On The Lam

By August J Esquire

From the hilarious, oft-irresponsible travel enthusiast, Auguste Gravel, comes the first installment of travel stories that will make you shoot milk out of your nose and then shock you back into your seat with the next paragraph.

On the Lam is about leaving your comfort zone and stepping into a world of travel and the unknown

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean-Auguste Gravel
• Release date: Aug 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999445614

Book preview

ON THE LAM

Stories for when you’re on the lam

And find yourself with idle hands,

Or when wanderlust has gone awry

and you need to laugh until you cry.

By

August J. Esquire

Copyright © 2018 August J. Esquire

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-9994456-1-4

Cover design by Emily at 99Designs

Editing by Dustin Bilyk @ The Author’s Hand

Printed in Canada and the United States of America

[e-mail]

Special thanks to all those who

read pieces of my manuscript and

gave kind words of encouragement.

A very special thanks to Mom, Sully, Leah, and Jessica who patiently read the

entire thing and provided great feedback.

In a time of cell phones, where people are

searching for rare Pokémon and forgetting

to look up, you picked up a book to feed

your imagination and your mind.

Good on ya.

I dedicate this book to you, the reader.

Foreword

These are all true stories. They read like fiction, but the only fictive elements of this book are the names. I wrote this book to entertain people, but also to teach them some ins and outs of traveling. There is no greater way to learn than to discover the mores of other cultures; it creates understanding and wisdom, which are often lost in the world of information. 

Each chapter features a different country where I’ve traveled and, often, almost always, something has gone awry. Learn from my mistakes, but also enjoy my mishaps because they provide a colourful backdrop for the lessons taught within the pages.

The title, On The Lam, means, to run off, make a hasty escape or run away. Which is exactly what we do when we travel. But it has an added element attached to it, that of somebody looking for you. Nowhere is this more true than in our world today, where we could be across the galaxy but somehow still have to check our emails and text messages because someone is undoubtedly trying to get a hold of us.

The book is designed as an actual pocket book where, due to its size, it should fit into your back pocket for easy access when you travel, or in a pocket on your carry-on or backpack. The title is meant to be vibrant and stick out of the pocket for all to see that you, reader, are on the lam.

Chapter 1

The Land of Lawlessness

2004

Like most post-secondary students, one of my first experiences traveling out of country without a chaperone involved spring break, aka ‘Reading Week’, with a bunch of reprobates from my university years.

At this point in time, I was working at a local restaurant, Father & Sons, which, for any kid attending the University of Ottawa, often became a home away from home – much to their parent’s chagrin. In fact, one of my fondest memories of that charming little nook was of a regular whom I had gotten to know over the years, and on the day of his graduation – four years after his arrival in Ottawa – he brought his parents there to experience the place that had become part of his student routine. Upon entry, his father stopped and looked around, then loudly exclaimed, "This is Father & Sons?!"

Yup, why? replied the son innocently.

"Because four years ago, when I received your first credit card statement and there were a ton of charges to Father & Sons, you said it was the university book store, so I agreed to pay for it.  Now I understand why you kept buying so many books over the last four years. Your liver did all the reading." Dad was clearly not impressed and Mother knew better than to step between a dragon and its wrath. The kid just stood there, speechless, realizing there was no getting out of this situation.

I thought it was the cleverest ploy I’d ever heard, and I think it’s marvellous to this very day. The next time I saw the kid, he mentioned how he had totally forgotten that little white lie, and in the most innocent move of all time, walked his parents right into the restaurant where his bar tabs were the books he claimed on his Visa statement. He ended up owing his dad a fair bit of money but was able to laugh about it after some time.  All that to say that working there provided me – the bartender – with more than a fair share of great stories, and the people who worked there together remain friends to this day.

In my third year, with ‘Reading Week’ around the corner, many of the staff decided, since it would be a slow week, to take time off and go on a vacation together. We sat around a table upstairs after closing one night, had a few drinks and decided by unanimous vote that Cancun, Mexico was the best place for a quick trip without great financial strain.

At the time this escapade was planned, the interwebs were spotty at best, so a travel agent was still needed to ensure no mistakes were made with the bookings. Luckily, one of the waitresses had a connection to one, so all our ideas went through the agent to make sure the details were in place. None of us had been out of Canada yet, so letting ‘a professional’ deal with all the important elements seemed to be the wisest approach.

We brought in brochures of the place we wanted to stay named Oasis Cancun.  It was a light pink pyramid-like structure and had the reputation of being the best place for ‘spring breakers’ to go. The party never stopped, the beach was white and stretched for miles, and alcohol was part of the all-inclusive package. Everything was lining up perfectly and the travel agent assured us that all the decisions we were making for accommodations were excellent choices for a group of rowdy ‘spring-breakers’. With everything in place, the fiesta was booked and paid for by the four gals and two guys that embarked on this unwise journey into the unknown.

We all knew it was going to be amazing. Or so we thought. But things started to come undone, like a ball of yarn in a room full of kittens, from that day forth. 

Aside: Mexican Rambo was the other guy I was traveling with. He was a massive square-jawed character with a flare for extreme sports and more muscle than the Incredible Hulk on a bad day.  He was new to our crew of friends but was a chill guy to travel with and I only knew him by his nickname – which changed immediately when we landed in Mexico because the natives started calling him ‘Mexican Rambo’ from the minute he got off the plane. I laughed when I first heard the locals say it, but now, when he calls me, the phone lights up with a picture of him and Mexican Rambo as the caller name.

When we got to the airport, Mexican Rambo didn’t have a passport. He said he hadn’t had time to get one. He had, however, spent seven hours the day before getting a massive tribal tattoo, sprawling from his elbow down to his wrist and up to his shoulder. Getting his passport would have been a better use of time and money, but he stated, I wanted a cool tattoo for my vacation as his reasoning for not acquiring the required legal documentation to exit the country. This, in itself, is ridiculous, but the lady at the front desk assured us that as long as he had an affidavit stating that he was in fact the person on his driver’s license, and invariably his airline ticket, he would still be able to travel to Mexico via the United States. This was at a time when terrorists had not yet become an issue and the World Trade Center still graced the New York City skyline. Travel rules between Canada and its trade partners were lax enough that a simple paper, signed by a lawyer, could get one through customs.

No problem, I can get one of those. What’s an affidavit? asked Mexican Rambo.

The attendant stood there staring at him for a moment, then kindly explained, An affidavit is a paper from a lawyer that states that you are in fact the person you claim to be.

So it’s just a letter.

Yes. But it’s got to be stamped with the company seal of a reputable law firm and signed by a lawyer.

Oh. Ok. Let me make a call. He walked to the nearest payphone and proceeded to dial a number. Behind him, through the airport windows, the wind was blowing white and the city was still deep in the clutches of Old Man Winter. Mexican Rambo defied this seasonal reality with his baggy beach shorts, thin white t-shirt and cowboy hat. His tattooed arm was visibly swollen and he had to use the other arm to hold the receiver while he let the freshly-inked one hang painfully at his side.

I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out. Normally this minor detail would have been the end of our trip. Thankfully we had Doc Holiday.

Aside: Doc Holiday is probably my most intelligent friend. When I first met him, though, I would not have given him this title; he was a bartender at a local watering hole and insisted that they pay him in shots of tequila – which they gladly did. One year, when he was about twenty-four, he started smoking cigarettes in the winter months. I asked him why he was purposely picking up such a habit, and he answered, Cuz this summer I’m gonna drive across Canada while smoking cigarettes all day and drinking whiskey at night. It’s the Canadian way. Which he did, in a Mazda 626 that should have died before it left the city. Somehow, he and the car made it back in one piece.

He has somehow embraced life in all ways possible and in all his recklessness still managed to get a degree in law, which he excels at. He has been a valuable asset in many situations, including the one you are now reading about. And he loves holidays more than anyone I know. Hence the name, Doc Holiday.

As serendipity would have it, a large law firm in the business district of Ottawa had just hired him and had also granted him the authority to sign affidavits. Out of some stroke of luck, he had taken a day off to work on some files from home because the weather was so terrible. He didn’t mind driving to the airport for us in his beaten-up Mazda to deliver the necessary paperwork, which he printed at his home office, a.k.a. kitchen table. He also happened to have a stamp in his briefcase that met all necessary legal requirements for the Canadian Border Services. He met us at the airport, handed us the letter, signed and stamped it right there, called us a bunch of idiots with a huge smile on his face, and wished us the best of luck with customs.

We returned to the counter to see the attendant and get our tickets; she was visibly surprised that we were able to get the document that quickly. When she looked over it, everything seemed kosher, so she let us through and wished us a safe trip. They even hastened us through security – or at least they tried to.

Mexican Rambo waltzed right through without setting off any alarms because everything he was wearing was made for the beach and he had packed everything else in his backpack. This was my first time traveling so I wasn’t as savvy in my approach. I was like Robocop walking through the metal detector. I had to remove my belt, empty my pockets, take off my hat, remove my watch and fill an entire bin with metal accessories before walking through. And the machine still beeped because there were metal studs on the pants I had on.

When I finally got through, I went to the bathroom to get changed into something similar to my amigo for practical reasons, in preparation for our landing in a sunny country. We were soon seated on the plane and ready for take off.

Traveler’s Note: When going through an airport to get onto a flight, you want to wear things that are comfy, practical and most importantly, things that won’t set off any alarms at security checkpoints. In my experience, a pair of jogging pants and a hooded sweatshirt are best, but it also depends where you’re flying to and how long the flight is. The stretchy nature of the pants mean you can move freely and the hood on the shirt means you can put it over your head and fall asleep when the chance permits. Earphones are also key; with them you can watch the in-flight movie or just tune the world out.

I’ve also learned, however, that some outfits are not great for rapid airport security movement; a matching track suit like the one your Italian uncle wears to sell used cars is frowned upon. You may not beep at the checkpoint, but you will likely be randomly chosen for drug screening . . . at every airport.

There were no tourists more visible than us on that plane. The seats on the charter jet were barely big enough for teenage girls and we were both natural heavyweights dressed like we belonged on the set of Weekend at Bernie’s. Our knees dug into the seats and our shoulders were glued together like sweaty Slip ‘N Slides the entire flight. I could actually feel the heat emanate from the massive tattoo next to me as it healed in the skies over America. When we hit turbulence, neither of us moved because we were that jammed together. I believe that in scientific terms, ‘matter does not occupy space, rather it displaces space’; I don’t know which one of us was matter or which one was space, but whenever he moved, I was removed. We vowed to never again sit side by side for a flight, no matter the duration.

Emerging from the airplane onto a warm tarmac was the greatest feeling. It’s hard to explain what it feels like to escape a confined quarter with a hard wall and small