Killing Batteries

I had my very first Travel Writer Rock Star Moment recently, which is similar to a genuine Rock Star Moment except there’s slightly less ear-piercing screaming, clothes and locks of hair being torn off and running for one’s life, escaping in a waiting limo with Kate Moss drunk in the back. 

Despite these failings, it was nevertheless a moment so glorious that I abandoned my usual quiet, stoic modesty and blabbed about it to everyone I met for days thereafter.  Having now run through every acquaintance in two cities, it is now time to work the very last bit of mileage I have with this tale by sharing it with you all; my seven, sometimes eight, monthly readers.

You may be surprised to hear that I was flown from Paris to San Francisco recently to attend a Lonely Planet author workshop – I try not to talk about these things too much for fear of sounding too narcissistic.  One night, while in the company of respected colleagues, I had a real world encounter with one of my articles in a magazine that was laying out in a hotel lobby for everyone to see.  Namely me.

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Did I mention that I was being flown from Paris to San Francisco to attend a Lonely Planet author workshop where I’d indulge in free food and wine and be fawned over by colleagues and groupies? 

Well, obviously I’ve mentioned it, but have I mention it recently?

So yeah, after two weeks of ill-considered, sleepless, brain damaging travel, I staggered out to Charles de Gaulle airport and boarded a flight to SF, via Washington Dulles – a hellhole of under-staffed, stagnant, security disorganization, if you haven’t had the pleasure lately.  First class, champagne, caviar, foot rubs and lap dances all the way, or so it seemed after six Dramamine.

Actually, while the Paris-Dulles leg was fine, the Dulles-SFO leg sucked infinite ass, as I was introduced to the new cheap-skate US airline trend where they don’t hand out food on domestic flights that are less than five hours long – flight time from Dulles to SFO, by sheer coincidence I’m sure, is four hours and fifty-seven minutes. 

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Paris was everything I’d anticipated and more. In three days, I spent nearly $200 in food and drink, gained about five pounds and took innumerable pictures of quintessential Parisian scenery like the snap below.

Now before you fly off the handle and write your congressperson condemning me for being a depraved, voyeuristic pervert, allow me to make two important points;

1)  I snuck this photo for the purely professional reason that it’d make killer cover art for the next ‘Lonely Planet Best of Paris’.
2)  I’m a depraved, voyeuristic pervert (natch).

Furthermore, believe it or not, I showed heroic restraint by only stealing this relatively harmless shot.  Moments later the view became decidedly more graphic when this young beauty straddled her lover’s torso and began to move her body in a way that would have made Shakira whistle.  I chose to be a gentleman and leave my camera in my day-bag (after the zipper got stuck during the initial, frenzied yank).

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Speaking of syndromes, I personally suffer from a number of maladies (real or imagined depends entirely on the eye of the beholder), a large number of which were invented/identified by me, exclusively for me, and anyone else referencing them or suffering from them is required to cough up royalties.

I believe I’ve isolated yet another malady this week which may be one of my most mainstream, accessible cash-cow neuroses of all time; Sado-Masochistic, Econo-Traveler F*ck-Wit Syndrome (sadly, even when it comes to naming maladies, the art of brevity eludes me… but check out all those hyphens! I still got it!!!).

The theory is that Sado-Masochistic, Econo-Traveler F*ck-Wit Syndrome sufferers, whether voluntarily or not, seek out and inflict the most god-awful, sleepless, punishing travel arrangements on themselves under the auspices of saving time, money and/or maximizing convenience.

I’m a classic case. At the beginning of each trip, no matter what the length, scope or distance, I always tell myself I’m going to finally slow down, spend a little more money for comfort and basically consider my mental and physical well-being above all else. This trip was no different. I had 12 days to get myself from Iasi to Paris to San Francisco. A few lazy days in each place, day-travel only, in strictly non-ass pounding environments. Seems reasonable and carefully considered, no?

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