On the Lam: Going Rogue

By August J Esquire

The highly-acclaimed sequel to August Esquire's bestselling "On the Lam" brings you to four more memorable countries. From sacrificing animals in Mexico to frolicking with peckish deer in Japan, this second instalment will bring you to tears with true tales of travels gone awry. 

Written by a Canadian who understand

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean-Auguste Gravel
• Release date: Dec 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999445638

Book preview

Chapter 1

Spain - 2007

Best laid plans

Before we grow responsible, tie the knot and look to spending our lives dedicated to a family, it is customary, or at least suggested, that we embark on a grand adventure, a last hoorah, a celebration of youth and stupidity – in short, a Euro-trip.

When the idea of a trip overseas with the boys was brought up, it turned out that Bob the Builder, who was one of my more educated friends, was going to be near the Spanish city of Almeria the week before we planned to fly out. He was giving a seminar at a nearby university about something intelligent. He tried to explain the content to me, but it exceeded both my capacity for understanding and my ability to focus. More importantly, however, he would be done his duties at the university just in time to meet up with us at whatever landing strip we chose. Since Almeria had an airport, we all decided this was a sign from above that we should all head over the North Atlantic Ocean and begin our Euro-trip on the warm Almerian tarmac.

At the time of this trip, my friends could generally commit to nothing intelligent or noteworthy. They could however be counted on for bad planning and mirthful debauchery, so we sat down and began the initial conceptual steps to our vacation by booking our plane tickets – and that was the literal extent of our planning.

Since I was already notorious for booking the wrong flights to the right places, I decided it was better to let Paparazzi book my flight along with his. I gave him cash so that he could book both our flights on his credit card to ensure I was on the right airplane with the rest of the crew. Big Mac had the gumption to book his own tickets and Bob the Builder was already overseas awaiting our impending arrival. Things seemed to be coming together nicely.

When we arrived at the Ottawa airport on the day of our departure, we all looked exactly like westerners do when they travel: jeans, running shoes, t-shirt, baseball cap, and a steaming cup of coffee in hand. We walked into the airport with our passports at the ready and I’m fairly certain swanky music played in the background in tempo with our slow-motion-movie-cadence-steps towards the counter. We thought we were the coolest cats in that airport as they checked our luggage and made sure our paperwork was kosher.

I was the last of the four boys to get his passport and flight information looked at. I always try to fandangle my way into a seat with more legroom at this point in my adventure process, but just as I was about to request an emergency exit with a few extra inches, the lady at the check-in counter looked at my flight information and began loudly talking to me. She wasn’t shouting at me, but it wasn’t far from it.

HELLO, SIR. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?

Here, my two amigos burst out laughter like the hyenas from The Lion King. Paparazzi nearly fell to the ground because he was giggling so deeply, and Big Mac’s boisterous guffawing filled every quiet space the airport had.

I stared at the woman behind the counter with a perplexed look on my face. I’m good. How are you?

She continued to yell at me, I’M FINE. THANKS FOR ASKING.

Why are you yelling at me? I hesitantly asked.

She looked puzzled for a moment then answered as loud as before, YOU CAN HEAR ME???

Yes. I’m standing directly in front of you and you are yelling at me. I hear you very clearly.

The lines that creased her forehead and the look in her eyes belied her complete confusion. She looked down at the ticket in her hand and read the information again. It says here that you are hearing impaired. She pointed to the ticket. "Are you not hearing impaired?"

No. My hearing is quite good actually.

Then why did you check ‘yes’ on the disability question when you booked your ticket? And then added that you were hearing impaired?

Paparazzi had actually sat down at this point and tears were rolling down his face. I decided he was clearly the culprit behind this situation.

I had my friend book the ticket. Must be some mix-up, I explained. I should have seen this coming but had never booked a flight online so I wasn’t aware that there were options that one could simply check off.

Oh, she continued awkwardly, but in a normal tone. Well I’m happy you’re not deaf.

Thank you. I’m also quite happy that I’m not deaf, I answered in a tone that seemed at first conversational but ended like her statement seemed strange. Worse, me agreeing to it seemed even more bizarre.

Did you want an aisle seat or window seat? she asked, regaining her composure.

About that, I was wondering if you had any of the security rows free for added leg room. I don’t fit in the normal seats very well.

That won’t be possible due to your handicap, she replied.

But I’m not handicapped. Or deaf, I reiterated. I was under the impression that we had figured that complication out, but now I found myself back at square one.

Yes, but the computer thinks you are, so it won’t let me put you in those seats. It sees you as a security liability. In the event that something goes wrong, you may not be able to hear what’s happening.

Is there any way to circumvent this?

Unfortunately not. she responded. The only way to get around it is if one of those seats is free after take-off. Then you can explain this unfortunate situation to the flight attendant and ask if you can move into it.

Is the flight fairly empty at least?

Unfortunately, it’s actually fully booked today. And your friends got the last seats with extra leg room.

This last statement was the cherry on the cake that my friends needed to burst into more fits of laughter at the expense of my own physical comfort… for six to seven hours.

I’ll take an aisle seat please… I said, admitting defeat. We hadn’t even gotten on the airplane yet and the pranks were already beginning. Welcome to travelling with guys.

When we finally entered the airplane, my two degenerate friends got to sit in the security row with legroom fit for an emperor. I continued for another twenty rows into the depths of the plane to my peasant aisle seat. I sat uncomfortably sideways beside a person who spoke none of the languages I spoke or understood. He was old and fell asleep before the plane even began moving down the tarmac. This would have been ideal if his mouth wasn’t open, aiming directly at me. He was snoring directly into my nostrils with the most offensive odour I had ever been assaulted with. It was the closest thing to mustard gas that I could imagine, and as such, to this day it’s the closest I’ve ever come to understanding trench warfare. I contemplated taking off my shoe and removing my sock to use it as a filter against the putrid stench that came at me in waves but felt that either the sock over my face or my naked foot in the aisle would garner unwanted attention.

I finally took two long pieces of Big Red chewing gum from my pocket and stuffed them in my mouth, hoping the fiery cinnamon scent would keep the mustard gas at bay.

I turned away and tried with difficulty to fit my legs in the space I had been given, but no matter what I did, my knees dug into the seat before me directly beneath the hard, plastic tray table. This meant that the table could not actually come down completely if my legs remained where they were; it would sit atop my knees and point at an angle towards the ceiling. So I could sit, or I could eat, but not both at once. Personal comfort was clearly of no priority when the designers thought up this flying contraption.

Things didn’t get worse until after take-off. That’s when the passenger sitting in front of me decided it was siesta time and receded their seat, or at least tried to, directly into my knees. The pain would have jarred me into a standing position but I had my seatbelt on so it forced my legs to extend into the aisle so I could remain seated as the glowing red sign above me suggested, but this position created further complications – tripping innocent pedestrians.

Somehow this plane was full of families and kids that kept running up and down the aisles unmonitored. They were using the walking areas the same way wild boars used forest trails and my feet became the old roots over which they had to navigate with their short, agile legs. Predictably, one of the kids eventually tripped over me and started loudly crying, and of course all the mothers and grandmothers in my section looked at me like I was a heartless brute. I think one even hissed at me. She would have noticed – if she had taken a second to look – that I had all the angles of a tall straw stuffed in a small container and the position of my feet was simply a casualty of my design.

I was relieved when everyone fell asleep and the only thing I had to deal with was timing my breaths with those of the character next to me. When he exhaled, I didn’t inhale, but, from time to time, he seemed to stop breathing then would let out a loud snore… in my face. I did my best to enjoy the in-flight movie but there was much discomfort competing for my attention.

Our first destination was Heathrow Airport in London – or so we thought. Upon landing, my friends stretched like lions after a fine nap, rested and ready for a new day. I looked more like an old ape that had remained nervously awake in a tree for the last decade.

Regardless, we emerged from the plane with all the confidence of Christopher Columbus when he walked off his boat and declared himself in India while standing with both feet solidly in America.

Well guys, we have two hours to kill before our next flight. Maybe I’ll get a cool European haircut or something, said Paparazzi. His red hair looked shabby enough that it became apparent he had been thinking about this for a few weeks.

Let’s find our gate first, so we know where to wait for the next flight, I suggested.

We all sat there before a map of the airport, which seemed small considering the international notoriety of Heathrow.

What’s our gate number? I asked.

Gatwick, replied Big Mac looking at his ticket.

Why would they name it that? Do you think Gatwick is Olde English for gate? Usually gates are numbered, aren’t they? To make them universally easy to understand, no? I wondered out loud.

A security guard saw the puzzled look on our faces and came over to assist us, May I help you, gentlemen?

Ya, we’re looking for a gate named Gatwick, said Big Mac.

That’s not a gate, Sir. That’s another airport.

What? How far is it from here? I asked.

About two hours. Unless you take a London taxi, which will get you there in less time, but it won’t be cheap.

I thought we were landing at Heathrow, said Paparazzi.

This isn’t Heathrow, said the security man, fighting back an overpowering laugh. This is Stansted.

What? London has three airports?! asked Big Mac.

Four, replied the man. Heathrow, Luton, Gatwick, and Stansted. When does your connecting flight leave?

In two hours, replied Big Mac.

Pick up your luggage and get in a taxi quickly, lads. You have absolutely no time to spare.

He pointed us to the conveyor belt with the luggage from our flight. We ran to it, found our luggage and hailed a cab. When one stopped before us, we piled in. I told the driver, Drive fast and take chances. We need to get to Gatwick within the hour if possible. The tires squealed, and we left Stansted Airport and Paparazzi’s trendy European haircut behind.

Traveller’s Note: When we booked this trip, we tried to save money on flights by doing all the research and booking everything ourselves. However, the money we saved on the flights, we spent on a cab across London, which, in the words of the man at the airport, was not cheap. Sometimes, it pays to keep it simple and get the more direct flight to a location. It’s more expensive, but it also saves you time, energy, and headaches. Most importantly, the more time you spend with your feet in another country, the more time you have to make memories. Don’t get me wrong, sitting in the back of a taxi with a few large men is also memorable; just not for the same reasons.

We got to Gatwick without a moment to lose and were ushered through security quickly so we wouldn’t miss our flight. It was short in duration compared to the previous one – thank God.

The plane landed in Almeria late in the day and Bob the Builder was already waiting to greet us with open arms. He’d arrived at the airport early and rented a grey family sedan that I had never seen before in Canada – a Skoda. We excitedly put our bags in the sizeable trunk to begin our trip into the great beyond, forgetting that we were all likely really tired and feeling the effects of jet lag. We were far too excited to rest, and the vehicle had more legroom than the airplane, so, as far as I was concerned, we were sitting in the lap of luxury.

The late day temperature was warm, and we all travelled with our windows down to enjoy the first afternoon of our Eurotrip. Bob the Builder was at the wheel and Paparazzi rode shotgun as the engine started. The two biggest fellas, Big Mac and myself were relegated to the back.

Aside: Big Mac was strong-jawed and looked fierce… that was until he cracked a smile and started to laugh loudly, which he did often with boyish ease. His name stems from his inordinate size, for he stood about 6’6 and was built like a Mack truck – hence his name. On a good day, he weighed in at 250 pounds and just by looking at him you’d think he wasn’t athletic due to his size. But once he laced up a pair of running shoes, he became more nimble than most ballet dancers half his size and a third his weight. His proportions, however, meant he had no choice but to manspread whenever he sat down. Being his seat partner was not what one could consider a treat.

I also quickly learned that Big Mac had a propensity for sweating. A pretty big guy myself, I felt like the backseat of the Skoda with the windows down was perfectly temperate. But one look at my seat partner and you’d swear he had just gotten into the car after hacking his way out of a thick rainforest with a dull machete. I actually thought he might be having a small heart attack with the size of the beads of sweat rolling down his face.

Dude, are you having a heart attack? I asked, worried that we might lose a player before the game was even afoot.

Paparazzi turned and looked at Big Mac from his passenger seat and Bob