the road not taken: notes from the armchair traveler
Posted on 02. Jul, 2010 by molly in entertainment
words > BART WILCOX
Since I have been tasked with writing a travel story, I’ll be slathering on the research as if from a big Sam’s Club size keg of Bain de Soleil. First, I’ll do some heavy skimming of Condé Nast Traveler, my favorite magazine of places I’ll never visit, right after I finish Bon Appétit, the magazine of foods I’ll never eat. Of course, this will happen after carefully shopping for the magazines that cover the clothes I’ll never wear while driving the cars I’ll never drive to the house I’ll never live in, carefully decorated in things I’ll never own and landscaped with plants I’ll never grow. Actually, I’m trying to talk my NakedCity people into publishing one magazine that pulls together all of the stuff I can’t do or can’t have and calling it The New Yorker. We would also include lots of cartoons that no one would understand. This is such a great idea that I’ve already contacted the banker who won’t return my phone calls about investing all of the money I’ll never have.
In the meantime, join me on a fantastic voyage through the narrow and dangerous straits of my mind. Among the places I’ll never visit, I think my favorite is Ireland. Or Iceland. Which is the one with the volcano? That’s the one. (By the way, do we really need Ireland or Iceland since we have Greenland?) Anyway, using the infrequent flyer miles I have accumulated, I intend to stay thousands of miles away from the world’s most beautiful, exotic, and fascinating countries. As long as I’m doing that, I’d be stupid not to take all of that lack of travel experience and become an “entrepreneur,” a French word for which there is no exact English equivalent, but which derives from the phrase, “How did you get my cell phone number?”
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Last Place on Earth Travel Agency. Our slogan: “Trips You Wouldn’t Take in Your Wildest Dreams.” The great thing about not traveling with us is that you can keep your shoes on your feet and your bombs in your underwear.
Now that I’ve opened my travel agency for trips to places you’ll never go, I have to come up with exciting theme tours. (Have you seen our brochure? Ha! Neither have we.) So, I thought, what if you DIDN’T travel to all of the countries that were called New-Something, then — get this — DIDN’T go to the original not-New or “previously owned” place it was named after? For example: New Jersey. First, you would enjoy not spending the vacation of a lifetime in New Jersey. Then, you would avoid the country of Jersey. Which, as far as I can tell, is just New Jersey. Okay, forget New Jersey. Bad example.
Clearly our agency is going to have to pare down the list of the many, many countries named New-Something. How? It really goes without saying; we will only pick the countries with cool flags. Now, to roll out our program:
There are many, many countries named New-Something. Full disclosure: I wrote that sentence before intensive Wiki-pediatrics revealed that it is what we in the travel and advertising businesses call “not true.” I have only kept the sentence for its compelling promotional value. You will be stunned to find out that there is only one actual certified country with New in the name. And, of course, of all the damn places it could have been, it had to be New Zealand. There’s not really any “Zealand” that has much to do with New Zealand. The mapmaker apparently just needed a name to put on the map. I sympathize. When describing countries I’ve never been to, I’m very careful, in the classic tradition of 17th century cartographers, to just make stuff up.
I’m also careful not to pick countries where this information is likely to reach, or that may have zealous expatriates or state-sponsored assassins in my vicinity. Consider this crack I’m about to make about New Zealand. This will lose NakedCity our entire New Zealander readership demographic, but hopefully will not get me killed by one of those weird aboriginal flying weapons that they throw around down there. Wallabies, I think they’re called. Here goes:
New Zealand, your flag did not make the cut. It’s just a little British flag that maybe you stole from the Internet and maybe you thought nobody would notice when you just sort of squeezed it onto your own flag — I’m not here to judge. But that, combined with the lack of a proper Zealand, forces the agency to exclude you from our ever-more-exclusive list of recognized New-Something vacation countries, prohibiting our patrons from being able to go to New Zealand on our special package tour. Another great idea killed by poor graphic standards. At this point I am simultaneously ducking a deftly thrown wallaby and hoping that New Zealand’s neighbor, New Caledonia, soon gains independence from France. Then we’d have a great new-New country with — this one I’m not making up — a shish kabob on its flag. And I’ll bet you can’t wait not to go there.
