Travel When You're Young
What the hell is youth anyway?
Recently, I was offered a petite audience for storytelling1 and it resurfaced some memories of the travel I did as a younger man. The opportunities that came with the time and place, the stories that arose from the decisions I made, and how it all holds up against my aging perspective. Would I do the same shit again or has wisdom polluted my willingness to risk it?
Some examples of the reckless things I did while traveling:
Accepting random drugs and alcohol
Staying at someone’s place after having met them that day
Wandering into less-populated areas without much education or understanding of where I’m going
My stories, as well as my self, are aging swimmingly.
For my risks I have an unlimited arsenal of tellings.
Here’s one…
My (younger) sister, a female friend of ours, and I decided to go to South America together. We found ridiculously cheap tickets to Quito, Ecuador, booked them, and didn’t worry about when we’d be heading back to the United States. We traveled through Ecuador like every other group of friends: buses, hostels, and recommendations.
After spending some time in the tranquilo Andes Mountains we decided to go to the city of Guayaquil for its dense population. At that time I was using an app called Couchsurfing to meet people during my travels and I had found a guy in Guayaquil who wanted to hang out2.
I confirmed a time and place to hang out (Iguana Park3, aka Parque Seminario, at 1400) and he tells me he’ll be coming in by train. The three of us go to the train stop and wait for about 45 minutes before we decide homie isn’t coming. Not the first time I’ve been ghosted. As we sit near the train stop my sister and friend receive complement after complement of “muy guapa,” “bonita”, and the like, really setting the tone for South American men’s appreciation for heavily tattooed white women. I get it, beauty in the unfamiliar.
We walk back to Iguana Park to discuss what’s next and who should I receive a message from but our elusive buddy who just got to the train stop near us. We meet near the church and he profusely apologizes for being late — he missed the train by seconds and the conductor ignored his maniacally waving arms. That’s a universal isn’t it?? The conductor or bus driver, peering into you via the sideview mirror, watches you wave and yell and beg until you degenerate into your primitive self and then the mirror shows the silent mouthing of such offerings as “fuck you, motherfucker” or “hijo de puta.” Public transport drivers must get off to this.
Our newest friend takes us on a small tour of downtown to the boardwalk along the river4 and ends the tour at his favorite restaurant. As we finish our meals he asks where we’re staying this evening and we tell him that we just find a hostel wherever we are and go from there. He offers us his place to stay the night.
I can count on one hand the number of times I have refused someone’s kindness in offering me a place to sleep5, and since no one in the group felt weird about it, we happily accepted.
He tells us we should get a cab because it’ll be cheaper than four train tickets. Makes total sense, let’s go. We get into a cab and start driving away from downtown. As we leave the grandeur and sparkle of downtown it slowly becomes apparent that we’re not headed to what Americans like to call a “good neighborhood,” but once the ride begins…
The cab stops at the corner of a large, main street with loads of people populating it. It’s as if a festival is happening but without the food stands and games. We’re following our host into the collection of people and the crowd parts like the Red Sea for three gringos. It actually felt like The Blob — an opening forms, sort of like a mouth, we walk in, and the opening begins to close behind us. This actually happened. Imagine 150 people standing in the middle of the street and then once you get there with your sister and friend they create a space for you RIGHT IN THE CENTER.
Standing in the swirling center, we start talking with a guy who speaks really good English. I mean you would think this guy lived in the US for some time, and, in fact, he did. He had recently left NYC because of some accusation against him regarding his gang activity, money, and some sort of rivalry or dispute. The math is pretty simple on that one, but it didn’t take away from the fact that he was welcoming and wondered about us. He, too, possessed an affinity for tattooed, attractive women.
We get chummy with a few folks, hear the word gringo tossed around like a tortilla, and receive invite after invite letting us know there’s a party tonight. Our host really likes that I roll my own cigarettes and asks if I would roll one for his aunt, so naturally I take my tobacco out but he stops me and says, “no, to her.” We walk over to her apartment and he hollers for her from the street. She comes out wondering what she’s looking at and watches me roll and hand her a cigarette. After we leave he tells me that his aunt has never seen a white man except for on television6.
Then the party hits.
It’s essentially a block party that swells into random alleyways and pours onto the main streets. People everywhere. Random drinks passing from hand to hand. Smoke rising. It’s a rager.
My sister appears to be comfortable throughout these experiences, but our friend can’t seem to get comfortable. She stiffly dances around and seems very guarded. Even our host notices and asks me if everything is ok. I gave him the best answer I could: muy loco.
It truly was crazy. I had never been eaten by a crowd except for a mosh pit, and the vulnerability you feel in a mosh pit does not compare to a crowd of strangers turning their attention to you. I was used to traveling alone, so when something like this arose during my solo travels it was me dealing with it directly, by myself. If something happens then it only happens to me. This time around I had two other humans to consider, one of which is my sister. Many thoughts swirled and twirled in my mind, but none of them led me to believe there was any sort of danger.
The party continues, I drink random drinks and dance with random people, and, finally, the cops show up.
What that typically means to me is that the party is shutdown by the police and everyone leaves. Not at all the case. The music gets turned down and the cops kind of tell everyone to get out of the street, then the officers stand next to their vehicle and wait. No one leaves the alleyways or the sidewalks or wherever else this party poured over into, but every time someone tries to turn the music up the cops immediately bark orders to turn it down. They stand there and admire the beautiful, sweaty collection, chuckling to one another. I asked our host what the story was and he told me they’re waiting for a bribe. I asked him how much it would take for these dudes to fuck off and he said something like $50. You better believe I thought about saving this party, the glory of paying off these party-poopers and returning to the rager was oh-so tempting, but at this point I thought it better not to draw more attention to the three gringos swimming in a pool of Ecuadorians.
No bribe meant no party.
No party meant the wild ride was over for the day.
As I consider this experience I wonder if there is a best age to travel, or if there is an intellectual or emotional space travelers inhabit that is only unlocked with youth and excitement and newness. If things go a certain way because of how young or old you are.
No way.
Traveling is just one of infinite ways to get somewhere, to become someone. Traveling doesn’t give you immunity from being a douche bag, nor does it make you an interesting person. It’s just another tiny piece of navigation in the search for what is you.
Had we kindly refused our new friend/this stranger’s invite to stay at his place we still would have had a memorable time in Guayaquil, no doubt, but none of us would have experienced the power of parting a crowd of people only to watch the opening close behind you. Something my sister and I bring up sporadically, albeit consistently.
My carefree, accepting attitude is part of who I am and traveling has allowed me to develop that muscle in a certain kind of way. Without travel it would have developed as well, but differently, and that would have had a story all its own. Or maybe my life without travel would have amounted to intense, crippling agoraphobia. Those secrets are safe in another dimension.
The charm of travel is that you’re taken out of all the things you know as safe and placed into a world altogether not yours. Traveling challenges what you think about the world surrounding you, but its greatest power comes in challenging what you think you know about your self.
However, you won’t know until you do it yourself. And that is always the greatest hurdle to overcome… you have to do it. From there, the story writes itself.
As for when to travel and where you should go, that’s an easy one —
Whenever, wherever.
Whilst traveling. More specifically, long periods of driving myself and my partner.
Mind you, I do not speak Spanish well. And this Couchsurfing friend, he does not speak English well. This is going to be awesome.
Also worth noting, Guayaquil is the largest city in Ecuador.
Also also worth noting, my ice-breaking experience with Couchsurfing in South America was a dude telling me we should hang out and punctuating each of his messages to me with “bello.” Do I enjoy it when someone thinks I’m pretty? Of course. But when the interaction has only begun and it’s via an app, well, I’ll have some different reservations.
Literally, the park is known for its population of iguanas. You can feed them and most of the iguanas couldn’t care less if you pet them.
Called the Malecon 2000 for whatever reason, which reminds me of Cherry 2000, Melanie Griffith’s greatest role.
One of these times of refusal was in Jackson, Michigan at a house show. The folks that lived in this place were great, very welcoming and entertaining (one of the guys could hammer a 3” nail into his sinus), but their living space pushed my limit on where I can sleep comfortably. I imagine a lot of today’s folks would wear a mask for the duration of their stay there.
In all fairness I’m not THAT white. I was born in Poland but have some Greek in the family lineage so after a little sun I get a bit olive in color, although that doesn’t change my Prussian facial features.