It’s been hard to get in touch with Harvey lately, but he’s not on vacation.
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.
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 forty 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.
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.