Highly Stimulated

Excited:  Having great enthusiasm; being in a state of higher energy (Physics).

Alcoholism is very stimulating.  Many of us are drawn to the chaos that drunkenness engenders although we'll often deny that this is so, preferring to believe that the alcohol calms everything down.  It is, in fact, not unusual to see people in recovery continue to make questionable life decisions for a few years after they've stopped drinking; not willfully, I don't think, but subconsciously.   We're used to an out-of-control life lived on a razor's edge.  The sports car owners among us talk about The Line: the spot on the track where you can go as fast as possible without losing control.  Real life, lived as an adult, can be so . . . boring.  Mundane, pedestrian.  Anyone can do it.  I don't think I'm getting away with something anymore.  I'm usually doing what I'm supposed to be doing and I remember doing it.  What's the fun in that?  Who among us wants to say: "Man, yesterday was wild - I went to work and got there on time, cut the grass when I got home, had a good dinner with the family, and went to bed early."

A few years back I visited Ecuador.  My buddy had a passport problem and missed the flight - being a good friend I waved buh-bye as I was boarding the plane.  My trip started out in the capital of Quito, a typical South American big city: not prosperous, pockets of real crime encroaching on the central core, yet full of relentlessly cheerful people who were eager to help and be of service.  As this was my first trip to a Third World country I had taken to heart the dire warnings about crime and safety; justifiably so, I might add, but to an unreasonable degree.

On my first morning I walked into the old section of the city.  I was on my toes, wary, tense, my backpack strapped backwards so I looked like I was carrying a kidnapped baby, head on a swivel, looking out for all those bad people who wanted my $22 Timex.  Needless to say I didn't have a great time, what with jet lag occupying the part of my brain not consumed with worrying about all of the murderers who were cleverly hidden in the crowds of polite, neatly dressed Ecuadorean families - no doubt murderous - picnicking on a Sunday afternoon in the main square.  I had a great exchange with a policeman who explained where I could go safely and where things got dicey.  I was hoping to go to a meeting but he waved me off, apparently another clubhouse in a dicey part of town.

After a bit I got hungry and wandered into a small open-air restaurant.  The owner and I fumbled a bit with broken English and broken Spanish before he took me over to a tiny table already occupied by a little old couple, dressed in their church finery, eating their lunch.  This was not what I wanted to happen.  I wanted my own table, American-style, off to the side where I could watch the show and not have to interact with a murderous little old couple.  There was a TV on showing a soccer match.  I was still trying to get a menu when the food started to show up: soup, bottled water, a relish tray for the table, then a plate with chicken and rice and beans and salad, and dessert.  My attempts to explain to the water that this wasn't my food, that I hadn't ordered yet went awry.  The food was excellent.

Getting the check was beyond my capabilities.  Finally, I nodded to my table-mates, they nodded back, and I made my way to the door where I encountered the owner.  I tried to pantomime what I had for lunch, making clucking noises to simulate a chicken and lying down on the floor, pulling a small rug over me, to show that I'd eaten potatoes, and so on and so forth. 

"Un dolar," he said.  One dollar.

I'd be happier if I could say that I tipped him 500% but my recollection is that I fished out two dollars and forked them over.  He, of course, took quite a while trying to give me one of the dollars back, as tipping is not common.  He did appear quite pleased when I finally managed to explain that the money was for his staff.

This is why I travel.  This is why.