Want to Quit Your Job and Become a Travel Writer? Read This First, Trust Me
- Morgan McCarthy
- May 7, 2016
- 16 min read
Not All Who Wander are Lost...then There's Cruisers
We’ve all encountered the Facebook headline, “How I quit my job to become a travel writer.” We begrudgingly exit out of the window as quickly as possible and continue that assignment your boss wants completed by the morning. Then again, maybe you have time to take a quick scan of the article. After all, what’s the hurry. You have all day to finish that data input. If you're like most people, and certainly like me, you’ve clicked that link and continued to put off whatever boring assignment it was that you were doing anyway. Because nothing helps you feel inspired at work like fantasizing about how you would rather be anywhere. else.
The link takes you to the dreamy island of the Seychelles, you can almost feel the warm sand between your toes and the lingering tropical aftertaste of the strawberry daiquiri. Droplets of water, still clinging onto you from the island scuba tour in the crystal clear blue water, roll of your body onto the chaise lounge. You slip the bartender a $20 tip because the daiquiris are going down like the $5 Perrier you had at the hotel mini bar, but who cares anyway?, The hotel is fronting it all as part of the spread you’re doing on them for the New York Times travel section.
You snap out of it. Your boss walks by and you start typing like beating the 5 o’clock traffic out of the city depends on it. As you continue the work day your mind keeps wandering back to the Seychelles and how chiseled the scuba instructor’s abs were...wait a minute, I didn’t mention anything about the scuba instructor… but you were picturing it all the same.
The internet would let us believe that this is what awaits when you quit your job, give in to your wanderlust and take the next flight to anywhere-else-but-here. After all, travel is fun. Travel is glamorous. Travel is warm sand and cold drinks; travel is wild days and even wilder nights... right? And for the one or two stories that keep circulating on your news feed - it probably is- but this is the travel myth that we have all bought into. The reality is that this is not what it looks like for everyone. That dream vacation to the Seychelles is not the rule, but the exception. After I’m done telling you about what traveling really entails, you’ll be happy to have an income, a roof over your head, the occasional lunch buddy, and medical coverage from the ol’ 9-5.
I’m going to show you how not to travel and hopefully by learning from my mistakes, you will at least have a shot at making it to the Seychelles and will be sipping a daiquiri soon enough.
“Ouch!” I yelled, as my hands grasped for the sharp pain in my neck. My head, sprinkled with dirt from the bed of mulch and leaves I lay upon, attempted to orient itself towards the rustling movement, barreling away in the opposite direction from me. My rude awakening led to someone else’s as I yelled, in my most whispered voice, “ROB!”
Trying to wake someone up as quietly as possible while maintaining the secrecy of your position in a public park is not necessarily easily accomplished. Awakened by the earthquake that was me shaking his sleeping bag, Rob he popped up in a seated position and demanded to know what was going on.
The information that I had so abruptly awoken Rob for was that I had just been bitten by a wild park rat and it was scampering away, off into the nearby bushes. Some minor details to keep track of here: it was 2AM, we were sleeping in the bushes of a public park, and we were in Amsterdam.
The date was August 1st, 2015 and it was Canal Pride Weekend in Amsterdam, Netherlands - one of the largest and most famous Gay Pride festivals across Europe. The day started when my alarm rang at 5:00AM, with one minor problem - the Parade was in Amsterdam and I was about 4 hours away in Bremen, Germany. I was a marine zoology intern, working in a lab at Bremen University for the summer and had been planning a trip to Amsterdam since the minute I arrived in Germany.
Why was I up over an hour and a half before I needed to be at the bus station you might ask? That’s where Rob comes in. He was another intern working in a lab about 3 hours away, in Northeast Germany. He was actually more than just some intern; he was my newfound boyfriend and despite his protests to just grab a croissant 5 minutes before the bus took off at the bus station, I thought it would be a nice gesture if I cooked us a hot breakfast before setting off on our adventure.
Lesson One: Don’t be a hero, just eat the cold croissant.
If you’ve ever had the feeling that time moves faster in the morning, because again, if you’re like me - it couldn't possibly be because you’re moving slower - then you’re following right along. I cooked up an elaborate breakfast for the both of us: eggs with bacon, roasted onions, tomatoes, cheese, toast, juice and a side option of cereal. My gesture didn’t really seem to take hold the way I thought it would. Rob scarfed down the breakfast as quickly as possible, blurting out, “We need to go!” in between every bite. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I nodded calmly and did a secret side glance time check at the clock on the wall. “Dammit he was right!”, I thought. It was 6:00 am and the bus was leaving in thirty minutes. Confident in the timeliness of German public transit, I assured myself that the tram right around the block would be a 20-minute ride to the bus station - we’d be right on time for departure.
We stepped out the door and frantically walked towards the bus station. For the most part, we had light packs, Rob with everything he had brought from Kiel - where he was visiting from for the weekend - and myself, thinking just a day pack would do. There was one catch: we were lugging around a giant red pop up tent that had, “Eat, Rave, Love” in bold letters written across the side. Though we looked rather foolish, camping was the cheapest option in Amsterdam for Pride Weekend and we had already bought the tent at an electronic music festival just two weeks beforehand. We thought it had been such a deal and yet, seemed to be only thing slowing us down as we swiftly jogged around the corner onto the main street to view the tram stop wait time.
“Warte Zeit: 15 Minuten,” the tram sign read. Even for Rob, the English speaking Canadian, knew exactly what that meant. “Morgan! The tram isn’t coming for another fifteen minutes and the bus leaves in 25!”, he panicked.
With the giant red tent in hand I responded, “then we better start running!” and dashed off in the direction of the bus station or a cab, knowing that if we didn’t find a cab first, we were going to miss the bus. The sprint towards the bus station was the most cardio I had had the whole summer, and unluckily for me, Rob was a college varsity athlete who happened to be training for a marathon, so we know who was slowing the group down. Cooking a giant breakfast turned out not to be one of my most shining moments. With each second of running, I resented all breakfast foods and thought I would give up on any further romantic gestures for the weekend. So like I said, for your own travels, just eat the cold croissant!
Cabs aren’t necessarily abundant in the mid-sized city of Bremen at 6AM. Luckily, for us, we found one and no sooner had we shoved the oversized tent into the trunk and ourselves into the passenger seats, were we speeding off towards the bus station. We thanked the cab driver who got us there on time and frantically searched for the group of sleepy, grumpy travelers who would be accompanying us on our budget bus line to Amsterdam.
From the looks of annoyance and seemingly overt absence of any buses, it became quite apparent that the bus to Amsterdam was late… and as we learned from another passenger, by about thirty minutes. Wiping the sweat from my brow and looking at Rob, we shared a look of mutual reassurance, one that said, “yes, it was a hectic morning, but we are going to make the bus and to Amsterdam.”
Lesson Two: Read the fine print. Yes, the little lettering at the bottom that seems unimportant, but trust me, it really is.
To everyone’s elation, the bus did arrive and we were just minutes from setting off for Amsterdam...finally. We had preprinted our tickets and began the boarding process among the first group of eager borders. Everything was running quite smoothly... that is until the bus driver looked at the big red tent with the “eat, rave, love” lettering written across the side. In German, he asked me if I had paid for and reserved a spot for the popup tent, a policy he explained, was written out in the fine print of the ticket for oversized luggage.
But really sir, “who reads the fine print,” is what I would have liked to say and marched straight past him to my seat - tent in hand of course. Naturally, not actually being that bold, I tried politeness and played the, “I’m a confused American just trying to get to Amsterdam for the weekend card,” which was a confusing card to play for someone who had barely any accent, fluent German and also a German passport. But nonetheless, it worked and the driver was going to let us on and even with the ridiculous tent. I quickly translated to Rob what had happened and with relief, I presented the tickets to the driver again. He said, “ausweis bitte,” and I happily handed him over my driver’s license to do an ID check. He handed it back to me and reached his hand out towards Rob. Rob looked at me and said, “Morgan….um….,” and to my dismay, I quickly learned that Rob didn’t have any form of identification on him. …
With some back and forth between the driver and myself, it became apparent, as yet again it reads in the fine print, he explained, no one gets on the bus without a valid ID.
I must reiterate lesson two; Please, please read the fine print.
The bus drove off, leaving Rob, myself and our big red tent behind on the curb, there was no way we were going to make it to Amsterdam now. A trip to Amsterdam, the only trip I had been looking forward to for the entire summer had died over a matter of reading the fine print of a bus ticket…
Fighting the urge to admit defeat, we moseyed from the bus port to the train station ticketing center. To humor ourselves, we looked up round trip train tickets to Amsterdam. 160 euros, 80 per person; That would be the price of Rob forgetting his ID at home. In the spirit of travel and not wanting to spend the weekend in Bremen, we decided to take the chance, purchase the tickets and hope that no one asked for our IDs at the border.
Not but an hour later, we were finally underway. We had renewed spirits, three train connections and about 4 hours to recoup from the exhausting morning before we’d reach Amsterdam.
Lesson Three: Never delegate, just do it yourself
Everything with the train was running smoothly. We had already completed one of our connections, and were approaching another along the border of the Netherlands and Germany. This next connection gave us about three minutes to dash out of the train, cross under a platform, through a tunnel, ascend back onto another platform and enter into a new train. When our current train came to a screeching halt, we dashed out as quickly as we could. Frantically looking for signs in English that would direct us to the right platform and dodging through all the foot traffic - which turns out to be a bit more difficult in a country with the world’s tallest average population - we found the next train and claimed two empty seats next to each other, just in the nick of time. We continued on, content and excited, we were still on our way to Amsterdam and just about an hour and a half outside of the city. As we went on about our carefree ride, Rob asked me, “Hey, where did you put the tent, I don’t see it with our bags?”
I looked at him with wide eyes and responded, “Wait, I thought you grabbed it?”
And with his confirmation that neither of us had grabbed the tent, we slumped into our seats and broke out in hysteric laughter and eventual tears. What the tears meant still remain unclear to me: was it the sentimental value attached to the tent, the lack of sleep and exhaustion kicking in, the fact we were heading to Amsterdam on the most visited weekend of the year and every hostel in the city was already booked out with no where to sleep, or perhaps it was that two “responsible” twenty-one year olds had managed to forget a giant red red tent with the lettering “eat, rave, love” written across the side - the same one that had almost barred us from getting on a bus to Amsterdam in the first place. Nevertheless, we were travelling onward to Amsterdam, our tent was B-lining toward Cologne, leaving us officially homeless for the weekend and just over an hour outside of our destination. In life, delegation may be admirable and make a great leader quality, but when you’re traveling - never delegate, just do it yourself.
So there we were, sitting on a train and wondering what we were going to do next. I piped up, “Oh I know, let’s check couch-surfing!” Couch-surfing, a fairly well-established website that lets you request to stay with locals in a place for free, seemed to be our only option since all the hotels were already booked out. I had never used couch-surfing before and Rob had one experience in Innsbruck so far, but otherwise we had heard it was a pretty good deal. The first thing we did was make a public trip. Any host in the Amsterdam area could see the post we had created that said something along the lines of, “Help! Two foreigners just an hour outside of Amsterdam coming in for pride weekend and our tent happens to be heading in a completely different direction!” It’s no surprise we didn’t get any hits… two seemingly unorganized foreigners coming in to town on the busiest weekend of the year and they don’t even have any host references on their profiles…
We then did the next most logical thing. We started to go through hosts with the worst reviews. Of course! We had found the answer, if we requested to stay with someone who had poor reviews, they would surely accept us in hopes of redeeming their couch-surfing ranking. We messaged someone who lived on a houseboat - that would be cool we thought – and we’d probably get a good view of the parade. Our logic was only partly flawed…
We immediately received a response back about our inquiry. All that was written was, “Meet me at the boat, we’ll talk details then.” Puzzled by the vague response, we thought something sounded a little awry. “Let’s check out his profile,” I said. Up until now we didn’t even know what had landed him on the list of hosts with poor reviews. After taking a minute to look up his details, things quickly came into perspective. As it turned out, written in his offer for hosting, “he was an older nudist man, looking for younger men to spend the weekend with on his houseboat for a parade watching party.” Here comes the big catch...” the young boys had to agree to be naked whenever inside the houseboat.” As we scanned through the reviews, one of the last ones really struck us as it read, “Was approached in the middle of the night for sex - left immediately - very uncomfortable.” So there we were, half an hour outside of our destination with two options of places to sleep. The first, an adult man looking for younger naked boys to cozy up with for the weekend, or naturally, the only option we really had left, a park…
Lesson Four: Fool me once…. fool me twice…. get the heck out of there!
“I don’t see a rat! I think you’re seeing things” Rob said. The pain in my neck certainly disagreed with him, but it was 2AM and we didn’t really have the option of checking in at the local Westin anyways…so startled, yet exhausted, I laid my head back down to sleep.
I awoke an hour later to a rustling nearby. Something was stirring in the bushes and moving slowly towards us. Great, I thought, Stuart Little’s distant cousins are back to finish me off. Trust me, I wish it had been a band of rodents seeking to fight for their public park domain, all I’d have to do was outrun Rob, which wouldn’t be hard because he was apparently too busy sleeping to take notice of any of commotion-causing creatures in the parks of Amsterdam. Regrettably, it wasn't rodents at all, it was a person. A man (and I know what you’re thinking, no, it wasn’t the houseboat man) appeared in a crouched position and he was slowly moving one foot in front of the other towards us.
“Stop!!” I yelled (this time not in a whispered voice). Another Earthquake descended upon Rob, who once again sprung up into a seated position, “What is it!!”, he whispered. “There's a person!” I yelled and pointed towards the underbrush.
“What are you guys doing?” the man said.
(Really...did I have to answer that question; it was 3AM…we were sleeping!)
“We’re fine, we’re just sleeping,” I said back.
“Do you want money for a hotel room?”
Once again, “Thank you, but we are alright,” we replied.
“Are you guys Gay?”
“No” Rob said, not wanting any trouble, “We are just sleeping here.”
“Are you sure? I can give you money if you give something to me.”
“No, really, we are fine”, Rob and I both proclaimed, hoping he would leave us alone.
He began to back out of the woods. “Rob! We were almost just robbed!” I said.
“No Morgan, that was a cruiser…” he responded. “I think we were just solicited…”
If you’re as confused as I was and don’t know what cruising is, let the only true authority on the English language - Urban Dictionary - take a minute to explain what exactly it entails. Cruising: “To search (as in public places) for a sexual partner. To go about the streets at random but on the lookout for possible developments.” Great...what is better, to think I had almost been robbed or picked up in a public rat infested park as a possible “development.”
Whatever the answer, it was not a concern to me at the time. It was 3AM and I needed to capitalize on whatever sleep was left to come from the night.
5AM rolled around. In a slight daze I felt a little caress around my knee. Cute, I thought, isn’t it nice to have someone to cuddle with in the parks of Amsterdam...Wait a minute, that’s not a human body part, it has 4 legs and lots of little toes! My eyes snapped open and my legs catapulted upwards, launching whatever was climbing up my sleeping bag into the air. It was light out enough to see the big, grey rat, with a long tail sprinting back into the underbrush. “Enough!”, I thought, no more rats! I spent the next couple hours with my eyes wide open, standing guard until Rob was awake and ready to retreat from the park...anymore sleep for me was out of the question.
Review of Lesson Four: Fool me once...fool me twice, if a rat climbs on you get the heck out of there before it happens again!
So when Rob awoke, we did depart. After exiting from our slightly secluded spot in the bushes, we found a water fountain where we could wash up and brush our teeth. I swung around from the fountain, mid teeth-brushing to observe a Dutch couple with their toddler child - enjoying a Sunday morning out in the sunny park. “Oh no, I thought, please stay in school kid.” I imagined what the couple who had witnessed the seemingly homeless, dirty tourists who were now brushing their teeth at a public fountain after coming out of the bushes were thinking...and I knew it was time to leave Amsterdam.
Ending the morning on a high with the best Dutch pancakes I’ve ever had, in the most quintessential European café of Amsterdam, Rob and I made our way back to the city central station. We caught our train back to Germany and ended our days, each at our respective cities - without anymore loss of luggage, I might add.
I took a deep breath before entering my boss’s office at the lab the next day, turned the door handle, entered, and began to retell the events of the most, for lack of a better word, incredible weekend of my life.
Robert Lipkin, the traveling companion and bodyguard for the famous motorcycle daredevil, Evil Knievel once said, “The difference between an adventure and an ordeal is attitude.” You can really throw out all of the other rules (though they might be a little helpful) that I’ve given you and just focus on this one. I know I never relayed to you how the famous parade was, or any details about the amazing city of Amsterdam, but that is for you to write about in your own travel blog. My travel writing experience didn’t end with those mouth watering strawberry daiquiris at the Seychelles or the story of a lifetime that the New York Times is featuring next month. When I tell this story to friends nobody responds with, “that sounds so amazing. I always wished I could do that.” Most stare at me, their eyes glazed over, dumfounded trying to find the words to express their thoughts. Nobody thinks about quitting their job to go after their European dream vacation.
This however, is closer to the reality of travel. Sure, you might be better prepared than we were – the bar is staggeringly low. Maybe you just would have called it quits when the choice was stay in Bremen or shell out 160 Euros for a train. My point is, travelling isn’t all glamour, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile. It just means you might not get back what you expect from your experience.
I went to Amsterdam and I didn’t find the city of my dreams, like I expected. Instead, I found something greater, that there is truth to Lipkin’s words - a positive attitude, as it turns out, is “instant adventure” when it comes to traveling. So that is my most important lesson. Travelling won’t be as smooth and as effortless as the New York Times travel pages would have you believe. Outlook is everything. That’s what turns a crash course in Murphy’s law into one of the greatest adventures of your life.
If you’re still reading at this point, it's time to begrudgingly click out of the window and get back to that assignment. Then again, you have until next week to finish that data entry. What you do next is up to, but I hear Amsterdam has lovely parks around this time of the year...
Housekeeping for Julie:
Target Publication: Passport
10-15 suggested titles
Hamsterdam
How NOT to be a Travel Writer
Rats, cruisers and pancakes? Oh my.
Eat, Pray, Rave, Love
Your guide to a Romantic Getaway: Amsterdam
Inhabitants of Oosterpark
Just Eat the Cold Croissant
Want to Quit Your Job and Become a Travel Writer? Read this First, Trust Me
When Ted’s Away
People of Amsterdam: My night with Stuart Little
Noises in the Dark
Amsterdam, the Things You’ll See
Enjoy Your Work, Medical is Covered
Rabies? Not in Amsterdam
Cruisin Through Europe
Type 1 fun’s overrated when you go to Amsterdam
The Ultimate Guide to a Low Budget Pride Week
Amsterdam: Tent Not Included
The Wanderer’s Guide to Amsterdam
Not all who cruise are lost
Not all who wander are lost…then there’s cruisers
Sorry Rob…
An Alternate Approach to Amsterdam
You don’t go to Amsterdam for the Poffertjes
Amsterdam: You’ve heard about the canals, how are the parks?
Amsterdam: The “Grass” is Greener Outside the “Cafes,” try a park.
Amsterdam: The “Grass” is Greener in the Parks
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