The Thong Also Rises (28 page)

I reluctantly turned towards the noise. To my horror, there just fourteen feet in front of me in the small lagoon beyond my veranda, a large group of giggling Japanese tourists stood ankle-deep in the water. They were armed with every type of camera or video recording device imaginable; all of which were pointing right at me. Disrupted from their tidal pool explorations by my burlesque spectacle, they had captured the entire show on film. Still snapping away, they apparently expected an encore.

CLICK…WHZZZ…teehee.

I picked up the cat and showed the poor bedridden feline to my audience as if this would explain my ridiculous behavior. “See, I saved this dear, little kitten from those killer dogs. I'm not nuts…it was an EMERGENCY.” My attempt at communication only fueled their now explosive laughter. CLICK…CLICK…teehee. Chagrined, desperate, and painfully aware of my nudity, I did next what any good, feline-rescuing, exhibitionist, kung fu fighting, super hero would do…a modest curtsy followed by an immediate exit.

As I backed into the bungalow, gingerly holding the cat as a makeshift modesty shield, I turned to notice my husband standing at the window. “Can you believe that just happened?” I asked him incredulously.

“What I can't believe is that you ran out there naked,” he replied casually. As I was about to react to his maddening remark, I noticed that he was munching a handful of honey-roasted peanuts as though he'd been watching a movie. “Chomp…chomp…crunch…I mean,
DIDN'T YOU SEE ALL THOSE PEOPLE?”
he added, “They were taking pictures you know.” I shot him my best Persist-And-You-Shall-Die look as I prepared a bed for the cat indoors.

Over time my patient enjoyed a full recovery, and a few days before we left the island, a German woman who owned a shop there sweetly offered to adopt the little cat. Giving her up was difficult, but I knew she would have a happy, canine-free environment in which she could safely explore the remainder of her nine lives. I gratefully accepted the offer and on our last day tearfully handed her over. As we said our final goodbyes, the shop owner requested that I pose with my former patient for a snapshot memento. I happily agreed and proudly held the little cat in my arms, but as I smiled for the camera, I felt for just a brief moment, overdressed for the occasion. CLICK…teehee.

Julia Weiler has done everything from schlepping gourmet coffee to working in the veterinary field, but these days you will find her behind a camera, trying her hand at documentary filmmaking. When not filming, editing, or researching, she enjoys scuba diving, kayaking, surfing, hiking, gardening, and any excuse to travel.

Living a dream in Switzerland, mostly.

A
FTER THREE MONTHS OF BLITZ BACKPACKING ALL
over Europe, I couldn't wait to reach Switzerland, the perfect refuge for my travel-weary bones. My return flight home from Zurich was three weeks away, and visions of tranquil pastures, alpine lakes, and creamy chocolates danced in my head. How could I pass up the alluring “
Ferien Auf Dem Bauernhof
” (Farm Vacation) program touted in the tourist office brochures? I was sure it would be a cross-cultural eye-opener for this city slicker, housework-challenged American. So, I plopped down a finder's fee, scooped up the address of my host farm family, and hopped a train to the country for my long-awaited taste of rural life.

Rolf and Ruth Sprunger welcomed me into their 400-year-old farmhouse, nestled high in the hills of Basel-land. The tiny village was a good hour's walk, through vast forests and fields, from the town of Liestal. And the old farm? It was the place of my dreams: a contented menagerie of dairy cows with huge hand-painted bells, horses, pigs, hens,
goats, and a half dozen assorted dogs and cats. I delighted in the bountiful cherry and apple trees, organic veggie gardens, and the best homemade hazelnut carrot cake this side of the Atlantic.

The dark, worn wooden floors with secrets of centuries creaked musically throughout the house. A heavenly aroma of freshly baked wholegrain bread floated room-to-room from the wood-burning kitchen oven. I was in my element, and honestly didn't miss any of my usual creature comforts, like central heating or upstairs toilets. For those brisk autumn nights, I already had mastered the art of starting the fire in my very own bedroom furnace and warming up the nifty mini-pillows filled with cherry pits, which kept my feet toasty under the fluffy goose down quilt. I was intrigued. Such an uncomplicated, peaceful existence! This truly was life the way it was meant to be, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.

I have to admit, though, there was one habit of the meticulous Swiss I found impossible to understand. For some odd reason, the Sprunger family had an obsession with ironing anything made of cloth, including every imaginable item of clothing worn by their army of children…fourteen of the rascals, to be exact. Who ever heard of pressing denim work coveralls, or heaven help us, bed linens!? Now this was really going overboard with the Martha Stewart thing. Naturally one of my daily chores was to tackle those mammoth piles of ironing, a job I truly dreaded. To my credit, however, I never once complained, reminding myself that hard work builds character.

One afternoon on a particularly gorgeous autumn day, I plotted to finish my ironing duties in record time. No numb hands and fingers for me today! Nor was I about to stay
cooped up indoors with such beautiful weather beckoning me out to nature. Halfway through my ironing at the bottom of one pile, I spotted three pairs of the fanciest men's underpants I had ever laid eyes on. They were those skimpy, low-cut European ones made of nylon net, the kind no red-blooded American male I know would ever be caught dead wearing. I immediately guessed the fancy briefs had been inside that festively wrapped birthday package a giggling Frau Sprunger had presented her hubby just a few days before. Of course I realized instinctively these underpants were not to be ironed. Carefully folding all three pairs in the precise Swiss manner I had been taught (in thirds, with the fronts facing up), I carefully laid them aside on the ironing board while I continued to plug away.

Seconds later the family Saint Bernard bolted in out of nowhere, scaring the bejeevers out of me. I froze, too stunned to react to the mushroom cloud of foul-smelling smoke growing bigger by the minute.
Mein Gott
, I had knocked over the scalding iron! It had hit the prized skivvies dead center. My first impulse was to run. Regaining my composure, I managed to unplug the hissing iron, grab a kitchen spatula, and frantically scrape the iron's underside. My efforts were in vain. A sticky glob of melted, charred nylon was plastered all over the bottom. And worse, the underpants were ruined, hopelessly welded together at what used to be the crotches. I decided then and there not to say a word to the Sprungers; that is, not until I had bought both a new iron and underwear. Thankfully, the next day Lady Luck took pity on me, and amazingly enough, I found the perfect replacements. Somehow I just never got around to fessing up to Herr and Frau Sprunger. Why spoil a relaxing vacation?

My memorable farm stint came to a close all too soon. The last day of my stay, I received a surprise farewell present from Mr. and Mrs. Sprunger. It was a lovely Swiss travel scrapbook with a handwritten note inscribed “To our favorite American visitor.” Touched by their thoughtfulness, I peeked inside the album. My jaw dropped. On the very first page were a sketched smiley-faced iron…and a neatly glued chunk of Herr Sprunger's fried underpants.

Ann Lombardi is a twenty-two-year veteran travel consultant and former E.S.L. teacher with a knack for misadventure. Ann's zest for travel has lured her to Europe, South and Central America, Asia, and the Caribbean. Among her fondest exploits are crashing on a runaway Lapp reindeer sled, being trapped in a phone booth during an alpine blizzard, finishing dead last in the Berlin Marathon, bailing out of a glider plane near Bern, hitching a ride on an Amish horse and buggy, touring Moscow with a black marketer, and getting tear-gassed in curlers outside a Seoul hair salon. She hangs her backpack in Atlanta, Georgia, and you can find out more about her at The
TripChicks.com
.

Do I know you?

On a lop-sided ramshackle bus

We ride from day to day

We bounce and we bump

As we rattle along, we rattle along our

way…

I
JUST COULDN
'
T GET RID OF THIS TUNE
. I
T KEPT
playing over and over in my head. I had clambered into this rickety bus to see the magnificent Mysore Palace and the famous gold throne. A five-hour journey from Bangalore, in South India, would take me to the smaller town of Mysore.

I knew there was something wrong. It was not just the slippery-looking, skinny guy who had donned a dazzling red polyester shirt and tight “Levy” jeans (yes, this was the label). True, he was gaping at me and I was uncomfortable with his unwanted attention. But, there was something else that was amiss and I could not place my finger on it.

I shrugged off my feeling of unease and settled into a window seat. I plugged in my Walkman, partly to drown the
silly ditty still resounding in my head, and decided to make the best of it. My cold stares kept the “polyester” man away from the middle row where I had seated myself.

I soon knew what was wrong, or at least I thought I did. As a luxury air-conditioned coach overtook us on the dusty road, belching smoke as it shot past us, I knew I had made a big mistake. This bus, in which I was seated, was not for tourists. It was a regular state transport bus, which plied at frequent intervals between Bangalore and Mysore and ferried locals.

Anyway, even if I was not on the luxury coach we were definitely moving towards Mysore. Having recently shifted to Bangalore, this was my first trip in South India and I was looking forward to a glimpse of the royal splendor. For now, the only splendor on display were the colorful dresses worn by the schoolgirls. However, the dazzling red polyester shirt was an aberration.

There were more than a handful of schoolgirls on this bus. As schoolgirls anywhere in the world are prone to, they were all giggling happily and sharing secrets. All of them wore bright blue long skirts and colorful blouses. These blouses either sported bright floral patterns or were in shades of bright green, pink, yellow, purple, and orange.

The only other woman traveler on this bus, slightly plump and perhaps in her early thirties, sported a green-and-orange sari—the traditional wrap-around garment worn by women in India. Beautiful multicolored glass bangles jangled pleasantly on her wrists, and she wore some delicate white flowers around her hair-bun.

I looked quite drab in comparison. All I had on was gray cotton trousers and an equally drab gray t-shirt. But my digital wristwatch that sported a bright yellow plastic strap
helped me from fading into the background altogether. It was also my lucky charm.

This wristwatch was a gift from a fellow traveler. We had braved a blizzard in the Himalayan region and made it safely to base camp. The watch was now worn out and battered; still I never traveled without it.

People watching is fun and it helped me to kill time. Suddenly the ditty that was still playing in my head died down. My brain was alert, my body tensed. I had just spotted the sign:Welcome to the Bandipur Forest Region.

I normally would have craned my neck to spot the
chital
(spotted deer) that frolicked close to the road. But the hair on the nape of my neck was now standing up. I could feel the goosebumps on my skin. Bandipur wasn't just a paradise for wildlife enthusiasts. It was Veerappan land.