Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Adventures in Sleep Deprivation

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--Dave Fox

And the Winner is...

This Blog Has Moved!

This blog post has moved to Globejotting.com, my new global storytelling website, featuring humor columns, travel tales and tips, and writing advice.

To read this entry, please visit Globejotting.com and enter its title in the search bar. If you need additional help, feel free to e-mail me. You’ll find my contact info on the new site.

Thanks for visiting!

--Dave Fox

How I Write

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You can now read this story here:

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Worse than Sanjaya

This Blog Has Moved!

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Is that Osama Bin Laden in your boxer shorts, or are you just happy to see me?

After I've been sitting on airplanes for 12 or more hours, my favorite thing to do when I touch down at SeaTac Airport is to go stand in a very long line behind all of the other people from two or three different international flights, all of whom, like me, smell like they have been sitting in airplanes for 12 or more hours.

What usually happens in these very long lines is every child under the age of six who has been strapped into one of these flights simultaneously throws a tantrum of epic proportions, which is what I want to do myself. The only thing that keeps me from doing so is a fear they might not let me in the country.

When I get to the front of the line, a nice man or woman usually asks me a few basic questions. Then they stamp my passport. I collect my bags, assuming they have not been accidentally routed to Ghana. I pass through customs, surrender my bags, which, for security reasons must now be rechecked and sent to a different baggage claim on the other side of the airport, catch the nifty airport train, re-collect my bags, and voila! Just six hours after landing, I can finally go home.

That's how it usually works, but on this particular journey, things didn't go so smoothly.

When I got to the front of the passport line, I got the usual questions as the customs officer scrutinized my declaration form. How long was I gone? (Six weeks.) What kind of business was I on? (I'm a tour guide.) Was I transporting any weapons of mass destruction. (Yes. My socks were overdue for the washing machine.) But this particular man was squinting at me in a way I wasn't accustomed to being squinted at. He seemed suspicious.

Finally, he scribbled a code number on my declaration. "Welcome home, Mr. Fox," he said, waving me to the baggage claim.

I retrieved my bags. Now all I had to do was stand in the customs inspection line, a short line where routinely, they ask you a couple of more questions, then send on your way. On this day, however, that did not happen. I got sent to the special line, the line where they send you if they think you are smuggling heroin, or explosives, or a pineapple.

I waited in this new long line. In Seattle it was 5:45 p.m., but in the time zone in which my brain was operating, it was now the middle of the night. My knees were burning from too many hours in economy class. I just wanted to go to bed.

After 20 more minutes, it was my turn. I've been through customs in lots of countries. I knew the drill. Smile politely, answer their questions, and all will be well, unless, of course, you really are attempting to smuggle a pineapple into the United States.

"What kind of business were you on, Mr. Fox?" the man asked me.

"I'm a tour guide."

"A tour guide?"

"Yes."

"Well then where's your tour group?"

"I left them in Norway several days ago."

"You left them there? You didn't come home with them?"

"Our tours all start and end in Europe," I explained. People are on their own to come home whenever they choose. Most of them survive the journey without me.

Next came more questions about my job. Where did I guide? Who did I guide for? Did I guide all year long?

"Only in the summer," I said in response to the last question.

"Well what do you do the rest of the year then? You can't make a living working three months a year."

"No sir. I have a humble, yet lucrative, side business in the form of a crystal meth lab. It's part of a small but growing franchise."

That's not what I said. What I said was, "I'm a freelance writer and speaker the rest of the year."

"A freelance writer for who?"

"For whom," I wanted to say. But I did not say that because by the very nature of this man's rapid-fire queries, I was beginning to get edgy. Edgy and jetlagged enough that I was blanking on the names of every single publication and business I have ever written for.

"For anyone who wants to pay me," I said.

"It sounds like you travel a lot," the customs officer then said.

"Yes sir."

"Well since you... [dramatic pause] say that you are a tour guide, and you... [second dramatic pause] say that you travel internationally a lot, then I assume you understand the importance of being truthful on your customs declaration."

He was clutching my stamp-filled passport. If there were any question about how much I traveled, all he needed to do was open it.

"Yes," I said. "I understand."

"You do understand that?"

"Yes sir."

"Well with that in mind, is there anything on this form you would like to amend before I inspect your bags?"

"Oh, you mean that carton of Cuban cigars I forgot to write down? And the steaks I bought in the 'Mad Cow Disease Bargain Bin' on my way out of Europe? And the Anthrax? Oh yeah, I forgot to declare the Anthrax! Silly me! May I please borrow your pen for a moment?"

I told him no. I had nothing to amend.

"Well which bag do you think I should inspect?" the officer asked me.

"You can inspect them both if you like," I said, doing all I could to sound cooperative and innocent. I really, really wanted to go home and go to bed.

"Should I inspect this one?" he asked.

"Ummm... sure."

"Is this your checked bag?"

"No. That's my carry on. I checked this other one."

"Oh! Well maybe I should inspect this bag then." He stared deep into my eyes, searching for a glimmer of deception. I had no such glimmer to offer.

"Okay."

So he began. As he rifled through my bag, I overheard a more jovial inspector laughing it up with another traveler. He was telling a story about when he had to question Bill Gates. "I looked at him," the inspector was saying, "and I said to him, 'I'm embarrassed to have to ask you this, Mr. Gates, but I'm required to: Can you tell me what you do for a living?'"

I wanted that inspector. He was having a good laugh with the inspectee. He sounded like the kind of guy I could go have a beer with when this was all over. But I was stuck with this other guy, who was now pawing through my unwashed boxer shorts in search of Osama bin Laden.

"So you say you do a lot of work in Norway?" he asked after a fruitless search.

"Yes."

"You must know Norway pretty well then."

"Yes."

"Then can you tell me where the fjyooeerds are?"

That is the best way I can spell the word that left his mouth. It contained a vowel sound that does not exist in English. Or Norwegian. It was the kind of sound one makes when one is trying to sound like one speaks a foreign language that one does not really speak.

I couldn't take it anymore. My submissive good manners were getting me nowhere. "Do you mean the fjords?" I asked.

"Yes. The fjords."

"There are hundreds and hundreds of them – all over the entire Norwegian coastline. You will also find fjords in New Zealand, Chile, and Antarctica. Is there a particular fjord you were interested in?"

"Oh. So they're kind of everywhere, huh?"

"Yeah. Kind of."

"Well do you know where they do the base jumping from?"

"No I do not!" I wanted to screech. "I don't even know what base jumping is! There! You got me! Send me to Guantanamo if you must, but can we please just get this over with? I really, really, really want to go to bed!"

But I did not screech that. Instead I just told him I wasn't exactly sure what base jumping was.

He explained that it basically was parachuting, only without a plane to jump out of. He had heard it was popular in Norway. "Me and my buddies want to go there next year and check it out."

"My buddies and I," I thought.

"So where would be a good place in Norway to go base jumping?" he asked.

I didn't know. I didn't care. "Probably on the west coast," I said.

"The west coast, huh?"

"Yeah. Western Norway has the best fjyooeerds."

"Cool."

Cool. We were pals now. He set me free.

I went home. I fell asleep. I unpacked my bags when I awoke early the next morning.

I never did find Osama bin Laden hiding in my dirty laundry, but just to be safe, I washed everything in hot water, with extra detergent.

Drink 23 Beers and Fly for Free!

Somewhere over Europe...

Air travel is still civilized in some parts of Europe.

I am writing this on a Norwegian Air flight from Bergen, Norway, to Dubrovnik, Croatia, and on this flight, they still allow you to carry on water, hair mousse, and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter™." Oh sure, that makes flying a riskier sort of adventure. Hypothetically, some crazed hair dresser could mousse the pilot to death and take over the aircraft, but I'm not worried. If the three guys behind me are any indication of the overall passenger mentality on this flight, these people are all too drunk to locate the squirt button on the mousse canister.

It's a common phenomenon: Norwegians, who live in a land of inhumane alcohol taxes, travel to locations in southern Europe where they can purchase four or five beers for the price of one at home. And on a typical Saturday night at their local pub at home, they would not have one beer. They would have two or three. Ergo, in southern Europe, they now have a budget for 12 or 17 beers. Or something like that. One loses count when one is dealing in foreign currencies.

It's a party on this plane full of Norwegians headed off on vacation. If this were an American airline, the guys behind me would have been cut off long ago. If this were an American bar, they would have been cut off long ago. They're hammered. But on this flight, they are ordering triples, and the flight attendant keeps them coming. She is even posing for photos with them.

I'm not a Norwegian citizen, but I spend plenty of time working in Norway in the summer. I suffer even more from Norway's alcohol taxes than Norwegians do. Norwegians at least get the socialized health care and cheap education and retirement and maternity/paternity benefits that come with living in a country with high taxes. I'm getting paid in US dollars to work there, which is why, on my week off between tours, I am fleeing Scandinavia and heading south. My budget flight from Bergen to Dubrovnik is costing me 792 Norwegian kroner – roughly 130 US dollars. By my calculations, if I drink 23 pints of beer this week, the money I will save over what I would have paid for the same beers in Norway will just about pay for my flight.

*     *    *

Hey… there's something you don't see much anymore. A flight attendant is now chatting with the pilot, and they've left the cockpit door wide open. It's a beautiful view out the front window.

There are no signs of imminent mousse activity.

Pirates Versus Ice Cream

Stockholm, Sweden

An ice cream truck has been driving around the streets near my hotel for the last 30 minutes. It keeps playing one of those music-boxy, "Hey kids, I am the ice cream truck" tunes that ice cream trucks play in order to make children scream for ice cream, terrorizing their parents.

The tune goes something like this:

"Dee doodlee-doo, dee doodlee-doo, dee doot dee doot dee doo."

Then it goes:

"Dee doodlee-doo, dee doodlee-doo, dee doot dee doot dee doo."

Then it goes:

"Dee doodlee-doo, dee doodlee-doo, dee doot dee doot dee doo."

Then it goes... oh, you get the point.

I was feeling highly annoyed by this. This tune is going to be stuck in my head all night long. But then I thought, I should be glad to be in Stockholm, listening to an annoying ice cream truck. It beats being in Seattle, being subjected to the Sea Fair Pirates' canons and the Blue Angels.

Jetlag Summer

Kalmar, Sweden

I am currently in Sweden.

I am not exactly sure how this happened.

I was sitting innocently at home in Seattle a couple of days ago, watching some bad reality television, when the next thing I knew, my friend, Kattina, was driving me to the airport at some ungodly, pre-sunrise hour. I was herded onto a plane to Chicago, followed by another plane to Stockholm, followed by a six-hour layover, followed by a 40-minute flight to Kalmar, Sweden, during which I ruminated on the fact that I probably could have walked to Kalmar in the six hours I had to sit around the Stockholm airport.

Other than these three flights, I have little recollection of anything that has happened in the past three weeks. Three weeks ago, I finished guiding a tour in Scandinavia, flew from Norway to Seattle, unpacked my bags in a jetlagged stupor, readjusted to Seattle time, did a bunch of work, repacked my bags, and now I am back in Europe, jetlagged again, wondering why I bothered readjusting to Seattle time.

During my 25 hours of air travel a couple of days ago, a variety of thoughts entered my mind. Here is an abridged transcript of those thoughts:

• Why is it that when people are waiting at the gate to board a plane, they think it is okay to occupy four seats in the waiting area with their carry-on luggage?
• Gosh, I'm bored.
• Oh. My flight is boarding.
• Why don't airplane sinks drain unless you hold the drain thingy down? Why do they always fill with water? The only time I fill my sink with water is when I am in a hotel room, doing laundry. Do the airlines think passengers want to wash their laundry during the flight?
• I wonder, if passengers did do laundry on airplanes, would they wash their skimpy underwear?
• I wonder what kind of underwear that cutie in seat 27-G would be washing.
• I am really, really bored.
• Hurray! We are landing in Chicago!
• Chicago? That took forever. I'm supposed to go where today?
• Stockholm? Isn't that kind of far?
• Here I am… in the air again.
• Oh, look. The video screen says there is a selection of "quality magazines" available on this flight. What exactly do they mean by "quality?" If I were on a budget airline, would the screen say, "For your in-flight reading enjoyment, we are pleased to offer you a selection of cheap, low-budget, crappy magazines?"
• I am soooooo bored!
• Does the FAA require that all pilots address the passengers as "folks" when talking to us on the airplane PA system, or is it just coincidence that all pilots talk that way?

Shortly after that last thought, I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew, I was in Stockholm.

Copenhagen airport is a lovely place to spend six hours. Stockholm airport is not. They need to get a more exciting airport in Stockholm – perhaps with a dolphin show or a monster truck rally to keep us folks entertained during our long layovers.

Eventually, I flew to Kalmar, where I am now. Friends met me at the airport and expected me to be fun and lively after 25 hours of flying. But I don't start guiding tours until Sunday, so until then, I intend to be a cranky, jetlagged curmudgeon-in-training.

Flying Babies

Babies.

Babies are sweet little angels who hold the keys to our future, blah, blah, freaking blah....

Yeah, whatever.

Forgive me for sounding cynical. I have personally never witnessed the miracle of child birth, in which a wriggling and slimy creature emerges from the stork; therefore I get cranky when I am on a ten-hour flight, trying to sleep, and a baby is throwing a tantrum four rows ahead of me. Truth be told, the reason I get cranky in this situation is I feel jealous. I would like to throw a tantrum too. I would like to express my dissatisfaction for the lack of leg room by shrieking violently for hours on end, but adults can't get away with that the way babies can.

There is a proven psychological reason as to why babies scream so loudly on long airplane rides. They do this because they are experiencing, for the very first time in life, the horrific realization that they too may have to eat airline food one day.

So I don't fault babies for screaming on long airplane rides. I agree with them wholeheartedly.

I also do not fault parents for bringing their babies on airplanes. Babies should travel. They should get out and see the world like the rest of us so they can continue our proud tradition in America of spreading world peace by asking for menus in English. What I do fault parents for is bringing squeaky toys on airplanes to amuse their babies. That should be against international law.

On my flight to Copenhagen Thursday night, I was just beginning to doze when the screaming began. First I cringed. Then I realized there was nothing I could do about it; the baby was doing what all babies naturally do. I closed my eyes and eventually tuned the wailing out.

Then, the squeaking began. The squeaking was much harder to tune out. The baby would cry, and then the parent (of unknown gender from my vanage point several rows back) would attempt to appease the baby with the squeaky toy.

"Waaaahhh!!!" The baby would yell.

SQUEE-kee SQUEE-kee, the parent would squeak, squeezing the rubber duckie or whatever it was.

This had the effect of terrifying the already terrified baby even more, causing the baby to intensify his or her sobbing. The parent responded to this by squeaking louder and faster, which caused the baby to really emphasize that he or she did not like the squeaky toy by wailing at an even higher decibal level. It got so bad, I actually started rooting for the infant to scream as loud as he or she could. The screaming was far less irritating than the squeaky toy, and I hoped the baby's sobbing might eventually drown out the squeaks.

Parents, here is a pop quiz: If you are on an airplane, trying to appease your baby with a squeaky toy, and the squeaky toy is causing your baby to scream even more violently, should you:

A) Stop squeaking the squeaky toy because you are traumatizing your baby?

or

B) Squeeze the squeaky toy harder and faster in the hope that your baby will eventually stop crying because he or she has run out of oxygen?

The parent in row 32 failed the quiz. Squeezing the squeaky toy louder and faster when it is not calming your baby down is as sensible as yelling really loudly is at someone who doesn't speak English to help them understand you.

It used to be, when you flew, you could choose between a smoking section and a non-smoking section. Now, I think it would be appropriate to have an intelligent people section and an idiot section. Parents with screaming infants should be allowed to sit in the intelligent people section, but only after passing through an extra security check. One squeaky toy in their carry-on bag, and they're grounded.

The Long Way to Work: From Yankers to Urinals

My commute to work takes either 16 seconds or 16 hours, depending on which job I'm going to. I work nine months a year as a freelance writer and speaker. My office is five feet away from my bedroom. It's a nice commute, except on Ride Your Bike to Work Day, which messes up the carpet pretty badly.

My other three months each year are spent guiding tours in Scandinavia. I work as a tour guide for Rick Steves, the benevolent Bhagwan of European travel. Today is a long commute day -- roughly 16 hours from my door in Seattle to my hotel in Stockholm, Sweden, via Copenhagen, Denmark.

Flying to Stockholm might sound extremely exciting -– and it is, if you don't mind having your knees lodged in your chin all night while the person behind you turns your seat into an earthquake simulator. It seems that whenever I fly to Europe, I end up sitting in front of one of the Yankers. The Yankers are those people who insist on grabbing the back of your seat with both hands, and yanking it backward every time they stand up.

Why people have not figured out by now that we could all sleep better on long-haul flights if we would all use our armrests to help us to our feet, instead of the seat in front of us, is something that baffles me. I tend to lose patience with the Yankers. On one flight, I had a particularly active Yanker, who insisted on getting up to take a walk every seven minutes. I asked him nicely several times to stop yanking my seat. I was trying to sleep. He would apologize every time. Then, seven minutes later, the Yanker would yank again. Finally, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught his hand reaching toward my seat, about to go in for yank number 423, I couldn't take it anymore. I smacked him on the wrist. I didn't care if I got arrested for air rage. I hoped they would restrain me until landing, and confine me to a seat away from the other passengers, where I could get some sleep.

Another exciting thing about flying internationally these days is the video screen maps that show your flight progress. The screens display interesting statistics such as how fast you are flying (not fast enough), how many more weeks it is before you will reach your destination, and how many feet you will plummet to your death if the engines fail over Greenland.

These video maps are a relatively new invention. Back in the 19th century, when my great grandparents emigrated to America, they could not look at these electronic in-flight video maps because nobody had learned how to make airplanes in which to put the maps. My great grandparents had to cross the ocean by sea. This sea voyage was risky, arduous, and uphill both ways. Finally, in 1903, these two guys named Orville and Wilbur Wright, who, as you can tell by their first names, were total nerds, got sick of the fact that these video maps were totally useless.

"This damn video map just keeps saying, 'Kittyhawk, Kittyhawk, Kittyhawk,'" Wilbur said to Orville. "Let's make it do something! So they built an airplane so the video map would be more exciting. They also invented imitation meat that could be served on airplanes. And that's why it is now possible to fly halfway around the planet in less than a day. Unfortunately, it is still uphill both ways.

Yes, aviation technology has come a long way, and flying into Stockholm's Arlanda Airport is about to get even more enthralling. The following sentence is an actual lead paragraph from a hard-hitting news story the Associated Press broke yesterday, entitled, "Urinals with a view at Stockholm airport":

Travelers hearing nature's call at Stockholm's Arlanda airport may think they have ended up in a summer meadow -- figuratively speaking.

That's right. Back in the Old Country, in a land people once fled because they didn't even have potatoes, their airport is about to install high tech, sweet-smelling toilets.

The AP story went on to say:

The men's lavatories will have glass artwork portraying a flower-filled Swedish meadow around and above the men's urinals, with a view through a glass facade onto the tarmac below.

The ladies' room also comes with glass artworks, in the shape of giant red buttercups.

Urinating in Sweden has never been more exciting!

Sadly, these spiffy new restrooms are not scheduled to be open for a few more weeks, but don't worry. I will pass through that airport five times this summer, and I will do my best to attend the urinal grand opening. I will even take pictures if I can do so without getting arrested.

I'm about to dive into 28 work days in a row – two two-week laps around Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, with 26 people following me. Work days are long, but I will be blogging as time allows.

Next stop: the Sea-Tac Airport security line, where I will be praying that the person who is ticketed in the seat behind me will be detained until after take-off.