Category: Travel

In Eastern Europe, a chain reaction

~ Chris ~ 4 Comments

The free-market floodgates of post-communist Budapest have let in the Wicked Waste of the West, from Burger King and McDonald’s to Starbucks and KFC.

My genial young guide on the Budapest Jewish Quarter tour last week let slip his attitude about the tawdry chain invaders when we passed a Hard Rock Cafe and I made a snarky quip. “I won’t even talk about it,” he huffed with a wave of the hand, as if fanning away a stench.

This, of course, is nothing new in my travels, or even in our very own USA. There’s a festering resentment of western chains encroaching on native businesses with crass venality. 

On another tour in Budapest a few days ago, the guide took aim at Starbucks’ coffee, explaining proudly how inferior it is to almost any local cafe offering. (True. I tried some.)

Grumbling about foreign corporate chains is a vigorous sport among the educated classes in Europe, bashing them and their ostensibly shoddy, unhealthy, unethical food products, sold with such vulgar aggression. (Apple, Gap, Nike and other mega-retailers get a breezy pass. A Mac is hip; a Big Mac not so much.)

Traveling in two post-Nazi, post-communist countries in recent days — Hungary and Poland — I enjoyed the dissonance of Old East banging heads with Newish West. I’m a wuss, sort of taking both sides in the argument, leaning toward the European stance. (I happen to think most fast food is execrable poison.) 

Now, beyond carping about capitalism, here’s a few pictures from a wonderful journey to a slab of the world I find beautiful, fascinating and unfailingly friendly. The trip — filled with head-spinning history, humbling humanity and killer cuisine — was a knockout.

The most famous “ruin bar,” called Szimpla Kert, a huge, arty pre-war ruin in Budapest’s hip Jewish Quarter
Budapest’s iconic Parliament through the window of a Danube River cruise
The infamous gate at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp in Poland. Yes, some dolts took selfies there.
Main Market Square in Old Town, Krakow, Poland
Main Market Square, Krakow, from my hotel window, about 6:30 a.m.

Get up and go

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

Work, money, kids, pets — these variables can be holding you back from taking the plunge and taking a trip, an honest-to-god bona fide vacation, a far-flung journey to another land, preferably a place where English isn’t the primary language. (England’s great; Japan’s better.) I’m not talking the Bahamas or Cabo.

A neighborhood acquaintance and I ran into each other walking our dogs in the fallish cool today. She’s Mary, who I chat with about three times a year and was sporting a red shirt and red sunglasses. Her dog is tiny and hirsute. Like my dog, but bristly.

Niceties out of the way during this affable stop and chat, she asks, “Where are you going next?” I’m sort of known for jetting to some exotic-ish locale a couple times a year. (Jetting? We’re talking United Economy, baby.)

I tell her Budapest and Krakow, leaving in five weeks. 

Why Budapest, she says (though, oddly, she doesn’t ask why Poland). I say I’ve been meaning to go for years, but it never quite made my bucket list. But now I’m jacked. After deep-dish research, the Eastern European city beckons. (I didn’t actually use the word “beckons” in mixed company.)

“I wish I had that joie de vivre, that wanderlust,” Mary says, almost contritely. 

“But you do,” I say. “I think we all do.”

The dogs sniff each other’s buttholes.

I say that I don’t understand why people don’t travel more, don’t seize the day and make it happen. It’s about priorities. It’s about money. It’s about time. But it’s also about curiosity and interest in the world beyond. How does one not travel? Not harbor the galvanizing urge to move, see, taste, experience? 

I don’t say all that — I wasn’t giving a TED Talk — but I do tell her that travel is easier than you think. Once you finance it — travel cheap! It’s great! — the gears churn and plans get made. (I, of course, travel solo, so it’s even easier without the bulky carry-on cargo — i.e., another person.)

Mary seems flustered, like she can’t answer why she doesn’t get up and go. Which I find odd, frankly. She has a husband and a dog, no kids — that latter part is crucial. She’s practically free! 

“Where have you gone in the last five years?” she asks. 

I think I actually rubbed my chin as I tried to rattle off some destinations: Naples, Rome, Portugal, Scotland, Turkey, Japan, Paris, Bueno Aires … Then it felt show-offy and I trailed off. I did stress Istanbul as an extra special destination, and she seemed genuinely intrigued. She proposed we get together and talk about my trips and look at photos from them (with her husband, of course), emphasizing Turkey.  

She was coming around. In just minutes of gabbing on the acorn-cobbled sidewalk, she was getting the bug. Travel: it’s an infectious disease. And it’s almost totally benign.

Except for this little hitch: it will blow your mind. 

Facing evil

~ Chris ~ 2 Comments

Let’s not get all down about it, but I’m reading “Survival in Auschwitz,” the slim and indelible account of life in the most notorious Nazi concentration camp by Primo Levi, an “Italian citizen of Jewish race.” Published in 1947, the pages bulge with terrible and inconceivable realities, much of it learned about in any decent schooling, yet far more personal and unsparingly granular. The horrors are shattering.

So I will spare you. I’m reading the book, an autobiographical classic, because of my upcoming visit to Auschwitz, just outside of Kraków, Poland. My trip, as I’ve oft-noted, takes me to Budapest, then Kraków, where I went years ago, including the day trip to the concentration camp, which is now a haunting al fresco museum that staggers with its bleak, blunt truths. Even the gift shop (yes, gift shop) is stained with gloom.

Why do we go to such places? I know someone who said he would skip Auschwitz if he went to Kraków, a fact I find astonishing. Few places throb with such recent history and so many fresh ghosts and has shaped so much of the modern era to now. It’s living history, inescapable. To duck it, inexcusable. 

That’s just me. Genocide is vital and we should be exposed to it as a reality check and cautionary device. Visiting Auschwitz (or Duchau, which I toured in Germany) is mind-expanding. It’s not a place for morbid curiosity or ogling. It’s a place for reflection and wonder. Like any potent museum, it works intellectual muscles and, more so, wrenches emotional ones. It’s as powerful as any Holocaust memorial or, similarly, the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. Its utter humanity rumbles, and humbles.

I have a strong stomach for dark and doom. I seek out shrines to deformity and mortality, like the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia, the Museum of Forensic Medicine in Bangkok, freak shows and books about human oddities. I always make a solemn visit to Holocaust museums, be it in Amsterdam or Israel. Or, of course, Auschwitz-Birkenau. 

It’s not about luxuriating in morbidity or getting a “thrill” from death, like some sophomoric Goth, who gleans reality from graphic novels and zombie movies. It’s the opposite, being repelled by it while pondering the strength, the sheer fortitude, of the victims and acknowledging that it can’t happen again. The triteness of that statement is a reflection of its truth.

In “Survival in Auschwitz,” Primo Levi writes eloquently of struggle and endurance in the face of naked evil inside the death camp. His spirit is wounded but unbowed. Survival is paramount, and he carries on because it’s all he can do. 

He says: “Sooner or later in life, everyone discovers that perfect happiness is unrealizable, but there are few who pause to consider the antithesis: that perfect unhappiness is equally unobtainable … Our ever-sufficient knowledge of the future opposes it, and this is called, in the one instance: hope.” 

Late summer litany

~ Chris ~ 3 Comments

1.Late summer rain, lusty breezes, 70 degrees — paradise. Fall is knocking and I’m tripping over myself to answer the door. Of course more heat is brewing — it will hit 86 on Saturday — but the wind and wet is a heartening preview of the best season of all. Autumn is when I travel. It’s when I look for clothes — jackets, long sleeve shirts, shoes maybe. I recently bought a new watch and new glasses, both of them a shimmering blue, though any color coordination was strictly fortuitous. I’m not that fashionable. I consider the items fall purchases, as the watch is largely a travel accessory and the glasses signify renewal and optimism, things, perhaps counterintuitively, I associate with fall. (Plus, my prior glasses needed a new prescription and I never did like those old frumpy frames.) So summer’s in retreat. Cooler climes and shorter days are coming. And I’m getting all celebratory.  

2.The Little Rascals they’re not. But these kids have vim and spunk and initiative, an entrepreneurial spirit that fuels their gumption to holler at passing strangers who are easily a foot taller than them: “Lemonade! Get your lemonade right here!” These neighborhood urchins, some seven girls and boys, are tracing a wholesome tradition from way back — I’m thinking Tom Sawyer days. Times have changed: Their tangy beverage is displayed in bougie glass dispensers, from Ikea or West Elm. And they demand $2 per cup (in my day we charged a quarter!). It’s the last lap of summer, and here I come strolling under shade trees lining the hood’s main artery, a sitting duck. I’m buffeted by the blandishments of piping young voices touting their wares. But I am stuck. I’m carrying no cash, and evidently they don’t take Visa. All I can do is tell them this and walk on. It’s embarrassing, a little. But it beats what happened to me when I was hawking lemonade as a seven-year-old. “Lemonade!” I yelled at a passing car. The driver turned my way and flipped me off. Those were the days.

A stock photo, but look at that wad of cash!

3. Sometimes — no, almost always — a good, hard pop song is just the thing. I’ve been rediscovering two of the best power pop bands of the ‘90s, Jellyfish and The Posies, who prove a genius for the grooving, hair-tossing, sing-alongy pop hook. Plucking styles from a sequins rainbow of catchy, often ethereal influences — Bowie, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Queen, ELO, Supertramp, Cheap Trick, with a pinch of psychedelia and a pound of Phil Spector — Jellyfish and The Posies layered sweet melodies atop bombastic rhythms and throbbing drums: sugar-coated hand grenades. Their greatest albums, Jellyfish’s “Spilt Milk” and The Posies’ “Frosting on the Beater,” rock as hard as they pop. Lush melodies and harmonies reign. And, especially in the case of Jellyfish, their sound and look is consciously sui generis; Day-Glo and dapper, the group seems right out of Sid & Marty Krofft. Even now, the bands crackle with a big bubblegum snap. Hear them here and here. (What happened to them? Grunge happened.)

Jellyfish, working hard at being psycho-delic.

4.My trip to Budapest and Kraków is precisely two months away. I know, it seems like I’ve been gabbing about it for an eternity. That’s because I have. Vacations are like that: you plan them, book them, then hurry up and wait. For months. Two months left. Grueling, but at least summer (*#$&!) is almost over. I’m still fussing with some fine points of the trip, like booking an overnight sleeper train from Budapest to Kraków (they told me to wait till the end of the month). And netting a spot at a coveted restaurant in Budapest (they told me to wait till mid-September). See, I’m ahead of myself. I booked hotels and dinners and tours four months in advance. Question: Should I really pop 30 bucks for a 45-minute tour of the Hungarian Parliament, which is beautiful and jewel-encrusted? I’m chewing over that one. But I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

Nope.

Watching it

~ Chris ~ 2 Comments

My wrists are boldly bare of beads, bands or bangles. I haven’t worn a watch in too many years to count. Bracelets, even the hippie/friendship kind, are no longer my style. And it’s alien when they snap on those paper wristbands at concerts and parties; I suddenly feel over-accessorized, or worse, like an inpatient. 

In my early world travels, I would sport a cheap little watch (a Casio, I think) before I owned a cell phone. Prior to that, I wore nothing on my wrists, unless you count the spiked leather bands we’d strap on as teens at metal shows, and I’d rather not.

The other day, however, I was transfixed by a banner ad for a watch. Granted, it was for an aggressively blue Swatch, which I knew I wouldn’t pursue, but it unfurled a vista I haven’t taken in for a very long time. A watch. How novel. I mused: Is it, um, time?

I suddenly became perversely excited for something as dully utilitarian as a … wristwatch. Like the time I just had to have this pair of Italian sneakers, or got an irrational urge to go to China (which I did, and I’m glad). Every once in a while, I can get almost maniacally materialistic: I must have that — now! And so, quite obsessively, I plunged into the world of watches. 

Down the rabbit hole I went, heedless, with fierce attention to fashion and function, while avoiding the bejeweled Omega and Rolex price brackets (rackets), as well as over-compensating smartwatches. With watches, I’m strictly a dilettante, not Flavor Flav. A couple hundred bucks, tops, maybe a mite more. And hold the bells and whistles. I’m also not an astronaut.  

After some initial scouring of mostly lame watches, including a bizarre glut of Snoopy timepieces, I spotted a handsome Timex, black brushed metal with a brown leather strap, at upscale men’s fashion outlet Todd Snyder. The piece is sporty, hip, sleek.

I bought it. I got it. It failed. 

I have spectacularly small wrists, roughly the circumference of kindling, and the 41mm watch face looked like a Chips Ahoy! cookie on my arm. Mammoth. It made me sad (and hungry).

Lesson learned — hopes burned — I began searching for 36mm to 38mm sizes, anything that wouldn’t look like a hubcap on my wrist. But these sizes are relatively scarce, so I couldn’t be picky. Yet I was coming across butt-fugly contraptions barnacled with dials and buttons and faces so complex, night vision goggles are required. I wasn’t joining the Navy Seals.

And then, there it was. A classically simple, elegantly plain analog watch, subtle and smallish, with a handsome olive green face and gold hands and digits and a tasteful black strap. It’s also a Timex, released in collaboration with Todd Snyder, an exclusive limited edition, and thus a few more dollars than I wanted to spend. It’s on its way as I type this. It better kill.

The hours spent shopping for a watch were exhausting and preposterous, and I only found two I liked. But shopping is a contact sport — mean, raw, intense. Be it looking for a Honda or a house, you scour and winnow and balance a mountain of variables (unless you’re shopping for a loaf of bread, say, and then the drama drops significantly). It can be arduous, but it’s also fun, because buying stuff is fun. I think this new toy will fit the bill. Just watch.

  • Update: The watch arrived today. It’s the size of a hubcap.

More marvelous miscellany

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

1.One of my least favorite things in the world, after e-scooters and ravers, is sweating. Which means I am not a happy fellow. Why? Right. Because I am sweating. And rather a lot, swamp-ass and all. Somehow I thought it’d be a swell idea to take a brisk walk in the 92-degree blech of midsummer. The light sweat I produced outside — a mere film — quickly metastasized into a profuse drenching once inside. Forty minutes later, in powerful AC, it has yet to subside. How bad is it? The dog is licking me avidly, like I’m a giant piece of beef jerky.

2.House of Terror — how kicky is that for the name of a major tourist attraction? It’s real, and it’s not a ride at your local carnival. This daunting museum is in Budapest, where I head this fall, and it isn’t about ghouls and goblins. Or, well, it sort of is. Per its description: “It contains exhibits related to the fascist and communist regimes in 20th-century Hungary and is also a memorial to the victims of these regimes, including those detained, interrogated, tortured or killed in the building.” History writ large. And horrible. I’m so there, with solemn intentions, despite the thrilling name. 

3.Just finished Paul Harding’s newish novel “This Other Eden” on the dazzling strength of his first book, the 2009 Pulitzer Prize-winning “Tinkers,” which is uniquely mesmerizing. “Eden” limns Black American history in its many facets, including, troublingly, eugenics. Harding is an uncompromising stylist, forging gorgeous, gem-cut prose that’s sometimes too infatuated with itself, yet nevertheless tells a fascinating story. Harding writes like few others — Cormac McCarthy and Faulkner come to mind — but he can stumble on his own lush verbiage. He is a flawed master.

4.The new documentary about massive but short-lived Brit pop duo Wham! — aptly titled “Wham!” — is out on Netflix, and the trailer promises a bubbly, bubblegummy, bing-bang time (“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” anyone?). The movie, a giddy romp directed by crack documentarian Chris Smith, isn’t, alas, as brawny as frontman George Michael’s uncrackable Aqua Net helmet. It’s strictly for googly-eyed fans who can’t be bothered with pop music history, laser-focusing on bandmates’ Michael and Andrew Ridgeley’s frolicsome BFF status and their improbable rise from cheesy teen wannabes to slick arena-fillers. Critically missing in this narrow nostalgia trip is cultural context, as if Wham! exploded in an ‘80s vacuum, with little competition and no help from juggernauts like MTV. And it doesn’t even footnote Michael’s untimely, and seismic, death as a solo artist. Wham! Bam! Thud.  

5. Speaking of the dog (see #1), Cubby was recently shorn like a poor gray sheep, which I documented here. The good news: his hair is growing back in the summer swelter. He no longer resembles a fuzzy Pringles can — he’s not so tubular — and he’s stopped nipping the parts that were so short, pink flesh was exposed. He’s returning to his bushy self, and his attitude is boinging back — a little cocky, vain with a scruffy bedhead sheen, and as fierce around the UPS folk as one can be behind a closed door. His yawps and barks still shatter glassware, but that’s OK. Pretty soon he’s going to look like Slash again and the process will start all over. Our little lamb chop.

6.Then there’s this: I was strolling in the summer heat (see #1 again) and some shitty beat-up compact sedan roared past me, easily doing 50 to 60 in a residential  25 zone. Startled (and pissed), I yelled, “Slow down!” The driver flipped me off and I reflexively returned the gesture. He barreled into oblivion. Then I thought: Smart. That’s a good way to get yourself killed. Jackass might have a gun, might want to turn around and use it. Sweating like a madman, I kept walking, ruffled, looking at the world in a slightly different shade.

Budapest or bust

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

And so, just back from Scotland — beautiful, bracing, beer-soaked and brogue-y — I do what I always do when I return from a hearty journey: immediately plan the next one, high on the fumes of the one just completed. Travel intoxication: a hazard of the unquenchable wanderer. 

Friends obligatorily ask: “How was it?” 

And I fan away the question with this impertinent question: “Where to now?” 

My quasi-ADD manifests as a cockeyed restlessness that makes me want to pack my suitcase about six times a day, even if I’m not going anywhere for months. I consider what mini toothpaste I should take, how many extra razors, what and how many pairs of socks I’ll need. I’m certifiable, but goddam I’m efficient. 

When it comes time to actually pack for a weeklong trip, I can do it in 30 seconds flat. (I’m like Robert De Niro in the movie “Heat,” and if you get that reference I’m sending you a Christmas card.) 

I’ve been spending an unhealthy amount of time eyeing my scuffed carry-on suitcase since I returned from Scotland. That’s because within two days of the return, I knew where I was going this fall, something I figured out with a kind of crazed alacrity.

First I narrowed it down to places I haven’t been to. That list is endless, sorrily. Then I did some math ($$) and realized it would have to be some time down the line, and not excessively exotic.

And so, a place I’ve never been but have almost gone to: Budapest. Which I figure is good for four days. To fill a week, I chose a second Eastern Bloc location, Krakow, the medieval Polish city that knocked me out so many years ago. Late October is the date, Eastern Europe is the place, borscht and pierogis are the plates.

Like so much of the world, a historical shadow, a practical pall, hangs over Hungary and Poland. So there will be much about soul-crushing Communism, the collective Jewish plight, the Holocaust — Auschwitz-Birkenau is just outside of Krakow (I’ve been, and I’m going back) — not to mention the abhorrent  intolerances harbored by the current leaders of both nations, which echo America’s far-right reprobates. Travel is exploration and edification. I’ll provide a full report on any evident ugliness.

As far as mapping my journey, I’m (surprise, ha) frenzied. I have a bulging itinerary with wriggle room for spontaneity. Flights are booked, restaurants reserved, tours scheduled, free time sketched out, etc. 

Four months out and my brain is abuzz. So much so that I’m already scoping the trip after this for sometime in February. (I won’t tell you, but I’ll give you a hint: It’s near Italy and it starts with Sicily.)

Budapest

Scotland: heat, history and, yes, haggis

~ Chris ~ 3 Comments

It was 65 degrees F and the Scots were on fire. Summer’s here, the locals kept blissfully declaring, as they peeled off jackets and dabbed beading brows and dipped into pubs for emergency pints, as if they were dangerously parched from the sizzling rays of a vengeful sun.

This was comical to me, who was strolling about in long sleeves and a quilted black jacket and feeling just right in the rare Scottish weather event called “sunshine.” A cool breeze mussed your hair and creeping cloud cover furnished a periodic chill. 

Not so for the delightful natives I encountered in Edinburgh and Glasgow last week, where miles of pale flesh — as pasty and pink as a baby’s — almost required Ray-Bans.

Edinburgh

Part of why I went to Scotland for my biannual travels was for the cooler late-spring weather (it’s going to be 90 in my parts this week — disgusting). And so watching the denizens get in a happy lather when temps broke the 60s amused me a bit (a “wee bit,” to borrow the local vocabulary).

Scotland was a lovely surprise (“lovely” being another highly trafficked descriptive). Why Scotland?, even the locals asked me. Dunno. Been around the world a couple times, looking for someplace new — and climatically cool — and my research convinced me it holds sights and treasures and, yes, food, worth checking out. 

Food? That’s the big punchline with Scotland. I’ve written about it here before, and when I texted a friend I was there, she wrote back sarcastically, “Enjoy the great food” with a dubious emoji. 

But first, the big national rivalry: Edinburgh vs. Glasgow. Who wins? No brainer. Glasgow can use the excuse that Edinburgh is too touristy. But there’s a reason for that: It kills Glasgow, a big, homely city with a few historical sights and other feeble points of interest (hey, here’s a university and over there’s a giant mural).

Meanwhile, Edinburgh is encrusted in history, flush with medieval flavor, cobblestone, and an attractive village vibe, especially as the country’s capital. The ancient Castle is there, sure, but the city’s overriding character stomps the generic urban tang of Glasgow. Yeah, I said it.

Royal Mile, Edinburgh

Scottish pub culture is familiar to all of the UK, and much of its food is delicious. But dig deeper, beyond the burgers, fish and chips, Eggs Benedict and bangers and mash, and a quality bounty awaits. Like Cullen skink, a thick, fantastically savory soup of cream, smoked haddock, onions and hearty potato chunks that I had at a pub before (one of many) whisky tastings. 

Here’s some of the rest:

Scottish Eggs: eggs wrapped in sausage, breaded and fried
Lamb shank atop mashed potatoes in wine and onion gravy
Potatoes, with haggis on the right (sheep & beef guts with oats — fantastic)
Hake fish with potatoes and baby asparagus
Fresh peas and scallops
Cod wrapped in pork, with poached egg at right

And for dessert:

The charming, super-historic Grassmarket, where I stayed in Edinburgh

And, of course, a fragrant flight of whisky at one of several mandatory tastings:

To that last one I say, Slàinte Mhath!, or Slanj-a-va, meaning ‘cheers’ in Scottish.

Scottish cuisine — really?

~ Chris ~ 6 Comments

So I was walking around the hood recently and I spotted a squirrel in the road squished like a jelly donut. It was gruesome and sad and got me thinking about mortality, careless drivers, blameless rodents and, yes, Italian food. 

I envisioned the shockingly good meals I ate last year in Rome and Naples: pizza margherita, caprese salad, pasta carbonara, ravioli, gelato, etc. And that led to thoughts about the kinds of food I might eat on my upcoming journey to Scotland. 

This was tricky, because I don’t really know what native Scottish fare is, except for the shuddering national dish haggis, dubiously defined as “a pudding composed of the liver, heart and lungs of a sheep, mixed with beef or mutton kidneys and oatmeal and seasoned with spices, which is packed into a sheep’s stomach and boiled.” 

Suddenly, I see that pulverized squirrel.

This is a job for some A.I., I mused, too lazy to grab my Scotland guide books. So I asked ChatGPT to spit up some famous Scottish dishes and it gave me haggis (#1), smoked salmon, porridge (!), black pudding (sausage made with pig’s blood) and other grub that doesn’t sound wildly appetizing on paper, but rather Dickensian.

That said, I’ve made reservations at seven restaurants in Edinburgh and Glasgow that seem delicious, and almost all of them boast Scottish cuisine (the exception is an Indian joint that looks otherworldly). I’m particularly amped about Makars Gourmet Mash Bar in Edinburgh, which merrily touts affordable farm-to-table dishes featuring lots of mashed potatoes and scads of fresh meats and veggies. Bangers and mash? Um, yeah. 

I was watching “Top Chef” the other night and the show’s deceptively sweet host Padma Lakshmi — she of the cutting parting words, “Please, pack your knives and go” — reminded me how food is of paramount consideration when choosing where to travel. I go partly for the local cuisine, be it sushi and takoyaki (octopus balls) in Japan or jamón ibérico and patatas bravas in Spain (or, gulp, haggis in Scotland).  

This trip is different. Despite my A.I. research, nothing but the cursed haggis stands out, and yet the menus at my reserved restaurants are thoroughly enticing. A quasi-foodie — sort of a Foodie, Jr. — I’m all about adventuresome eating, be it silkworm cocoons in China or that whole cobra in Vietnam I’ve mentioned here a thousand times. Will I try haggis? Maybe. Yet I don’t want to order an offal-filled sheep’s stomach only to gag on the first bite and then where will I be? Embarrassed and out 20 bucks. 

I rarely strike out in my gastronomical exploits — OK, the silkworm cocoons were disgusting — so anxiety is low. I bet I can do haggis. Right? After all, it really isn’t like it’s roadkill or something. 

Damn. That poor, pitiful little squirrel. 

Haggis. There you have it.

The reluctant bachelor

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

In my 30s, a pair of well-meaning coworkers nominated me for a title in a big-city glossy magazine that makes me blush even as I type this so many years later. 

The magazine was a strenuously vapid thing, slathered in food and lifestyle pap, all of it mawkishly upbeat. To attract page after Technicolor page of blaring ad copy, it was shamelessly obsessed with ratings and lists: Best Barbecue! Best Campsites! Best Burgers! Best Places to Get Off!

City magazines with ample ad revenue are like that. They traffic in pretty pictures of manicured affluence, catering to the beauty-salon and doctor’s office crowds. Without being trendy themselves — they are woefully unhip —  they try to manufacture trends. Only dingbats actually pay money for the periodical, which is so cloying, you could barf. 

That said, I admit up front that I participated in this paragon of sub-journalism. My coworkers nominated me for one of those knuckleheaded lists: the city’s Most Eligible Bachelors. I was flattered. I was humbled. I was mortified.

The magazine editor phoned me for a preliminary interview. And I blurted: no. I rejected the nomination. It was way out of my comfort zone. I wasn’t so desperate for a date. And this introvert definitely didn’t need the exposure, my bewildered mug spread next to an ad for the hottest tanning salon or 40 sparkly, smiley real estate agents.

I thanked my deflated pod-mates, the lovely Sarah and Sharon, and also apologized. I was being ungracious, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. 

My dis was apparently a big deal. Friends expressed dismay. My disappointed mother scolded me like I was eight. The topper: Ira Glass of “This American Life” called for a possible segment — man turns down most eligible bachelor nomination, how zany is that? — that, fortunately, never panned out. 

And yet, I’m only human.  

Forward a year: Same routine, but this time, for better or worse, I caved. I did it. I’m not sure why. I was strafed by anxiety. But I thought, what the hell, man up. 

During the in-office interview with the editor, I explained my job (movie critic, which I said wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be), noted my hobbies (world travel, books, film, drinks, drums), and things I’m not so crazy about (dancing, reggae). Asked the inevitable question of what I look for in a woman (sigh), I said something like someone bookish, worldly and intellectually curious (what a dope).

This is the story of someone quite bashful scraping himself out of his dark, lonesome shell. A comment the editor solicited for the article from one of my dearest friends, Courtney, included these bits: “His eccentricities are very endearing … Once he lets you in, you discover a kind-hearted soul.”

Yeah. That might be a bit much. But there I was in this glossy magazine with nine other “most eligible bachelors,” practically shaking in my boots with self-consciousness. Each of us filled a full color page, with no ads. In the photo, my head is enormous.

The issue hit the stands (and the beauty salons and doctors’ offices) and I braced for the worst. But instead: crickets. No one called, emailed, berated me, ridiculed me, asked me on a date, nothing. Disappointment? No, massive relief. 

I guess the moral of this tale is to get out of your self-defined — and in my case, distinctly neurotic — safe zones and take a chance on something new, even alien. I ate a whole cobra in Vietnam and got detained by Hezbollah in Beirut. A cheesy little spread in a city magazine is comparably nothing. Really. Nothing.  

Take a risk. It might be gut-wrenching. It might be exhilarating. Or it might be … crickets.