Tag: Travel

…for stupid people, that is:

“Skip the sandals when you fly — seriously.  If there’s an emergency involving fire, broken glass or the need to evacuate fast, you’ll want real closed-toe shoes to protect your feet and help you move quickly.  Sandals slow you down and leave you exposed when seconds matter.”

I always shake my head when I see people wearing flip-flops or the like when they travel.

That said, I’m not a huge fan of wearing sneakers to fly, either — unless they can be easily removed or put on (#VelcroFasteners).

If I’m flying into somewhere cold — e.g. Chicago or Yurp — the go-to are my favorites, L.L. Bean’s Snow Sneakers:

…although I see with some irritation that they currently only offer these to women.  Fucking morons.   It’s a good thing I ordered two pairs the last time I bought some.  Considering that I only wear mine in winter (i.e. those few of non-consecutive days in north Texas when it’s really that cold), these should last me pretty much for the rest of my life.  (My previous pair lasted me well over a decade, and they went to Europe and the U.K. over a dozen times.)

If you’re interested, try another brand, e.g. Propét (although they look kinda heavy):

All other times that I fly, it’s on with the faithful Minnetonka mocs:

I prefer the moosehide type, because once they’re worn in (which takes about a couple days), they’re fantastically soft and (most importantly) they’re not a hassle to put back on at the end of a flight, when your feet are all swollen from the cabin pressurization or whatever.  They also squash flat in your suitcase to save space.

And yes, I always wear socks when flying and rest my feet on my backpack so nothing touches the airliner’s foul floor.  (Don’t get me started about the fools who go to the airliner toilets in bare feet…)

All that said, my chances of flying internationally ever again are becoming vanishingly small.  But that’s a topic for another time.

Grand Place, Brussels 2004

Sadly, no pictures can do this place justice.  You just have to see it to experience its immensity and grandeur.

After Connie died in 2017, I was really adrift.  Apart from the bereavement, I really had no idea where or how I wanted to live.   Fortunately, any immediate problems about accommodation were taken care of by Doc Russia, who took me in immediately after I sold the Plano house, and then by Mr. Free Market, who most graciously ensconsed me in one of his spare suites at Free Market Towers.

Towards the end of my stay at the Towers, I went to Frenchland (okay, Monaco) to spend some time with Former Drummer Knob, who lives thereabouts.  While driving around that exquisite part of the world known as the Midi, I discovered that as long as I didn’t try for a sea-facing apartment, I could actually have afforded to live there.

I found a (very) small one-bed/one bath apartment just north of Antibes which fitted the bill.

(just over the blue sign)

Modest, but not a slum;  the exterior looks totally foul, but the interior was okay — sort of like a typical student’s digs.  The monthly rent was about 1,400 euro — say, $1,600 (about what I’d pay for the same thing in Dallas) — but unlike Dallas, the rent included water and electricity, and the apartment came furnished.  (There’s a caveat, in that the “free” utilities thing was for a specific amount of w&e per month;  higher and you pay quite a lot, but I would have come in under that limit quite comfortably.)

Just in passing:  at the time, my French was reasonably fluent and would have become completely so within a couple of months anyway.  My fluency and French last name would have eased my ability to get a short-term residence visa, I was assured by a local official.  My U.S. passport was no big deal because apparently quite a few Murkins do that kind of thing in that part of the world anyway, she said.

Yes, in case you’re wondering:  I did a fair amount of research into this because, as I said, I was at something of a loose end during that time, so all options were on the table.

And yes, the apartment was quite humble, but it didn’t matter because once you leave the apartment you’re in frigging France, FFS, with bistros, boulangeries, patisseries, charcuteries, estaminets and all those things that make life in France unforgettable.

All the above were brought to mind when I read this article, which purported to list the cheapest countries to live in as an expat.

Of course, when people say “cheapest” they mean just that.  If the list is topped by Vietnam… well, you get the picture.

And here’s the problem with this “expat” thing, and the reason I ended up coming back to the U.S. of A.:  what articles like this never mention is that cost isn’t the only reason to live elsewhere.  Hell, it should only be Reason #4 or #5.

The biggest reason to live somewhere else — and by this I mean in a furrin country — is that you have to adapt to the culture and lifestyle of the place.  And that’s no small thing.  It’s all very well to live somewhere cheap, but when the free TV sucks and the cable/satellite option is either limited or expensive, or both, that’s not a good thing.  And getting around and getting on with the locals can be quite a task, or even impossible.  Expats often talk about “conversation fatigue”, which is the stress you face when you’re constantly translating a foreign language mentally in order to understand what’s being said to you, or before you open your mouth to speak.  It’s fine if a lot of the locals can speak English, and are prepared to do so.  This is sometimes the case when living in one of the larger cities — which are not cheap to live in, as I can attest — but in small villages or towns, that’s not the way to bet, as I discovered in my various travels around Europe, and most especially not in France.

Once again, I had little problem reading the newspapers and books in French, and that could only have improved;  but it was still going to be a chore, experienced daily.  Now imagine doing that in, say, Vietnam, where the language is not only foreign, but the text is of the “chicken scratch” variety.

I would have been unutterably lonely;  even though Knob lived but a few miles from that apartment, seeing him would have meant catching the train to Monaco every time because forget buying a car Over There.  Oy.  And he worked, which meant he wouldn’t be available all the time.

I was in my  early sixties.  Had I been much younger and coupled with a woman willing to try the experience with me:  who knows?  But no, it was not to be.

So it was with only a little regret that I decided not to stay in France.

One thing I do know:  I was really, really glad to get back home, and only realized how glad when Doc picked me up at the airport, and casually tossed over one of my handguns in its holster with the comment:  “I thought you might want that.”

The inhabitants of various European tourist “hot spots” have recently been rebelling against the incursion of said tourists who, they claim, are making their home towns unaffordable and unbearable.  (I talked about it here, some time ago.)

Well, it seems as though they’re getting what they asked for:

Bookings in some of Mallorca’s most popular summer holiday resorts have slumped by as much as 20 per cent, say hoteliers on the Balearic Island, suggesting holidaymakers are voting with their feet following anti-tourism marches.
The hoteliers association that represents the resorts of Alcudia and Can Picafort say their key markets have slowed in recent months.
The news comes following major anti-tourism protests across mainland Spain and its islands this year – with another huge protest march in the pipeline for Mallorca’s capital next weekend.
Last week, thousands of defiant anti-tourism protesters vowed to bring the streets of Palma to a standstill on June 15th, with representatives of around 60 groups saying they’re planning to march.

Well, let’s hope all the “death to touristas” thing doesn’t kill the destinations altogether.  I suspect the locals would not care for that either.

Then there’s this take:

Hate to say it, Pablo me old mate, but the kind of tourists who jump at the bargains are more likely to be the kind of tourists you don’t want.