In Pursuit of Surprise as Travel Memory

I'm good at knowing the heart of a place from the moment I arrive.  Getting off a plane in another country or taking a road trip with stops in diners, parks, museums, cemeteries gets my instinctual juices running in the most psychic of ways.  Mostly, I travel to feed my curiousity because I know that a travel guide cannot relay the truth of a place; that the effects of the foreign and strange must be felt and interpreted on my own terms, so I travel to unknown destinations to return to the playgrounds of my childhood where experiences were pure, blissful, imaginative, and created on the spur of the moment.

Besides having a general idea of historical sights and places to visit, once I arrive at my destination I mostly let my itineraries take on their own life forms, inspired by people I meet, invitations I get for dinner or drinks, recommendations I seek, and places I find happenstance.  Sure, I’ve missed important sites, museums, and statutes, like David in Florence, but at the time that stop didn’t fit the general mood of my travels, so I had no regrets about not seeing the famous Michelangelo statute.   I would rather fashion a genuine, unforgettable experience on gut feelings rather than on a “must see or to-do list.” For this reason, I know that:

Bali, was lowest tier of heaven on earth, because Westerners, including myself, were not privy to fully grasp or live – even if for a couple days or weeks – in its state of constant spiritual other-wordliness, an experience shared with me by the restaurant servers who spoke about Hindu tenants, myths, and philosophy with such eloquence and beauty it would take several lifetimes in Indonesia and Ph.D. in religion for me to fully process the breadth and practice of its peoples’ beliefs. I also know that Bali's night, unencumbered by streets lights, were unparalleled and fell over the island like eternity--magnificent and creepy.

Florence had the spirit of pretty perfectionist, as evidenced by the servers in my hotel who fussed and tussled with a dining room table, exhaustively reorganizing its tablecloth, flowers, utensils, and angle of placement, only to remove the “unfit” table from the restaurant with the solemnity of pall bearers marching a coffin out of a church. The winks and smiles of the city's men also carried the eroticism, fun, and joie d' vie of its long ago court jesters.

Paris was magic, not because everyone said it but because on a cool, spring night a young Frenchman flirted with me on the Rue Kleber before dipping me on the sidewalk for a passionate kiss on my lips, teaching me that wonderful surprises were magic, yet magic was fleeting and must be quickly embraced with an open heart, mind, and spirit.

Moscow was sinister, timeless; its citizens brilliant with an overlapping and simultaneous allegiance to its painful history and current, tumultuous events, all of which I gathered from the Russians I spoke to whose eyes watered and/or shone when they spoke of gulags, be-headings, hangings, secret tortures chambers of the KGB, mauling by ferocious dogs, rise of viscous Russian gangsters, orphanages, new wealthy classes, and beautiful architecture, ballets and music.   When they told me fevered stories about Ivan the Terrible’s reign and that blood ran like rivers on the cobblestones of Red Square on his orders for mass be-headings, I became anxiously unaware of where I was and what year it was.

Amsterdam was an invitation to take part in a Grimm's fairy tale, which I did, when I fell in love with a German pilot who was also visiting the city at the same time. Our romance ran concurrent with the city’s offerings of museums, gardens, peep shows, and pot, which we all enjoyed, allowing ourselves to entertain the thought of true love, great sex, and wonder in having met. We talked about marriage and happily ever-after until his seven-day vacation was over, and he left word for me with the hotel receptionist that he had to go.

Next in my travels is India and Bhutan.  For the last several years, I have been unable to afford travel, so I gather steam for my future journeys by reading Twain’s travelogue, some of which encompasses his stay in India, and seeing documentaries about Bhutan’s practice of the most ancient form of Buddhism.  This preparation excites and encourages me to know the essence of the places I will visit so that when I arrive my instincts will take over and the adventure of being in the unknown will rain on me surprises.  Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO