Unpacking, Nearing the End

A few more relics from the 90s. I've tossed things I liked back into a box and shoved them under my bed. The rest of it went up on the blog and then into the trash.

Tomorrow I fly to Cairo. We're nearing the end of the unpacking project. Maybe tomorrow's blog will be about "Packing."



In the early 90s, I got a Greyhound Ameripass and went cross-country. I stopped in Memphis, Austin, and a few other places. In Memphis, I got off the bus on a Sunday morning, left my bag in a bus station locker, bribed a desk clerk to use a shower in a hotel room, then caught a taxi to Graceland. I don't remember how I got to Sun Studios from there. Maybe there was a bus. I caught the Greyhound out of town that same night.

Taking the bus across America sounds a lot more glamorous than it is. I remember a haze of fast food and weirdos. I also remember losing interest and flying back from L.A.



I don't remember why or when Marvel employees got nametags. It was for either a convention or what was called a "Marvel Mega-Tour." People would line up to get my autograph, because that's what people do at conventions. They probably got home and said "Who the hell is Marie Javins and why do I have her autographed trading card" before promptly throwing it away.

You Call That a Hippo? This is a Hippo.

When I was in Africa hunting for the right wooden hippo to bring home to Richard Starkings (creator of Hip Flask), I came across one that was simply too large to carry home.

Pity. The little hippo got me a page in his Elephantmen comic book. One of these big hippos might have gotten me the back cover.

Unpacking, Part (I Forget)

I have a ticket outta this burg for Thursday night. Where will I live in Cairo? I don't have the nerve to face the Hot Landlord of Zamalek again.

In JC, I toss some things I was unpacking back into boxes and shove them under the bed. My goal has been to throw things away. I shredded seven years of financial records. I still didn't get around to digitizing my vinyl. It's in my garage, at the back, where the floods won't reach it.

I pick up a photo, then smile.

It's me, editor David Wohl and editor Kelly Corvese at Billy Bob's Texas. What year? I don't know. We were at a comic book convention nearby. Kelly's bag held up the plane at Newark. We got stuck in Houston the first night. Clive Barker took us to a nightclub the second night. David was considering moving to California to go work for Image. Clive's attitude was marvelous, telling him "Go to Image, David. You can always change your mind later."

Take a risk. I laugh now looking back at it. Seemed like such a major decision at the time, but life is intended to evolve, not sit in one place.

A Plan/Plan A

I'm leaving on Thursday night for 2-3 months in Cairo.

"Stay as long as it takes," says one boss.

"You need to be back in September for our US edition press check," says the other.

I'll aim for the latter, but am only buying a one-way ticket. It's cheaper to buy two one-way tickets rather than paying fees to change my return date late. I can get good last-minute fares through an aggregator that Ed Ward tipped me off to.

Here's a list of important things I'm taking to Cairo:

-stupid hat
-specific brand of toothpaste for a friend
-books and training DVDs on Maya software for another friend
-Cat Butt bubble gum
-Lonely Planet Jordan
-Lonely Planet Israel
-my Pixelvision--rare children's video camera--to post to experimental director Thanos (he lives in Europe) when I change planes in Frankfurt.
-bag of granola (breakfast cereal is insanely expensive in Cairo)
-a pound of flavored coffee (ditto)
-candy bacon
-pork salami

Clearly, my priorities are in order.

Moving In while Moving Out

I fly out later this week, for 2-3 months in extremely sunny Egypt.

I'm in a bit of a panic, as I have not even finished unpacking from my last tour-of-duty in the comic book wilds of Dokki, and I'm suddenly having to pack, find a ticket, get my New York office in order, and find a place to live in Zamalek again.

Strangely, it's high season in Cairo. That seems crazy to me as it as hot as hell there now, but apparently it's not as hot as the Gulf. So lots of people from the Gulf fly to Cairo for the summer. And perhaps the more permissive, cosmopolitan atmosphere has something to do with it for people from certain countries. But what do I know?

I'm scrambling, trying to figure out what I need while unpacking, doing my job, finishing up bits of freelance, and wishing I had a smoothie.

I bought a sun hat. I look stupid in hats. But I don't want any more sun damage. So now I have a hat. We'll see if I put it on every day before I leave my hotel room or apartment.

Fun Over 40

The anesthesiologist was cheerfully asking me about camping in New Jersey when I interrupted him.

"Um, by the way..."

The doctor looked up from the computer.

"If you guys find something that looks like a rare tropical disease that doesn't exist in this country, it probably is a rare tropical disease that doesn't exist in this country."

I described being chucked out into the Nile while whitewater rafting. They seemed horrified, so I decided not to mention any other risky behavior, such as swimming in the Nile for three days in 1999.

Someone stuck a tube onto the needle in my arm.

"What's your favorite country of all the ones you've been to?" I knew this trick. They like to make you talk while they knock you out.

"I'm not falling for that one. I taste it. The anesthesia tastes gross. Any second now..."

Next thing I remember, someone was calling my name and feeding me orange crackers. "No evidence of cancer but we sent parts of you to a lab to check on that Nile thing."

Note to self: Never check "Yes" to any of the boxes on the form they give you at the doctor. And only admit to being 39 or younger.

When I'd described my two gut mega-illnesses to the doctor, he hadn't been impressed. One was in 1995 and the other was in 2005. I'd considered them both some kind of DIY temporary colitis, a food poisoning aggravated by extraordinary stress. But when he glanced at the form and saw that an aunt had died of some kind of gut cancer at age 42, he said "I need to have a look."

Wha--? But I'm not sick! Can't I just wait and see if I get sick? I am moving to Egypt immediately!

"For someone over 40 with your medical history and family background, it is recommended that you get screened."

I managed to get out of there without making an appointment.

"I'll call back. I don't know my schedule. I'm flying out next week."

Hmph. I'm not sick. Why does anyone want to test me?

Then I started googling. And it all turned up the same. If you're over 40 and have a family history of blah blah blah...

Fine. That's what my health insurance is for.

So while others were eating burgers and watching fireworks, I was barely able to swallow a nasty saline solution, and the only way I got it down was with the aid of lemon Jell-O, one of the delicious treats on my list of approved foods. Jell-O. Broth. Juice without pulp. Soda. We're having some fun now.

I wasn't sick before this procedure, but by the time I ate lemon Jell-O and white grape juice for 24 hours, you can bet I was sick.

Talk to Me

At the risk of sounding like a broken record—Record? What's a record?—I'd like to send you a Stalking the Wild Dik-Dik postcard if you don't already have one.

Drop me a line with your mailing address and I'll send you a postcard. marie -at symbol- mariejavins -dot-com. (I am not organized enough to keep all your addresses so you won't get any more junk mail from me.)

New people stumble over this blog every day. Some of them hang around. Most of them stumble off.

A blog is a strange way to talk to people. I do it for the discipline, so that I'm writing something every day. And also for the material--some of you may have noticed the blog items that sneaked off this blog and into the Dik-Dik story of being in Africa. But blogging also gives me a stilted e-life, where most people are reading what I have to say and I don't know what they have to say or who they are.

I like to think that I've interacted with most regular readers here, but I know there are a few who I haven't e-talked to. So if you don't want a postcard, but still read, please drop me a hello or salaam or shalom anyway.

Live Alone and Like It

Jonathan Babc0ck photocopied this book for me when I turned 30. And just yesterday, I finally acquired a hardcover copy of this 1936 classic, which was finally reissued a few years ago.

This book celebrates being a single women in New York during an era when such a thing was new. This book is not about searching for a man, though it does offer suggestions for how to have affairs. It's about living alone without apology.

"The chances are that at some time in your life, possibly only now and then, between husbands, you will find yourself settling down to a solitary existence - whether you like it or not."

"Everybody feels sorry for herself now and then. But anyone who pities herself for more than a month on end is a weak sister and likely to become a public nuisance besides."

I'll have to take some of its helpful advice, such as the section on hobbies. The writer suggests that when socializing with couples, the single woman can become awkward, so it's best to keep oneself interesting in order to keep being invited to events.

"Be a Communist, a stamp collector or a Ladies Aid worker, if you must, but for heaven's sake be something!"

Gotta go. My stamp collection needs me.

Grumpy Traveler

I am so cranky.

Such a jaded... not just traveler, but person?

Sometimes I wonder what is wrong with me, and other times I think "What's wrong with everyone else?"

When I went to Antarctica, I thought, "That's it?" Me and my 99 best friends traipsing around a penguin-covered rock for an hour.

I'm exaggerating. There were some wonderful moments when whales would buzz the dinghy I was on. But I realized quickly that being ushered around and pointed at things while my camera went click-click was too passive an organized "adventure" for me. And as I talked with staff and soaked up information from lectures, I learned that what I should have done was booked a trip that would have allowed me to go off with a bagged lunch and a kayak. Or camped overnight on the ice. Had a bit of personal interaction with where I was, rather than wondering how I'd fallen for the old "Spend-a-fortune-be-led-around-by-nose-get-bragging-rights" trick.

And then there's the "Pay $400 and go up in a hot air balloon over Masai Mara" excursion. Because when will you ever do it again?

Um, $70 over Luxor, winter, 2007.

Now there's this. The price of admission for mountain gorilla viewing has gone up to FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS in Rwanda, and supposedly Uganda and Congo are following suit. That's for an hour of crouching in the bushes next to a group of gorillas.

Whoa. That's a lot.

So many people I know had a life-changing, or at least life-affirming experience with the gorillas. So what the hell is the matter with me? I was horrified at spending $250 in 2001. I like gorillas, but I'd never fork over $500 for an hour of listening to gorilla farts.

Fortunately, lots of people disagree with me. The mountain gorilla population is up 12 percent in the last decade, and at least in Uganda, the UWA protects their gorillas with their lives. Conservation is big business there, and the Uganda Wildlife Authority does a good job of sensitizing everyone to the value of gorillas. I've personally seen UWA wardens arrest scrawny hungry people who so much as poach a fish. They have a zero tolerance approach, the Guiliani method of patrolling the forest. "It's Pascal time," yells the Murchison Falls game warden as he... well, but I digress.

Okay, so gorilla tourism helps gorillas by raising awareness locally, even though having people traipse around and stare at the gorillas is stressful to them. I can see the point, even though I missed out on the life-changing aspect when I visited the Mubare group in 2001. (I've been accused by one reviewer—who sometimes reads this blog—of going astray on the gorilla thing so let me state clearly that I never implied that a population growth of 12 percent was like saying the battle was over and we could all go home. Sheesh.)

I can see the value of $500 for a gorilla experience, because that money goes directly to gorilla conservation. Fine. Not so sold on the Antarctica cruise, which I suspect has no redeeming value, and in fact, may impact the very place we go to enjoy. I definitely don't see the value of a $400 balloon ride, but here's the real problem.

Guilt. Specifically, mine. What's up with me feeling pressure to say weakly, "Yes, Antarctica was cool" when someone glowingly says "I went and loved it," rather than "Maybe I wouldn't have been forced to sell my condo if I'd spent that $3,000 on a new roof instead."

So from now on, my plan is to laugh off my guilt, to ignore the disapproving expression that people have when I say I'm fed up with "once-in-a-lifetime" branding.

Embrace the crankiness.

Falafel and Pizza on the Hudson Tubes

The mayor spoke at yesterday's Egyptian Festival. He said that JC was the most ethnically diverse city in America, and that 50 languages were spoken here.

Probably true, but it's hard for me to take him seriously. He is currently appealing being found guilty on charges of obstruction of justice and resisting arrest down at the NJ shore last year. He has cited all kinds of extenuating circumstances, as he did when a kid with a camera phone was able to snap a shot of him passed out half-naked on his front porch during the election.

(JC has a long history of colorful politics, from Mayor Hague to the guy who wouldn't step down in the late eighties--even though he was in prison for federal tax evason. And during the free-for-all to replace the prison guy--who some believe was involved in releasing the naked mayor photo--two brothers were running against each other, and they had a fistfight. Oh, and the prison guy is now on the school board.)

The Egyptian Festival at first appeared to be only a children's romper bubble
thingy, a falafel stand, and some people selling Egyptian clothes. But then some dancers and singers took the stage. I watched for a while, but I was hungry. The falafel stand in the sun didn't look that appealing, so I went over to the place two doors down from the former Tube Bar to get a slice of pizza.

I hadn't been into the Tube Bar since the early 90s, when I was there with a few friends and Unrest singer Mark, who had released the Tube Bar prank call tapes commercially, when no one knew who had originally made them. (He quit once the guys who made the tapes went public and started selling them themselves.)

Even then, it was just a bar on a walk-street (officially Concourse Street) by the PATH train (a/k/a Hudson Tubes). The famous bartender from the Tube Bar tapes, Red (you'll know him as Moe on The Simpsons) was long gone, since 1980. And sometime between then and now, the Tube Bar had closed, the bar owners taking their liquor license and moving across Kennedy Boulevard, which makes the Journal Square Pub the direct descendant of the Tube Bar.

Two doors down from the ex-Tube Bar, I got my pizza from "3 Boys from Italy." Who didn't look the least bit Italian. But they still made a good slice.