Taking Off

By Ty F. Clemens

A few years after graduating college, Ty was fed up with "working" and "acting responsibly like every other adult is expected to," and chose instead to quit his job and backpack across Europe and Asia. Taking Off is the mostly true memoir of his trip.

Yes, this may come as a shock, but a twenty-something wrote about his experiences travelling. Kind of like when Ashley from HR sent you the link to her vacation blog. The differences being that this book is longer, has less pictures of Ashley in a bikini, and gives you no real obligation to read it since you'll never bump into Ty in the break room where he'll ask you how you liked it. But regardless of obligation, you can still appreciate this book, as it consists of several humorous, interesting, and worthwhile anecdotes that are way more interesting than anything that self-absorbed narcissist Ashley could ever write.

This book is completely, 100% free. So if you're interested, give it a read. If you like it, tell a friend about how good it was. If you don't like it, lie to an enemy about how good it was. Either way, make sure to flaunt the book's completion to someone. You're literate for God's sake, and the contemptible people with whom you surround yourself need to be made aware of your superiority.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty F. Clemens
• Release date: Mar 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301076888

Book preview

Prologue

Travel lust (Noun)

1. A strong impulse or longing to travel.

2. A strangely acceptable excuse to not have a job.

3. An overwhelming desire to have sex with airplanes. Hot, powerful airplanes.

See also. Wanderlust, Hobonomics, Boeingphilia

I’ve always wanted to travel. When I was in college, I couldn’t afford to, and when I got a real job, I didn’t have the time. You can relate to not getting everything you want? What are the odds? Fortunately, three years after I joined the corporate world, I took advantage of a little used loophole that guarantees plenty of free time to anyone who quits their job, and I was able to spend the next few months traveling Europe and Asia.

What follows are the memoirs and observations of my trip. Although when I say memoirs, I mean that in the loosest sense—I don’t have forced plotlines or unrealistic character growth, just some anecdotes that I hope you’ll find entertaining. And as for observations, I just mean anything else I wanted to include but that isn’t technically a story. It’s really just a collection of accounts that chronicle my knack for getting into memorable situations, my shortcoming of having to make fun of anything that seems strange to me, and more pop culture references than I would have expected when I started writing.

I didn’t write this book as a travel guide. I may offer the occasional tip or recommendation, but don’t assume that any of them are based on thorough research. I certainly didn’t write this as an inspirational piece to encourage you to quit your job and follow your dreams. For all I know you’ve got kids and a mortgage—dreams aren’t as big a deal as we make them out to be, and definitely not as important as keeping the lights on. I really only wrote this because I wanted an email to send to my friends when they asked for a synopsis of my trip, and when I started dividing that email into chapters, I realized it was too long for any of them to ever read. But maybe, unlike my friends, you possess both functional literacy and basic globe comprehension, and you’ll be able to appreciate what I’ve compiled.

But before we get started, let me throw out a couple of disclaimers that I hope will aid in your reading:

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I am not an authority whatsoever: I did little fact checking in writing this book. I wanted everything to be written from the perspective I had when it happened. Verifying things after the fact ruins that. So if you think to yourself at any point that doesn’t sound right, well then you’re a stubborn skeptic and need to learn to trust me based on faith alone. But you’re also probably correct. However, regardless of the no-doubt dozens of factual errors that I’m sure this book must contain,

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I am not a liar:[1] Inaccurate? Probably. But I’ve done my best to avoid any explicit fiction beyond mild editing for the purposes of narrative. I may have changed a few names for anonymity or taken some liberties for simplicity, but for the most part everything is as I remember it. So while I wouldn’t call this book reliable as testimony, I’m confident in saying that it’s well over 90% true. That’s excluding, of course, the occasional absurd joke, any points of obvious speculation, and all the parts that I’ve made up entirely.

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So please read, enjoy, and do your best not to judge me too harshly based on what you infer from these stories alone.

Leaving

Since this is a book about travelling, I won’t waste much time about what I did before my trip, since it consisted, almost entirely, of not travelling. Still, I suppose in a book about a long voyage, it’s appropriate to start off in my hometown; or at least my adopted hometown, the place where I moved after college but that I’m kind of indifferent to. Keep in mind that the specific town doesn’t really matter; you can imagine anything—from the bustling city life of Richmond, Virginia to the uniform suburbs that surround Richmond, Virginia. It will be fine as long as you’re picturing a mid-Atlantic metropolitan area of about 1.2 Million people that for some reason actually takes pride in the fact that it was once the capital of a Confederacy which was founded on the principle of supporting slavery.

In June of 2010, when I make the impromptu decision to leave everything behind and travel, I can’t help but smile while thinking about the liberating lifestyle I’m about to embrace. Until I realize that I’m still restrained by the very non-liberating lifestyle which I have not yet given up—I’ve just renewed the lease on my apartment, I still have some car payments left, and I’m not completely sure if I can afford to leave my job in favor of spending my savings, especially after I find out that if I stop showing up to work, my employer may be reluctant to continue paying me. Spontaneity will have to take a backseat to practicality.

So in June of 2011, when I have had an appropriate amount of time to prepare to travel, I continue with the plan. Telling my parents about my decision could have been tough, but by doing something as simple as lying about a new high-paying job that requires me to go overseas, they’re actually happy for me. I don’t even bother telling my girlfriend, since I don’t need another lecture on how we’re not still together.[2] And once my personal life is sorted out, the only thing left to do is quit my job.

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I’ve gotten along with every boss I’ve ever had in my life, from my first job in high school to every manager I’ve had while working for the faceless corporation where I’m currently employed. So I had never understood the stereotype of hating your boss, until four months before I leave this job, when I meet my new manager, Dan.

To be clear on the timeline, I have already decided to quit before I meet Dan, and am only still working for these last few months to collect a few more paychecks and steal a few more boxes of pens. And to be fair, since I’m planning to walk out the door anyway, I’m not exactly the best employee to begin with. But Dan is everything that’s wrong with the corporate world, from Bill Lumbergh to the Pointy Haired Boss, wrapped up in a middle-aged, pudgy package that loves to use the term value-add, but never in the right context. Having to be around him every single day just makes me that much more excited about leaving.

Hey Dan, I say when I walk past his desk, I need to speak to you when you get a chance.

Nineteen seconds later we’re sitting across from each other in a small meeting room. Dan doesn’t have a secretary, but anything you say to him outside of a meeting room he will treat as if it’s been relayed to him by one. He confirms what I’d just told him a moment ago.

You wanted to speak with me?

Yeah, I need to tell you that I’m leaving the company, I say as I hand him my resignation, Here’s my two weeks notice. It’s been a good few years, and this place has been great to me, but it’s—

I’m sorry to hear that, he interrupts smoothly and calmly, as if he’s been expecting this, it’s been great having you on the team.

I crack a smile at the insincerity of his words. He doesn’t like me any more than I like him. There’s blame on both sides, but there is no question that we are not a good match. I do things like purposefully trip him up when I catch him lying to clients, and he always gets on my nerves by expecting me to complete the work I’m responsible for; and on time no less. Hell, except for my salary, medical benefits, comfortable working conditions, paid leave, free pens, and the ability to walk away whenever I want, I’m basically his slave.[3] And now we’re both just happy to be done with one another.

So what are you doing next? He asks, condescendingly rattling off where he thinks I could be going, A hot new startup? Grad school? Starting your own business?

I’m actually going to travel. My flight to Europe leaves two weeks from tomorrow, I answer.

Oh... uh, he tries say something, but he seems a bit flustered, clearly not expecting me to give that response. His demeanor lightens a little bit and he surprises me with an anecdote, I actually spent about a month travelling after college. Backpacked around France and Spain before I came home for a job.

He’s dropped his usual, fast-paced business persona in favor of a more relaxed attitude. His hair, which is normally in a combover that resembles soft serve ice cream the way it swirls around his head, is now beginning to unravel like yarn. He’s almost always quick to fix it, but right now it doesn’t even faze him. It’s the most genuine I’ve ever seen him.

I really loved it, He continues, and even now, when I think about it, I wish I could have had some more time. I always told myself I’d go back and see more...

I think I feel a brief sense of schadenfreude, but I’m not sure, because I don’t speak German.

I started the job, he continues, then I bought a car. Married my girlfriend. Got a mortgage. Had kids. Now the kids are almost old enough to go travel themselves...

He takes a pause, not more than a few seconds, but enough for him to realize he’s been contemplating for too long. He looks up at me and decides it best to finish the conversation.

You’re making the right choice, he tells me.

I’m not certain if this is a sincere attempt at reassuring me, or if, considering that Dan hates me, he’s working the long con, and trying to make sure I don’t chicken out of the biggest mistake of my life. Dan’s kind of a prick like that.

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Fifteen days later, I arrive at the international airport nearest to Richmond, Virginia. I’m carrying a 60 liter backpack, which contains, among other things, 3 changes of clothes, a 10" laptop, a small daypack, and a Eurail pass, which will allow me to ride on almost any train in Europe. I’ve also got a companion, at least for a little while; standing next to me is one of my best friends since high school, Alec. He’s taken a couple weeks off of work to join me for the first part of my trip. His only condition for joining me is that as soon as we get to Europe, we have to go to Pamplona and run with the bulls.

Pamplona

I know, it's kind of cliché to kick off a trip to Europe by running with the bulls. And for the purposes of this book, I would have much rather started with something else; maybe a seemingly innocuous experience that turns out to be prophetic or symbolic by the third act. But I don't have one of those experiences, or if I do, it’s so innocuous that I don't remember it. All I can offer are the relevant facts: Alec and I arrive in Pamplona, intent on running with the bulls.

The Basics

Language: I speak Spanish relatively well. That is, relative to the thousands of languages I don’t speak at all. Unfortunately, Spain has five official languages, and four of them are something other than Spanish. The people of Pamplona, specifically, speak Basque. This makes my bilingualism obsolete, as I discover that speaking my intermediate-level, Mexican-dialect, American-accented Spanish is only slightly more productive than grunting, and still much less useful than shouting in English.[4]

The Festival

The week long festival of San Fermin, which roughly translates to covered in urine (something to remember every time you see the *asterisk* symbol), is an all day, all night party. There is a gigantic influx of people, totaling over a million throughout the week. The streets are filled, every bar and restaurant is packed, and anything that isn't usually a bar or restaurant has been converted to a bar or souvenir shop. Fortunately the town is well prepared for these extra people. They set up five portable bathroom trailers; each trailer has four stalls for the ladies, four for the gentleman, and a five-person urinal trough around the side.

Wait, what? They've only got 65 toilets for a million people*?

It gets better though. Those stalls only have squat toilets, which are literally just holes in the floor; and those squat toilets don’t have toilet paper, so now the ladies have even less incentive to use them. Fortunately though, the town* relaxes some of the more antiquated laws for the festival, and temporarily allows anything with walls to be classified as a urinal. Take that, millennia old Roman ruins*. Top it all off with a notable absence of trash cans, and the fact that thousands of people are consuming food and alcohol in the streets, and the ground soon becomes a sludge of ammonia-scented garbage. I’m not saying the festival isn’t a good time; in fact, it’s one hell of a party, but it is, at best, absolutely disgusting. Attending San Fermin is like having sex with a super model in a port-a-potty—if you ever get the opportunity, of course you’re going to do it, but you need to accept that some levels of filth can’t be washed away no matter how hard you scrub.

The Run

I think I can confidently say that running with the bulls is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done in my life. The bull run is one of those universal bucket list things, up there with skydiving and hunting a man. It’s a little dangerous, but not too dangerous. It’s guaranteed excitement, and something that almost everyone knows about. It’s everything you need for a good story and bragging rights for the rest of your life. Unfortunately, those are the only arguments in favor of doing the run. The reasons against doing it are nearly endless. Besides the disaster of an event that is San Fermin, and everything you need to go through to just be in attendance, the run itself is not something anyone should ever take part in.

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The Running of the Bulls starts promptly at 8:00 am, but the city closes off all entrance points for the run at 7:00, so Alec and I are up by 6:30, we stumble through the crowds as we fight our Kalimotxo hangovers, and are at the starting point by 6:55. At 7:00 the fences around the route are put up, and all the gates are closed shut. I get my first jolt of this is actually happening. And then I wait.

This is not a fun wait. I have a the nervous feeling you get in your gut right before you give a speech, combined with the fear of imminent pain you have when you sit down in a dentist’s chair. And for the next hour I can do nothing but stand and stew in my own anxiety, surrounded by a couple thousand other people, standing and stewing in their own anxiety. So I do what anyone would, and make conversation with strangers to put my fears in the back of my mind. I have never met so many people as quickly as I do right now. In just a couple of minutes my small talk with Alec grows into small talk with a dozen people, all of us as nervous as the next.

Did you hear about the guy who got gored the other day? He’s still in intensive care.

Yeah. And I met someone who got trampled yesterday. Broke his arm and a few toes, got some stitches across his face. Had to cut his holiday short, he’s flying home to England tomorrow.

Everyone’s mind is focused on the run, so even though we’re all talking to distract ourselves, the conversation stays on the one thing we don’t want to think about. I truly believe I’d be more comfortable talking about the night of my own conception than talking about the bulls, but we just can’t seem to change the topic. Fortunately, an Aussie that joins our group had run the day before, and he is able to give us some perspective.

You never realize just how big a bull is until they’re charging at you. One thousand kilos and a pair of horns running scared, not caring if it crushes you under its hooves. If you’re ever in doubt, just get out of the way. ‘Cuz if you get hit in the wrong spot you’ll be paralyzed or dead in a second.

Why would you tell me that? I already knew that, but why the hell would you tell me that?

This Aussie is saying all the wrong things, but I’m still hanging onto his every word.

And if you make it to the stadium, he says, make sure not to get caught touching the bulls.

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I should probably explain some details about the Running of the Bulls. The run happens once every morning for eight straight days during the Festival of San Fermin, and it’s the precursor for each evening’s bullfights in the city stadium. At 8:00 am a rocket is set off and the twelve bulls that will be fighting that night are released from their overnight pen. They run through the center of town on a fenced-off path, the path where I’m currently standing, until they reach the bullring at the city stadium about a half mile away. Once the last bull reaches its destination, the entrance to the ring is shut, and the bulls are collected into a new pen at the stadium. But, if you can make it to the stadium before the last bull does, you can enter the bullring, and be present as the rest of the bulls run through and are collected into their new pen. And after the last bull is collected, they will be released back into the ring one at a time, where they’ll run amok, charging the people who were dumb enough to enter. This part is probably way more dangerous than the actual run. And the only real rule in that pit of horror is a bit of an ironic one: Don’t touch the bulls.

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Don’t touch the bulls? Why not? I ask the Aussie.

It’s illegal. They don’t want anyone hurting the entertainment. The cops are serious about it. I reached out and touched one of the bulls on his back yesterday, and a cop standing just outside of the ring grabbed me and arrested me. Got a €400 fine. Spent the night in jail. Just got out a couple hours ago.

It’s like a strip club. The bulls can touch you all they want. They can charge you, gore you, and trample you.[5] But it’s illegal for you to reach out and touch them. You have fewer rights than the bulls.

The nervous conversation keeps up for a while. The balconies above the street start filling in with spectators. We notice pretty quickly that almost everyone waiting to