Traveling Thoughts

Some observations while circumnavigating:

Overheard conversation in China:
Chinese girl: chinesechinesechinese--Obama--chinesechinesechinese?
American girl: chinesechinesechinesechinese--uhh, white guilt--chinesechinese.

I may have promised someone I'd help them emigrate to the United States for their travel help.

I'm no expert on women's fashion in the world, but Russian fashion has to be the worst.  It's routinely some combination of high-heel shoes entirely impractical for Eastern Europe's cobblestone streets, striking but off-putting colors like puke green, purses of black shiny leather, black tights, and a blouse or dress with leopard print.  It feels less like the modern world has been unleashed upon Eastern European women and more like Eastern European women have been unleashed on the modern world.

As for men's fashion, I'll just say that a wife-beater, track shorts, and flip-flops is not appropriate dress attire for public.

In any European airport, I inevitably see one or two people who look so obviously French they shouldn’t  need a passport.  Olive skin, a pursed mouth for making those narrow sounds, and a general air of condescension, all stylishly performed.  The moment of recognition in which I find one of these people is the highlight of any layover.  I never confirm my suspicions.  Their Frenchness is self-evident, and further investigation could reveal a kind of racial/ethnic/cultural profiling that is socially unacceptable.

Overheard on the plane:
Man: “I’m headed to California for a half-marathon actually”
Woman: “Wow, do you usually run marathons?”
Man: “Not usually, but this is for charity”
Woman: “What charity?”
Man: “Ummm . . . Leukemia, or something like that”
Woman: “Wowww”

From Phoenix to Chicago there was a crying baby sitting behind me.  The mother could only calm the child down by singing “Old McDonald Had a Farm” over and over again.  As they say, out of the frying pan and into . . .

From Chicago to Brussels there was also a child crying, except this was like a 6-year old French boy. He won't be dispelling the stereotypes any time soon I suppose.

Flying from Tripoli to Bangui, Central African Republic, I of course couldn't understand the pilot's announcements in Arabic.  But I could understand "Inshallah" several times.  From the person responsible for my 700mph, 7-mile-high journey, more than one "God willing" becomes disconcerting.

In the last two weeks I have watched the World Cup commentated in four different languages, none of them English.

To be continued . . .