Confessions of an Armchair Traveller
Havana
You can’t write about Havana without writing about the music. Beats pour out windows and follow you down the street, inviting your hips to sway, your shoulders to shimmy.
You can’t write about Havana without writing about the color: that blue-blue sky, the pastel buildings lined up like little girls on Easter, the large-and-in-charge old cars with their primary-color, paint-bucket hues.
You can’t write about Havana without writing about the air. Briny and soft, it runs the sea through your hair; its salty finger traces your lips and beckons you to follow it back out to sea.
One day we visit El Tempete. I try to look past the chipped and faded façade, back to when this colonial building witnessed the founding of the city. I won’t tell you what I wish for as I take my turn walking around the ceiba tree in the yard.
One day we visit the Plaza de la Cathedral. A sign says that the façade of the building is “a classic example of Cuban Baroque style.” Outdoor tables sheltered under umbrellas say that the elderly Casa del Marquis on the left is now a restaurant. This comes as a relief, as I’m not in the mood for religion or architecture. We take a seat and order cafés instead.
Okavango Delta
For months before our trip, I lie awake at night making checklists, packing lists, lists of animals they said we might see. I read about rainfall and climate in the Delta, look at pictures of lions spearing antelopes, of long-legged birds standing backward-facing-knee-deep in the marsh.
One Sunday about two weeks before our trip, I pack and unpack and repack my bag, just to make sure I have everything and that it all fits. Hat. Sunscreen. Malaria pills. Well, anti-malaria pills, as my wife reminds me. Binoculars. Camera and accessories. Vest with lots of pockets. The safari people were very specific about the supplies we had to carry and the amount of space they would be allowed to take up.
When it’s finally time to leave, we fly from Denver to New York to London to Johannesburg to Maun, a small Botswanan town at the edge of our destination: the Okavango Delta.
I pass the shorter flights by telling my wife, well, telling her earbuds, about how the Okavango Delta actually isn’t the largest inland delta, even though people say it is. I tell her about how 11 cubic kilometers of water flow from the mountains of Angola through the Kalahari desert every year, arriving at the Okavango Delta just in time for the dry season. How this more than triples the size of the marshy wetland every year. How the majority of that water, having no sea to flow into, is sucked up by plants or evaporates.
I pass the longer flights with a glass of wine and two Benadryls.
When it officially begins, the trip is a mixture of stunning beauty and constant discomfort. Every day is broiling hot except for when it’s freezing, but the herds of zebra watching as we pass by don’t seem to mind. Neither do the meerkat-looking-things that raise their skittish little heads at the slightest provocation. One night we are heading back to our camp—open lean-tos, folding wooden tables and canvas chairs set up on rugs in the sand—when our tour guide stops the Jeep. There is a rhino sitting in the road. We will not be moving until it does. My back gets stiff and my hands and feet and ears turn white from the cold, but I don’t care. I am utterly in awe.
The Taj Majal
Who knew a mausoleum could turn me on? But from my position in the Mehtab Bagh, across the Yamuna river, it looks almost sensual: the domes on each of the three buildings generously curved and topped with a sharp spire. I had always wanted to see the Taj Mahal, but now that I’m so close, just across the river, I feel hesitant.
A few minutes later, I pile into an open-top canoe-type-thing with several boisterous Swedish men. They are all on some kind of business tour together, and I, a single traveler, got lumped into a group with them. I briefly wonder if this is what it felt like to be a Viking. Only, instead of pillaging and burning and stuff, we are being propelled across a crowded river by a scrawny, Indian teenager with a long pole to “ooh” and “ahh” and snap a few pics.
Closer up, the marble glows yellow in the setting sun. A pink sari flits next to a hat and sunglasses; long robes rub shoulders with band t-shirts. Patterns on the 400-year-old stone walls and tiled floors fill my eyes. I press a hand to the stone, still warm from the heat of the day. I take one last look around and then step back into the crowd.
The Kitchen Table
I wake up, slowly at first, then quickly. Why is it full daylight? What meeting am I late for? What phone call am I missing? Next to me, my wife is still slumbering away and I relax. It’s Saturday.
I slip out of bed and tiptoe down to the kitchen, where I make coffee and toast, grab my laptop and head to the round, wooden kitchen table. I open up my computer and hop on Google maps. Where should I travel today? The possibilities. I take a bite of my toast and type the first name that comes to mind. New Zealand. I’ve always wondered what that place looks like. The map shows the country as two islands, and I zoom in until I’m hovering over a random city. Paeroa. Never heard of it. I search for the little yellow man in the corner of my screen and grab him by the head. His arms and legs flail as I prepare to drop him at random. I spend the morning strolling through the streets, happily munching my toast.
