As I sit on the well-worn couch in my room and touch finger to keyboard, I am staring at a foot-long, white cardboard box tucked inconspicuously behind my TV stand.
Inside this box is a beer stein with the word "Prague" printed on it, along with paintings of various trees and bushes that poorly represent the Czech Republic's landscape.
When purchasing this stein in Prague last summer, I envisioned myself filling it with beer and toting it to parties, thus transforming myself into an instant party hit. My palm would be sore from high-fiving so many frat guys over my unique beverage holder.
However, the stein has failed to budge since I placed it in my room at the end of that summer, its white box contorting to the shape of an elephant.
So, this summer, when I traveled to Austria, I set different goals for myself. Outlawing basic souvenirs, I decided my collecting would consist only of experiences, as well as conversations with strangers.
Despite the forewarning from your overprotective (and candy-hating) parents, interacting with strangers is the easiest form of entertainment while traveling. Travelers who refuse to open their mouths are obtaining an experience that is indistinguishable from a National Geographic special on television.
Open your mouth, and strangers will follow. You are the Simon. They are the Says.
However, at the beginning of my 5-week trip to Austria, I might have jumped the gun on my Simon Says policy, blowing my linguistic load a little too early.
Fighting for balance on the tram at the Atlanta airport, my hands were tightly closed around the horizontal fireman's pole that ran between the upper sections of opposing walls on the tram car.
My mouth remained closed as well, and, fearing my eyes would soon follow suit, I remedied the situation by opening my mouth, specifically in the direction of a U.S. soldier clothed in full camo garb and standing links (unnecessary and pretentious use of German word for "left").
"Where you headed?" blurted Simon, a safe question for anyone in the vicinity of an airport.
"Baghdad, Iraq," the soldier replied shortly, obviously not in the mood for conversation. However, being incapable of taking a hint, I pushed the conversation onward.
The soldier was a good sport, and he humored me by informing me that he had already served in Iraq for a few months; he was returning once more for a 5-month tour. Realizing the soldier and I had little in common to discuss (5-week stay in Austria, 5-month tour in Iraq...), I noticed a conversation that began on a plateau was quickly rolling over the edge and preparing for a downhill tumble. A linguistic barricade was necessary. Summoning my undergraduate reporting skills, I conjured a pliable follow-up.
Placed in a pressured situation, and therefore destined to fail, I hastily formed this question for a U.S. soldier, who would soon begin his second tour of duty in Iraq: "Sooo.....did you happen to catch Colbert's show while you were over there?"
*Brilliant question, Griffin!
I'm sure the satirical, political variety show of a late-night (albeit hilarious) comedian is at the forefront of the mind of a soldier preparing to risk his life in battle, so you have the freedom to spend your Saturday nights watching Arrested Development re-runs. Great follow-up!
I think Jon Bon Jovi is coordinating a peace tour in Iraq, too. Why don't you ask the brave soldier if he can score you tickets?*
My question made Iraq seem more like an entertainment venue than a battlefield, but the soldier was still polite in his response of "no."
He then exposed my geographic ignorance by informing me that the show was filmed in an entirely different area of Iraq.
At this point my linguistic barricade had been demolished, and the conversation rolled away. I quickly dug my hand into my right jeans pocket to retrieve my cell phone and check for missed calls. Nothing.
The only purpose the cell phone served was to remind me, through its digital clock, that the period of silence between the soldier and me was surpassing two minutes, a train that passed the Awkward Pause Station long ago.
I had a need to fill the emptiness with words, but for this particular interaction, I had no more. Hoping my friend, Cole, had a few for me, I dialed his number, trying to escape the painfully awkward silence that still grew.
The phone rang once.
Twice. Thrice.
Cole's voice then appeared on the opposite line, but in automated format. Leaving Android Cole a message would not fill my need to look busy.
In the remaining minutes on the transit, I directed my anger toward Cole for not answering his phone, making a mental note not to buy him a Christmas present this year.
I then plugged headphones into my ear sockets for the short wait before my plane ride, wanting to avoid human contact, but mainly just wanting to avoid failure.
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