I recently went on my honeymoon to the beautiful country of Italy. The country that borders the Mediterranean Sea is one of the most beautiful countries I’ve ever been to. With it’s majestic farms, to its incredible wine region, to some of the best beaches in the world (on the Isle of Capri), nothing quite compares to Italy!
My wife and I flew into Rome, then went down to Pompeii, then to Naples (the birthplace of the pizza), Sorrento, Positano, the Amalfi Coast, and then finished the trip off in Venice. For the first week of the trip we were on a small group tour, called Intrepid Travel. We have nothing but great things to say about this program, and in particular the tour guide, who was simply amazing!
What follows below is my city by city summary of what we liked and what wasn’t our favourite:
Rome is the most historical city I’ve ever been to. You have the old Roman ruins right in the downtown core of the city. Everything from the Colosseum, to the ancient barracks and Caesar’s Palace, etc.
It is however, also one of the busiest cities I’ve ever been to. Luckily, I did my research before and noticed that it is the pickpocket capital of the world. I made sure to wear my Flight underwear everyday that I was in Rome; and I carried both of our passports and our Euro’s in the handy pocket in the underwear the entire trip (just to be safe).
Pompeii is actually a fantastic little inland town. It is the home to the Ruins of Pompeii, which are much better than advertised. I would highly recommend you do this tour as it gives you an incredible idea of how the wealthy ancient Romans used to live; and it’s pretty lavish, even by today’s standards! One of the other cool things about Pompeii is that you can go up the volcano that caused the ruins of Pompeii when it erupted back in 92 AD. The volcano is called Mount Vesuvius or Vesuvio in Italian. This was our first “hike” of the trip. I made sure that both my wife and I were equipped with our Flight Underwear, which is actually perfect hiking underwear. It’s bamboo fabric is breathable, allows for moisture and sweat wicking, and is super comfortable so it never chafes or rides up your legs. Again, we made sure to take our identification and our money and stored them safely in the inner pocket. If you were to ask me “what is the best hiking underwear for men” I think it would hard to refer anything but Flight Underwear for this.
Mt. Vesuvius was incredible. You walk up the volcano on a pile of ash. At the top you’re actually in the inner crater of the volcano. You can see smoldering, smoking rocks at all times while you look into the depths of it. However, one thing to be cautious of is that they allow cars to drive up and down the same path that people walk on. You are constantly having to move to one side of the road to allow for car traffic to come up this small walking path. I guess that is just Italian life though!
Naples is the home of the pizza. Everyone knows and loves pizza, but eating pizza in Naples is other-worldly. We were privileged enough to eat at the top ranked pizza shop in Naples (and thus maybe the world?) called Antica de Michelle’s. Let me tell you about this pizza. The dough is chewy (but not in a “undercooked” disgusting sort of way), it is perfectly cooked and not burnt at all. It really only goes into the woodfire oven for about 1 minute. The oven is manned by about 3 Italian men.
The pizza parlour itself is very small and holds only about 40-50 people but is busy from open until close. It was featured in the book and movie starring Julia Roberts called “Eat, Pray, Love”. There are only two pizza options, Margherita, or Marinara. The marinara only has sauce and spices, with no cheese...I thought this would be not very appealing. However, I was very wrong. It was incredible just like the Margherita pizza.
I didn’t spend much more time in Naples, except in the train station where we took that down to the Amalfi Coastline.
Sorrento (photo pictured above from SorrentoInsider.com), is one of those towns that you see all the pictures of when you Google “Italy”. It is one of the towns that is high up on the hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It is an absolutely breathtaking town, and likely my wife and my favourite spot on our tour. One thing to note, it is very touristy. Lots of shops, restaurants, and beaches. We however, love all those things and especially enjoy the convenience of being able to walk to any shop, restaurant or beach that we want on that particular day! The touristy towns of Sorrento and Positano may not be for those of you that are looking to go on an “adventure travel” vacation, or to go hiking. However, if you love beach towns these are about as great as they come.
Positano is significantly more touristy (and thus much more expensive) than Sorrento. The beaches are incredible here as well, but there is not as much of a “friendly” aura in Positano as there is in Sorrento. It is more about taking advantage of the rich tourists. Of the two, Sorrento is hands down your best bet to see. One thing to note about both places, all the way down to Amalfi is that the main road near the ocean has horrendous traffic issues. It is a small road, equivalent to about one lane and a parking lane in North American Standards, but they have cars parked on both sides and two tour busses going opposite directions squeezing through this treacherous path of road. Somehow they make it work. One of those things that you have to be a local to understand I suppose.
Amalfi is a great place to visit. It is a much more quaint town, and less touristy than both Sorrento and Positano. It boasts some great beaches, and a more “local” feel to it, as opposed to one with tourists.
Here in Amalfi, we embarked on a very large hike (12 kilometres) on a hike called “The Walk of The Gods”. Once again, my wife and I were sure to wear our Flight Underwear, the best hiking underwear for men or women that exists in today’s saturated underwear market. This walk is treacherous in a few spots, but is generally a fairly easy trek until the last 2 kilometres. The hiking underwear was excellent at repelling the sweat I incurred during this trek, and in for the last two kilometres it is all stairs. So if you’re going the one direction you go down about 2000 steps, and if you go the other way you go up about 2000 steps. This was very painful and slow. Everyone takes breaks and spends the most time on the trek navigating these steps. I was able to keep my phone and room keys secured in Flight’s travel pocket. There was no other underwear for hiking I would consider wearing.
Thank you Flight Underwear for being a vital part of my trip!
]]>Svetlana applies the perfect amount of pressure as her delicate hands roll from my shoulders down to my lower back. “How does it feel?” she purrs, and I can only moan a series of syllables into the face hole of the massage table, “Babalabaaaah…”, I exclaim, hoping it means, “Good” in Swedish.
Svetlana’s pressure intensifies and I can feel something in the table starts to creak. Because we are in Sweden, allan keys are everywhere, and she quickly tightens a bolt somewhere near my midsection. She holds my hand momentarily as she stands back up, and I swear I feel something slide over my wrist, but before I can process the thought, her warm hands work their way over my back again.
Her moves grow slower, most deliberate. Rather than punishing, her touch becomes sensual. I suspect what’s coming, but can’t be sure. She grasps my other hand and I feel the same slight pressure on my wrist. Again, I quickly forget this feeling as her hands find the waistband of my Flights. In one quick motion, she pulls them clean off. Now I am certain of her intentions. I lift my head and try to think of my best line for the situation.
“If you think my back door is appealing, come around to the front of the house!” I shout, before turning myself over to give her a whole new area to rub down. But it is then I realize that I cannot turn. My wrists are bound to the table. I can’t move.
This is a kink I never saw coming and as much as I like adventure, I hate surprises. “Not my scene, Boris,” I snapped, forgetting the name of my masseuse. “Untie me and let’s pretend this never happened.”
“Ahh, but this is impossible, Mr. Diamond,” Sveltana says, and I hear her high heels click across the tile floor. “Now that ve have exactly vat ve vant.” I hear the door close and the click of her heels fade away.
It seems Svetlana’s Pleasure Palace is not the reputable massage clinic I thought it was. Rather than panic, I realize that slowly pushing my wrists against the fabric that constrains them appears to quickly wear the fabric thin. I press harder and harder, then faster and faster, and I hear a sustained rip as one hand breaks free. I reach behind my back and, using a fingernail, easily scratch a hole in the fabric that binds my other wrists. It tears easily and I am free. I look at the scraps of fabric that once held me and they appear to be some sort of cotton or nylon blend. Stretchy, but ultimately flimsy.
Other men may have been tempted to jump up and run, but I appreciate the value in taking things slow. I rise quietly, hoping not to be heard by my captor, wherever she may be. I survey the room and find it as sparse as it was when I entered not 20 minutes ago. A stereo plays soft music, a dispenser of massage oil and a container of meatballs rest on the counter. Nothing out of the ordinary. My clothes are in a folded pile in the corner. It’s then that I realize what’s missing. My Flights. Svetlana has taken my underwear with her. But why? And ew!
Quietly, I pull my jeans on over my bare flesh, wincing a little. After the soft caress of bamboo, freeballing it feels like wearing sandpaper as pajamas. I throw on my t-shirt and creep slowly out the door.
I am in a long hallway of what looks like similar rooms. Quickly, I open the first door on my right, only to find another empty massage room. This is also true of the first door on my left. Then the second on my right, and second on my left. Room after room of massage tables. Finally, when I reach the last door on the left, I hear a familiar voice. Sveltlana’s dulcet tones may be sexy, but because I’m in Stockholm, I take extra care not to identify with my captor. I burst in.
“Freeze, lady!” I shout, cursing myself for not coming up with a better line. She turns and does freeze, shocked to see me.
“But how did you escape, Mr. Diamond?” she shouts, which is unnecessary as we’re in a tiny room.
“If you’re going to tie someone up it’s going to take more than a flimsy… cotton… spandex…” I lose my words as I survey the room. Underwear! Pairs and pairs of them hang from clotheslines that cross up and down the space, like negatives in a darkroom. They are a poor approximation of a trunk fit and then I notice an extra scrap of fabric and gasp. “Is that a pocket?” I seethe.
“Fine! You figured me out!” Svetlana throws her hands up in frustration. “You think your Flights are the only underwear on the market with a pocket? Well not for long!”
It is then I realize the extent of her operation. She has pilfered my Flights, it seems, and is trying to replicate their unique design. But, as I grab pair after pair off the clothesline, I realize how short she has fallen from her objective. The pocket, for instance, has no zipper! How could valuables possibly be kept safe in this garment? And cotton, polyester, and even spandex may claim to offer softness, but there’s really no substitute for bamboo. Imitation Flights don’t fly with me; they just don’t offer the same great features. I see my Flights in her hand and snatch them up.
“Are you going to arrest me?” she whimpers, clearly realizing the gig is up.
“No,” I say, turning to go. “You can put any underwear you want on the market. There’s only one Flight.”
I take to the Swedish streets, lined with other massage parlours. “Lars’ Good Hands” is one block over, and a hearty blonde man I assume to be Lars himself beckons me inside. I have a feeling this story will have a happy ending after all.
]]>
taken from besteduzone.com
Right now the Euro, most of Europe’s (aside from the UK) currency is currently trading at about 1.5 times that of the Canadian dollar. To compound that, the prices on most things tourists desire (food, drink, gifts, etc.) are all more expensive than that item would be in Canada. Be prepared to spend several thousand dollars, no matter how short your trip!
4) Eat off the Beaten Path
There are many amazing food options in Europe. However, the restaurants are very aware of where they are located in terms of attracting tourists. In fact, some goes as far as to charge a “tourist tax” on your meals. This, of course, seems outlandish. However, traveling a few blocks off the beaten paths will often lead to much better food, at much better prices, and really give you a better experience of the local city/culture you find yourself immersed in.
3) Don’t rent a car
taken from cdn.timesofisrael.com
Car rentals are not worth it in Europe, as they offer amazing high-speed trains through most of the major regions, and flights are very inexpensive throughout Europe as well. There is really not much need to rent a car, unless you’re going to a small town without means of any transportation. Save your money for the food and accommodations cost!
2) Protect your Passport and Identification
Europe, as beautiful and historical as it is, also is infamous for its pickpockets. They are unquestionably the best in the world at what they do, and can find ways to get at your money belt or into your pockets. Hostels are also not a safe option for leaving your identification as some of the best pickpockets actually stay at hostels and pretend to make friends with you and then break into your lockers while you’re out exploring the city. Make sure you equip yourself with the best option for protecting your passport, identification and money!
1) Visit Everything you can While You’re Abroad
Europe is not a place you go to sit on a beach and do nothing. It’s not Hawaii, or Florida. You go to Europe to see the most amazing architecture, culture, and history. Make sure you’re not wasting time sitting in your hotel room or hostel. Or try to arrange one of the many tours available to you. These are great because you get to see all the major sites without waiting in lines, you get lots of free time to walk around, and you get to meet like-minded people that share the interest in traveling with you! Get out and see as much as you can no matter what the weather is, after all you probably paid a premium dollar to go there!
]]>16:00
Between traveling the world and spotting Anne Murray in a Pizza Hut one time, I have led a very interesting life. People have often told me I should write a book, and I’ve finally decided to get around to it. I know that in order to really put effort into this, I need a hospitable environment with no distractions, which has brought me to Inuvik this summer. I have paid for a three months’ stay in one of Inuvik’s scenic parks, and starting today it’s just me, a pad of paper, a pen, and the contents of my Flight Underwear. Time to get writing…
18:14
The dedication to one’s book can be exceedingly difficult. To Mom & Dad? To Mom, Dad, My Brothers, and Sisters? To My Family? To A. Murray? Time for dinner, then maybe a little more writing, and then bed.
21:08
It’s beautiful this far north. After a simple dinner of nuts, berries, and a loose Tuscan chicken wrap I found in the rental tent, I have decided I will sleep now, ready to awake refreshed and really get going on the writing first thing tomorrow.
22:31
Summer nights are longer than I remember. The sun as filtered through the rental test casts a neon orange glow over everything. But that’s all right. All of this light means I can write more. I think, to warm up, I will draw my specialty, which is sharks.
00:12
I’ve drawn a hundred cool sharks. The sun is obviously broken here because it is as bright out now as it was in the daytime. Is it the apocalypse? If it is, I shouldn’t spend in a tent. I promised myself a moratorium on technology, but I really should check my phone that’s nestled in my Flights. Send an email to my loved ones, cancel my Blue Apron account, etc.
02:24
So apparently Inuvik is bathed in daylight 24/7 for about two months. A quick Google search confirmed it. I really should be more of a planner. Being surrounded by this hideous orange glow must be what it’s like inside the White House (#topical), but it’s not for me. I’m packing up and heading south. Far south. South Pole. Then I’ll really get to work.
Day 814
South Pole
I’m not going to write a book, I’ve decided.
]]>Now, there’s probably a few of you out there that didn’t even know that it was possible to make fabric out of bamboo...especially comfortable fabric. I know when I think bamboo, soft and comfortable are not the adjectives that come to mind. That said, those are only two of its amazing traits.
As far as we’re concerned, there is no better material to travel long distances and to feel more comfortable in. Even though our underwear is so much more than just bamboo (like holding a secret pocket with a zipper for securing your passport), let’s shed some light on the additional benefits of bamboo underwear for a moment, and see if you also agree that these benefits make it the perfect travel accessory:
1) Its sensitive material, so for those of you with emphysema or those of us (like me) that get rashes or zits in those regions, the bamboo fabric is great on the skin!
2) It is incredibly soft and smooth. Cotton doesn’t hold a candle to bamboo in regards to softness or comfort! Travel comfortably!
3) It is antibacterial. Did you know that bacteria does not survive on bamboo fabric, keeping your stench at bay!
4) Good for the earth! Bamboo fabric is 100% biodegradable…so if you ever need to throw them away (we can’t imagine such a scenario), don’t worry, they will not harm the earth. Bamboo grows naturally, so even at the source our products aren’t made with pesticides or fertilizers! They are eco-friendly and sustainable.
5) Thanks to its (bamboo’s) hollow microfibers, it is both warm but airy, for all temperatures! Its microfibers allow it to wick away sweat, so you stay drier and if you get them wet, they dry quicker!
Well, that proves it ladies and gentlemen! Flight Underwear also has our trademark underwear with pocket feature on every pair of underwear, so that you won’t just travel comfortably, you can travel securely. Get a good sleep on an airplane. Pass out on a train. Sunbathe on the beach; rest assured that wherever you are, your Flight’s have got your back...well your front, but you know what we mean!
]]>Here are some pros and cons to a few of these options:
Money Belt:
Pro - Sits right up against you
Con - Still has a strap that can easily be undone from your back
Pro - Can hold quite a bit
Con - Is somewhat bulky, and can often be seen under the clothing
Locked Compartments:
Pro - obviously they’re locked so your items seem pretty secure
Con - it becomes obvious to the pickpocketer that there is something of value in the locked compartment
Pro - Pretty accessible if you need it
Con - Usually is attached to your bag, so if you lose your bag, you lose it
Hidden Pockets:
Pro - depends where they are, but in the case of the underwear it’s physically hidden under your pants, which makes it very difficult for pickpocketers to access
Con - Not very accessible on the spot. You would need to go to the bathroom or something to retrieve what’s in there
Pro - They cannot be seen by the naked eye
Con - It may not be as comfortable to have your identification strapped to your leg or other places
According to Traveller.com, these are the 5 cities that tourists need to be on their guard the most when it comes to pickpockets:
Image taken from viator.com
Image taken from telegraph.co.uk
Image taken from thecrazytourist.com
Image taken from viator.com
Image taken from timeout.com
As a matter of fact, 8 of the top 10 are in Europe.
Make sure as a precautionary measure that you make photocopies of all of your identification and any important documents before you leave!
And when abroad always store your important items in the front pocket or secret pocket if possible.
]]>
There’s a little joke between me and the customs official who’s often working at my local airport. He says, “How long are you home for this time, TR?” And I say, “Not long enough.” I didn’t say it was a funny joke. You want laugh a minute, find Howie Mandel. But it’s true. Traveling is the purpose of my life, but being home is no hardship. It’s easy to rest and recharge when you’re from the best country in the world.
Summer is generally fantastic, no matter where in Canada you live. But there’s an especially golden window for me between whenever Pride celebrations occur and Canada Day. It’s as if they can barely clear the streets from one party before they start the next. The whole country is smiling at each other and, if you’re like me, a perpetually tanned pansexual with a swimmer’s build, it’s possible to have a babe on one arm, a stud on the other, and still be cheered on by your neighbours (that’s neighbours with a ‘u’). It’s such a simple thing, expecting and receiving kindness from strangers no matter what floats your Flights but believe me, finding that outside of Canada is rare indeed.
Nobody believes me when I tell them where I’m from. Or rather, nobody believes that what I’m telling them is true. That it’s possible to climb a mountain and lie on a beach on the same day. That metropolitan skylines can hide vast fields of wheat laying just beyond. That our hospitals might be full but, generally speaking, rich and poor are healed by the same hands.
Today I am hiking the Trans Canada Trail and won’t stop until I get tired. My Flights contain several loonies and twonies for poutine, a rainbow coloured condom, and a miniature Canadian flag. I’ve forgotten my keys, of course, but I’m not worried. Seems no matter where I go, there’s always a door open to me. “Happy Canada Day,” I yell to a sleeping bear as I pass. She stirs and I quicken my stride, ready for a little exercise…
]]>I’m sure I am awake, but I can’t see anything. I blink rapidly, willing my eyes to focus on something, anything, but all I can see is white. I exhale sharply, and the coldest air I have ever felt fills my lungs. I am lying, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, and I realize that I am snowblind. The whiteness that surrounds me is snow falling on packed snow that is covered in snow. I look down and gasp. An animal is on top of me, motionless. It is only when I scramble to my feet that I realize I am wearing the animal. This explains why the air is cold on my face, but nowhere else. I am draped head to toe in fur. I am vehemently opposed to wearing fur, but I am just as opposed to freezing to death, so for the moment, I remain fully dressed. I survey the tundra surrounding me. There are no buildings, no water, no roads. A few feet from me are sled tracks and paw prints. I must have been brought here by dogsled. Resignedly, I follow the tracks figuring even if they lead me back to my assailant, I have a better chance of surviving than I do staying put. The wind whistles and the snow blows around me. I try to remember what got me into this mess…
Day 710
Downtown Moscow
Russia is a land steeped in history. Known for political upheaval and uprisings, the country is as rich culturally as any place I have ever visited. Yet, on this day, I just want a Big Mac. Apparently, more than 60 branches of the iconic chain operate in Russia, and I can’t find a single one. But I do spot something else that instantly whets my appetite.
She is tall and fine boned, with platinum blonde hair, full lips, and shoes that are just okay. She sits languidly on a park bench, a full length fur coat draped over her buxom frame. She is Sophia Loren, Marilyn Monroe, and Britt from The Bachelor Season 19 all rolled into one. I approach her boldly and she surveys me through heavy-lidded eyes.
“Excuse me, where’s the McDonald’s?” I ask. Before she can answer, I see her discreetly remove something from her purse. She notices me noticing and wraps her fingers around what she is holding. It is small and rectangular. Is it makeup, I wonder, or some kind of key or fob? Then I notice it is a USB. Classified information. In the Classified Information capital of the world! Suddenly, I have more on my mind than seduction and hamburgers.
She stands abruptly, her legs somehow even longer than before. I mustn’t be distracted. All I have to do is get what’s in her hand. I figure I will stroke her forearm in the pretext of seduction. Pressure points indicate that the smallest squeeze in a particular area of the arm will cause the palm to open and the fingers to splay. The USB will fall from her hand into mine. I smile my, “I’m going to touch your arm” smile, when suddenly I am struck from behind and everything goes black.
Day 711
Oymyakon
It’s dark by the time I see where the tracks are leading me. The log cabin is small, but stands out by virtue of the fact that is surrounded only by snow. I realize now that the dogsled must have left from this location, but not returned to it. No dogs linger outside, and there appears to be no life inside. Smoke pouring from the chimney suggests a fire, glorious heat, within.
Too cold to use caution, and too tired to care, I fling open the door and, sure enough, a fireplace blazes and the heat hits me instantaneously. I gladly shed my fur coat and realize it was the same one she was wearing when I approached her. At some point, she must have dressed me! I am nearly naked beneath my coat, though, so at some point, she must have also undressed me! I am now in just my Flight Underwear. The cabin is just one room, and I am its only occupant, so I immodestly stretch out on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. As my eyes adjust to the room lit by the fire’s glow, I see a small laptop in the corner of the room. I open it. The desktop is a picture of the Russian seductress, posing as if she is holding up the leaning tower of Pisa. I laugh heartily, having never seen this gag before. I look down and see a small, 1-inch or so protrusion in my Flights. That can only mean two things. I unzip Flight’s patented zippered pocket to feel around and sure enough, there is the USB!
With shaking hands, I plug the key into the side of the laptop, and the mere seconds it takes to load feel like hours. The icon loads up. I click it the sole document within, and a picture fills my screen. It takes a minute before I recognize a familiar logo. I stare, open mouthed. Before me is a map of all McDonald’s locations now operating in Moscow.
]]>Despite the ongoing cheers, I know two encores are the maximum for the girls, so I hand my guitar off to the roadie, gratefully accept a rag to wipe my brow, and take out my earplugs. Two hours of listening to an audience scream is fatiguing, especially when you know that no one is screaming for you.
Something blonde crashes into me. “Great show,” she rasps, before reaching into a nearby mini-fridge for a bottle of vodka. Her two sisters offer similar pleasantries en route to their private dressing room, where more booze undoubtedly awaits. I don’t begrudge them their need for relief and release. Tonight is the last night of the Canadian leg of the tour before we all fly to Copenhagen to play 25 European cities in four weeks. I take off my lanyard, which reads, “VIP--with the band” and stuff it inside my jeans and into the pocket of my Flight Underwear. The bamboo fabric stretches with the width of the ID badge and I zipper up, hoping to forget, at least for a moment, what it all entails.
A dank hallway leaves directly from backstage out the door. A small crowd is already gathered, but they ignore me completely and I easily melt into the streets to join the anonymous throng. My head clears and my ears stop ringing and I’m soon navigating Queen Street West, a curious mix of resources for indigents, all night food options, and hipster bullshit. As I walk, I reflect on what transpired to bring me here.
Istanbul’s Streetart Festival is the only celebration of its kind in Turkey, and since I was finished my stint as mayor of the nearby city of Ankara, I decided to earn some extra cash during the week long showcase of trinkets and insufferable short films. My guitar and I occupied a small corner. I’ve a particular fondness for Grant Green and was playing my way through what I remembered from his Idle Moments album when a man with small eyes and a long nose stopped me.
“My god,” he said. “You’d be perfect. Come on tour with Taste, won’t you?”
I had seen Taste months earlier on an episode of Saturday Night Live, which played on the small black and white television my cellmate had procured during our stint in prison in Vietnam. Three sisters played a kind of throbbing, pulsing rock from a bygone era. I turned in my Streetart Festival pass then, and Small Eyes Long Nose and I boarded a private jet to Los Angeles.
As we flew, he explained that Monica, the blondest of the sisters, played guitar for Taste on previous releases, but in live performance, tended to make sour, gasping faces while riffing. Her vocals had to necessarily take priority on this tour, he explained, and so could I learn the guitar part by Thursday? I obliged and joined Taste for state fairs, night clubs, and televised performances, but never for photo shoots or interviews. This suited me fine, up until the point that it didn’t.
Walking east on Queen West quickly transforms the scenery from art to commerce. A quick jaunt up to Yonge Street and down a block to Dundas have me in the belly of the beast. Lit billboards surround me from every angle. People mill about laden with shopping bags, though it’s nearly the middle of the night. The electronic advertisements surrounding me are such that everyone is visible as if by daylight, but bathed in neon green and orange, shop logos reflected in their shiny faces. High above me, recent promotional images of Taste, clad in H&M brand slacks and blouses, buzz and skitter back and forth. The effect is overwhelming. I run down into the subway.
I don’t know how many stops I ride for. At one stop, doors open and snatches of a familiar ballad pull me out the door and into the station. A young man is playing an old song, eyes closed, mesmerized. I recognize Nancy (With the Laughing Face), a Grant Green standard that spills languidly from his fingers and comforts me. I pull cash out of my wallet and lay it at his feet. He nods, appreciatively. I nearly start to walk away, but stop myself to slowly unbutton my pants. He continues playing, warily. I unzip my pocket within my Flight Underwear and withdraw the lanyard and the small pencil I always keep in there should I happen upon a mini-golf game. On the back of the lanyard, I write the address of the hotel where Taste is spending the night, along with the note, “Small Eyes, Long Nose—this guy can do the job better than I can. He needs this more than me.” I lay the lanyard face down, obscuring the text, “VIP--with the band”, and climb the stairs into the much calmer night…
]]>Sometimes you need to be alone. After a bout of food poisoning, the breakup of a two week relationship, and the dismal failure of my eggs-related podcast, I needed true solitude. Now I am near the border of Laos and Vietnam. My satchel is on my lap, my water bottle is clipped to my belt, and my passport is in my Flight Underwear. However this time, I hope I don’t have to use it.
My destination is Han Son Doong, the largest cave in the world, in Vietnam’s Bo Trach District. It is closed to the public except for occasional tourist groups, where guided tours cost upwards of $3000 American dollars. I don’t have the scratch or the patience for a guided tour, but I also know that attempting to sneak in is highly dangerous. That’s why I mustn’t hand over any documentation. The less of a footprint I have in this country, the more likely I am to get in and out of the Han Son Doong undisturbed.
The bus lurches to a halt on the dusty road, which must mean the border guards will soon board to check everyone’s papers. As unobtrusively as I can, I sneak from my aisle seat to the bus lavatory. Friends, if you’ve never been inside a bus bathroom in 90 degree heat crossing from Laos to Vietnam, you don’t know what you’re missing. The cramped quarters offer only one way out of sight, but I am resourceful.
“Giấy tờ, xin vui lòng,” I hear the driver yell. Present your papers, please. The bus shifts as the bulky armed border guards climb aboard. I open the lid of the toilet, but only to intensify the chamber’s putrid smell. Bracing one foot on the right side of the lavatory, the other foot on the left, I climb high and freeze in place, praying not to be noticed.
A burly guard quickly opens the door and exclaims whatever the Vietnamese or Laotian expression is for, “It smells unpleasant here.” Blessedly, without spotting me, he closes the door. Cat-like, I drop to the ground. Also cat-like, I quietly vomit (residual food poisoning, plus the smell in there). In a moment, our bus is moving again. I get off at the closest stop to Bo Trach and begin the journey to Han Son Doong.
The majestic cave is more than 200m high, 150m wide, and 5km long. The mouth of the cave is fenced and guarded, so I crouch in nearby trees until shift change, sometime in the middle of the night. The guards chatter as one team relieves another. From my satchel, I withdraw a CD of Lindsay Lohan’s sophomore album, A Little More Personal (Raw), and I throw it to them with a whoop. As expected, the guards are puzzled by the effort, and soon begin debating the merits of Lindsay Lohan the singer vs. the actress vs. the troubled public figure. The tired guards seem to believe her career will have no resurgence, but the more rested team seems to think she could still surprise us. The argument intensifies, the guards come to blows, and I stealthily run past.
I keep running until I know I am at least a kilometer into the cavernous space. I stop and fall to my knees. I am in pitch darkness, and the only sound is my ragged breath and beating heart. It is in this solitude that I am reminded why I travel. There are so few aspects of our lives uncluttered by obligation or expectation. Rarely can we exist without pretense or judgement. If we never push our limits, test what we are made of, or seek our solitude, we never know our own strength or appreciate our own company. In this moment, I am one with the earth.
My commune is shattered by flashlights and yelling from behind me. I know before I turn around that police have found me. I hang my head and raise my hands. “Hộ chiếu! Hộ chiếu!” they yell. Passport. I unbuckle my dungarees, and unzip Flight’s patented zippered pocket, when all flashlight beams suddenly hover around my crotch.
“Flight Underwear,” says a policeman, accented but understandable. I nod. He considers.
“We send you to prison for a long time,” he says, haltingly. “Or… give us Flight.”
I blink. Hands at my hips, I caress the soft waistband. These are a literal “Get Out of Jail Free” card. But I came here for solitude, and I know one way to get it. I pull my pants up and put my hands out to be cuffed. “No deal,” I shake my head.
“A cell by a window, if you have it,” I request later at the booking station, before starting to plan my escape…]]>Just off the Maldives, South Asia
When it comes to temporary jobs, dish washer on a cruise ship isn’t ideal. Rough seas cause broken stemware, moist air ensures nothing ever dries completely, and even the desserts smell like fish. But for me, these are small prices to pay for a few weeks at sea. I keep to myself in the ship’s hull (is that the bottom part? Is that what it’s called? The hull? In any case, I’m in the bottom part).
We are a skeleton crew this month, chartered at our cheapest rate to ferry a coterie of senior citizens around the islands. Our Captain is Smitty, a grizzled if competent sailor with decades of experience. Our Cruise Director is pimpled Kevin (though he just goes by Kevin), a third generation employee of the cruise line who has nepotism to thank for his high ranking and genetics to thank for his pizza face. Eduardo is our cook and tells me jokes only suitable for the sea. For instance, did you hear about the woman who fell overboard? Well I can’t repeat it here. Our group of seniors is tended by Idara, a name she tells me means “Joy” in her native Nigeria. I ask her if Idara could also be translated to mean, “Beautiful woman on boat.” She doesn’t respond, but instead ask if I have dishes to wash.
Tonight, I am wrist deep in suds and leftover scrambled egg (every dinner on this cruise is soft), when I hear feet pounding down the hallway to our small kitchen. My watch tells me it’s midnight, and by the speed of the footfalls, I know this can’t be a passenger approaching. Sure enough, Idara rounds the corner, closing a silk robe around her negligee-clad form.
“Have you seen the residents?” She is breathless and looks frantically in cabinets, as if an old man might be nestled among the cutlery.
“Which ones?” I ask, trying to recall whether it was Esther or Agnes who came down a few hours ago to complain of her bread being too spicy.
“All of them,” she hisses. “I just walked to the lavatory and all the cabin doors were open and nobody’s inside of them! They’re gone! They’re all gone!”
I toss my dish towel aside and together we run up from the hull. She grabs my hand to pull me along more quickly and I truly wish it hadn’t been coated in eggy soap remnants. Sure enough, room after room is abandoned.
“Where’s Pimpled Kevin’s cabin?” I ask.
“Port side,” she says, “And I think it’s just Kevin.”
We race the length of the eerily abandoned ship to the cabin designated for Cruise Director. I pound on the locked door. “We’ve got trouble, boss.”
“Uh, just a second!” Kevin says, far too quickly, and I hear thrashing around.
I cut my eyes to Idara, who regards me quizzically. “He’s not asleep,” I whisper to her. Indeed, the room sounds active. Tired of waiting, I brace and shoulder the door, which gives out almost instantly. Kevin freezes as he pulls on very comfortable looking boxer briefs. In the unmade king-size bed, Eduardo lounges nude and looks up from a magazine.
“TR! Is there something wrong in the kitchen?” Eduardo yawns.
“I..no,” I stammer. Collecting myself, I tactfully look away as Kevin continues to dress and Eduardo continues to read. “We have a problem. We can’t find the passengers.”
“Can’t find them!” Kevin’s acne’d blush of shame turns into the bumpy terrain of rage. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know, love” says Idara, soothingly. “We can’t find them.”
All of a sudden, I realize that no one’s checked on Smitty or confirmed that the ship has continued to run on course. “Follow me!” I yell. Eduardo is sluggish in a post-coital way, and I toss him a pair of impossibly soft bamboo underwear, grab his arm to pull him up and out of bed. “Live your truth,” I whisper to him.
“Kevin is not very good at sex having, but I am very bored on this boat,” he whispers back. I make a note to discuss further at a more opportune time. The four of us run to the captain’s quarters. Kevin arrives first and stops short.
Smitty is bound and gagged, and Esther (or is it Agnes?) is steering our ship. Her fellow passengers surround her and cheer with her every wide turn. Kevin stomps his foot indignantly. “What is the meaning of this?” he asks in what should be a threatening tone, but his voice shakes with fear.
Esther/Agnes grins and I can see that she’s switched up upper and lower denture plates. “We’re tired of playing by your rules! This is our ship now! Fall in line, or else!” In the corner of my eye, I see an old man advancing with a club and some rope. He raises his arm and, before I can act, everything goes black.
***
I awake to find myself, Eduardo, Just Kevin, and Idara tied to chairs, our backs to each other. “Could this be the end, Comrades?” I whisper.
“Don’t be so sure of this,” Eduardo says, and I see his hand straining at his ties, his fingertips just reaching the zipper of the patented pocket on his silver Flight Underwear. Understanding dawns just as he withdraws a pocketknife and begins to saw himself free. Luckily, I too am in Flights, and reach my matches just as his hands are freed. Matches lit, I ignite the rope around my hands and quickly free myself. I silently untie Idara, who grins with gratitude as she wriggles free. From his Flights, Kevin withdraws a medicated cotton pad that he runs over his face once Eduardo frees him. Thankfully, he will have clearer skin in time for our counter-attack. Together, as quietly as we can, we strategize…
Post script: The old people fell asleep and a freed Smitty steered us to a nearby police station, where the newly incarcerated passengers complained bitterly about the food.
]]>Maybe it’s counterintuitive that I am a world traveler who hates to fly, but it is nonetheless true. I know the statistics about air travel and so am not afraid that I am in peril, but the discomfort of the all-around experience does convince me that I will probably die in some departures lounge. But en route to my niece’s fourth wedding (I waffled on coming, but as she reminded me “you only get your fourth husband once”), I began to get into the spirit of adventure. Yes, seats were narrower and frills were disappearing, but flight is our modern miracle! How lucky we are to live in the time that we do!
Buoyed by my new attitude, I pull out the duty free I’ve included in my carry-on. This triple-distilled premium vodka was meant to be a gift for Miracle (that’s my niece), but what the hell? She’ll get married again, surely. As the flight attendant makes her way down the aisle, her once slender frame now clocking everyone in the shoulders as she passes by, I smile brightly.
“Just a glass of ice, please,” I say.
“Five dollars,” she returns, evenly.
I blanch. “You misheard me,” I assure her. “I don’t want a golden chalice brimming with rubies. A glass of ice cubes will be just fine.”
“Five dollars,” she yawns.
I hand over a five dollar bill that she regards as if it’s covered in sewage. “Sir,” she intones sharply. “We are a cashless cabin. Credit card only.”
Too flabbergasted to argue, I reach discreetly into my Flight Underwear and pull out the credit card I typically only use in an emergency. She holds it gingerly between two fingers before swiping it through the machine.
“Sorry,” she says, unapologetically. “Our machine is down.”
I gape at her. “But you can only take credit card!” I protest.
“Correct. We are a cashless cabin,” she repeats robotically.
“But you can’t process any payments!” I nearly bark at her.
“Our machine is down,” she explains, as if to a five year old. Then she makes her way down the aisle.
I crack the vodka and swig deeply. Instead of ice cubes satisfyingly cracking in my molars, room temperature vodka tastes almost antiseptic with nothing to cool or dilute it. But by the third or fourth hearty gulp, I barely notice.
I am fortunate to have a row of seats to myself, and the woman in front of me is absorbed in her tablet, playing it so loud that the sound bleeds through her headphones. She is watching some program wherein an insufferable couple want a house that’s close to the country but in the heart of the city, has something called a “man cave” for him, an “open concept” for her, five bedrooms, four baths, and well within their budget of $25,000. An intrepid realtor manages to find a place with a massive walk-in closet, and the wife jokes to her husband, “Where are you going to put your clothes, honey?” Then she laughs. And the realtor laughs. And my seatmate laughs. I do not.
The turbulence ceases and the seat belt sign finally goes off. I practically leap from my seat and bound for the tiny bathroom. Inexplicably, tiny as they are, airplane lavatories give me some sense of autonomy. I am, for a moment, completely alone and in my own space. I sit on the tiny throne and breathe deeply, perhaps for the first time in hours. The plane hits another bump. I hear the ding of the seatbelt sign being turned on again. Across from me, sign reading, “Return to Seat” lights up. I stay put.
A few minutes later, I hear the flight attendant from earlier on the other side of the door. “Sir? Get back in your seat. Sir, the captain has turned the seatbelt sign on. Sir? Sir!”
I sit, grimly, and do nothing. She begins to knock.
“Return to your seat, sir!” she shouts, shrill enough to be heard over the droning engines. The plane continues to bump and wobble. Her knocks persist, and as they turn from taps to bangs, I open the door.
“You know, someday we’ll have loops in the sky that fire us hither and yon,” I begin, staring down the frazzled employee. “Or we’ll have transporters wherein you enter one chamber, dissolve, and emerge wholly in another chamber, perhaps across the world, in just seconds. Airplanes will no longer be the most efficient mode of world travel.”
Heads turn in interest, as I take my place at the rear of the plane.
“In fact,” I warm to my subject, “airplanes will be like cruise ships. So desperate for passengers that the journey itself will become a luxury! Comfortable, decadent accommodations! Floating sky palaces! Cups of ice for free!”
“Sir, you need to return to-"
“One day, the passenger will be well-treated! One day, the skies will be friendly! One day, air travel will belong to the traveler again!
The passengers erupt into spontaneous applause. When I take a bow, I notice my legs are bare and my pants are around my ankles. I must have partially disrobed when I got to the lavatory. Luckily, I am still clad in my….
“Is that Flight Underwear?” the suddenly calmed stewardess purrs, sliding a hand up and down the soft, bamboo fabric covering my thigh. It is then I notice how truly attractive she is.
I wink at her. “These are Flights I’m comfortable in,” I say, taking her hand. Slowly, I lead us both back to my seat. If the rest of the trip is turbulent, I don’t even notice.
]]>
The whirr and screech of dial up internet may not be identifiable to millennials, but for those of us from the generation who came of age watching excruciatingly slow pornography, this noise evokes illicit memories of waiting just 12 minutes for a picture of Jenny McCarthy. I realize not everyone is using this beach to relax. Concealed as I am by aviator shades, my eyes dart back and forth until I spot him. A very old man has set up his personal computer; compete with monitor, tower, keyboard, and printer, at a nearby cabana. I stand, stretch, and stroll over, squinting to see if I might read over his shoulder as I pass. Turns out, I needn’t have strained my eyes as all of the text on his screen is 18 point font. The heading of the document on his screen reads, “My Bad Plans.”
“That guy has some bad plans,” I mutter to myself. I had wanted to keep to myself this vacation, but trouble finds me like salsa finds a white t-shirt, and I knew these bad plans were mine to investigate. I approach the man and clear my throat. “Hola,” I begin, extending my hand. He doesn’t turn around, but rather shuts down his computer, unplugs each cord, wraps the cord around the base of each component, carefully lays each item into a duffle bag, closes the duffle bag, and waddles hurriedly back to his room. The whole process takes seven minutes or more, but I make no movements. Planning to snap a photo, I reach into my shorts to extract my phone from my Flight Underwear. Once I plunge my hand into my waistband, I remember I am wearing just a bathing suit. A nearby vacationing mother rightfully shields the eyes of her two children, as I appear to be aggressively grabbing myself, but I can’t let her bother me. I’ve got bad plans to foil.
Back in my room, the sun sets outside my window and I am breathless at the sheer beauty, distracted though I may be by the latest episode of Vanderpump Rules that I’m watching on my phone. But as darkness falls, I am distracted by a multi-coloured glow from far down the beach. A small, iridescent light source has captivated me and I know I must investigate. I pull on my white linen beach suit, slip into my sandals, and drop from my balcony to the beach below.
The glow is coming from the boardwalk, and so I give the shining entity a wide berth, and walk under the boardwalk until I hear a voice. I peer up through the wooden slats and can see the same old man from earlier. The light source is a glow stick that hangs from his neck. Incongruous as such a prop is on an older person, he gesticulates with it wildly, clearly very familiar with the nightclub prop.
“Every kid at the rave tonight is gonna buy glowsticks from me, Grandpa Glowstick,” the old man crows into his large and cumbersome 1990s cellular phone. “PartyTime Glowsticks thinks they can supply every rave in Ibiza? They didn’t count on me! Hahaha!”
From my hiding place, I realize I’ve merely borne witness to entrepreneurship. I have no stake in where partygoers get their supplies. This charming senior only wants his piece of the pie. Contentedly, I hum ‘Under the Boardwalk’ and set about making a sandcastle.
“Little do they know,” the old man continues above me, “that every glowstick will last until midnight, then completely shut off! These so-called party kids need to keep it down, so the rest of us can sleep the night away! Tonight’s ‘raging celebration’ will be over before it can start! Hold on, Harold, someone’s humming ‘Under the Boardwalk.’”
I quiet immediately. So there are sinister plans afoot! Ibiza’s hottest nightclub is just down the road from here. If I can get there ahead of Grandpa Glowsticks, I will save the day. I lie down on the beach to plan and fall asleep for about three hours.
Bleary eyed and tired, I enter the club at ten minutes to midnight, hoping to blend in with the young clubgoers. A throbbing beat dominates the sweaty, smoky, and yes, glowing dance floor. My white lined suit stands out in the black light and I resign myself to an evening of holding my stomach in. I scan the crowd for Grandpa. Beautiful women and hunky men surround me and throw their hands up, as instructed by the C-list celebrity manning the turntable. The more I try to break free from the throng of dancers, the more urgently they surround me. Bodies press against mine like we’re on an oversold aircraft. My eyes dart back and forth across the neon bacchanalia when I spot him. Grandpa Glowsticks. We lock eyes and slowly, malevolently, his face splits with a grin. Then every glowstick extinguishes, all at once.
The club is plunged into darkness, and the dancing stops. The only noise is the constant beat, beating incessantly, like our collective heart. Surrounded by darkness, I reach into my Flight Underwear and surreptitiously pull out my phone. I turn on the flashlight app and cover the screen. Then I uncover it. Then I cover it again. Then I uncover it. I have created a flashing, strobing atmosphere to appease the young people, and once again, I feel bodies moving against mine.
I may not have stopped Grandpa Glowsticks from carrying out his well-planned bad plans, but tonight at least, with my Flights and phone, I keep everyone dancing…]]>Deep in the mountains of Ifugao, I look upon what Filipinos call the 8th wonder of the world. These man made rice terraces are said to be more than 2000 years old, and I feel just terrible about spilling my Dr. Pepper all over the place. Nevertheless, I am awestruck at the surrounding beauty. I keep my distance from the diligent farmers, harvesting the rice as they have done for generations, more than 1500 metres above sea level.
“Those people down there look like ants,” I observe, sagely. Though in point of fact, I am watching ants bustling around my soda stain.
“Is that T.R. Diamond?” I hear through the thicket, and my ears identify the source of this greeting before I even cast my eyes toward him.
“Custard Vermillion,” I return, through gritted teeth, as the poor sap disentangles himself sloppily from the undergrowth. He shambles toward me, hand outstretched. As I reach for his hand, he retracts it, and smooths his hair back, flashing impossibly white teeth.
Vermillion fancies himself an adventurer, but can’t seem to avoid mishap. He gives single men with no fixed address a bad name. We met panning for gold some years ago and now can’t let a year pass without crashing into each other like doomed blimps. Now, as it has always been, we waste no time on pleasantries.
“Have times turned tough, Diamond?” he asks now. “I know you’ve no assets or income. But what has reduced you to labour in the fields?” He brays at me, his laugh a goat being attacked by an accordion.
“I’m not here to work,” I respond coolly. “And I believe the weight loss treatment centre is in the foothills, Vermillion,” nodding towards the mound at his midsection. “I thought one couldn’t travel in his third trimester.”
He sneers at me. “I may have appetites,” he says, removing his hat to wipe his brow. “But at least I have friends willing to break bread with me.”
I feel my face redden with embarrassment. He knows my one flaw to pinpoint: my many faults. I roll up my sleeves, casually, and he lets his hat drop the ground. He knows, as I do, that we are about to come to blows. I advance slowly, menacingly, but in my periphery, I see hooded, scaly head rise slightly in the tall grass. It could only be a king cobra. I freeze, and Vermillion notices.
“We’ve got company,” I hiss, tilting my head in the direction of our reptilian intruder. I see him spot the beast, and the malevolent glint in his eye is replaced with abject terror.
“Do you remember your trip to the Maldive Islands?” Vermillion murmurs to me quietly. I scan the recesses of my memory, trying to recall any inter species encounter that could serve me here.
“What’s that to do with this?” I whisper, as the cobra neither comes further toward us nor retreats.
“Perhaps you could recount your trip to the snake, as you did to me,” he suggests. “That way, you could bore it to death.”
Emboldened, I take a step towards the creature. “There’s nothing so venomous as your words, Custard,” I whimper. Then, quickly as I can, I bring both fists into his head, hoping to feel the satisfying crunch of snake brains. The beast is too fast for me and his bite sears into my sun-callused fingers. I cry in pain as he strikes my other hand. I rear back, and Vermillion steadies me.
“Nasty business, old sport,” he whispers to me, nodding at my wounds. He breathes shakily, and I know he suspects, as I do, that we could meet our end on this mountain. We slowly take steps backward, knowing we have nowhere to run. Then, I remember what I’ve carried with me on this trip.
“Reach into my waistband,” I gasp, my injuries radiating pain through my body now.
“Oh now, honestly!” Vermillion regards me askance, but does not let me drop to the ground. I shake my head.
“I have a blade,” I pant. “In the pocket of my underwear.”
Understanding dawns. My enemy slips his hand down the front of my dungarees. “So soft,” he murmurs. Then, I feel his fingers graze the zipper of Flight’s patented pocket. Slowly, so as not to arouse any cobras, he pulls the zipper to one side. “One…” he whispers, withdrawing my switchblade. “Two….”
“Three!” I shout, as he strikes, slicing the cobra’s head clean off. I pounce on the remains, stomping my boot into what remains of the reptile, ensuring that the snake body cannot regenerate a new head, like I saw in a movie once.
Breathing heavily, Vermillion and I lock eyes with one another. My equipment and his actions saved our hides together. We are, grudgingly, grateful. I extend my hand to him.
“I won’t fall for that,” he says, refusing to grab the punctured appendage. “Even if we’re on the same side today, I’m not about to shake your hand.”
I chuckle, my own laugh like melted chocolate cascading from a dolphin. “You’ll do more than that, Friend,” I say. “Today, you’ll suck the poison out.”
For a moment, I can see indecision pass through him. But I know, scoundrel though he is, Custard Vermillion won’t leave me here to die. Slowly, resignedly, he brings my fingers to his lips. Then, without ceremony, he begins to suckle…
]]>Cowboy country is no place for sissies. I squint my eyes against the dusty wind as I cantor across field and stream astride my horse, Buttermilk. Days have turned to weeks on the range and my supplies have dwindled. My pack weighs heavy on my back, full as it is of a small amount of water, feed for Buttermilk, a Magic 8 ball, and several pairs of Flight underwear.
How have I wound up alone again? Nary a month ago, I was riding the rails, exploring America’s heartland. Bound for a carnival, a train slowed as it passed through a dusty town I was visiting to get a few day’s shut eye and catch up on America’s Next Top Model. From my motel room I heard the train whistle that draws drifters like me. I grabbed my pack, ran for the crossing, and leapt aboard the livestock car. A horse spooked at my intrusion, but I used my horse whispering skills to put her at ease. Ignoring the danger, I stroked between her eyes and leaned into her ear. “Shut up, please,” I whispered, and she calmed.
I was discovered at the next whistle stop, nestled between two horses that I had named Buttermilk and Pancakes, after my favourite strippers. Employees of the circus threatened to throw me from the train, but I promised to pull my weight and help out. They let me aboard the passenger car, then, where I drank too many root beers and suggested we practice kissing. They gave chase, I ran back to the livestock car, kicked down the door, mounted Buttermilk, and together we leapt from the train into the cold, dark night.
Thirst burns my throat now, as the last of my water trickles down my back (wet hair makes you look cool). My stomach growls, and my back is sore from riding for days over rough terrain. In the distance, I spot a barn that beckons like a mirage. Gratefully, wearily, Buttermilk and I get closer.
I spot her as my horse slows, and dismount carefully. She is a vision: tall and blonde, with curves in all the right places. She gathers wildflowers in a basket and pauses to look me up and down.
“Where ya headin’, cowboy?” She drawls.
“Top of the morning, milady!” I say, trying my own accent. But she’s better at voices than me, so I drop it. “Actually, I’m awfully tired,” I admit. “I wonder if I could spend the night.”
She flutters her eyelashes at me. “I’ve got a place you could stay,” she purrs, and leads me into the barn. Wordlessly, she leads me up a wooden ladder to a hayloft.
“Maybe we could practice kissing,” I suggest for the second time this month, and she takes me up on my offer. As our passions intensify, we begin to undress each other. As ladies often do, she gasps when I shuck off my jeans.
“Is that a pocket?” she rasps, nearly in ecstasy, taking in my impressive cherry red pair of Flight boxers.
“Indeed it is,” I say, as she runs her hand up and down my Flights.
“It’s so soft,” she whispers, appreciating (I hope) the bamboo texture of the garment.
“Check the pocket,” I whisper back, and she withdraws a prophylactic. We make good use of it.
After a roll in the hay, a hearty meal, and a long sleep, I bid farewell to my angel of the ranch, whose name is Honey (or Belinda or something), and close the heavy barn door behind me. But in the hazy pre-dawn darkness, Buttermilk is nowhere to be found. “Farewell, noble steed,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I forgot to tie you to anything.”
Just then, a tall and lean cowboy with wet and wavy hair brings his horse to a stop just steps from where I’m standing.
“You look like you could use a ride,” he rasps, and I climb on, discreetly feeling my thigh to make sure the Flights I put on this morning have more to protect me in their zippered pocket. I wrap my arms around him and, together, we ride off into the sunrise…
]]>The gray wolf leads his pack slowly, leisurely, and it’s as if we lock eyes when he turns his head to face me, though I remain unseen in my tent, well hidden in the tundra, staring intently through high powered binoculars.
“Magnificent beast,” I whisper, and record my findings in my special binder. It’s an ordinary binder that I bought at a stationary store in Fairbanks, but I’ve written “All About WOLVES!!!!” on the front. I had taped a picture of a wolf on the front too, but a researcher at the university laughed at me when he saw it, explaining that what I had was a picture of a fox. Consequently, my first note in my book reads, “Dr. Stevens is a DICK!” It was after that encounter that I decided, as I often do, to strike out on my own.
I return to my binoculars and watch the wolf drink from a stream. I am riveted, but tear myself away to take a note. “Wolves drink water!” I write. “Necessary for survival? More research required.”
It is my third week on the mountain and I’m nearly out of provisions. I have subsisted on nuts and berries that I bought inland. I regret packing so many frozen dinners for my trip. Thanks to the cold climate, they have indeed stayed frozen despite having no access to refrigeration. However, my lack of access to a microwave renders them useless. I decide it is time to venture out in search of food.
As I am a nature lover, I don’t believe in wearing fur, even when the climate calls for it, so I don a polyester windsuit over my Flight underwear and take tentative steps out of my tent. It is brutally cold, but if I can find small game to trap, juniper berries, or an Arby’s, this trip will be well worth it.
I straighten up and stretch, scanning the area both for food and predators. Neither fish to my left nor fowl to my right, I feel confident that my adventure will prove successful. Then I look forward and see the wolf I had just observed, not five feet from me.
“Magnificent beast,” I whisper again. Then I add, “Shit.” He stands still, but ready to pounce. I know sudden movements will prove futile and so don’t try them. If I try to run, he will give immediate chase and follow me relentlessly, like a fat boy after an ice cream truck. I slow my breathing in an attempt to calm my heart rate. I remember that wolves can be spooked by loud noises. I slowly drop my jaw and inhale from my diaphragm, gathering the breath support I will need to be heard through the forest. Neither of us move.
“DAAAAAAAAAAAYO!” I yell.
The wolf cocks his head at me and remains in place. The 80s calypso pop hit has not had its desired effect. I try again.
“DAAAAAAAAAAYO!”
The wolf does not move, but I swear I see his eyes adopt a steely resolve. Slowly, I move my hand to my neck and grasp the zipper of my windsuit. With painstaking care, I gently pull the zipper down, never breaking gaze with the ferocious predator. Using the same slow, hypnotic movement, I shimmy my pants off. The wolf appears to shift uncomfortably at my strip tease, but does not back away. He doesn’t know why I need my layers free, in spite of the cold.
Hands trembling, I reach into the pocket of my Flight underwear. Mercifully, I feel the telltale folded cardboard and withdraw a book of matches. I do not break my gaze as I extract a single match and in one swift motion, I strike.
The wolf pounces just as I step away and drop the match. My polyester windsuit ignites immediately and a great ball of flames leaps up. Frightened, the wolf retreats. I know I am alone again. I am cold, but grateful for the fire, which has built in momentum despite burning through the windsuit. It is then I realize that my tent, just feet behind me, is up in flames.
Knowing nothing I own can be saved, I trudge resignedly to the site of the fire. I smell chicken alfredo, carbonara, pad thai, and macaroni and cheese, and realize my frozen entrees are being cooked. I gather snow to douse the flames after the trays of processed meals have had about 4 or 5 minutes to heat up. I don’t know what adventures tomorrow will bring, but with my food and my Flights, I’ll be ready…
]]>Welcome to 2017 everyone! We’re a week in now and hopefully you’re kicking the habit of writing “2016” on everything…
A new year always brings about a bunch of ridiculous resolutions or promises that don’t have a chance of being kept. Less drinking? Who are you trying to fool? For us though, we want to take a minute to look at the year that was and let you know what we’ve got cooking for the next 12 months.
2016 was a big year for us! We basically did all the heavy lifting for the founding of Flight: product was designed, ordered, and delivered, a website was built, and we took our first stab at marketing and promoting Flight Underwear. Needless to say, we learned a lot and made a shit ton of mistakes in the process. All good though, that’s what the early days are for.
This year we’ll be looking to take what we’ve learned and implement some new ideas that we think you’ll love. We’ll also be looking to have our product in a few more retail locations to make it easier for you to see what you’re getting with us – you can check us out in our first retail location, Mr. Boxer, in the Calgary airport if you’re passing through.
2017 is going to be a big year and we’re excited to share the ride with all of you. We’d love to see what 2017 brings for you as well, so hit us up and show us your adventures, just use #lifeinflights.
Peace 2016, here comes the future.
]]>We’re fully into the holiday spirit, so, even if you aren’t a lucky winner you can still get 25% off and free shipping across North America. Pick up a pair for every guy on your list!
]]>Here are some other amazing facts about bamboo:
ULTRAVIOLET PROTECTION
It offers UV Protection, so it is a great fabric for those holidays to tropical destinations! Click here to read more from this source.
MOISTURE WICKING
Because Bamboo is a porous material it allows moisture to wick away from the body, keeping you dry and comfortable. (Cited from here).
Bamboo fabric is known for being one of the softer fabrics on the market; often compared to cashmere.
GOOD FOR THE ENVIRONMENT
Bamboo grows quickly and does not require any pesticides for growth. It also, incredibly enough, is biodegradable.
Bamboo can produce an equal amount of cotton production in 10% of the space!
FAST
Bamboo is the fastest growing plant in the world, and can have many more yields from the same plot of land.
NON-IRRITATING FABRIC
The naturally smooth fabric of bamboo lies flat against the skin; reducing inflammation on sensitive skin.
Bamboo fibre has been praised as the “the natural, green and eco-friendly new-type textile material of the 21st century”!
So get with the times, get Bamboo!
]]>
Well anyway, we're of the mind that if we got hit by a bus we’d have bigger fish to fry then clean underwear, but there is a better reason to keep your underwear on point - that special someone who shares your bed. Sadly, it appears that many of us are falling into some pretty inexcusable habits and women are taking notice.
A recent survey by GQ Magazine (highly scientific we know) has highlighted many of the pet peeves women have regarding our underwear, and guys, we have to agree with the ladies
on this one, these are pretty bad:
We suggest you take a look at the full GQ article and then a hard look at your underwear drawer. Don't worry though, if you think it might be time to up your underwear game we’ve got your back(side) covered.
]]>Ever wanted the security of underwear with a pocket when you travel, to store your passport, identification, or money securely?
Welcome to the evolution of underwear! Say hello to Flight: the first underwear with a zippered pocket, and to be comprised of an eco-friendly material (95% bamboo).
Flight Underwear is made to be not only extremely comfortable, but very practical. The guaranteed security that comes with Flight’s large zippered pocket (it's big enough to easily fit a passport, phone, and anything else you need to keep safe) is unparalleled.
More than functional apparel, more than environmentally friendly, Flight Underwear is also a lifestyle. Flight is for the runner, the traveler, the businessman who requires more than just comfort in his clothing. Flight is a revised and improved version of a typical money belt. Flight combines form, fit, and function all below the belt.
]]>