Preaching to the Heathens

I have been planning to go somewhere in the world all my life. I grew up reading books of adventure, white hunters in Africa, sailing ships in the South Pacific, Antarctic journeys pulled by frisky, yapping sled dogs, and so forth. But life didn't turn out exactly as planned. Turns out I don't want to shoot any animals at all. Sailing ships in the South Pacific seems fun but apparently real life pirates make that a dicey item on the bucket list. Antarctic exploration would be cool--no pun intended--but like everything else it is so regulated by do-gooders we regular folks can't set foot on it. Besides, the more I read I found they took sled dogs so they could eat them. No way I'm eating a dog. Maybe another human, but not a dog. Of course, the global warmers would probably claim my breath would melt another ice cap somewhere.

So here I find myself at fifty-none wondering what kind of travel I can do before I am knock-knock-knocking on Heaven's door. I have been to Spain, Portugal, and Gibralter and loved every minute of each. But there is so much more I want to see. Italy, Ireland, Romania, Norway, Poland, the Czech Republic, France. The list could go on and on. But at this particular moment, Italy and Ireland are the front runners. Italy because I've got to see Pompeii. Ireland because I once listened to an audio book by Ray Bradbury called "The Green Hills of Ireland."

With my dreams firmly in mind I do what any budding world travelor would do, I head to Barnes and Noble and Borders. While both book pushers have huge selections of travel books about almost anywhere you can imagine, closer examination--after parting with wads of cash or loading up on wads of credit card receipts-- reveals that although I may want to visit these exotic places, I am some kind of jerk for wanting to go there.

The travel books talk about "sustainable tourism" and ways I can avoid squandering this precious resource of tourism. What the hell? If they don't want tourism in their countries, raise the damn prices. But this jerk-off in one of the Frommer's guides actually talks about carbon footprints and that I can off-set my carbon footprint by paying some clown to donate my money for some green bullshit. Is anybody really that stupid? Forgive me, I am that stupid for even asking that stupid question. I think Al Gore runs one of those companies that plays on green guilt while he's sucking up enough energy for an entire Pacific island, the fat greedhead. But in a fair number of guide books I am made to feel like crap for wanting to visit someplace and give them my money in exchange for a glimpse of their culture and country.

Then when I check for travel books at the book pushers or the libraries, I am inundated by books about solo travel for single women, "Eat, Pray, Love," "Under the Tuscan Sun," and other books all about women breaking free and finding themselves. What about me? I've done my duty by working for the last forty-five years, have never abused anyone, and yet I can't find any books for solo travel for men or for men breaking free. All I want to do is take a  vacation but all these books aren't written for me. As a fifty-nine year-old white male, I guess I'm the satan everybody else is trying to escape from.

I am a decent person even though I do not feel guilty for being an American as Rick Steves apparently does. I try to learn the languages where I am visiting, even if it's only some polite phrases. I do not go to other countries expecting them to be a little slice of America. I tip plenty, I learn about their history, and truly appreciate the experience. So leave me the hell alone. All I want is a vacation.