Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Category: Series (Page 5 of 9)

Great American Road Trip, conclusion

March 25, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 97

I’m standing and waiting at a hotel in Van Buren, Arkensas. The lady in line before me couldn’t take any longer if she tried. She has a ton of questions: how many beds in the room? How many rooms in the hotel? Can she have a room close to the door? She starts in on giving the poor hotel employee her and her husband’s entire medical history. Then, when I think it couldn’t get more ridiculous, she pauses and says, “oh my, your hair is so nice! Is it real?

 

I look up from my phone. I gotta see this.

 

“Um, yes,” says the female employee.

 

“Oh, it’s so lovely, it could be a wig.”

 

I’m floored that the employee standing at the counter wasn’t apparently offended. But what shocks me the most is that this lady actually finds wig hair preferable to the real deal. I have never had the bravery, nay, audacity to make comments like that. I have to give her credit. She sure knows how to hold a conversation. I had an old boss tell me one time that the key to talking to people was to talk about them or, at least, talk about what they wanted to talk about. This is true about the people who seemingly make friends easily and all over the world. They meet somebody in the airport and see that they have snorkel gear with them. They talk about snorkeling for a while, and before you know it, they get invited to stay for dinner, then the weekend. Bang, friends for life. I want that boldness. But not too much boldness, like wig lady. Invitation to stay the weekend? I think not.

 

After a reasonable night of sleep, I climb back into the car to drive to the McDonald’s for breakfast. (No Starbucks. I’m slumming it.) As soon as I turn the key an oldies station begins pummeling me with an advertisement for cars.

 

“A new car attracts better looking girls, unless you’re ugly. Take a chance. Buy a new car.” 

 

It’s early. And the logic seems sound. A+B=new car and good-looking girls. But it feels like there may be holes in that argument. Besides, I already have a good-looking girl. I’ll stick with my 2003 Subaru.

 

Slowly the approach of Tennessee came upon us and we were greeted by the skyline of Memphis in the distance. If we had any time at all, I would most certainly have recommended stopping into Marlowe’s BBQ (They will pick you up from a hotel in a pink limousine, for fee). The hill country on the Eastern side of Memphis rolls and rolls. Both deciduous and coniferous trees blind the freeway as do billboards that advertise such things as Loretta Lynn’s Ranch and Kitchen. The contrast between the land on the flats of New Mexico and the hills of Tennessee it’s fairly difficult to grasp. We drove nearly 2,000 miles on I-40 without seeing a lake. The first body of water we saw was someplace in Oklahoma. But now woods and houses-within-woods dot the landscape. Rivers snake underneath the freeway. And between the eastern border of Tennessee and Nashville, I see no less than a dozen signs for different Tennessee State Parks. It seems this place has much to offer.

 

Though California offers mountains and farmland and cities and coastline, Tennessee appears to be a good trade. Yes, Tennessee may get the occasional cold spell and the culture may be completely different. And yes, in California you don’t have to shovel sunshine. From what I’ve seen, the people in Tennessee are caring people. They say yes sir and yes ma’am. They smile and wish you a nice day. The State is far less crowded and the traffic, a breeze. Also, taxes are minimal. That’s not to say that California is evil. Sometimes, you just need different surroundings. My parents have lived in many different states. And that’s a good thing.

 

Variety creates a character observant to different cultures and people groups. Living in various places can literally make you a better person. It builds empathy and promotes love for others. A journey from California to Tennessee is more than just a road trip. Forgive the cliché. It’s more like a life trip. The same goes for travel.

 

Know a place.

 

Know its people.

 

An understanding begins to form.

 

Living and traveling to different places molds us into better Americans and better humans.

anthony forrest

Start at the beginning of the road trip: 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Great American Road Trip, Part 3

March 18, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 96

I groggily hop into the car and drive toward the Starbucks. Have I turned into a Starbucks person? Back when I worked as a barista at The Beta Coffeehouse in Cody, WY I used to say that, “friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” We mocked the overpriced company openly, claiming the coffee shop’s lack of soul. I want my coffee made by people passionate about coffee, not a college freshman who lack motivation and doesn’t even drink coffee. But that was a long time ago. Wyoming didn’t even have a Starbucks back then. In fact, neither did Minnesota.

But here I am pulling up to the window at a Starbucks. And besides, nothing else is open this early. Such is the road life. Remind me to chastise myself later. Over the intercom, a cheerful and bright voice beckons I give her my order. After moderate negotiation, I’ve ordered two blueberry oatmeals, a black coffee, and a latte. She regales me with a musical retelling of my order. It’s so early and I can’t help but smile as I pull up to the window. She takes my card, and I’ve never been so happy to give somebody $16 in my life. 

“You know,” I remark to the ‘bucks employee, “they’ve really selected the right person for the counter this morning. You are so happy, bubbly, and cheerful. I hope you have a great day.” 

“Ah,” she giggles dramatically placing her hand on her chest, “well, bless your heart! That’s so sweet of you. Have a wonderful day!” (If you just read that without some sort of southern accent, go back to the beginning of the paragraph and try again.) It’s desperately hard to have a bad day when people treat you like that.

Road, road, more road, range, prairie, mountains, and more of the same. Hours on end, ever easterly the wheels turned. New Mexico turns into Texas, and Texas turned into Oklahoma.

What’s this? A sign up ahead.

All capital letters: HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES.

This comes as bit of a shock to me. I’ve picked up probably a dozen hitchhikers, none of which had killed me. How many were escaping inmates? It’s not a pleasant thought. I’m reminded of the joke that tells of a driver picking up a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker gets in and says that he is surprised to be picked up. He asks the driver, “what if I was some kind of serial killer?” The driver laughed and remarked, “well, what are the odds of two serial killers being in the same car?” Note to self, don’t pick up hitchhikers on interstate 40 between the Texas border and Oklahoma City.

It seems like every 10 minutes a dashboard warning light flashes in front of the steering wheel. The bright red caution sign blinks a coffee cup with the words “Caution Tired Driver: Seek Rest Now.” Gee, thanks for the advice. Tell me something I don’t know. Though I pride myself as someone who is moderately environmentally mindful, I find that my passenger seat has begun to look like the museum of forgotten coffee cups, and I the curator. At one point on this trip, I walked into a gas station and all the coffee cups bowed to me, they’re king. At least that’s what’s happened in my imagination. It is a 33-hour drive. I may be delirious.

Somewhere in Oklahoma a building on my left declares in spray painted scrawls, “Joan Jett for President.” If that’s not an American political decision, I don’t know what is. I’ve seen political statements of all kinds so far. But this is by far the most interesting. I’m floored at how vocal we are as a nation. We want everybody to know where we stand—who we support. In fields, there lie huge bails of hay spray painted with the names of candidates. Guys in hats. Trucks with affiliated flags. Subarus with 30 or 40 bumper stickers. Americans are passionate people who feel strongly for their Nation. They love it here, as they should. Back in Texas, we made it to Rudy’s Barbeque for a burnt-ends sandwich (delicious, go there). Above us hung an enormous American flag. Not long ago, I was struck with the thought that I don’t really care if America is great. All I want is an America that is good. I do not love America for its politics or politicians. I do not love America for its ethics or morality, for those things waver and faulter. I love America for the Americans—the people. I love America for the Land. I love America for the heart and soul of loving our neighbors. This Land is my Land, this Land is your Land, as the old song says. And if we get Joan Jett for President, so be it.

anthony forrest

Start at the beginning of the road trip: 

Part 1

Part 2

Great American Road Trip, Part 2

March 11, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 95

A 33-hour road trip across the country begs for more than just music. I perused the options on my phone for an audiobook. Lo and behold, the entire volume of The Chronicles of Narnia runs in approximate 33 hours. Jackpot. I’ll listen to that. But each time I hit pause on the audiobook, all I can think of is the radio jockey back in California announcing the next song and a chorus of cheesy singers blurting out:

Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees hits!

It will haunt me the entire trip.

It seems to take us longer to go through California than we had expected. In fact, we stayed the night in the thriving metropolis of Barstow, CA. We breathed a sigh of relief when we crossed the border. Gas prices dropped. The speed limit rose. Restaurant signs exclaimed their dining rooms open.

Though Arizona has much to offer, not much of it can be experienced while driving 80 mph on interstate 40. Up ahead a sign advertises a bear sanctuary called Bearizona. On my left a freight train moves in a cliched manner across a piney ridge. An RV pulls a 30-year-old Geotracker. I take a sip of my Coke zero. 23 hours to go.

And a green sign along the highway appeared to look at me in a sad fashion while I read on its face, “378 mi to Albuquerque.”

We would absolutely love to simply drive and drive, without stopping. But I drink too much coffee, and dad drinks too much Diet Coke. Besides, this trip would kill us if we didn’t stop. We seem to stop often. And then there’s the dogs. They have to walk around and drink too. The two little rascals sit in the front seat of my dad’s vehicle panting and sleeping and panting and sleeping. I can smell the dog breath a quarter mile behind him, in another car.

Somewhere in New Mexico we pull off at some exit looking for a gas station. The distance between locales with any kind of civilization keeps growing longer. We park the cars in front of the pumps and walk up to the door. It’s a dive. A sign on the door announces that the restrooms are only for paying customers and that they have to haul their water 50-miles to get it to this gas station. Of course, none of that matters. They’re closed anyway. Why would they be opened at 7:30 a.m. on a Wednesday literally right next to the interstate? No matter, I walk behind the dilapidated building and pee on a rusted over shipping container that must have been some kind of nightmarish lawn ornament for the broken-down RV sitting next to it. We drive on.

We’re desperately trying to drive the full distance in 3 days and 2 nights, really we are. But honestly, we will probably shamefully add another night. I have nothing to prove.

The sun disappeared behind us and the desert blackened almost instantly. The lack of life out here shocks me, but not for long. The road drops down into a lower plane and Albuquerque lights look like an ocean filled with orange dots.

anthony forrest 

 

Start at the beginning of the road trip:

Part 1

Great American Road Trip, Part 1

March 4, 2021 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 94

“We’re moving,” my dad said, “Heading to Tennessee.”

 

They had been wanting to get out of California for quite some time. And now seemed about as good a time as any.

 

I’m on the phone with him.

 

“That’s great!”

 

Honestly, I’d been expecting it and wanting to see them closer to us in the Midwest.

 

“When are you leaving?”

 

He answered that he had to be at his next place of work in about 2 weeks. My eyes got very big. I had already promised to help them move and drive their two cars across the country. California to Tennessee. With some finagling, I’d be able to get some extra time off work and fly to Sacramento in a couple of weeks.

 

Cut to two weeks later.

 

I stand at the garage sipping coffee, and looking outside. From the nearby radio speakers, a song by Tears for Fears declares that, “everybody wants to rule the world.” While I ponder the possibility of this declaration’s truthfulness, the song fades away and the station announces, “Continuous ’80s hits!”

 

But the cheese-ball, sing-song radio station group sings the words and pronounces each syllable forcefully.

 

It sounds more like, “Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees HITS!”

 

The sun warms me.

 

California is indeed beautiful. And though it’s winter time here too, you never have to shovel sunshine. California’s natural beauty is it’s best and most valuable resource. Mountains, deserts, ocean, and forests—California has it all. There should really be no reason for people to move out of California. But alas, there are many reasons, and most of them apolitical, though politics may be one of the catalysts for moving to a different state.

 

The cost of living is skyrocketing, taxes are outrageous, and the increasing homelessness verges on the post-apocalyptic. And don’t even think about the crime-rate. Now, people are leaving in droves.

 

As I stand sipping my coffee, I turn my head to see an enormous armored SWAT vehicle slowly (with haunting silence) coast by the house. Three SUV squad vehicles follow closely behind. And in the middle is a black van with six heavily armed officers hanging out of the sliding doors. They stop at a house a couple of blocks away and bust a huge illegal marijuana grow.

 

This is a normal thing. This happens all the time. My folks are looking forward to the change in venue.

 

So, we finish with the packing. And when the moving crew cleans out the boxes and beds, et cetera, we pack our own vehicles and begin the road trip. But before we leave, the truck driver gazes seriously into our eyes and tells us that we must stop for lunch at Rudy’s Barbeque in Amarillo, TX. My dad and I agree to these terms.

 

We left before noon. Still plenty of drivable day.

 

Ah, the great American road trip. It has been birthed out of the American culture, growing mainly from the post-world war II era. The glories of an excellent economy, reasonably priced vehicles, and an excellent highway system developed the tradition of the American road trip back in the ’50s. And starting in 1956, construction began on the interstate system. Most families had at least one car. The economy flourished. Families took to the road in search of the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, cheap camping, and Wall Drug.

 

Such nostalgia like the famed route 66 and cheesy roadside tourist traps help to make Americana what it is today.

 

But our road trip more closely resembles a scene from The Cannonball Run than a leisurely road trip.

 

anthony forrest

Roary Stories: Tales of the Travelosuar, part 3

February 11, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 93

That's amazing!

Many years ago, my wife and I traveled to both The Netherlands and Israel separated by only one month. I have written about both trips before. But I left out one major detail regarding a certain toy dinosaur. In fact, Roary’s traveled to roughly the same places that we’ve traveled. He doesn’t always make it out of the pocket in which he rides, but he’s there nonetheless.

Our first trip to The Netherlands took us to Haarlem, adjacent to the city of Amsterdam. Our main objective was to see the Corrie Ten Boom museum. So prior to flying in, I emailed the museum inquiring about a tour, specifically an English tour. My Dutch language abilities are nonexistent. We had it all set up and ready to go. Our trip to Haarlem opened our eyes and enlightened us. I can’t speak for Roary, but I imagine that he was also enlightened. But he’s made of rubber, so who knows?

Almost exactly one month later, Roary traveled to Israel with us. We hesitate to drag Roary out on all of our adventures. To be honest with you, the logistics of bringing a toy dinosaur to museums, UNESCO heritage sites, and religious locales, borders on the absurd. Everywhere I go, it’s in the back of my mind: where can I take a picture of this crazy little dino? And then, when I have mustered the courage and bottled up my embarrassment, I reach into my bag and brandish the one and only Roary.

Heads turn. Giggles begin. I can feel the eyes looking at me or looking away. When somebody does something odd, it can be hard to put your finger on it. As a paramedic, I often see behavior that disarms other people. When people do things that don’t fit inside our mental frame or expectation, it registers as, well, odd.

So when I placed Roary on a rock ledge with the Dome of the Rock of Jerusalem in the background, I imagined that the lookers-on would scoff and jeer. But alas, no.

Our friends who lived in Jerusalem at the time took us to this location specifically to find a pose for Roary. They were getting into it. The overlook on which we stood overwhelmed us. Possibly the most important city on the planet lay before us. Parts of the Old City could be seen from here. We had already stood at the Western Wall. I’d seen bullet holes in the stone from the Six-Day war in 1967. And now we stood with the Dome in the background, the sun setting before us.

And there sat Roary, in all his regal majesty. We snapped our photos. We all laughed. And out of nowhere I heard a Dutch-tinted English voice.

“That’s amazing!”

I turned to see another traveler gawking at our escapades.

I smiled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That’s amazing!”

Confused as ever, I just smiled again and said something stupid, like, “Oh yeah,” or, “thanks.” I can’t remember. The only thing stranger than me taking a picture of my toy dinosaur by the Dome of the Rock, was this older Dutch guy standing by as a curious observer.

He called his wife over. And now she began watching.

“That’s amazing,” she repeated in the same flabbergasted style.

As I neared the point of calling the Israeli loony bin, the gentleman strolled over to me and asked me a very unexpected question.

“May I borrow?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“My camera?” I asked. What else could he mean?

“No, no—the dinosaur!”

I slowly handed Roary over the clearly wacko Dutch guy. He reached out and grabbed him. He then hurried over to the same ledge Roary had just finished his photo shoot. He propped Roary up, jut like we had done before, and began taking his picture.

I have since that moment felt less and less embarrassed with taking pictures of Roary. People get it. It’s fun. It’s funny. And it’s something we can enjoy everywhere we go. When people look and laugh, they are most likely laughing because it’s hilarious, no because it’s embarrassing.

But this story isn’t over.

As we spoke with our new friends, they told us how they hailed from the city of Haarlem in The Netherlands. We said that we had just returned from there and excitedly told them of our trip to a lovely little museum in that very city. To top it all off, the wife exclaimed that she currently works at and curates that exact museum. In fact, I had probably been emailing with her regarding an English-speaking tour, not one month ago. She conducts the Dutch tours.

Laughs and smiles were shared all around. And I can only say that I am thankful for the little dinosaur that helps us grow closer to people around the world. He even helps to unite strangers in the most unique ways.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Part 2: How it began

Roary Story: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 2

January 28, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 92

How it began

Traveling the world accompanied by a toy dinosaur draws attention. And I am not one for drawing unneeded attention. And to top it off, I imagine most people don’t think to themselves, “there must be an excellent reason why this full-grown man is playing with a toy dinosaur by the Liberty Bell.”

I assure you, lookers-on, there is a reason. Good or not, you be the judge.

Once upon a time, in the wild west of Cody, Wyoming, there lived a small boy with a love of dinosaurs. This is a ridiculous statement, since all small boys love dinosaurs. One Christmas or birthday or Easter (some such gifty-day), the small boy received a plastic mesh bag filled with delightful plastic dinosaurs. There were triceratopses and brachiosaurs and tyrannosaurs and all-kinds-of-saurs.

The boy loved playing with his dinosaurs. Until one day, the boy returned home from church with his family and found that the dinosaurs had been brutally deformed and mutilated.

The dinosaurs lay scattered across the living room floor. My seven-year-old mind struggled to grasp such a horrifying mass grave of plastic dinos. It did not take a criminal autopsy to discover that the family dog, Bogie, would now be labeled a plastic dinosaur serial killer. None went unmaimed. Each bore the wounds of missing faces, lopped tails, and amputated legs. How can this poor boy play with these terrifying toys that once gave him so much joy? In the words of the immortal Joseph Conrad in his novel Heart of Darkness, “The horror!”

As you can imagine, I was indeed horrified. But that was ages ago. And I promise, my mental and behavioral health has not overly suffered from loss of dinosaurs. And I have since forgiven and granted clemency and full pardon to the schnauzer known as Bogie.

As you can very well imagine, I remind my family of this story often. I joke with them that such trauma scarred me for life. It’s all in jest.

Twenty years later, we all met at a hotel in Fargo, ND. It was one of those rare times when we all get together. With family spread all over the US, seeing everybody at once borders on the impossible.

“This is for you,” my parents said, handing me a small gift. I tore the wrapping paper wildly. To my delight, they had given me a small rubber and plastic dinosaur—a T-rex. And we all had a great laugh about how now I couldn’t tell the story of having my childhood ruined by dino-destructive trauma. (I still bring it up. No one can stop me!)

The next morning, I awoke with craftiness and hilarity in my heart. I proceeded to take pictures of the little T-rex in all sorts of comical positions performing impossible actions, such as brushing his teeth and sitting in the hotel hot tub. I began texting these pictures to the family at around 6 a.m.

Each text said one thing: roar. Thus, Roary was born. And thus he came into our lives. He now travels all over the world, seeking adventure and mischief. He has been in some fun pictures and has given us a great amount of joy. We enjoy the reactions we get from on-lookers. And we enjoy the objective of taking a picture with Roary in remarkable locations.

“What have we started,” my family bemoaned, all those years ago in Fargo.

But it started long ago, in a living room far, far away—with a little boy, distraught over losing his plastic toys.

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Roary Story: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 1

January 21, 2021 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 91

Seattle Bus Ride

I hear it all the time:

“It rains constantly in Seattle.”

But each time I go there, the sun shines. Apparently, they get something over 150 days of rain a year. But is that all day? Or just part of the day. I don’t know.  Sure, the city lies on the coast in a very temperate zone. It’s almost like a North American version of Barcelona, Spain, just not as hot. But though they tons of rain, it’s worth a visit. And all political and social strife you might see on the news can’t change the fact that this is coffee Mecca, and that the Pike Place Market has outrageous fish and chips.

But I wasn’t there for the food, coffee, meteorology, or sociopolitical lesson. I simply missed my flight. But a missed flight is nothing to complain about when it gets you a 24-hour stopover in a place like Seattle.

So here I was, sitting on a bus near the Space Needle. At that moment I turned and looked down to my backpack. Something seemed amiss. The side pocket looked baren. And in fact, it was. Suddenly a cold sweat developed and I began frantically looking around my seat and on the floor.

Where was he?!

Panicked, I say out loud, “Roary?”

The person sitting next to me cast me a concerned and embarrassed look. But I don’t pay him any attention.

And at this point, you may need an explanation. For the past several years, I have carried a small, rubber and plastic dinosaur—a t-rex to be exact.

His name is Roary—you know, because he’s a dinosaur and he, well, roars.

He rides in the side pocket of my backpack and I take him out at various locales around the world for less-than-ordinary photo opportunities. And it has gotten me concerned looks from concerned citizens on multiple occasions. While I have never declared or claimed even a modicum of mental stability, I promise, it’s harmless.

At least, that’s what I thought until I looked around my seat on a Seattle bus and couldn’t find Roary anywhere. Perhaps this attachment isn’t healthy after all. I tell myself that I will have time to get a psych evaluation later, I have to find my green little friend! I fear that I left him at a coffee shop. Travel would not be the same without him.

Roary has traveled far and wide. He has been to five continents, almost 20 countries, and every State in the Union. And I’ve apparently betrayed him, forgetting him on a dirty table in a dirty coffee shop while I sipped a latte. How could I?

I was actually nearing the shedding of tears when I grabbed my backpack. I stepped off the bus and slung the bag over my shoulder. Just then I happened to see what I had missed.

I have two side pockets in my backpack; one on the left and the other on the right. I usually let Roary ride around in the left pocket. But today, I must have put him in the right pocket.

“Roary!” I cried out loud (with people all around me).

“There you are! I’ve been worried sick.”

Reunited, I promised to take better care of him. And I don’t think there were too many hard feelings. At least, he’s never said anything about it.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Of Strong Hands and Reservations

December 31, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Once a month I will post a favorite story from the year prior

Travel Journal, 90

Would you like to hear a confession?

I had never had a massage. I’ve heard tell of two-hour-long massages. A complete stranger touching a rubbing my body in a calculated and meticulous way just hasn’t ever attracted me. And then when they’re done…you pay them. Paying for a massage seems a little, shall we say, illegally scandalous?

But this story is not about preconceptions. It’s about stepping into and through the looking glass, breaking down barriers. It’s about trying strange dishes and going strange places.

It’s about strong hands.

I walked into the house and found my dear friends from college (eons ago) speaking with their language tutor. As they chatted, I disappeared to shower away the travel-blues and airplane funk. Even more than sleep, I find that a cup of coffee and a hot shower cures most ailments and alleviates most travel woes. But if I was asked to nail down one negative aspect of travel, I would immediately reply with, “back pain.” Sitting knees-to-chest on a plane and sleeping in all manners of positions wreaks havoc on my body. And though the hot shower helped, it had been nearly 8,500 miles of airplane travel to get here.

After cleaning up, I joined in on the English side of the conversation.

“You okay?” I was asked, upon sitting. I must have winced.

“Oh yeah,” I lied.

“Are you sure?” My poker face could use some work.

“I’ll be alright,” I confessed, “my back just gets sore when I travel.”

Translations ensued and bilingual discussion commenced. It was decided (for me?) that I should get a massage. But I have never had a massage, said I.

No matter, said they. I needed a massage—but not just any massage.

No.

The only hands with power enough to lift the dark discomfort from my body were the hands of the great Pak Omar. Who, you might ask?

“His hands are like magic,” said the local language teacher. But finding him could be difficult. And for the next several days, we tried getting in contact with him, to no avail.

I was not sure if he even existed—this magical remover of back pain. Was he a legend? A name whispered in the wind? Was he a story fathers with aching backs believed in, like a pain soothing Santa Clause?

But finally, one day, we received news of his whereabouts and an appointment was set.

We pulled up to the small home to find Pak Omar waiting for us. We removed our shoes and he led us into the house. A couple of wooden benches lined the wall and two children watch a television on the floor. Omar disappeared and reappeared wearing what looked like a nicer, new shirt. I took his hand and noticed the sheer strength in this elderly Malaysian man (who, by the way, is greatly respected in his community).  My friend communicated my back-pain. He led me into a small room with a little wooden table, a pillow on one end.

Face-down, I laid on the cold wood and Pak Omar went to work. With those powerful hands he poked and prodded and whittled away the knots. Sometimes it felt like a waterfall of relief. And sometimes it felt like he was running me over with a large truck. But after twenty minutes, I knew I was a different man. Not only did I find relief from my back pain, but I now understood massage. But then he sat me up and looked at my shoulders.

With grunting, we tried communicating. He told me to turn my head from side to side. I did. Then I told me to reach and touch my toes. I did that, too. But he was not pleased with my performance.

Soon he put me on the floor. And before I knew what was going on, he sat behind me, wrapped his legs around and under mine and used an English word that frightened me.

“Relax” 

And with little notice, he started cracking my back and shoulder like twigs and branches. I stood up in a daze and Pak Omar went to work on my shoulders and neck.

I must have gotten the premier package, thought I.

But when all was done, I felt like a little Lego man who had been disassembled and then put back together. And boy did I feel great.

We shared a cup of tea and, without any language skills, talked about nothing. We just smiled and grunted back and forth.

Both my friend and I got massages that day. And it cost us 12 US dollars, for both of us. If I lived there, in the beauty and wonder of Malaysia, Pak Omar would have a steady client in this weary traveler.

 

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Seamless

December 3, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Every month I post a favorite story from the year prior.

From Travel Journal, 41

Both my wife and I grew up in small towns, I in the west and she in the north. We both remember dirt roads, corner stores, small communities, smaller buildings, and limited diversity. Though we live in a small town now, our lives are heavily peppered with city influences.

Traveling to cities over the years has grown on us, taught us. And though each may have their similarities, each city is different.

Our faces hit the sunlight as we climbed up and out of the hole in the ground. With subway stations every quarter mile or so, getting around is easy. All around us rose sky-scraping towers. And the streets were paved with the purest of golds—street food. At first blush, it looks like any other city, until, right in the middle of it all, a clearing in the concrete jungle reveals the Kabuki-za Theater.

No, this is not New York, Chicago, London, or Paris.

This is Tokyo.

Some cities claim to mix old and new. But no place achieves such a pure blend as Tokyo. To your left: Yodobashi Camera, selling technology that most Americans won’t see for years. To your right: a Shinto shrine that is older than most sovereign nations.

And the blend is seamless.

From the subway station we step onto the famous Ginza and up to the old theater. We wait in line to buy our tickets, just for one act. Our attention spans are far too short for five hours of theater. Nearly a hundred of us filed into the doors and up the elevator, onto the fourth-floor mezzanine of the theater.

A curtain hangs below. It depicts Mount Fuji—the Rising Sun in the background. The play begins; the curtain is drawn. The actors below dance and portray an ancient story from the olden-time, the time of the Samurai. Their movements are lavishly exaggerated. And the milky-white face paint can be seen easily from my seat in the balcony. Drums beat. Three-stringed tones of the shamisen call. The audience shouts strange encouragements to their entertainers on the stage.

Yet not too far away, on the busy street below, taxis take businessmen to airports. Women walk into Louis Vuitton Stores. And sitters in booths try to convince passersby to change their cell phone plan.

Seamless and new.

Timeless and old.

This is Tokyo.

 

anthony forrest

Americana Series, Part 5: America the Thankful

November 26, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 87

Several years ago, the college I was attending required that I spend 10 days in Boston for further education. After the long days of vigorous training, my wife flew out and tacked on a week-long, much-needed vacation.

Our goal?

See New England and especially the historical bits.

And what better place to start than Plymouth, Massachusetts? We found a nice little hotel nestled along the coast and began our journey through time. Though we absolutely adore places like Boston, the Cape, and all of Maine, the highlight of our trip had to be our time in historic Plymouth.

In my quest to find the goodness of America, should I not go back to the beginning? One of the most interesting and inspiring American pilgrimages that any American can take is the journey to Plymouth Plantation. In 1620, our ancestors which we now call pilgrims made their long voyage from the Old World to the New. Relics of that time still exist in a few locales.

We gazed down at the legendary Plymouth Rock, on which the pilgrims were thought to have first stepped. A recreation the Mayflower floats in the harbor. Pay the right price and you too can experience the wide, open ocean. Bust most of all, the original colony location, discovered long ago, is now the home of a unique “living history” museum. The colony buildings, fences, yards, and various structures have been rebuilt in near-perfect accuracy. Museum professionals and historians, as well as college students, dress up in period clothing and perform day-to-day living right in front of your eyes.

The story of the first Thanksgiving is beauty, tragedy, truth, and legend—all rolled into one amalgamation which we now celebrate each year. Records and writings of people like William Bradford, Governor of the colony, tell of setting aside several days of feasting to give thanks to God. On one such time of feasting, a group of Wampanoag natives showed up unannounced and spent a week sealing a treaty of peace between the two groups. Although, that peace would not last, it was certainly a time to be thankful. It is generally known that the Native Americans taught the pilgrims many life-saving skills. The colonists had been through terrible loss, burying nearly half of their own in the prior winter. And yet, they found a way to be thankful.

A rising tide of history denying, rewriting, and condemning has begun to rear its ugly head. Some groups of people don’t want to be associated with the ugly bits of American history. I certainly can’t condone bad behavior. But what has occurred in the past is done.

The history of our ancestors is not perfect. Slavery happened. Killing of Native people occurred. Death was everywhere. But to dig out the foundation is to rebuild upon the mud.

With all of the focus on the ugly history of America, it can be easy to forget that there was indeed a group of people who fled to this land seeking freedom. It’s easy to forget that they suffered beyond modern understanding. Their thanksgiving was not just a simple one-day meal and maybe some shopping later.

Their Thanksgiving was part of their life. They did not just decide to start giving thanks. They had to live it often. Because without gratitude, their living would seem hopeless and all the loss meaningless.

So now as modern-day Americans, we meet together to give thanks. And though a few other countries celebrate a day of thanksgiving, none compares to Thanksgiving in America. For we are a nation built on struggles and pain.

And yet we give thanks.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2: America the Broken

Part 3: America the Healing

Part 4: America the Classic

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