Travel and Verse

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Travel Journal, 34

October 17, 2019 / / 0 Comments
Train to Munich Airport

Can You Picture It?

A member of Minnesota royalty sang a very popular song in the 80s. The first line asks you to imagine a scenario. So, I’ll ask your permission to imagine something with me. If you, the reader, weren’t reading this, I would ask you to close your eyes. But in the meantime:

 “Dig, if you will, a picture…”

People begin to filter into the gate area. It’s an hour before the flight, and passengers are getting comfortable. A voice from overhead squawks instruction that I won’t be following since I don’t understand German at all. I settle in and begin with my routine people-watching. Throughout the world, and in every airport, it’s all the same. Travelers are pretty hard up to find anything uncommon in any airport, whether your flying out of Germany or Jakarta.

Small families wrangle upset children and fend them off with juice and stern looks. Couples snuggle and glance at boarding passes. Business men wander around talking to themselves or other (invisible) business men. The flight crew walks down the hall and up to the gate area. The pilot laughs with attendants and drops his leather jacket. And nearby, an abandoned passenger sleeps on the floor awaiting an unknown departure time.

Suddenly, an extraordinarily frail and presumably old woman shuffles into sight. She carries one small bag. She is a nun in a light blue habit. I’ve never seen such a quaint sight. And I’ve never seen a German nun in an airport. I turn away for a moment, but then am nudged by my wife.

“Look at that,” she whispers.

I look and see the nun reaching into her bag.

Can you picture it? An old German nun in an airport? What does she retrieve from her bag?

The Bible.

A rosary.

Her knitting.

A book.

Or, perhaps a handkerchief.

The uncommon is just that, uncommon. And rarely does anything actually surprise me about commercial airline travel. But it definitely made us chuckle when the old, frail nun reached into her bag and retrieved a bottle of beer. She cracked it and shakily lifted it to her lips.

I don’t think there could have been anything more uncommon for us to see that day than a frail, old nun enjoying a bottle of beer before a flight.

anthony forrest

Quality Time

October 14, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Surely, I would empty my purse for one more Morning like this! A sunrise with my Lord heals the soul in distress.

 

Again to sit on this porch my Father beside- I would muse, I would think, but mostly pray: “You are my loving Father, Lord and Friend- and I know you are here to stay”

 

Yet I know that this moment may only last a short while. So, “enjoy it I must”, to myself I demand. So together we sit, my Father and I cup of coffee in hand.

 

anthony forrest 

Travel Journal, 33

October 10, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Foreign Bathroom Series, Chapter 5: Dutch Hostel

Names have been modified to protect the innocent (also, embarrassed).

 

The restroom situation at a hostel is always a gamble. One friend of mine told me of a trip to Singapore involving a hostel with a mixed gender toilet and shower room. He was mortified. Then again, other countries and places offer great privacy and comfort. Think of it as toilet roulette.

I was traveling with a dear friend. Let’s call him JJ. We met up at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam to do a rapid-fire, two-day, whirlwind, nonstop, café to café, coffee tour of the area. In under 18 hours, we drank cappuccino after cappuccino in western Europe, covering 45 miles of the Netherlands. Our coffee excursion included the best cafes in the Netherlands, culminating in our seventh coffee bar in the hip college town of Utrecht. We drank and talked for hours, bouncing from hip spot to cobblestone street and onto the next slinger of the black juice of life. Until finally, our hearts could no longer handle anymore caffeine and our bladders howled with the strain of frequent emptying.

We had decided on a hostel for the night. And after some clumsy navigational errors, we stepped into a tight townhome with a classic youth hostel vibe. Guitars hung on the walls, collegiate hipsters lounged with oversized headphones, and the whole placed smelled of marijuana. We arranged to stay the night in one of the many bunk beds on the top floor. We climbed and climbed. With six (!) sets of spiral stairs now underneath us, I poked around and found our room. It was a sprawling empty area with no less than twenty bunks. Each bunk was the classic metal-frame bed with thin plastic mattresses, half of them permanently stained. It would have to do—although JJ was on the fence. With no bag lockers, we would have to take our bags with us to dinner—unless we wanted to graciously donate our belongings to a patchouli-smelling backpacker.

On our way out, we saw the bathroom. It was a single door labeled toilets and showers. Setting his bag on the floor, JJ said, “I’m just going to use the restroom quick.”

He pushed the door open.

“Oh,” he balked with a start, “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay! No worries,” said a clearly female voice from within the bathroom.

JJ closed the door, turned his beet-red face to me and said, “there’s a girl in there. And she’s not dressed.”

Group restroom. Group toilets. Group shower. Zero privacy. This is not uncommon in Europe.

That was the proverbial straw on the proverbial camel’s back. We collected a refund on our night and took the train back to Amsterdam. Hotels have nicer bathrooms anyway.

anthony forrest

Autumn Home

October 7, 2019 / / 0 Comments

My foot fell hushed upon a wood-ward path

Through tilting trees

Losing leaves

In the same manner as every year past

 

Blushing pale, Aspen yellow

Also maple red

From overhead

Fall into place on the wooded ground below

 

“What an uncommon sight,” I whisper

To no one but me

Or perhaps to the tree

Readying herself for winter

 

Such a peculiar fabric sewn

On a patchwork arbor

Full of color

In my woodland autumn home

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 32

October 3, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Borders

My first memory crossing an international border eludes me. As I understand the tale, my mother and father carried my baby self aboard a plane and into Canada. They tell me that during the plane ride I became, shall we say, violently explosive. I apparently went through most of my clothing during that one trip. Since then, I have crossed international borders dozens of times. The experience continues to be adventurous. However, I am proud to say that I have not had a similar gastrointestinal event—not yet anyway.

Crossing an international border is almost a religious rite. Whenever I step onto foreign soil, I stop for a moment and mentally mark the event.

I am here.

I am no longer where I was.

Right now, my life is different.

For the traveling visitor, differences in culture, time, food, and simple daily life clearly reveal themselves. In some lands, stores don’t open until almost noon. Some places don’t eat dinner until 10:00 p.m. Some people talk constantly, others never so. One group prays five times a day like clockwork. Another group goes to mass every morning. Some gestures are rude. Other gestures seem rude to us, but not to the people around us.

My wife and I walked into the small, sunlit cement room. Two border guards accompanied us to the desk of their superior. We were crossing from Myanmar into Thailand. (Some minor issue occurred during the crossing, but was easily resolve with our visit to the border guard. But this story is not about the problems, it’s about cultural differences.) Our guard escort handed his boss our passports and he began perusing them. He sat at a low desk with a low chair. He suddenly looked up and made a muffled comment. I leaned in to try and understand him. I eventually squatted down on my haunches, to his level. Immediately, everybody in the room rushed to me and earnestly implored me to stand up. Everybody was saying no, no, no and shaking their heads. One of the guards hurriedly presented us with chairs. We eventually cleared up the issue and were on our way.

I found out later that squatting down in that manner was offensive and eluded to a certain, shall we say, toileting motion. I’ve squatted down so often that it’s mindless and second nature.

Around a campfire.

Looking at books on the lowest shelf.

Talking to a toddler.

Every difference is clear. But the cultural differences that I rarely ever pick up on are my own. It is easy to think that everyone else is different. But thinking that I may be the different one catches me off guard. But we all have differences. Simply recognizing those differences and respecting the culture is the first step to softening those borders. For in finding our differences, we better know our similarities.  

 

anthony forrest

On a Path at Night

September 30, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Walk on path at night

Flashlight glow

Nightlight tunnel of trees

Hanging low

 

Blue shines silver shadows

Dance in play (or perhaps)

Fight in battles

Of night things and ghouls

Ghost-y eyes like jewels

 

Flicker flashlight hand-torch

Scorch

The night awake

Scatter creatures and make them hide

From all light

And eyes

 

anthony forrest

 

Travel Journal, 31

September 26, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Foreign Bathroom Series

Chapter Four, The 20p Toilet

Ah, London. How we adore you.

Traveling to the UK is something that I’ve wanted to do for some time. With an easily walkable city, eclectic food scene, and free museums, London has something for everybody.

But the one major problem is the public restroom. It doesn’t exist. And if you find a restroom, you’ll probably have to pay to use it. After trudging around London for hours on end with no restroom is sight, we finally found a map of the city. On that map was a little dot marking the presence of a restroom in St James Park, across from Buckingham Palace (a big shout out to Her Majesty for putting the only public toilet in London in the middle of a 57-acre park). My wife and I nearly ran through the sunny park, over wooden bridge covered streams to get to the tiny brick building. Upon arrival, we parted ways to our respective sides only to discover that the machine guarding the door required 20 pence for entry (and consequent relief).

We began shoving unknown sterling coins into the machine to no avail. Dancing and shuffling, I looked down—wrong coin. The restroom attendant (yes, it had a restroom attendant) glared at us and begrudgingly helped us find the correct change. But honestly, I probably would have crammed a 50-pound note into the machine just to find a little solace for my stressed urinary system.

Though the future EU membership of the UK is uncertain. One thing remains concretely sure, toilet trials continue across the Channel.

Few things about Europe frustrate me. Let’s be honest, they simply have travel figured out. Public transportation is a breeze. You can get anywhere on the train, and cheaply. I can land in Amsterdam and be in another country within the hour. It helps that each country is smaller. But there is so much infrastructure and money available for public transportation that getting around is simply easy. Money is also pretty simple. Every country (almost) uses the Euro. No exchanges to worry about! And with the European Union, most countries do not require a border security or passport control stop. Open borders make country to country travel realistic, cheap, and accessible. So many positive reasons to visit Europe come to my mind.

But what about that darn potty?

In nearly the same scenario we searched and searched for a restroom in Paris. This time, we lucked out. There, on the Parisian sidewalk, stood a sort of pod. Now, I would call it a public restroom, but it was more akin to an enormous egg, or an oval dumpster, or maybe an escape pod from a spaceship. We stood at the door and tried to read the French instructions. We pressed the button and the door slid open like a time machine from the future. I entered. The floor was soaked. After my business had been accomplished, I departed the escape pod. The door quietly closed before my wife could enter. I blue light flashed and the words Le Lessive appeared. It was a self-cleaning toilet pod from the future.

As much as I love Europe and the UK, American public restroom availability is a luxury without which I don’t want to live!

anthony forrest

Common Grace

September 23, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Hear the leaves flicker and slap and toss

Cold September wind shakes the trees

Listen to the music of His Common Grace

Each sound turns every thought

 

Reaching, washing white-cap waves

Crash and splash inward then out

Water-washed pebbles click then clack

To the tunes of His Common Grace

 

Business unceasing of chipmunks and birds  

Rattle and scratch in winters prep

Chirping and chiming of creatures talk

Of Common Grace and the truth of God’s Words

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 30

September 19, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Earbuds Out, Smiles On

Entertainment screens on the back of airplane seats are not a recent advent. My first experience with in-flight TVs were drop-down screens playing one, perhaps two films during the flight. This luxury came only to those willing to fork out absurd amounts of money for the accompanying headset. Now, most major airlines in the US have loads of in-flight entertainment. One major airline boasts over 3000 titles from which to choose.

And yet, on every flight longer than three hours, I can look over at my wife’s screen and see that she is watching the same movie she always watches on long flights, The Sound of Music. And I’m not much better. On flights longer than 6 hours, I gravitate toward Dances with Wolves. With new movies released monthly and tons of other options, you’d think we would branch out. But alas, no.

I so easily become engrossed with my movie that it can be easy to forget the goings on and the everyday business of the flight operations: passengers filtering in, pre-flight announcements, those safety messages that keep getting trendier, and finally, the beverage and snack service. I’m usually deep into my movie by then and forget to press pause on the screen. I fumble with my headphones and struggle to get the tray table down. I look at the attendant and they look back. I ask for what I always ask for: black coffee. I repeat myself because nobody can hear anything. Then, with coffee in hand, I get back to Lieutenant John Dunbar and his heartwarming efforts to understand the Lakota culture.

But some people aren’t so fortunate and forget to stay awake for the service. Or maybe they’re not paying attention at all. I was three rows back from a gentleman who did just that. I watched with interest as the attendant tried to get his attention and take his order. He could not be pried from the screen. She moved onto the next row. And as soon as she reached it, the guy awoke from his stupor and flung his arm back to try and catch her. Consequently, he grazed her with a backhand. She turned and agitatedly took his order. I could hear the attendant complain loudly to her coworker.

“Why don’t they just pay attention? They know that we are coming!”

On and on she went. When the attendant got to me, I tried as hard as I could to smile and cheer her up. I asked how her day went and she told me in no uncertain terms that the guy three rows up had hit her. She was clearly not having a good day before that, but this was the nail in the coffin—and we still had 11 hours.

If there is one thing to remember about a flight, it’s that the attendants work hard and it does not feel good to be ignored. You never know what kind of day somebody is having.

I’ve made it a point since that incident to be ready for my attendants, earbuds out and smiles on.

anthony forrest

Stony Shore

September 16, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Feet falling

Muffled crunching

Wooded trail up ahead

 

Rain falling

Branch dripping

Tangled wood—mossy bed

 

Twig snapping

Water rushing

Down a stream-like footpath

 

Sweet smelling

Needle dropping

Sticky White Pine wood-sap

 

Trail turning

Hill climbing

Up then down a Sawtooth ridge

 

Sun shining

Lake reaching

Come, find that stony shore and sit

 

anthony forrest

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