting through customs is a breeze. These people never give me a hard time. They recognize someone who truly appreciates their culture, old fashion way of living, little restriction and enchanting scenery.

         I took a cab to the hotel in the old town where I always stay called The Hof. It is located on some cobblestone street near a watch shop and a church. It’s a mere ten-minute walk to the new town and the greatest chocolate shop on the planet. Of course one can’t travel to Salzburg without taking in at least two concerts and the Sound of Music puppet show. Then if you have a fancy for hot dogs the street vendors here and there throughout both the old and new towns provide the perfect cure for a sodium nitrate craving. Standing in line with the aroma of the boiling fat has you practically chewing on your own arm until it is your turn to order. Food is what gets your foot in the door in whatever little corner of the world you end up. It is a great introduction into a culture, a nation, a civilization, a societal personality. The trick is just to throw the map into the suitcase and let the streets, smells, songs and wild trinket stores take you like a polynesian on a big green wave.