Tooterboy and the traveling pants

The wedding was in October of 2010. The honeymoon was scheduled for May of 2011. Our logic for the delay was to wait for good weather and go before Paris was already weary of an “army of me”s butchering “bon zhor” and “ore vwah”. Winter came and went before we (I) were ready and there was a scramble to book the rooms and train tickets. Paris, Barcelona, Nice - in France and not as Nice as I was hoping, Cinque Terre - in Italy and way nicer than Nice, and finally Rome. Nicole and I booked apartments and B&Bs instead of the usual hotels through a website called AirBnB. To say that trusting the success of our trip on a website and a bunch of avatars was easy would be a lie. I was nervous. Alas, hotels were twice as much and hostels are where you stay if you want your kidneys fed to a Eastern-European gimp. Nicole seemed unfazed by the anonymity of the process, so I followed her lead and threw caution to ze wind.

We stocked up on quick-dry underwear and shirts. I found pants that wouldn’t show dirt too much and bought shoes that didn’t weigh more than the socks I would wear with them. Nicole wanted to take backpacks in lieu of suitcases. This confused my mom, who, on our return, asked to see photos of the places we slept, but was surprised when it was revealed we weren’t sleeping on park benches and under bridges. “I thought you were hiking everywhere and camping.” Not quite.

The day before the flight out (to Paris Charles DeGaulle with a layover in Frankfurt) we loaded up and headed north to Dallas, to drop of the dog with my mother and say our final goodbyes in case I was right about plane-wing-riding maniacs. DFW airport at 1pm by way of my best man Dave. To our disappontment, we had to check our bags. The airline had some pretty strict rules regarding carry-on sizes. My backpack was too big. This was the only time Nicole seemed worried thus far. If we lost our bags, we would be forced to stock up on clothes at H&M, and all that stuff makes me look like a sausage playing dress-up.

I was really hoping all our gear would arrive at the same place we would, and I was hoping too that would be on dry land without any unfortunate fireballs and death.

Standing in line to board the plane, I found out something about myself - I was really good at spotting muslims. That is to say, I was a bit of a paranoid bigot.

Chill out, Marcus.

I have an irrational fear of ending up at the business-end of a human centipede. Or with an eyelid removing machine on my head that triggers when I blink. It’s a fear that has kept me home-bound my whole life. I’ve traveled around the country—usually by car, since I don’t want to be the guy whose obit says that, ironically, he never flew, and ended up being sucked out a window at 35,000 feet by a man on the wing of the plane—and only when I know someone and had a place to stay o the cheap. California: I overcame my fear of being buried alive in a collapsing building during “the big one” by sleeping while standing in a doorframe. Colorado: I rationalized that bear attacks and avalanches were seasonal and if I was whispered, nothing would happen, so I dealt with it on my tip toes. Tennessee: Rape by hillbillies was always on my mind, so I always traveled with a slower or handsomer companion. Georgia: I avoided death by gang-initiation by only wearing grey and begging (non-verbally) to “please spare me” whenever someone with a sports jersey was near. Europe, though, has been an easier thing to manage: I just never went. Europe represents complete helplessness. Not knowing the language, the cultures, and the topography are terrifying to the neurotic (especially in France where not knowing French is a personal slight that might provoke a beheading.) It doesn’t help that Americans’ reputation abroad is less-than-good. We have certainly made a mess of our reputations: Dubya, cheese fries, boisterous entitlement, etc. Perhaps part of the unease I feel is guilt. I certainly feel like all eyes are on America and the look they convey is impatience and contempt. Of course, I’m also aware it’s all in my head. 

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My wife and I met three-or-so years ago at work. I say “or so” because neither of us can exactly pinpoint when we officially started dating without consulting her “Dear John” email to the guy before me… so we prefer to live in the moment and worry about the big stuff. We also picked a day to get married that would be impossible to forget, lest we do. Nicole is a beautiful girl. Bright green eyes, infectious laugh that tends to go off at other’s discomfort, athletic build that keeps me feeling dough-y. Her brains are only matched by her fearlessness. A month before our wedding, she did some crazy-ass kayak race down 100 miles of central Texas river. Alligators, bugs (her biggest fear), gar fish, and rednecks on jetskis were in her way. She didn’t seem too bothered by them. My dad made a good point: “I wouldn’t travel 100 miles in a boat with a motor.” For Nicole, it was another challenge to check off the list. Nicole spent a good amount of time abroad in college, so the thought that I haven’t been to different shores wasn’t going to stand. Without much protest from me, we decided on Europe for our honeymoon. Protests would have been pointless because when she is right, she’s really, really right, and this time Nicole was right. Time to put away childish things.