Travel Bug Robert
Finding the funny in the world.

In case you didn’t know, don’t stand on a geyser

Geysers are dangerous, sure.  Giant spigots of hot gas.  Yeah, that’s gonna hurt if you get too close.  I guess some people don’t know that, though.  So Yellowstone has installed these incredible signs within the National Park warning visitors what could happen if you wander off the path and onto one of these steam gushers.  But the picture tells such a deeper story than just the horrible consequences of hugging a geyser.  Let’s break it down:

First, you got the kid.  Okay, he’s the rule breaker.  The troublemaker.  Went off the path—a long way off the path, by the looks of it—and stepped on a geyser.  His hat’s midair, which makes me think the geyser had burned him mere seconds before, and he jumped from the shock of getting burned.  I’d jump, too, especially if I were wearing shorts like his.  Though, his knee-high tube socks at least protected his shins.

The kid is the only necessary part of the picture.  But the artist doesn’t stop with him.

Next, we have the woman, most likely the boy’s mother.  She is standing there on the path in shock, pointing at her injured child and screaming.  Now, it’s true people sometimes freeze up when they go into shock, but this kid had enough time to run off the path and up to a geyser.  Was the mother in shock during that entire amount of time?  Seriously, watch your kid.  A kid that age isn’t going to know about geyser danger.  That’s why you, the parental guardian, are there to supervise them.

The plot builds to a dramatic conclusion with the guy walking away.  I haven’t quite figured him out.  He could be just another visitor to the park, but he’s walking away.  If a woman and child are screaming within earshot, wouldn’t he at least look in the direction of the screaming, even if he were a stranger?  What I fear is he’s the father of the burning child.  The man works twelve hour days as a tool and die maker and has been growing apart from his family because of the long hours.  Struggling to keep his family in tact, he used what few vacation days he has to go on a road trip with his wife and son.  But he could only get time off in August, so it’s hot, it’s crowded, and his kid’s been whining the whole time.  After another outburst from the little brat, the father decides a geyser burn will teach the kid a thing or two about appreciating how good you have it.

Or maybe the man is deaf, but I don’t think the artist would be that specific in his backstory.

You can park anywhere with one of those!

Rome has a lot of Vespas, but you probably already knew that.  You also probably knew Rome had tiny vehicles in general.  But there’s something about a Vespa that really excites me.  They just look so cool.  Zipping along windy streets, weaving in between traffic, while a deep voiced Italian delivers a philosophical voiceover and everything is shot in black and white.

I’ve never ridden a Vespa.  The closest thing I’ve gotten to ride is a motorized scooter.  Now, mind you, Vespas are technically scooters.  For the SAT crowd, “Vespa” is to “Scooter” what “Kleenex” is to “Tissue.”  But the scooter I rode wasn’t gas powered and able to fit both a slender Roman beauty and myself.  No, this was a tiny electric scooter with a maximum speed of 14 miles per hour.  And it had a basket.  Not the sexiest thing to drive, especially when you notice an obese, middle aged woman riding on a better version across the street.

I took that baby up to 14, a very light breeze barely moving my hair.  I could hear the electric motor squeal out a high pitched noise, mechanically begging me to slow down.  After a block, I took mercy on the machine, made an extremely wide turn–the only turn size possible on this thing–and sputtered back to the starting line.

I can only hope Vespas are cooler to ride than that.

Football? No, thank you.

It seems like I’m the only guy in the world who doesn’t like sports.  At least, when I travel it feels that way.  Cities live and die by if their team wins.  This year, Argentina had riots when one of their teams lost.  LA has riots if the Lakers lose or win.  I just don’t get it.  I want to get it.  Oh, how I want to get it.  I want to understand the thrill of following a team during the season, knowing every player’s record and their strengths and weaknesses.  Then, in the off season, actually getting joy out of seeing which players get traded.  A great ice breaker with a local in any city you visit is to ask who their favorite team or athlete is.  Sports is one of those universal things men can talk about, like the weather or attractive women.  But guys seem to like talking sports more than altocumulous clouds.

I’ve even played competitive sports, so it’s not like I haven’t tried to understand.  I played soccer (read: football) as a kid, like a good midwestern boy should.  But I only liked the half-time orange slices and end of the season pizza party.  At one point during a game, I invented an imaginary instrument and began to play it on the field instead of playing defense.  We lost that game.

People call someone a nerd if he knows every Star Wars character, and which planet they’re from, and what colored light saber they have.  But if someone knows every stat of the starting lineup of some team, that’s acceptable knowledge.  I learned while in Argentina that Messi was a fantastic football (read: soccer) player.  I didn’t know who this dude was, but apparently he’s the best player in the world or something.  Back when I was slinging coffee in Beverly Hills, I served the Boston Celtics’ center, who was wearing a Celtics jersey, and I just thought he was a tall guy that liked the Celtics.  I won’t know who you are if your name is Joe Torre and once managed the LA Dodgers, but if you played a peripheral character in Jane Seymour’s mid-90s television show Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, get ready for one starstruck fan asking for your autograph.

I’m sure I’ll continue to get by without sports in my life, but I’m a little nervous about when I turn fifty.  I hate playing golf, and according to the birthday card section at Target, that’s all fifty-year-old men do.  Well, that and they fart a lot.  I guess I have something to look forward to.

Robert Tries to Speak Spanish in Argentina

As you will quickly find out while watching this video (SPOILER ALERT), I don’t speak Spanish.  I spent my formative years learning German, a useful language if I ever move to Central Europe.  Seriously, you’d think with that Third Reich business there’d at least be a few places in the world that were forced to speak German and continue to do so now.  My friends who learned French can at least go up to Canada and speak with the locals.  I gotta fly to Europe.

Why, then, did I choose to study German?  Well, my ancestors were German, and at the time, I guess it felt like my chance to learn about my ancient Germanic culture.  My lazy high school German teacher had other plans, though.  He “taught” us German by playing American movies dubbed into German, where we’d hopefully pick up vocab words.  Nothing says Germanic culture like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

I’ve never really used what little my four years of studying German taught me, but I will say the classes were an easy A, and at the time, that’s what I needed most.  Since English is a Germanic language, if you said an English word in a German accent, there’d be, like, a 1 in 3 chance of you saying an actual German word.  Next time you’re in Germany, give it a shot.  I’m sure they’re really cool about you gambling with their language.

Emeril was right about kickin’ it up a notch

I like myself some spice.  When I eat the Vietnamese noodle soup, Pho, I could just enjoy the subtle flavors of the chicken broth.  But I don’t.  I load on the Sriracha, that magical and very spicy red condiment that comes in a squeeze bottle.  If it’s Taco Time* in my apartment, I get out the Cholula hot sauce, ’cause that chicken needs some kick.

Food critics like to be challenged by the food they eat.  Fusions between vastly different cuisines, exotic ingredients, unique preparations.  I also like to be challenged by food, but on my budget, I’ve settled on the challenge of eating a tablespoon of wasabi.  Or a chili pepper.  Eating to the point of pain, basically.  That’s how I walk on the wild side.  Well, it’s more like a walk through a partially gentrified neighborhood bordering The Wild Side, but it’s something.

New Orleans is known for its food, and it’s also known for its spice.  And that’s one of the many reasons I like the place.  Watery eyes, running nose–these are usually symptoms of a cold, but if they happen while you’re eating jambalaya, that’s a good thing.  Your body is telling you to stop, that you’re hurting yourself and you should just eat a slice of toast, and yet you continue, chowing down on that sweat-inducing stuff. This is when boys become men.

Some say people hallucinate when they eat incredibly spicy foods.  That hasn’t happened to me yet.  Then again, Thomas Jefferson did suggest I order more naan for my curry…

*Taco Time is a very special time of the day when I make myself tacos.