Do Travel Writers Go to Hell? Read online

  Some friends have no idea why I have wrestled with this decision. They say, “It's a dream job . . . you get to travel.” And you do get to travel, like a madman. Is it really travel in any pleasurable sense when you have to cover an area that's the size of the West Coast of the U.S. in one to two months of research? The research is over 1,000 miles of coastline to explore by boat, bus, and dune buggy. Along those miles, I am supposed to research nearly sixty towns, villages, and cities: some on islands, some in the mountains, some hidden away in national parks. I will pen nearly 150 hotel reviews and more than 150 bar and restaurant reviews. That doesn't start to tell of the number of places that I am supposed to visit to determine if they are worthy of being included in the book or not. I'll also need to gather innumerable details on parks, hikes, bus schedules, flight schedules, boat schedules, bookstores, hospitals, banks, post offices, Internet cafes, Laundromats, travel agencies, tourism offices, border crossings, activities and shops.

  It's true: I could do a quick and dirty research job in four weeks. But imagine having one month to track down information as broad as the prices at Laundromats in Seattle, the details of the Tijuana border crossing, where to find a decent sandwich in Bakersfield, an overview of LA's nightlife, hiking trails in Yosemite, museum hours in Portland, bus schedules in San Francisco, and the location of a decent tourist office in Boise. Now imagine trying to do that in a place with no reliable transportation schedules, dial-up Internet connections (when there are Internet connections, or even phones), thousands of miles of unpaved roads, and heavily accented Northeast Brazilian Portuguese as the language of choice. It'd be nearly impossible, and the quality of the final product would be so poor that I'd never be employed to write again. I have a lot at stake here and must do it right. I can guarantee that the editor who came up with the idea of four weeks of research has never been to that part of Brazil. Seven weeks of research would leave me about a week and a half of pure writing time prior to my deadline. I guess that I will just have to be disciplined on the road and make sure to set aside time to write every night.

  I tried to negotiate for a larger fee, a later deadline, and the possibility of royalties. I am denied on all three and, as for royalties, am told that it is “a Lonely Planet book, not a Jackie Collins novel.” I ask if they can cover my flight down to Brazil, but am told that writers do not work for the company, they are only freelancers. I must arrange for all expenses myself. Their only concession is that I can earn another small fee if I write the unwieldy “Environment” chapter and the “Wildlife Guide” to go in the front of the book. The two chapters will double my page count and add an extra few weeks of library research. Yes, it sounds like a fucking sweet deal.

  So, am I doing this for the pure love of travel, as an independent dedicated traveler or whatever Lonely Planet claims its writers are? Am I an altruistic provider of travel information to my global backpacking brethren? Am I doing this as a way to get laid? Judging by my advance, I am surely not in it for the money.

  “Three punches?” I ask. We walk west toward the Meatpacking District to embark on a northbound dive-bar crawl that will eventually take us to the hallowed ground of Bellevue Bar in Port Authority.

  “Get this, dude. Last night, after we got done boning at her place, I decided that I needed to go out and party. What the fuck were we going to do, just lie around and cuddle? She had to work at the hospital this morning, but that is still no reason to go to bed at eleven o'clock.”

  “True.”

  “Well, when she refused to go out, I waited until she fell asleep, got outta bed, put my clothes on, and grabbed her new roommate, Amber, who was watching TV in the living room. Have you seen that chick?”

  “Not yet. Isn't she like twenty-two?”

  “Whatever, dude, she's fucking hot. Anyways, Amber's moping around because she broke up with her high school boyfriend from Jersey that she's been with for something like seven years. She just moved to the big city and needs to live it up a little and, hell yeah, I'm here to help her out.”

  The Doctor pauses to take a nonchalant bump of cocaine off of the tip of Sandra's apartment key. He continues, “We drank Patrón and Jägermeister to give Amber a little Manhattan, but not take her too far from Jersey. We tore up Chelsea. She said some shit about not usually drinking on weeknights. She's got a lot to learn, but whatever, she's fucking hot. So, yeah, I staggered back into Sandra's room sometime after four, threw up into an open dresser drawer, and passed out.”

  “I expect no less from you, Doctor.”

  “Anyways, I wake up this morning with my psycho girlfriend on top of me, screaming her face off. She's turning all dark red with veins popping around her eyes and neck and shit.”

  This was hardly an isolated incident. For almost four years she has studiously enabled him, shared notes for the classes he skipped, and reminded him of the appointments that he blew off, but he has finally crossed some threshold with her that nobody believed existed.

  He continues, “I was practically unresponsive and really just wanted to go back to sleep and for her to leave me alone for a change. I thought that she was pissed ’cause I booted on her work clothes, but she wasn't even talking about the clothes; she wanted to know if I had cheated on her with Amber.”

  “And had you?” I ask, knowing that he tries to pretend that he is some kind of ladies' man, but is a serial monogamist who doesn't have the gumption to hit on a woman who isn't his girlfriend of many years.

  “No dude, I mean, I'm not saying that I didn't kinda try, but you know . . . and I told Sandra so, but I also mentioned that Amber is pretty fucking hot and that earned me three punches to the face and a slammed door before she ran out.”

  “You are a master of subtlety, my friend.”

  “So then I rolled over and went back to sleep until your ass called me and woke me back up. Sandra's also called a few times, but I just told her that she is a sadist and that she gave me a black eye. That girl has serious anger management problems.”

  There isn't a mark on his face. I take a pull of the rum and the warmth radiates through my throat and chest. It percolates in my stomach. My vision destabilizes like lost v-hold on a television and I gasp for a cool breath of air.

  We proceed to hit all of the classics: Tortilla Flats, The Village Idiot (the best of the lot), Hogs & Heifers, Passerby (which wasn't technically open, but the kindly Ecuadorian janitor let us fill our own drinks from the tap so long as we paid him in cash), and a chain of nefarious North Chelsea dives with names as nondescript and interchangeable as the bars themselves. We keep the bottle of Captain Morgan's under the table between our feet at the first few bars, but by the time that we get to North Chelsea, we decide that it deserves its own bar stool. It is still swaddled its black plastic deli-bag papoose. Taking bumps of yay in public off of the taut skin between the thumb and index finger suddenly seems like a socially acceptable activity. The rum is a third gone and the bars have supplied us with tequila shots, frosty pints of beer, and bathrooms where it was possible to take down full lines. The last stop is ahead, that fatherland of old-time Manhattan debauched drunkenness in the last bastion of unadulterated Port Authority filth: the ever-glorious Bellevue Bar.

  A block from Bellevue Bar, Sandra calls the Doctor again and he utilizes his self-righteous mellow-guy act. “No, I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to you until you calm down. You gave me a black eye. Yes . . . a fucking shiner. You have issues. I have a conference tomorrow and now I am going to have to explain to every single doctor and professor why I have a black eye. You're . . . you're . . . physically abusive.”

  He listens to her for a second and continues, “No, I don't accept your apology. You should see what you did to my face.”

  We enter the sordid paradise on 9th between 39th and 40th. I melt into a mildewed upholstered chair, after briefly scanning it for exposed syringes on, in, or around the cushions. The ceiling dimly shimmers with thousands of strands of smoke-stained tinsel. We altern
ate between large mouthfuls of rum, which now just tastes like strong, syrupy water, and flat pints of Budweiser. “Ramblin' Man” plays on the jukebox. We pass the baggy back and forth.

  The Doctor spends some time vomiting in the bathroom before returning with an upbeat smile. “I feel good enough to take my boards right now . . . let's stop pussy-footing and get down to business.” Judging from the sun through the front window, it is some point in the late afternoon. The room begins to tilt and slide toward the street. My vision smears all of the neon beer signs and my pulse alternately races and creeps. My head is a lump of numb flesh, a block of pink deli ham, from my nose back to my medulla. The jaw and tongue attached to my face seem to have developed their own anxious personalities. My tongue flicks across my teeth, curls over, runs down my cheek, and back.

  Am I really in this bar as some act of self-conscious irony or am I only fooling myself? I feel a lot more like the passed-out derelict in the corner than a swashbuckling pirate. My internal dialogue boils over into an internal shouting match.

  Are we fucking up New York or are we just a couple of drunk fuckups?

  Fucking up New York? Or drunk fuckups?

  Fucking up or fuckups?

  Fuckedupfuckups.

  What does fucking up New York even mean? The old drunks at the bar don't notice that we're here. Why should anyone else care what I'm doing?

  Isn't that what I want—nobody to care? At least I've ceased to think about Sydney for the time being.

  The Doctor has a creamy vomit stain down the front of his shirt and bathroom floor scum on the knees of his scrubs.

  “Are you sure that you're OK?” I ask.

  “The question is are you OK? Give me some credit. I was just making up with my girl over the phone. It's all cool now,” he declares, reeking of puke. She has invited us to a party with some of their classmates down at a loft in the Flower District. Although the Doctor is unsure if he has fully forgiven her, it is worth it to go to the party because there are free drinks. Say no more. At this point, it is either continue or collapse, and we are not going to be able to continue on our own bank accounts. I have already spent too much money and need every remaining dollar to make sure that my Brazil trip will work out. Like French farmers, we need subsidizing.

  He gives me a quick look-over and checks my pulse at the wrist, then at the neck. I can feel that I am a sweating, trembling wreck.

  “This man needs another drink, STAT,” the Doctor stands up and screams at no one and everyone in the bar. “He's moving to Bolivia and is in need of specialized treatment. I'm worried that he may be getting SICKER, or worse, SOBER. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE BUY HIM A BEER.” No one so much as glances at us. The bartender takes this as his cue to walk to the other end of the bar and stare toward the window.

  We opt to walk down to the party. It's only about twenty blocks and after enough rum to take the edge off of the blow, we are again invincible. Cops? Open-container laws? Possession? Let them try to arrest me. A night in the Tombs would be a character-building experience. We lose the plastic bag and the bottle is now carried openly, in all of its naked splendor. I am incapable of drinking and walking simultaneously, so we stop every few steps to knock back a gulp of the Captain Morgan's. I would really prefer a nice añejo, maybe a Havana Club Añejo Reserva, but Captain Morgan will do; I can barely taste it at this point anyhow.

  About halfway to the party, the Doctor turns to me and pleads in an earnest, steady voice, “Thomas. You know that I wouldn't usually ask this, but I need a big favor . . .”

  “Bro, I'm broke. I'm leaving tomorrow. I can't take any more cash out.”

  “No, man . . . I don't need money . . . I need you to give me a black eye.”

  “On your face?”

  “Where else are you gonna give me a black eye? Listen, I'm in a bad situation. She's gonna think that I'm a liar if I get to this party and don't have at least one black eye.”

  “Never.”

  “Do this for me as a friend. Please, as your best friend. This is the request of a medical professional.”

  “Never. Depraved motherfucker.”

  He doesn't let it be—he never lets anything be. At least every other block along our walk the Doctor turns to me and asks me to hit him. “Just do it,” he chides. “Don't be a pussy.” “C'mon, loser.” “I'll pay you. I swear.” “Do me a favor here.” “Help a brother out.” “Remember how much I helped you when that hypochondriac chick accused you of giving her herpes?” He had teased me more than he had given me any sound medical advice, so he knew that that one would get a better response.

  When I refuse for about the eighth time, he gives himself a shaky uppercut to his own right eye. It is a spirited effort, but doesn't leave a bruise. As we round the corner in front of the apartment, I tire of his groveling and am overcome by a mix of pity, confusion, and anger. It is now or never.

  I take a gulp of rum, a short shuffle step, and launch my right fist into his face. His head snaps sideways and he staggers forward, falling to his knees and burying his face in his cupped hands. I hear a low moaning and I start to apologize. I am unsure if he is truly hurt or just laughing. He gets back to his feet, shouting, “YOU MISSED MY EYE, YOU FUCKING RETARD.”

  I recoil two quick steps. “Dude, I'm sorry, man, I'm not used to punching friends in the face . . .” I brace for a fight, but then opt for a different tack. “Seriously, I think it's close enough. It'll work.”

  “Better than nothing, I guess. Thanks, DICK,” he says. I hand him the bottle; he takes a healthy swig and lets it slide from his hand, shattering on the pavement. The Doctor turns to admire himself in the side-view mirror of a parked truck. “You sure this is going to work?”

  “Looks pretty legit to me,” I lie. It is much redder than black and blue, but it has potential. “What does she know about facial trauma anyways? She's only in training to become an orthopedic surgeon, right?”

  “Good point. But, whatever, I know how to handle this. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? This is your twisted deal, dude. I did my part. Can we get a drink now?”

  “You're right. I owe you one.”

  That's what I'm worried about.

  We climb the stairs to the vast converted commercial space. Fortunately the apartment is large enough that I can stay away from the Doctor and Sandra. Even the thought of the psychology behind all of this makes me nauseous. I head straight to the refrigerator and am pleased to fix myself a cocktail in a glass with ice. There's no rum . . . typical. I guess that it's time to switch to vodka.

  “You see? You see what you did, Buster Douglas?” I hear the Doctor griping in Sandra's face.

  “I'm sorry. I'm sooo sorry,” she bleats.

  “All I did was try to be hospitable to your poor roommate and welcome her to New York City and you did this. Well thank you very much, Laila Ali.”

  He has her in an emotional full nelson and he is going to savor it. A few minutes later, I see him collect a few twenties from her to fund the next step of the evening. Guilt, properly applied, can go a very long way. I feel fairly bad as an accomplice in all of this, but not so bad as to turn down the cash or call it a night.

  I wish that I could relate the exploits of the evening during and after the party, but the details are foggy. I know that we were at the party for many hours and I managed to avoid the Doctor and his girlfriend for most of it. I don't think that the cocaine lasted through the soiree loaded with stimulant-hungry Ivy League nostrils. At some point my alcohol tortoise breezed past the cocaine hare. I rarely black out, but I lost a few hours there. Eventually, somebody introduced Red Bull, which pulled me back out of the miasma. Now we have wound up in line at some pseudochic lounge/club in western SoHo, cleverly named after its numerical address.

  Everybody has abandoned us. Were other people with us before? I am staring at the tips of my shoes trying to steady myself while finishing off the Red Bull. The Doctor, still with a vomit stain on his Hawaiian shirt, is talking to a
guy he kind of knows from LA who is working the door. The promoter has sharp, plucked eyebrows and is wearing a sculpted-wicker baseball hat, which makes him look like an androgynous colonial cricket fan. Still, he is this evening's arbiter of who is fashionable or rich enough to enter the club. It is getting close to 4 a.m. and we need to get into this place soon or go pick up more drinks at the store. There is nobody else in the line and potentially nobody inside the club. I hear the Doctor tell the story about how his girlfriend gave him the black eye or cheek after he deftly seduced her new roommate. The roommate is suddenly an aspiring model from Australia—fresh off the boat, mate.

  No, we don't have the correct leather footwear for this kind of establishment, but we are the height of rakish, libertine fashion. Our disheveled appearance is beyond intentional. We are futuristic beings genuinely free of the aesthetic concerns of mortal New Yorkers. The Doctor slips his friend his last twenty and makes a deal that we can enter so long as we get a table, which requires ordering bottle service.

  “That guy's a sucker. Played him just like I planned. You want rum or vodka?” The Doctor shouts over pumping house music.

  We are led to a leather-upholstered booth in the back room. It is still hard to tell if there is anyone else in the club. I am sure that a couple of highly attractive single women are close by, waiting to meet men like us; men who don't follow conventions; men who are pushing thirty but have the courage and vision to start drinking shortly after breakfast on Thursdays. Isn't it almost obligatory that some woman should sleep with me the night before I depart for South America? Maybe I can tell her that I am going to be a writer. Even without a Pulitzer or significant writing experience, I'm about to do some kind of writing/data-entry hybrid thing. Either way, I'll tell her that I am about to be published and will be on the road in Brazil and then she'll understand the importance of this unique and fleeting opportunity to fornicate with me.