WHAT TRAVELING IS ALL ABOUT OR,
POUCHED EGGS AND LENTILS


So, what’s that traveling all about? I mean, why do we do it?
Why do we strap more that 40 pounds of luggage, squeezed into a backpack, onto our backs and look like a paratrooper who is going to Afghanistan because we carry another little bag in front of our tummy?
We arrive at our home airport with a flight ticket in one, our passport in the other hand, just to settle for hours in a seat between two strangers who, when you finally fall asleep during a long distance overnight flight they ram their elbows into our rips without excusing themselves.

Then, we arrive in a country, we don’t know if we break the rules when stiring the tea with a teaspoon counter clockwise. I mean, you people out there with non EU citizen passports. How was your arrival at London Heathrow. Those people at the customs desk at the airport know exactly how to scare the hell out of you.
“What is the purpose of you visiting to the UK?”
You look at this guy and think, “Should I pull a joke now, or tell him that I am about to live with friends from home who are working illegally at a pub near Soho.”
“Hmm, I am here to see the sites in London and later move on to France.”
Well, after going through my backpack for about 30 minutes, searching for, I guess, traces of marihuana from my last trip through East Asia, he gave up, telling me that I am not supposed to work in England and if I do, I could be arrested and charged.

That was the time I pulled out my EU-passport, and ask, "But what if I decide to stay and work under EU law?"
The face of this officer turned into a pile of just into the boiling water thrown red lobster. He just wasted 35 minutes on nothing. Bad luck. I had time, I started a holiday, he, well, hope he got the rouge out of his face.

Traveling is all about meeting people, seeing places, experiencing cultures. To learn.
One example.
As an English speaking tourist, the possibility is very high, that you will encounter an disease in France that I call the “Jean Reno Syndrome”. You walk around Paris or any other French town or city and ask a local person about a place or a street you are trying to find. You try so hard in pronouncing the place, but every time you spell the Street name, the locals face becomes the expression like you just told him that the rotten street dog living under the bridge 5 miles away just banged his poodle and that a poodle in average gives birth to 6 puppies. Get it?
“I just watched a movie with Jean Reno.”
“Who?”
“Jean Reno!!”
“A movie with who??”
“JEAN RRRRENOUUU!!!”
“AH, Jean Reno, how was it?”
“Never mind.”

Like I say, traveling is about meeting people. Even they don’t understand you. You always get along. Sort of.
Ever used the train in Italy or France, not stamping the ticket before going onto the train. In that case you get to meet the conductor. Every friendly conversation can turn into a not so nice verbal dispute about “why should I pay the full price of the ticket again, when I bought it in Rome and now am on my way to Bari.”
Not being able to speak the language of the countries people is sometimes helping. Sometimes. Not when the conductor feels he can pull a joke on you, fining you 15Euros plus the price of a ticket. Believe me, from that moment on you even ask at the movies back home where you can stamp the ticket and when the popcorn guy across the counter looks at you with a not understanding smile, you just end that conversation with “Guess you haven’t been to Europe, have you?!”

Ever been to the Army? Think like this. What the weapon is to a Marine, the passport is to you.
“This is my passport. Without my passport I am nothing and without me, my passport is nothing. I will guard this document with my life. I will sleep with it, I will take it to the bathroom and sit on it when on busses and trains!”
Ever looked at your passport photo? No? Well, take a close look. Remember when that was taken? Now, you are probably thousands of miles away from home. What did you think when the photo was done. Already dreaming about Europe, Asia? All the places you go. Then after applying for the document and receiving it. How did that feel? I know, that travel bug gave you a strange feeling inside your tummy, like the time you had the first kiss. WOW.

I once checked into a hotel in southern Italy. It was already late and I was glad that I found a cheap hotel to settle after a long train ride down south along the Italian boot. I handed over my passport and placed 100.000 Lire on the desk. I expected the concierge telling me what room I would be in and wishing me a good nights rest.
“You are illegal immigrant!”
“Wow, he does speak English”, I thought.
“This passport is not right, a signature is missing.”
“Why? My signature is on it.”
He looked at the document and pointed at the sealed page with my passport photo. “There is no government signature. It has to be with it!”
That was the moment I realized, that the guy had never seen an Canadian passport. It took me 3 hours at the police station and a clearance from the Canadian embassy, to get back my passport and to catch some sleep at the hotel.
Reminds me on the joke, “How can you tell that this 37Dollar bill is a fake, when you admit that you never saw one in your life.”

Traveling is about learning. It is better than school. Languages, Geography, Cultures, Religions, and, and, and
For example cooking. Now, when I went to San Sebastian just before Christmas, who would have thought, that I would learn how to make pouched eggs. And that I would start to hate lentils. Edmund from Melbourne explained the way of preparation so exactly, I could see his eyes scanning the already boiling water and measuring the temperature of the like an volcano bubbling pot to the micro degree. The only worry here was by pouring out the water, not to drop the eggs into the sink. Well done, I have to say. Not one of those white pockets made its way into the kitchens sink. I will never forget the accuracy of descending the opened eggs into the hot water. It looked like Oppenheimer placed a timer on the “Fat Lady” back in 1944 in Nevada during the Manhattan Project.
His friend Simon, who traveled with Edmund, was a very nice guy, too. Besides that, when you went into the shower after he was in, you needed a ladder to get down the shower knob to the height for normal grown individuals.

Now, Christmas came along and we all know, that in most countries, woman spend much time in the kitchen, baking cookies. I am not sure if I got the info right, but I am pretty sure, that in Slovenia, well, how should I put it, the cookies are made of lentils. One day I entered the kitchen of the backpacker I stayed and this round, brown and hard disc lay there on a plate. Still hot, so just baked in the oven, it lay there waiting like a discus during the Olympic games back in 12 B.C. I am sure Donovan Bailey could have thrown that roundish kind of brick over a distance of about 65 yards. But then some red haired lady from Slovenia would have jumped after it screaming “My lentils, my lentils!!”

Favourite line in history. “Houston, we have a problem!” I told the lady from Slovenia, “There is a problem with your lentils.” Guess she made the same kind of face the guy at NASA in Houston had in 1970.
Sorry, I should not make fun about food, but then, what kind of food would be recognized by the IOC at the Olympic Games as a discus.

I learned, that you should always have a second pair of shoes with you. It might happen, that the pair you usually wear will walk of by themselves, make their way to the beach and jump into the water. Means, they are wet and can’t be put on without the feeling of having stepped into a puddle. Not to think about the funny noise you produce while walking on the street. “This are my shoes, I will guard them and not borough them to others, not even for a pot full with lentils!!”

Traveling is about reading maps. I always thought I had the right sense for directions when it comes to reading street names off laid out papers. Not so on Christmas Eve. I seriously directed a group of travelers from an open supermarket to a part of San Sebastian, where none of the locals could understand, why tourists would ask for an open Mercado at 8pm on the 24. of December. “It is across the river!” I kept on saying. Guess I should get me some new glasses, because the fat red arrow on the map in the hostel never crossed the river. So some brave lady guided us back to the corner store and the dinner was saved. Thank you.
Well, we could have had some pouched eggs with lentils.

I learned, that closing times for kitchens at hostels can be extended. It always depends on the time zone you are in and you are coming from. When it says, kitchen closed at 10 pm, you can tell people, that you mean Pacific Standard time, which would make a difference of exactly 9 hours when in San Sebastian and allows you to cook a nice dinner at 2 am after coming back from the beach. Or, to sit on someone’s lap, pretending to sip water and look surprised when some guy comes in and looks stupid.

After Simon and Edmund left, rules were surprisingly relaxed at the hostel. Must have had something to do with the prehistoric carvings they left behind in the kitchen and hallway.
Now, there are many reasons you can’t leave a backpacker hostel. You like the place and stay. You meet great people and like to hang out with them for longer. You fall in love and think, when I leave now, who knows what happens. Or, you leave for a couple of hours, come back and blame it on the French train company.
Well, the French again. In India, people would place themselves across the track in front of the train so it can not move. Guess we should start that kind of service for travelers who want to catch a train, which is supposed to wait for an incoming one from the border.
End Part I