Peanut Buttered Roast Squid: A Boomer Travels Solo

By Susan Merrill Thomas

Susan Merrill Thomas, like her name suggests, is the classic boomer. She had two children, a boy and a girl, a husband, aging parents, a teaching job, a dog, a red brick and taupe suburban home, and a gray minivan. When it all turned upside down, she retired and set out to see the world in an unorthodox way.

Peanut Buttered Roast Squid: A Boomer Travels Solo is a memoir and travel book that begins with a series of losses that set the author on an uncharted path from suburban Michigan to exotic locations around the world. While her story illustrates the redemptive power of change, it is primarily a primer and guidebook for solo travelers who want to explore affordable and exciting locations.

From her initial dive off the deep end with a month-long trip to Japan and Korea, to her determination to escape Michigan winters in Central America, Thomas learns from mistakes, does her pre-voyage research, and shares it all in an inspiring series of informal travel tales. After 30 years of teaching English, she struggles through a Prague-based training program for teaching English as a second language while observing the lasting effects of communist rule. In day trips and long-weekend travels through central Europe, she goes off the most touristic path and remembers the Cold War fears that were part of a mid-century American childhood. In Guatemala and Nicaragua she guides us through friendly ex-pat communities and the layers of Spanish and indigenous cultures. While she wonders at her limited knowledge of the countries’ political struggles recorded in murals, her place in the world gently shifts.

For the tourist who wants a local experience as reflected in a region’s food, street life, folk and fine art, history, and idiosyncrasies, Peanut Buttered Roast Squid provides a quirky and appreciative view of the world. This is not from the perspective of the back-packers who shared the road in Phnom Penh and Copan Ruinas, Bangkok and Krakow, but from an active, older traveler who needs a clean, safe bed and a good meal, preferably with wine or beer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Merrill Thomas
• Release date: Mar 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476012407

Susan Merrill Thomas

Susan Merrill Thomas lives to travel. After 32 years of teaching high school literature and traveling with her family during school breaks, Susan was suddenly a divorced, retired empty-nester with an unclear road ahead. With a limited budget and an entire world to explore, she embraced solo travel. Her insights go beyond the standard guidebooks with useful information for fellow travelers and armchair tourists, providing reflections on many less-touristed destinations as well as retirement, living alone, and embracing new experiences. Susan lives near Flint, Michigan. She grew up in Princeton, NJ, graduated from Michigan State University, and has a master’s degree in English Literature from the University of Michigan. She taught AP English at Grand Blanc High School. In 2011 she traveled to Mexico, Italy, Greece, Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands, the United Arab Emirates, and New Jersey.

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Peanut Buttered Roast Squid: A Boomer Travels Solo

By Susan Merrill Thomas

Copyright 2012 Susan Merrill Thomas

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What readers are saying...

Very seldom have I read a book, where I read a paragraph and have to stop to dwell and ponder what I had just read because I want to internalize and cherish the words just a little bit more. The writing was so compelling it touched me on many levels. 

To put it bluntly, I was riveted and enchanted.  I want to explore the places in the book even more than before and will probably map out my travels to visit some of the same places Susan visited in the time I have. Some people travel to wonderful destinations and just check those places off their travel bucket list.  For Susan, travel is more than that.  It’s a calling.

The stories of travel are charming and provide wonderful escapist reading with trips that are off-the-beaten-path. Susan Thomas provides split moments of vicarious pleasure to us working women.

Susan always captures the details that make it so interesting. I love how she makes friends and takes advantage of every minute.

I have enjoyed reading about Susan’s adventures, experiences, impressions and feelings.

We are so out of touch here in the U.S. with a lot of basics that enhance life in other parts of the world. These stories bring it home and make you want to dare to travel solo.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the loyal friends who were always there in difficult times and to my supportive children who kept me going. A special thank you to my sister who spent endless hours editing and cheering me on.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Tokyo and Kyoto

Chapter 2: Jeju Island

Chapter 3: Busan, Seoul and the DMZ

Chapter 4: The Czech Republic

Chapter 5: Poland and Hungary

Chapter 6: Guatemala and Honduras

Chapter 7: Egypt and Jordan

Chapter 8: Nicaragua

Author’s Note

About the Author

Introduction

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.

George Carlin

Two parents, a husband, a son and a daughter, friends, a dog, health. But as often happens to people in life, it all turned upside down. For me, this process occurred in less than two years. My mother died three days after Christmas on the morning the hospital planned to release her because she was doing so well. My father developed vascular dementia that robbed him of his mind and spirit. My thirty-year marriage to my college boyfriend ended abruptly and horribly in betrayal. My son moved to Korea to teach, and my daughter was graduating from high school and going off to the University of Toronto in the fall. A good friend died suddenly and too soon. Our beloved, still youthful husky, a sort of third child, had to be put down. I was contemplating this nightmare on the couch. My leg was in a cast after two, foot surgeries. My arm lay in a sling attached to my waist and, as I was to later learn, left in this position too long. Someone, never identified, had written down the wrong discharge directions. Instead of recommending staying wrapped three days, someone had written three weeks. When I finally removed the wrappings, my entire arm was frozen. I could lift it no more than an inch from my side.

I was miserable. Unspeakably so.

Another friend of mine lost her husband to a heart attack during the same period that my life was unraveling. Although people were tremendously supportive and helpful in the period soon following her loss, they weren’t there for long. They had lives to get on with. They wanted my friend to be healed more quickly than she was. I knew this would happen to me also. People believed in me; of course, I’d bounce right back they would think. So with an utterly false bravado, I blithely told my friends that I would, forgive the cliché, make lemonade out of lemons. I would throw myself a joyful party on the court date of my divorce, graduate with my daughter, retire from teaching, and see the world, including my son in Korea.

The party was wildly successful and a positive first step. I billed the party as a Fourth of July affair--a freedom day. That was my theme. My invitation specified that everyone was to wear summertime picnic attire and that I would grill on the deck, even if there were snow on the ground as so often happens in March in the upper Midwest. Despite the winter date, I found that the local dollar store was fully stocked with Fourth of July paraphernalia. I filled my basket with a variety of red, white and blue decorations, all made in China. Then I had a great idea. I would make a full-scale replica of my soon to be ex-husband, and I would hand out barbecue skewers to each guest when they arrived. They could stab the replica dummy wherever they wanted. You can surely picture the result.

I assembled the dummy the night before the party. I took a white pillowcase and filled it with newspaper. I photocopied and enlarged a picture of my ex-husband’s face and taped it to the stuffed pillow making a head. To create a torso, I hung an old ski jacket he had left behind with newspaper. I tied the head and trunk to a staircase railing, the appropriate six feet one inches from the ground, and propped an old pair of my son’s jeans, also stuffed with newspaper, under the ski jacket. A pair of boots from the garage created a frighteningly accurate depiction of the man.

The next day I raced home from school for the final party preparations. As I stepped out of the shower, I heard the doorbell ring. Did someone decide to come early? I thought with great annoyance. I threw on my robe, hurried to the door, and was greeted by a deliveryman with a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers sent by my wonderfully loyal friends. When everyone did arrive, they all came dressed in summertime clothing including shorts, sundresses, and cut-offs. One teacher friend, who was a former student of mine, burned a CD of songs that contained the words red, white, blue, or freedom which she gave me in a case appropriately decorated and labeled The Good Ole’, Red, White, ‘n Blue. The CD itself was called the The Susan Thomas Freedom Train Mix. Some other friends managed to find fireworks, which we set off after a dinner of grilled brats, coleslaw, potato salad, an American flag cake, and lots of beer and wine.

The party was easy. Everyone had a good time and so did I. Next I turned in my retirement papers. I approached the end of the school year with the same false bravado I’d used for the party. One of my favorite books to teach in American Literature was Catcher in the Rye. The book has many memorable lines. One year my students compiled a list of the most memorable and voted on their favorites. They created a top ten list that I put on the wall yearly while we read the novel. My favorite line was Holden’s parting words as he left his stereotypic private secondary school, Pency Prep. On my last teaching day of the school year, with the help of another teacher, I lived my own Holden moment. After reading the student announcements, my friend introduced me saying that I was retiring and had some final words: Sleep tight, ya morons, I said with a smile as I quoted Holden, just as I pictured him doing when he made his exit.

The next step, with no one watching to force my hand, was much more difficult. I hate talking on the phone. I never say the right thing. But I had told everyone I was retiring and going to see my son in Korea. Personal pride and fear of looking foolish made me pick up the phone and call the airlines. Initially, I considered going for two weeks, possibly three, a reasonable length of time for my very first trip entirely alone. While studying the airline schedule, I discovered that the plane would stop in Tokyo. Certainly I should stop here before immediately boarding another plane to Busan, Korea, where my son lived. It made sense to see some of Tokyo--stay maybe a week. So when I called Northwest Airlines, this was my intent.

I chose an outbound flight. To my amazement, the airlines service representative was able to use my elite status to book me in first class on every segment of my flight including the international portion. Fantastic! The problems began when I tried to make the return flight. How about October 10th ? I asked.

No, no seats.

October 11th ?

No, no seats.

Okay, October 12th?

No, again came the reply.

I started laughing. Look, I said, I’m retired, so just when can I come home? At that point the professionalism and disinterested tone left the agent’s voice and she laughed with me. How about October 26th?

Sure, I said, Why not? This was why I retired.

The agent, now warming up to my travel plans, asked about seats. You know, she said, My frequent travelers like the small upper cabin of the plane. You never get babies up there and they also tell me that the window seat is nice because you’ll be able to see the sunset as you fly into Narita.

Chapter 1: Tokyo and Kyoto

The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty;

not knowing what comes next.

Ursula K. LeGuin

How right the Northwest agent was. I enjoyed the best overnight flight I’d ever taken. It was just me and the businessmen. I ate a delightful, quiet dinner with wine and stretched out almost horizontally in my pod/seat for a sound sleep. Twelve hours after leaving home, feeling well rested, I arrived at Tokyo’s Narita Airport. At the luggage carousel I grabbed my large rolling duffel, which I have since given away because it was too large for serious travel, and hoisted my big, carry-on gym bag, also now retired for the same reason, on my shoulder. I headed into the heart of the massive airport. I smiled smugly as I pulled out the map of the airport, downloaded from the Narita website. I found the elevator down to the train station to pick up the train ticket. I had purchased a special pass that’s only available out of Japan. It allows you to go free on certain trains. With the ticket in hand, I strode confidently to the tracks. A sleek bullet train came barreling in to the station. It stopped abruptly following the wave of the white-gloved, blue uniformed train employee. His graceful wave pointed confidently to the spot where the speeding train stopped without a shudder: the exact place where his finger pointed. My know-it-all mood ended abruptly.

I was surprised at my reaction. Instead of being amazed or impressed, I was scared. The efficiency was overwhelming. As I looked about, I realized that there was no litter, no graffiti, nothing out of place. No homeless people lay on benches or squatted in corners. Everyone was dressed neatly and cleanly. I became all too aware that I was the only person sweating profusely. How was I going to fit in? I couldn’t imagine. With growing uncertainty I boarded several wrong trains until I finally got the one that would take me to the subway system of Tokyo. Why I struggled to find the right train was my panicked fault entirely. Yes, Japanese is a complex language of symbols, but virtually all signs in public places, including street signs, are also written in English. Even the recorded voice on the train car repeats itself after its Japanese announcement with a second set of instructions in a lovely British accented woman’s voice. Please put away your mobile phones. Talking on them is forbidden on the train. Sitting in my train seat I observed that everyone around me sat absolutely silent, almost imperceptibly texting on futuristic-looking cell phones.

The enormous size of Tokyo overwhelmed any remaining self-confidence I had as I got off the train and started to walk around Otemachi station, Tokyo’s largest subway stop. I used to think I could travel anywhere because I knew how to navigate the subways of Manhattan. It had done nothing to prepare me for this. New York suddenly seemed like a tiny, quaint village in a faraway land that I used to know. Yes, I could read the signs, but every time I thought I had gone up or down the right stairway for Asakusa, my destination, the anticipated Asakusa sign failed to appear. I went up and down and up and down, miserably dragging my ridiculous luggage.

I was disheveled and hot and ready to cry. Just as I started to give into my tears, three very short, elderly women approached me. Where you go? one asked.

Asakasu (ah-sa-KOOS-suh), I answered. They looked puzzled. Asakasu. Asakasu. I repeated.

With recognition at last, the earlier speaker said Asakasu,(ah SAH kah sue) which of course wasn’t even close to what I had been saying. Ah SAH kah sue the others chimed in laughing. Before I could react, two of them grabbed my duffle at either end and started swiftly up the stairs.

Oh hell, I thought. Do they have old lady gang thieves here? Panting and barely keeping up, I managed to follow them up the stairs to a platform where the sign clearly stated Asakasu, a name I will remember and pronounce correctly forever. "Arigato, I said and smiled. Arigato. They nodded at my apparently correct use of the Japanese word for thank you" and then disappeared back into the crowd as mysteriously as they had appeared. It was a simple act of kindness, but its effect on me was profound. I was going to be fine. I could and would appreciate Japan.

Asakusa is not a typical tourist location because it is primarily an older industrial area, but it does house one of the only major temples not bombed in World War II. I picked the area simply because I saw a picture of the hotel room on the Internet. It looked bigger and yet was less expensive than some of the rooms I’d viewed in the usual tourist areas. Best of all, this area includes 31Kappabashi, an eight block warehouse district that displays and sells pottery, kitchenware and my favorite--plastic replicas of food. Plastic food in the US is primarily relegated to things like doll houses or used as chew toys for dogs. In Japan, however, a surprising number of restaurants proudly display their menu choices in the window with perfect replicas of everything from sushi to pasta with fish eggs. I was able to explore the source of these replicas just three blocks from my hotel. Most of the showrooms are all glass so I didn’t have to go in to buy a grand, glazed duck. I just took its picture through the glass. The dizzying sight of row after row of every food imaginable is bizarre, like looking at a party buffet for 5000 people. After much looking, I finally went into one store. The replicas are expensive, about fifty dollars for a seven inch item. I decided against buying the sirloin slab I was going to take home as a joke.

Unfortunately, not every restaurant has the plastic displays as I soon found out. I had chosen a restaurant one evening I found in my Internet research. Although I am a person without any special skills, I do possess the ability to read a variety of restaurant descriptions and choose the few really good ones. I asked the concierge for directions to the restaurant and had him write the name in Japanese symbols too, just in case.

The restaurant appeared to be a mile away so I started out on foot with my map. I followed all the directions but no matter which side of the street I was on, I couldn’t find the building’s number. This was not a tourist area so my English was not going to get me far. Tired of being lost, I wandered into a divey restaurant that looked like it was closing for the night. I held out my now limp paper with the restaurant’s name and handed it to a man cleaning up behind the counter. Neither he nor his fellow workers spoke English. After much gesticulating and much obvious confusion on my part, the cleaning man wiped off his hands and escorted me down the block. He pointed to an alley. I said my usual arrigato with the biggest smile I could manage. He was right. I couldn’t find the odd number on the main street because the restaurant was actually in the middle of an alley.

I wasn’t giving up now. I walked down the alley and entered the restaurant, which was not much bigger than my bedroom at home. My next move was obvious. A row of shoes lined the tiny hallway so I added mine. The dimly lit room consisted entirely of tatami mats and very low tables--so low that the only way to eat at one was to sit on the mat. Five tables lined the walls separated by a central area for walking. I took