One More Cigarette

One More Cigarette

I was on my way back to my hostel in the medieval  Old Town of Tallinn, Estonia. It was evening, the sun was on its way down and I had spent the whole day simply walking. An older English man was going to cook fish and chips at the hostel, but I wasn't looking forward to that. I was in the mood for some excitement that night. 

As I wound my way through the cobble stone streets a group of three young men caught my gaze. One of them was sitting in the middle of the road, his head almost laying on the ground, while the other two were standing next to him singing. They had a hat next to them to collect tips. It was empty and that wasn't surprising. They appeared drunk and it seemed their only song was a chant from the Chelsea football club. I watched them for a minute and continued on. 

I ended up in the main square of the Old Town and sat down in front of the 600-year-old town hall building for a cigarette. Old Thomas, a Robin Hood-like character of Tallinn, looked down from his perch on the town hall weather vane. I watched the tourists file into the restaurants that line the square for their evening meal. It was early spring and there was still quite a chill in the air. A couple of toddlers dressed down in full snow suits chased each other. They could barely walk, let alone run, in those outfits and spent as much time on the floor as they did on their feet.

I had finished my cigarette and I stood up to leave. My hostel was only a few blocks away, but I was in no rush to get back. I decided to have one more cigarette before I gave in to the fish and chips for the night. I lit up and began people watching again.

Before I could take two drags, the young men I saw earlier were headed in my direction. I smiled as they walked up to me, not really wanting to break into conversation. One of them had a handle of Bailey's Irish Cream and before I could say hello he pushed it into my hand. "Drink!" he exclaimed. I figured if I appeased them and laughed a little, they would move on their way. I took a pull from the bottle. 

They asked me where I was from so we went through the pleasantries and introduced ourselves. I found out they were from Riga, Latvia and were in Tallinn to see some of their friends in concert that night. I found out it was a last minute decision on their part to come up to Tallinn. They had been drinking quite heavily the night before and drunkenly thought it would be a good idea to join a large group of people that were coming up. They caught the bus that morning and had been on a steady diet of alcohol the whole day.

Simon, who was the one on the ground when I first encountered them, was also under the influence of a few other substances. He was dressed all in black, except for a long red scarf wrapped around his neck. His head hung low and he continually brushed his long bangs away from his face. He was very friendly, in the way that people get friendly when they are heavily inebriated. The other two were very well dressed. Rudolfs, had a full suit and tie and Alvils wore pressed slacks, a button up shirt and a brown leather jacket. 

After they told me about their concert plans, I had decided if they would extend an invite I would join them without hesitation. We finished the Bailey's and they broke out a two liter bottle of Saku, Estonia's readily available, mass produced lager. Again, Alvils instructed me to drink. I took a small drink and passed it back to him. He refused the bottle and told me he didn't see me drink. I took another small swig. He turned away as I drank and again pretended not to see. I decided to really drink this time and I chugged a quarter of the bottle. Cheers went up in the square and we all had a laugh. That appeared to be the secret to joining their club and they invited me to join them at the concert.

I rushed back to the hostel, dropped off my bag and rejoined them at the door. Unfortunately, they didn't have the exact location or name of the bar their friends were playing at. They were only told it was the biggest rock bar in the Old Town of Tallinn. The Old Town is a relatively small, so we set out on our search.

The next 45 minutes consisted of walking down a street, stopping random people, inquiring if they knew where the biggest rock club in Tallin was, getting rejected each time, laughing and then picking another street. Simon was starting to fade fast. His head seemed to sink lower and lower with each rejection. He walked like a drunken zombie. After 50 steps, he would take a seat or lean up against a door way. We would look back, notice he wasn't there and retrace our steps to find him slumped on the ground around the corner.

We continued around the perimeter of the Old Town in this fashion. It was now 8PM, and the band was supposed to begin at 8:30. We were running out of time. I decided to try and see if the band had posted the event on Facebook. After some brief investigating, I found the venue online. As I waited for Google to give me the exact location I wondered if we would be too late. When I finally had directions I looked at them and couldn't help but laugh. The location of the biggest rock bar in Old Town was only a block away from where we first met!

We were there in 10 minutes. I had built up my expectations and conjured up images of a spacious arena with stadium seating. It turned out to be quite a small venue. We walked through a hall into the main room. The stage faced a balcony with a few tables and the floor in front was open and ready for a great audience.

We went upstairs to wait for the band and have a beer. A few more Latvians joined us and we waited anxiously. The lights went out, and the band finally appeared. They were called Bloody Heels and played 80's style glam rock. They were complete with long hair, makeup, tight clothing and even a bit of leopard print. The distortion kicked in, the double bass drum echoed and the lead singer began to belt out their fist song. We were immediately on the floor banging heads in a little mosh pit.

Half way through their set I took a break and walked outside to smoke a cigarette. I took a drag and I couldn't help but think about where I would be had I not smoked that extra cigarette. I owed that night to pure accident... and I was going to make the best of it. I crushed the butt in the ash tray and walked through the door, into the biggest rock bar in Tallinn. 

The Overnight Bus

I sat on the curb waiting for the overnight bus that would take me eight hours north to Yangon, Myanmar. A flock of mosquitos were hovering above, singing in harmony with the buzz of the fluorescent lights. I wore shorts and my freshly laundered t-shirt, which was already falling victim to sweat from the tropical evening heat. I pondered on the ingenuity of the overnight bus—what a merry merging of efficiency and travel. I wondered what I would do when I arrived, fully rested and ready for adventure.

The bus rounded the corner, belched out a cloud of black diesel fumes and rumbled to a stop across the street. I boarded and opted to keep my bag with me. Maybe I would get lucky and no one would sit next to me. The seat was not designed with the legs of a six-foot man in mind. I shifted, trying different positions before I settled on leaning against the window. It was not ideal for a good night’s sleep, but with the right amount of exhaustion, it wouldn't matter.

As I was beginning my celebration commemorating the empty seat next to me, he appeared at the front of the bus. He wore a jean jacket with a swastika patch on each shoulder. His hair was slicked back and full of grease. He carried half a dozen full plastic bags, crinkling and crackling with every step he took.

He began the search for his seat. I sent up prayers of desperation, begging with the gods that he would keep walking past me. I could see my chances at sleep disappearing with each row he passed. He was closer now. I could feel my heart beat faster. As he arrived at my row, he looked at his ticket, then at the number on the seat next to me, then back to his ticket. Time stood still and I held my breath. I cursed the gods as he sat down next to me with the grace of a farm animal jockeying for position in the feed line. An elbow found its way into my ribs. So it began.

He did not speak English, nor did I know any Burmese. He was young and looked like a punk rocker from back home. After a brief failed attempt at a “hello,” I quickly realized there was no chance at an intelligible conversation. He seemed to disagree. He constantly tapped me on the shoulder to mumble something indecipherable. I would smile and nod and then he would grab my hand and raise it up high and cackle with laughter. We did this dance for the next 10 minutes and I watched my chance at sleep drift out the window, joining the trail of diesel smoke in the night sky.

My hopes were lifted when we reached the highway. I told myself he would lose enthusiasm and it appeared I was right. I wondered when the bus driver would turn the lights off. There was an announcement made and I imagined the driver was wishing us sweet dreams. In my head I thanked him for being so polite. Instead of turning the lights off, the TV mounted in the front of the bus flickered to life. "Ah, a nice movie to put us to sleep,” I thought. A woman appeared on the screen and the sound of electronic techno drums pierced my ears. She began to dance and sing as the screen flashed with a strobe light. My face dropped as I stared on in disbelief. Burmese pop music blared from every corner of the bus. I turned my gaze over to my seat mate, expecting to see a face of shock. He met my gaze. Smiling, he grabbed my hand and began to dance in his seat.

The music blared on and I was quickly learning to never assume it couldn't get any worse. The driver decided to turn the air conditioner down to arctic levels and the temperature in the bus was quickly dropping. I mulled over the situation, trying to understand how pop music and freezing temperatures were a sound business idea for an overnight bus service. It seemed like a war was playing out in front of my very eyes. As the temperature dropped lower and lower, the music got louder and louder. I decided that the passengers had to dance in order to keep their body temperature at life-sustaining levels.Every part of my body wanted sleep but my seat mate continued to dance, the music continued to blare, and our mobile rave bounced along the road in a most unforgiving manner.

Suddenly, the bus screeched to stop. My seat mate got up and I almost could not contain my exuberance. Was this his stop? I watched him walk to the front of the bus and exit into the darkness. Pure joy entered my soul. I waited for the bus to roar to life and leave him in the dust behind, never to be seen again, but we didn’t move. My gaze shifted outside the window. I saw something shimmering in the darkness. My eyes were dreary but I forced them to focus. It was my seat mate. He was relieving himself just outside my window. He glanced up and waved at me.

After he emptied his bladder, he resumed his position next to me and the bus sputtered to life. Before I could consider the etiquette of stopping the bus for one's personal needs, the pop music was back to maximum volume. My cheap headphones were no match at drowning out the noise but they did act as a subtle defense against my seat mate’s attempts at conversation.

Midnight rolled around and people began to break out their blankets and coverings. My seat mate was digging through one of his plastic bags, somehow able to make enough noise to compete with the pop music. It was an evil symphony designed to thwart any attempt at sleep. Near the intersection where patience and violence meet, I let go of any hope for sleep and resigned to staring out the window. My seat mate eventually passed out, yet this did not improve the situation. He swayed back and forth with every turn and attempted to lean on my shoulder, coughing and sputtering every time he woke up.

We eventually arrived in the city, or what I thought was the city. As my luck would have it the bus didn't quite go all the way into the city. It dropped us off on the outskirts and it appeared I would still have to corral a taxi at three o'clock in the morning. I tried to communicate the name of the hotel that I had booked and the bus driver walked me over to a white station wagon. I was able to convey my needs with the taxi driver. We agreed on a price for the trip and I bid farewell to the bus from hell.

I arrived at my hotel with one last obstacle to overcome: I had booked a room for that night, but I was arriving at 3 AM. I hoped that would fall under the hotel’s early check-in policy. I was confident, however that I had paid my dues on that bus ride and the gods would be happy to grant my wish. I approached the check in counter with sleep in mind. The attendant shook his head.  A large tour group had checked in the day before and they did not have a single room free. He was very apologetic and informed me he would not mind if I slept in the lobby. I slumped over to what looked like a comfortable couch and decided it could be worse. As I laid down expecting to sink into the oblivion of foam padding, I landed the rigid frame of the wicker furniture that hid beneath the thin cushion. There was no other option but to laugh. I drifted off to sleep with the sound of Burmese pop music dancing in my head.

Mr. Thai

As I walk through downtown Bangkok, I don’t expect to find much human interaction. Being a large city, the locals are inclined to sell rather than to converse. I take to wandering as an escape. As with any place, though, there are pockets of beauty[a] that you can’t find on purpose; they find you. I just purchased[b] a train ticket for the next day and I’m returning to my hostel. [c]I’m not in a rush, as this is my last day to explore the city.


I pass under a bridge, when a gathering of locals catches my eye. A court is set up beneath the bridge and they are playing a game I don’t recognize. It consists of two teams of two players each. There is a net down the[d] center of the court, much like a small volleyball court. Everything seems familiar, until the teams start to play. Instead of using their hands, they use their feet! The ball is about the size of a grapefruit and made of woven plastic. My eyes won’t believe what they are seeing. I go in for a closer look.. 


I stand behind a chain link fence and watch the action. I hold on to the links like a child, waiting for an invite. The athleticism is incredible. They move the ball with such control and finesse making the game look easy. A player leaps into the air, flipping upside down to slam the ball against his opponent. The move is so exciting, I let out a cheer and begin to clap.


This catches the attention of one of the spectators, and he waves me in. Ah, the “wave in”.[e] It’s like a VIP pass to an event you had back row tickets for. It’s your older brother inviting you to play with the big kids. I look behind me just to make sure he is waving to me, then make my way [f]in.


I approach him with a look of amazement. I ask him his name, but he only tells me, “Mr. Thai.” The sport is called Sepak Takraw and he attempts to explain the rules. He points to his arms and shakes his head, “Foul.” A player is allowed to use his legs, chest, head, and feet to project the ball to the opponents side. A team is allowed to touch the ball only 3 times, just like volleyball. No part of their body can touch the net. I have the basics down, so we sit back and watch.


The pace of the game is quite fast and the crowd is very much involved. I watch on with continued amazement. The ball lands between two players, both expecting the other player to play it. They begin to argue with each other. I don’t need to speak Thai to understand. I know they are both accusing the other of being responsible. I can’t help but laugh at the miscommunication. Sports bridge all language barriers.


Mr. Thai is sitting on a rail that runs around a column of the bridge[g]. He waves me over to sit with him. “Stadium,” he laughs, pointing to the railing. His dry sense of humor is so similar to mine it feels like we are old friends. It feels like this is a normal Sunday. It feels like this is my ordinary life. It feels like I am home. 


I join him on the rail. The thought of taking pictures crosses my mind. For this trip, I decided to bring a Polaroid camera along. It takes up half the space in my bag, weighs more than all of my clothes, and makes me look more like a tourist than a hawaiian shirt and khaki pants, but I still decided to bring it. There’s something about the novelty of having your picture print instantly that intrigues me. It also forces you to be selective with your photographing, instantly adding meaning to the shots. [h]


I bring out the beast and ask Mr. Thai, “Okay?” I feel a bit weird about taking pictures in these situations. I want to simply enjoy what is happening, but I know these are the pictures I’ll really want later on. Mr. Thai nods and jumps off his seat. He pushes me to the sideline for a close-up shot. I wait for a the right moment and snap the shutter. The picture creeps out of the top and I turn around to hand it to Mr. Thai. It’s always a gamble, you never know what kind of shot will come out. He begins to shake it.[i] I laugh, thinking how universal this reaction is. It’s almost instinctual to shake a Polaroid picture. 30 seconds later the shot begins to develop. His face lights up with a smile and he takes off around the court. He shoves the photo in everyone’s faces, barely letting them see it before he moves on to the next viewer. “I’m in,”[j] I thought. If I had any doubt about being accepted into this group, it was erased with that picture. I knew I would end up giving most of the pictures away, but I chalk it up as the price of admission.[k]

After the initial shot, the excitement really begins to take off. A player in red shorts waves at me. He makes the camera motion with his hands; he wants an action shot. I wait for him to go up for a slam and take the shot. I wait, praying to the Polaroid gods that the moment is captured. As the photo begins to appear, I see the player in mid air, leg held high, making a great strike. I hand it over to him and he is elated. It’s such a simple gift, but seeing yourself right there, recorded in time is something unique. He holds the photo in his hand for the rest of the game.[l] 


I return to my seat with Mr. Thai as the match heats up. “Casino,” he tells me. I don’t understand. The player in the red shorts goes up for a spike and the ball lands in the opponents court, untouched. He cheers with his partner and the game is over. Mr. Thai points to the losing team and says “Casino” again. The losers are rifling through their pockets for bills. They hand over 500 baht, around $17, to the winners. “Casino,” I laugh, as I finally understand.


The player in the red shorts comes over to thank me. He is from Myanmar and tells me about coming to Thailand looking for work. He is a very good player, even Mr. Thai tells me, “Best Team” as he points to his team. I congratulate him and ask him if he has family here. He tells me they are all back in Myanmar. He works at a hotel restaraunt as a busboy. I think about how this game must be an escape for him, a way to hide from the realities for an afternoon.[m] He’s up for another round, so he thanks me again and returns to the court.


“Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Malaysia and Philippines,” Mr. Thai lists off all the countries that play this unique game, “But Thailand number one!” He shouts it loud enough for our friend in the red shorts to hear. He scoffs. Mr. Thai stands up to leave. “I go,” he tells me. I thought he meant he was going home so I bid him farewell and thank him for the VIP seat. He just shakes his head, jumps on his motorbike and leaves. I’m puzzled at the miscommunication, but I decide to stick around for one more game. Within 10 minutes he returns. He comes up to the railing and pulls two beers out of a large plastic bag. He points to the bottle and says, “Leo.” He lists off the Thai beers in their respective positions in the public’s opinion. “Leo, number two beer,” he tells me. He opens the beer with his lighter, sticks a straw in it, and hands it over to me. 


I sit back, pondering the situation I found myself in. I couldn’t buy this experience and no tour guide could promise it to me. This kind of experience tends to find you and if you let it happen, you just might find yourself drinking Thailand’s number two beer with Mr. Thai himself[n].

The Pattern

Click.

You sit in front of your computer, staring at the information on the screen. “Your booking is confirmed!” Just a month ago, you were still a part of a working society, a tax-paying citizen. Everything you wanted: a nice car, a home, a retirement account, it was all within your grasp. All you had to do was stay put. Your computer notifies you of a confirmation email. This is really happening. Whatever plans you had for next week are out the window, you will be in another world. You won’t speak their language. You won’t know their food. You won’t know a single person when you arrive.

You finally realize, this is what traveling solo is all about.

What could you possibly do to fill up all that time? Your mind races at the thought of planning out every hour of every day. What will you eat? Where will you stay? You start to browse travel sites, make lists, buy books. Didn’t you just quit your job? This seems like more work than you signed up for. You wonder if you can still get your old job back. The thought of a paycheck crashes into your mind. Everything was so comfortable. How could you give up such a great job? Rosy retrospection sets in and you begin to reminisce about the past. You fight the urge to back out and make up your mind. In a week, you’ll be on the road.

You sit in a crowded bus station. Aside from the destination and a few numbers, you can’t read your ticket. A monk finds a seat in front of you. You laugh at how normal all of this has become. You are on your way to a new town, leaving a group of friends you have traveled with for the past few weeks. You hate to leave such a good group, but deep down you know you need to get on the road again. You need to be alone with your thoughts. You begin to think about the things you have experienced and the people you have met. Just a few weeks ago, you were that close to backing out. You shudder at the thought. You begin to reminisce about the trip so far and think maybe you should stay with your friends just a little longer. You convince yourself you’ll stay in touch and set your mind on solo travel again.

The bus ride is long and tedious and your mind wanders to better times. It’s an overnight trip and you can’t find rest no matter how hard you try. As you sit in a sleep-deprived state of mind you wonder if you’ll ever be able to settle down. You wonder how long you’ll be able to stay in the next spot before you get restless. Will you ever be able to keep a job again? The thought of staying in one country, let alone one city makes you apprehensive. Maybe it will pass. Maybe you just need to meet the right person or find the right job, something to tie you down. You hate the thought. You decide to think about the more immediate future and what the next destination holds for you. You can’t come up with a solid answer and that is your favorite part. The unknown.

You sit at the airport. You look at your ticket and you have plenty of time to think about everything that has happened since you took that leap. Too much time. Why didn’t you book a longer trip? You are on your way home and you feel like you were just getting to know the place. Home. What will you possibly do when you get there? Your mind races at the thought of planning out every day and every hour. Didn’t you just get here? How could this trip be over so soon? You wonder if there is any amount of time that would be “enough,” and if you could ever possibly satisfy the urge to wander? You settle your mind by deciding to look for another trip as soon as you get home. You think about all the people you met and wonder if you’ll stay in touch. You decide to email them while you’re waiting but only one or two will email you back.

As you find your seat on the plane, you prepare for the long flight. This was supposed to be the easy part, the part you were going to look forward to, yet here you are wishing you could just grab your things and run through the door. The flight attendant comes on over the PA telling you to buckle your seat belt. You decide to wait, just in case. The last thing between you and freedom is the seat belt. It’s only figurative, but you protest. You entertain the thought of backing out. You can just tell everyone you missed your flight. The flight attendant begins her trip down the aisle, checking for seat belts. In a day, you’ll be back home. Everything will be back to normal, everything the same, everything as usual, except you. You have changed and you know you can’t go back to “normal.” You’ll have to adapt, you always have and you always will. In a day, you’ll be back home. The flight attendant reaches your row. You give in.

Click