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The Bad Tourist
Entropic travel with a twist
by Tom Byrnes

If the true fruit of extensive travel is the vague but enduring sensation of being at home nearly everywhere, then Amsterdam felt like my living room. Standing in a soft rain that made the pavés and canals of the red light district glisten, everything seemed so comforting: The hookers lounging in their windows, the strolling businessmen with meathooks in their eyes, the sweet scent of hash, and the quiet menace of the thug tucked in the darkness of the museum doorway. I took it all in, considered the events of the past week, and sighed. Brazen sexual commerce, drugs, and an elusive sense of violence all tempered by that uniquely Dutch blend of openness and sensibility — what more could a weary traveler want?

It was 3 A.M. and my arrival in the only international capital where one can get a sex change operation on the national health care scheme was somewhat less than planned. Not that I am all that big on scheduling when it comes to travel, mind you. In fact, the only good that has come from any trip planning I’ve been party to has been a healthy, shared sense of failure felt by all who were involved in its unraveling. I know this point of view puts me at odds with both the international tourism cartel and the 600 million happy globetrotters who eagerly sign up for its pre-packed tours each year, but I can’t help it. I’d much rather accept the fact that almost everything will go wrong and have a good time anyway than place my fate in the hands of a professional tour guide who will go to any length to keep poverty, dirt, and the possibility of intimate cultural exchanges on the other side of an air-conditioned bus window.

What can I say — I’m a bad tourist.

The way I see it, a real journey is what happens when plans fail, so why bother dabbling — just jab the mainline and hang on for what happens next. This probably goes a long way in terms of explaining why my first circumnavigation of the globe began with only three things: A cheap, one-way ticket to Zurich, a small backpack, and a willingness to get in any car that was willing to pull over and pick me up.

"Where are you going," the driver would ask.

"Same place as you," I would say, smiling to ease the momentary confusion that always followed.

And away we went.

Fifteen months, several continents, and no short list of lurid interludes later, I found myself in Northern Africa at the wrong end of a large knife being operated by an even larger man. Getting robbed is never pleasant, but it was a minor hassle compared to what came next: The issue of covering at least 1,500 kilometers and an "unofficial" yet quite active war zone away from the nearest American Express office, all without as much as a single dirham in my pocket.

Several rides, including a stint in an army truck filled with kif-smoking soldiers and one long stretch atop an open load of coal that left me looking like Al Jolson, took me through the Sahara and across the dirt roads of the Atlas Mountains to Marrakech. Unfortunately, the AmEx office there had been closed, so it was off to Rabat where the office was open, but they were out of dollars. My only choice was to accept cheques in Deutsch Marks that, at the going rate of exchange, cut what slim funds I had remaining by two-thirds. Before long I was sitting in a distinctly second-class café in Tangier staring into my mint tea and considering my options. Using my finger, I did some basic calculations in the dust on the tabletop; within four hours I was boarding a ferry for Spain and headed north. My trip was coming to an end.

A chubby Dutch trucker with a drooping blonde mustache hauled me the last stretch from Brussels to Amsterdam, home of the cheap charter flight. I told him my story to pass the time as the oncoming headlights splayed patterns across his face; he told me about his failing marriage. He was planning on dropping me off at a tram station but, considering the late hour, drove straight downtown and dropped me off in front of the city's official Erotic Museum. I climbed out of the truck and was greeted by a large, limbless satyr sporting a huge erection and an ad for the new third-floor S&M exhibit. I was out of luck - the museum had closed at two. I wandered down the street, wondering where I would spend the night when a whore waved me in. Laughing, I pulled out the battered International Student ID I had picked up on the black market in Istanbul and promptly demanded a discount.

"A student?" she cooed. "You look a little old to be a student."

"I’m not," I whispered.

"Well then, what shall we call you?

I smiled sweetly. "A tourist."