HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Just saying. If you and I are ever anywhere, and we're lost, don't look at me. I have no idea. My husband has learned not to go the way I insist is the right way, because it just isn't. But I am right often enough, by chance, not to be infallibly wrong, so we can't even count on that.
My dear pal and admired colleague Norb Vonnegut's wife is just the opposite. But let him tell you. And there are prizes in store!
NORB VONNEGUT: It's great to be back on Jungle Red. The last time was in 2009, when
I explained the meaning of "hornet gak" and described how
5,000 flying, stinging, angry insects almost ate my first novel, Top
Producer. It was, as you might guess, a terrifying start to my career as a
writer.
I survived. My third novel, The Trust, is
coming out this July. And now I'm working on my first piece of non-fiction with
a co-author, who spent two years in jail. But I digress. Today, I really want
to talk about travel mishaps.
You know what I mean. You're going someplace fun, someplace exotic,
someplace to stretch out and recharge the batteries. There's adventure in the
air. And boom—everything goes wrong. "The Human GPS" is a true and
heroic story about my wife, Mary, who once fended off a marauding band of
Venetian pirates.
What better way to launch into the summer than a discussion about
travel misadventures, right? The idea for this post actually came from my
longtime friend, Mark Sheehan, who is a travel writer living in Sydney,
Australia.
When he asked me to contribute a short anecdote for
the book, I jumped at the opportunity. The Human GPS is an early look at what's
inside Mark's book, which releases later this summer.
So here's my question: Do
you have a travel story?
Post a few lines here about your own misadventures, and I'll send a
free paperback copy of The Gods of
Greenwich to five people chosen at random by Hank.
And let's spice up the offer. I'll send a galley of The
Trust to the first person who tells me something I don't know about
Charleston, SC, where much of my novel takes place.
Enough already. Here's what happened to Mary
and me in Venice.
*****THE HUMAN GPS****
By Norb Vonnegut
You know how we all have one special talent: the gift
big enough to fill a room; or so subtle only our id knows for sure? I believe
everybody has a knack, a flair, call it what you want. We each enjoy our own
superpower.
My wife is a human GPS. You could drop Mary in the
deepest, darkest Amazon rain forest, and she'd find her way home no problem.
Urban sprawl is a piece of cake. She pooh-poohs electronic navigation systems
when we're driving somewhere unfamiliar, finds the voices annoying no matter
the gender or the accent. Mary grabs a map and takes over the navigation, which
is fine from my perspective because I could get lost in our backyard.
There have been the occasional mishaps. We once drove
to Gatwick, when our return flight to the USA was out of Heathrow. But that's
another story, and Mary was diagnosed with chicken pox the day after we
returned. So I'm inclined to think the circumstances were extenuating. Even
Superman runs into the occasional case of kryptonite, right?
This story is about Venice. The city is to tourists, I
think, what the Himalayas are to mountain climbers. Don't get me wrong. I love
the place. There just happen to be enormous challenges when touring the canals.
And some are more serious than the navigation.
Several years ago, we were driving through Austria en
route to Italy. And true to form, Mary was scrutinizing maps and reading a
travel guide that described “marauding bands of Venetian pirates.”
“Watch out,” the guide warned. “There are thieves are
everywhere.”
Duly alerted, we resolved to keep our eyes peeled. But
the "marauding bands of Venetian pirates" became something of a
running joke during our drive. For that matter, the warnings seemed overblown
upon arrival. There was a state-of-the-art parking garage on the mainland
outside the water taxi stand. It was well staffed and well organized, the
picture of efficiency. I think 747s would be lucky to receive the kind of
guidance our parking attendants offered that day. No sign of bandits.
The drop zone for water cabs was our first hint
something was amiss. Literally, it was a drop zone. The attendants—smiling and
waving their arms in the manner that makes the Italian language so
enchanting—guided us to the departure area, tossed our bags into the hands of
the crew, and signaled for us to get in. Next stop Venice.
There was one problem. The drop was eight feet. There
were no stairs or ladders, just lots of air separating us from the deck. It
was, as you might guess, the kind of moment that gave us dry mouth.
We did it, grasping the walls, allowing our bodies to
stretch as far down as possible, and finally dropping. Me first. I helped Mary,
who stuck the landing, a couple of feet, no big deal. When we were both safe,
we glanced at each other with knowing looks that said, "This isn’t right.”
Then we waited. Our boat captain explained that
another family was arriving, which made me wonder what kind of monitoring
system the garage used. After about 15 minutes, the couple and their kids
arrived. They, too, stuck the landings, both Mary and me helping this time. The
captain indicated we would go to their hotel first.
We drove across the harbor, breathtaking views of
Venice, and exchanged pleasantries with the family. Like us, they were staying
three days. Inside the city's canal system, a turn here and a turn there, the
captain announced to our fellow passengers with the Cheshire cat smile, “We’re
at your hotel.”
That’s when Mary kicked into action. She marched up to
the front of the boat and stated, emphatic, resolved, 100 percent certain, “No
we're not.”
Our captain pretended not to speak English. But he got
the point. Mary gestured right, then left, and stabbed at her map of the canals
with an insistent forefinger. He was cowed and, nodding his head with an
expression that says "Yikes" in any language, started the boat again.
Mary tapped him on the shoulders when it was time to
turn, her map and index finger always at the ready. After another twenty or so
minutes, we arrived at the first hotel. The couple thanked us, packed up their
kids, and disembarked. They told Mary, “Thank you. We would have been
lost."
Then came our turn. The captain turned down one canal
and proceeded to a dock, which looked like all the others. “We’re here.”
Mary folded her arms and shook her head, tapping her
foot on the deck. The captain shrugged and started motoring again. He had this
guilty look on his face, like he should have known better than to try a second
time. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to our hotel.
Phew.
In retrospect, I think we charged right into the
marauding band of pirates from the guidebook. They wanted a quick drop, a quick
buck, and a quick getaway. I don't claim to have any special insights into
pirates. But as pirates go, I suspect these guys were fairly agreeable. They
just happened to meet their match that day, my wife, the human GPS, the modern
equivalent of Red Chief in the famous hostage story from O'Henry.
HANK: Travel stories? Charleston? As we said, there are prizes in store, so let's hear 'em! Me? I just wanna meet the fabulous Mary!
**************************
"When the money talks, I listen," says NORB VONNEGUT. He is the author of three financial thrillers including The Gods of Greenwich, which the NYT calls, "A gleeful peek at the world of hedge fund moguls." Stephen Frey says The Trust (available July 2012) "reels you in fast…then goes like lightning." Published in eight languages, Vonnegut has appeared on Bloomberg as well as the Dylan Ratigan, Judith Regan, and Laura Ingraham shows. Currently, he is working on his first non-fiction project—a true story about the American dream colliding with American justice.
Vonnegut brings a unique insider’s perspective to his writing. Before turning to color commentary on Wall Street, he built his wealth management career with Morgan Stanley, Paine Webber and other icons of finance. A Harvard College and Harvard Business School graduate, Norb splits his time between New York City and Rhode Island and is a Trustee for the American Foundation for the Blind. LIKE Norb Vonnegut Books on Facebook to learn more.
