Can That Stranger With the Suitcase Be Me? by Rose Mula

Can That Stranger With the Suitcase Be Me?

I hate snow.I’m not too crazy about heat, sand and sun. I think gambling, shopping, donkey races, and the ritual of afternoon tea are boring and/or ridiculous. I always enjoyed the luxury of staying in bed late when I didn’t have to go to work. I never buy on impulse. I eat sensibly and count my calories. I never walk when I can ride. However, whenever I’m on vacation, none of the above is true.

Let’s start with snow. As I said, I hate it. I once loved it, but my infatuation died on a blizzard-besieged highway the first winter after I got my driver’s license many decades ago when my car was suddenly clutched by a giant invisible hand and spun violently until it was facing west in the eastbound lane. As the oncoming traffic careened crazily to avoid me, I suddenly saw the Universal Truth as clearly as if it were emblazoned on a gigantic banner stretched across the stormy skies by a band of angels. Snow is Lousy! The banner proclaimed. "Yea, verily!" chorused the heavenly hosts. And I’ve been a believer every since.

So how to explain my reaction on a trip through Switzerland one early-September day shortly after my conversion, when my friend Irma pointed out the train window to a distant mountain top and murmured, "Hmmm ..... snow."

"Where?" I shrieked, stomping on her feet and sticking an elbow in her eye as I focused my camera to record the wondrous scene. "It’s so beautiful!" I blubbered, shutter snapping madly. When we detrained at our mountainside chalet-hotel, I didn’t even wait to unpack. I had to rush out and throw snowballs, make a snowman, build an igloo — things I hadn’t done at home in years, even when I used to like the stuff. The natives thought I was a South Seas islander who had never seen a flurry.

And years later (after cursing and skidding my way through a dozen more miserable New England winters), I repeated this strange behavior — this time in May in Norway, where I hiked (yes, actually walked!) four miles around a frozen lake, reveling at the height of the snow banks piled along the footpath, every centimeter of which I recorded on film, along with the snowmen I had a compulsion to build at intervals along the way. They may be there yet, mute witnesses to my snow madness.

And I did equally strange things while vacationing in the tropics. At home, you’d never catch me on a beach in July or August. Who wants to sit on scratchy sand, sweat in the scorching sun, or swim in the sticky, salty surf where creatures that bite may lurk? However, whenever I found myself in the Caribbean or the South Pacific in December, January or February, I was the first one to hit the beach ever morning and the last one back at the hotel after sunset, ignoring all the warnings about the treacherous tropical sun. Why? Because I had to go home with what I used to consider to be a healthy, golden glow that everyone would envy. But it never worked; because, inevitably, by the time I stepped off the plane in bleak, frigid Boston, my glow had reached the blotchy peeling stage; and I looked as if I had spent my vacation in the contagious ward of the leper colony on Molokai instead of on the sands of Waikiki. Not only were none of my friends jealous of that, they were very careful to keep their distance.

It wouldn’t have been a total loss if staying on the beach all day meant I was skipping a meal or two. No such luck. Contrary to popular belief, the most insidious danger on tropic beaches is not the tse-tse fly or hungry sharks. It’s the surf-side snack bar where you can sit in the sun and get par-broiled and fat simultaneously. In addition to the ubiquitous greasy hamburgers and fries (for American kids who won’t eat unless they think Ronald McDonald is in the kitchen), the menus at these places always feature the local delicacy, which is always high-caloric.

Worse, to wash down your lunch, the waiter suggests the specialty of the bar which invariably contains a half-gallon of pineapple/papaya/passion fruit juice, equal parts of rum, gin, and the local fermented firewater, plus a hunk of coconut, five cherries, a floating orchid, a plastic flying fish, and a paper parasol. (Those last two ingredients are very hard to digest and are probably responsible for 90% of the stomach problems tourists experience in the tropics.) All this is a far cry from my usual non-vacation lunch of one granola bar or four ounces of low-fat yogurt, which I always promise myself I’ll stick to, even when traveling.

However, my pre-vacation resolutions to eat sensibly invariably dissolve at my first sight of a palm tree stirring in balmy breezes, or the bright lights of Picadilly, or the sound of the gurgling waters of the Trevi Fountain, or the melodious tinkle of a Swiss cow bell … Actually, it doesn’t even take that long. I usually lose my first skirmish in another battle of the vacation bulge when I board a plane and a flight attendant serves dinner — a meal I always promise myself I’ll refuse since I’ve usually been lavishly wined and dined by friends who have driven me to the airport. However, while a little voice inside me whispers, "No! You don’t need it!" a louder voice screams, "Take it! It’s included in the air fare!" And, of course, it’s just a short step from there to strawberry tarts at every sidewalk café in Montmartre, fettucine and cannoli at Alfredo’s, fondue and chocolate in Zermatt. When I show my friends my vacation pictures, they’re confused. They’re expecting views of the fiords, Vesuvius, or the Eiffel Tower; but, instead, they see displays of Danish pastry, a huge antipasto platter, and a big fat pig (not me — the one they’re preparing for the luau).

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Can That Stranger With the Suitcase Be Me?

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