It was barely noticeable, but right then I watched as a man’s mental faculties shut down rapidly and any brainpower was diverted to purely primal urges. Our new travel companion, in a purely run-of-the-mill conversation about what we do for a living had just informed us that she takes her clothes off for money…and now Mark’s thought processes were completely derailed as he considered those words she had just uttered.
His eyes widened ever so slightly, but I detected this little change, knowing it well as a minute indicator of the lust-driven catatonia which had taken over. Dog owners know this look well. Your puppy is the cutest, happiest little thing–and then you pull out some bacon. His eyes will freeze, as will his body, with maybe a slight, sporadic wag of the tail as he dreams about that bacon. He can’t control the saliva pouring from his mouth, all energy expended for fantasies of how the bacon will taste and the joyful satisfaction once that bacon is finally his.
At this point he has reverted to his animal state, his lifeless stare devoid of any love for you or anything else, betraying his wolf ancestry, his capacity to rip you to bloody shreds to fulfill the lust for that bacon, if only he were able to recall that murderous instinct, diluted by millennia of domestication. That look, Mark’s look, always scares me.
Quite honestly, I was experiencing the same crushing feeling, equivalent to head trauma. It must be the same sensation that bees feel when the scent of nectar floats by in the breeze. At once you become an involuntary robot, an unseen force taking control of your entire body, powerfully distracting your mind and senses to accomplish the only thing you were given life to do: continue it.
You must be unrelenting in your task, toiling to collect the necessary ingredients to make honey, plenty to nourish the coming generations. Then you die.
My body certainly had a mind of its own as we trudged down a path, with the rhythmic crunches in the gravel coming slowly back into focus. The weak light from the sun had a sickly quality, like a child suffering from fever in Victorian London: thin, feeble, worthless. The same pale color of the weak chicken broth that this child would barely sip on, fed to him by shaking hands, his mother contemplating this youngster’s imminent mortality. It was October in Europe, winter was coming, and the sun was in its death throes, as was everything that depended on it for life.
They say that near death experiences are scientifically explained by a surge of brain activity as you’re dying: quite possibly to ease the trauma of death or to motivate that final push in the struggle to survive (or for no reason at all), your brain takes you on a psychedelic acid trip the likes of which would make the Dead 1000 times more Grateful. The pine-covered mountains around us were dotted with bursts of this activity: little patches of deciduous trees lay dying, exploding with radiant red, orange, yellow, and golden leaves, easing their transition as they slowly faded away.
For all this mind-blowing activity surrounding us, Mark’s male nervous system was completely derailed. I should mention his strict Christian upbringing. I would be shocked if he even could remember the year or where we were.
For what it’s worth, this story appearing on a travel blog and all, we were in Transylvania on our way to Dracula’s castle. But that’s it, that’s all I’ll mention. To tell you the truth, I think Vlad the Impaler (the historical Dracula) maaaaybe slept here once. It’s basically a 500 year old tourist trap, which is why this story is more about the people I met here. Fine, I’ll include one picture:
Bran Castle (Dracula’s Castle)
Back to what I was talking about. Driving our complete awe was the irreconcilable juxtaposition of her profession with her character. They just did not fit. We walked along the path, the castle looming on a cliff-like rock ahead of us, cheerfully painted and looking rather pleasant, the complete opposite of ominous, Dracula’s possible-maybe-residence-once neglecting the cultural weight that the building carried in Western folklore. No bats, no coffins, no thunder, just a house on a rock. It didn’t make sense, and neither did this girl.
We walked in a daze as she discussed her pride in her job. Her utter lack of regard for her greasy, leering customers, the lighthearted manner in which she approached countless nightly gyrations, and her proud enumeration of the sheer amount of naked women she sees daily at work. But her most lofty declaration, one expressed with an almost smug satisfaction: she had financed her trip healthily with her skin-money.
Look at that smile…Mark is such a freakin’ creep
At this, a strange sensation poured over me. I had spent months of pinching pennies, avoiding eating out, hosting friends at my house rather than going to bars, pounding Red Bulls in a vain attempt to keep my eyes open at my second job, barely keeping my mood up as to not piss off my customers and lose my tip for that particular table, trying to remember what they ordered. With great pains, I had saved up several thousand dollars for my trip and I was proud of that. But now this girl had shattered everything: this punk-rock-looking, beanie-wearing, petite little Asian chick that belongs in every hipster’s fantasy had a price, and whatever it was she preferred it broken down into $1 denominations, yet she was living the high-life without an ounce of shame.
My mind flooded with feverish thoughts: Do most strippers enjoy their job? Has society completely misled me on what things are “bad”? Is it a total lie that “bad things” will make me feel like a piece of shit? Should I sell my soul to make lots of money? Is there even such a thing as selling your soul or is it a lie and should I do whatever necessary to get ahead? With this new mindset, what illegal things could I have done, absent of any internal shame or judgment, so that I could make it rain on Europe, champagne wishes and caviar dreams for nobody but myself? …
Why must a Transylvanian cheesemaker wear such a hat?
As I mentioned before, the castle tour was not even worth describing. Nice, but certainly no Bram Stoker flashback.
OK, Transylvania might be a little creepy…even the sign wants you to get the fuck back
I continued to agonize with envy about my travel destitution, torturing myself with thoughts of all the luxuries this girl must enjoy on her trip. As we parted ways, she suggested we exchange emails, a common backpacker’s custom. Though she looked straight at me, the superiority she conveyed with her glance could have come from half-closed eyes following the line of her nose from an upturned head.
We were from the same city, and this was a challenge: come see me at the club and all the money that I make, throwing society’s pronouncements to the wind as I laugh all the way to the bank. It wasn’t going to happen. Now I knew her as a person, and I really could not stomach watching her hedonistic dollar-dance. That glint in her eye just pissed me off more.
A week or so later, I sifted through the various scraps of paper I had collected during some down-time, links to electronic locations where words and information are stored to communicate, when the people that own these links are actually @ their own distant corners of the world. I found this girl’s address and thought, “What the hell? I’ll just email her to check in.” Instantaneously, I received a message back: “Failure Notice: Address Does Not Exist.” So much for her so-called pride.
Lesson learned: Can’t say this without sounding like an asshole, but people feign satisfaction when they are severely dissatisfied. Traveling is invaluable but so are you; don’t accomplish dreams by putting a price on yourself.
– Jason (24), Philadelphia, meeting exotic dancers in Brasov, Romania