I wrote this as part of the Central Utah Writing Project summer institute that I participated in. It was a good way to spend 4 weeks of the summer--I'd recommend it to any teacher. Maybe I can post some of my other writings....or some of the other goofiness that occurred.
On the Road to Tuscany
I slipped into the warm water and peered into the depths below where a new world of colors and fantastic creatures opened before me. I couldn’t turn away from the seascape that was unfolding, filled with magical sights I had no name for. Copper colored fish sparkled and popped against the aqua depths of the water as strange spiky animals appeared in what I had been sure was just grass.
But wait. That was just my imagination talking. When I really went snorkeling on my honeymoon, I had to change into my swimming suit on the boat with the guide, my white butt bare under the sun. Our guide had attempted to procure a bathroom for us to change in, but the restaurant owner he chose to solicit was not inclined to acquiesce. During the string of foreign obscenities that ensued, we quickly exited the premises as our guide repeated, “Esta loco! He’s crazy!”
Once clothed in appropriate attire and out in the water, I struggled with salt water getting in my mouth and burning the blister I had gotten from one of my flippers. My mask was on too tight, giving me a headache and angry red welts. Ruefully, my husband pointed out that my upper lip was puffed out like I’d been kissing a vacuum cleaner. Needless to say I passed on doing the second excursion—and of course, missed seeing the barracuda, a highlight of the trip.
That was my reality, but I came into snorkeling expecting the first experience. Traveling is over romanticized. We expect that when we travel everything will be like the commercials we see on TV, or the movies we see, or the memoirs we read. Traveling is supposed to allow us to experience exotic places and foods. We’re supposed to come to a greater understanding and respect of diverse cultures. Everything is colorful, romantic, and artsy, and somehow we arrive at this magic self-enlightenment in Tuscany. But often reality doesn’t match up to expectation.
And furthermore, popular culture tends to skip over the bad parts of traveling. People fight with their travel companions. Hostels up and disappear. Lots of time is spent doing boring things like hunting for water or a bathroom (two things that are surprisingly hard to find outside of the US where it seems drinking fountains and public restrooms are nonexistent). And of course, the experience of actually getting from point A to point B isn’t exactly always pleasant: air pressure changes, crying babies, motion sickness, and let’s not forget, TSA.
I recently returned from a trip to the east coast. Beltless and shoeless, I was waiting for the person in front of me to walk through the metal detector when I saw another metal detector to the side with no line. The TSA agent made eye contact with me and beckoned me, so I walked over. However, once inside, it became apparent that this was not a metal detector but, in fact, one of the new and controversial body scan machines. As I stood with my hands over my head, I thought, “Oh well. So they’re basically seeing me naked. At least I’m almost through this business.”
But . . . I wasn’t.
After I had the body scan, apparently I needed a pat down as well. I was confused. Isn’t it supposed to be one or the other? If they already saw my near-naked silhouette, what more did they expect to find?
Well, I still don’t know what they expected to find, but I quickly discovered that “pat down” was a misnomer. Caressing would have been more accurate; I kid you not. It felt more like a seduction than a search for weapons. The woman actually felt INSIDE my pants all around my waist. She felt all around my boobs and put her hand on my inner thigh—all the way against my crotch—and brought it down.
Now as disturbing as this experience was, I found that as soon as it happened I couldn’t wait to tell people about it. After the shock passed, and I was seated on the plane, I called my mom and gave her an earful of impassioned rhetoric (probably to the dismay of my seatmate). Then when I arrived home, I relayed the drama to my husband who suggested that I should have made snide comments like “You really know how to touch a woman” or “Is this as good for you as it is for me?” I may not have arrived at self-enlightenment in Tuscany, and my dignity may not be wholly intact, but I’ve sure had a lot of laughs along the way.
