Around the world in 30 ways
Created | Updated Nov 30, 2015
Scribbles was my favorite nephew, so it was embarrassing to show up at his 42nd birthday party without a gift. I could hear the other guests chatting as I stood at his door with a gift certificate in my hand.
"Happy Birthday, Scribs," I said as he opened the door.
"Uncle Pell, you're just the man I wanted to see," he said, leading into the living room and motioning to his youngest daughter to come with her plate of hors d'oeuvres. "I need your help."
"My help?"
"Yes, I need help writing a feature article for the travel magazine where I've just been hired. They need a senior citizen who rarely goes far from home. You're the best possible person for that." He stuck the gift certificate absentmindedly into his shirt pocket.
"Uh oh," I said. "Does this mean I'd have to travel, and you would write about my progress?"
"Yes. All expenses paid, staying in luxury hotels and eating the best food."
"There must be a catch."
"You will travel around the world in 30 days, using a different mode of transportation each day. I will accompany you, writing about the trip."
He handed me an itinerary. One glance at it made me so dizzy I was glad I was already sitting down.
"Tomorrow is the first of November. You will ride comfortably in a Subaru Forester, which will drive to Provincetown, where you will board a luxury yacht
with a crew of twelve. You'll do it, won't you? I really need this."
The pleading look on his face was too much for me. I had no other plans for the month, so I agreed. That night I packed hurriedly -- Scribbles had assured me that I could pack as much or as little as I wanted, secure in the knowledge that
it would safely accompany me across the world.
The next morning, the Forester was parked at the curb in front of my house with Scribs and two assistants.
The ride to Provincetown was uneventful. At three in the afternoon we reached the pier where the yacht Roving Reporter was berthed.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 days, day 2
After a more or less comfortable night's sleep at the Bleak Seagull Inn in Provincetown, I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. and proceeded to a breakfast of runny scrambled eggs and soggy bacon, served with coffee that couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to be second rate espresso or the Devil's House Blend.
"Not the top-shelf accommodations I was led to expect," I griped to Scribbles as he shuttled me to the yacht.
"All the good places were booked up," Scribbles explained. "Something about a worldwide Esperanto convention in town, complete with yodeling and a parkour costume ball. Anyway, before you dread today's waterskiing session, I want to assure you that, on short notice, we have managed to procure some very large water skis and fastened a very comfortable cabin on top of them. You can relax in your easy chair while letting the yacht tow your ski cabin all day."
I was mostly relieved to hear this -- I had never done any conventional water skiing anyway -- but the cool November air made me wonder how comfortable I'd be. "Is the cabin heated?" I wondered.
"It will be this evening."
I groaned. "So I stay in this cramped little cabin all day and overnight?"
"I know, I know, you wanted to enjoy the yacht's amenities. We'll' let you do that on the fourth day, after the dolphin ride..."
Grumbling, I grabbed some crossword puzzle books and my copy of "War and peace" and climbed into the little cabin for a chilly, ho-hum day of watching the ocean waves from the tiny windows, with the low buzz of the yacht's engines in my ear.
Through the cabin's rear window I watched Provincetown recede into the horizon.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 days, day 3
I had to admit that the food in the water ski cabin was good, and that the gentle motion of the waves rocked me to sleep when darkness came.
The following morning, a couple of crew members came by to help me put my wetsuit on and introduce me to Dolly, the dolphin that I would be riding. My objections to being in the open ocean where hungry sharks might want a piece of me were met with the explanation that (a.) an enclosure had been erected to keep the varmints out, and (b.) I only had to ride Dolly [who was already sending out vibes that she adored me] for one hour, after which, (c.) I would sit in a dolphin-shaped chair on board the yacht for the rest of the day.
"Dolly would *love* to have you ride her the whole day," said Candace Cayenne, one of the crew members, "but we'll barely be able to get across the Atlantic on schedule, even at top speed, so the yacht needs to do as much as it can."
"Plus, you're making Gandolph jealous," added Lars, another crew member, with a wink.
"Who's Gandolph?" I exclaimed.
"Her significant other," Lars replied with a wink. "Did you think a gorgeous dolphin like Dolly wouldn't be spoken for?"
"Um, how do I climb on Dolly's back?" I wondered.
"You don't. A Dolphin "ride" consists of you holding onto the dorsal fin and being towed, hence the tight wetsuit to prevent you from freezing in the cold water."
Even an hour of "riding" Dolly left me with cold face and hands. While I warmed up afterwards in my dolphin chair, I tried to chat up Candace: "Did they call you Candy Cane in School?"
"Why would they do that?" Candace said blankly.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 days, Day 4
"This isn't the Gentry Eagle," said the captain as he showed me around the Roving Reporter, the yacht that was carrying me across the Atlantic.
"What's that?" I asked.
"A very fast yacht," he replied. "Top speed of 69.6 knots. It crossed the Atlantic in 62 hours. Don't worry, we may be much slower, but we can get to Britain by the fifth day."
"Your nephew's publisher cut a few corners for this journey," Candace whispered to me as we toured the dining room, the recreation/sports center, and the observation deck.
"That would explain the accommodations at the Bleak Seagull, Esperanto convention notwithstanding," I whispered back. Candace laughed.
I wondered what else Scribbles wasn't telling me, but I hadn't seen him in days.
I happened to be passing a door with a mirror in it. Thinking this was odd, I impetuously tried the handle. It turned, and the door opened to reveal Scribbles himself writing feverishly on his computer as he watched several monitors that revealed video footage of my activities.
He turned pale when he saw me watching from the doorway.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 days, Day 5
I turned from my nephew's doorway and spent the rest of the day standing at the rail, staring moodily at the sea.
Day 5 was mostly more of the same, until late afternoon when we sailed up the Penryn River and approached the marina in Falmouth, England. I was now put in the hands of Colin, who explained that the yacht would not be docking in Falmouth.
"How will I get there, then?" I exclaimed.
"In a row boat. Don't worry, it's not more than couple kilometers. Your luggage will be with you, and I'll handle your passport and room arrangements."
Colin was a pleasant young man who had a small software company and had started in public relations. He mentioned that he was 3,000th in line for the Throne at birth, but had been bumped down by several hundred since then.
As I rowed toward Falmouth, I was thrilled by the prospect of staying in this picturesque town with its charming buildings climbing a low ridge. Hopefully my room would have a view of the river. Alas, I soon learned that I would be staying just over the line in a town not even on the map.
"You will stay at Fusty Towers, which is run by Lady Diane Blotchingsley, my cousin, " Colin said as we walked through Falmouth. "She was married to Lord Blotchingsley, whose ghost allegedly roams the towers." At one point I thought I spied Scribbles in the street about 50 feet behind us, but whoever it was ducked behind a tree.
Fusty Towers occupied the middle ground between run down and dilapidated, though Lady Blotchingsley gave a warm welcome and assured me that the roof did not leak. I climbed poorly maintained winding stairs, and was initially delighted to find a well-appointed, commodious room. Then I checked the view from the windows, and saw Dark Satanic Mills Museum on one side, and the ruins of Blotchingsley Castle on the other.
"We'd like to restore the Castle, but we've no money," said Lady Blotchingsley wistfully, her accent and features somewhere between Julie Andrews and Helen Mirren. "Anyway, thank heavens for American tourists like you. The locals don't care for this place at all."
"Because of the ghost?" I wondered.
"Well, yes, that's a good part of it."
"Is Lord Blotchingsley particularly scary?"
"Well, no, and that's exactly the problem. Dear old Duncan's ghost goes around saying "Millennium ham and beans" or "Otters dance on my thumbs, on my thumbs," none of which makes any sense. The little kids would *love* to have him do something scary, but he's more the inappropriate sort."
"Inappropriate?"
"Well, nothing lewd, but he'll pick his nose or belch, which annoys the parents, so they yank their kids out of here."
Just then, Colin's cell phone started playing "Rule, Britannia."
"News from Buckingham Palace?" I asked.
"No, I've been bumped down one more notch in succession to the throne."
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 days, Day 6
I awoke on the sixth day to the sight of a camera pointed at me through the slightly open door of my room.
"Who's there!?" I exclaimed crossly.
"It's me, Uncle Pell," said Scribbles, lowering the camera and uneasily poking his head around the edge of the door.
"Why are you sneaking around?" I asked.
"I'm paid to write this story about you," he said. "Without my writing, there'd be no trip. I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable."
"They don't even give you a cameraman?"
"They don't have a big budget. Even the yacht had to be borrowed from a rich member of the magazine's advisory board. Anyway, I'll be riding the bus with you and Colin today. We change buses at least three times between here and Dover. We'll need to get on our way soon, as we've a long day ahead of us. And, yes, I'll be busy snapping pictures much of the way. Let's hope the fog isn't too thick..."
On our way to the bus stop, we passed ashes from a huge bonfire. "You missed the excitement last night. You know, Guy Fawkes Day," Scribbles said.
"Well, with all the fire around, they still didn't manage to burn down the Dark Satanic Mill," I muttered.
"Why would they want to do that?" Colin wondered.
"It blocked my view of picturesque Falmouth," I explained.
About the bus trips themselves I remember little, as I was too tired from the previous day's rowing to pay as much attention as I would have liked. Scribbles assured me that he was videotaping the views from the bus windows so I could catch up after the trip was over.
Be that as it may be, We went from Falmouth to Redruth, from Redruth to London's Victoria Station, and from Victoria Station to Dover. Much of it was a blur of village centers, fields [with or without cows], autumn foliage that was probably more colorful back home in Massachusetts, and city streets. As we approached Dover, of course, the sea began to beckon from a distance again.
When I awoke from my many naps, I hoped to listen in on conversations by the other passengers, but many of them were in languages I didn't understand...
When we were almost to Dover, Scribbles clapped his hand on my shoulder and said, "You're having a great time, Uncle Pell!"
"I am?"
"Yes, you are, only you won 't realize it until later when you see this video footage."
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 7
I stood on the deck of the ferry as England receded from view. I peered into the distance, hoping for the first glimpse of the coast of France.
I was interrupted when Scribbles appeared with a dark-haired young man in an Italian designer suit. "This is my uncle, Pelerin Longchamps," he told the man, and then said, "Uncle Pell, this is Riccardo Di Formaggio, your guide for the journey to Paris and beyond. He's an accomplished hot-air balloon racer, tour guide, and linguist."
"Glad to meet you, Riccardo," I said, shaking his hand. "Looks like we'll have some time in Calais. What sights do you recommend."
"Anything to do with food," Riccardo said with a grin, "especially cheese and wine. Le Chateau du Fromage et des Vins has just gotten some first-rate brie from l'Isle de France, and I was hoping to bring you and Monsieur Scribbles there to enjoy one of life's supreme experiences."
"Cheese and wine, really?" I exclaimed. "I don't drink wine at all, and I know cheese mostly from macaroni and cheese."
My two companions looked horrified. "Are you *sure* M. Longchamps is French?" I heard Riccardo whisper to Scribbles, who shrugged.
"Well, I speak French," I said lamely, "though I learned it in school. My family hasn't spoken the language in generations."
"We will have to educate you, then," Riccardo said with a knowing smile.
I must admit that the brie lived up to its advance billing, though it turned out to be just the beginning, as Riccardo made sure I sampled local cheeses -- Maroilles, Vieux Gris, Boulette d’Avesnes, etc. -- washed down with fine wines, though none were local. Come to think of it, a normal meal never did become part of the evening's agenda.
Finally, tipsy and barely able to keep my eyes open, I prevailed upon Riccardo to get me to my hotel room. "Well done, M. Longchamps," he told me with a wink. "I knew you had it in you."
"I certainly have it in me now," I muttered, "but do they serve anything besides cheese in this town?"
"You have no idea. Bon soir!"
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 8
The next morning I sat down to breakfast nursing an unaccustomed hangover. Eager to show off my French, but uncertain how to translate what I wanted, I asked Riccardo how to order a cup of French Roast coffee.
"You don't," he said. "French roast is to French coffee as chop suey is to Chinese food. 'Un cafe' means a small cup of very strong espresso, served without milk or cream, so unless you like that, you should ask for "un cafe Americain.'"
I cringed, but worried about the effect of strong black coffee on my delicate stomach. I had un cafe Americain with my asparagus-goat cheese omelet.
"Obviously, asparagus is out of season, and this restaurant prefers to serve only local fresh produce, but we prevailed on the chef to used frozen asparagus for your omelet," Riccardo said solemnly. "You're only here for one day, and it's sheer accident that this famous ingredient isn't available fresh. Besides, the chef hopes the publicity will be good for him..."
They take these things so seriously here, I thought. After a mid-morning sightseeing tour of Calais, I subjected myself to more local dishes at lunch time, which included hochepot de beouf [pot au feu made with beef and beer], a pie made with Maroilles cheese [More cheese! I thought], and a tasty tarte au sucre for dessert
Then the three of us piled into a van for the 100+ kilometer ride to Lilles, where we would embark on the next leg of our journey.
"Our original plan was to ride a hot air balloon from Lille to Paris -- both communities
have airfields designed for balloon rides," Riccardo explained as we left Calais, " but there was no way to ensure that the balloon would travel the desired route. Then the publisher -- he nodded to Scribbles, who had apparently been pulling strings --
happened upon an article about a solar-powered blimp that was being developed to fly from New York to Paris. They offered us a small prototype to use for our journey. We persuaded them that the publicity would be good for them."
I had imagined riding in one of those colorful balloons that you often see, but this blimp or dirigible was as dull as dishwater. Still, once we were up in the air, the view was lovely, and the November air was refreshing.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 9
After the initial thrill wore off, I grew tired of watching French farms and villages go by. Maybe it was the time of year -- mid-November, when harvesting was finished, the fields were mostly brown stubble, and the Christmas landscape had not yet established itself. The blimp had WiFi, though, so I logged on to my email account.
The latest message was apparently inadvertent: Mary, a minion in the publisher's finance division, had put my address in the C.C. box of a confidential message to Scribbles:
"Scribs, you let Riccardo go way over budget last night with the wine and cheese. And why did he bring in that costly blimp today? The original plan -- tethering an ordinary hot air balloon to a truck, which Riccardo has done many times in the past -- would have gotten you to Paris just as fast. I know why you changed the plan: our online readership loves it when we use any kind of cutting-edge solar technology. We're going viral with this, in fact, but our readers also loved your uncle's comment about macaroni and cheese.
Bottom line: the solar blimp didn't hurt your story, but you need to cut corners. Economize on Parisian restaurants today. Pick a cheaper train line for tomorrow's expedition to Istanbul. Pell can still have a typical dish from every country he passes through. Just make it low-cost peasant food."
So anything I might say could be on the Internet where anyone could read it! This was my fifteen minutes of fame. I closed my laptop and scanned the horizon for early signs of Paris. Yes, there was the Eiffel Tower! Soon Notre Dame was visible.
I feared the worst that night. Would supper be at McDonald's? Would I be staying at the YMCA, or whatever France offered in its place?
We ended up at Cantine Richer for a tasty but not haute-cuisine meal of sausages and beans, with croques monsieur as an appetizer.. And even though it was barely 6:00 p.m. when we finished eating, Scribbles pretended that we would need to retire early so we could catch our train, which would leave the next morning at 6:00 a.m.
"No trip to Montmartres?" I asked, sounding as disappointed as I could.
"Not on this trip," Scribbles said. "but by all means come back in the future and catch up on whatever you missed this time." He patted my back and shepherded me toward the nearest Metro stop. My hotel room turned out to be nice enough, though I suspected that it was chosen because it was just down the street from the train station -- no expensive taxis or limousines needed.
That night I had a nightmare about walking all the way to Istanbul. Morning came soon enough. On getting to the station, I was grateful to find that a real train was available, though the name of the line -- Accidental Express -- almost made me faint.
"I know what you're thinking," Scribbles said, steadying me. "It does *not* have an unusually large number of accidents. It just cuts out stations that nobody needs to go to. This trip won't stop in any of the Romanian stations. We think there are rumors of vampire sightings, and the managers don't want to take any chances."
Or, stopping too often would entail extra expense, I thought to myself. When the dining car began serving meals, I soon found that the line cut expenses on food, as well....
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 10
The train had WiFi, so I looked up "Accidental Express" on the Internet. Basically, the system was run like France's Ouigo or some of Italy's low-cost trains, though unlike some of those we at least had a dining car. And, I didn't have to share my seat with a rooster. The managers looked for bargain cars and lightly-used rail links that could be obtained for a song. Plus, extremely limited amenities -- who needs beds when you can sleep in your reclining seat? My seat was, in fact, a recliner, so I assumed I would be sleeping in it. That assumption turned out to be right, though I hoped for some kind -- any kind -- of a bed until reality finally kicked in.
After Strasbourg we passed through Munich. Lunch turned out to be a frozen dinner
[hey, at least the train had microwaves!], which consisted of Weisswurst, a sausage served with mustard, pretzels, and Bavarian beer, with German goulash as a side dish.
We had supper somewhere in Austria: Wiener Schnitzel, the country's national dish, with a side serving of Austrian goulash.
After a not-very-comfortable night spent in the reclining seat, I was annoyed to find that breakfast was the ubiquitous espresso, and actual food was a miserly version of the already-minimal Continental Breakfast: a few rolls, some butter, and jam.
Mid-day, things got interesting again. Scribbles approached me with something that looked like a manual lawnmower. "Have you ever seen "Paul Blart, Mall Cop?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied. "That was filmed at the Burlington Mall. I recognized the scene where some bad guys cut through the Rainforest Cafe."
"Maybe you remember the little two-wheeled personal transport that he rode on." He patted the contraption in his hand. "This is it, the Segway PT. You stand on the platform that connects the two wheels, with the stick straight up, so you can hold onto it. When we stop in Salzburg, you will ride it from here" -- we were in the very last car -- "to the first car. That will be your 'transportation' for today."
I can't say I looked very elegant or assured on the Segway, but I did manage to get to the first car in one piece. Then I realized that I was now at the opposite end of the train from the dining car, and would need to pass the same astonished passengers who had watched me ride the Segway when I meekly walked back to my original seat. And, I was sure images of my dorky ride were already going viral on the Internet. Then I noticed that the other passengers were smiling. They knew what was going on, and they were on my side. This put a spring in my step as I worked my way back to my seat.
That was the high point of the day. Things went a considerable ways downhill with the next meal. We were barely in Hungary, but Hungarian goulash was the only option.
"I must be in the Goulash Archipelago," I muttered darkly when I saw it.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 11
"This is the straw that broke the camel's back," I told Scribbles unhappily as the dining car served me Romanian goulash. He knew by now how tired I was of goulash, and it was obvious he was no fonder of it than I was.
"Speaking of camels, Uncle Pell, I need to go over some things with you," he said as he steered me to a booth. "Do you remember how I promised you'd be staying in luxury hotels and eating the best food?"
"I had almost forgotten, but thank you for reminding me," I said glumly, happy that a conversation might postpone the moment of goulash immersion.
"I'm having differences with the publisher about staying on budget. We might be able to tailor the rest of the trip with your preferences in mind, though. First, if you had to choose between skiing and horseback riding, which would you choose?"
"I'm a non-skier," I said.
"Glad to hear it," Scribbles said, patting my back. "The high country around Melbourne has great skiing through early October, but if we brought you there for skiing now, it would cost an arm and a leg to turn on the snowmaking machines. There are some lovely horseback riding trails near Melbourne, which we'll arrange instead."
"Fine, but how does this relate to camels?" I wondered, pondering possible ways of opening the car's rear door and throwing my goulash at whatever vampires might be out there.
"Oh, when the train gets to Istanbul around 4:00 today, we're going to whisk you off to a place where you can ride a camel. A word of warning: camels have really bad breath. .."
"You're not planning to have me kiss it, are you?"
While Scribbles took his empty plate to the trash can, I furtively edged toward the door. I hoped to heave the unwelcome goulash out of the train, where a vampire might take it off my hands, but little man at a nearby booth said, "You could take my goulash, too, but the management might penalize us."
I sat down next to him. "Do you have to suffer goulash much?"
"My inlaws live near the last Romanian station," he confided. "I get tons of it there."
"Why did you get a train that doesn't stop in Romania, then?"
"How dare they skip the Romanian stations, you might ask. Best part of Europe! But I saved some money, and if I take a local bus back from Istanbul I might arrive after my mother-in-law's goulash is all eaten up. It's worth a shot."
"I'm Pell," I said, extending my hand.
"Yes, I know. You have been friended by seven million people on smilingfaces.com so far. I won't give you my name -- my inlaws might object -- but you can call me Monsieur Kissov."
When we got to Istanbul, the camel ride turned out to be a piece of baklavah. The little I knew about camels came from "Seven Pillars of Wisdom" by T. E. Lawrence: the Arabs prefer female camels for their docile dispositions. Camels are not native to Turkey, of course, but visitors to Istanbul expected to see them, so there I was, perched on Sheherezade's back for a short ride down the street while Scribbles filmed us.
"I hear they eat rats," one onlooker said to another, apparently referring to the camel.
Then Scribbles helped me off the camel's back and led to dinner, which did not consist of goulash....
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 12
We dined at a place that offered belly dancing. Later we heard folk music at a Turku bar.
After a long string of meager continental breakfasts, I was relieved to find something a bit different when I woke up the next morning: Borek [cheese and spinach in puff pastry]
and Turkish coffee, served with baklavah
Some light sightseeing followed, after which we snacked on lahmacun [thin bread] topped with minced meat, salad, and lemon juice.
Lunch had to be on the early side, as we had a plane to catch, so we nibbled on Pide [boat-shaped flatbread], topped with cheese and kofte [balls of ground lamb]
Then we hurried to the airport for a six-hour flight to Mumbai. Riccardo said goodbye, and we were introduced to Salil, who would be our guide through the bustling streets of that metropolis.
"Prepare yourself for the heat," Salil warned Scribbles and me when we reached the airport in Mumbai. He wasn't kidding! It was well into the 90s Fahrenheit, and was expected to be that hot or hotter for the rest of the week.
"There are numerous places you could visit," Salil explained. "Maybe the best place to start would be Gateway of India, a stone arch built for George the Fifth in 1911. But first, let's try a buffet restaurant, so you can taste the rich diversity of India."
I wasn't especially daring, mostly trying things that sounded vaguely familiar, like moong dal kichdi, chicken tikka, and keema pav. Many were quite hot, so I ended up drinking a lot of bottled water.
On the way to and from the Gateway, we saw bits of the city. "What are we doing tomorrow?" I asked Salil.
"Tomorrow you are to ride the elephant," he said solemnly. "I have a very special elephant picked out for you!"
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 13
"I've never even met an elephant, let alone tried to ride one," I confided the next morning as we were on the way to our rendezvous with the elephant kingdom.
"You are a man of discernment, so no ordinary elephant would be right for you," Salil said. "This one is so special that you will forget all others."
Praise all of a sudden? After Riccardo's scorn and Scribbles's feckless disregard for candor, I wasn't sure what to think. Then Salil's intent became crystal clear.
"My sister Shakuntala has one of the finest elephants in India, so we are going to visit her. Like yourself, my sister is very discerning. I think the two of you will get along very well indeed!"
As it turned out, Tuffi the elephant and Shakuntala the sister were equally discerning. First, Shakuntala made eyes at me. Then, no sooner had I approached Tuffi than she began nuzzling me with her trunk. She marched around proudly with me on her back, and sulked after I got down. Shakuntala tried to comfort her, but to no avail. Both woman and elephant seemed upset as we departed.
"That went badly," I told Scribbles as we went back to our hotel. "What am I doing wrong?"
"Nothing. Keep your options open, or millions of fans will unfriend you."
"They've made up their minds already?" I exclaimed. "They don't even know me!"
"They think they do. 30% want you to go with Shakundala. 18% think you're gay"
"And their advice is....?"
"It's complicated. Mostly they want Riccardo for themselves, but you can have him if they get a shot at Colin and Salil."
"If I were gay, why would I want Riccardo? He insulted me!"
"He paid you a rare compliment, though. There are people who would kill for that. Anyway, Riccardo's better than some of the other options that your fans suggested."
"Such as?"
"Tuffi the Elephant. Or the dolphin."
"These people are mad!"
"Shhh! They can hear everything you say. Enough unfriendings, and you'll be forgotten in one month rather than six. You're also being slated for Miss Seng and a Hawaiian hula dancer."
"Who?"
"You haven't met them yet. Miss Seng will escort you around Hong Kong. There are a lot of Chinese on the Internet."
"Apparently."
He stiffened as he bent over his laptop, then relaxed. "Your favorability is rising," he said with a relieved smile. "They'll cut you some slack because you're so amusing."
I said nothing. Who was I to go against public opinion?
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 14
That afternoon we had a pleasant driving tour through Bombay, looking at various major temples and wandering through the Gandhi Museum. Later we strolled through Sanjay Gandhi Park on the outskirts of the town. Salil tried to get me interested in entering the caves ["On a hot day like this, you'd feel cooler there"], but I was worried about getting discombobulated like some characters in the caves in Forester's "Passage to India." I pretended to have claustrophobia. Salil merely sighed. The last two days had been hard on him.
Then it was off to a restaurant for more unique Bombay food and a recommendation from Salil that we turn in early in view of the early departure for Hong Kong the following day
There was unexpected tension when we reached the airport the next morning. As soon as Scribbles spied Miss Seng (our guide for the Hong Kong trip), he glared at her. She glared right back, then realized what this must look like to the rest of us, and smilingly pulled Scribbles aside for a private chat.
"What are we facing now?" I wondered aloud to Salil.
"I have an inking that this concerns Miss Seng's father, who was the last rickshaw man in Hong Kong until his retirement last Tuesday," Salil said. "Your 'transportation' in Hong Kong consists of riding in a rickshaw. If Mr. Seng doesn't come out of retirement or find a replacement, there will be a situation."
"There are seven million people in Hong Kong, and they can't persuade even one of them to pull me in a rickshaw?" I exclaimed.
"Hong Kong is not like Bombay," Salil said with a shrug, "nor even Kolkata, where finding a rickshaw is easier."
There was a worried look on Scribbles' face as he came forward to introduce me to Miss Seng and bid adieu to Salil. "Mr. Seng, who was to pull your rickshaw today, is indisposed," Scribbles told me. "Don't worry, we will find someone else to do it."
"I'm not particularly heavy," I said, hoping a few extra pounds wouldn't matter too much. "Even you could do it."
"How would I videotape your day, then?" Scribbles asked.
We both turned to Miss Seng, who said, "Don't look at me. It's not in my contract, and I have too much to do anyway."
It took a bit over five hours to fly to Bombay, but they seemed much longer. Scribbles and Miss Seng were like two glaciers.
"No new rickshaw licenses have been issued since 1975," Scribbles explained to me as the plane approached Hong Kong's airport. "Miss Seng's father had the last one. He still has the license, but if he's unable to utilize it........"
"Then let him ride with me and let someone else pull it," I offered. "It's only for a little distance, isn't it?"
"Perhaps you could carry my father and pull the rickshaw at the same time," said Miss Seng, coming out of her glacial funk.
"And I could run the video camera," I said.
In the end, that's what we did. I even got out of the rickshaw and took a picture of Mr. Seng riding while Scribbles pushed. The rickshaw wasn't in motion, so no laws were actually broken. This solved the problem, but Scribbles now sent his displeasure in my direction.
After that, the day got better. We enjoyed the view from the top of Mount Victoria, did some leisurely shopping in Kowloon, and even took a dip in a very large pool across the Causeway from the Sheradhilt Hotel.
The evening's festivities took place in a floating restaurant, complete with tourist photo opportunities and souvenir chopsticks to take home as mementos.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 15
The plane ride form Hong Kong to Melbourne, Australia was an excruciating 9 hours long. Jack, our Australian tour guide, claimed to have started as a cowboy, which may or may not have been true, but he looked the part.
"It'll be late afternoon by the time we get there, mate," he told Scribbles and me. "We'll grab a quick bite to eat when we get to the airport, and then be off for horseback riding along the beach near Geelong. We can watch the sun set. We won't have time for much this evening..."
"Not even the Opera House?" I wondered.
"Maybe you have the Sydney Opera House in mind," Jack said softly.
"Maybe"
"Melbourne does have an opera house, but the opera company is getting ready to go away -- to China, in fact."
"So, we're coming to China as they prepare to go the other way?"
"That's about it."
The beach was beautiful as we rode along. With Winter approaching in the Northern Hemisphere, it was amazing to see signs of Spring in Melbourne. It was 50 degrees F in Boston, while here it was 70, and headed higher.
"I haven't noticed any kangaroos yet," I observed.
"The closest 'roos would be in You Yang Park, but like any wild animals they're not eager to be seen," Jack said.
We did take an excursion to You Yang, but did not see any kangaroos. Bad luck, I guess, but we couldn't spend much time there, as an even longer flight to Maui [11 hours] awaited us the next day.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 16
The flight from Melbourne to Maui was the longest yet -- 11 and a half hours -- but I was
too busy to notice much, thanks to a set of virtual reality glasses, some ear buds, and a tutorial on hang gliding. Orp Redilg, the man who had produced the tutorial, happened to be sitting next to me on the plane in case I had questions that the tutorial didn't cover.
He waited patiently for my questions after I finished, but all I could do was blurt out "You're sure you'll be up in the glider with me?" even though he had assured me of that several times already.
He smiled. "It's a tandem, which means two people, you and me.
"What if the wind blows me out over the ocean?"
"That's not likely, but if it happens I'm a crack lifeguard, and we will have boats waiting to rescue us."
"Or how about if we come down in that Park with the unpronounceable name?'
"Waianapanapa. Again, unlikely, but helicopters will be on standby to get us out. Just don't tromp around on the indigenous plants. People have gotten shot for less."
"That's so comforting."
Kahului Airport on Maui was small but pleasant. Soon after emerging from the plane,
we were in a van climbing Mount Haleakala, the highest point on the island [more than 3,000 meters high]. Halfway up we grabbed a bite to eat at a restaurant that had a huge butterfly bush out front. Vast swarms of monarch butterflies were darting back and forth around its branches. We could see other hang-gliders descending in the distance. They looked tranquil.
Finally the moment of truth came as Orp and I strapped ourselves into the glider and set off. After the first shock of being at such a high altitude wore off, I was able to enjoy the view of the island. Far off Hana, at the end of the island, was separated from us by forested slopes -- Waianapanapa, the place we didn't want to disrupt. We were lucky. When the glider came down, we landed on a pleasant beach. The boat was less than a mile away, and came for us at great speed.
There was a reception for us at our hotel, which had been frequented by celebrities such as Arnold Schwarzanegger -- though he wasn't there at the moment. It even had a tiny natural geyser in the lobby.
At the reception we met Kanekanani, who was a talented hula dancer. She explained our next day's itinerary on the Big Island of Hawaii. "You'll get a driving tour of the island, then visit a pirate ship. Trust me, you'll have a wonderful day."
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 17
"We're going fishing?" I exclaimed the next morning as Orp and Kanekanani led Scribbles and me out of the Hilo International Airport. "I thought you said we'd be on a pirate boat."
"Well, we sort of will be," Orp said. "The company that we rent the boat from is called Pirate Fishing Trips, and they specialize in deep sea fishing. We will work our way past Maui to Oahu, where there's a marvelous pirate ship with all sorts of great features. Okay, we could have gone to Oahu directly, but then we wouldn't be about to have breakfast at a restaurant that sits on the edge of the Kilauea Crater. We can watch lava bubble and smoke rise outside as we watch steam rise from our coffee and eggs in here."
"Plus, we can show you a state park with authentic Hawaiian vegetation like fern trees, and you may even see a mongoose," said Kanekanani. Orp frowned at this -- The mongoose, imported to control a burgeoning rat population, had become a menace to native ground-nesting native birds -- but she just giggled and went on. "Then, we'll board the fishing boat around 10:30, dine on the fish we catch for lunch, and be in Honolulu by 4:00, where we'll have 90 minutes on the pirate ship, and a nice dinner at a top restaurant afterwards."
"Then very early tomorrow we'll bid goodbye to you as you fly to Tijuana for a ride in a zonkey cart."
"A what?" I exclaimed.
Scribbles could barely contain his mirth. "We'll explain to you tomorrow," he said. "Then you'll have something to look forward to."
The air was fresh and salty as we set sail on our fishing trip. Frankly, I caught nothing at first, but some of the crew members made great catches -- unless they were clandestinely dropping fish over the edge so they could then *catch* them. In any event, there was plenty of fish for lunch, notably mai mai, a prized local species that Hawaii exported to other places. At last I had a nibble, and got so excited that the crew members, laughing, sent it to the kitchen so I could taste it fresh.
We were pleasantly tired when we got to Pirate Adventures outside Honolulu. Many tourists typically asked why Hawaii, of all places, would have pirate ships, so the captain told of the great Pirate Raid of December 1884, when 5 pirate boats come ashore. Wielding cutlasses and Winchester rifles, 70 armed men captured the town of Honolulu. The king, his ministers, generals, and numerous companies were held for ransom. The pirates robbed them and made off with the royal treasury. No shots were fired, and no one was killed, though this sent shock waves through the King's government and perhaps hastened the day when the United States took over the Hawaiians in the interest of better security. The treasure was never found.
The ship we were on was nowhere near as sinister as the ships we imagined, so we enjoyed snacks and watched pirate-attired crew members and enjoyed the sunset.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 18
While we waited for our plane in the Honolulu Airport, I asked Orp if he ever got tired of dealing with skittish tourists like me.
He laughed. "Some are so scared they pull out entirely. Your hang-gliding was fine. As for whether I get tired of it, in the snowy season I go to Alaska to coach tourists who want to go dog-sled racing. I've competed in the Iditarod race -- which will be held next March 5th -- but nowadays I stay busy enough helping tourists who just want the dog-sled experience."
The flight from Honolulu to Tijuana was "only" 6 hours. As our plane left the runway,
I found myself sitting next to Juan Donaldson, the tour guide who would make sure everything went smoothly when we got to our destination. With his business suit and British accent, he was hardly what I had pictured a Mexican tour guide to look and sound like.
When I told him so, he laughed and said, "most tourists to Tijuana feel the same way until they find out that my mother grew up on a ranch just outside Tijuana."
"So, your father was British?"
"No. You've probably met him -- he's on the board of Scribbles's magazine. My family lived in Boston, where I was born, until I was five, after which my parents spit. Mother went back to the ranch, and Father moved to London for ten years. I shuttled between the two until I was 18, after which I went to law school at Harvard. I'm a lawyer now"
"And yet you're a tour guide today. Aren't you losing money by showing me around Tijuana?"
"I'm on vacation. I get to spend a day or two here in sunny, warm Honolulu, and then I can visit my mother and let her put you in a zonkey cart."
"What are zonkeys?"
"They are white donkeys that have had black zebra stripes painted on them, so they'll show up when they're photographed. Tijuana is famous for them, but hardly any tourists get to actually ride in the carts. You will actually ride."
The ranch turned out to be extensive. Dona Elvira, Juan's mother, was a delightful woman who showed me around. She pointed out a few decorations left over from Mexico's Day of the Dead [November 2], and introduced me to Leporello, the zonkey who pulled a modest wooden cart around the ranch. Field hands put whatever needed hauling into the cart.
Leporello seemed somewhat bored by his work. He barely batted an eye as I climbed into the cart with Dona Elvira for our ride around the place.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 19
"Our next stop is San Francisco," Scribbles told me over huevos rancheros the next morning. "The trick will be getting there."
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"A direct flight from here is not possible. A connecting flight through Mexico City would take about ten hours. But a flight from San Diego would take only an hour and a half."
"So how do we get to San Diego?"
"We can take a taxi to the border, walk across into the U.S., and take a 35-minute trolley ride into San Diego. Then we can fly to San Francisco and ride their famous cable cars."
"I guess trolleys are today's transportation."
"You got that right!"
With temperatures in the 70s, the taxi ride and ten-minute walk to the border were fairly comfortable. Three and a half hours later we emerged from the airport in San Francisco, eager to enjoy the ambience of that famous city.
A familiar face greeted me at the airport. "Miss Seng? I thought you were in Hong Kong?" I exclaimed.
"That was my sister, Dorothy. I'm Glinda."
I guess I know what old Mr. Seng's favorite movie was, I thought to myself.
My day in San Francisco was thoroughly enjoyable. We rode the cable car, and then walked to Grant Avenue, where we had dim sum at Oceans Four Restaurant. Then we rode the bus to Golden Gate Park, where Scribbles confided that his original plan would have had me jogging around the perimeter.
"The only jogging that will be done will be that of your memory," I said tartly.
"You could visit the Japanese Cultural & Trade Center and pick up souvenirs at Mikado," Glinda Seng suggested as we sipped tea at the Japanese Tea Garden.
"I think I'll pass on that," I said. "I would be afraid of foul play."
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 20
The next morning, bright and early, Glinda Seng dropped Scribbles and me off at Alameda County Truck Stop in Oakland. When we got there, a man in an 18-wheeler got out and introduced himself as Roger Miller, the truck driver who would take us to Reno.
"Are you any relation to the songwriter Roger Miller?" I asked after Scribbles and I were in the cab with our seat belts fastened. The truck pulled out into traffic and we began our journey.
"Don't I wish! I blame my mother for the name. She named all her kids after famous people, hoping people would assume they were as talented as their namesakes."
"Something tells me her plans didn't work out."
"Well, that's relative. Thanks to my name, I have job security as long as I want to drive for King of the Road Trucking Company. My brother Arthur is a bandleader, and my brother Glenn writes plays. I don't suppose you've heard of them?"
"Can't say that I have."
"So I'm the big success story in my family. But until today I've never gotten paid to pick up hitchhikers." He nodded to Scribbles and me.
I turned to Scribbles. "You never told me we were supposed to be hitchhiking."
"It slipped my mind," Scribbles said. "I didn't realize until today that our trip to Reno might be affected by snow in the higher elevations, and we might need to cancel the trip to Denver tomorrow. But our readers will love it that we had unforeseen changes to make! They can relate to that."
"You don't need to worry about getting to Reno," Roger said. "We can take I-80, which is fairly safe and well-maintained, even in the snow. But it's kind of a boring trip. You won't see Lake Tahoe, for example."
"I spent five days watching the Atlantic Ocean," I said. "After that, Tahoe's small potatoes."
"That's good," said Roger with a nod. "You've been most of the way around the world. Why get messed up now, when you're back in your own country?"
"I'll probably get all the excitement I can stand when I see Reno."
Roger and Scribbles shook their heads sadly at this.
"Let me have my illusions," I said.
As it turned out, there was plenty do in Reno, what with a planetarium, a zoo, an art museum, an automobile museum, numerous parks, and a fun train.
"Sure you don't want to bet some money in one of the casinos?" Scribbles asked.
"I'm a rambler, not a gambler," I said with my best drawl.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 21
Later that night, when we were settled in our hotel, I asked Scribbles where we were going the next day instead of Denver.
"Well, the point of Denver was that we would ride a raft down the Platte and the Missouri to Saint Louis. Then my consultant told me that that would take at least a week. He recommended flying to Hannibal, Missouri instead and rafting 100 miles or so downstream to Saint Louis."
"Hannibal? isn't that Mark Twain's home town?"
"Yes, it is. But even that is looking iffy." He frowned. "I hired Barry Finnegan, who runs Huck's Raft Rides, to take us down the river."
"Is his nickname Huckle Barry Finn?"
"No. He wanders around Hannibal dressed as Samuel Clemens, drumming up business. His detractors call him 'Huckster Barry Finn,' which is admittedly close. But he won't be taking us either way."
"Why not?"
"He's sick. His cousin will take us."
The next morning we flew from Reno to Saint Louis. I was surprised to see that Roger Miller came with us.
After we touched down in Saint Louis, it took two hours of driving to reach Hannibal. When we reached Huck's Raft Rides, Roger began preparing one of the rafts for us. "You're Barry's cousin, aren't you?" I said to him.
"Yes, I am." he grinned. "This is another link with my namesake, who wrote 'Big River,' a musical adaptation of 'Huckleberry Finn.'"
The ride down the Mississippi was anticlimactic after all that had preceded it. The current was slow -- less than three miles an hour -- so the raft was propelled by an outboard motor. Even revving at top speed, the fastest we could go was 25 mph, and Roger had to keep an eye out for rocks, sand bars and other underwater menaces. Barry Junior, a teenager who sometimes helped his dad, accompanied us to make sure we made it safely.
It was already dark by the time we reached Saint Louis. I was surprised when Scribbles took me for Saint Louis-style pizza, which has a thin, crackery crust and provel cheese. For dessert we had gooey butter cake -- yellow cake topped with sweet cream cheese and powdered sugar. I wasn't all that impressed with either, but I was too hungry to complain.
"If you hadn't been in the mood for pizza, we could have had Saint Louis Sandwiches instead," Scribbles said as we left the restaurant.
"What are they?"
"Egg foo yung between slices of white bread, along with mayo, lettuce, onion, tomatoes, and pickles."
I was grateful for pizza at that point.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 22
I was looking forward to New Orleans -- the music, the food, the sense of hope that drove a city to rebuild after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina I chattered on about the French Quarter, Jackson Square, Bourbon Street, etc., as I waited in the airport with Scribbles. Then it dawned on me that there was no sign that our New Orleans guide would be flying down with us. Was this a sign of further last-minute changes?
"Scribbles, who will be guiding us through New Orleans?" I asked.
"His name is Fats Creole. He's in great demand, and we were lucky to get him. He'll be joining us at the New Orleans airport."
"Most of our other tour guides flew with us to their cities, so they could give us the lowdown on what we were about to see."
"Fats doesn't fly much," Scribbles said softly.
"Afraid of flying?"
"Worse. He can't fit in an airplane seat. He isn't called 'Fats' for nothing. Some planes have extra-wide seats, but they cost a lot more. My publisher is complaining about going over budget again." He looked nervous and worn out, so I assumed he had been working on a lot of issues lately.
The flight took about four hours. We arrived just in time for lunch, eating po' boy sandwiches and beignets. "Save your appetite for dinner," Scribbles cautioned when he saw the extra beignet the guy at the counter had given us as lagniappe. I handed the extra beignet to Fats, who popped it in his mouth with a look of bemusement on his face.
As it turned out, I saw far more than I could assimilate. There was a two-hour bus tour around important sites, followed by a two-hour. steamboat trip on the Mississippi.
Fats Creole took us to supper at a buffet restaurant where we could sample all the signature foods that made New Orleans special -- crawfish etouffe, jambalaya, andouille, gumbo, maque choux, blackened catfish.
Then it was off in search of jazz, which was ridiculously easy to find in this city that had done so much to create and sustain that music form.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 23
Breakfast the following morning was considerably more sumptuous than the continental breakfasts that had been inflicted on me during that train ride through central Europe. Fats Creole chuckled, however, when I exulted over the boudin sausage, grits, eggs cochon, cream cheese with berries, and cafe au lait that filled my plate. "This doesn't even *begin* to constitute a full N'Orlins breakfast," he said. "Still, if you come back a few more times, I'll be happy to show you one."
Then Scribbles and I climbed into a helicopter for our flight to Atlanta. I had looked forward to looking down at vistas of Mississippi and Alabama as we flew over them, but what I hadn't realized about helicopters was that they were allowed to fly lower than other forms of aircraft. From 1,000 feet up, the scenery was nothing special, so after a while I stopped watching. We stopped in Montgomery to fill the fuel tank again, after which we were on our way again.
We reached Atlanta in time for lunch, where Moms Mitchell, our stocky coffee-colored tour guide, explained that the city was cosmopolitan to a considerable degree. You could enjoy southern barbecue with Korean accents, for instance. Indian, Italian, and French restaurants all had their special dishes. "What I'm going to do, then, is make sure you enjoy some authentic soul food," she said with a grin.
The lunch that followed consisted of smothered chicken, greens and yams, and peach cobbler. As my belt began to seem tighter, I began to wish I had jogged around Golden gate Park when I was in San Francisco.
"Eat, eat, enjoy yourself!" Moms urged.
The afternoon consisted of a walking tour of the center of town. Moms was disappointed -- she had planned a bus tour for us -- but after a day and half of riding everywhere, I desperately wanted to see things on foot. Parks and churches were prominent along our path, along with the Olympic Park and the Aquarium. What really stuck in my mind was a guided tour of Margaret Mitchell's house, where she had written "Gone with the Wind."
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 24
"You know this is nuts, don't you?" I griped to Scribbles the next day after he told me I would be skateboarding around Charleston, South Carolina. We were en route to that city in an airplane.
"You're defying the odds," Scribbles said. "Surely that matters to you."
"How so?"
"85% of skateboarders are below the age of 18."
"Was that supposed to make me feel good?"
"Plus, 74% are male. Anyway, we have some lessons lined up for you."
"Can we do it in a skatepark, then -- hopefully a deserted one, so no one will laugh at me?"
"They're trying to build one, but it's not ready yet. If this were Charleston *Illinois*, we'd have a skatepark at our disposal, but you wouldn't want to be there today."
"Why not?"
"There's a storm system moving across the country' northern half. It's likely to be rainy there."
When we reached Charleston, we had lunch and then proceeded to a skateboarding lesson.
"Normally, we recommend a seven-day training program," the instructor said. "In this case, I've been hired to accompany you. Please don't get yourself injured or killed under my watch. Anyway, you can't skateboard on any road with a speed limit over 25 miles per hour. Also, the equipment you'll need -- besides the board itself -- includes a helmet, elbow pads, knee pads, and wrist guards. You can rent those from us. Finally, there's a senior citizen skateboarding club that will be in the area, so no one will laugh at you -- unless you do something really lame."
The walking/skateboarding tour of downtown Charleston was amazing, with numerous historic homes along the way, as well as the Old City Market, some antebellum plantations, and beautiful gardens.
Along the way, I sampled some traditional foods of the city -- shrimp and grits, boiled peanuts, she-crab soup, and fried green tomatoes among other delicacies.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 25
"Your numbers are down," Scribbles said as our plane wended its way toward Richmond.
"Does anyone know why?" I asked.
"Yes. Bostonians are your biggest fans, and right now they'd rather watch the Patriots win football games than follow your adventures on river boats and helicopters. They like to watch figure skating at the Winter Olympics, but you chose *roller* skating for today's
activity."
"I'm no whiz on *any* kind of skate."
"They'd respect you for trying, though. Incidentally, when we asked if you'd consider ice skating, you said 'I'll wait for hell to freeze over.'"
"I was willing to ride in a golf cart."
"But you don't play golf. Anyway, I have a devious plan to regain the attention of your fellow Bostonians: we'll arrange for you to get injured."
"It's bound to happen anyway. Why go to the trouble of arranging it?"
"Photo opportunities and sound bites. A local stunt coordinator will train you to have a colorful mishap -- which I will film -- and the goodhearted Bostonians will be anxiously following your recovery. You'll need a wheelchair for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner in Washington, D.C. 'I'm thankful it wasn't worse,' you'll tell the camera as you feast on turkey and cranberry sauce."
And that is how, five minutes into my session at a roller-skating rink in Richmond, I made a spectacularly klutzy [even for me] fall that was followed by a doctor (played by the stunt guy) telling me to use crutches or wheelchairs for the next two days. I spent the rest of the day on a bus tour, seeing the Virginia Capitol Building, Monument Avenue, and the exteriors of several museums.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 26
"I can't believe we'll be in Washington on Thanksgiving, when nothing will be open," I said to Scribbles as we flew toward that city. My left ankle was bulky, having been wrapped in an ace bandage by the "doctor." In actuality, it wasn't painful at all. The only thing I'd injured at the skating rink was my pride. "At least the fast food places at the airport will be open, so we won't starve."
"Set your sights higher, Uncle Pell," Scribbles reassured me. "Granted, not a lot of Boston restaurants will be open, but Washington will have hundreds of places to choose from. "I especially recommend the Constituency of You Restaurant."
It turned out to be a very fine restaurant, in fact. Scribbles pushed my wheelchair over to the best table. I was told to order anything I wanted, which turned out to be what many others across the land were having: turkey with stuffing, cranberry sauce, opulent desserts, and vegetable dishes of many different types. Getting to actually finish the meal was another story.
I had just taken my third or fourth bite of turkey when I noticed bright lights coming at me. Looking up, I saw Julia Fitzgerald King -- my state's Junior Senator -- approaching, followed closely by an entourage of cameramen. I wasn't much for politics -- especially on Thanksgiving -- but Ms. King intrigued me. She was the state's first-ever African-American woman, and her genealogical connections were enviable, since she counted as relatives the families of Rose Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Mario Cuomo. You could also count on the fingers of one hand anyone as articulate and camera-friendly as she. She might have been a beauty queen at one point, too, and was still easy on the eyes.
"I bring you the best wishes of everyone in Massachusetts, Mr. Longchamps," she said. "We all wish you a speedy recovery from yesterday's injuries."
Scribbles intervened with comments about the restaurant and his hope that I would remember with pleasure the meal I was eating. She pulled back and let me finish eating in peace. "I loved the way you interacted with that dolphin," she said in parting. "I'm issuing you an open invitation to come to my beachfront place in Maui for some snorkeling. We'll have the time of our lives."
"Were we just on national TV?" I asked Scribbles after she had left.
"Yes. You and I are golden right now. Everyone loves to see a distressed man chow down on this most feast-worthy day of the year. Your fans will be watching from now on to see how you cope with adversity."
As my dinner digested, Senator King's aides took turns pushing my wheelchair past some of Washington's most familiar landmarks -- the Capitol Building, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, etc.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 27
"Yesterday didn't go too badly," I said to Scribbles as we waited in front of our hotel for the next form of transportation that would whisk us to Nw York City. The "doctor" had just given me a cane, as well as some sugar pills that were supposed to be pain killers for my "injured" foot.
Earlier that morning I had had a confidential talk with Scribbles. "I feel bad about deceiving millions of people with an ersatz injury," I had told him.
"Anyone can suffer an injury without warning," he had replied. "It's only then that they realize how hard it is to negotiate steps or find a parking space near their favorite stores
when their mobility is compromised. You're performing a valuable public service. Who needs ramps and handicapped parking spots? Everyone at some time or another."
I was hoping that today's transportation would be a Mercedes. My jaw (and hopes) dropped when a motorcycle pulled up in front of us.
"You've got to be kidding!" I griped.
"Where's the stiff upper lip in the face of adversity now?" Scribbles chided. "Millions of Americans adore motorcycles. They will applaud as you pass them en route to the Big Apple. The New Jersey Turnpike has to be seen to be believed."
"But...but...but it snowed last night. The roads will be bad."
"Boston got eight inches, New York much less, and the rain-snow line was in Newark. You'll be in a sidecar, with someone experienced driving the bike. You can close your eyes all the way if you wish. I'll be in the car behind you."
Just then a Mercedes pulled up; "That's mine," Scribbles said, getting in.
I won't pretend that I enjoyed that day's ride. Let's just say that I closed my eyes whenever some big, scary vehicle got too close. We had lunch at a diner near Wilmington, Delaware. The menu had some ho-hum dishes like chipped beef and pea soup, but I decided to try Philadelphia Scrapple, while Scribbles went for the Chesapeake Bay Crab cakes. I tried mixing the two, which didn't go over well with some of the other diners.
Somewhere around 4:00 o'clock, the Manhattan skyline loomed ahead of us, but the traffic was backed up enough that we didn't get to our hotel in Hell's Kitchen until after 6:00.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 28
I'd been to New York several times over the years, and was familiar with some of the more famous sights. I'd been to the tops of the Empire State Building and the World Trade Centers. I'd seen a show at Radio City Music Hall, visited the New York Public Library, and strolled through Central Park. To be honest, I was slightly bored with the idea of seeing any of those places again.
Thus I was delighted when Scribbles approached me before breakfast to say that he had picked some spots that were off the beaten track. "We will use the New York subway system for getting around today," he said.
We started in Brooklyn, visiting Prospect Park and the nearby Brooklyn Botanic Garden, which had free admission from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. on Saturdays. Scribbles joked that if the foot "injury" had fallen through, he could have arranged to have me pushed through it in a wheelbarrow instead of going with the wheelchair in Washington. Or was it a joke? Sometimes I wasn't sure.
From there we went to Fort Greene Flea Market, where we sampled food from some of the best vendors in the city.
We left Brooklyn and visited the Lower East Side of Manhattan for an hour or two at the Tenement Museum, which was once an actual tenement, with guided tours that showed how people lived way back when.
In mid-afternoon, we visited Chelsea Market, which was in a former Nabisco building. We snacked on fresh squeezed juice and Corpulent Wicca brownies .
We browsed in Housing Works Used Book Cafe, a bookstore which used its profits
to help those with AIDS/HIV.
Supper was in West Village at Alta, a popular place that featured Spanish food. We didn't have reservations, but we arrived during the early evening and were able to get seated.
Scribbles still had one place he wanted me to see: McSorley's Old Ale House, open since 1854 -- you could even see the chair Abraham Lincoln had sat in. I was starting to yawn, so I had to pass on it. And the Cloisters were out of the question. Too much to see, too little time.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 29
Since our next destination was the monorail at John F Kennedy Airport, Scribbles decided to focus on Queens, the borough that the airport was located in. On our way out of Manhattan, though, we caught one more historic spot: City Hall Subway Station, which was designed in 1904 as the showpiece of the then-new subway system, with Romanesque Revival architecture. Passenger service was stopped in 1945, but it's still used as a turning loop for the trains on Line 6. It comes just after the last stop -- Brooklyn Bridge.
In Queens, we enjoyed looking at the Unisphere, Corona Park's mammoth steel globe designed for the 1964 World's Fair. We also visited the Louis Armstrong House Museum and the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge.
Finally we boarded the Airtrain at Jamaica Station. This monorail runs everywhere around the John F Kennedy Airport -- terminals, parking lots, hotel shuttle areas, and rental car places. It is a free service that runs continuously, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
As we entered the train and sat down, the woman in the next seat exclaimed, "Paddington Penn, fancy meeting you here!"
A look of surprise came over Scribble's face. "I haven't been addressed by my given name in years," he said, scrutinizing her face.
"I'm Emma Rita Lane. We were in Middle School together. The others called you Pad 'n' Pencil..."
"I had a teacher in high school who saw me scribbling notes as fast as possible, and he called me Scribbles. The name stuck," Scribbles acknowledged. Soon the two were catching up on what had happened since then.
We took several circuits around the airport, and finally transferred to a shuttle that took us to Sheradhilt Hotel JFK, where we'd be spending the night.
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NaJoPoMa, Around the world in 30 ways, Day 30
A fast-moving snowstorm hit the area just as we were getting on the Airtrain. New York got just a dusting, but Logan Airport in Boston got six inches. Scribbles had been frantically dialing numbers on his phone all afternoon, and I assumed that he had been worried that our flight to Boston the next day might be delayed.
As it turned out, our flight was only an hour late in leaving JFK. It normally took a little over an hour to arrive in Boston after leaving New York, but we ended up circling Logan for a while until a runway could be cleared for landing.
While we circled, Scribbles tried to point out the wonderful experiences I had had on my month-long journey, and the wide range of benefits they could have for me going forward.
"You've spent time riding or being towed by dolphins, camels, horses, elephants, and donkeys," he offered as an example. "Animal welfare activists are likely to want you to be a spokesman in their ads, and they will offer you money for your help. Cities from Mumbai to Istanbul to Hong Kong may offer you free trips so you can tout them as destinations for tourists. There may even be product placement opportunities -- Segway, for instance. Okay, so not many offers will come from skateboard makers -- you're nowhere near their target demographic. But organizations that work on behalf of disabled people will want you. I can even connect you with a few that have asked me if you'd be interested..."
"Yeah, old and decrepit is definitely my demographic," I said glumly. "But no, I just want to get home and relax for a while," I said.
After landing, we made our way to the baggage carousel. As we waited for our suitcases to appear, Scribbles told me that one remaining type of transportation was in store for me as I returned to my townhouse condo in Brookline.
"Not the wheelbarrow!" I groaned.
"Definitely not that," Scribbles said with a laugh, "but we'll need to get you to Charles Street in order to access it.
Now I was more puzzled than ever. We got on the Blue Line train at Airport Station, changed to the Orange Line at State Street, and rode the Red Line from Downtown crossing to Charles Street. I looked up at the sky as I emerged from the train at Charles Street. No sign of UFOs, the only transportation I had not yet used.
Scribbles saw me looking up and laughed. he took me by the arm and led me to a pedestrian bridge, where we crossed over Storrow Drive and came down on the walking-jogging path that ran along the river for miles.
There, waiting for us, was Orp Redilg in a Santa suit. He had a sled which was hitched up to eight sled dogs.
"Nice day for some sledding," he said. "Care to hop in?"
The new snow glistened as we rode along, the traffic bustling along Storrow Drive on one side, and the buildings in Cambridge looming across the river
"I shot a dog food commercial here yesterday," Orp said as we passed under the Harvard Bridge, which carried Massachusetts Avenue traffic. "They wanted the dogs returned last night, but Scribbles begged them to let me keep them for today."
We reached the pedestrian bridge behind Boston University. I picked up my suitcases, said goodbye to Orp, and carried them across Storrow Drive. I passed Marsh Chapel, crossed Commonwealth Avenue, and took the side streets that would lead me to my townhouse condo on Beacon Street in Brookline. I only owned the first floor of the building, and was grateful that carrying my bags up several flights of stairs was not necessary.
When I got my door open, I heard a whishing sound. My faucet was running -- I'd left it running for the month I was away. My water bill was going to be astronomical! Picking up the phone, I dialed Scribbles and said, "I guess I'll need to make those product-placement ads after all. Yeah, I need the money....."
