The Young Man and the Sea

I forget who told me about the green flash, but I hate them now for telling me.

The phenomenon plays out like this: Every night, when the tip of the sun dips below the horizon a shock of green light extends outward in a quick jolt.

Some attribute the marvel to science. The horizon bends the color spectrum of the sun and causes a green blast to spew forth from its last dying light. Some say the flash emerges from stupidity. Stare long enough at the sun and you’ll start seeing green.

 It’s almost impossible to see the green flash on terra firma because buildings, pollution and natural land formations block the horizon. On the sea, however, finding the green flash is easier, though still difficult. There’s nothing to interfere. I vow to search every night of my journey until I witness it.

So there I sat, every sunny day of this cruise, from the perch on the prow of deck 12, at sunset, waiting. Monstrous clouds blocked my view most nights, clouds that made it easy to understand why the sailors of yore thought leviathans or the faces of gods roamed the oceans. But even on clear nights I would watch, unblinking, and not even see so much as a green glow.

I talked to guests who had seen it before, but only received information I already knew. It had to be a clear night and I couldn’t turn away, for a second. Even the captain of the ship, who told me he’d seen it numerous times, had the same advice. I press on.

More duds. I start to feel like the fisherman who returns to the same pond every year on rumors of the Big One. I adopt sunglasses. I enlist help. I spend precious Internet minutes researching. Then, one night, the sky is so clear I swear I’m going to see it. The sun can’t sink fast enough. The ocean is a glass table. Half the sun disappears and the sky transforms into a mess of reds and oranges. Three quarters. A centimeter. My eyes the size of quarters.

Nothing.

I turn around and start walking to my stateroom, the dead moon ascending in the sky.

I’m proud of what I have accomplished during these fourth months I’ve spent at sea. I’ve visited 47 ports in 26 countries. In total miles, I’ve circumnavigated the globe. Of the goals I initially set out to accomplish, I checked off seven of nine.

But I also learned a lesson from those nights waiting for the green flash. I never saw it happen, despite sacrificing my time and my corneas, but I also failed to recognize the grandeur of all the sunsets I witnessed. My goal had diluted the moment. It’s not the end result that’s to be strived for; it’s the enjoyment of all the seconds it takes to reach it.

A cockatoo. The forests of Melbourne, Australia

A temple’s reflection. The streets of Mumbai, India

The inside of the Vatican.

Street market. Mubmai, India.

Karmak Temple by night. Cairo, Egypt.

Feta cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, oregano. Aghios Nikolaos, Greece.

We’ve traveled to Hawaii. We’ve traveled to Australia. To Hong Kong, to Vietnam, to India. We’ve sailed through the Suez Canal. Through the Mediterranean. We visited Italy, Spain and England. The Sydney Opera House. The pyramids. The Sistine Chapel.

But no destination, no difficult passage, no wonder of the world can compare to an afternoon of free beer.

Free German beer.

The ship had spent the morning docked in Gibraltar, a small British-owned wisp of a city surrounded by Spain and most famous for the Rock of Gibraltar, a massive precipice towering over the town.

There’s not too much to do in Gibraltar, aside from wandering the outdoor pedestrian mall stuffed with overpriced souvenirs and forging your way up the rock to be victimized by the local monkeys, which is why I think the ship might have not-so-accidentally staged the biggest party of the cruise upon the guests’ return.

Mocktoberfest – they dubbed it – an afternoon of schnitzel, pretzels and (did I mention?) free beer.

The ship’s whistle blew three times, the engines kicked in and the hotel director tapped a keg. The bar staff started snapping the caps off of tall bottles of German brews and the Rock of Gibraltar began to slip past the Lido deck. I consumed a glass of the keg beer, a Weihenstephaner Weibbier, Franziskaner Weibbier, a Erdinger Weibbier, a Eridinger Dunkel, three pretzels, three schnitzels and a Sante Fe chicken wrap from the grill, all in the allotted one-hour time limit. The bar closed before I could drink every available libation on the menu, which is perhaps for the better – not having that shot of peach schnapps.

At 2:30 p.m., I returned to my stateroom and passed out watching What About Bob?.

The first person to accurately match the meat to the country wins a prize. Good luck.

The countries:

1. Aghios Nikolaos, Greece

2. Catania, Sicily

3. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

4. Naples, Italy

5. Brisbane Australia

The meats:

A:

B:

C:

D:

E:

The last segment of this cruise ends in a whirlwind – seven ports in 11 days, from the Mediterranean to the southern tip of the U.K., stopping in Portugal, Gibraltar and multiple ports in Spain.

This leg started with an interesting paradox, two ports that seemed like complete opposites: Rome, the home of one of the world’s holiest cities, the Vatican, and Monte Carlo, the home of one of the world’s grandest casinos. The first, the pinnacle of compassion and piousness. The second, the apex of self-righteousness and greed. One good. One evil. One absolves sin. One is sin.

But Rome and Monte Carlo couldn’t be more similar.

The architecture of both cities looms above, towers of Babel, reaching to the heavens. Statuettesrejoice, in awe that mere men could create such buildings. They beg outsiders to come inside because it’s safe. It’s a fortress. They’ll protect you.

Inside, the spectacle intensifies. Hand-painted murals cover the walls. Elaborate frescos. Trim of solid gold. Marble pillars. The commoners crane their necks until they’re in pain and then they look to the floor, which often displays even more impressive artwork.

Beyond the laypeople, there are those who already belong. Priests of the Vatican conduct masses dressed in intricate vestments. Pit bosses of the Monte Carlo casino spin roulette wheels dressed in tailored tuxedo jackets. Both act as masters of ceremonies, presiding over life-changing moments. Tiny nuns pray, crumpled on wooden kneelers. High-rollers sit poised over poker tables, they too praying. They focus. No one smiles.

Back outside, tourists flitter throughout the streets, marveling at the Vatican’s own police force or Monte Carlo’s rash of hot red Lamborghinis. At a passing glance of the pope, or chasing rumors that Bono’s in town. At the paintings in the Sistine Chapel, or at high fashion handbags.

The cities are the same, but they worship different things. In the Vatican it’s God. In Monte Carlo it’s money. Both stand as lessons of excess – closed communities that represent a life far above those of the common people. They place themselves on a pedestal and beg us to strive to their level. We want this life, different than our own, pray so that we may attain it. 

Think of the best piece of pizza you’ve ever had.

Where was it? How old were you? What did it taste like?

Mine was one of my earliest childhood memories – stuffing down a slice from Giovanni’s in Redding, Pennsylvania. I can still taste the thin crust of the pie, the sauce, the gobs of cheese. Today, I can’t remember the name of my pre-school teacher, what a typical day of school was like, or what I spent my time thinking about, but I can remember how that pizza tasted.

If, like me, your first slice of pizza was the best pizza you ever had, you prescribe to what Sam Sifton, an editor for the New York Times, calls “pizza cognition theory.” That first piece of pizza stands as the testament by which you will measure all the pizzas of your life against. Subsequent pizzas will fall short unless faced with a truly transcendental pie.

I found that life-changing slice in Naples, Italy.

My dad was following a lead on the “world’s best pizza” from the book Eat, Pray, Love – a memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert, in which a middle-age woman sets out on an international journey of self-exploration to rediscover herself post-divorce. Sounds like the Lifetime Network movie, I know, but if it prompts my family to spend the day eating, I’m in.

The supposed pizza Mecca, Lantiga Pizzeria de Michele, or “de Michele” for short, rests unobtrusive off a crooked downtown side street. Each day, the chefs make a set amount of dough in the morning and then serve pizza in the afternoon until it’s gone. No set hours. No reservations. Barely a menu.

We take our seats and a waiter points to a postcard-sized plaque on the wall.

Pizza Margarhita

(tomato, basil, mozzarella)

Medium, Large, Double Cheese

Pizza Marinara

(tomato, basil, garlic)

Medium, Large, Family Size

Each pie costs about five Euros, which is a deal considering that the dollar is currently worth about as much as a Ritz cracker overseas. My family orders two double cheese margarhita and a family size marinara. We wait, eager as children.

If de Michele knows of its reputation, it refuses to boast. The walls are flour white, the only decoration a brass bust of a haloed man – the patron saint of pizza, I’m guessing. A large brick oven flickers in the corner, baking pies the same way since the restaurant opened in 1870.

The other fixture, a gruff-looking elderly man with jowls like dough, stands behind a glass case making pies. He’s dressed in a crisp blue shirt, a red tie, what looks like a white lab coat and a folded hat. A pizza apothecary, he’s the opposite of everything I expect. He doesn’t twirl the dough or spin it into the air. He doesn’t throw the toppings. He’s focused, calculated and serene. He does not make the pizzas. He translates them from somewhere else.

Our pizzas arrive, the flame-licked crust drooping over the sides of the plate. The olive oil mixes with the moisture released from the tomatoes at high heat, creating pools of amber in the center. Steam rises. The pie is still cooking in front of my eyes.

I cut a triangle, salivating profusely, and glance at the Italian to the right. He’s folding. I fold. I bite.

First the dough hits my tongue. It’s charred slightly, but balanced by sea salt – a little like Indian naan. Then the sauce hits. The oven has somehow transmuted the taste of a raw tomato, from something tangy and acidic to a smooth and mellow flavor. The bits of garlic pop and crunch. Olive oil coats my face. I’m the kid at Giovanni’s once again.

“Clean that up,” says Mom.

I refuse, dropping tomato sauce on my pants, uncaring. I’d bathe in it if I could.

As we plow through all three pies, and then an order of one more marinara, I eat until I feel like I’m about to burst, internalizing the taste. My God, will I ever return?

We pay, step outside and I rest my hands on my knees, curled over, a mass of mozzarella undulating in my stomach. I look up, the sign of the restaurant above me. In my hunched position, I’m an offering at the mercy of a new slice.

It started with a cherry tomato.

My father and I are stumbling about the narrow streets of Sicily, searching for some city life beyond the shuttered shops and quiet city squares.

Where is everyone?

Granted, it’s 10:00 a.m. and a holiday, but we want some activity.

That’s when we spot a few vendors unpacking crates from the backs of their cars along an alleyway. Deep crates, filled with onions, herbs, lettuces, mushrooms, eggplants, carrots and pallet after pallet of red tomatoes.

I hold out a Euro to a teenage boy behind a pile of fennel and point to the beaded strands of cherry tomatoes he’s selling. He places four vines into a brown paper bag.

I’ve eaten tomatoes before, but I guess those weren’t tomatoes. These are tomatoes. They taste like summer, concentrated, explosive balls of sunshine, of heavy rain, of sweet breezes. Mediterranean candy. My dad and I grunt with contentment. The mini-market has satisfied our tourist’s hunger and as we pop a tomato every couple of paces. But then we turn the corner.

The alleyway opens into a larger one, with vendors clustered shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalk. Weathered men stand behind their wares. They’re proud. What they sell is the best Sicily – shit – the world has to offer. Yet they’re indifferent. Your money is nothing. You have everything to gain from my food.

Bags filled with uncooked lentils. Green, brown and black olives glistening with olive oil. Butchers with blood-smeared aprons hefting sides of pork onto meat hooks; cleaving bone with knives the size of car doors. Pyramids of cheese – parmiganno, mozzarella, fotina.

And then we reach the fish market.

Vendors, presiding over the bounty of their catches, shout pitches in waves. I watch two swarthy fishmongers pour buckets of water over an entire swordfish. Another dumps a Styrofoam container of live shrimp into a plastic bowl. The shrimp flip and twiddle their legs as hunched Sicilian women point and shout for a bargain. Everything’s alive. Octopus. Snails. Fish. A lone crab, bubbling. Squid, oozing from a crate. Clams shooting water spouts from their shallow containers. A bucket of thrashing anchovies. It smells like low tide.

My father and I are stymied, walking the same sections of the market.

Market boys flourish fronds of parsley in my face. A man repeatedly shouts “EGGPLANT” at me, as loud as he can. A guy dressed as Charlie Chaplain squats over a pile of spring onions, which he’s twisting into bundles. I stop to take a picture.

“Two Euro,” Chaplain says.

I shake my head. He makes a spitting sound and laughs. I let him return to his bizarre world and snap a shot.

Later in the day, my dad and I find a restaurant that serves the food bought from the same market that morning. We stuff ourselves on an antipasto of tiny clams, warm artichokes, blood oranges with fennel, raw shrimp in olive oil and white fish in olive oil. We order two plates of seafood spaghetti and drink two bottles of wine with a friend.

I learn with each bite that simplicity creates the best food. Scientists have added no preservatives or color to our meal. The vendors don’t list “brand new taste” on their products because it’s always been the same taste – a squid is a squid. And the chefs, they only take that squid and dress it with the minimal ingredients. They’ll serve it whole if you ask.

After lunch, my dad and I share a cigar sitting in a piazza near the shuttle bus. He says he would love to open a restaurant.

I feel the weight of the meal in my stomach. I taste the tobacco on my lips. I watch tall Sicilian women walk by.

“In Sicily?” I ask.

Goal #7: Touch Something I Probably Shouldn’t

“Glenmorangie comes from the northern part of Scotland. The fact that it’s a little paler than the others indicates it was aged in a bourbon cask, as opposed to a sherry cask. You’ll taste the smokiness, but it has a very clean aftertaste.”

Up tips the glass. The aroma hits.

“You’ll often get more from smelling your whisky than tasting your whisky.”

Like old books, burning leaves and bonfires. The static behind thunderstorms, burnt matches and hints of dangerous women.

And then the taste.

Like baseball gloves, like the atmosphere in cigar bars, like gunpowder and lighter fluid.

“Highland malts tend to have a sweeter taste, more complex than whiskies from the rest of Scotland…”

Some perspective: This time last year I spent my hours drinking warm Heineken. Now, I’m in the middle of a scotch tasting, differentiating the subtleties of 10-year-old and 12-year-old single malt whiskies.

I’ve always placed an importance in developing a taste for scotch, for it’s the drink of history’s distinguished and respected men. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Ernest Hemingway. Winston Churchill. Ron Burgundy. Scotch signifies dignity and culture, without the trappings of wine snobbery.

So, for the last three months on this ship, I’ve been acquiring a taste for scotch. What I initially saw as a vile concoction, I’ve come to enjoy. So that we may share a glass when I reach home, here’s what I’ve learned so far:

• Find a scotch mentor – Mine’s name is George, a happy-go-lucky connoisseur who’s taught me the basics of what you should look for in a good whisky – color, body, balance. He’s been integral to my honing my tastes. I’ve yet to ask him if he is available for parties.
• Don’t taste scotch, breathe scotch – Not out, in. Raise the glass to your nose and keep your mouth slightly open. Breathe in with both, allowing the scent to travel throughout your mouth. The result is just as intoxicating, if not more so, as a full-on gulp.
• Choose a side – Whiskies tend to taste either “floral” (smooth, light, with traces of vanilla) or “cereal” (a more powerful, drier, eye-watering finish). If you’re a beer drinker, think of floral whiskies as similar to a smoother, darker beer like Guinness. Cereal whiskies taste like a beer chocked with hops – similar to a strong pale ale.
• Drink with ice, or without, or both – A few drops of water or a few ice cubes can completely change the taste of a scotch, “opening up” the bouquet of the liquor in some cases or diluting it in others. Experiment until you find your taste.

My favorite whiskies so far have been Macallan 12 year, which is as smooth as iced tea and tastes a little like maple syrup on the finish. If you’re looking for something with more punch, sip a Talisker 10 year. It carries the initial weight of an uppercut, but follows through with hints of pine and sea salt.

Oh Jesus, now I’m waxing poetic.

It’s probably just the scotch talking…

There are few universal truths. Love. War. Music. Yet, I have learned through my travels throughout the world that there is another inconspicuous truth that unites us as humans. Every country I have visited, people possess an indisputable urge to nap. It doesn’t matter where. It doesn’t matter when. Snoozing is sacrosanct; let these photos stand as evidence.

Mumbai, India, 2:32 p.m.

Dual nap. Street side Singapore. 1:14 p.m.

Outside a market in Cochin, India. 3:30 p.m.

The pet shop’s owner. Hong Kong. 11:45 a.m.

Aghios Nikolaos, Greece. 11:58 a.m.

Please, vote for your favorite.

I can still remember the week we studied ancient Egypt in Mrs. Magillaway’s class. I was twelve, and fascinated that a society could build temples out of sand, preserve bodies from death and command the Nile. Ramses II. Cleopatra. The awesome King Tutankaman. It was Ghostbusters, Johnny Quest and Legends of the Hidden Temple, all in one.

Some of that boyhood wonder resurfaces standing at the entrance of the Valley of the Kings in Luxor, Egypt. After repeated thefts from nearby temples, the ancient Egyptian governments decided to bury the bodies of their leaders in secret, selecting a non-descript, high-walled valley nearby. They dug the tunnels deep and sealed the entrances from view. Egypt reached a Napoleonic height of power in 1500 B.C. Some of the tombs in the Valley of the Kings were not discovered until the 1970s.

Yet, for as revered as the culture was and is, I can’t help but feel disappointed as I approach the tombs. Shuttle buses have released hoards of tourists, who are swarming the entrances. Inappropriately dressed Eurotrash suck cigarettes and cloud the already musty air with plumes of B.O. Tour guides shout to re-cluster their herds of tourists. As we wait in line to enter King Tut’s tomb, people complain that, “This is no fun. I want to go back to the bus.” I clutch my pen, remembering that Burmese Buddhist who taught me the power of non-violence. But it gets worse inside.

The walls of the tombs tell stories, thousands of hieroglyphics, colored in blues, reds and yellows, cover the tunnels from floor to ceiling. I watch a teenage boy take the palm of his hand and rub it along an entire stretch of carved birds, beetles and snakes. The colors have faded due to the flash of camera bulbs. The faces of the pharaohs have been chipped away, as tour guides sold them as a way to bolster their incomes.

When I finally reach King Tutankaman’s tomb, I think of Mrs. Magillaway’s class. Tut rests off to the corner, a wooden platform above him. Tourists peer over the platform, sneak a surreptitious photograph (which the guard will blackmail them for upon leaving) and then complain of the heat.

This man was a king – a near god. His people revered him. He sat upon a throne amidst the grandeur of one of the most spectacular societies in history. Now his spirit rests among the jaded and impatient eyes of tourism.

I leave the Valley of the Kings through a gift shop, where vendors run and shout, blocking the exit with cheap wooden idols, tattered scarves, yellowed postcards and rolls of sloppy papyrus artwork.

The grave robbers haven’t gone away, they’ve shifted shapes.