The Thong Also Rises (2 page)

CHRISTINE MICHAUD-MARTINEZ

Egypt

Size Does Matter

MICHELLE M. LOTT

In the Air

Heave-Ho

JENNIFER COLVIN

France

R-Rated Rescue

JULIA WEILER

Thailand

Mein Gott
, I've Fried His Underpants

ANN LOMBARDI

Switzerland

Killing Me Softy with Your Stare

LUBNA KABLY

India

Bathtub Blues in the Land of the Rising Buns

LAURA KLINE

Japan

Getting Grandma

BARBARA ROBERTSON

Europe

Index of Contributors

Acknowledgments

I was in the tropical jungle of northern Thailand on a hill tribe trek when I had the opportunity to smoke some opium. And I'm not talking about a handcrafted cigarette in the back of the line while the tour group took a break from the muddy hike…no, this was in a den. An opium den where only the coolest members of the group would be invited in. It was certainly not on the tour description, and that made it all the more appealing.

Visions of a cozy room with long sofas, big velvety red floor pillows, and sheer curtains that gently graced the floorboards came immediately to mind. And the pipes, they would be antiques. I could already feel the grooves of the intricately carved designs with silver and gold detailing. We'd be smoking a family heirloom that literally got passed from generation to generation. Oh yeah, I couldn't wait to get in there. This was a story, this was an adventure, this would be something to tell everybody—but my father—back home. Who cared if I didn't smoke? I'd worry about that technicality later.

The Doctor, a Virginia medical student I'd befriended, motioned for me to follow him. It was time. The anticipation mounted with the same excitement as getting on a fast rollercoaster ride. I was about to set foot in a world of such exotic intoxication that my life and my writing would be forever changed. My hand was already squeezing the cash in
my pocket in hopes it would be enough for just one try. We walked up to the straw hut and followed the Thai guide inside. I saw that it was just one room. In the back corner of the hut two Thai men were lying across from each other on thin mats that one might roll up and take to the beach. In front of the smoker's head was a contraption that didn't look anything like a family heirloom or ancient Thai artifact. It was a cut-up Coke can with a candle underneath it. I gasped. This wasn't an opium den, this was a crack house!

See, that's the thing about us eager travelers. The mere whisper of a far-off destination seeps into our heads and swirls around like a cotton candy machine until we have a romantic notion of a trip all big and puffy and sweet. As we book our ticket and pack our bags, we're smiling and humming and most likely flapping our lips about how this is going to be the best trip ever. We've saved our money, we've done all our research,
this
trip is just what we need.

And sometimes it is. Sometimes our dreams come true. Other times, our fantasies turn into miserable itchy unwanted events that are so far removed from a brag-worthy story we feel like we can't come home until we turn it around. Well, we can. Why? Because here at Travelers' Tales we've taken these uncomfortable trips and given them a home.
Sand in My Bra
and
Whose Panties Are These?
—the two previous women's travel humor books in our series—delivered the kinds of stories you were glad didn't happen to you. You laughed, you cried, and you told me that surely there were more types of undies than just our tops and bottoms. Yes, ladies, there are.

At your request, we present
The Thong Also Rises.
The laughs within range from short snickers to laugh-out-loud gut-busters from women who didn't quite get the travel
experience they bargained for. Feel free to scream “Eeeewwww!” when Julie Eisenberg gets splashed with urine in a tight cruise ship bathroom in “Princess and the Pee,” sympathize with Nicole Dreon in “And Then I was Eight…Again” as she relives being eight, year after year, because her parents are cheapskates, ask Christine Michaud what's best to wear when you're riding a camel in “Travel Light, Ride Hard,” navigate the attention of men while traveling solo with Elizabeth Fonseca in “Ravioli Man,” and giggle like school girls with Ayun Halliday and her mom as they endure the sounds of Parisian romance in a hotel with thin walls in “Paris, the Third Time Around.”

While you're reading these Ms.-Adventures, it is perfectly O.K. to call your friend and tell her you just read something worse than her last disaster. Suggest our series to your book group when you have a busy month and need a break from a heady novel. And especially give our books to someone you know who's hitting the road for the first time. She needs to know that a perfect trip doesn't always make for the best storytelling. In fact, just the opposite. The most important thing is to have fun while enduring the fruits of your folly. And if for any reason you can't laugh in the middle of your misadventure, you'll find that it always becomes funnier as soon as you're back home. For these women whose stories you're about to read, it definitely took a wee bit longer….

—J
ENNIFER
L. L
EO

It's all in your mind. Well, maybe.

M
Y HUSBAND AND
I H
AD NEVER BEEN TO A NUDE
beach before. Someone at our hotel raved about this place: a white sand beach you could walk along for hours. Naked.

We had already spent a couple of days in St. Martin, soaking up the sun, checking our tan marks at the end of the day. Now we would work on a full body tan.

We drove to the beach in our rented Jeep, following the directions our hotelmates had given us. We were nervous, giddy. Can you do it? Sure. Maybe. Do you think everyone will be scoping out everyone else? Yikes. What about those dimples on my butt? We arrived in the mid-afternoon, parked our car, walked to the closest beach area. The reports were correct: the place was gorgeous. The people were naked. Not just topless. Naked.

We pretended not to look at anyone. Everyone else also seemed to be pretending not to look at anyone. We found a spot of sand, spread our blanket, plunked ourselves down. We took off our t-shirts, our shorts. We glanced at each other.
We were both still wearing our bathing suits. We looked around. Was everyone watching us? Were we the only newbies? Wait—most of the people were sporting very visible tan lines. Perhaps they had just arrived, too, and were all just as scared. I took off my bikini top and lay down flat on the sand, on my belly.

My husband wiggled out of his trunks. Man, he did it. If he could, I could, and so I scooched out of my bikini bottom.

“Is anyone looking?” I asked.

My husband was still sitting up. Easier for him to hide in that position, I noticed.

He shook his head. “Everyone's staring out to sea,” he said.

I eased myself into a sitting position. Sure enough, everyone seemed intent on watching the windsurfers, sailors, kayakers, bodysurfers. Then I figured out why—they were all naked! I couldn't imagine how they could feel so unself-conscious, so free. And then I heard the call.
Beer here!

A topless waitress approached with a tray of ice-cold brew.

“Two please!” I shouted.

She served us, we paid, I drank. Fast. And then I started to relax. I stopped hiding my body. I started soaking in the sun. Soon enough, I wanted another beer. But the waitress was long gone and hadn't returned.

“There must be more beer where that came from,” I said.

“I see something all the way at the end of the beach,” my husband told me. “Maybe that's the bar.”

“I'm going,” I said.

“Where?”

“To the bar.”

“How?”

“Naked.”

I got up, grabbed some bills which I tucked into my fist, and headed off down the beach. Naked.

At first I was terrified. It is hard to walk and cover yourself at the same time. I walked past people who looked at me. All of me. But then, I discovered, I could look at them. All of them. And soon enough, I was swinging my arms, lengthening my stride, feeling the curl of a smile on my face. I was naked! Walking! With strangers! This must be what Woodstock was like! I'm free!

I walked along the beach, easing into my new sense of self. The exhilaration passed but I kept smiling. The bar was ahead of me, at the far end of the beach. I marched up to it and threw open the door. I stepped inside; the door closed behind me. My eyes adjusted to the dark and I looked around.

Everyone was clothed. Everyone was male. Everyone was watching me.

Haven't you had dreams where you're at your job or school or the grocery store and you suddenly realize you've forgotten to get dressed? You wake up. You're like Dorothy, back in Kansas. That was my first thought. This can't be real. Wake up. But someone called for another shot of whiskey and someone laughed and they all kept watching me.

I had two choices. Walk out. Walk on.

I walked across the room and stepped up to the bar. The bartender nodded at me. “Two beers,” I said. “And a couple bags of chips.” I was amazed that words came out of my mouth. I couldn't believe they could be heard over the pounding of my heart.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

The bartender took my money. I took the bottles and the bags, turned and walked to the door. In those last few moments I thought: What if I open the door and there is no
nude beach. I've passed into the twilight zone. I'll never return. But the door opened, I stepped out, and the door closed behind me. Ahead of me, far ahead of me because I had walked beyond the boundaries of the nude beach, were my compatriots of flesh.

I ran, bottles clanging, breath caught in my throat. I ran all the way back to my husband's side, dropped to the blanket, and began to laugh, wildly, nakedly, free.

Ellen Sussman is the author of the novel,
On a Night Like This,
a
San Francisco Chronicle
Bestseller which has also been published in France, Italy, Germany, Holland, Denmark, and Israel. Ellen has published a dozen short stories in literary and commercial magazines and won a Writers at Work Fellowship. She has published non-fiction in
Newsweek
and has an essay in
Kiss Tomorrow Hello: Tales from the Midlife Underground.
She teaches private writing classes in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her website is
www.ellensussman.com
.

What's that in your bulging bag, ma'am?

“I'
M
…” I
PROCLAIMED LOUDLY AND PROUDLY TO THE
man who had a gun secured at his hip, “an AMERICAN!!!”

My mouth was dry, my hands were shaking, and I was scared out of my mind, especially now that the border agent was glaring at me and obviously pretty pissed.