Sometimes a dick is just a dick...

            My friend, Tina's dad is Greek. He used to live in the US but then, for one reason or another, he went back to the homeland. She wasn't too broken up about it though. Because who in their right mind would be broken up about always having a place to stay in Greece? And for always having this place to stay abroad, I used to envy her. By the time we'd actually become friends, she'd already flown over there to see him a couple of times and, never having traveled overseas myself, I used to ask her tons of questions about what Europe was like.

            “It's just a more laid-back lifestyle.”

            “Yeah. But what do you mean by that?”

            “It's like... Okay. So imagine you have some letters that you have to mail. Or, better yet, postcards. Like if you're on vacation or something.”
            “Okay.”

            “And let's say that you take them to the post office. And maybe there's even no line. No line to stand in, I mean.”

            “Alright.”

            “And let's say that there's a guy sitting behind the counter reading a newspaper.”

            “Gotcha.”

            “So what do you do?”

            “Easy. You say, 'Hey, homes. I need to mail these here fucking postcards like snap. And why don't ya gimmie some of your foreign stamps while you're at  it.”

            “Wrong.”

            “Alright, alright. 'Please, sir, may I mail these here postcards.'”

            “Still wrong.”

            “'Please, may I mail them 'cause they're like for my family and shit.'”

            “Still wrong.”

            “Alright. Then why don't you tell me.”

            “I'm going to! The correct answer is; you don't do any of that. You just stand there and leave the guy to his newspaper and his cappuccino or you can come back later.”

            “Oh yeah? Well, what gives?”

            “Well, because he's obviously on his break.”

            “Now, that's fuckin' stupid. So you're trying to tell me that they don't have breakrooms in Europe? Because that doesn't sound very laid-back.”

            “I don't know. They may not. But I do know one thing. If you so much as clear your throat in attempts to get this post office guy's attention; you will regret it.”

            “He'll get all pissed off?”

            “Sooo pissed off. He'll come right around the counter and point a finger at you and yell right in your face.”

            “Seriously? You don't know that.”

            “I do know. Because that's exactly what happened to me.”

            “Oh my God. What a dick! What a high-strung dick! And this is your way of trying to explain to me how chillax Europeans are?”

            “It's just their custom or whatever and, when you go over there, you're already expected to know this stuff. And, if you really think about it, maybe we're the high-strung ones. I mean, maybe we're the ones that have to have everything at the snap of our fingers.”

            “Yeah, but can't they see... I mean, can't they easily tell the we have 'American' written all over our face over there?”

            “That probably doesn't help matters.”

            “That...is true. Whelp, this has been fascinating.”

            “Well, I'm glad. But I hope it doesn't discourage you from going there someday.”

            “Oh, no. Don't even worry about that shit. I still wanna go. I just have to save up a little bit of money first. Not all of us have parents over there we can stay with, ya know.”

            And I did go to Europe...about a year later. And saving the money seemed sort of easy even...I guess because I just wanted it that badly. My best friend and his girl (Tim and Theresa) and I simply made a pact with each other. We said that we'd each have enough money saved to buy a plane ticket come October and, sure enough, each of us did. And so we planned a trip.

            What we planned wasn't anything that over the top; just a basic, 2 week introduction to Western Europe type thing. It would be just the three of us and we'd be pretty much winging it the whole way. And thanks to Tim and Theresa being the chronic potheads that they were; our first few days were to be spent in Amsterdam where they hoped to stock up on enough dope to send back home to themselves...enough to last them through a nuclear winter. And I had no problem with this, of course, despite the fact that I didn't really smoke that much pot anymore. But, as the old proverb goes; when in Amsterdam, just fucking smoke it. That, and I was just so thrilled to be out of the country that it didn't really matter where we went first or where we went at all. So I just sort of let those two lead the way which was actually a pretty good idea since, at the age of 24, I was still really bad with both directions and planning things.  

            Figuring we'd be all distraught after landing, Tim booked a hotel for the first night. And, shortly after arriving there and stopping in just long enough to deposit our bags, we headed right back out the door again and caught a bus towards the city center. It was around midmorning.

            Amsterdam was more amazing than I ever thought it could be. It was beautiful and cozy feeling like a mountain town despite the gargantuan squares and cathedrals scattered about everywhere. And everything about this experience was just so new and weird to us right down to that strange sounding Dutch language emanating from the overhead speakers right on the bus. Right down to the very names of the streets themselves! And we were the typical tourists; I just didn't realize it at the time. Like...at the first place we stopped in, a quaint looking bar dubbed “The Pink Floyd”; I asked right away if I could take a picture of all the different varieties of weed for sale right up there in the front of this establishment in a glass display case. To which the guy behind the counter respectfully and mild-manneredly replied, “We...prefer it if you don't.”

            “That's cool, man. That's why I asked.” And I actually did feel like the gracious guest assuming that the majority of foreigners who'd come before me had simply snapped off a shot without first acquiring the proper permission.

            And there we sat ourselves in this bar for a while doing bong rip after bong rip and listening to a live recording of Pearl Jam playing over a really hi-def sound system. When it came time to get out of there, though, and we were walking down the street again...good and baked out of our minds; a cop car sped up behind us and, almost instinctively, I felt like we were about to get arrested. It just passed us by though. Of course, it did. Fucked up as I was and in that tiny bit of time since we'd left the bar, I'd somehow forgotten that weed was perfectly legal here and we had nothing to worry about. And onward that cop car did go. And even it emitted that siren so unlike ours. So alien and weird to American ears...like something we only knew from the movies.

            The three of us spent the day wandering around like this. We did hit up the Rijksmuseum and it was fun. But we also considered this to be enough culture for one day and proceeded to hit the pubs again thereafter. And it was somewhere around dusk when we finally made our way into...I believe it was The Bulldog. And this was one of the more famous cafes around town; one that, upstairs, also functioned as a hostel. Not that any of that mattered to us. It was simply another place to get another beer and for Tim to roll up another joint for us to pass around the table. The only problem with this plan, and he realized this shortly after we sat down, was that he'd already used up all his rolling papers. But no big deal. It's not like we weren't in a hash bar or anything. So Tim stands up and makes his way over to the front counter where there's a guy behind a cash register who happens to be eating a plate of food underneath the dim lighting that seemed to be just the normal atmosphere of this place. And he says to the guy...

            “Hey, man. Can I get a pack of rolling papers?”

            And knowing Tim, he probably even said, “Please.”

            And Theresa and I are watching this go down from our table about ten feet away...and we have a perfect view.

            So the guy behind the counter looks up at him; fork still in hand and mouth half full of what looked to be Swedish meatballs and egg noodles. And this guy is like this skinhead looking dude with fierce, blue eyes and a stern, chiseled nose. And then in the thickest Scottish accent that I'd ever heard in my life; an accent so thick that my dad would have needed subtitles just to understand it...the guy burst out with these words like a blast of hot air, “Can't you see?! I'm eatin' me fuckin' dinner!”

            And the guy, after making such an eruption, continues to look exasperated that Tim had dared to even talk to him.

            And Tim, after receiving the heat of this explosion, now wore an appealing look on his face as if to say, “What? What the fuck did I do?”

            And then we left. Almost instinctively, Theresa and I each left some money on the table and the three of us got the fuck out of there not wanting to cause any more of a commotion than we somehow already had.

            “What the fuck did I do?!” Tim asked out loud this time once we got outside.

            “I don't know, man. I heard if they're eating or something then they're like on break or some shit.”

            “Seriously?!”

            “That's what I heard. Not that I really truly believed it until now.”

            “But like...does the whole place shut down just so that asshole can eat his fucking dinner?!”

            “I don't know. Live and learn, I guess. For all of us. I mean, this has been a learning experience for all of us. From now on, we know.”

            “Yeah, but...! Yeah,” and Tim's brain had become exhausted in a matter minutes. His ability to want to even try to comprehend this was either defeated or indifferent now (I couldn't tell which).

            “It just is what it is,” I said in a continued attempt to help smooth things over...not that I had any sympathy for the Scottish fuck.

            “Yeah, I never really got that saying.”

            “Neither did I. It just sounded like it might fit. How about, 'Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar'? Can I use that one now? Are we close enough to Austria to where it won't sound like such a meaningless cliché?”

            “Yeah, I guess. I guess, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But sometimes a dick is still just a dick.”

            All in all though (at least from what I perceived throughout the rest of our trip); I felt like we were less obnoxious than most other Americans we came into close contact with. If that situation at The Bulldog had even been our fault. But who's to say? Needless to say though; we were all pretty much a little intimidated by the rest of the food servers we encountered no matter which country we happened to be in from there on out.

            But there was this one guy who stuck out in my mind. Not a European waiter, I mean. But another American. The three of us were near the top of the Eiffel Tower and this huge, fat dude exclaims in the thickest Texan accent I'd ever heard, “Man, this thing sure is big!” And that's pretty dickish too...when ya think about it.

Of Christians and Patriots...and Pillows

                Mendy, our tour guide, explained to us that, if the inhabitants of this particular kibbutz appeared to us as extremely tired this afternoon; it was because they’d spent the night in their bunkers after having caught some rocket fire from Southern Lebanon on the previous evening. He also explained that they were perfectly used to this sort of thing and how we, as tourists, should follow their example and not be afraid either. And so we did. Abbie and I weren’t afraid because we now found ourselves in a beautiful eatery with glass windows everywhere and the Sea of Galilee sparkling right outside in millions of golden, little ripples. Also, the fact that there were a couple hundred other tourists in here eating with us (from all over the globe)…and the fact that they were experiencing this same beautiful afternoon and eating a delicious lunch of fresh fish and other Middle Eastern fare and drinking wine even…and the fact that none of them were acting panicky or nervous or were looking over their shoulders often and unnecessarily…and the fact that they weren’t acting jumpy somehow kept us from acting jumpy and vice versa. However…

                The reality of the situation did remain. And that reality was that, at any given second, a rocket could come flying right through the ceiling and make a mess of everyone’s lunches. Spilled wine, in a flash, would instantly become spilled blood. And in the stone-deafness and rubble; people would probably be pacing in that weird sort of shock as if only their bodies are left wondering what to do. And that’s just for those of us who lived!

                Yet, in the here and now, the silverware did continue to clink, the jabber to murmur, and the kibbutzniks to make their rounds with their trays from which they proudly served us vegetables grown on this very farm.

                When the lunch ended and Abbie and I had paid for our drinks and everything, Mendy came back around and gathered us up…us and the rest of the group. The ridiculously Christian group. My mistake though. I guess I really should have known better. And it’s not like we’d booked this trip through a church or anything. At least I knew better than that! We’d booked it online through an online travel agency as part of a package deal that included our airfare and hotels and everything and it sounded pretty sweet! Plus, for what it would have run us in airfare alone (privately); we’d also have our asses carted all over the country for an entire week and, although Israel is a relatively small country, there was a lot we wanted to see and dropping money on independent cab rides would have broken both our banks. So again…it sounded like a pretty sweet deal. But I guess we were just expecting a few more…nonaffiliated travelers in our group? Travelers such as ourselves. Maybe another young couple to hang out and have beers with or something. That would have been nice. Or Jews! Why couldn’t there have even been any Jews on the bus with us…just to mix it up. But no. Abbie and I stuck out as the only agnostics in this otherwise homogenous mixture of people on pilgrimage. And we were straight up stuck with their asses  too.

                As much as they were stuck with us, I guess.

                Unless, of course, we had decided upon our arrival (or even after our first day of tourdom) that it would somehow be worth it not to travel with these people any longer and opt to shell out the shekels on chartered cabs at that point but…what would really be the point in that? The shit was already paid for and, as a whole, the group really wasn’t that annoying. But it was just so weird to see them all on the bus with their bibles out and open. And although nobody said anything openly, we were smart enough to realize that or own lack of personal ‘good books’ and gold cross necklaces did automatically label us as heathens…which we were. And just why, you may ask, would two heathens want to visit the Holy Land? Well…

                That part was on me entirely also. I’d simply had this year-long obsession with the state of Israel that I can’t quite rightly explain even to this day. I wanted to know what it felt like just to be there. I researched it and read about it every night. I also dreamt about it every night and, interestingly enough, none of these dreams had ever really ended that well. In fact, they usually ended in a scene similar to the hypothetical rocket bomb bursting through the ceiling that I’ve just described above. But still. I had to go. I don’t know what it was but I just had to.

                So eventually I told Abbie about this dream I’d been having (the dream of going to Israel, that is, and not the bomb-ridden nightmares I’d been having every night). And, surprisingly, she seemed sort of interested in it. Her dad was Jewish and her mom converted or something and I think she’d just always maintained and entertained a certain soft spot for her faith. Or, rather, the faith of her parents and its rich history and all that. But, like myself and most Americans these days in their 20’s and 30’s; the faiths of our parents and/or grandparents was only something we may have grown up with…some weird and abstract scenes from temples and churches that we now only associated with our childhoods. We were secular. And after learning that most (or at least many) Israelis our age considered themselves to be secular as well; I began to consider just how fucked up life must have been for these peers of ours who just happened to be born in this country.

                Because Israel, since its inception, has always maintained a citizen’s army. And to them this meant that everybody who was born here, moved here, or who has ever had to flee here (for persecutive reasons); must serve in the military for a minimum of two years…minus the Ultraorthodox and Hasidim, of course, but I won’t get into details. Everybody. Has to serve in their army. Usually when they turn 18. And pacifism has been tried many times, I’m sure, but has also never worked out as a viable excuse. You either serve or go to jail or are deported. And this is a necessary evil, I guess. But for the kids brought up in this country; it must seem like a pretty raw deal indeed. And, from my perspective, it seemed like an ongoing draft such as we had back in the Vietnam era…but a draft that never ended. And a draft that affected not only men but women. And, for the women, the very same consequences applied.

                So why would I suggest to Abbie that we take a vacation here? Again. It’s something that I couldn’t explain. Though I do distinctly recall that, while waiting at the gate to board our flight in JFK, we both took notice of the boarding gate across the way. Over there, there were people with Hawaiian shirts on. Over there, everybody was smiling and the stewardesses literally wore flowers in their hair. Whereas, everyone on our side was dressed darkly and conservatively. Every lady had their elbows covered and every guy was wearing a hat. And it was only then that I began to feel sort of bad and sort of responsible for leading my girlfriend here rather than to a nice, tropical location with beaches and drinks with fruit in them and little cocktail umbrellas. But I didn’t feel nearly as bad as I did on the boat on the Galilee after having lunched at the kibbutz that day.

                Like I said; the group wasn’t too, too bad. They could be a little overwhelming at times. Like…at dinner one night at our hotel. There wasn’t assigned seating or anything. It was just sort of a catered event with a two hour window in which to eat. So, naturally during this time, Abbie and I did see just about everyone down in the large dining area who’d been on our bus. And because they’d been on a bus with us all day; I guess they felt comfortable enough to talk to us…which was fine. But you already know where this is going.

                So we’re sitting there eating (a delicious meal every night by the way) and up walks another middle-aged couple. They must have introduced themselves to us before because we knew a little bit of their background already. The guy…the husband; he was a pastor from the Midwest. And she was a pastor’s wife. And, since Abbie and I had been sitting alone at a table truly meant for four; these two took the opportunity to sit down in the extra chairs and smile at us extra widely.

                “So…what brings you guys to this holy place?” the wife started things out.

                And Abbie and I just looked at each other not knowing quite what to say.

                A pillow fight? I actually think that I’d told that to an airport security guy here already. And it’s true. I’d had basically no interest in Israel (even its political situation) until I’d seen a story covered on the news about a pillow fight involving several hundreds of people in Tel Aviv. I guess the event  was supposed to make some nice mockery out of all the violence that everyone here was subjected to throughout their lives but…I just thought it was cool! And after that, I wanted to meet some of these people. I wanted to hang out, even for only a few beers, with the 20 and 30-somethings of this country to just pick their brains in person for even a fleeting evening or round at the bar.

                But I didn’t want to get into anything even halfway introspective with these two now at our table. So I banally answered, “I guess we just like to travel, ya know? See the world and that sort of thing?”

                This conversation took place, I believe, after only the first day and I don’t believe that we’d even seen anything too Jesusy just yet. And, if this holds true, then the bus had taken us to see Masada that morning and the Dead Sea that afternoon. It was great times for Abbie and I but, at the same time, it didn’t quite fulfill just what these New Testament seekers were after.

                “So are you two married?” she asked.

                And later, just after we got off the boat on the infamous afternoon aforementioned, this very same lady would make her presumption very clear to me and it was that she’d never doubted for a second that I’d brought Abbie all the way out here to propose to her at some point along this trip…which couldn’t have been further from the truth. I mean…I loved Abbie and everything but we just kind of had the relationship where, if the topic of marriage was on the table, the two of us would definitely take some time to talk about it first. And we totally weren’t there yet. We were boyfriend/girlfriend. We did love each other. But the future, at this point, was sort of unforeseen so… But I don’t believe this lady understood even such a simple explanation as that for a relationship. And I definitely knew then that her husband was the first person who’d ever lain with her…in the biblical sense.

                “Are you two familiar with the Bible?” she asked, “And isn’t it wonderful to see these stories coming alive before your very eyes?”

                Jesus, I hated her. But luckily Abbie picked this one up for me. “We’re um…actually not that religious. In fact, he’s actually done a lot more background research than I have.” Thankfully, as an afterthought, she threw in, “And I’m Jewish.”

                Not that they heard a word of this anyway. Not that they were at all interested in what we might have to say.

                So she just went on, “Oh. It’s the greatest story ever written. It’s the greatest book ever written. And I just love how you can get lost in it but then find yourself in it again. You should really read it if you haven’t already.”

                “Really?” and I just couldn’t contain myself any longer, “You definitely make it sound good, ya know? You make it sound good. And worth while. And I like that. And I’m a big reader.”

                “Really? And you haven’t read…”

                “No. And believe me, I’ve been meaning to get around to it. But…and I’ve gotta tell ya. ’Cause I just finished two books that I just have to mention right now ’cause I just really believe they have to be contenders. The Glass Bead Game and Gravity’s Rainbow. Herman Hesse and Thomas Pynchon. One’s a Nobel Prize winner and the other has a PEN/Faulkner under his belt so… I’m just sayin’. They’re really good and they’ve definitely changed my life. Or, at least, changed my perception on what a book can actually be so…”

                Shortly thereafter, they got up and left. Thankfully.

                Had we run into them again at the hotel bar afterwards, I would have been surprised. But, of course, we did not.

                But…back to the afternoon in mention. On this afternoon, just after lunching at the kibbutz and boarding a boat onto the Galilee itself…  I honestly have no knowledge of boats so all I can really say is that it had no sails and that it did have a large, outboard motor and could comfortably fit around 30 people on its deck. This boat was not painted but rather left the original color of the very local wood of which it had been comprised. And it was to take us cross the small lake of a sea to the town of Tiberias which, in itself, was ancient and biblical and all that but, most importantly, where our tour bus would be there waiting to take us…who the fuck knew. To the Jordan River or something where Jesus himself was originally baptized…by John the Baptist! You see! So my research and studying had paid off and had made this trip more enriching to me after all. But!

                So we, the whole group, stepped onto this boat with full stomachs while feeling happy and glad. And this was going to be fun. It was, as I’ve said, a beautiful afternoon with the water sparkling and the sun just barely beginning to set. What could be better? Unless they served free beer on the boat…or even for a price. What could be better? Here I was in a strange and beautiful country with a girl whom I loved on a boat together. And we were both now nicely buzzed off the wine we’d had to drink with our recent meal. Bliss. It should have been blissful and yet it just so wasn’t.

                After all were aboard, the boat departed and Abbie and I found a nice ‘bench’ to sit on along the port side. And again, I’m sure there’s a technical term for such ‘benches’ but I just really don’t know shit about boats. And so we’re sitting there as the boat just sort of idles away from the dock for a while. And then the motor is finally turned up to full blast and we’re just loving it all with the wind blowing through our hair. We were so far away from our jobs and the day-to-day people that we just hated to deal with and the US in general and…it was a nice spot. A nice place. A nice feeling. And if that feeling could’ve just lasted until the end of this boat ride; I really think I would’ve been okay. I might have even had a new outlook on life. But of course, like all blissful feelings, this one was also fleeting and also came to an abrupt sort of end.

                Because while we were smiling at each other and pointing out things in the scenery far off into the distance; there came…our national anthem? Which was cool and all. It was a nice gesture on the Israelis’ part. Maybe they were just trying to show some respect. And it was cute since, in our particular tour group, we were just about all Americans. And I only say this because, I believe, there were actually two folks on board who did actually reside in America but held different citizenships. So there we were just bumping along with the waves; Abbie and I just tapping each other’s shoulders and speaking right into each other’s ears because of all the noise from the wind and the motor. And that’s about when she tapped me on the shoulder again and pointed out something for me to look at. But instead of pointing towards either shoreline this time, my poor girl did point towards the very deck we were all now standing and sitting upon. Actually…make that all standing. Because every single person. Every individual human being in our group (and even Mendy, our tour guide) was now standing up and facing an American flag that had been unfurled…and they were facing it for real. But not only!

                Not only were they facing it! But all 30 people (or all 28 or whatever if you exclude Abbie and myself); all 28 of them were not only facing it and staring into this cloth of red, white, and blue blowing beautifully in the wind; they were each holding their hearts with their right hands and each held an expression of pure rapture on their faces.

                Oh, God. So what do we do?! We were obviously the only ones not standing!

                At first we weren’t drawing any looks but about halfway through the anthem they did come…mostly through people’s peripheral. I couldn’t say they were looks of disdain though. I couldn’t say they were anything really since each one was so fleeting. But, if I had to guess, I would have to say that, more than anything, they were looks of surprise. They (every passenger) were probably just as surprised that we had not stood up automatically as Abbie and I were surprised that they had! And the keyword here is ‘automatically’.

It’s not that Abbie and I weren’t good sports. It’s not like we were trying to cause a scene or anything…or even invoking a conversation. Because, if anything, I’m sure that either of us would have stood up automatically just to avoid one. However, we just weren’t programmed to stand up (automatically) every time our national anthem was played. And the question for us was; why were all these people? I mean, I guess if you’re at like a sporting event or something and the national anthem is played prior to the game; it’s customary to stand and take off your hat or whatever. But usually, and I’ll just admit it, the only reason that I do stand during these times is to avoid people’s looks or attitudes. It’s so they don’t give me shit for appearing to be unpatriotic…which I’m not. However…given the time that this situation was actually unfolding. It was November, 2005 and the war in Iraq was definitely starting to peak if it wasn’t in full force. The same war that was presently but two countries away from where we now sat on the boat and the same war that we didn’t necessarily agree with. In fact, now that I got to thinking about it, I’d seen several stories in the news ever since we’d invaded Iraq about people who purposely turned their backs to the flag during the anthem at various sporting events. But this wasn’t even an event! It was a fucking boat! And sort of a rocky boat at that. This deck wasn’t opportune for the standing and yet…

Out the corner of my eye, I looked at Abbie and shrugged as if to say, “I mean…I  guess we should. You know…just to avoid any weirdness. We are going to be stuck on a bus with these same people for days still to come.”

And, as if able to read my look and these thoughts exactly, Abbie took my hand in hers and we stood up together…just in time for the anthem to come to an end. We did not, however, put our hands over our hearts. But I didn’t really care if anyone noticed that part. We’d stood up at last and that should be good enough and count for something. At least it better.

But, of course…

Before any official inquiries were made on the group’s part, though, there is one detail that I absolutely have to include and that is; just after the anthem wound itself out at a ridiculously high volume, there began to play another song. And although nobody was expected to stand for this one, the song itself caused Abbie and me to feel even more awkward than the anthem had. At first, it was no big deal. That is; the intro wasn’t. It consisted of nothing more than a standard rock beat and cheesy rhythm. The others in the group were really digging it, though, and even dancing to it…and why not? They were happy. We were on a boat. The anthem was over. Let’s party. And then the first verse of lyrics began and… I can’t remember exactly how it went but I am sure that the words, ‘God is good. God is great,’ were strung together in that order.

                So great. As if the whole anthem debacle weren’t enough, we were now being subjected to…Christian rock? Possibly. But I did taken notice that nothing about Christ or Jesus was mentioned. Nondenominational religious rock? Did such a genre even exist? I didn’t know and I certainly wasn’t going to find out. And as if this weren’t psychological torture enough… I mean, seriously. We were on a fucking boat here without any way of escape. Except maybe…for walking on water? Nah. Because even if we’d been able to pull that off; that would only mean that these people would wind up worshipping our miracle working asses and then we’d really be stuck with them. Forever. But! As if the nondenominational religious rock weren’t enough; one of the nosier wives did begin to make her way across the deck with a crinkled brow and air of concern. And she was headed straight for us.

                And again…with no way of escape, there was obviously no way of ducking her. I did, for only a moment though, consider faking a medical emergency. But the lady moved fast and before I could decide on either a seizure or a heart attack; it was too late. The bitch was upon us.

                “Hi!” her smile was huge.

                Abbie and I had sat back down by now and, by now, the lady was standing directly in front of us so that I had more of a direct view of her belt buckle than anything else. That is, I had to look up just to see her face…and I didn’t like it.

                Once again, I was glad to have Abbie there to do the talking since I wasn’t even feeling particularly civil. And so she addressed the lady, “Great boat ride, huh? Are you guys enjoying yourselves?”

                “Oh,” she replied, “The journey is absolutely amazing. There’s nothing like walking in the footsteps of the Lord.”

                “Yeah,” but Abbie’s smile was noncommittal.

                “So you guys don’t normally stand up when the national anthem is being played?” and there it was…all out in the open. The lady’s tone, though, wasn’t one of disdain or even irk. Rather, it conveyed vex and concern as if she couldn’t possibly believe that there were any Americans anywhere who didn’t automatically stand before the first few notes were up. Oh, say can you see?

                “Oh. Yeah,” I sort of took over, “I guess we just weren’t really paying attention. You know. Just overwhelmed by the scenery and all. And the…sacredness?”

                Add more God music. It persisted to drive us crazy in the backs of our minds while this woman worked us on a more cerebral level.

                “So are you guys going all the way to Jordan with us?” she asked. That was the plan. Most of the group was to fly down to Eilat together at the end of the week and then cross the border from there. And she continued, “Were you guys scared when you heard about the bombers?”

                “Well…”

                Then I stepped in again, “We were reconsidering the Jordan part of the tour, I guess. But, and this is the God’s honest truth; I was…that is, I am…way more scared than she is.”

                And this was true indeed.

                A few days ago. Literally, a few days ago; three simultaneous suicide bombers had detonated themselves in the Jordanian capital of Amman. Simultaneous; meaning they’d each blown themselves up within minutes of each other. However, each one had gone off in a different hotel. And seeing this shit go down on the news back home, for us, had been terrifying. I was frozen with terror. Did we really want to get on a plane and fly directly into this mess? Fly straight into the Middle East and Jordan specifically?! What the fuck was wrong with me?! And to endanger the life of my girlfriend while I was at it? Nice, Mick. Real nice. And it’s not like I was just imagining things or overreacting because right there on the TV screen was the proof! Three bombs had gone off! And 60 were dead! And all we had to do was not get on the plane. It was just that easy. Just don’t get off the couch and we’d remain perfectly safe. Sure, we’d be out a little bit of money but…

                “Were you guys scared?” Abbie threw the question right back at her but she asked it in all sincerity.

                “Us? Well, maybe a little. But I think, ultimately, we’re faithful and knew the Lord would protect us. And he has.”

                Yeah. So far, bitch.

                “Plus,” the lady then added, “My son just got home from Iraq and I just felt like…I felt like,” and here she sighed, “If he came all the way over here to defend our country then… I guess I just felt like this would make me closer to him is all. Somehow.”

                Alright, lady. Ya got me. I guess, I could kind of respect that.

                Not that I respected her son ‘automatically’ for being a soldier. And not that I respected the term ‘defend’ she’d just used and applied to this war next door in Iraq and our country. Yet…this was a mother’s love at its most denuded.

                “He’s been a lot sadder ever since getting back,” she added glumly.

                “Ahh,” Abbie empathized, “That’s so sad.”

                And it was sad, I suppose. War is sad and that’s a fact. But for this kid…this solider who was, no doubt, right around my age to be, perhaps, psychologically damaged for the rest his days for nothing…for nothing! Well, that was much sadder. He wasn’t defending his country. Iraq       wasn’t attacking us. They’re half a world away. And none of the 9/11 hijackers were of Iraqi citizenship. And nobody in the entire world believed that Iraq actually had any nukes…not even Colin Powell as the very words were coming out of his mouth. Probably not even this nice lady’s son…this soldier. And if he did…if he truly did believe; then I feel more sorry for him because of his ignorance than I would for him because of his post-traumatic stress.

                I wanted to talk to this lady. I wanted to pick her brain. I really did. I wanted to ask her what the hell ever happened to the conscientious objectors of her time during the Vietnam draft. Did she consider them to be cowards? And did she consider the military personnel who’d fled to Canada rather than fight in this war to be the same? I already knew that she did. I didn’t have to ask. But why?! Why was it considered to be such a sin in this country to criticize our own soldiers? Why was it such a taboo? And why was it that we were almost expected to kiss their asses and/or feel sorry for them or donate to them or strictly refer to them as ‘our brave men and women overseas’? Sure, they’re brave. Iraq is a dangerous place…and so was Vietnam. But what exactly is noble and respectable about following the decisions of our leaders so blindly that they’d march straight into hell for them and often commit countless atrocities once they got there? What the fuck was so admirable about that?! Because, as Americans, we’re taught growing up respecting freethinkers like our forefathers. The problem is; we’re not taught to actually be that way ourselves. Not anymore, at least.

                But times were different back then…for Americans. Back then, we were fighting on our home turf and being attacked not unlike the Israelis or even the Jordanians of this particular scenario. Shit. Washington D.C. was fucking burned down as late as 1814! But now, things were different. Now, we had to travel to fight for ideas…not just land. And travel we did. Like no other country in the history of the world had ever done before. We had the money! All we needed was a steady supply of man power. And, with money, men can be bought and the risks that they’re willing to take can be upped drastically. But men are bought every day and everywhere. They’re bought with jobs and the whopping majority of us have to do them just to survive. There are, however, what the masses would view as respectable and unrespectable jobs…but even this, depends on the perspective. For instance; a guy who’s paid to cut down rainforests in, say, Brazil. The guy’s family might respect him greatly for working hard to put food on their table but, in the eyes of Americans especially, this very same guy is viewed as the absolute slime of the Earth. He’s cutting down our Earth’s precious and ancient forests and knocking off countless species of flora and fauna in the process…some of which may hold in them lifesaving medicinal properties. And what the American government needed, when it came time to start fighting idealistic wars across the globe, was not only the men to fight them…but the blind support of its united countrymen. Unquestionable support. And to this day, for the most part, they still seem to have it. Perspective is everything.

Because, it’s acceptable to criticize the military as a whole. And it’s now perfectly acceptable to criticize our government and our president. But it’s still pretty far from okay to publicly critique our soldiers…for going over there in the first place. But isn’t that where it really all begins? On the individual level. As citizens, we may elect our leaders via democratic process but…I guess I was just thinking about a different kind of vote. A more personal one. A more human one and one that comes from the heart. Because, if fighting a senseless and unnecessary war (or, at least, in such an unnecessary way) just because some super rich bureaucrats in Washington think it’s a good idea solely because their own political careers and agendas depend on it…well, then that’s not respectable. For any amount of money, it’s not. And I just wish I could implore every individual soldier to just…just refuse to do shit that they felt was wrong or shady. Just put your foot down! Say, ‘This isn’t acceptable,’ and, ‘It’s not what I signed up for’. And yet, they still had so much support back home. And yes…it must be pretty difficult to question what you’re actually doing when your mom comes into your bedroom just before you’re about to deploy and looks you straight in the eye with her own watery glance and says, “Son. I just want you to know that I love you and that I think what you’re about to do is so brave right now.” Yeah. That’s some hard shit. Nobody ever wants to be seen as a coward…especially not by their own parents! But, is it cowardice really…to think for one’s self? On the contrary; just being one’s own man or woman is one of the hardest and scariest hurdles to overcome in life.  

And still, I just wish I could urge our soldiers to question our government more and their role within in it and their true role upon this very planet. And still, I just wish I could urge all of their supporters to support them (not to diss them)…but to support them to think for themselves and be their own men and women and even put their feet down when they smell bullshit on the horizon…despite the consequences. Which, let’s face it, could be drastic and harsh.

                And all of these thoughts had run through my brain in about 2 seconds and, as much as I did want to ask and discuss such topics with the lady standing in front of us right here on the boat in Israel; I was also human enough to put my own foot down (on myself) and realize that this wasn’t exactly the most sensitive or opportune time to do so.                 

                So luckily, it was right around this time that Mendy, our trusty tour guide, made his rounds right over to the three of us and asked how we were doing.

“It is a very beautiful land, don’t you think?” he asked us proudly and in that most unique of accents that only such a tiny country could offer.

He was a good guy. An honest guy. And he’d even brought tears to Abbie’s eyes (and almost to mine) when he’d described how, when he was just a teenager and working in the IDF, they’d obtained the Wall. He told us how he was manning radio transmissions down in the Negev desert when the static word had come through. Fuzzy white. But he’d heard all that he needed to. “We got it. We got the Wall.” And it had just meant so much to him. Because he’d described to us how, when he was a little boy and before Israel had any control of Jerusalem whatsoever, how his father would take him to the highest hill in Tel Aviv and how there they would look through their binoculars and pretend to see it. That’s how much it meant to this guy and that’s how personal and how close the combat and the meaning behind that combat was to where this guy laid his head every night.

                “It’s going great,” Abbie answered him with a smile, “And it is beautiful. And it’s such a beautiful day. But…can I ask you something?”

                “Please, my dear one! Ask away!” he was so jovial without being overbearing.

                “Do you think they have any Israeli music on this boat that we could listen to instead? Because Mick and I would really love to hear some of that…from a cultural perspective.”

                And here, he just smiled back at her. He knew. And he’d already asked us once what we were exactly. And when Abbie replied with, “Well, I really don’t know yet.”

                He replied with, “That’s good!”

                He’d sensed that we didn’t quite belong with the rest of this group. And subsequently, I recalled just then how he’d told the rest of the Christians on the first morning of our first outing how he considered them to be very lucky. For they already had their savior and how the Jews were still waiting for their own. We really liked him. And we really liked our friendly bus driver for that matter and just about every Israeli and Palestinian we’d met here as a whole. Everyone was so fucking friendly and nice! And not just those employed in the hospitality industry and not just Israelis. Because, just last night, Abbie and I had become lost while walking down the side of the road in East Jerusalem. And yes. Not only did I put my girlfriend’s life in danger by coming here; I fucking pulled the Joe Schmo trick while we were here and well after dark by refusing to ask for fucking directions! So along comes this cab that screeches to a halt upon seeing us…and we were a little apprehensive to say the least. And this guy rolls down a window and, from the darkness of his cab, beckons us, “Get in.” And so we did; not knowing whether or not we’d be held for ransom within the hour. But sure enough; this turned out to be a Palestinian cabbie and he did, after a couple miles, drop us off exactly where we were heading…but here’s the clincher. He actually refused payment. And I tried. I was like, “Come on, man. It was totally cool of you and you rescued us in fact. Because, honestly man, we were fucking lost.”

                “No, my friend,” and his voice was firm, “First time to Jerusalem?”’

                To which we both answered, “Yes.”

                “Then first time in my cab is free.”

                He did give us his card and everything but it was surprisingly without any sort of sales pitch. And he wouldn’t even take a tip!

                It was just confusing, I guess. Not the cab ride but how so many friendly people could be living in an area so riddled with violence on every side. And yet remain so friendly and impartial to tourists! He didn’t ask us if we were Jewish. He could have never known for sure. Which only proved that he didn’t really care.

                “Of course, my beautiful lady! Please excuse me while I see if they have some other music to play.”

                “Of course, Mendy,” she answered, “And thank you!”

                “Thank you, Mendy!” I added too, “You’re the best.”

                And, on the rocky boat, that made him smile as he walked away.

                He didn’t have to try, though, as Tiberias’s shoreline was now fastly approaching. That is, we’d barely have time to listen to one more song anyway. But he did try as we saw him talking with this ship’s first mate.   

                Before the boat landed, though, somebody on board must have asked him a question or something and even persisted in the asking of it once the group was, as a whole, back on dry land. And I could only assume so because Mendy, who  so far had always been of an extremely cheerful disposition, seemed suddenly agitated and short.

                “Why do you ask this?! Do you ever ask a person this?! No! No, you do not.”

                And, as the group was now clumped back up together while we were making our way uphill to some point unknown; I couldn’t quite tell whom he was addressing. But, at the same time, I guess I really didn’t have to think too hard in order to figure out just what the inquiry had been that had set him off.

                But for Abbie and I, as Americans too, it was just embarrassing.

India Becomes Me

                “You got a plan, Juan?”

                “I’ve got a plan. Don’t you worry, buddy,” he replied in his strange yet distinctive Portuguese accent.

                “Alright. I trust you, dude.”

                But did I? Did this guy really have any idea just how bad I was feeling?

                I did need to get the hell out of Agra though. Now. And if there was anyone who could push me and ensure that this would happen; Juan was definitely the man.

                “You think there’s gonna be some more tuk-tuk guys down there around the Taj?” I asked just needing some confirmation.

                “Yes, my friend. That’s what I’m thinking.”

He’d just brushed off two dudes offering us a ride right outside our guesthouse. “Two hundred rupees?! Apiece?! It’s not even that far, man. And you can bet I’m not paying two hundred rupees for that. They’re crazy!”

      “Yeah. That’s true.”

      We both had our packs, though, and I was already sweating profusely after only having walked a meager fifty yards. But it was a hot night in July and maybe I was just being a hypochondriac. Maybe I was just tired and worn out from walking all around this town in the summer heat the past few days. But something (call it instinct) had preserved me from eating anything more than toast and 7Up for dinner tonight.

      Juan and I skirted the side of the dirt road in single file fashion as the swarm of tuk-tuks, cars, bicycles, and oxen occupied the middle. And every goddam one of them seemed to have a horn blaring. Even the cows with little bells tied so daintily around their humongous necks. They were beginning to drive me crazy.

                But onward we trudged through this town’s bustling, little center. At least the night was starry and clear, though, and it least it wasn’t raining.     

                We’d spent the day exploring again. All day. Getting up early and just walking wherever. Juan had had this pretense about needing to buy shampoo and that there was some specific kind he was looking for that couldn’t be found anywhere in the vicinity. Eventually, some locals told us about a ‘big mall’ miles from the city center and it quickly became there that we were determined to walk. And why not? Isn’t traveling for pleasure supposed to be about seeing new things and meeting new people? And, for traveler’s like us, seeing the real people and the real neighborhoods was something to be enjoyed. It was part of the adventure. And so, on each of the past few mornings, we’d simply walk in a relatively single direction as far from our guesthouse as we possibly could and then maybe try to catch a ride back…if only the price was right to Juan’s liking.

                On this particular afternoon, however, after walking around all day and indeed locating the ‘big mall’ where Juan did find his particular brand of shampoo; we caught a rickshaw back towards town but were dismayed after the guy dropped us off only to find that ‘town’ was basically in the opposite direction of where he’d left us. Fucker. But hey; win some lose some. And so we walked a bit more until Juan cut a deal with yet another rickshaw guy. My Portuguese friend didn’t like the price originally offered and countered with the idea of having him pedal the bike while the true owner of the vehicle and I rode in back. And it worked. The deal was struck and Juan pedaled happily up front while this seasoned Indian guy just relaxed in back and enjoyed the scenery.

                Then, once back in town, Juan and this German kid who’d we’d been traveling with really wanted to get a Coca-Cola from some stand on the street…and drink it right there on the street in the midst of all the horns honking and the blaring sunlight and heat. But I just couldn’t do it. Plus, the other two didn’t seem to crave the alcohol so much as I did so… I simply told them that I’d be just across the way in a restaurant having a beer because I needed the shade. And this was cool with them. They’d either meet me over there or see me back at the guesthouse in a little bit.

And so this restaurant that I entered; it was probably one of the few air-conditioned restaurants (or any establishment, for that matter) in Agra…if not the only one. And, as I swung the door open, the cool air hit me and felt wonderful against my face and really my entire being. But, only an instant later, it almost felt too cold. But hey; beggars can’t be choosers, right? And so I sat down at a table and ordered a large bottle of beer which, I’d already gathered, was to be kept under the table due to the conservative alcohol laws in this area. The glass itself, I was allowed to have on the table but the restaurant, in some premeditated measure, had already wrapped it with a napkin in order to hide the contents therein.

And I should have known it then. I should have known something! Because, anytime I’m hot and thirsty and a beer doesn’t satisfy this feeling; something is certainly wrong. But it didn’t. The beer didn’t do anything for me! And, after only a few sips, I asked the table of European tourists across the room if they’d like to have it which they readily accepted.

After that, I was just about to leave when the urge hit me. Call it sudden onset or whatever but…there was absolutely no way that I was going to make it the short walk back to our guesthouse without first having to take a shit. And this shouldn’t have been so surprising. On my first night out of Bombay, I’d woken up on the train with a similar urge. And there, making my way to the end of the car through the dim lights and all the sweaty bodies bunked on their berths, I opened the door to a bathroom space; the floor of which was completely covered in shit. And there, trying my hardest to support my body by hanging onto the ledge of the sink without letting any skin from my ass actually touch the toilet seat itself; I discharged my first case of diarrhea. And unfortunately, it hadn’t stopped since then. So that amounted to three days worth. Three days worth of the shits. But never had the urge ever hit me like this. Like I wasn’t going to be able to hold it for very much longer!

      And so, after being directed towards the bathroom in back and past the naked little kid washing dishes on the floor; I found the door and latched it shut behind me. And, of course, the ‘bathroom’ was nothing more than a faucet next to a hole in the floor. But hey, if this is what everyone else around here shits in, then why shouldn’t I be able to do just the same thing. And I had. I had plenty of times already shit in holes throughout my course of only under a week in this country. But I could already tell that this one was going to be messy and would try the very strength of my legs while I squatted. Luckily, as a foresight, I’d brought along a roll of toilet paper with me and carried it always in my bag. Otherwise…otherwise there were, as in any Indian bathroom I’d seen thus far (aside from our guesthouse), two plastic pitchers full of water that I could only assume were for somehow cleaning your ass out. And, as much as I always wanted and even strived to do as the locals do; I was not, in any way shape or form, quite ready to participate in that.

      So I unloaded. A lot of it was just fluid but, either way, I was just thankful to have whatever it was out of me. A couple people knocked on the door during this time but there was no way I could stand up to even let them in for a second…because there was always more coming. More on the way. Entire minutes would go by but I still felt my bowels churning around in there and then…just more.

      When I finally felt that this bout was over, I made of project of wiping my ass as clean as it could be and tried to make doubly sure that (while still not quite used to shitting in such position as this) I hadn’t accidentally shit all over my jeans as they’d been piled up around my ankles. And, as it would appear, I hadn’t. Then I did a quick ‘walk of shame’ back through the dining area and opened the door back onto the street.

      The hot air outside relieved me just as much as the air-conditioned environment had earlier…probably even more so.  And, since I no longer saw my friends anywhere around the stand across the street, I decided to head back to the guesthouse where the German kid, who wouldn’t be leaving with Juan and me, still occupied a room.

                “Hello, my friend. Where are you going?”

                “Hello.”

                “Hello. Which country?”

                And I knew that they were only trying to be friendly and trying to make a buck…but I was in no mood to speak to, nod at, or even acknowledge anyone.

      After a few blocks (if you can call them that) of slogging through the heat again, I found our guesthouse, crossed through the threshold, and climbed the stairs of the open air atrium. Then, after turning a quick corner along the narrow, tiled balcony, I came to the very room I’d inhabited last night…the very room the German kid had taken over or, that is to say (for the time being), assumed the price of. And I knocked.

      It took a while but Juan finally answered.

      As the tiny room had no windows, it was completely dark in there but for the bit of sunlight sneaking in behind me.

      “Hey, buddy. Come on in,” he beckoned me with a wave of his hand before turning right around and crashing back down on the bed again.

      Then I closed the door behind me, pulled the latch, and laid supine on the cool, tile floor using one of my pillow cases full of clothes for a pillow.

      “Where’s our friend?” I asked.

      “I don’t know,” and I could easily imagine exactly how Juan’s shrug looked in the darkness, “He said he had to run an errand or something. Probably to use the internet or something.”

      “That’s funny. I just can’t picture that kid out there on his own, ya know?”

      “I am telling you, man. I worry about that guy. He’s a nice guy, you know. But I think in many ways, he is too nice and people will take advantage of him. When I found him in Turkey, he was trying to buy something and had just about every penny he owned out there on the table for the bargaining. He is crazy, this one. Sometimes, I really think that.”

      “Yeah,” I agreed mindlessly just enjoying the breeze from the overhead fan and the cool tile beneath me.

      “So, I figure…” I could tell Juan was about to change subjects, “We can nap right here for another two hours, maybe. And then, maybe, grab something to eat. Maybe leave our bags here and come back for them. What do you think?”

      “That’s sounds pretty good to me, man. Sounds like a plan.”

      “Yes. Good. I think it is a pretty good one.”

      We stopped talking after that and in practically no time, I could hear Juan snoring up there on the bed. This was perfect. Darkness. Silence. Coolness. It was what I needed and I felt more and more relieved with every passing second. But relieved from what exactly? I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. I didn’t feel feverish and I wasn’t nauseous. I was just…well…hot. And physically exhausted without actually being that tired. Still…I must have dozed off for a little while because I came to hearing someone trying to rattle around with the latch outside.

      It was the German kid. I had no doubt. So I stood up and opened the door. It was probably about time for us to start getting a move on anyway.

      And so they ate (as I mentioned before) while I nibbled on some dry toast with the belief that this diet would somehow cure me of my diarrhea. And then, sticking to Juan’s plan, we went back for our bags and bid the German kid adieu.

      “Alright,” I pat him on the shoulder, “It was good meetin’ ya, man.”

      The kid, after having been in India just over a week, had already had enough and was going to stay on in Agra just long enough for his parents to wire him some money for a plane ticket back home. He’d been sick though. He’d been puking a couple nights ago when I met them on the train.

      And so, just like that, their plans changed. Juan had been wanting to take the kid to The Golden Temple in Amritsar but then, due to the sickness, the kid told him he wasn’t going to make it. Then I think Juan even asked me if I wanted to go there a couple times…and it’s not that I didn’t. But Amritsar was a bit out of my way and, since I only had a month in this country, I was pretty focused on sticking to the rough sort of schedule I’d made. My plan was to head to Varanasi and chill out there for a couple of days or so before catching a bus up to Nepal.

But it was sometime yesterday morning when Juan began to work a little off-the-topic subject matter into preexisting conversations over breakfast and on our morning walk. Subject matter like; “You know, my friend. You are going to love Varanasi. I haven’t been there since the 80’s but it is very beautiful. Very peaceful. Not like this shit. It’s a hippie town and they burn the bodies along the river at all hours of the day and night. You’re very lucky that you are going there, man. I think you will enjoy.”

Then, later on that afternoon as we passed by a slightly smaller train station close to Agra Fort, he says, “I think maybe let’s go into this ticket office just to have a look. What do you think? You still have to buy a ticket anyway, yes?”

“I do. And it wouldn’t hurt to check the times. I mean…this is the station our guesthouse guy told me to go to so… But I was just gonna buy the ticket day-of.”

“No, no, no,” and Juan clicked his tongue at me, “You don’t want to do that, my friend. Never want to do that.”

“Alright. You’re probably right.”

“Yes. I know I am. Come,” and he waved me towards the ticketing office, “Let’s see how much to go to Varanasi.”

And, of course, it wasn’t even five minutes later as we were both looking up at the timetable boards when Juan nudged me with his elbow and stated with a certain air of decisiveness, “You know…I think I will just come to Varanasi with you. Come. Let’s buy the tickets and we will leave tomorrow.”

So…that’s basically how I came to be trudging through the mud and shit covered streets of Agra on this clear and moonlit night. That’s how I came to be following this Portuguese guy whom I’d known for four days tops back to the little train station near Agra Fort with a physical sickness still somewhere inside me that I couldn’t quite describe. I mean…it was summer and we had been hiking along with our packs for perhaps half a mile now but should my shirt really be soaked through with sweat? Should my legs really feel like they were about to collapse underneath me?

“Tuk-tuk, sir? Where are you going?”

“Where we are going,” Juan replied once we’d reached the short, descending street that would quickly spit us out around the entrance of the Taj, “Is none of your business, my friend.”

                In this one, fell swoop; Juan brushed off several more tuk-tuk drivers without even inquiring about their price. In the sweaty, halfway delirious state in which I now found myself, I would certainly have been worried but for one thought. And I knew, without having to ask, that it was the same thing Juan was thinking. The idea was; once we reached the bottom of this street, there would be a plethora of transportation for us to choose from including more tuk-tuks, rickshaws, horse and buggies, and even camel buggies as we’d seen in days past. There’d be so many drivers down there pulling us by the arms…tugging us this way and that… There’d be so many down there all competing for our business that we’d be able to simply take the lowest bidder. We’d practically be able to name our price! Juan’s ploy was brilliant! At least this was my angle on things until we came to the end of the street.

                But…how could it be? How could the biggest tourist attraction in a country tied with only China for the most populous on Earth… How could it be that this street leading right up to the entrance of the Taj freaking Mahal was not only dark but for the light of the moon…but also completely void of life! Seriously! Juan and I were the only two souls in sight and our surroundings were so quiet that our footsteps seemed to echo.

                Both of us were puzzled to say the least and, without quite knowing what to do next, I used this as an opportunity to bend all the way over, rest my hands on knees, and catch my breath. Jesus, there wasn’t even the slightest breeze.

                I didn’t say anything but we were kind of at a metaphorical fork in the road and there was a decision that must be made. At least in my mind there was. But, knowing Juan, heading back up the hill and conceding a ride from one of the drivers that he’d so disdainfully refused mere minutes ago…that wasn’t even a option for him. And even if it were; the very gambit we tried to employ would instantly backfire right in our faces. Back up the hill; the drivers would recognize that we’d been defeated…that we were desperate even…and then they’d be able to name their price. And that shit wasn’t happening. Not for Juan anyway. And since we’d somehow become travel partners and were supposed to stick together…I guess that shit wasn’t happening for me either. We were sort of a team now and I guess I did feel like this guy kind of had my back. Or…that is…he’d have my back if I ever needed anything. But, then again, if indeed we were truly watching out for each other; why was I hunched over here on the roadside and feeling like I was going to keel over in the darkness at any minute with our destination still more than a mile away.

                Standing up straight again, I could see Juan looking at me in the half-light.

                “You okay, buddy? Your pack is very heavy, I think.”

                Paying a couple hundred more rupees meant nothing to me but whether or not Juan realized this didn’t really matter. He wouldn’t let me pay the extra fair just out of general principle so I didn’t even ask. The mere mention of it would have upset him.

                “Okay. You ready? You going to make it? I think maybe we will find somebody on the way. We just need to walk a little bit.”

                “Yeah,” I agreed breathing much too heavily for the length of the break I’d just taken, “You’re right. We do need to keep walking.”

                And we did. Our train left in less than an hour.

                This road to Agra Fort and the station; we’d walked its stretch a few times now over the past couple days. And just now, out here in the humid darkness, I knew there wouldn’t be much to look at as there was nothing but thick jungle foliage off to either side. This was fine with me though. The lack of scenery would allow me to concentrate solely on putting one foot in front of the other and simply…progressing. Simply moving forward. We’d make it. I just needed to suck it up for a little while longer.

                We walked side by side passing under the occasional, yellow streetlamp for what must have been about 15 or 20 minutes. And we’d hardly said a word to each other before Juan asked me if I needed to take another break.

                “I’m okay, man. I’m actually motivated to get on that train so I can just crash, ya know? That sounds so good right now.”

                “Yes. And that is really the best part of this. We will sleep. Then we will wake up but still be very restful. And then we will be in Varanasi. And you will see. You will love it. This, I promise you.”

                “Cool, man. What do you think about taking a break up here where the road meets the highway? You know. Like right before the fort.”

                “I think this is a good idea. Five minutes,” he shrugged, “Maybe ten. We can take our packs off and drink some water?”

                “Perfect.”

                Just another 5 minutes, I told myself as the smell of a nearby irrigation ditch hit us both really hard. Sewage. Raw sewage. We’d stopped along the sidewalk to check it out in the daylight…yesterday? Or was that just today. Fuck. I couldn’t even remember. But I did remember Juan, as the three of us stood awestruck and gazing at the sludgy runoff as if it were the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls…I remembered him saying something to the affect of, “My friends, you know what? I think… I think if you were to fall in this, you would die.” And he was right. Or at least anyone who fell in it certainly wouldn’t live as long because of that accident.

                In the moonlight, as we neared the highway that formed a circle around Agra Fort and branched off leading to only God knows where, Juan and I sat down on the sidewalk at the very end of the road we’d been walking and practically threw our packs on the ground.

                “Hello, sir. How are you? Which country?”

                There were also a couple of local guys hanging out here just standing around and smoking cigarettes. They didn’t have tuk-tuks or anything and, from all I could tell, they were just out enjoying the night.

                I wanted to be polite but, fatigued as I was, I found that I couldn’t even answer them just yet.

                Juan, on the other hand… He just started laughing uproariously and nudged me with his elbow, “You hear that?” he asked, “Which country. Which country. Well, let’s see,” and he looked right at me now, “Which country you want to be from today?”

                “Um…” and I had to laugh too, “Makhmood.”

                And this answer of mine caused him to laugh even harder.

                Basically, over the past couple days; Juan, the German kid, and I had been bombarded with this question seemingly every five minutes. And after a while…Juan just started making shit up. Last night, as the three of us were wandering the streets, some guy asked him ‘which country’ and Juan simply shrugged his shoulders just before pointing straight up at the moon. And of course (and if this isn’t a quintessential Indian response, I don’t know what is); the asker replied with, “Ah. I think I understand. You are from God.” After that, though, Juan actually started verbalizing that he was indeed from the moon. Then at some point, and I’m not even sure quite how, the word ‘moon’ evolved into a made up country we three would begin to claim as our homeland; ‘Makhmoon’…further and finally evolving to ‘Makhmood’.

                “Makhmood,” Juan answered the Indian gentlemen at the end of the road, “We are from Makhmood.”

                “Oh?” and the two guys really looked confused, “We have not heard of this one.” So, naturally, they decided to switch subjects, “And where are you going?”

                And probably the only reason Juan didn’t answer with, ‘That’s none of your business,’ is because neither of these guys were trying to offer us a ride anywhere. So I answered.

                “Varanasi.”

                “Oh,” and they both shook their heads understandingly but did correct me just the same, “Benares.”

                And I wasn’t sure if this ‘correction’ of theirs was based on my pronunciation of the of the name of that city or whether it was due to an Imperial name that had been changed back rather recently because, after landing in Mumbai, I was surprised to find that everyone local still referred to their hometown as Bombay just as everyone local I’d encountered thus far still referred to Kolkata as Calcutta. Not that it really mattered and not that I was in any shape to start picking the brains of people who didn’t speak English very well for information. So I just let Juan do the talking. Small talking. And, as it turned out, both him and these guys could talk soccer; the sport that was a language in itself (Americans excluded).

                Juan lit a cigarette and so did I. And I knew that the end of this smoke would also mark the end of our break. So I smoked and caught my breath and took a couple more swigs of water. And I listened as Juan’s conversation with the two guys switched from soccer back to Varanasi and what a beautiful city it was indeed. And then, just as if a timer had gone off and lit a fire under each of our asses; we stood up almost mechanically, strapped our packs back on, and bid the gentlemen good evening.

                The next jaunt, I already knew, would be full of blaring car horns and exhaust fumes as we’d skirt Agra Fort around to its backside where the train station awaited us just across the street. And this part of the walk, unfortunately, would bring us ever so slightly uphill. But ‘ever so slightly’ to me may as well have meant a mountain.

                So Juan and I crossed the highway in order to take the sidewalk closest to the fort itself. And the highway was still busy and we did have to dodge a few trucks but, compared to the cluster fuck it had been during the day, this crossing felt like mere child’s play.

                And then, just about the second our feet hit the sidewalk across the street, I saw Juan reach out and hail a…cab? I was too tired to even turn and look. I also figured that he’d just wind up haggling with the guy over a price but to no avail. We were going to end up walking it out anyway so, unless the guy was willing to take us up there for a couple cigarettes, I hardly knew why Juan was even bothering.

                But something did stop. A vehicle of sorts and, for just a second, I only minded it in my peripheral. And then Juan did begin to haggle…but his tone was different. He wasn’t so much attempting to strike a bargain with the guy as he was just making him a straight offer. So I turned to look.

                And this thing. This vehicle that my buddy had hailed. It was a wooden flatbed almost identical to that of a flatbed pickup truck. Except, of course, for the fact that this was India and that I should have expected that, instead of a truck, this flatbed was hitched to a bicycle and obviously the guy riding it.

                “Twenty rupee, my friend. What do you think? Twenty rupee. You see…my friend here; he is quite sick and we must need to get him on the train. And we are very poor. Twenty rupee, okay? It would be a big favor for us. What do you say?”

                And the bicycle guy just nodded.

                And really…the station wasn’t too much farther now. It’s just that it was fucking uphill and almost as if Juan knew that that would have done me in…maybe before we even made it there. And maybe the cycle guy knew that too and truly was just playing the good Samaritan. Because…and I didn’t really have to calculate it; but 20 rupees in these times amounted to less than 50 cents American. But I guess the guy figured, ‘fuck it’. It was just 20 more rupees than he would have had anyway. And so we got on.

                Juan and I hopped up onto that flatbed and the guy began to pedal again. And, by the end of it, I knew without so much as a doubt that our driver was wondering whether or not the 20 rupees had been worth it. For this guy, upon reaching the top of the hill, was sweating more than myself even and standing up to pedal as if the extra burden had required him to do so. Or…I could have been imagining things. There was the strong possibility that, without us even resting on this flatbed of his, the ride would have been almost as strenuous for him. But again…it didn’t really matter. I guess nothing really matters in India. It’s simply point A to point B. And not just for us; but everyone. You simply strike a deal and then live up to that deal and then…whether it was worth it or not is all in the past. It’s nothing to sweat over because the past has already been sweated. And this guy was no scam artist or shrewd deal-driver. He was just a nice, quiet guy and I believed that he would have done it for nothing. And I wanted to give him more for his effort but…I could barely lift myself back off the flatbed of my own accord under the weight of my pack by then. And we thanked him very much, he just pedaled onward.

                “Okay,” Juan turned his head around because I was just following him now, “I think that our train is already at the platform.”

                And it was. And from out of the darkness that was the highway, we’d quickly come to find ourselves under the bright, overhead lights of the station with tons of people moving this way and that and carrying all sorts of luggage. Boxes. Garbage bags full of what looked to be clothes. Burlap sacks that had apparently once been used for grain. The list could go on and on.

                And the people. Brightly colored saris. Monks. Men who were yelling things at targets undefined. And old ladies limping or even crawling through the terminal.

                “This one is us,” Juan said, “I think.”

                But I didn’t know anything anymore. I certainly didn’t know what would’ve have happened to me or where I would’ve wound up on this night if I didn’t have my newly found, Portuguese friend to follow. Because…there was the train. And there were the cars. And there were the letters and numbers on them signifying which one was which. And none of these made any sense to me. There were lights and there were sounds. And there were people and smells and echoes and some P.A. blaring overhead with a ladies voice that may or may not have been speaking in English.

                “This way, my friend. I think maybe just three cars more. You see this one?”

                And I slowly shook my head ‘no’ but he didn’t see me.

                “This one. This one,” he was waving me in.

                Taking off my pack then, I held it in front of me and stepped up into the dark portal.

                The car was stifling and there weren’t any lights on. And was it that late? Really? I remembered, on our way up to Agra from Bombay, they’d switched the lights off at some point so people could sleep. But now, as it were, the only points of illumination were the windows as the fluorescent irradiation barely trickled in from the platform outside.

                Following Juan further through the car, he stopped at about its halfway point and tried to hold one of the tickets up close to his face. “Yes. This is one of us,” he said to himself. Then…“Excuse me. Excuse me, sir!” Some sweaty guy had already passed out on this berth that obviously wasn’t his. Eventually, after many ‘excuse me’s’ and much poking him on the shoulder, Juan did manage to wake the man. “Excuse me, sir. But this is our seat. You see? There. There is our ticket number. And this, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you are here. So please…please move out of our seat. Come on. Let’s go now, please. Sir…”

                But the guy, after finally sitting up, just motioned to us with his hands like he didn’t like to be hurried. “Sir,” Juan continued, “Yes. I see you. Now hurry up, please. We would like to sit down now. This is not your seat. Now, sir. Now. Let’s go. Yes. I know you understand me just fine.”

                And only after about another minute of this coaxing did the guy finally move. Off into the darkness, he shuffled…probably with the intention of occupying some other empty berth that didn’t belong to him. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he even had a ticket.

                What a fucking ordeal. If there’s one thing India had taught me (even just within the past few days), it was that; passivity will get you nowhere. One billion people simply means pushing and shoving others out of the way…and being assertive. And thankfully, on this night, I had a Portuguese guy to do this for me.

                We sat down on the vinyl pad then that was the berth after squeezing our packs underneath it.

                “You alright, man?” Juan asked me, “I think you do not look so good.”

                “I’ll be alright,” I answered sluggishly, “I just… I think I’ll feel better once we start moving, ya know? It’s just really hot in here.”

                “Yeah, man. I think you’re fucking right about that. I think maybe this whole train is full.”

                And I knew that Juan was referring the entire length of the train…and obviously he had no way of knowing whether or not this was true. But in our car at least; every wall of berths being filled to capacity could be verified by sight. And unfortunately; smell. There must have been 64 bodies in this car alone and, in this heat, everybody had long since turned ripe…myself included, I’m sure. But I just…needed a breeze!

                In the blackness, I could see the glimmer of eyeballs and the shine of wet hair and sweaty skin. Then I caught something about knee-high inching across the floor on my left. At first, I thought it was an injured dog that had come on board looking for food. But then, as this dark and mysterious shape continued to move its way down the center aisle, I discovered it to be a little kid crawling; a boy about 7 or 8 years of age. There was something fucked up about his eyes too. As in…they weren’t quite glimmering like everybody else’s. And if the kid wasn’t completely blind, I would have been surprised.

                In front of him, under his hands on the floor, the kid gripped a damp rag which he was pushing along to wipe the aisle as he went. He was also calling out something in Hindi after every couple of swipes. Something to let everyone know he was there less he be trampled. And something to advertise that he, indeed, was working for a living.

                Upon reaching our berth, the kid stopped directly in front of Juan and sat up on his knees. Then he put out his hand and made the weird call again.

                “Alright,” Juan looked him right in those cloudy eyes that, especially in darkness like this, couldn’t possibly see him back, “I give you one rupee. And here. Here is one from my friend. Now you can beat it. Okay, my friend? You have a nice night now.”

                And something about Juan’s response (bad as this may sound and bad as I was feeling just then) actually caused me to have to resist the urge to laugh. I knew exactly what it was too. Over the past couple days, Juan had been adding these ‘my friend’s’ to just about every sentence. But it was only then, in the darkness of the train, that I realized he hadn’t done this at all when I’d first met him. I would have picked up on it because those are the strangest, little details about somebody that I’m surest to remember. In fact, I can just about pinpoint when he began to use these ‘my friend’s’  as a way of slightly mocking whatever local was accosting him with the very same term. And it just stuck!  A couple days later, he was impulsively addressing everyone this way…even me and the German kid! And it was pretty funny. India had become Juan quickly without his even being aware of it.

                The blind kid didn’t think it was too funny, though, and he also didn’t think Juan’s two rupees were a sufficient price to pay for smearing dirt from one end of the car to the other.

                “Yah-yah-yah,” and the kid, who was still on his knees, stayed right there with his hand out and relayed this new message to Juan in a tone that was bothered, bothersome, and argumentative.

                “Aye-carahh!” Juan hissed back at him.

                And I knew that this rebuke of his was delivered in Italian because I knew that Juan reserved this particular tongue for telling people off in such a way. I had no idea what these words meant however. And, thankfully, neither did anybody else.

                I was also thankful that the kid, cognizant then of the fact that he’d just been berated, did decide to crawl on of his own accord before any more of a scene could develop. And down the blackened aisle he went feeling his way about.

                “You see?!” Juan was talking to me again, “This is why I do not like to give. Because it is never enough! I am telling you, my friend. If you give them an inch…”

                “I’ll be right back, man. I really have to pee. I really wanted to wait for the train to start moving first to blow some of the fumes out of the bathroom but…I’ll just hold my breath. Maybe it won’t be too bad.”

                But I was wrong. Because, after standing back up and shambling sideways towards the end of the car again, the severity of pungent ammonia that hit me upon cracking the bathroom door caused me to gag involuntarily. I had to turn my head away and cough a little before remembering what I was going to do in the first place; hold my breath. And so, inhaling as much air as I could just after pulling my shirt collar up over my nose to act as a filter, I did brave the horrors that were a stagnant shitter on this overcrowded passenger train in the middle of India…in July!

                And just how long had this train been traveling already!? Sure, this bathroom was practically as dark as the rest of the car but there was a window and that window was open and, through it, just barely enough light seeped in from the rest of the terminal to let me see what I was doing…to allow me to see just what was going on in here. And there was fucking shit everywhere! On the floor! On the walls! And of course, anywhere on or around the shitter itself were what appeared to be entire bowel movements worth of masala dosa. Oh, Jesus. And the most unfortunate part to this whole scenario, perhaps, was that; due to whatever this ongoing sickness was that was already plaguing me…I quickly discovered that 10 seconds was about the maximum length of time that I could hold my breath.

                Just the same, I closed and locked the door behind me. Then, unbuttoning my jeans and waiting to pee, I took in the shallowest possible breaths imaginable in attempts at keeping the acrid air from invading my lungs. Contagious; was the word that my mind couldn’t seem to rid itself of just then. I just couldn’t decide whether or not this description pertained to me more or this bathroom in this car on this train in this God forsaken country. I certainly felt contagious though…like I just wanted to find somewhere to curl up and shiver awhile.

                Oh, come on! What the hell was the matter with me?! How long was I going to have to stand here before being able to pee? And why? I’d had to go so badly only moments ago out there on the berth. Mere moments ago; I felt like my bladder was about to explode and now…well, the very urge to urinate had all but left me entirely.

                So what was the point of waiting then? This disgusting, excuse for a bathroom would always be here. But, the urge to pee, as it had already proved itself; would not. So that was it. I buckled up again and turned back around. And, as I passed out of the bathroom and right by the portal through which we’d initially entered the car, I definitely entertained the idea of just hanging out the doorway and taking in the…stagnant air of the train station? No. I needed to sit down. And luckily, upon my return, the train did begin to roll and cued Juan to stand up and start looking for his own berth…which some dude was also sleeping in.

                “My friend. My friiieeennnd,” and his voice lowered and I could picture his eyes bugging out as he tapped this latest stowaway on the shoulder.

                His berth was on the third tier across the aisle. The same position I’d been assigned on our way up to Agra…when I was much healthier only a few days before. Tired…but much healthier. Tired; I could deal with. But this. I didn’t even know what this was. But, just twisting and turning. Now that I’d had a chance to lie down. Curling and moving. And my stomach muscles felt tight. They felt like I’d been doing an ab workout all day and were hard to even the touch!

                And this next little detail is something as just pure fate would have it: One berth per car. One! And if there were indeed sixty people in this single car then God or Allah or…actually (especially) Vishnu or Shiva. But I…I was the lucky one and my own berth did happen to be the one blessed with a window without bars. The single window that one could actually stick their head out of if need be. It must have been a fire escape or something. Some sort of law. And, of course, I took full advantage of my situation by hanging my head just far enough out the window to catch some fresh air without having my neck snapped off by the many structures and poles now passing by.

Agra gained ground behind us after we made a few more stops along the way. And, through the window with my head hanging out, I really couldn’t help but analyze these villages…towns? Everything was rubble though. Even most of the structures and shelters that used to be…most of it was rubble now. Nobody ever kept anything up here, it seemed. It seemed that the British had come, built a bunch of shit, and then just left. Or, to be more accurate, were kicked out. But nothing since then had ever been constructed.

                And it was somewhere around here…somewhere still relatively close to Agra. At one point, I felt like we’d finally hit our last stop at any of these more remote outposts. And when the train kept moving and didn’t stop again…and I was still lying down but still twisting and turning. It was then that I finally dunked my head out the window in full realization that the mail poles were insignificant inches from decapitating me. And it was then that my gut finally did clench and expel just tons of shit that I’d taken in throughout the day. There were definitely some snacks in there from some wannabe pita place that we’d picked up on the street. And then there was the water. A bunch of water. So much so that it came up and caused me to sound like a drowning victim gargling ocean and air while struggling to resuscitate. I’m also pretty sure that there was the dry toast I’d eaten for dinner; and it was that that got stuck back up in my nose and lodged into my nasal cavity. And I fucking hate it when that happens since attempting to breathe either in or out of the nose after that point only proves painful and even more disgusting. And more gag worthy. Masala. Masala. And then there was some curry mixed in there and then…then. Then out came the mother fucking granola and cream. It was unmistakable and it came directly from that banana flavored lassi I’d ordered just this very morning at our hotel upon waking. They claimed it was their specialty. And, boy, was it ever.

                That’s it. That’s what acted as sort of a plug. A plug that had locked everything down in there without even allowing it to breakdown and digest. And so…after worrying about what these other Indian travelers would really think of me after having just about drowned out the window in an ocean of my own bile; I quickly concluded that, since this was India after all…this very bodily function of mine was about to be grossly ignored. Which it was. For, in India, this type of shit must happen all the time. People puking out the window of a train…especially a foreigner; it must be pretty basic to them. At least they acted like it.

                And I felt better. I truly did feel so much better after having purged that…whatever it was. Virus! It was a virus. Or maybe bacteria. Either or; I was still easily able to picture it multiplying within me. And if so much as a single one was left; it would spread throughout my system thereby causing me to have to do this all over again. But I could worry about that tomorrow. We could make it one of our missions to seek out antibiotics…and that would be fun.

                But, after feeling much relieved, I laid supine on my berth just enjoying the firm sort of mattress supplied. And I passed out for a minute or two. Or twenty minutes. Who’s to say? But I did definitely dream for a second.         

                And then a different urge hit me so hard; it caused me to wake up from this blissful whatever it was. Trance, I guess. And it was the urge to shit all over the place.

                “Juan,” I found myself whispering up on my tiptoes, “Hey.”

                The dude was out but it only took a little bit of nudging to get him awake.

                “What’s up buddy? You okay?”

                “Yeah. I mean I puked up a bucket but I feel a lot better now. But hey. Do you have any extra toilet paper? I mean, I think I used up all that I brought already and I just forgot to pick up more.”

                “Yeah buddy. It’s in my pack. I just have to find it.”

                And, just like that, Juan climbed down from his berth and, after searching through his pack’s many pockets, he located the roll and handed it to me. Then he patted me on the back and, in a sleepy tone added, “Tomorrow will be much better, my friend. You will see. Try to get some rest, okay?”

                “I will. Thanks, man.”