Trips And Journeys

A Texian's Prayer

O Lawd!

So far, today's been pretty good.
I ain't sworn nor said a cross word,
I ain't hit no one nor even loaded my gun,
I ain't coveted my neighbor's ass nor his wife,
even when they're one and the same.

I ain't lied, cheated nor stolen,
I've honored my folks, too.
I ain't taken your name in vain,
and since it ain't the Sabbath,
don't need to keep it holy yet.

But in a minute here Lord
I'm gonna have to git out of bed,
and then I'll really need your help!

This over-50 stuff is for the birds. 

Oh sure, all the old men warned me.  "Never pass a bathroom, never waste a hard-on, and never ever trust a fart," they all told me.  Now you may think that's a line from "The Bucket List", but no, old men have been telling young men that for ages.  Now come to find out it's true.  I hate that.

When you start off in this world, you're pretty much immortal.  You can do anything, go anywhere and eat anything, and you are the Man of Steel.  It just bounces off of you.  But somewhere around 30, you start to realize that you've gathered up enough stuff that even a little problem here or there can wipe out all your hard work overnight.  By 40, all you can think about is insurance.  You're willing to pay other people to cover your stuff because you've gotten pretty comfortable in your middle age.

It's at that point that you realize that you are middle aged.  If you get your statistical due, you've got about as much left and you've already squandered, and at least part of the second half will be just like the first half...diapers and soft foods with no spices.  You'll have roughly the same number of teeth, too.

It's about this point that most men twist off.  Women, of course, realize they are losing their ability to have babies, and for that they are happy.  But men, well, we want to take the same liberties we did when we were younger, but we still have the same consequences, and at this point, those consequences won't even graduate from high school before you're being turned into fertilizer.

Back in our 20s, we had nothing but options.  The world was ours and nothing could take away our deep view of the future.  By 50, that view of the future is getting cloudy, and it's not just detached retinas that's causing it.

You look around at all the crap that's attached itself to you as you went along and you start wondering, "What the hell did I waste all that time collecting stuff I can't take with me?"  Of course, you justify it by telling yourself that you'll leave it to your kids, but you look at your friends as they lose their parents and all they do is unload the stuff at an estate sale and take the cash.

Mostly to pay the freaking death taxes.

In your 20s, you didn't much care about your job.  Heck, there were 4 more where this one came from.  Besides, all the job did was give you enough cash to buy dinner and a movie with that hot new chick in accounting, and to buy the latest vinyl from your favorite band.  If you're in your 20s reading this...don't worry, you're kids will think of your CDs the way you think about my vinyl.  And that's only the beginning...

In your 50s, that hot new chick in accounting is showing a little wear and tear, and if you're honest, so is that image in the mirror.  Your 6-pack is now a donut basket, your cheeks are somewhere south of your former pecs, and that firm butt you used to have now pads the heels of your shoes.  Gravity sucks.

There is a bright side to getting old, though.  With each passing year, you give less and less a shit about what anyone else thinks.  The number of times you feel embarrassed slowly declines until you just don't give a rat's patoot about anything but your retirement.  And speaking of retirement...

Your whole life starts centering around that first cup of java and the stock ticker.  You realize one day that you care more about the movements in your portfolio than the movements in your bowels.  At this point, you've got some illusory line in the sand, and when you cross it, there are visions of gleaming bass boats and lake houses, and hour after endless hour of napping in the rocker on the porch, golden retriever at your feet (whose too damn old to fetch any more).

At some point, around your late 40s I think it was, internet porn becomes spam.  Chasing tail is not nearly as much fun as fish in a barrel, and a lot less work.  You start taking up hobbies - gardening, fishing, reading...anything that requires little physical exertion.

The part I really hate is that you start sleeping in 3-hour bursts, with one of the bursts coming right after lunch time while your trying to finish up that monthly management report.  You get to a point where you can't even remember what it was like to sleep a full 8 hours and run-and-gun for the next 16.  All-nighters change from wild parties to insomnia.  And at some point, you've seen more sun rises than sun sets.

Another bothersome part of getting old is that just about the time people start taking you seriously, you stop taking anything seriously.  All your life, you worked for that moment when folks would listen to you and hang on your wisdom, but the problem with wisdom is you see the futility of telling anyone what you've learned.  It's a vicious Catch-22, and there's nothing in the Owner's Manual about that, unless it's buried in the really tiny print that you can't read any more.

One sure sign you've reached old age is when you stop caring how much something is and start demanding quality over quantity.  The massive jug of rot-gut vodka for $5 is not nearly as appealing as that $40 fifth of Grey Goose.  The cheap box of chocolate Ex-Lax just doesn't have the appeal of the new designer pharma that gives you a thorough cleansing.  Ask your doctor.  Some patients experience dizziness, palpatations, kidney failure, and death.

Around the Far Side Headquarters, though, we don't complain too much.  We've always been about the Journey rather than the Destination.

It's liberating when the hormones relax their stranglehold on your psyche.  It's more enjoyable to listen to a cool breeze than Led Zepplin cranked to 11 on a scale of 10.  You appreciate that bird that goes nuts every morning in front of the house as you watch the sun come up...once again.  You appreciate the subtle flavors of a single shot of McAllen's 25 more than slamming a gallon of Jack Crack to impress that hot new chick in accounting.

Seems our culture doesn't appreciate getting old very much.  Us guys spend hours worrying about fading hair lines and spreading belt lines, not thinking about the savings on shampoo and hair cuts or the high-quality food and hooch that built that fine belly of yours.

Back in the States, many of my old running buds are getting mid-life divorces, buying toupes, and having plastic surgery to recapture that glow of youth.  Frankly, I'm happy.  I know how much work it was to get to this point and I show my war wounds with pride.  By golly, I earned these wrinkles and sags, though I'm still waiting for the fading hair line.  I seem to be one of those guys who go the opposite way, with hair growing out of places it has no right to be.

I've always been a Journeyer.  I prefer to enjoy the trip rather than waste my time worrying about getting to the goal.  I have better stories to tell because of it.  And really, that's the point...having stories to tell.

When we finally lay the meat down to rest, the only thing we can carry at that point are the stories.  I envision heaven as being a bunch of folks sitting around the camp fire swapping tales, and the ones that get command performances are the Journeyers who experienced the whole trip.  Hell, all the other guys have to talk about are mortgages, car notes and insurance bills.  In the end, who wants to hear about all that mundane stuff?  What about that cool cave you and your roommate explored where you found that human skeleton and the underground river?  Or the ruins of an indian kiva at the top of a cliff, and all the pottery shards and arrowheads at the bottom of the cliff?

All those stories come from stopping along the way to explore something that wasn't on the itinerary.  And if, because of the injuries you got exploring, you feel like the Tin Man needing a shot of lube every morning, weill you earned it.  And all the little changes at 40, 50 and 60, that's just part of the adventure.

And occasionally, you run into one of those 20-something whippersnappers that will take a little advice because they know you've racked up some experience in your Journey.  With any luck, that whippersnapper is your kid, too.

Won't you feel proud?

The Journeyer

Corfu

At the tender age of 18, I was sitting in a taverna on the island of Corfu, off the coast of the Greek mainland.  I was camping up the hill in an olive grove, and spending my days down at the beach playing in the massive waves and waterfall.

One night, I was sitting around with the group of young folks from various parts of the world, watching TeeVee and eating some magnificent mousaka, when the show “Vegas” came on.  It was very popular toward the end of the 70s and early 80s, with the character Dan Tanna running around being a PI, or something like that.  At any rate, the show had been dubbed into Greek.

I suddenly felt this wave of terror, realizing just how far from home I was.  I looked around at the kids there with me, from Germany, England, South Africa, Italy.  I had this sinking thought, “What if something happened to me?  What would I do?”

Of course, the feeling soon passed with a fresh bottle of Ouzo, but I never forgot that moment of near-panic.  At that point, I had been living overseas for over a year, and had already been through more than a dozen countries.  Why should it hit me right then?

Several years later, I was reading the brilliant book, “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” by Douglas Adams (an experience that started a multi-decade love-affair with his work).  Near the beginning of the book, the main character, Arthur Dent, looks into the eyes of Ford Prefect and is nearly scared out of his wits.  As the author explains, the farther a man is away from his home, the more distant and wild the look in his eyes.  Naturally, that look in an extra-terrestrial’s eyes would be unnerving.

That passage reminded me of that feeling of being so far from home.  It’s a very unsettling feeling to know that you can’t walk home, no matter how hard you try.  Conquering that fear is what separates travelers from tourists.

A tourist will go to extraordinary lengths to make sure their trip is ‘safe’ and ‘secure.’  They’ll buy traveler’s checks and bring the credit cards and pack every conceivable item they might need.  A tourist leaves an itinerary and contact information with a friend or family member.  A tourist has reservations.

When I moved to Indonesia, I had a week’s worth of clothes, a portable water filter, a bottle opener, a multi-purpose tool, a hat, and (because I read Douglas Adams) a towel.  I carried my entire life in one checked bag and one carry-on, for what I considered to be a permanent move.

I had no itinerary or reservations, just some friends with an open spot on the floor in the living room.  I had a plane ticket with open return for nine months, and a two-month visa that I had picked up at the local consulate in Houston.

Three years later, I have a wife and family, and the last time we moved, it required a two-ton truck and five men.  It wasn’t easy.  About three months into this fool’s errand, I had very powerful thoughts about giving up and walking into the jungle, hoping cannibals would make a feast out of my carcass.  I’ve had a few things stolen, including all of my ID, but I managed and got to a point that is relavtively settled in my new land.

The point is, if you want to make the jump, you have to be willing to let go of everything.  I cashed in pretty much my entire worldly belongings.  I let go of nearly every relationship I had (those that are real stick with you, no matter the time or distance).  I cut off nearly every zone of comfort I had to follow my dream of living and traveling in Asia. 

In fact, as the title of this column says, I live pretty much on the exact opposite side of the world from my home.  If I move in any of the cardinal directions, I am going closer to home, since it is physically impossible to get further away without leaving the planet.

I think most people are tourists.  They don’t mind seeing new places, as long as it’s not too exotic and they can maintain all the comforts of home, with plenty of back-up.  Nothing wrong with that.  Certainly, there are times when I crave routine and the security of repeatable experiences.

There are a few people who are travelers, though.  They lust for the challenge of pitting themselves against the unknown.  Some relieve this feeling by bungee jumping or sky-diving.  But, for a few of us, the only relief comes in the form of increasing as many variables in life as they can, and then trying to survive them.

Some might call it insanity, and perhaps it is.  Insanity comes in many forms.  I tend to look at those who spend their whole lives chasing ‘security’ as being insane.  They use up their precious lives grasping for vapors and ghosts.  At least my insanity involves real, physical goals.  And I get some great stories to tell.

The big difference between a tourist and a traveler, is that the traveler realizes that he is just as ‘safe’ and ‘secure’ 12,000 miles from home as the person who never ventures out of their living room.  One only trades this set of variables for that set.

In some ways, I’m much ‘safer’ from certain variables than the couch potato, because I am much more on my guard being far outside my home territory.   When you are on familiar ground, you tend to relax your guard a lot more, and so are vulnerable in many ways that I am not.  And I don’t have to surrender my dignity and privacy on a regular basis here, as I would at home.

When I get on a plane here, I walk through a metal detector, and in some cases not even that.  I am just as ‘safe’ on that airplane as I am after TSA has had their way with me.  In fact, I’m safer, since I didn’t have a bunch of yellow-shirted goons with their hands down my pants.  If the government tried that here, there’d be a revolution in short order.

Recently, I read where a movie star died over a year ago, and the neighbors and friends she had known for years didn’t notice.  I read where a man drowned in San Jose, while the cops and ‘first responders’ watched and joked about it.  I read several articles about peaceful home-owners being raided and gunned down by police/SWAT for no reason, because that’s how cops are these days.  I read every day about people being groped and fondled by ‘security’ agents, in ways that would have a regular person lynched.

Germany is one of the cleanest places on Earth, and yet hundreds are sick and dead from e. Coli.  For the past three years, I have eaten at little street restaurants and food carts that are completely unregulated and have yet to get sick once.  In fact, I’m safer since halal meat is free of antibiotics and hormones, and the vegetables are GMO- and radiation-free.

Sure, I’m on unfamiliar ground, and I have to jump through a few hoops every year to get my work visa.  Sure, my daily commute to work is a world-class crap-shoot.  Sure, I’ve got hornets the size of hummingbirds, millipedes as long as my foot and a half-dozen strange lizards running around the house, but I still have my dignity and self-respect.

The thing is, there is no such thing as ‘safety’ and ‘security.’  There are only different sets of variables, and we much choose which ones we are wlling to give up worrying about, and which are important.

Even if someone has your itinerary and contact information, if you’re dead, it really doesn’t matter, does it?  You can have all the cards and traveler’s checks you can carry, but if no one will cash them or the  ATMs are down or you are over your limit, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

‘Safety’ and ‘security’ are illusions.  They can not be had at any price.  The only people who are ‘safe’ are those already dead, and those yet to be conceived.  Everyone else is fair game.  You can let TSA crawl into your pants and the plane will still crash.  You can stay in your living room and still die plugging in the TeeVee.

The way I see it, the only thing we take out of this world is our memories and the only thing we leave to others is memories.  I want to remember that I stuffed as much experience into my life as I could fit.  I want others to remember that I was willing to step outside the comfort zone and live a full life.

Many years ago, I read a book called, “The Journeyer,” by Gary Jennings, which is a fictionalized account of Marco Polo’s travels.  It left me with two thoughts: 1) People remember Marco Polo because he stepped far outside the bounds of ‘safety’ and ‘security;’ and 2) At the moment of my death, I don’t want to have regrets that I wasted my life out of fear of the unknown.

I also think about Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn.”  The only time he and Nigger Jim were really safe and secure was when they were traveling on the river.  As soon as they got down on the land, that’s when the trouble started.  I often feel that way.

Maybe a child feels the need for the safety of his mother’s arms, but I long ago outgrew the need for that.