…How to put what’s left of a good face on travel adversity

“So I went to the doctors,” Bijani said.

“Oh good, what did they say?” The phone-line went quiet for a few seconds.

“Well, that I’d probably lose my big toe and parts of both ears.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they’re pretty black and peely right now. You know marshmallows, after they’ve been on fire? Kinda like that.”

“Oh—that’s bad! Did you get a second opinion?”

“I think it’ll be ok,” Bijani laughed. “They found a doctor who’d lived in Alaska, and he says as long as everything stays warm I get to keep my nose, earlobes—all that good stuff.”

“… Does your mom know?”

“No—but she’ll kill you when she finds out.”

***

I’m a thoughtful dude: I do dishes; I put the toilet seat down at night; onetime I read the Little Prince and told people I liked it. So, never, in a million years, did I imagine this could happen to me.

Even Bijani’s mom’s parting words didn’t offer a hint. “Mongolia’s not the world’s safest place,” she said. “Don’t let ANYTHING happen to my beautiful daughter.” Frostbite would surely count as a kind of “anything”—and on her second-to-last-day, all because I’d agreed to have “fun” against my better judgment.

Oh, we’d had fun before—my kind of fun—the kind that involves working long hours at a newspaper office and watching Singapore-based sports TV in an apartment. But given her imminent return to California, I couldn’t say no. For our last, most memorable adventure in the land of Genghis Khan, Bijani chose dog sledding.

***

“At least the dogs were cute,” Bijani said.

“Oh yeah, great.”

“And I liked Noel.”

“That crazy French guy? He’s insane—case of permanent brain freeze.”

“Look on the bright side…”

“Easy for you to say. You just got frostbite. I’m going to be murdered by your mother.”

“Well…”

“Aghhhhh. How did this happen?”

***

It started with us setting off for sledding on one of those unusually mild, Mongolian January days. It was zero degrees. For the first time in three months I felt overdressed in long underwear, snowpants, gloves, and two jackets. One small victory in the battle of Man vs. cold.

The Silver Storm company van drove us out of Ulaanbaatar city northeast toward Terelj National Park, while I sweated past wrecked cars that served as “don’t drink and drive” reminders, through stiff yellow hills and finally the famous rock that looks like a turtle happily sunning itself.

We arrived and I couldn’t help feeling a little optimistic about the expedition. Three felt tents beside a log shed made up the camp, where lean, eager huskies and the bemused voice of Noel, our energetic guide, greeted us.

“Is zees all you brought?” he prodded our clothes dubiously and left, returning a few moments later with massive, traditionally-pattered wool jackets and pants.

“Now you will not freeze,” he said.

It was colder by the banks of Terelj River than in the city, but I felt impenetrable in my woolen armor. Noel wore a jacket, ski-pants and a fleecy headband. I figured we were being treated with big, woolen, kiddie mittens.

We met Black and White, the skinny lead dogs, and learned the essentials—hold on, lean left to turn left, right to turn right. And that was it—we mounted our wooden sleds and plunged down a powdered ice ramp onto the hard river.

The stony riverside and lines of crisp alpines whipped by at seven miles per hour. Black looked over his shoulder as if to say: “Isn’t this fun?” It was fun, for five minutes.

Then I felt something else. Pain.

Freezing pain.

***

“Remember how the wind cut through seams in your clothes and your boots?” Bijani asked?

“Oh yeah, but how’d it get through both pairs of socks?”

“Weird, huh?”

“You should’ve said something; we’d have gone back.”

“I just couldn’t make myself do it, but I wanted to turn around so badly,” she said.

“I wanted to cry, but my tear ducts froze.”

***

At some point, we stopped for a third time. Bijani started with a neat fur hat and scarf wrapped around her face. Now frost caked her eyebrows and yellowing scarf; the hat was long gone, blown off and replaced by my lopsided wool cap. She looked like the disconsolate runner up of Miss Abominable Snowwoman 2008.

I should have given her my balaclava, but it was too cold to really be considerate.

“Should we keep going?” I asked.

I wanted her to say no. She opened her mouth and nothing came of it, just a headshake. (Later she’d tell me her brain had lobbied for a nod, but some frozen synapses misfired).

“Only 15 kilometers to go!” Noel said.

I knew we would die. Black glanced over his shoulder again, and I saw resignation on his face. “Yes, you are going to die,” his look said. “And if no one’s looking, I’ll probably eat you. No hard feelings, though.”

The wind howled. We crossed more frozen water. Sometimes it made cracking noises and we could see the water running under our feet. Sometimes rocks or debris formed a line across the icy track and we had to get off and run behind the sleds. I cursed nature. Bijani fell. She fell again.

She looked at me and I’ve never seen a face I know registering that much pain.

At last we reached the halfway point, a river bend that provided some shelter from the wind. Noel lit a fire and heated mutton dumplings and tea. I thought it was the best meal I’d ever eaten.

“At least we won’t die hungry,” Bijani said.

Miraculously, the wind at our back made the homeward journey easy. Bijani got a lift in Noel’s sled. I laughed the whole way to camp, partly from relief, partly from borderline hysteria that made me careless with the reins a few times. Black peeked at me, looking concerned and a little disappointed. He licked his lips.

Once inside a safe felt tent with a dung fire going, we took off our huge coats and pants and took stock of our situation. Bijani removed her hat.

“Uh oh,” I said.

“My ears feel funny,” she said.

They were humongous. The backs had bubbled into deep purple blisters.

“Is this going to be ok?” I asked Noel.

“Oh that,’ he laughed. “That iz just from the cold. The elephant ears. You feel just like an elephant because ze are so…”

“Floppy?” Bijani offered

“Floppy!” He made wiggly elephant ear motions with his hands.

“Will she be ok?”

“But it iz nuffing. It’s happened to me at least five times.”

Noel’s headband remained conspicuously over his ears for our entire visit. We drove back in the dusk. Against the frozen brown backdrop that signature rock looked like a turtle trying to squeeze out of its shell and run, run for the hills, far away from its angry, future mother-in-law.

Things looked even worse when we got home and Bijani took her shoes off. The big toe on her right foot was black. I spent the evening breathing on her feet trying to keep them warm.

“This is just the romantic last evening I wanted,” Bijani said.

We got advice ranging from ‘put the affected areas in snow’ to ‘pray,’ to ‘everything will be fine.’ The next day, Bijani left for California with burn traces clearly showing on her face. She called me 20 hours later.

***

“So you’ll really be ok,” I asked.

“I think so.”

“I am so sorry. What a perfect end to a perfect stay, huh?”

“You know, I actually had a lot of fun.”

“Really?”

“Ha ha ha. Of course, didn’t you?”

“Except that it was the most awful, difficult, painful experience of my life, yeah, I guess I did.”

“Good. Plus we have a great story and I’ll have cool scars to prove it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It won’t be so bad. They won’t last more than a few months. Speaking of which, when are you coming home?”

“Dunno, after your mom has cooled down for a year or two… “ There was another silence on the line. “So, where to next? Somewhere really nice like Iceland, Antarctica, the frozen void of space …?

“Don’t get any ideas, buddy. I’m taking you somewhere warm.”

 ~Will~

For more on Will’s escapades in Mongolia, check out these additional EY articles:

Second Chances: UB Mongolia

EY Travel Tips: MONGOLIA

and coming soon:  TAJ MONGOLIA

Some say adversity is the fuel on which true love feeds…it certainly seems true for Will & Bijani who continue to surprise, delight & inspire us at every turn!  Read more about their engaging love story here.

Ben Nevis and Glen Nevis

(This story is a continuation of Part I: London to Inverness ,                Part II: Inverness to Loch Ness and Part III: Kyle of Lochalsh to Fort William)

View of Glen Nevis from Ben Nevis

Sunday, our last day in Scotland, we followed Benny’s directions to Cow Hill for a view of the mighty, 4,000-foot hump of Ben Nevis and its verdant adjoining valley, Glen Nevis.  Zigzagging up the ridge, the sun shone unimpeded for the first time on our trip. We chased sheep, lay in the sweet heather and made up stories about a Highland Goliath as older hikers passed us. I promised to be less of a miser—within reason.

Atop the hill we saw the sparkling expanse of Loch Linnhe and Fort William, and finally got a peek at Ben Nevis as it emerged from its cloudy wreath. We chased sheep back down the hill before returning to town. We only had a few hours left, but Bijani had one more thing on her agenda: the Harry Potter Waterfall in Glen Nevis.

It was too far to walk, and the only way to get there was by cab. I wanted to renege on my promise.

“You only get to go to Scotland once, but we have the rest of our lives to be broke,” I muttered.

“What’s that?”  Bijani asked.

“Nothing.”

The taxi driver pointed out the sights along the way: a field where Mel Gibson filmed a “Braveheart”  battle, hiring local amputees to fill in as the wounded; a bunch of shaggy highland cattle. He kindly agreed to pick us up in four hours.

***

A thin but strong current ran along the path to Glen Nevis. We walked through ferns and conifer trees. It seemed like a long way to go for sights from a movie. I walked ahead, rounding a bend past the stony face of a huge boulder and into the opening of the valley. A vast meadow unveiled itself. In the foreground stood the cloudy edifice of Ben Nevis; in the background, the forked deluge of Steall Falls.

A wire bridge traverses the stream to the waterfall trail, and gripping the coiled metal I forgot my fear of heights in the pale mist from the falls and the smell of wet grass. We ran slipping and losing our shoes in the thick mud, to the base of the falls.

It was time to return to the cab. I looked over my shoulder one more time as we re-rounded the bend. Bijani and I waited in the parking lot for the cab that would take us back to the train that would bring us down from the Highlands to our cold London apartment.  I looked in my wallet. I had $30, just enough for the return trip and to buy some snacks for our homeward journey.

“What a wonderful trip,” I said to Bijani and smiled.

She hugged me and for a moment I felt rich.

The End…(for now)

~Will~

Kyle of Lochalsh to Fort William

(This story is a continuation of Part I: London to Inverness and          Part II: Inverness to Loch Ness)

Eilean Donan Inside View

Kyle of Lochalsh  is notable for many reasons, depending on your priorities. It’s home to remarkably inexpensive fish and chips for example. A bay borders the one-mill town, which looks onto the Isle of Skye, while the restored Eilean Donan Castle, made famous by such movies as Highlander and the romantic comedy Made of Honor, lies aways to the East. Kyle also marked the penultimate leg of our journey before phase Harry Potter began in full.

Rain greeted us in the tiny town, as did a wryly good-natured fish and chips salesmen.

“How ya liking the weather?”

“It’s nice.”

“Sunny enough for ya?”

“We’d feel cheated if it was. We wanted the authentic Scottish experience.”

“It donna get more authentic than this.”

Bijani and I had taken a morning train from Inverness across the heart of the highlands—with its snow dusted mountains, its bright grassy valleys, its steely rivers and lakes—and if this trip and the stormy sound of Lochalsh represented the real Scotland , I was prepared to sign up for a lifetime membership.

***

An hour later we hopped on a bus that carried us along similar terrain south toward Fort William, on the shores of the beautiful Loch Linnhe. It’s a bed and breakfast town, not as picturesque as Inverness, but shadowed  by the 4,409 foot peak of Ben Nevis.

In town we found more rain and Benny, the friendly Englishman and transplanted owner of Invernevis, a handsome stone B&B with twin gables that overlooked the lake.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” he said as he took our bags.

“Yes,” we said in unison.

Bijani and I both ordered a traditional Scottish Breakfast, before heading to the Jacobite Train, named for the anti-British revolutionaries, now commonly known as the Hogwarts Express. The classic, black engine puffed smoke onto the platform and excited children ages 3 to 70 rushed into the cars, “just like in the movie!” The beautiful look accounted for the train’s finest attribute, and I couldn’t help note that another half-price train ran along the same tracks, to the same destination.

“You know, we could’ve just looked at this train and taken a ride on the other one,” I said as we boarded.

“Humbug,” Bijani laughed.

The Jacobite Train does not go to a school of wizardry, but rather Mailag, the dainty western-most port town in the UK. Locals say its home to Scotland’s best fish and chips. Best usually means expensive. As we chugged along, the ashy-white mountains and whaleskin lakes lying starkly against green and yellow grasses lost some of their luster.

In Mailag I loitered around the station, ordered fish and chips, vowed never to eat fish and chips again and got back on the train in an antagonistic mood.

“You know we could have saved fifty…”

“You don’t get it,” Bijani said.

We missed the famous aqueduct bridge on the way back because we were fighting. We went to bed in a bad mood back at Invernevis.

…To Be Continued in Part IV – The Final Installment!

~Will~

London to Inverness

Things started poorly.   Beneath a gloomy London sky at King’s Cross Station, my fiancée and I (see our Engagement Story Parts 1 & 2) boarded the Caledonia Sleeper  for Inverness, the Scottish Highlands’ largest city. Bijani had mapped a triangular tour of the region by train and bus, incorporating Loch Ness, the United Kingdom’s tallest mountain and many, many things Harry Potter.

Fun? Sure. Affordable? Probably not.

Early on there was tension: if nine years together had demonstrated anything, it would be the futility of lobbying me to “splurge” on a sleeping berth, and she didn’t even try. But my future wife clearly wasn’t keen on the half-empty railcar and reclining chairs we settled into, premade salami sandwiches in hand.

The situation didn’t improve. Near the end of our journey I awoke to a man shouting at his phone, “Yeah, Mate. I’ve been sitting next to a convicted murderer since Perth. Just introduced himself. Had his daughter with him. He was all right, but…”

I closed my eyes. When seats don’t actually recline and railcar temperatures fluctuate between steam-room sweaty and walk-in-freezer, murder seems less disturbing. For nine hours I’d questioned the wisdom of saving $20 to the point where my core beliefs faltered.

Then the brand new light unveiled our first real view of Scotland: fresh green pastures; sheep, cloud-like in their fluffiness; friendly white cottages economically trimmed with red.

As the train rambled into the unofficial Highland capital, I prepared for a wonderful time in Scotland, home of my ancestors, at whatever price—within reason.

*** INVERNESS***

A city by population, Inverness (meaning “Mouth of the River Ness”) charms like a slightly stern European village. Inverness Castle, the modern day incarnation of a former Pictish stronghold, overlooks the city center from a small hill, while the Ness’ clean, industrious waters divide a picturesque downtown. Its main thoroughfares are appealingly cluttered with church steeples and stone buildings, many of which border an idyllic pedestrian mall.

Our guidebook compared the city’s High Street to London’s frenetic Oxford Street, just less crowded and with a kilt store instead of Dolce and Gabbana; a dollar store instead of a Gap, and instead of a Virgin Megastore, a dollar store.

The guidebook also noted Scots, perhaps by undue reputation, are notorious penny pinchers.

This was my kind of place.

“Does my Scotch ancestry explain why I’m so cheap?” I asked as we walked the empty mall toward our hostel.

“I don’t think there’s any question.”

“Oh good, it’s genetic.”

She laughed, though some resentment lingered in her voice. She’s still upset we’ve seen every breath in our London apartment this winter because I insist layers are more cost effective than heating, microwaves are luxury items for the upper classes and an authentic Dickensian experience will advance her literature studies.

Working back toward her good graces, I requested a private room at the BazPackers Inn,  a cozy site across from Inverness Castle, for $10 extra. Seated on a warm bed, we unloaded our stuff, took inventory and prepared for a full day of exploration.

…To Be Continued in Part II: Inverness to Loch Ness

   -Will-

 

My Engagement
or
How A Procrastinating Pragmatist Rediscovered Romance

Continued from Part 1 – An Engaging Story:   Mid-morning on April 18^th I woke up, looked at my phone, then rushed to the laundry room for pants. I had a lunch appointment with my girlfriend’s mom. I needed permission to marry her daughter. The rest of the day would be for ring shopping…

… I had two things remaining on my to do list: 1) find a ring; 2) tell my parents. I didn’t get around to either that day.

It was now April 19th, the day my girlfriend turned 25 and we were meeting for dinner at 6:00. I had a writing assignment due at 3:00. I finished it at 3:01 and drove home from school.

On the family patio I ran into my father balancing our trusty stone fountain with a screwdriver and some pennies. Water started gurgling from the angel faces on all four sides. 

“Dad I’m–getting engaged.”

He stood up. “When?” The angels went silent.

“In two hours.”

“You better tell your mother,” he said. Those were his words anyway, but the look said, “Son, you’ve stepped in it.” 

I took a deep breath and stared at the gaping cherubs on the imbalanced fountain. “Don’t look at us for help,” they seemed to say. “You’ve really done it this time.”

My mother interrupted these reflections by opening the front door. There was no time for a lengthy explanation and the words spilled forth in an unbroken stream.

“Hi Mom I’m getting engaged.”

“That’s…”

“Before you say anything I have to do it in two hours and I don’t have a ring and I really need your help.”

My dad needed to be at work, but he came too. We drove to the downtown jewelry shop where he’d once taken me to buy my girlfriend a silver necklace inlaid with purple-glass. That was the night of junior prom.

“Good afternoon,” my mother said to the jeweler lady, “We’re looking for engagement rings.”

“Congratulations!” she smiled at me sympathetically. “We don’t have a huge selection, but you’re more than welcome.” She removed a case with about 30 rings of assorted shapes and sizes. The prospects were dim. 

After a while my mother picked out an imperial-looking ring whose center stone rose high above two bulbs of carbon. It was quite probably the best of the lot, but it wasn’t good enough.

A procrastinating pragmatist with a heart of gold

“Wait a minute.” I pointed to a better one. “She’d love this.”

It was a band topped by an elongated, angular face with a pearl coming out of the head like a turban or a partially popped piece of corn or an exposed, giant-white brain: A Temple of Doom ring.

“You can’t,” my mom said.

“It’d be kinda funny.”

“An engagement is something a girl never forgets. It’s supposed to be romantic.”

 “It’d just be a place holder…”

“If you buy that, she will say no.”

“…Till I can afford something nicer.”

My dad was extra silent.

“I will tell her to say no,” my mother said.

I nudged her in the “let’s keep our voices down in front of strangers, you’re embarrassing me” way, but she was rolling and there was no stopping her.

I sighed and looked back at the potential symbols of my engagement. I was pretty set on the Temple of Doom ring. I tuned back into my mom. 

“You can’t put everything off,” she concluded.

I glanced once more at the case, and there they were: five small diamonds shining from a gold setting that looked white, but proved yellow on closer inspection. It was modest. It was elegant.

I plucked the ring from the lackluster assembly. My mom looked pleased.

“That’s the one.”

“That’s pretty good,” my dad said.

The jeweler placed it on a measuring rod. “Size six and a half, but I can have it resized by next week.”

“That won’t be necessary. I need it in an hour.” The ring was a perfect fit. Or pretty close. “I’m meeting her for dinner downtown.”

“Wonderful!” said the jeweler. “Where’d you make your reservation?”

***

I brushed the lint off my black jacket and tied the knot on the skinny tie my girlfriend likes with a few minutes to spare.  The ring was in the cookie box. The cookie box was in a bag.

I picked her up on time, and my girlfriend and I drove back to the downtown and parked outside its nicest restaurant. The jeweler had called ahead to save us a place. 

“This is so nice,” my girlfriend said.

And it was. Over our food we debated the merits of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice miniseries versus the Hollywood production and laughed and cast people from our high school in roles from Anna Karenina. I brushed the bag under the table with my foot and felt confident.

It was very dark when we finished, but not cold. Outside I placed my jacket over my girlfriend’s shoulder’s and asked if we could go for a walk. We strolled beneath the old iron street lamps, past the cluttered display of the jewelry shop, the town hall and the pizza place we’d been to on a chaperoned date. We walked past the watch maker’s corner shop and turned toward the wooden-planked bridge that leads to a small park. I heard water meandering down the creek bed.

One night after class as a 17-year old I’d walked to my girlfriend’s house on the county line to say “I love you” for the first time, but I’d known it in this little park before that, leaning on a railing and listening to the stream beneath the cool redwoods.

We crossed the bridge and I felt nervous for the first time that day. Beside the railing I took out the cookie box.

“I got you a present. Something small.”

“You did?”

“Well, your mom went to Paris and I asked her to get those macaroons you always talk about.”

“Awwww.”

She took the box and balanced it on the rail to give me a hug. It tottered for a moment.

“Let’s take a step back,” I said.

I grabbed it, handed it to her once more and as she peered inside I lowered myself onto one knee. She saw the ring, then saw me looking up at her.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

I looked at her face. She didn’t say anything, but I got the feeling I’d just drank something very warm except in reverse, starting in my stomach and moving to my chest. She was crying. I stood up. 

“Yes,” she said.

Did I tell her how much I loved her and how happy she’d made me right there and then? No. I smiled and wrapped my arm around her. I had the rest of my life for that and I didn’t want to spoil this moment with words.

-Will-

A Procrastinating Pragmatist With A Heart of Gold

My Engagement

or

How A Procrastinating Pragmatist

Rediscovered Romance

I was romantic once.

It was late summer and I’d been walking with my girlfriend of somewhere-between-eight-and-nine-years down a rolling, park single-track. We’d climbed the dusty hill, descended the empty river bed and were just passing the riding ring and red barn of a stable I know intimately. It was where my mother brought my sister and me as children, ostensibly to pet and feed horses, but actually to inoculate us against farm diseases. 

The stables smelled of old redwood, dry hay, and also of horse manure, which as manures go is quite pleasant. And I felt quite pleasant, even though she and I were fighting.

It was one of those arguments, where problem A (I’d ditched her friends) was presented as the issue when in fact it was problem B (we weren’t engaged). I was winning.

As I petted a mare that searched my hand fruitlessly for something good to eat, my girlfriend broached the real subject.

“All I want,” she said, “is a sign that you are committed to this relationship and to me and that we have a future together.”

It was a very practical thing to say, and “Be pragmatic” had recently become an unofficial motto, a companion to the official: “When in doubt, procrastinate.” These may be difficult to reconcile, but I can be persistent.

“Listen,” I said, “give me one year and I’ll do it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We’d reached the edge of the park and were walking quietly past a bulldozer idling on a vacant lot when I had a flash of inspiration. I would propose on her birthday, April 19th. She’d like it. It would be romantic. It would be easy to remember.

At that moment I was excited. I was committed. Then I forgot.

***

Mid-morning on April 18^th I woke up, looked at my phone, then rushed to the laundry room for pants. I had a lunch appointment with my girlfriend’s mom. I needed permission to marry her daughter. The rest of the day would be for ring shopping.

Seated across from the woman who’d once found you in your underwear, hiding in her daughter’s closet, might be intimidating for some, but not for me, until it came time to propose the big pre-question. 

“I’d like to ask your daughter to marry me tomorrow, but I wanted to ask you first.”

 “Awww, that’s nice,” she said. “Why should I let you?”

She looked at me keenly. I was unprepared and didn’t ace the response.

 “Well, it’s a responsible thing to do… it’s important to have commitment… it’s been such a long time…”  Then I rallied for a solid B-. “When it comes down to it, we really care for each other.”

I’d come out of the lunch date with more than I had going in and felt good walking my future mother-in-law to her car. I’d received her blessing, plus she’d improved my proposal plan. Instead of handing over a simple ring box, I would hide it in a second box filled with my girlfriend’s favorite Parisian macaroons, which they just happened to have at home.

I held the car door open for my girlfriend’s mom.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said, “But a taqueria? Couldn’t you have chosen a nicer place?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to give any illusions about the kind of guy I am.”

***

To Be Continued –  in Part 2: The Engagement

-Will-