Instead, Harvey has been slaving over his memoirs…sort of.

“I see myself as creating a new genre,” Harvey says.  “It’s part memoir, yes, because it recounts events from my life.  But it’s also mystery, because as my biggest fans know, I’m an amateur sleuth.  So it’s the mystery memoir. Or maybe memorial mystery.  I haven’t decided yet.”

More news will be forthcoming as we wrangle details out of our friend, so stay tuned.

Moldova not have pink flamingo, especially pink flamingo that stand on one foot. It is not that I not love my pet rat, My pet rat is wonderful. But I want to see pink flamingo too.

So I go to Florida, only I am not lucky. Never lucky. I go to Puerto Rico, I see hurricane. I go to get award at work, I get stuck in lift. I come to Florida, I get dengue fever from mosquito.

Harvey say, "This not me!"

So Harvey tell me when he read this that I have to tell you that he does not give dengue fever, that it is other type of mosquito that give dengue fever, that it is not fault of Harvey. I think it is very funny that I have dengue and my boss is mosquito. Ha ha. But Harvey not laughing. So I tell you, and I tell you the truth, that Harvey is not dengue mosquito. But don’t stand too close anyway, just in case.

I saw pink flamingo on one leg!

But you no care about Harvey, yes? You want to hear about Florida and pink flamingo. At my hotel, there is pink flamingo, but I never meet pink flamingo. I see pink flamingo from my bedroom. He is in pool area. He stand on one foot! But I stay in bedroom the whole time I am in Florida, which is more than weekend, because I am so sick with Harvey fever, I cannot go home.

I move my eyes, they hurt. I move my legs, they hurt. I move my neck, it hurt.

But doctor come visit. She is pretty doctor. I not understand doctor well when she talk to me. I not understand her #A because my head hurt too much to hear well. #B, she have Florida accent. #C, she very pretty, so I prefer to look and not hear.

But I do hear when she say dengue is also called break dance fever. I think it is that. Yes, I am sure. It is good name, very good name. Because I am very broken.

You know what really funny thing is? Break dance fever is not popular in United States. It is new here. Very, very, very, very few people get it. Just me, and very few other people. So I am what you call “early adopted,” yes?

And I have rash. Itchy, red rash, so maybe I am lucky, yes? I not meet the pink flamingo, I become pink flamingo instead.

I try to stand on one foot, like pink flamingo down in the pool area, but I fall, or maybe it is break dance.

Cheese!

Finally the last day in Florida, I feel better. I have to go to airport, but before I go, I take camera. I want to take picture of pink flamingo. The only picture of pink flamingo I have so far is of me.

So I go to pool. Yes, you already know what happen, because you know me, and I am unlucky.

The pink flamingo is gone. Maybe he die from dengue break dance fever too?

So I ask at desk. “Where is pink flamingo?” I hold my camera up in air so clerk know why I want to see pink flamingo.

The clerk no say anything for second, then says, “Excuse me?”

Where is flamingo?

“The pink flamingo,” I say, really slow and loud, because I have tiny accent and maybe clerk not understand. Then to make really clear which pink flamingo I mean, I try to stand on one leg.

Bad idea. I am still really weak from dengue “Harvey” fever, so I almost fall. “There is pink flamingo in the pool area, yes?”

The clerk shakes head. “Uh, no sir, there are no flamingos at this hotel, pink or otherwise.”

“Oh,” I say. Then I laugh, because maybe clerk think I am crazy. “Ha ha. Okay, I go home now.”

And I do, very fast, because the clerk, he look at me funny.

So I go to Florida. Maybe I am lucky. Okay, I don’t get tan, but I do get color.  And I do see flamingo, even though he is not there.  But maybe that is good enough.

I have to ask Harvey if he do break dance. But not in person. But I will telephone. Just in case.  I don’t want to get more dengue and see flamingo in Moldova.  In Florida, is okay.  In Moldova, is crazy.

Phooey! I would like to say a lot more, but I always said that people who use profanities don’t know how to express themselves, so I won’t stoop that low. But when I get home, I’ll get Grouchy Retired Travel Writer Lady to spew profanities at you because she’s already stooped low. Mainly from osteoporosis. But also because she has the mouth of a sailor. (I know this because I have to edit out the naughties from her submissions.)

Argedley bargledey!

So phooey!

It has been a difficult few weeks. My long-awaited trip to Nauru has been eye-opening, but it’s a tough place to be at times. Take the day that Booby the bird, whom I met right after my arrival, gave me a tour.

He took me to his favorite restaurant, which happens to be his restaurant. It’s not really a restaurant, per se, but don’t tell that to Booby. He get’s offended. It’s actually a de facto dump along the northern coast, but why split hairs? People dump their garbage and Booby made a business out of it. How…entrepreneurial.

Yes, that’s the word I’ll use. Entrepreneurial.

On the face of it, Booby’s…restaurant has some things going for it. It has a marvellous ocean view. The service is very friendly. (Booby and his other bird friends bend over backwards to be nice. Or maybe they’re spilling over backwards because of all the beer they drink before noon. But again, don’t ask Booby for details on this. He’ll get offended.) And the menu changes according to what’s locally available.

That’s normally a good thing, if you want the freshest food out there. There’s just one little glitch. Nauru has to import 90% of its food. So what’s locally available doesn’t come in pods, peels or shells. It comes in cans. Take my lunch at Booby’s place as an example.

“What are you up for grubbing?” said Booby.

I ignored the ignoble way he referred to eating. “What do you recommend?” I said. (Travel tip: Always get the local suggestions if you want an authentic experience.)

“There’s canned ham, canned pineapple, canned chicken…”

“Do you have a light, white wine to go with any of that?”

At this, Booby looked confused. He wrinkled his brow. “Does that come in a can?”

So let’s just say that rotating fare doesn’t equate with freshness on Nauru.

It’s not that Nauruans are foodie schlubs. It’s that there’s isn’t much place to grow anything on the island. Eighty percent of the land was wrecked by phosphate mining. At only eight square miles, Nauru doesn’t have much room left over. So they import. And you can never get the freshest and best when you have to bring in your daily bread from Australia.

I asked Booby about how he coped. He just shrugged. It’s what everyone is used to. Put the checkered tablecloth out and make the best of it.

“At least no one’s eating me,” Booby said. He slapped his thighs and snorted.

But the story get’s more difficult, as I saw during my tour around Nauru. (Quite literally, I might add. Nauru is a round atoll, and the habitable, non-phosphate-mined portion runs in a strip of land around the edge of the island). Many Nauruans are, well, quite chubby. Ninety percent, according to some statistics. And diabetes is worse here than anywhere else in the world. Forty percent of Nauruans have diabetes.

“So, Booby, what do people do to control their diabetes if they can’t get their hands on good food?”

Booby shrugged. “They don’t.”

I always try to find the good wherever I go. This is not to say it isn’t hard to live on Nauru. although it dying comes rather easily. (See the above statistics). But still, I don’t want to leave the impression when I travel to poor countries that I suffered the whole time I was there. So despite the power outages, despite the water shortages (I used wipey naps from the airplane for some of my baths), despite the canned fare, I fell in love with…

Duuuuuuuck!

Coconuts. They grow cocunts on Nauru. They have for years. And coconuts are admittedly wonderful. Where would Hula dancers be without them? But they’re kind of hard (and by hard, I mean impossible) for mosquitoes to crack open. So travelling somewhere where coconuts abound and where my tour guide has a beak was great. I had lots of coconut. Lots and lots of coconut. Every day, morning, noon, tea time and night.

I never want to see a ruddy coconut again.

“You’re looking chubby,” Booby told me on my last day. “You shouldn’t have gorged on so much coconut. Atoll you so.” He slapped his thighs and snorted.

That was my joke. But, on second thought, Booby can keep it.

Want me to fill out taxes? I fill out taxes!

So now I am in Alabama. Normally I travel weekends, but not this week. This week, I take April 14 off, and 15 too.

So now I am in Alabama. At airport. Waiting for airplane to take me to Georgia. People always say southerners in U.S. are friendly and cheerful, but many today not look happy. Why? April is Spring. They should be happy, no?

Then I hear pretty stewardess talk to other pretty stewardess. She looks stressed. She says “I hate the arse.”

I am surprised. I see her arse (I not look. I just see. I promise.) Pretty stewardess’ arse is nice.

“Down with the arse,” says pretty stewardess number 2.

Funny. I thought pretty ladies liked arses…how you say? Perky.

“Ill have to fill out the dang forms tonight after my flight,” says pretty stewardess number 1. So many pretty stewardesses in America. In Moldova, stewardesses look angry. “I hope I get a better rebate than last year.”

Arse? Fill out? Get rebate for fill out arse?

Variety is spice of life. And I.R.S. has variety of tax forms.

Oh! Ha ha ha. I feel so stupid, I giggle out loud. Ha ha. Of course. I.R.S., not arse. April 15 is tomorrow.

I still feel so stupid, I say in loud voice to pretty stewardesses 1 and 2, “I.R.S., not arse. You have to do taxes!”

Stewardesses number 1 and 2 look at me, look surprised. Stewardess number 1 says, “Sweetie, I don’t get half of what you’re sayin’, but, yes. I have to do my taxes. And the I.R.S. is an arse.”

No, I think she understands me real good.

“I am accountant,” I say. I point at my face in case my accent is hard to, how she put it? “get”. “I can do taxes. Want me to do taxes?”

Stewardness number 2 smile real big. “Why, honey, that is the sweetest, most darling pick-up line I have ever heard. Of course you can do my taxes.”

Pick-up line? What is that? I smile and pretty stewardesses 1 and 2 sit next to me, one on right, and one on left, only number 2 was on right, and number 1 was on left, okay?

They pull messy papers from bag. This will be fun!

“Where are you from, sweetie?” pretty stewardess number 1 says.

“I am from Moldova but I take seminar on U.S. tax forms.”

They look at me funny.

“Moldova? You sure you know how to fill out these forms?” says stewardess number 2.

“Yes! I take seminar. For fun.”

They look confused, but stewardess number 2 gives papers.

Muffled crying.

“Well, sweetie, as long as you can do ‘em better’n me. And anyone can do them better’n me,” says stewardess number 2. Or maybe stewardess number 1. Now I am confused. “Our flight leaves in an hour. Will that be enough time for you?”

“One hour. Yes. Plenty,” I say. “Why you not do taxes sooner? It is fun.”

“Honeycakes, I’m glad you think so,” says stewardess number…pretty.

So I finish taxes. Very easy. American taxes are fun. When I give papers to pretty stewardesses, old lady near us looks at me.

“”Excuse me, young man,” she says.

“You can call me honeycakes,” I say. Old lady looks surprised. “Or sweetie.” Still surprised. It is okay. I am more southern than she is maybe.

“I overheard you were an accountant,” old lady says.

“Yes, yes! I do your taxes?”

“Thank you so much. I left it till the last minute. I was going to do them on the plane, but I hate doing taxes.”

“No, no. Taxes, they are fun.”

Old lady looked surprised again, then she smiles. “I hate to ask this, but would you mind terribly helping my daugher with hers too?”

“Yes!” America in springtime! I come more in Spring from now on.

“Leigh Ann!” old lady screams loud. “This fine young man can help you do your taxes.”

Suddenly, no one is talking. Everyone look at me. I’m famous. I smile. “Make line. I do taxes.”

The more the happier!

Southern Americans are very friendly. Grandmothers kissed me and gave me food. And almost everyone wanted to pay me! For filling out paper! Pay me to have fun! I say no. I can not accept , but they insist.

One problem. There is saying my grandmother used to say: “Have fun, and time will kick you in the arse.”

Or, in this case, the I.R.S.

This expression means that taxes were so fun, I did not see time. I did not hear stewardess call my name. I did not see airplane go bye bye.

Bye bye.

Yes! I have so much fun, I miss airplane.

But it is okay. I meet many nice people. They call me “honey,” and “sweetcakes,” and “sweetie.” Old ladies want to marry me. They give me food. And put money in my pocket.

So much, I can stay in hotel. Tomorrow, I take airplane.

Do you not love April 15?

I finally fly in to Nauru

What would my first glimpse of Nauru offer me as I prepared to land? Would this island republic in the Pacific show me its emerald blue waters? Would I see the paradise that Nauru could be? Or would my first impression be of its devastated limestone remains? Would  the damage from its phosphate mining be my first postcard?

Neither, apparently. I couldn’t see a thing, what with all the sweat and dust in my eyes after island hopping from Australia. I don’t even know how I managed to find the place, I was flying so blind.

Menem Hotel is one of two hotel in Nauru

All I know is that by the time I got to Nauru, I was in desperate need of soaking my wings in the Menem Hotel pool while sipping a chilled Chardonnay.

Or the imported Australian beer, if that’s all that was available.

Or God forbid, water.

I landed on the beach. The ocean breeze almost smashed me into a palm tree. After catching my breath, I looked around to gather my bearings.

Nauru's eight square miles.

I had no idea where in Nauru I landed, which was hardly a big deal. Nauru is eight square miles. A band of grass circles the island. Follow the band, and eventually you’ll bump into whatever you’re looking for since no one lives in the center of the island.

Digging my feet into the sand of a new travel destination always reinvigorates me. Nauru’s steamy sand is no exception, so I chose to hold off my visit to the pool. It was time to explore.

I knew from my reading that Nauru’s interior, known as Topside, is in bad shape. For years, phosphate mining had led to Nauru’s boom. But it also destroyed the landscape. Nauru is in bad shape for oh, so many reasons. One is that much of its tiny land is a wasteland. They can’t even grow food on it. People have used the word “moonscape” to describe the mining site. But people always exaggerate, right?

This was forest before phosphate mining took over.

Wrong. Gray limestone jutted out of the land. The whole terrain was gray. Pitted. Miles and miles of it. Eighty percent of Nauru was mined. Eighty percent is now a pockmarked mess. I zoomed up to get an aerial view and get some respite from the powder that hung in the air.  No one was below.

Then I looked closer. There was one odd animal. I squinted. It was obviously one of those strange creatures that inhabit this part of the world. Saw a bunch of oddball wildlife in Australia. And here was another one, one I had never seen before. It had the butt of a bird and the head of a…

I got in closer. Was that a…? No, it couldn’t be.

A beer can?

Poop made this place rich.

The creature belched. His head fell off and rolled in a limestone pockmark. I took a closer look. It was a beer can from Australia. Courage Draught. Nauru imports all of its food, including beer.

I looked up at the bird. Just an everyday bird after all. He burped again.

“Bit early to be drinking beer, don’t you think?” I asked.

“Ooooh, dessert,” he said and lunged his beak at me.

Crap, crap, crap. I ducked beneath a little jut of limestone, then the bird started laughing.

“Just teasing you. We here in Nauru prefer our food canned. I don’t eat fresh food if I can help it.” His guffaw was cut short by another belch. Suddenly he looked at me, alert.

“You’re new around here. What are you up to?” he asked. “Not going to be causing any trouble, are you?”

“No, no, no, no,” I said. I shook my head really hard so he could know how emphatic I was being. “Not at all.”

“Good, ’cause that’s my job.” He guffawed again. “So what are you doing here then?”

“I’m a travel writer doing a story on Nauru.”

“A travel writer. Like, you’re going to put my name in a newspaper, or book, or something? I’ll be famous.”

Excellent. When you’re a writer, it can be very easy to get others on your side, as long as they want to taste fame.

“If you’re willing to answer a few questions,” I said.

“My pleasure.” The bird sat down on a hole. It kind of looked like he was sitting on a toilet. I tried not to laugh.

“My name is Harvey Flea,” I said.

“My name’s Booby. I’m from a long line of Blue-footed Boobies.” He started to sniff. “It was my ancestors that made this island great.”

“Really?” Were they in the beer import business?

“Poop.”

“Excuse me?”

Bird guano fueled Nauru's phosphate industry.

“Poop. It was their poop that created the phosphate,” he said. He lifted his eyes to the sun looking majestic. Then he burped again.

“Wow, that’s really,” I said. “Wow, no words.”

“And now look at me,” Booby shook his head. “Handsome as ever.” He laughed again. “Just kidding. No clue who my ancestors were. I’ll take you to my favorite pub. I’ll introduce you to some of the locals.”

Booby’s “favorite pub” was a polluted shoreline. Garbage lay strewn everywhere.

It was pretty clear from this heap why fourty percent of Nauruans have diabetes and ninety percent are overweight. There wasn’t a lick of fresh food tossed here, none that I could see. There were cans, containers of processed sludge and their ilk.

I had read about this, but seeing it first hand made my tummy cry.

There was something else that bothered me here. Nauru has some huge problems. It’s running out of money, its water supply is poor, rain is scarce, its environment is in shambles, the population is dying out. These problems loomed large and had difficult solutions. But this dump should be easy to fix. All anyone had to do was show up with a plastic bag and pick up the trash.

“Hey, Booby,” I said before he picked up a half-empty can of soda. “Doesn’t all this trash bother you?”

“Don’t you believe it,” Booby said. “It’s a crying shame. Can’t help tourism.” He pecked open a can can of what looked like spam.

“So why don’t you guys clean it up?”

Booby and his friends all swivelled their heads toward me. They looked stunned.

“Well, Harvey, I don’t know,” Booby said.  “We didn’t put it here. It’s not our fault.” The other birds nodded.

Maybe it was the humid heat, maybe it was my long trip, maybe it was seeing such a beautiful island wallowing in messes whose faults were sometimes hard to pinpoint. But suddenly my head felt like exploding and I realized I’d better head to the hotel for a rest.

“Booby, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe you can show me around?”

Booby nodded his beak, which was stuck to a tin.

I shrugged. At least the Nauruans are nice.

I hate doctors!

So I’m leaving my doctor’s office in Greenwich Village feeling pretty pissed. I’ve come all the way to Washington Square from Jersey just to be told to eat bland food.

I used to go to a doctor in Jersey, but he left. It took me six months to track him down, but when I finally did, I told him if he ever moved again, I’d hit him with my cane.

He told me I already hit him with my cane. That’s why he left in the first place. He doesn’t scare easy. But his frequently revolving secretaries do, so I can still scare them pretty easy.

The point is, he says my ulcer isn’t cleared up yet. “Constance, Constance. I’ve told you to stay away from the Tabasco sauce.”

I hate it when he calls me Constance. I think that’s why I have an ulcer.

So now I’m schlepping all the way back to the subway to take my sorry butt back to my boring kitchen to eat toast and butter. Or potatoes. Or hard-boiled eggs. And whatever other “wide variety” of incredibly bland food is “available at my local grocery store” to make my life insufferably boring.

And then I see it.

My Dosa cart. Of course. I should have a Dosa for lunch. (Or second lunch, but who’s counting?)

I’d even be following doctor instructions: Dosa’s got potatoes. Potatoes are soft on the stomach. And the crêpe-like thing you stuff the potatoes in is made from lentils (Easy on the stomach? Check) and rice (Easy on the stomach? Check).

Where people get the idea that Indian food is spicy, I have no clue.

Washington Square Dosa Cart

Okay, so maybe there is a little spice in there. But don’t all those annoyingly toothpick-thin diet gurus say eating is all about balance these days? Thiru, the Dosa guy, balances bland with spicy, so it’s perfect for my ulcer.

“Thiru, I’ll take my usual, extra spicy, with a Coke,” I scream at him.

“Constance, you’re at the back of the line. I’ll get to you in a minute,” he says.

“Well, duh, I’m at the back of the line. That’s why I screamed my order. I’m an old woman, so everyone will let me pass, right?” I smile. Since I don’t smile very often, I look pained. And maybe a little constipated.

In the South, saying that might work. In New York, it doesn’t cut it. So I hold up my cane and make like I’m going to hit people with it.

It works like a charm. They all get out of the way. Except the one dirty-looking student who has an iPod thingy destroying his hearing. I hit him with my cane. That works.

Thiru doesn’t look happy. “Don’t let her fool you,” he says. “She’s…”

Then I hit him with my cane.

“Here’s one ulcer delight, to go,” he says.

“What do you know about my ulcer?”

Indian lentil and rice crêpes with potatoes

“I’m not talking about yours. I’m talking about mine, the one that always gets aggravated when you come and alienate my customers.”

I hit him with the cane again and hobble over to the picnic table. I put extra effort in the hobbling so people feel better about themselves for letting me cut in line. Old age mostly sucks, but sometimes I try to make the best of it.

Potatoes mostly suck too, that’s why you need to pile on the Scoville points, to give them some redeeming value. Since the potatoes have negative Scoville points, and the nice crêpe thingy has negative Scoville points, in the end, my lunch probably has about zero Scoville points, even with the spice that’s as hot as George Clooney.

I bite in and blink back the tears that want to come out. And, no, it isn’t making my ulcer act up, thank you very much.

Just in case...

I can’t see why any friggin’ doctor would complain. Not even mine.

When you get a chance, pass the Prilosec.

Giddy-up!

I know I’ve been promising you an article about Nauru, but hold your horses. I’m getting there. I’m still recovering from my flight. First class just isn’t what it used to be.

Off to wine tasting!

Imagine yourself hovering over a vast land, an island continent in the Pacific. Its dry landscape belies the happiness that bubbles in its people. One day - one day soon - it would become one of the most important wine exporters. There is just one itsy, bitsy problem.  It has no grapes.

Oops.

I am thankful that Australia solved this oversight before my flight landed. After all, it’s kind of hard to tour wine country if there is no…well, wine. Problem solved when grapes were shipped off to Australia in the 1800’s. So Australia eventually had both grapes and prisoners. I wonder if the prisoners took some comfort in the thought.

Sunset over New South Wales

Here I am, on my recuperative stay in Australia before I head for Nauru. (Airline travel is so exhausting). And the name of the game is wineries.

This might be a good time to mention my book The Bathtub Winery. I’m writing a book by that title. Feel free to buy a copy when it comes out. Or two copies. Or more.

I’ve decided to visit the Mudgee region in New South Wales. It’s a bit of a trek from Sydney, where my plane landed, but the region caught my attention. Why? you ask. Was it the fruity reds? The nurturing effect of clay earth on grapes? The lush hills?

No, I just like the name. Mudgee. Kind of like budgie, but funnier.

Wake up and smell the tannins.

Likewise I chose Frog Rock Wines because I like the name. Its shows a sense of humor. People think wine is supposed to be stuffy. It‘s not. It’s supposed to bring us joy.

So how does a connoisseur like moi approach wine tasting?

Let’s just say I really get into it.

I stand off a bit while my group starts tasting wine. Once I see they are getting a bit looser, happier and less observant, I get right above the first open bottle I can find. I tuck in my wings and my muscular legs and…

Wheeeeeeeee! Down I plummet into the bottle. The key then is to lean forward a few degrees so that my lips are face down. Once I get close enough, out pop my wings and I hover over the wine like a parachutist whose parachute has stopped his fall. The I take a sip.

Aaaaah! How refreshing. I dive bomb from bottle to bottle, shrieking “wheeeeeee!” every time because it’s just so much fun to hear how the “wheeeeeee!” sounds different depending on the density of glass, the fullness of the bottle, and how much wine I have plugging up my ears.

Although I try to stay as dry as possible until my last dive so that the wines don’t mix. Then, once I’ve tasted from all the bottles, I let myself do a flying forward one-and-a-half somersaults, pike position, into the wine.

Once I did a belly flop in a Romane Conti 2001. That was fun.

The other part about wine tasting that I love is that as I bounce from bottle to bottle, I get to see the looks on my fellow wine tasters’ faces. The good thing is that at Rock Frog Wines, the wine tasters were mostly fun-loving Australians. Which meant I could let my guard down. They seemed to enjoy watching a mosquito “wheeeeeeee!” from bottle to bottle. I think they maybe even wanted to join in.

Not like that time in Paris when…well, that’s another story. Why whine about the past?

Wheeeeeee!

I’m afraid I let Australia’s laid-back attitude sink in too much, though. As I was floating in Rock Frog’s Cabernet Merlot (only $15 a bottle!), I felt the hints of red currant and black cherry tip beneath me as - oh, no! - the bottle was pouring me out into someone’s glass. Down I went on a vibrant red wave with purple hues!

“Hey, look! There’s that mosquito swimming in my wine,” I hear a lady say. I think it might be the cute redhead.

I never flew faster out of a glass of wine in my life. I looked the lady in her bright green eyes and gave her my most charming smile and winked.

I swear she winked back.

My favorite gourmet restaurant in Paris

The other day I was catching the Greyhound bus from La Crosse, Wisconsin, to my next destination when a very talkative woman eased herself into the seat next to me.  In ten minutes she had given me every small detail of her life, how old all of her seventeen grandchildren were (along with photographs of them drawn from her handbag), related her three divorces, and otherwise told me far too much about her rather colourless self.  Including the fact that she was an erstwhile self-published author and “artist.”  

Then came the inevitable, very American question: ‘So, I looooooove your accent.  What do you do?’

‘I’m a travel writer’, I told her.

‘Oh, really!’ she shrieked. ‘What is your favorite part of the world?’

‘As a point of fact, madam’, I said, struggling to remain civil, ‘I just returned from Paris’.

At this, her eyes took on a dreamy artistic hue.  ’Ah, Pareeeeee’, she cooed, affecting a French accent and sounding more the glottal German in the process.  ’I just love that city.  Tell me about the food.  What did you have?  Where did you eat?  Did you take in some five-star restaurants’?

Opening a packet of crisps, I slipped the corner of one into my mouth and bit slowly.  I was going to drag this one out a bit.  ’Actually, I mostly ate at McDonald’s and Burger King.’

‘Oh’, she said, and dismissed me.  Just like that, I was able to retreat from the conversation and be back alone with my thoughts, with the music from my iPod, and my anonymity.  

Nothing, I have found, nothing in this world will deflect attention from one faster than claiming that one is a bloody pillock when it comes to gourmet food.  When one is knackered of questions about the native foods of the areas one visits, it will shut one’s auditors right up.  So perhaps I had gone a bit far.  Yes, I do in fact sample many of the native foods along the way.  But that is a sidelight to the main show, and I don’t care for food enough to talk about it.

Take for example the time I spent in South America.  I am glad to have found that video clip below, because it taught me how to say the one thing I needed most to say whenever I went to a roadside stand and someone did a bodge job of my food.  

 But ultimately, what is so wrong with traveling for the fun of the trip, with being less than adventurous with the foods one encounters?  Why risk bloody indigestion and who knows what else when there is a handy Subway along the way?  We live in a world far too enamoured with the new, the different, the exotic, in my opinion.  But if the plain and simple were not after all the best, why have all the American fast food companies taken over the world?  They have made it very easy for one to eat well no matter where one is.  And as for me, food is my last thought.  I rarely eat more than once a day, if at all.  I find eating to be a colossal bore.

It puts me in mind of the Internet and writing, as these travel musings often do.  One of my very favorite websites in the world is The Dullest Blog in the World.  This site bears no presumptions, makes no claim to be more than what it is.  I believe that we had just better have it out right now, admitting that most of us do in fact live plain lives in which ‘A window was slightly open. I decided that I did not need it to continue to be so. I closed it and securing it using the window handles.’  That entry alone garnered 146 comments so far.  So do not tell me that I am the only person living in this world with a philosphy of life so coloured.

In short, I travel for the love of it.  But since I am travelling for the love of the move and not for the love of the food, I prefer to restrict my comestible perenigrations to the occasional noshing on normal food.

Down with airplane crud!

On my way to Nauru, the smallest republic in the world, I found a new mission in life. I must reform airplane food.

It is urgent. Slabs of gray under viscous mud. Pasta arranged like sardines during a housing shortage. Lettuce…no wait. Lettuce isn’t the right word for it. Wilted salads. That’s more like it. Passengers who complain that they get nothing on short flights simply don’t remember how bad the food was.

Granted, the food I ate was better, since I roughed it in first class. But even there, the lettuce was a bit brown around the edges. And the dressing had garlic powder. Powder!

Barf!

But when I peeked into coach to see how the other side lives, I was horrified. Their movie screens are really small too.

I suppose I could look at it as preparation. Nauru isn’t known for being the culinary capital of the world. But I prefer to look at it as a call to change the world. Travel is a passion, and it goes hand in hand with another passion: food. Real food, not airplane food.

And when you have a passion, you have to live it out. As Aunt Felicity put it in Alan Bradley’s latest novel The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag, “Inspiration from outside oneself is like the heat in an oven. It makes passable Bath buns. But inspiration from within is like a volcano: It changes the face of the world.”

Mt. Harvey

Who can deny that I am that volcano? Chocolate volcano, in case you were wondering what flavor it was.

How did this chocolate volcano take shape? On my flight from JFK to Anchorage, it was close to dormant, mollified perhaps from watching Julie and Julia. (Yes, I know it’s a chick flick, but my seating companion was a chick. So there.)

From Anchorage to Taipei, the volcano started to rumble. As did my tummy. I eat often.

From Taipei to Sydney, the chocolate lava started to bubble furiously. I looked at a poor old lady break her bridge on the bread roll, and I said to myself: “If governments can have health reform packages, then world travelers can - nay, should - have airplane food reform packages.”

And so Harvey Flea’s Airplane Food Reform Package is official.

I’ll be on it once I end my voyage to Nauru. I’m not sure of all the details, but fresh garlic will be featured.

And perhaps a chocolate volcano or two.