A Rebuke to Jon Winokur’s Travel Introduction from “The Traveling Curmudgeon”

Definition of Curmedgeon: [ Historically ] A crusty, ill-tempered, churlish old man.  [ Modern ] Anyone who hates hypocrisy and pretense and has the temerity to say so; anyone with the habit of pointing out unpleasant facts in an engaging and humorous manner.

In his amusing reading companion for experienced travelers, Jon Winokur points out that travel writing is the literature of complaint – and that bad trips have always been the seed of good material, from the Odyssey to Robinson Crusoe.  Very few want to read about a sun-kissed cruise on glassy seas, flying first class with your own bottle of Dom Perignon aboard a half empty 747, or a sumptuous stay at a first class hotel with incredible food and obsequious service.  Comfort and luxury are forgettable, he says.  “Misery is memorable.”  Your audience wants to hear about the train wreck.

A bad trip is guaranteed to rivet listeners at a party.  And result in a situation sure to induce reciprocity.  You will have to endure listening in turn to their travel horrors also.  Winokur suggests experienced travelers revel in their misfortune, as a form of snobbery.  “Look what I endured,” he opines, “because I love to travel.”  He points out certain parties assume one can’t be cultivated without extensive travel, and this particular set is determined to “broaden” themselves in the face of adversity.

Winokur questions however, whether there is really any broadening going on.  “What have they learned other than how to operate the shutter delay, tip the concierge, and file a lost luggage claim?” he asks.  “What have they seen besides the usual tourist traps on an increasingly beaten track around an ever more crowded and homogenized world?”

He goes on to suggest travel isn’t what it used to be (if it ever was).  Endless security checks, jet lag, homesickness, loneliness, strange beds, strange food, unpleasant seat mates, the shocking realization the US Constitution has no authority outside the United States— “the hardships are hardly worth the rewards.”  Slyly, he goes a bit further and notes that “Travel” derives from travail, early French for arduous toil.   We are told that if you trace the etymology back even further and you find the word for torture.

Tongue firmly in cheek, Winokur questions the need for travel.  “Why travel when you can experience almost anything in the world vicariously, in the comfort of your own home,” he asks.  “With the advent of streaming video, HDTV, and sooner or later, virtual reality – why go anywhere?  Let someone else do the work while you reap the rewards without the hassle and the risk.”  Winokur claims The Traveling Curmedgeon as an anti-travel book, to explode the myth that travel is some sort of cultural tonic necessary for mental, spiritual and cultural growth.  “Avoiding travel will liberate you from the tyranny of the travel-industrial complex,” he concludes, “and I trust persuade you to make all your journeys imaginary.”

I think it more a poke-in-the-eye artifice to increase his streams of income.  But who is to say?

Okay, I know he’s spoofing.  He’s globetrotter himself several times over.  But I’ll bite.  Here is why we travel via train, plane, automobile, dugout canoe, on foot, by donkey cart and all other available means instead of hopping the nearest computer and getting our travel jollies in the sedentary – and safe -- way.

And that is, primarily, because travel is our planetary lab.  It gives us perspective beyond a 17” screen.  It enculturates us in a way that no piece of hardware ever can.  It gives us a chance to practice and perfect those lessons we have begun at home.  And to display talents (such as languages) we dared not try under the watchful eye of friends and family.  Or did not have time for …  It allows us to experiment and make mistakes, and to correct them, in a less competitive and at times more forgiving environment.  It allows us to cement relationships begun by mail, or over the internet. The virtual world is for whetting the appetite and planning your endeavors; travel is for satiating them.  Ultimately, travel allows us to connect with others from different cultures in a hands-on way and ensures that we do not become myopic in our world views.  Paraphrasing Sting in a song he wrote years ago, once you have traveled to Moscow, you realize “Russians love their children too.”  We are more the same in this world than different.  Travel allows us to celebrate what we share in common (universally: a love of family, a desire for amusement, a thirst for higher knowledge and a relationship with a higher power, and a hunger for freedom).  At the same time, we get to explore our differences in a manner that allows you to see “up close and personal” why these differences exist.

Come to think of it: The adventures and scenery and food and company involved along the way aren’t often bad, either !

I could go on.  I won’t.  This just about handles what I wanted to convey.  Jon is wrong.  He knows it already.  He manifested a straw dog for us to beat up on, and is undoubtedly laughing all the way to the bank.  But thanks for serving up the softball pitch, amigo, and offering us the amusement of “Traveling Curmedgeon.”

--Larry Cenotto

Bogota, To Close ...

The return flight to Bogota is over before it begins.  Takes less than an hour.  Columbia is once again, beautiful from the air.  Had all manner of activities I was going to engage in upon arrival.  But we took off an hour late due to equipment difficulties and I missed the prime afternoon tour hours.  Tried to see a few things on my own – such as the  Museo de Arte Colonial and the Museo de Oro (Gold), which has a sterling reputation as a “must see” visit when in Bogota.  At each location, I was the last person to line up for admission, and the first denied entry.  Could not talk my way in to beat the band.  So took the nearby tramway, to the top of Montserrat Mountain, and the monastery there.  Primary reason is the incredible territorial view looking from east to west back over all of Bogota from nearly 8500 feet.   The capital city of Colombia is not what you call beautiful, but its population of 8 million ensures a wide spread, and this alone impresses.  It is much like looking at the Los Angeles basin from Mt. Wilson, only from a higher trajectory.

My last night on the continent was all about choices.  I chose to have a wonderful meal instead of mucking about exploring.  Some of this has to do with the lingering cold I am laboring under.  Naturally I chose Italian.  As nearby as I could find. Tried to make it seafood as well, to complete the daily double, but … well, the veal called to me.  It was an incredible meal, worthy of being eaten slowly, and worthy of further description. Started with a glass of Malbec, and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon (at the same time).  Wait staff looked at me oddly and tried to segregate them, arranging the two to be consumed sequentially.  I smiled, poured them both anyway, and lined ‘em up.  Then for starters, Carcofi  Soup.  For anybody who has been to an Italian Panini shop and custom ordered their own sandwich (try mozarella, tomato, carcofi, and thin sliced cured jamon with olive oil) this is to die for!  At any rate, it is difficult just to find artichoke soup.  So when it appeared on the menu I knew there would be something very special at hand.  It was served hot with a puree base and chunks of artichoke sliced from the heart.   Cream and pepper and a sprinkle of mizithra cheese completed the flavoring.  This beauty lingered on the tongue like the taste of accomplishment after participating in a grape harvest and getting to barrel sample the previous season’s maturing crop afterward.  For those who are not artichoke fans, this is not comprehendible.  But it was heaven.  Could have been a complete meal as a solo dish.

The veal itself took up an entire plate.  No room for garnish.  It was cooked to a golden brown, almost like trout almondine, then rolled in oregano, pounded down to about 1/8” thickness, and simmered in olive oil.  A sprinkling of mizithra cheese and lemon pepper completed the seasoning.  Was so tender you could cut it with the edge of a piece of paper.  It too, was delicious.  Chose to eat it very, very slowly.  And next, the colorful side plate.  No parsley filler here !  It had the greatest variety of vegetables I’d ever seen accompanying an entrée.  Consisting of an arugula bed, fried zucchini, steamed asparagus, fried eggplant marinated in olive oil, fried onions, cooked red pepper, and baked mushrooms loosely arranged into “salad” form. I guess you could call it a salad.   The whole dish if you will was cooked Mediterranean style and garnished once again with grated cheese – Parmesan this time.  Finally, dessert.  Italian coffee and crème brulee.  Perfecto ! Only thing missing was lemon gelato.  And good company …

Took the short hike back to my hostel, encountered the usual computer problems (data dump, somebody was obviously trying to invade the computer, as I was on a Wi-Fi network) and so just kicked it and went to sleep.  Probably best.  This nasty cold still has a terrible grip on me.  Wakeup call set for 3:30 and the return flight to the US: Miami, to San Francisco, to Seattle.  Eighty-five days, come to to an anti-climatic and somewhat sauntering end … and this year, for the first time, I missed the Rose Bowl, the Super Bowl, and the Academy Award.  As Bob Dylan would sing: “Things They Are A Changin’ … “

Next: A Rebuke to Jon Winokur’s Travel Introduction from “The Traveling Curmudgeon”

Cali -- Former Drug Capital of The World

Cali is of course famous in recent decades for being the Drug Capital of the World.  Cartels controlling the cocaine and heroin trade, inspired fear and even admiration throughout this hemisphere.  Names like Pablo Escobar (eventually killed in a well publicized drug raid) were famous both north and south of the equator.  Due to drug interdiction money paid for by US taxpayers and a concerted effort by the Colombian police and military, the drug trade has largely been pushed up into isolated pockets in the highlands.  It is not that a thriving business does not take place still in the cities.  What is missing is the element of ostentatiousness.  Dealers no longer play their trades openly on the street.  They don’t wear ornamented gold chains the size of boat anchors. They drive plain cars.  They don’t run up bank accounts, but deal in cash only and horde it in caves in their lairs.

While in Bogota on the way over to Cali from Barranquilla on layover, I had several hours spare time in which to read and obtain a final ticket home.  Have gone over my allotted return date, something I knew would happen in advance.  I had to pick a date three months ago for my return, as a round-trip ticket is $700 less than a one-way ticket.  If I simply choose my date of departure later based on actual location and time for departure it is considered to be two one-way tickets.  My choice of March 29^th to return was completely arbitrary.  And way too soon.  American Airlines tried to play hardball with the fact I am going to be later than that by a week.  They want $700 additional, for a combo penalty of the change fee and fare differential.

At first, they can’t even find my fare code from 90+ days ago.  I won’t go into exactly what I did to effect a change, as I might want to use the formula again.  But suffice it to say it involved having long discussions with everybody at the ticket counters, doing my best to tie them up, demanding to speak to supervisors, returning to the original counter jockeys for a secondary appeal, using their phones and tying the lines up for extended periods, crowding out other people with problem inquiries, and then finally making the ultimate appeal directly to American Airlines HQ in Dallas.  After very extended and terse negotiations, the penalty was reduced to only $200 – a number I could live with and in fact celebrate.  I do thank American Airlines for this bit of generosity.   

When I am picked up at the airport in Cali by Doyler Mosquera Jr on March 30 in the afternoon, I am surprised to learn that – once again – the city is much larger than anticipated.  It has a population of 2 million, about half of them poor and concentrated in barrios.  This follows a pattern in South America, where the population is concentrated in capitals and major cities, and the campesinos have long left the contryside for jobs with better payment prospects in the metropolis.  Was surprised also, to see how verdant Columbia is from the air, with miles of jungle and grasslands and many navigable water sources reaching high up into the mountains.  Cali itself was very green and clean.  A few barrios had the usual piles of rubble, seedy denizens, scattered trash, graffiti and unkempt appearance, but the city was decidedly middle class and appeared no differently than most US suburbs.  Malls, restaurants, traffic congestion, housing, and all.  Only noticeable differences are in the Spanish construction style with stucco and red tile roofs, and a virtual constant: security features with wrought iron bars over every window, fence, and exterior courtyard (or driveway).  The cars are also smaller.  Gas is $4 a gallon here.

We go to a restaurant 17 kilometers outside of town in the foothills overlooking the city for an introductory drink.  Cali spreads out well below us with its yellow-orange network of lighting grids extending clear to the horizon.  We are perhaps 100 miles inland, but only because the roads are twisty and must clear a gritty little mountain range before dropping down to the coast.  I am introduced to Aguarmiente, a sugar cane based alcohol that is omnipresent here and available in every facsimile of bottle size.  You buy the bottle for economy (or a half, a media) and then sip it slowly out of shot glasses.  Accompanying the liquor and side-car lemonade drinks are potatoes, chorizo sausage, bits of steak, bits of chicken, limes, green platano (fried banana cousin) and other basics of the local diet.  They were adorned with green chimichuri sauce (made of garlic and parsley and olive oil) and aji sauce (made of coriander, onion, vinegar and chiles).   Our drive back into the city reveals Cali to be one of those late-night towns I relish so much, even during a weeknight.  The usual tiendas are open, the restaurants and clubs doing a busy late-hour business, and the streets are alive with purpose driven traffic.  We talk well into the night about my travels, and I get a chance to learn how much things have changed for the better in Colombia since the drug trade was brought under control in the last decade.

On Thursday, my strep throat that I thought had been beaten down in Trinidad reemerges.  We spend the day attending to Doyler’s business (wholesaling hair products to vendors and distributors) and touring the city.  Occasionally we seek a remedy for my throat in the form of various local cervezas, for which no prescription is necessary.  We also take an extended visit to his empty lot twenty minutes outside the city, on which he will build another home in about three years.  The view from this perimeter circle is regional – and very impressive.  Cali is a combo of the verticality of La Paz, the large buildings of Rio de Janeiro (and once again, some of the favelas are on the high ground rather than the flats as one would ordinarily expect), and the spread of Lima.  Our evening consists of chasing down food – a beautiful piece of Filet Mignon for only $9 US and an American style salad, rare here and especially with suitable or recognizable salad dressings.  We also seek out a Western Union outlet to pull in some much needed cash for the final leg of my journey.  Later we go clubbing, something Cali is famous for.  Too many outlets to discuss them individually at length.  It is a livewire, thriving town to be sure.

Suffice it to say, the club scene is on steroids here.  No shortage of crowds, some exotic food bits to munch on and new drinks to familiarize myself with to power them down with.  Cali’s reputation as generally having the world’s most beautiful women is not distinguishable yet, though there is plenty of evidence this city at least deserves a seat at the head table for this subjective classification.   One of the reasons why, is artificial.  More plastic surgeons in Cali than probably anywhere in the world.  Years ago, it was a surplus of drug dollars chasing limited good and services.  Everything was a game of “show and tell” and one upmanship.  Women started having plastic surgery at 16, whether they needed it or not.  Butt lifts.  Face lifts.  Breast implants.  Liposuction.  Body sculpting.  Men too.  Pec enlargements.  Penile implants.  More liposuction.  Today the freewheeling money is not as present as previous times.  But the focus on appearance is still quite clear.  It is an embedded part of the culture.  It is most unusual, for example, to see any woman walking the street without fresh adornment from both a pedicure and a manicure.

Once again, I find myself lucky (and grateful) to be in a family hosted situation where I have a secure place for my things, the internet is available without limit, I can wash my clothes, and English is regularly available though I continue to attempt practicing more Spanish.  The fact Doyler can accompany me to a doctor finally, is a huge bonus.  Have tired of waiting this thing out.  After going to the doc on Friday afternoon, all hell breaks loose.  Become sicker than a dog overnight.  The heavy meds we obtain by prescription from the pharmacist have chased this ogre out into the open.  I awake Saturday terribly congested, with a sore throat, runny nose, fever, coughing, an ear infection as a bonus – in short, the whole Medusa Gargoyle.  First picked this up three weeks ago in Rio, thought I’d beaten it down in Trinidad with help from the St. James Clinic, and the strep and other nonsense has come back now with a fury.  This is the worst I have had it in probably 25 years.  Have no ambition to do anything at all, but get off this final post re: Cali before heading out to Bogota tomorrow.

However there is one last field trip in us for the afternoon before cashing in our chips for the day.  We take a two hour ride through hideous weekend traffic in Cali, to Lake Calima.  It is beautiful location, with a powerful hydroelectric facility at its snout.  Take the entire perimeter drive.  Very scenic, highlighted with an interesting variety of gated Drug Lord casitas ringing the lake.  I am largely indifferent (except for the verdant jungle surrounding the lake) and going into La La Land much of the time.  The following conversation takes place internally:

Me: Awesome, this is memorable.  We ought to get some photos.

Jocko Yaqui Boya (my alter ego):  Give it a break. It’s not like we haven’t observed some scenery in SA.  Let’s plan some ways to kick ass and take names in Bogota.

My Ego:  Can’t you two see we’re sick?  What is it with this scenery obsession?  We need to go back to sleep.

Me: Yes,  but I need something for the blog.  Haven’t posted for awhile.  We have an impatient audience.

Ego: I ?  I need ?  Since when were you handling this thing alone?  I … ?

Jocko: Let it be, Id.  He’s weak.  Probably wants attention.  Sympathy.  That kind of shit.

Me: Why are you always so crude and head on?  I’d love to see you finesse something for once in your … er, our … life.

Jocko:  Methinks it best for us to concentrate on being robust for Bogota tomorrow.  You know, finish strong and all that.  You can always write a postscript later.  Pass on the blogging.  Be practical.

Me:  When have I ever been practical? I’m entitled to …

Ego: Well, there you go with that “I” stuff again.  You keep forgetting this is a committee.  According to the latest charter anyway.  My job is to keep us in the best light.  You are interfering.  Care to take another scan of the latest boundaries agreements?

Me: Well, isn’t that ironic?  You bringing up the “I” issues and boundaries.  What a crock.  Stuff it.  I’m sick.  It is too hard to listen to you two head cases.  And you always play mind games with me anyway.

Ego: You sound like Jocko now.  You need more meds.  How did I ever get paired with you two to begin with?

Jocko: Don’t loop me in with him.  I may even take a different seat on the plane.  He’a acting daffy.  It might be infectious.  Don’t want whatever he’s got rubbing off.  And I’m not talking about the flu …

[ Editor’s Note:  The three of them went to sleep shortly thereafter, oblivious to the scenery, and so we don’t which is the most reliable source for ascertaining the subsequent internal conversation, if any …]

Next:  Bogota, to close …