When I was really young I loved to play Monopoly. Moving the miniature metal car or boot around the board, landing on a railroad, buying properties, accumulating enough wealth to financially (and emotionally) crush your opponents – something about it resonated deep with the worst of human nature – and there was something fun about that. Certainly holding $52,000 in your hands is a bit heady for a seven year old. I mean, think about how many Stretch Armstrongs I could get with that. But embedded in the very design of the game was a philosophical framework – a way of understanding money – that was definitely less than noble. This was no “social capitalism” or the creative utilization of excess wealth to improve a community/city/society. No, this was about literally impoverishing those who shared the board with you and running it as a tyrant bent on nothing else than total financial superiority. Karl Marx’s worst-case scenario comes alive in a board game. And I can tell you from personal experience that there are few places you’ll find the worst of human nature more than when playing Monopoly with your siblings.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my sisters and brother, and I can honestly say I really like them as people too. But when you’re the littlest in the family (that is, until your little brother comes along much later) games take on seriousness that at times can feel like life-or-death. In my case, you already get the beat-down from your older sisters, so the only real level playing field is on a game board. Or so I once thought.
More often than not when I played Monopoly with my sisters I would end up impoverished, crying, or both. There’s nothing like landing on your sister’s Park Place (that she just put a hotel on) and watching her gloat as you count out your last $50. On very – and I mean very – few occasions when the dice would roll my way, I would come out on top and gloat so ostentatiously that ultimately I would end up on the wrong side of a headlock: and then enter the crying. As you can see I was somewhat scarred by the painful results when capitalism meets Lord of the Flies.
One of the places on the Monopoly board that you didn’t want to land on was Jail. Whenever you did land on Jail (or got the card that sent you there) it says in big, bold letters, Do Not Pass GO. GO was that place that rewarded you for making it around the board still intact, and for passing GO you got $450. Often it was GO that saved my bacon, but as I said above, I’d end up giving it to my sisters anyway.
When we arrived into Athens from Croatia we had a Do Not Pass GO experience, resulting from a lost Lonely Planet guidebook, two hours waiting for nothing, and a night spent huddled together on airport benches. But the experience made it into the blog, so that means it’s a memory worth having.
When you deplane from a long flight, you’re not necessarily thinking straight. I know this is often the case that is why before landing I ensure whatever possessions I have in the seat-back pocket I make sure I have stowed in my bag. I was literally looking at the Greece guidebook when the “please remain seated” light dinged on, and thought to myself, “Don’t forget that is there when we land.” Which of course I completely forgot. My system had been developed over many years and hundreds of thousands of miles of air travel and I had honed it down until it worked flawlessly. Except for when I broke from routine (there’s a life lesson in there somewhere…).
When I remembered I had forgotten our Lonely Planet guide in the seat pocket we had taken just about 30 steps off the plane. The airport personnel had watched me walk by but when I turned around and came back to try and get our guidebook they stopped me. Due to security reasons I couldn’t get back on. Seriously?! I mean, I was just there – you saw me walk by you ten seconds ago! Here’s my boarding pass. As you can imagine my pleading was to no avail. It was a ridiculous policy but I was forced to capitulate. There was no going back. So we turned and headed down the jetway, stunned. Do Not Pass GO.
Our Lonely Planet guidebooks serve as our map and compass. Without them we are, to us, walking blind. They show us how to get around, where to stay, where to go, how to get around, and the little tidbits of information that make traveling through a strange place a bit more manageable. So when I left our Greece guidebook on the plane it was a big deal. So we waited. And waited. Waiting for the promised, “I will tell the flight crew to get it for you and bring it to Lost and Found.” A lot of good that was. In the end, after numerous times of inquiry we were curtly told, “No book” and waved off. Expecting any real service from chain-smoking baggage control women at 12:30 am is pointless. So we trudged off, having wasted valuable time for getting into Athens and finding accommodation. Do Not Pass GO.
We slept in the Athens International Airport by a large illuminated billboard for fashion jeans. The armrests were bolted onto the chairs and there was no respite from the hard, compressed plastic seats. We hunkered down the best we could and I really wondered how hardcore my wife really was: how up for this little ‘adventure’ was she? Almost in answer to my inward question she just smiled, pulled out her travel pillow and did the best she could to get her body prone across the seat and her luggage. She covered her face with the hood of her jacket, got as horizontal as the seat would allow, and cling onto her little travel pillow for dear life. I have to say, she rode that night out the best as can be expected.
Yes, Cara is under there somewhere.
I could go on. I could tell of the stranded couple two rows behind us with whom we would exchange forlorn glances throughout the night, or of the airport custodial crew that would bang the nearby trash cans so loudly it sounded like a convoy of buses hitting the terminal.
But what I will end on is a happy ending. One, we knew we were having an experience that we would always remember and one that was so part of our RTW trip. Of course we were going to have to have a forced bivouac in some random airport somewhere. Second, I learned that my awesome wife can roll with just about anything and is the easiest, most enjoyable travel mate I have ever had. Lucky me. And lastly, I booked us a five star hotel for the next night, complete with clean sheets and fluffy towels – and all that for half price. Get Out of Jail card. “Proceed Directly to GO.”
On the metro to our hotel.
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king the break and just doing this. But as we have begun to plan our travel-as-we-go (and I really mean this – we have no hotels booked, no transportation or tours planned in most of the countries) there becomes some barriers to just having plain freedom to do whatever whenever, when there are logistics involved. Sometimes the weather doesn’t work with you. Sometimes you can’t communicate with others. Sometimes you have no place to put your luggage and no idea where to go. Sometimes you get lost.
Whether it was the Hofbrauhaus or the early morning drive to the airport – which they came in and saw us off after helping us with our flight arrangements – these friends extended to us real hospitality. And it made me think a lot about hospitality and how crappy I am at it. Had they come to our flat in San Francisco for three days I probably would have pointed them towards the cereal cabinet and waved in the direction of the nearby café. So I felt a little convicted and hoping I would do more than that. But I can’t say I would have after all. We don’t do hospitality too well in our fast-paced, individualistic culture. Waving them to the cereal and coffee shops, I would have thought I was doing them a favor: giving them independence and freedom from my meddling. But in reality, I realized, I would be isolating myself from them and missing out on some pretty rich moments of connecting as human beings. As I again discovered, stumbling through cultural differences can be pretty fun.
Casey and Cara's Rwanda Adventure 