Wayward Betty

One of the benefits of travel is replacing quotidian dramas with more pressing, life-altering, even existential ones. Instead of worrying about taking out the trash, you may wonder where you are sleeping. Instead of fighting with a boyfriend, you fight Russian passport control. Rather than your winter cold, consider a bout of dysentery. Either way, survival demands that you remain awake, changing… adapting.

Initially I planned to stay in Istanbul a week, but was offered a place relatively long-term and almost indefinitely, with some new friends of friends. I settled in quickly, taking over the couch, my things sprawling over the living room floor. I tried to be a good houseguest: taking out the trash, doing the dishes, hanging up my towel, etc. Unfortunately, for my housemates (there were 3 and a 1/2, including a live-in girlfriend), despite my efforts, I am kind of a mess, and always end up leaving a trail, in some cases, literally (dribbles of coffee and wine mark my path from the kitchen to the couch).

For a few weeks, it felt I had an actual home. I was staying with a lively commune of ex-pats who I immediately clung to. Coming from Vietnam, where I passed quickly through cities and inaptly learned names, a little English speaking enclave was a welcome departure from my otherwise haphazard darting around. Also, I liked them.

The definition of “ex-pat” in Urban Dictionary: “A person working outside their own country, sometimes on a fat corporate contract, sometimes as a foreign expert, sometimes just as an English teacher. Often their pay is considerably higher than the locals and they live a life of wanton pleasure while working as little as possible.” Fairly accurate, although many “ex-pats” hate the term “ex-pat” so I am only using it to describe the foreigners I have met working and living abroad, most specifically, English teachers.

In Istanbul, I learned that 1) all the ex-pats seems to know each other, and 2) the ex-pat community is rife with drama (too many worlds colliding), and 3) for obvious reasons, they don’t seem to be particularly interested in non-English speaking locals. Like myself, they work short hours and have ample time and freedom to run around and get into trouble.

There is an interesting relationship between the locals and the ex-pats: on the one hand, the ex-pats seem welcome, however gender dynamics, language, religious and cultural differences, and, probably, most noticeably, economic inequalities can make things complicated.

One of the first ex-pat women I met said to me, “By the way, you should know… the girls hate you here, if you haven’t noticed yet.” I heard this repeatedly, from ex-pats as well as local men. From what I have gathered, Western women are perceived as “loose,” so under a model of supply and demand in sex, foreign women lower the playing field and threaten the chase.

Since I didn’t talk specifically to any Turkish women about this, I cannot say how true or widespread the sentiment is, but I think the rhetoric is best explained by this Facebook wall post (written by a Turkish woman): “Why do slutty foreign girls teaching English in Istanbul without any qualification think that they’re hotshots? Most of them end up here because they can’t get a job in their own country. Turkish men treat you like a princess just because they can’t get laid easily in an Islamic country. Apart from that, I’m not irritated by promiscuous foreign men teaching English here. They’re very welcome. .” (Emoticon is hers).

So many things wrong with this.

I had the distinct pleasure of going out for dinner with this woman, who to be fair, is very young (23). Her boyfriend is a 39 year old Kiwi (New Zealander), clearly insecure that he is an aging musician, balding, and sagging in the middle. To counter his angst, the Kiwi has taken to teaching English in Turkey and sleeping with his 20-year-old students.

Inherently, I don’t see anything wrong with older men and younger women. What is problematic is watching them Eskimo kiss at the dinner table, the way that she defers to everything he says, and his blatant condescension because he knows that he is intellectually superior (no really, she is painfully and relentlessly stupid). More irritating, was the way that he chose to flex his masculinity by picking a fight with me.

At dinner, there were three Americans, the Kiwi, and Turkish Girl.  It all started at the restaurant when the Shitty Kiwi (SK) yelled out, “‘Nigger’ what’s wrong with the word ‘nigger’? You Americans just recoil at the sound of it. Why can’t we just say it? NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER. We should be able to say it without cringing.”

The Americans are shocked into silence.

WB:  “Can you lower your voice?”

SK: “See. There. Like that.  Just the word, ‘NIGGER,’” (he says it louder this time), “And you Yanks have a fit! It’s just a word!”

WB:  “I don’ think you understand the cultural significance. Or the history. You aren’t from the U.S., so how could you understand what it sounds like? Would you like me to yell the word ‘cunt?’”

SK: “Sure! Cunt! Nigger! Who cares?”

People are looking and I am praying to Allah that they don’t speak English. Again, SK says, “They’re just words. We should be able to talk about them.”

WB: “Fine. Let’s talk about them. What exactly would you like to say about “niggers” and “cunts”?

He is silent on this issue but keeps repeating the first point, which is that Americans are too sensitive about the “N-word.” Also, he makes fun of me for using the term, “N-word.” This is the kind of person that is never really listening and repeats himself ad nauseam. He probably had this same conversation a hundred times with no resolution, but continues to bring it up for simple shock value.

Turkish Girl, googley-eyed and laughing: “I mean, they call themselves niggers. Why can’t we say?” I know this sentence makes no sense, but, remember, she is speaking broken English. Also, now, she thinks she has made an insightful revelation, which is nauseating. She looks to SK for approval.

WB, about to throw some Moussaka across the table: “Look, Turk,” (finger pointed), “You don’t speak English as a first language. You barely speak it as a second. You have never been to the U.S. No offense, but your opinion, clearly employed to placate your ignorant, arrogant, and uninformed boyfriend, is irrelevant.”

(Okay that last line I did not say, but I really wanted to). I think I stopped at, “You’re irrelevant. No offense.”

This ridiculous conversation led to another gem where the SK proceeded to tell me that everyone at the table spoke the same dialect, what he calls “World, international non-dialectical English.” According to him there are no American dialects, British dialects, regional dialects or vernaculars. There was only one version of English he did distinguish: “Ebonics” (his word choice, not mine). He says in his best gangster voice, “I mean no one heah is talkin like dis. We ain’t speakin no ebonics, yo.” Hands gesturing, clear that he has totally misinterpreted scenes from The Wire.

The whole night went from bad to worse: racism, women hating, hyped up and mind-numbing stories about his heydays as a traveling drummer. This wasn’t the first time I was put off by a New Zealander. There was the flock of 18 year-old- Kiwi girls traveling around Australia trying to be sexy by getting drunk and talking like porn stars; the Kiwi nerd in Bali who tried to climb in my bed at the hostel; the Kiwi chick that pulled a stage 9 cling-attack, stalking me from Bangkok to Chang Mai. Now this guy.  

The Istanbul Kiwi was particularly irritating, but I often get the feeling that New Zealanders are kind of isolated, geographically and culturally, making them seem just generally, a little bit, how should I say….“off.”  It would be like if the American South were an island and after a couple hundred years of genetically insulated procreating, a few of them got loose. Also, New Zealand produced Flight of the Conchords and invented bungee jumping—two things that make absolutely no sense to me.

In the name of friendly stereotyping, I came with an analogy. It all started because, I was thinking, “If the world was high school and nationalities were cliques, the New Zealanders would definitely be sitting at the nerd table.” Out of boredom and the very basic human need to classify (“one of these is not like the other”), I added a few more:

Germans: The Hipsters. They have tattoos and read Nietzsche, smoking cigarettes and kind of hate everyone. They feel that no one understands them and they are a little embittered, have daddy issues, ride fixed gears, engage in ironic humor and rock skinny jeans. Generally, very fucking cool.

French:  The Art Kids. Paint brushes in one hand, cigarette holders in the other. There is always a plate of cheese nearby. Again feeling misunderstood, everything they do is attributable to an intellectual movement. They sleep with the art teachers and call it existentialist. Striped shirts, interpretive dance, baguette, in hand…

Italians:  The Gangsters. Obviously, the modern equivalent of the T-Birds. They steal electronics, drag race, and deal drugs. They have the best parties and the hottest girls. Watch out though, the guys can get pretty grabby, and don’t mess with their hair.

Aussies and Brits: The Jocks. They know more than everyone about sports. Don’t DARE call football “soccer” or they might, well, beat you up.  They flex their muscles and like plain faced blondes who are “fit.” And by “fit,” I don’t mean physically “fit,” just, generally, hot.

Americans: Glee Club and Student Counsel. They believe wholeheartedly it is their personal and societal obligation to “help” (for everyone else’s sake, of course). With their SUV’s and parental PTA donations, they have clout. They come up short when it comes to making use of factual knowledge, but it doesn’t matter because they are REALLY so, so happy-ALL THE TIME. It’s GREAT to be American! (Breaks out into choreographed hallway musical dance).

New Zealanders: I did this one already. The Nerd Table. They are a little awkward. Terrible dressers, and, fortunately for them, they have no clue about this.

The Asians: Yearbook staff. It’s a good thing somebody is taking all the pictures or we would be void of every critical memory. And I mean EVERY memory. The shot of the school lunch tray, the bathroom door… the spit loogey in the drinking fountain on Tuesday…

I had to cut this analogy short because I didn’t want to get into, you know, what nationality would be riding the short bus or who would be deemed ”the smelly kid.” Unfortunately in travel, it is much more likely that you will spend your time with other travelers and ex-pats rather than locals, particularly if you don’t speak the native language. Everyone plays a part.

When I was in Costa Rica, I was traveling with a friend from college and his dad, a divorced ex-pat living outside San Jose. Most of his friends were in their twenties teaching at the international school. His Spanish was more accurately Spanglish (dinner reservations: “Let’s make that for cinco y media”), but he was dating a 21-year-old, who also didn’t speak English.  While it seemed awkward, I am learning that this is not so uncommon(ex-pat men dating younger local women).

We drove from San Jose to Cahuita speeding along the narrow Costa Rican highways through the coffee farms and into the mountains. I am not usually nervous, but got the feeling that this guy was on a new mission in life, one that did not concern itself with the health and safety, or even the law, “Dad slow down,” my friend pleaded after I smacked him in the arm from the back seat.

An ambulance came flying through creating an otherwise non-existent third lane. We pass a rolled jeep. “This is how people drive here,” they both tried to reassure me, as though the local lawlessness should justify their own; both father and son broke the speed limit in a way that they would have never in the States. By the end of the trip, we had to deal with both an overheated car and slashed tires for parking illegally.

You don’t have to be yourself in a foreign country. The social mores are skewed and at the very least, you can claim ignorance. A 58-year-old would most likely not date a 21 year old in Chicago, the same way that the Kiwi probably wouldn’t have yelled out “Nigger,” in a more controlled or socially familiar environment. Acting out becomes more natural. It is much easier for us to slip in and out of character.

I always know it is time to leave when my problems become nothing more than everyday annoyances. I decided to leave Istanbul when I started wondering why the weather hadn’t shifted into spring and caught myself initiating very earnest conversations about whether or not I should dye my hair.  Then there was the ex-pat drama. The house was backing up with empty beer bottles and no one had done their laundry. My character, settled.

Fortunately, my plan is always the same: Time to go. I bought the plane ticket, stepped aboard, landed with a new hair color, and settled loosely into London. Here I can tell the same jokes, recycle some stories, and get a new pair of boots. Back in an English speaking country, the term “ex-pat” no longer need apply (though I am no better). Hitting the restart button, I am enjoying the disconnect, the impermanence, the freedom of character that comes with change.

Five years ago I quit drinking, a decision that coincided with a trip to Japan. My travel companion was an avid member of NA and AA so we enjoyed our sushi without beer, attended alcohol-free concerts and went to bed early. Quitting drinking was more of an experiment (lasting precisely a year). I liked being sober, my lucidity and productivity unsurpassed. Still, while sobriety brought clarity, it also invoked the sense of isolation and boredom.  I remember this well, and also, why I started drinking again.

Drinking culture has been an asset in travel, when so much of experience depends on meeting people where they are at.  Alcohol is a ubiquitous and easy social lubricant, giving a structure to new interactions, minimizing awkward conversations, and providing the necessary inhibition to bond in a short period of time. Culturally, though customs may vary, the act of drinking is practically universal and lends to a kind of collective perception—even if that means stumbling, stupidity, or morning regrets.

In Turkey, you will see men and men linking arms, singing and swaying down the cobble streets; in Vietnam, the outdoor bars are packed and teeming; the pubs in London swarm with business men and hipsters, bankers who loosen their ties to release tension at happy hour (there is a reason it is called “happy hour”). Even in an Islamic country, I am told by a friendly Muslim, “Everyday we say five prayers, and you will hear this call, but after the last prayer, it is time to party.”

I think it was Anthropology 101, when I was instructed by a professor, “If you are ever in a foreign country, with foreign people, or in another’s home, never refuse food or drink. The act of taking what is given to you, is an indication of acceptance and gratitude.”  This is why I had to drink snake whiskey on a 24-hour ride from Nha Trang to Hanoi in a car with eight Vietnamese men.

I had the bottom cot of a triple level bunk, a room (housing six) in the small train car. Unlike other trains I have been on, this train did not have a spare bar car, there were no common rooms for seating and barely any space to wander, except the narrow passage to the bathroom, which was crowded with smokers and crying children. The only real place to settle was on the beds, so it is customary for all six passengers of a room to share the bottom bunks, lined up in a seated position. Insert image: Me, in a narrow room, sitting against the edge of a bottom bunk next to two teenage girls. Facing us, was a drunken older man, an all but mute, teenage boy, and an overly-friendly, smiling guy about 25 years old. Everyone was Vietnamese. People are less conscious of personal space in Asia and I was forced to acclimate quickly.

There was nowhere to buy food on the train, except for the small cart that passed through about every hour, selling rice and sundry items, including candies, beer, water, etc. The smiling man  bought a package of Keo Me Xung (Vietnamese nougat candy with peanuts and sesame seeds) and distributed them to each of the passengers in our car. I nodded my head, said “thank you,” and tried to communicate, though no one spoke English, except a very few words. At one point, I extracted my Vietnamese-English travel dictionary from my backpack, and as a group, we tried to practice, having only the written translations to help with our skewed pronunciations.

Incidentally, there is a section in the travel guide focused on sexual encounters so you can say things like, “Do you want me? Do you find me sexy? Have you been tested? Touch me here.” I am imagining some foreign white guy, fumbling through the book as he tries desperately to communicate with his Vietnamese conquest. Really, if you are resorting to this section, you should consider your other, more pressing issues.

After a few hours, it was getting dark and I decided to buy a beer from the cart lady. Everyone in the car smiled, implying the familiarity that alcohol inspires. I learned that the boy who brought the candy wasn’t even sleeping in our room, but in the room next door, one I had passed several times throughout the day. He asked me if I want to join their party for snake whiskey and Vietnamese wine. Being bored, and sort of curious about what these eight men were doing in there all afternoon, I followed him.

They were already drunk and lit up at the prospect of a newcomer. One of the men spoke English and everything started off innocently: “Where are you from?” (pours a  glass), “Do you have a boyfriend?” (refill), “Do you like Vietnam?” (top off), “Do you want some rice?” (brimming over). It got messy after I had about four glasses. There was dancing, personal questions and picture taking. I think they thought it was funny having a drunk American girl in the room, and despite the potentially dangerous situation, I couldn’t bear to leave such strangeness, even when I learned that the two older men were involved in some kind of organized crime. I didn’t ask for details.

The problem with drinking and traveling is two-fold: 1) It makes the confusion of being intoxicated even worse when you don’t speak the language and/or wake up in a foreign place, 2) Defenses are down and if you are traveling alone, you become a very easy target.

I woke up in the morning on a lower bunk, bedraggled, confused, and for the first time on my trip, scared that I had been robbed, or worse. A few of the men were standing in a circle around me, giving me directives, which I was able to interpret as, “Get off the train, we’re here, this is your stop…” etc. I look around and rub my eyes and start looking for my bags. At the foot of my bed, the men have already collected what looks like most of my things. As I am putting on my jacket, I realize that my laptop is missing. I look around at each of the men, sort of pleadingly, “Where is my laptop?  You stole my laptop? Someone stole my laptop.”

One of the train attendants entered to sort out the confusion and began ushering the men out the door. I was having a minor freak out, which conceivably looked ridiculous, considering it was clear we had been drinking most of the night.

I was in a panic, throwing sheets, looking under the beds, and making a generally embarrassing scene when the man, who had initially escorted me into the Snake Whiskey Room came running in with my laptop, also patting me on the shoulder as if to say, 1) “Chill out, it’s fine,” and, 2) “Please stop accusing me of theft.”

Turned out, it wasn’t stolen…I just drank too much and forgot where it was. In the end, the men were kind, making sure that I found a cab and instructed the driver to my hotel at around 4 in the morning. This situation could have been a lot worse. Not that I like real trouble, but I do like trouble, and drinking snake whiskey, eating raw shrimp with the locals seemed like a mandatory (and justified) Vietnamese experience.

In Turkish, the “hair of the dog” equivalent is, “Çivi çiviyi söker,” which translates into “a nail dislodges a nail.” I think the idea is that if you have a nail stuck, you need to hit another one into get it out. I like that this saying applies not only to drinking and hangovers but to ex’s and getting over relationships. Need to get over a relationship? Have another. Recently I was thinking that hair of the dog should apply to other things: namely, pizza and threesomes.

I didn’t intentionally get on the boat to Halong Bay to have a three-day binger. In fact, it was the opposite. My room in Hanoi didn’t have a screen or a glass window so in addition to it being below freezing on some nights, I had to listen to the sounds of stray cat coitus and the commie-communal wake-up song at 5 am. I hadn’t slept in days and thought that the retreat would provide some respite, escape from the city commotion, and sleep. I really wanted to sleep.

Getting to Halong Bay involved a three and a half hour bus ride from Hanoi that left way too early in the morning. Everyone on the bus was bleary eyed and a bit irritated by the dilapidated state of the Vietnamese highways and absurdly bumpy ride. On the tour, there were two American girls in business school at NYU, a German couple, some newly wedded Norwegians, an older Italian couple, an American couple who were living in Hong Kong, and an Asian woman who I assumed didn’t speak English. On the bus ride, she sat next to me, propped up her boots and kept her eyes closed.

When we got to the dock, the Asian woman and I both wandered to find the bathroom stalls, where they were charging an entrance fee. She just walked in while I was digging for change in my purse. When we left she said in a thick British accent, “I can’t believe you just paid to use the loo. If they asked me to pay I just tell them to bugger off.” In the next breath she says, “Yeah, I was sitting next to you on the bus, I knew you thought I didn’t speak English, but sometimes I just don’t even want to bother so I keep my mouth shut and everyone thinks I’m native.”

We followed the guide through the port and onto what was effectively a dingy boat to take us out to the ship. Jiao’s parents are from China, but run a successful product distribution company in London. I also got the feeling that they have a lot of money when she told me that she owns her apartment building in Chelsea. More importantly, I felt like I found a kindred spirit when she ordered a bottle of wine at lunch: “Well, I lived in Italy, and it’s just a habit to drink a glass with meals.” We split the bottle, then order another, and around 4 o’clock, another. When everyone climbed off the boat to go to the fishing village, we hung back, talked about travel, turning 30, our ex’s and exploits.

Later in the evening we were joined by a few others from the tour group. When our little party drank up the wine from the boat, we hailed the young girls who sold wine from their fishing rafts. The next evening, we were sharing wine with the captain and crew, brought together by our disregard. This went on for three days, Jiao and I sitting out on deck, our boots propped up and wine glasses in hand.

When I arrived in London, I took the train from Stansted Airport to meet a friend at a pub called “The Enterprise” in Camden. Having arrived several hours before my ETA, I decided to park myself at the bar, weighed down by the long flight, several connecting train rides and a lifestyle worth of bags. At merely 3:30, the old, “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” line kicked in and I ordered a pint (I was in London, after all).  

During the first round, I finished my book, read London’s version of The New York Post (The Sun) cover to cover, and then started sinking into restlessness (I still had 3 hours to go). There were only four of us in the pub: a financial district type man wearing a sweater vest and very pointy  shoes, a homeless looking woman who may or may not have pissed her pants, an old drunk man carrying a large suitcase carrying god knows what, and the bartender, a pudgy, and dour woman with a thick accent who refused to let me use the phone, “Well it’s not fo customahs, yeh?”

When the business man exited the bathroom, he passed my table and said, like a charming Hugh Grant, “You may be having a perfectly good time here by yourself, but if you want to have a chat you should join me.” I apologized, explained the bag  guarding situation and he kindly schlepped my things across the bar to his table.

Chivalry is not dead.  

In the next couple hours, I learned that he looks much older than he is (25), he likes classical music (only when stone sober), and that his teeth are much straighter from across the bar (this is no one’s fault). He comforted me for three hours (and four pints) while we waited for my friend, who I feared was never going to show. I told him to go on if he wanted, but at the end of each round, we decided to have another: alcohol, again, saves the day, staving off the tension of feeling foreign and alone.

There are some people in the world, who refrain from the first round, let alone the last round, or last five rounds. They get up early and read the paper. They go running and do crossword puzzles. These are the people with the kind of self-control that can inspire envy. They exist in the world to remind us to brush our teeth, perform charitable acts, and make sure the car is washed once a week. In their homes, there is never an overflow of trash, carbohydrates are reserved for the weekends, and showers are taken promptly after an alarm goes off. They follow the tour schedule.

I am not one of these people.

One day in Istanbul, I woke up at three in the afternoon wearing my roommate’s red kimono. We ordered pizza for breakfast and then decided it would be a good idea to hit the hair of the dog at a moustache party in Taksim, then, another party the next night.

There is always something. There was the twelve hour dance party in Melbourne, the late night swimming and mojitos in Bali, sipping Prosecco on the shores of Greek isles, the rooftop party next to the Acropolis, drinking cheap beer with an old Canadian man on the ferry, all night poolside, beer on ice  in Thailand, and whiskey with the captain in Vietnam. Despite language, age, culture, and continental divide, even under the influence, we still are able to find each other.

Our decisions are not always great, but we know who we are.

I was stopped in Bali because they thought my passport was fake, or at least that the picture was not me. It took a visit to the backroom, several border patrol officers and some alternate forms of ID for me to prove that my passport photo is just really, really terrible. Bangkok was also a real shit show: at customs I almost got into a fight with a fat Polish business man who tried to cut in front of me after I had been already waiting  in line over an hour. Moscow was even worse, having the distinct resemblance to a chaotic and amorphous breadline.

I decided that my favorite airport ever is in Nevsehir, Turkey, where there is one metal detector at the front door and only one gate (no stress, so long as you can locate the airport in the middle of tundraland Turkey). Security is minimal and the employees are just kind of standing around telling jokes, haphazardly waving their hand wands.

Something that would never happen in post-9/11 U.S.: I passed through the metal detector holding a can of Diet Coke. I was really hungover and just thinking, “Please, please, don’t make me throw this out.” When the alarm went off, the security guard gestured to have me come back through and put the open can in one of those rubber bins (sending it through on the conveyor belt). As though we couldn’t have predicted what happened next: the D-Coke spills when it hits the rubber mud-flap entrance, and then a liquid filled bin is delivered on the other end. I grabbed what was left in the can and apologized for making a huge mess.

Something about X-ray screening a single can of Diet Coke was just really funny to me.

Various modes of transport invoke different sensations. There is a feeling of connectedness in train travel; the comfort of being linked to a beginning and an end. Then there is the attention grabbing lurch of taxis in traffic, the melodic sway of the double-decker bus, the awe-inspiring rush of motorcycling through busy intersections or along the coast, and the smooth satisfaction of crossing continents by ferry.

In Istanbul, my friend said to me when I am trying to get to Taksim Square, “You can just take a dolmuş. It’s like this yellow thing that takes people places.”

“You mean a cab? I have heard of this.”

Dolmuş (pronounced “dolmish”) is a common form of transportation around Istanbul and Turkey, which feels a lot like elementary school carpool, only you are riding with a motley crew of drunks, ex-pats, business types, students and families (i.e. everyone). Very egalitarian. The dolmuş is like a cab, except it’s a big, yellow van and has only one route; they are quite efficient and operate like a ride-share. I like the social aspect of it—riding in a mini-van with eight other people across town or to cross the bridge from Europe to Asia. Not that the Turks are the particularly friendly or want to banter like homegrown Midwestern types, but still, relatively pleasant.

I decided that my adventures wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t at least (try) hitchhiking. My travel partner in Turkey had already hitchhiked around the U.S., and I was a little jealous. My only stipulation was that I wanted some real hitchhiking stories. Like, the kind where I would have to break out of captivity from an unlit backyard cellar, fend off the advances of a highway serial killer, or report a dead body found in the trunk (not mine, presumably).

I see the headline: “Blogger goes missing.” No one cares.

We had just left the Underground City of Kaymakli in Turkey, where rocks were hollowed out to insulate Christians from the Persian and Arabic armies during the 6th and 7th centuries. The cave infrastructure we entered was eight stories deep, and I only saw one air vent. It is difficult to imagine what this looks like until you start wandering deeper into the hallways, down multiple levels and into the small rooms that break off unevenly for family dwelling (a property lawyer’s nightmare). Some of the passages are so narrow you have to crawl, a feat that is particularly harrowing when wearing a backpack.

It was overwhelming to think that in these cities (one housing 3,000 people and the other 10,000 for months at a time) were not completely unsustainable, crime-ridden and suicide-provoking. I am thinking about the practicalities—food, sex, childbirth? And where did they keep the booze? There is a wine cellar, but no lights and I could not help but imagine the thousands of people trying to navigate these tunnels in the dark, not to mention the claustrophobia that I felt after only five minutes.

Both of us start to feel sick on the third floor- and by third floor, I mean, third floor deep. A Turkish man asks, “Are you looking for tour?”

I answer, “No, I am looking for out.” We wanted to see the light of day before one of us threw up. Following the string of lights, we both were breathing deep, in recovery from the thick underground stench when stepping back into the cold and sleet. We decide that there should be some kind of signage, warning of dangers or sickness, but this is not America, and babysitting does not generate tourism profit.

On our trek back towards the main highway, we decided that the 30 kilometers to Goreme would better if we hitchhiked rather than taking a dolmuş. I wonder, “Do they use the same signs for hitchhiking here?” I have really big thumbs, which I hope works out for me like Sissy Hankshaw in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.

A few cars pass, then a van, then a truck full of young Turkish men who honk, but have no room. Finally, an older man in a black Sedan pulls over. The car is brand new and still has paper covering the mats on the floor. Our driver doesn’t speak English, but understands that we are heading to Goreme. Again, I am thinking that something terrible is going to ensue (for better or for worse). Riding along silently, he smiles under a thick Turkish moustache from the rearview. We are listening to some variation of Turkish rock and he is hot boxing us with a clove cigarette. When we arrive in town, he gestures to a restaurant and coughs, rubs his moustache, and says, “My restaurant. Tonight, you come.”

That night at his restaurant, he sits down with us (accompanied by a young translator from the kitchen) and offers to drive us around Cappadocia the following day. In the morning, we are taken to off the path sights and brought to a famous, but hidden lookout point, a process that involved getting his new car tire-spinning in the mud and a lot of heavy trekking in his Turkish leather shoes. Then he takes us to visit his friend who runs a winery where we are given a free tour and tasting. I thought I would still get some gritty hitchhiking story out of this, but still, no, the story ends with free dinner, free wine tasting, and some nice photo ops.

En route, off-course, or even in risk-taking, I have been lucky in my travels. I took a sleeper boat out into the fog of Halong Bay for two nights in January, which housed about 20 people and looked like an old pirate ship. The private rooms were nice, except that I accidentally turned the space heater in my room too high and blew out the electricity in the boat. Fortunately, even when I heard the crew running around frantically and all of the other passengers freaking out, I was able to tuck myself into bed and pretend that it wasn’t my fault.

(Sleeps soundly).

Two weeks after I left Halong Bay, I read an article about the same tour boats. Twelve tourists died while sleeping in their cabins when the boat sank. Those who died were asleep in their cabins.

The most intimidating part of travel can be the vastness of it—the confusion of being able to end up anywhere and the impossibility of predicting who you may encounter, what plane may go down, what boat may sink, or whether, “You are now off-track,” existentially or physically (I am starting to miss the voice of my GPS).

When I was in Melbourne, I went to a club that was open until 2:00 PM. At around noon, we took a cab to breakfast and then got back on the train to return to the hostel. My friend and I both passed out and woke up in a city 45 minutes south of our destination. I have heard this happening to travelers in Europe (you want to get to Switzerland but wake up in Austria). Planning in transport only goes so far. I am becoming more patient and getting good at the reroute.

I am leaving again this week for London, then back through Central Europe, hopefully to Eastern Europe before I arrive in Spain next month. I don’t really know how this is going to work, where I am going to stay or how to connect the dots. Again, boarding a plane, then commuter train, then while wandering by foot, I will be rocking that blank look I have grown accustomed to wearing. I am comforted that at least I will be speaking English for a week.

There is freedom in travel, but freedom is always accompanied by the fear of being misguided, misdirected, or lost, not to mention the hazards along the way. But, even when faced with the most disorienting travel disaster, movement is still better than the alternative: treading those familiar and known paths, with confines that have the pressing numbness, of living in a cave.