Packed Like a Van of Sardines

I was headed to Austin on a business trip on dark March morning. I parked at my usual garage where a white utility van shuttles sleepy business travelers to their terminal. I gave the driver my pack to stow in the back, then climbed in across the bench with my carryon and comfortably settled in with four other passengers. I considered for a moment how this situation would be different if I were in Asia but instead of going through the mental exercise, I sprawled out my legs, cracked my complementary copy of USA Today and let the thought escape. The shuttle made another stop to pick up a fifth – and that’s when one of the gentlemen behind me quipped, “Jeez! How many people care they gonna cram in here?!”

The number that immediately came to mind was two. That's when I whipped out my short, plastic stools with cartoon characters on them and mentally placed them around the van: between the driver and shotgun passenger, in the aisle… oh and there was easily enough room for another bench. I proceeded to waive passenger after passenger on, filling every crevice of this monstrous van putting couched passengers on mini stools, sitting on top of other peoples’ bags and up against each other. Benches that were designed to comfortably hold three people were now crammed with five – not counting backpack babies and small animals. By the time I was done I had managed to fit 21 adults, 2 infants and a piglet into my ridiculous-sized American EconoVan. I anticipated the angst and outrage that my fellow passenger would have expressed as I demanded his money. I smirked as I stuffed my pockets with imaginary dollars and waited for an undetermined and uncommunicated number of minutes before I felt like hopping in the driver's seat and whisking my pesky passengers away to their terminal.

Backpacking... sexified!

Who says backpacking can't be sexy?

I went on a backpack to the Anza Borrego Desert back in January it was beautiful. Ted was an older gentleman who was tasked with job of leading our group through the West Butte area. He seemed like an ordinary older Sierra Club chap but what caught my eye was his very subtle sense of hiking fashion that only the keenest of eyes and most childish of minds would laser in on: Ted's red fishnet belly shirt.

It was fodder in the purest sense. Sadly, my smart-ass comments went suppressed and therefore unappreciated. The only thing I could do was snicker to myself, cracking witty, sophomoric jokes under my breath. There was no one with whom I could share my 12-year old sense of humor or at minimum exchange saucer-eyes coupled with my sphincteresque I'm-trying-not-to-laugh mouth.

So I'm attaching a picture so you can fully appreciate the story and in hopes that it inspires some childish thoughts of your own.

TV Dinner by Lisa Gonzalez (circa 1988)

This is a story I wrote a really long time ago when I was bored in a small office.

He sat back in the tattered armchair. Thinking. His old fork poked listlessly at the turkey in gravy TV dinner that sat balanced on his bulbous beer-belly. Smoke hovered stagnantly over his balding head. The television buzzed with static and conversation — Ozzie and Harriet were just wondering where Ricky was.

He kept blaming it on her...how SHE had made him this way. He knew deep down that he had let her get to him. What comes next? Twilight Zone or the Honeymooners? He hoped that it was Twilight Zone. He liked the way that Rod Serling could smoke a cigarette and look cool. He took a long drag of the Lucky Strike and grimaced as the smoke burned his eyes. He could never look cool smoking. Maybe it was because he was just never very cool. Cool people never ate TV Dinners.

The phone rang. He could have answered it in one ring, but he didn’t want it to look like he was waiting for her to call and let it ring another two and a half times. He picked up the phone and tried sound like he was in the middle of something very important. It was hard to do in the middle of a TV dinner and the Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. He belched and could taste a cross between Lucky lager and half frozen corn backed up in his throat and swallowed it anyway. Just like everything else. He picked up the phone, but no one would answer. There was definitely someone there because he could hear John Cougar dinging about a chili-dog. He remembered how she hated John Cougar and was sure it wasn’t her on the other end of the phone. She wasn’t the type to play those games, but he secretly wished that she was.

He hung up and wondered which nightclub she might be at tonight. He wondered if she asked other men for a cigarette the same way she had asked him the first time they met. He never smoked before he met her, but she was the reason he started. She was the reason for a lot of things. She, with her long painted fingernails and sticky red lipstick. She never really cared about him. He wondered why. Maybe it was because he never really cared about himself. She could see through him like Saran-Wrap on a bowl of leftovers. And now, that’s all he was. Left over. He knew deep down that she would never call. She didn’t like leftovers. She didn’t like TV dinners either.

Death demands.

There are days when I feel invincible. But I know that someday I will meet my demise and God forbid that it will come before my 90^th year. But if in fact I do kick the bucket I have a list of demands. If they are not met, I swear I will haunt your ass until you make it right.

1. You are forbidden to display an “In Loving Memory of Lisa Gonzalez 1964 – xxxx” vinyl sticker on the back of a car window. My mom has been apprised of this. Debbie is responsible for enforcement.
2. I don’t really need a tombstone, but some kind of graffitiesque memorial marker would be kind of cool – like maybe if someone scratched “Lisa Gonzalez kicks ass!” in some new concrete in the Gaslamp or "LG is MILFY" tagged the underside of a bridge in the Barrio that’d totally rock. Yes, Buchanan... tatoos are totally appropriate - as long as they are prison-style. 
3. You have to sing Freebird and light real Bic lighters. I hate that song – but I would totally laugh at the triteness. "Lord knoooowws I can't chaaaannnggee...."
4. Take all the good organs and give them to someone worthy. And I know exactly who should get my liver. I won't mention any names but I think you know who you are...
5. Cremate the leftovers. Put my ashes in a box and call it a day. No fancy urn. Because you’re gonna have to dump ‘em out eventually. (see #6)
6. You can’t scatter my ashes right away. You have to take them out for a drink on my birthday. This responsibility goes to Sheila because I know she’ll totally do it.
7. Hmmm.... what to do... what to do... I can't decide what should be done with my cremains. Here are a few ideas...

• Make a gem. There are companies that will turn my ashes into an overpriced diamond after which you can have it mounted in a ring or pendant setting. What a morbid, yet elegant and timeless reminder of everything I ever wasn't!
• Make an ocean reef. Mixed with concrete I can truly sleep with the fishes. If you want, you can add your hand print or graffiti message before the reef is lowered into the ocean. (See Demand #2)
• Make fireworks. Enjoy your own personal sky show starring yours truly! Family and friends can look on in excitement and wonder as my ashes are shot into the air via fireworks and thereby scattered into the ocean. I think going out in an explosive wad of glory is the most appropriate choice by far. BANG! BANG! BABY!

Crap… I can’t believe we forgot to ask

here are things in America that we take for granted. Like toilet paper, for instance. In America, it’s pretty much assumed that when you walk into a bathroom there’ll be toilet paper. So I knew from other travelers that China didn’t typically provide this American convenience so I came prepared with TP in hand. Check. (smug smile.)

But you have to also be prepared with a repertoire of questions in order to negotiate the right place to sleep. Questions like: Do you have a toilet? Is there hot water? Is there water? Then there are other times when a tout will approach you and entice you – the weary traveler - with a statement like: “My guesthouse is at the highest peak for the best view and its just 60 Yuan.” Who DOESN'T want a nice view?!

This was the case when we arrived in Longshen to see the Dragon’s Back rice terraces. We got off the bus after a marathon bus ride and of course we’re in China so the first thing we’re trying to figure out is if we’re even in the right place. That’s when an English-speaking local woman approached us to help us figure out our bearings. With no plan for a place to sleep and dusk approaching rapidly, she baited us with an easy solution, a friendly smile, familiar language and an offer of the best, “most highest” guesthouse view of the Dragon’s Back Rice Terraces.

I don’t know about you but the first thought that comes to my mind is “Of COURSE I want the best view for eight bucks.” (smug smile.) But what we forgot to ask is, “What exactly does it take to get to this guesthouse with the best view?”

We loaded up into yet another bus and an hour later, minority village women were clamoring to carry our bags to our destination. “We got it. It’s no problem.” But we had one big bag and figured that three bucks worth of help might be worth it.

Next thing you know, we’re following a tiny village man who is carrying our 70lb. pack up a hill to where we thought the guesthouse was. We stopped about seven minutes later and thought, “Oh. That wasn’t so bad.” And we started to unload the packs from our backs. “No…” he pointed up further. He was in a rush because it was getting dark. We carry on, hiking stone steps, straight up, one-by-one. And we keep going. More steps. Darker. Higher. Steeper steps. This goes on for nearly an hour. An HOUR. Straight up. To the highest peak. With loads of gear on our backs. And one tiny village man kicking our asses all the way up the mountain. It was cold in Longshen and by the time we got to Jian’s place, but I was sweating, tired and ready for a beer and the reward of the “most highest” view we’d worked so hard for. But now it was dark… so no view.

We woke up the next morning to rainy, brown rice terraces. Not exactly the fresh green landscape we saw in the brochures back in Yangshou. Beautiful, nonetheless. Later that day we trekked our way back down slippery stone steps with the help of our minority village man. The trek was less exhausting, but we were still grateful that we had round-trip help with our giant bag.

So next time you’re negotiating a place with the best view, don’t forget to ask what it will take to get there. Because the answer in this particular case was: One tiny minority village man, about thirty Yuan, fifty minutes, good night vision and a hope to god you didn’t smoke too much the night before.