I shouldn't be here right now.
I should be in the Dominican Republic, writing this first entry about my time in a foreign land, clumsily stumbling over a foreign language and palm trees on a beach while rum sodden with my crewmates. This first entry of my travelogue is now being written at a bar in San Marcos.
On the eve of my sailing trip through the Carribbean, which I'd been anticipating for some 9 months, I had a conversation with the captain of the ship, Loren Drake. He's a descendant of the same family as the famed Sir Francis, so you know he's a legitimate seadog. I'm going through my final packing list, checking it twice, picking out which clothes I'm going to be wearing mostly unwashed for months, and my phone titters to signify an incoming text, which reads as follows:
"Could you text me your passport numbers so that I may print out our boarding passes por favor?"
How fastidious. I knew exactly where said passport was, just under the lip of a brown leather valet. I retrieve it, sharing the numbers with him, when I notice something very awry. See if you can pick it out, although the picture quality leaves something to be desired:
Ah, my face at 16 years old. So young, so naive, so prone to dumb mistakes. How much I have learned since then, how much wiser I am. Yet, for a traveler departing the country on the 30th of January, 2012, a passport that expires in May of 2011 doesn't help much at all. I looked at this date, looked away in hopes that the number would change, which it didn't, and there arose a feeling directly below the right ventricle of my heart. It was similar to the feeling of when I was told my mom's dog had cancer, or when Calvin Johnson's touchdown was nullified against the Bears in the closing seconds of week one in the 2010 NFL season. I was dumbstruck, pacing the wooden floor of my friend Felipe's home where I had stored all my earthly belongings for the duration my voyage.
When my thoughts returned to working order, I asked myself, "Self, how am I going to have the heart to break this news to my captain?" To let him down, and let him know I was an incompetent dullard?" I couldn't, so I continued to pack my things. If I pack it, I will leave.
I texted him my passport number. He replied, "Thank you kindly! How goes the preparations?"
I responded, "Double checking my list and packing clothes should be leaving within an hour." So deep was my denial, everything was fine, fine, fine. I may have even whistled as I continued to pack.
Here, a shirt, rolled tightly and packed into my green army surplus duffel bag (you idiot). Here, a swimsuit, which will surely be put to good use (fucking dumbshit). With every item my self-loathing unpacked. My ladyfriend Kristen gently reclined on the daybed next to my duffel, in anticipation of our goodbye to come. The outline of her body was akin to Manet's Olympia, but if you call her a whore I will punch you in the teeth. I finally showed her my passport, a time capsule for what I looked like 11 years ago (passports expire in 10).
"Haha, you're so young!" She smiled. Five seconds, and her smile faded. A couple more, and "uhhh, you know that--"
"Yup, it's expired. I just saw that a minute ago." I rolled up a festive button down, for use on a jaunty trip to town, sliding it between an extra pair of underwear and a t-shirt.
For the next couple of minutes, we discussed options, looked up speedy passport renewal agencies, and determined I was fucked. Loren sent another text, asking for my name as it appeared on the passport and for the expiration date. Now I had no choice. I called him, waited for him to grab a pen and paper, and told him exactly what he asked for. Eric H Hollman. 06 May/Mai 2011.
"All Right!" he scribbled it down. "We're good to go, now it's just....wait, what?"
"Yup, you've got that right."
"What?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Well, fuck."
And so on. We ended up moving up my flight exactly one week ($240, fuck you airlines) and scheduling an appointment at the Houston passport agency for same day service ($170, not too bad).
So here I am, where I shouldn't be, in limbo for a week. But haven't I been in limbo for the past nine months? And after all, wherever one is is where you are, and thus where you should be. There is no other place, and to not make the most of where you are is to not live in the moment, wasting time. Time is of the essence, and Death keeps perfect time. To live life is to accept where you are and what you do, be happy with it, and willing to make the most of a raw deal. Philosophical rationalizations help with these sort of things, don't they? I've learned to move past my self-loathing, to realize that I've made some mistakes and make peace with myself having learned the lessons those mistakes have taught me. After all, I am still leaving on a months-long sailing trip through the Caribbean. What the fuck do I have to complain about? It's not like I'm in Somalia or anything. This passport business boils down to White People Problems. So I'm over it, even more ready to finally leave on my sojourn to change the course of my life forever.
For now I'm here, and here is good. Although this post doesn't come from a foreign land on the beach, I've learned the land itself and the ground underfoot doesn't matter so much as my mentality.
The return address of this post is "In Limbo." I'm sure I'll return.
Ah, my face at 16 years old. So young, so naive, so prone to dumb mistakes. How much I have learned since then, how much wiser I am. Yet, for a traveler departing the country on the 30th of January, 2012, a passport that expires in May of 2011 doesn't help much at all. I looked at this date, looked away in hopes that the number would change, which it didn't, and there arose a feeling directly below the right ventricle of my heart. It was similar to the feeling of when I was told my mom's dog had cancer, or when Calvin Johnson's touchdown was nullified against the Bears in the closing seconds of week one in the 2010 NFL season. I was dumbstruck, pacing the wooden floor of my friend Felipe's home where I had stored all my earthly belongings for the duration my voyage.
When my thoughts returned to working order, I asked myself, "Self, how am I going to have the heart to break this news to my captain?" To let him down, and let him know I was an incompetent dullard?" I couldn't, so I continued to pack my things. If I pack it, I will leave.
I texted him my passport number. He replied, "Thank you kindly! How goes the preparations?"
I responded, "Double checking my list and packing clothes should be leaving within an hour." So deep was my denial, everything was fine, fine, fine. I may have even whistled as I continued to pack.
Here, a shirt, rolled tightly and packed into my green army surplus duffel bag (you idiot). Here, a swimsuit, which will surely be put to good use (fucking dumbshit). With every item my self-loathing unpacked. My ladyfriend Kristen gently reclined on the daybed next to my duffel, in anticipation of our goodbye to come. The outline of her body was akin to Manet's Olympia, but if you call her a whore I will punch you in the teeth. I finally showed her my passport, a time capsule for what I looked like 11 years ago (passports expire in 10).
"Haha, you're so young!" She smiled. Five seconds, and her smile faded. A couple more, and "uhhh, you know that--"
"Yup, it's expired. I just saw that a minute ago." I rolled up a festive button down, for use on a jaunty trip to town, sliding it between an extra pair of underwear and a t-shirt.
For the next couple of minutes, we discussed options, looked up speedy passport renewal agencies, and determined I was fucked. Loren sent another text, asking for my name as it appeared on the passport and for the expiration date. Now I had no choice. I called him, waited for him to grab a pen and paper, and told him exactly what he asked for. Eric H Hollman. 06 May/Mai 2011.
"All Right!" he scribbled it down. "We're good to go, now it's just....wait, what?"
"Yup, you've got that right."
"What?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Well, fuck."
And so on. We ended up moving up my flight exactly one week ($240, fuck you airlines) and scheduling an appointment at the Houston passport agency for same day service ($170, not too bad).
So here I am, where I shouldn't be, in limbo for a week. But haven't I been in limbo for the past nine months? And after all, wherever one is is where you are, and thus where you should be. There is no other place, and to not make the most of where you are is to not live in the moment, wasting time. Time is of the essence, and Death keeps perfect time. To live life is to accept where you are and what you do, be happy with it, and willing to make the most of a raw deal. Philosophical rationalizations help with these sort of things, don't they? I've learned to move past my self-loathing, to realize that I've made some mistakes and make peace with myself having learned the lessons those mistakes have taught me. After all, I am still leaving on a months-long sailing trip through the Caribbean. What the fuck do I have to complain about? It's not like I'm in Somalia or anything. This passport business boils down to White People Problems. So I'm over it, even more ready to finally leave on my sojourn to change the course of my life forever.
For now I'm here, and here is good. Although this post doesn't come from a foreign land on the beach, I've learned the land itself and the ground underfoot doesn't matter so much as my mentality.
The return address of this post is "In Limbo." I'm sure I'll return.
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