The Things That Happen to Me

Some of you have been demanding my stories, and this is for you. I plan on piecing together the odd moments of my travels [whether international or local] with zero pattern or logic, so try to keep up to the madness.

It has become apparent to me, over the years, that I attract bizarre attention from strangers. Wherever I go, with an obvious influx of occurrences while in airports, I form what I will henceforth call “friendships”. These are short-lived non-committal friends who flit in and out of my life momentarily; we don’t become pen-pals or even phone-pals, in most cases names are not exchanged, and so I must document them before they drift from my goldfish-memory forever.

I have a terrible fear of tornadoes, one that I didn’t realize would be an issue while in Texas. Also, I don’t exactly fancy the thought of being murdered. And so, when I was befriended by (or maybe I did the befriending, I’m never quite sure) the airport security guard, I was somewhat taken aback by his affronting both of these fears. Sitting on a bench outside, he began quizzing me on my destinations, as he chain smoked one cigarette after another. “Y’all are goin’ to Dallas? I heard tell them parts was hit with twenty or thirty tornadoes today, more expected tomorruh.” He dropped this news as though he was merely saying “I have ten fingers and ten toes,” leaving me to imagine what exactly it would be like to experience a tornado from an airplane, while also trying to keep up to his morbid conversation. Now, the challenge of conversing with said big-fat-chain-smoking-security-guard was not so much the Southern drawl, but the volume with which he threw my deepest fears at me. Low-talker would be an understatement, and so closer and closer I came to him, listening with all my might. “Going to India? Well I heard on the news today of a girl going to India that was murdered.” Huh. Well isn’t my life just a bed of roses, and my future bright and hopeful? As the story developed, he clarified that she was killed by her boyfriend in a domestic dispute prior to an intended trip, and so the India part of the story was merely word association, on his part. Phew. Just tornadoes to worry about then.

Last year, returning from Italy I had the opportunity to spend much time in Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport. Having forgotten to find souvenirs for anyone, I visited the Duty Free to find some imported Italian wine. (Pause to acknowledge the irony of an “authentic” souvenir like imported wine.) While paying, the lovely woman working the till asked “Shall I bag these up, or will you be drinking them in the airport?” Not sure if I mentioned: there were about 6 half-liter bottles in my collection. Speechless at the legality of cracking open duty free booze in the airport, not to mention the level of blood alcohol that would certainly result in such activity (yes, I am aware of the liberalistic ways of Amsterdam) all I managed to stutter was “But I’m by myself” before wandering off confused.

Shortly thereafter, aware I would soon be boarding a long flight, I decided a walk was in order, and commenced to speed-walk from one end of the airport to the other. From the corner of my eye, in a particularly abandoned terminal, I noticed a brazen boy about my age, bee-lining straight across the terminal in my direction. He came to a dead halt directly in my path, standing about shoulder high. I would later learn he was born in Thailand but now living in Holland and working as a porter for the airport. Standing there looking up at me, he said rapidly [aligning with his equally quick appearance in my path] “It’s my coffee break. Will you join me?” Deciding he should be rewarded for his valiance, I conceded. Comically, the place he chose to sit was directly beneath a speaker, and we all know that in airports, an announcement is made every 12 seconds or so, thereby making the conversation considerably less than fluid. Nearing the end of his fifteen-minute break he asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Yes” I lied. Clearly smarter than the average porter, he asked “Then why are you traveling alone from Italy?” Good point, Ballsy Porter; back to work for you.

Come to think of it, this isn’t the only time I’ve told that lie. Recently wandering the aisles of Wal Mart a young handicapped man appeared in front of me, grinning. I smiled back but kept walking, weaving erratically in and out of aisles, too distracted by shiny things and bright colors to notice I was being followed. Wherever I went he seemed to appear. Eventually, while I stood studying toothpaste, his grinning face appeared again over my left shoulder. “Hi!” (Awkward pause.) “You are very beautiful!” (From my corner, the typical stuttering babble.) “Do you have a boyfriend?” Feeling my only option was another lie in order to prevent a mixed-functionality marriage, I began apologizing profusely for being Pretend Committed and wandered off, wondering if maybe this new fan- albeit simple- might treat me better than most of the gender he represented?

To be fair, such awkward moments don’t come strictly from the male species. Checking into a hotel recently, I stood at the front desk visiting with the shuttle driver and front desk clerk—both girls about my age. The more effervescent of the two pronounced suddenly “I figured it out! You look like Lily Allen!” The other girl, merging a Texan accent with Valley Girl impression, felt the urge to throw in her two cents: “I, like, just read that, like, Lily Allen is, like, the hottest celebrity right now. Like.” Thinking we’d safely reached the peak of awkward and would soon being going downhill again, I was proven wrong, when the driver said “Oh my god! No! I’m not a lesbian! I wasn’t hitting on you or anything; I swear I didn’t know that.”

Abrupt topic change. [As there is no natural progression from a story such as that.]

Walking through the hospital corridor one day, I came across a big old fat patient in a wheelchair. His hospital gown was not quite secured in the back, leaving …. Well there is just no gentle way of saying this: leaving naked ass protruding from the side of his wheelchair. “Hi!” he shouted, as he wheeled himself into my path. “On your way to work?” I responded that no, I was just here to visit. Taken aback, he claimed “Well that’s surprising. You look just like a nurse.” Enlightened to learn that the nursing profession revolved around one’s appearance, I felt the urge to seek out a mirror and look at myself with a new perspective to see if what he said was true. Granted, I hate sick people, blood and needles, the smell of hospitals, and germs … but if I look like a nurse, maybe it’s time I reconsider my career choice?

Although, if conceding to beliefs held by strangers, in regards to my appearance, were enough to dictate my life choices, then I would also have no option but to call myself a Mexican. One morning at a Tim Horton’s drive-thru window, the woman handing me my coffee said abruptly “Are you Mexican?!” She seemed disappointed when I said no, but let me off anyway. A few weeks later, clearly forgetting our initial encounter, the same woman asked me “What is your nationality?” I responded “Scottish and Irish,” but she would have none of it. “Nope. I think you are Mexican.” And that was that—the decision had been made. The beauty of this story: the woman, herself, was Mexican and seemed unable to recognize her own kind. I have to wonder if it was my freckles or blue eyes that gave away my secret Mexicanness.

Said blue eyes have not always gone unnoticed, however. Wandering through the markets in Kusadasi, Turkey, one shop clerk noticed them and shouted at me in broken English as I walked away from him, “Your eyes! Your eyes! In my life, I have to see eyes like yours again!” Laughing at him, I put on my sunglasses and watched him drop to his knees, arms dramatically waving to the heavens as he bellowed after me “No! Not sunglasses!” and dropped face first onto the street in protest.

I suppose it is all a matter of perception. Following a trip to Europe last year, some colleagues in India asked that I send some photos. One of them later messaged me, to say (and I quote) “It looks like you are very happy these days and that has made you gain a little weight.” Since he intended this as a compliment, I couldn’t stop laughing, imagining a man in America saying that to any woman and coming out of the situation with his manhood still intact.

…just a few examples of the types of situations I frequently find myself in. Check back shortly, as there is no indication that stories such as these will stop finding me anytime soon.