Killing Batteries

I’m a disaster of aches, pains and ominous symptoms lately. I’ve always been a passionate hypochondriac, but this is starting to get ridiculous. And it all started almost overnight. Well, over-month, but still a relatively short period of time. As of the time of writing, I’ve got two painful teeth (yes, in addition to the one that I got fixed last month in Romania), a tender hip that’s shooting pain lasers into my pelvis, lower back and knee, insomnia, a rash that may or may not be flesh-eating and most recently mild, yet unsettling vertigo.

If I die in my sleep of an aneurism, I want to leave my laptop to Alex, my magazine clippings to Frank (just white out my byline and type in yours), my Playboys to Lucas (start a blog dude), my 27 gigabyte Michelle Hunziker multimedia stalker files to Elfin and the remainder of my Romania and Moldova work to Catherine who is trying to break into Europe, FYI LP editors.

Regular readers (especially Twitter readers) will be most familiar with my achy hip that started for no apparent reason in April and, not surprisingly, didn’t get any better after a month of being on my feet for 12 hours a day in Romania.

My robust network of enablers seems to think it’s Sciatica, an affliction with numerous, vague symptoms and even more numerous treatments that are either too time consuming (yoga), too expensive (surgery) or too illegal (medical dope) for workaholic guidebook writers without heath insurance. So, as is my way, I’m treating it with the Complain Incessantly Method, which has gotten me several offers for butt rubs, but otherwise not much relief.

Meanwhile, a few helpful, drunken bystanders have made suggestions as to how I can ease the pain for my looming three week trip to finish road research in Romania, which is how the concept of a Medical Burro™ was hatched.

Just plain walking around sucks enough ass (pun intended), but carrying my bags is pure agony. Enter the Medical Burro. I can just sling my specially designed laptop and gadget saddlebags over my Medical Burro and we’ll saunter inconspicuously down the streets of Bucharest, the envy of all guidebook writers we encounter. Best of all, it appears that you can rent a Medical Burro (because in this economy only an idiot would lease or buy a Medical Burro) and after only a little training I bet my Medical Burro can probably take better notes than I can.

The sweetest part is that it’s a Medical Burro, which means they legally have to let you bring it on the plane. That’s a guaranteed pass to exit-row seating people.

I’m looking into it, but I’m pretty sure that my LP on-the-road insurance will compensate me for my Medical Burro rental, however, I’m not sure if I can rent my Medical Burro here in America and bring it with me. That’d be ideal, cuz Romanian Medical Burros drive like shit.

The follow sage advice was forwarded to me earlier this week:

“The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than the British or the Americans. On the other hand, the French eat a lot of fat and also suffer fewer heart attacks than the British or the Americans.

The Japanese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than the British or the Americans. The Italians drink excessive amounts of red wine and also suffer fewer heart attacks than the British or the Americans.

Conclusion: Eat and drink what you like. It’s speaking English that kills you.”

Where did this idle piece of Dilbert-caliber cubicle wisdom originate? Why it was Sergio Pizziconi at the Italian Ministry of Public Education of course! Speculation about whether or not composing clever email forwards is an appropriate use of Italian Ministry time aside, Mr. Pizziconi has tweaked a subject that has long vexed me; that being why the hell are we English speakers so damn fat and sick all the time? It’s not just America and the UK… Just this week I read that Australia has had to start ordering extra-wide ambulances to accommodate their increasingly giant asses.

Oh I know this can all be satisfactorily explained away with subjects like not enough exercise, crappy diets and ludicrous over-use of medication, but most other developed countries in the world have similar problems and they’re all living to be 110, so why not us?

Examples:

• The average Italian or Spaniard won’t walk more than 200 meters in one go (mostly because they’re all wearing shoes that used to be employed as torture gear in feudal China).
• Considering their cholesterol-infused diets, Eastern Europeans should be dropping dead by the thousands.
• And, sweet Buddha, the smoking going on in most places should be snuffing out whole cities (I’m quite certain that 18 months in Romania took about 10 years off the longevity of my lungs).

So what’s really going on here? Why are English speakers so delicate while the rest of the world is so resilient?

And don’t tell me it has anything to do with the wrath of God. That’s a given.

I’ve just finished reading and reviewing a new travel book for Gadling by first time author Eric Weiner called “The Geography of Bliss: One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World” (see the review here).

Great read, but more importantly, it made me reflect on my own Bliss Factor which clocked in unexpectedly high. I know that sounds improbable coming from a guy who’s blog posts in the past month have focused mainly on places that he hates and how pissed off he is, but there you have it.

I’m like an enigma wrapped inside an onion, baked inside a five-tiered wedding cake. Peel away all the layers and you still have no f*cking clue what going on.

So, why am I happy? Well, for starters I have the fourth greatest job in the history of the universe (for the record, it goes: 1. rock star, 2. movie star, 3. Playboy Playmate talent scout, 4. adorable travel writer), I’ve had the best year of my freelancing career, I’ve just moved back to my beloved Minneapolis, I got my mojo workin’ and as you read this I am very likely soaking in a Jacuzzi on an adventure cruise ship, meandering up and down Chile’s Patagonia coast, having just returned from a helicopter day trip to a prime fly fishing locale, drinking a variety of Chilean wine and eating three gourmet meals a day, prepared exhibition style so I can take mental notes on cooking tips. In a couple days I’ll be checking into the Ritz Carlton in downtown Santiago (where it’s in the low 80s, in case those of you in MN were wondering) for three punishing nights of discovering the city’s food and drink offerings.

Can you blame me?
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Just as an FYI to my groupies and stalkers, I’m going to be without internet access starting the morning of November 30th, through (at least) the evening of December 9th while I’m traveling to and then bobbing around on a smallish (45.7 m / 150 ft long) ‘adventure cruise’ ship off Chile’s Patagonia coast.

The ship has a helipad, jet boats, a Zodiac, a spa and three gourmet meals a day, but no internet. Must’ve been built in Italy.

I haven’t gone this long without internet since before there was internet. I’m a little freaked.

So, there will be no answering of emails offering ridiculously high paying work and travel TV show hosting invitations. However, having accidentally discovered the delayed posting thingie on Wordpress, there will be a few posts, so don’t despair. Your unscheduled at-work productivity interruptions will continue as always.

Now, does anyone know anything about fly fishing? They’re gonna make me do that. Can I catch a salmon? I could dig on some salmon right now.

It’s looking like this space hotel thing is going to be a reality. And thank Buddha for that. Never mind universal healthcare, we’ve gotta be able to blast a handful of recreational tourists into space a couple times a year. On a completely unrelated, but bitterly sarcastic note, I wonder how many decades of universal healthcare 12 billion dollars in unguarded, contractor Mercedes-buying cash would buy? (Note to self: bookmark for future “What’s Pissing Me Off Today” post.)

All infuriating, aneurism-inducing diatribes aside (Note to self: cease all aneurism-inducing activity until I have health insurance), let’s get to work on how I’m going to be the first travel writer to get a comped room at the Space Hotel.

Just as a reminder to all the hacks and filthy rich “celebrity journalists”, I called dibs on being the first travel writer in space way back in August of ‘06, so you all can eat my vapor trail. This gig belongs to Space Cadet First Class Leif Pettersen.

However, there’s the little matter of the 12 million dollar room rate. Admittedly, that’s a mighty big comp. In fact, I think that might roughly equal the sum total of all journalist hotel comps in the history of print media. A bit ambitious I know, but this is outer space, where even a cup of tea with the marketing director is going to hurt some wallets.

So, it’s strategy time. Who do I pitch to? Directly to Mr. Bigelow himself? Or maybe his Space Hotel hospitality manager? And what magazine will hand over that mother of all assignment letters? Will syndicated newspapers that don’t print stories written on the strength of free trips relax their rules for this special occasion or do I need to go into my pocket for the 12 mil to earn their $120 fee like usual? There’s gonna be a lot of free crap solicitation ground breaking being done here. The upshot is these efforts will help pave the way for my seat on the manned space mission to Mars in 2025.
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This is just a link alert for a topical post that I just put up over at Gadling, entitled “Independently produced travel guides - pipe dream or way of the future?”

The post is in honor of Robert Reid’s recently completed free online guide to Vietnam, though I take the opportunity to plug several other free online travel guides, including my own to Romania and Moldova.

I apologize for not posting anything substantial this week. This MSN gig is wailing on my ass so hard that I’d have nothing left if my ass weren’t already so perfectly firm, devilishly curved and indestructible.

I have some serious doo-doo in store for you next week that should both entertain and bring on the hail of hate mail that never arrived from my ‘A Keyhole into Burma’ series.

In the meantime, a bit (more) of shameless self-promotion…

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Perhaps I’ve mentioned that freelance travel writing isn’t a cash cow career path. It’s more like a cash squirrel career path. And not those fat, waddling squirrels in Central Park either. I’m talking those emaciated, wild-eyed squirrels you see on safari, that are so deranged from malnourishment that they’ll mix it up with six lions and a crocodile for a bite of baby water buffalo…

There are no baby water buffalo wandering around the Killing Batteries Command Center in downtown Minneapolis, but there are a few sushi places with good lunch specials. Furthermore, I need new glasses. So I’ve daringly decided to test the upper limits of freelance travel writing earnings potential, turning my back on the Poverty Line and clawing like a starving, nearsighted squirrel for the Sushi Line.

The Sushi Line, a concept cleverly hatched by my distinguished Lonely Planet colleague Robert Reid, perfectly encapsulates the income and resultant lifestyle I’m aiming for. Living at the Sushi Line doesn’t mean a five bedroom house with high-end home theater components or a diamond studded Blackberry or a custom painted Vespa… Well, a Vespa wouldn’t hurt, maybe with a classy little horn that plays “La Cucaracha”?

The Sushi Line is, in fact, a very modest standard of living. Mr. Reid sums it up like so:

“I have a theory that all humans are born with the right to live at or above ‘the sushi line,’ meaning you have the means to go and get sushi whenever the desire arises. Not every day. But when the occasion comes up, you don’t have to count pennies. Just go, eat, enjoy, get the green-tea ice cream. Write a poem, relax. Next day ramen will be fine.”

That’s all I’m asking. And some waterproof hiking boots.

Meanwhile, does ‘Sushi Line’ belong in the popular lexicon or what? Since I’ve given up all hope on ‘jackhole’, I’m going to refocus my broad influence on popular dictum and start pushing ‘Sushi Line’. Please lend a hand. I want Jon Stewart to use it on the air before Thanksgiving.

Hi all. What’s new?

Me? Well, I tweaked my neck lunging for a high toss while I was juggling last night and I’m still somehow jetlagged a week after returning home to Minneapolis which is probably a sign from God that I should drink more cider before bed.

If you’ve been the die-hard, drooling dedicated readers that I imagine all seven of you are, you may be aware that my time blogging about Romania over at Gadling has come to a close with this post. You know what that means, don’t you? Yes, posts here will resume shortly. Or longly. I really don’t know. I’m finding it hard to struggle upright and make writing time between sprawling on the couch mostly nekkid, discovering new blogs, watching “Deadwood” and “24″ DVDs and eating whole chocolate bars, washed down with a half gallon of skim milk all in one sitting. The American Dream, indeed.

I’m kidding of course. I love you guys. I wouldn’t go that long without posting something new, particularly as I have just acquired one of the greatest gadgets invented since shoes. It is, of course, battery-driven. Very on-topic. More soon.

Finally, on the subject of blogs, now that I have all this free time and unfettered internet access, I’ve decided to start collecting blogs that I plan to read on a regular basis. Seeing as how I expect people to hang on my every word, I figured it was time to give back to the community. Suggestions for writing, travel-related or just plain hilarious blogs much appreciated.

Just a reminder that I’m not here all week, rather I’m posting over at Gadling.

The first of several posts about my recent road trip through Transylvania just went live. A new one will appear every day this week at approximately 10am EST.

Profuse, reverential comments welcome as always.