Someone Else's Blues

Disclaimer:

Attention readers who are squeamish about the grittiness of bodily functions, or human suffering in general. This might be a good point to surf the social media for cute kittens videos. Those of you with a well defined sense of schadenfreude, however, will enjoy what follows. You know who you are, you heartless heathens.

Prologue:

This blog post has a sound track, or at least it should. The sound track is "Someone Else's Blues" by David Bromberg. The song goes like this:

When I woke up this morning, everything seemed all right.
My woman called me from New York City. She said, "Darlin', did you sleep well last night?"
She told me I got three checks in the mail. Hallelujah! I got a refund on my union dues.
But when I woke up this morning, I musta had someone else's blues.
I swear I don't know why. I don't know why I feel this way.
Well, I got, I got someone else's blues in the midst of an almost perfect day.

Here is a link to the song itself. If you wish, you can play it in the background whilst you read.
Play "Someone Else's Blues" Baby!

Dateline Guayaquil, Ecuador: When last we saw our intrepid traveler, he was curling up for a night of tropical slumber. And we, good souls, we let him sleep in a cocoon of ignorant bliss. This, however, is a bright new day, a travel day, and a day when the travel gods will demand their payment. Poor sod, he doesn't know what is about to hit him. Ah well, let us wake him.

I slept well that night, basking in the tropical heat. The air was thick and chewy after two weeks of breathing the thin stuff up in the Andes. There was one brekkie on offer with the price of the room, the standard American Breakfast. Two eggs scrambled to death, double toast, coffee and juice. Señor Hansen joined me about the time I was cleaning up the last of the toast. He needed to push on for the south, so he would be dropping me at the airport well ahead of the two-hour international minimum. It would be goodbye Guayaquil after a quick trip to the room. All I needed now was the normal morning call to nature and grabbing up the bag. Being a very regular sort of gent, I was a bit bemused that I managed to only one of the two tasks, grabbing the bag but leaving nothing behind. No matter, another coffee at the airport would set me right. Lots of time yet.

As an aside, Guayaquil is the setting, in part, for one of Kurt Vonnegut's novels, "Galapagos." It is a story of absurdism and Darwinism taken to an extreme end. But anyway, HiHo, off we must go.

We cursed and dodged through the crazed traffic on the Avenida de las Americas. Once you completely disregard the validity of lines and lanes, traffic rules devolve into a shoving match between larger and smaller vehicles. Ours was larger, and Señor Hansen could create curses the locals were no match for. We arrived at the the airport, we unloaded my gear, we parted, and left I was to my own devices. Adios my boon companion!

Now it's Bing-Bang-Boom by the numbers. Check in and drop the bag. Easy, I'm early, the line is short. The bag is gone until Madrid, where I have to pick it up, go through customs, and re-check it for Brussels. Or maybe not. Still way too early for passing security, time for a smoke above the teeming schools of Koi. Life is good. I'm sort of hoping that the cigar jiggles something loose down below, but my guts feel okay. Besides, I have a stop in Bogota. I can use the can there.

I make for the customs line, which looks short and sweet. I draw a cute customs agent, do my best smiley-face, super formal Espanol, clickty-click. More clickty-click. Finally I have my stamp and it's on through security. There is my gate and there is a coffee stand. It's time for an espresso and the bodily magic that will surely bring. I settle in and wait to place my order.

Scrttch-Passenger-Squeak-Ridge to-squawk-number-eeek

Wait, was that my name? Naw.

Squeak-Passenger-Ether-squawk-to gate-eeek-eleven

That's weird. I can understand the Spanish version a lot better. They're calling some passenger with a name close to mine.

Realization: when denial fails. I never get called to the gate for something good. I am not on anyone's upgrade list. I know I am not going to get my coffee. And that comfortable airport toilet? Forget it.

"Yes, I'm passenger Etheridge."

"Random bag check Sir, please go with this gentlemen."

This ain't my first rodeo and this ain't no random bag check. I've got 150 cigars in my bag, perfectly legal for entering Schengen, and legal for leaving Nicaragua where I got the damn things. Hell, they are even legal for leaving Ecuador. The problem is the tiny detail that only 25 cigars are allowed into Ecuador, a detail I turned a blind eye to flying in from Panama City. 

I am deposited at the stainless steel counter. I eyeball the other unlucky winners. A couple of Gringos getting the check already. My turn comes, but the matron waves me to wait. I question why. Special police, we are waiting on the special police. There were already three kinds of cops in the room, but I am in no position to argue. I wait. And I wait. And the clock is running.  I use the imploring eyes. The matron is unimpressed. I wait. Finally, my guys show up. In the yellow shirts. Hello old friends.

It is my old pals, the Narcos. I get it now, the baggage X-rays picked up the bundles of cigars. My meticulously packed Deuter 40 is about to be emptied. And it was, slowly, slowly. We are doing a search, and we are making a point. I only protested when the Narco squeezed one of my precious cigar bundles. I managed to do all of it in Spanish except the word 'Squeeze.' I swear, the stern bastard almost cracked a smile. When all of my gear was in a jumble on the big stainless table, he uttered one word, his entire half of the conversation: "Finished." There was nothing left to do but mutter under my breath, very very softly, and re-pack my shit. Weird hurdle cleared, up the creepy stairs and back to the gate. 

I am in my window seat, all is well. Hell, it's not even raining. As I settle in, I notice my left eye feels sort of funny. It seems to be sore and swollen on the upper eyelid. Hmmm. I must have slept on it wrong. Denial. A tiny voice flits through the darkness of my brain. Do you remember the Gringo talk about an epidemic of conjunctivitis in Guayaquil? Oh hell no, I do not remember that, and I do not have the damn Pink-Eye! Denial. I'm fine. There is nothing wrong with me that can't be fixed by an espresso and a trip to the crapper. And we are airborne.

Guayaquil is a sight from the air, a tangle of estuaries, marshes, huge rivers and tidal flats. Wherever there is not water or march, there is city. And so the twenty-some hour marathon of air travel really begins. Guayaquil to Bogota, Bogota to Madrid. A six-hour layover in Madrid followed by a short hop to Brussels and a quick turn-around to Vienna. 

Nothing to see below the clouds, none of the cool Ecuadorian volcanoes, so it's time to Zone Out. Movies. Avianca is a pretty cool airline for movies. Dead Pool? Bingo. If I don't finish it by Bogota, I can always watch it on the way to Madrid. I'm not feeling all that great, but that's got to be due to the stress of the bag search, right? And will you top messing with your eye? It's fine, leave it alone.

Bogota, Colombia. I have a fairly short layover for an international connection, but there is no customs, no security, no immigration control. I am in that wonderland of neutrality, the secure international terminal of a major airport. Coffee, now. Then the necessary, then the eight hours to Madrid. I get the coffee, spending my last three worn dollar coins. Ecuador uses the US Dollar as it's currency, same as Panama. All of the old Sacagawea dollar coins that no one would use in the US, they went to Ecuador. I have my steaming hot Americano, I get it down, I find a stall in the immense facilities and... nothing. Wait, this is not fair! I drink the coffee, my body is supposed to react like clockwork. That is just how I am. But it's no good. Pausing at the mirror, I see that no amount of denial is going to shrink my left eyelid back to its normal size. It is starting to look a little funny. And not haha funny. No shit right? Sorry, I meant that literally.

So, okay, I may have to do that most dreaded travel deed: crap on the plane. It wouldn't be the first time. I have seen some very bizarre things that pass for toilets, so a plane is not big deal. But I'm not feeling so hot, therefore I am not pleased at the idea. Whatever, get on the plane, get settled.

Eight-point-five hours across the pond. That's cake. Four movies and two meals or three movies, two meals, and a nap. I settle into "Dead Pool" again, from the beginning, because I've got nothing but time. The meal comes and goes, whatever, and then I go for "Hail Caesar." Do you know why "Dead Pool" and "Hail Caesar" make a great double feature? Because the bad guy in "Dead Pool" is named Francis. Frances McDormand has a bit part in "Hail Caesar." Francis and Frances, get it? What? No it's not lame. 

So it goes. My eye is getting worse and my guts are locked up like mortared bricks. I have an aisle seat, the plane is basically asleep, and I'm starting to cramp up. Right, the vacant light is on. But despite my best efforts in that tiny high-altitude crapper, my vacant light ain't coming on. Whatever, there's Madrid, a long layover, nothing but time.

Madrid. Big deal, another airport. But at least I am back in Europe and the long flight is over. Now it's a six-hour layover. Cigar, crap, sleep. But first I have to get my bag and clear immigration. The Spanish guys are on it, super polite, check my passport and title card, welcome back. Baggage is not too bad, because my bag is there. Yay! I get a water and shuffle out into the chill of a dark Madrid morning. I am pulling my jacket out of the top of my pack when I notice that things are not right. Someone has been in my bag. No, someone has emptied my bag and repacked it. Badly. The Narcos in Bogota have done another search. Don't these guys talk? Now I'm pissed. I'm cold, my eye hurts, and my guts feel like lead. But I have to pack my bag properly so the goddam cigars will survive the next set of baggage monkeys. 

Re-packed, jacketed, with a good cigar going, I give myself a talking to. You are better than this, my friend, and you have gotten through far worse than this. Calm down, enjoy your smoke, and then we can mosey over to terminal two and have a nap. The problem was that myself wasn't having any of it. What if we have conjunctivitis? Do you know how contagious that is? What if they quarantine our sorry ass? And what about the rebellion below decks? It's an intestinal mutiny down there! So it goes, HiHo. Not my best cigar ever.

The bus ride from the Madrid International terminal (4) to domestic (2) seems to be about ten kilometers long. Maybe it is. From the outside, terminal two is about as ratty as it gets, old and outdated, with construction underway. Inside, well, it's not much better this side of security. I was stuck in construction land until Brussels Airways opened up check-in at their temporary baggage drop. I slumped on the the cold tile floor, did my best to imagine myself a displaced person, and tried to sleep. This part is sort of a blur. I was starting to feel a bit feverish, my eye hurt, and my guts were starting to cramp. Eventually, the Brussels folks opened for business. Given that I had a short forty-minute change in Brussels, they hot-tagged my bag. Sure, that little orange tag will do it. Whatever, I'm inbound. I can't take a shit and I don't give a shit. 

The rest of the flights really are a blur. They were a blur at the time. Nodding, taking off, nodding, landing, a fast bus ride to a connecting flight, the blessed last flight.  More nodding, then snapping awake, then final approach into Vienna. I was in zombie mode, but I was in Wien. My bag of course, was not.  I filed a claim at baggage. Yes, my bag was still in Brussels. Yes, there was another flight tonight and I would get the bag no later than noon the next day. Fine, whatever, thank you. Then it was out the exit and into My Baby's arms. She guided me onto the train and we were whisking out way home. All was well, it was over. I was able to enjoy and blissful and passionate homecoming, followed by an unceremonious passing out. Mission accomplished, yes?

Well, I ain't that pretty at all...

No. That would be the answer. Before she headed off to work the next day, My Beautiful wife found a local eye doctor. She insisted that I go. I did not need convincing.  I was looking like the Elephant Man except without his mask and hat. Without appointment I show up at the Doc. They take one look at me and promptly work me in. Good news, no conjunctivitis. Bad news, a pretty nasty eye infection, cause unknown. I got my script for eye drops, got it filled, and headed for home. But my bag did show up. One look at me was enough to scare the hell out of the delivery guy. But what did I care? I had my stuff. But the real-deal bad news was on the way.

My recalcitrant guts now decided to go into overdrive. While I have rarely experienced the delights of an iron-bound intestinal tract, I am all too familiar with the trials of bowels laid waste by this or that microbe. When it happens, the hows and whys of it fall by the wayside, right nest to the toilet brush. The game was on in a big way.

Sandoz Azithromycin 500 mg. When you absolutely, positively, have to kill every nasty microbe in your gut, accept no substitute. Sandoz also made great LSD, back in the day. Just saying.

This, then, was what the last four days have been. When you are certain that not one more speck of anything could possible come out of the human body, the human body will prove you wrong. Over and over and over again. Solid food is a chore, and one taken in only very small doses. Dehydration is a real issues, most particularly when any liquid is coming out as fast as it goes in. There is one small benefit. That little pudge I was building around the middle, the month of rice and beans and meat? That sucker is gone, way gone. I am now thin as a pony rail.

It is 2:51 in the AM on a Sunday morning in Wien. My guts are as calm as they have been in a week. Hallelujah. Being awake at this hour is just simple jet-lag and the desire to write this down before the edge of suffering vanishes completely. I need to get my beauty rest because, well, you saw the picture. My eyes are actually healing faster than the rest of me, and I'm weak as a kitten, but HiHo, so it goes.

This is what it is like sometimes. I can't lie to you. Travel, occasionally, sucks serious ass. This was one of those times. Do I regret going on this trip? Hell no! Would I do it again? Hell yes! Would I want it to be easier? Oh yes please, very much so. Mostly, I am incredibly lucky. I get away with wacky shit all the time. This time, well, I had to pay the price. Is this going to give me second thoughts about the next trip? No it will not. I'll be fine.

Next week, Wednesday, My Baby and I are climbing on a flight to southern Spain. We're staying with friends, at a their little house out on the campo. Sounds nice, right? You bet. So, travel well, travel often, heal quickly when you have to heal, and Ciao for Now!