Travel and Verse

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Roary Stories: Tales of the Travelosuar, part 3

February 11, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 93

That's amazing!

Many years ago, my wife and I traveled to both The Netherlands and Israel separated by only one month. I have written about both trips before. But I left out one major detail regarding a certain toy dinosaur. In fact, Roary’s traveled to roughly the same places that we’ve traveled. He doesn’t always make it out of the pocket in which he rides, but he’s there nonetheless.

Our first trip to The Netherlands took us to Haarlem, adjacent to the city of Amsterdam. Our main objective was to see the Corrie Ten Boom museum. So prior to flying in, I emailed the museum inquiring about a tour, specifically an English tour. My Dutch language abilities are nonexistent. We had it all set up and ready to go. Our trip to Haarlem opened our eyes and enlightened us. I can’t speak for Roary, but I imagine that he was also enlightened. But he’s made of rubber, so who knows?

Almost exactly one month later, Roary traveled to Israel with us. We hesitate to drag Roary out on all of our adventures. To be honest with you, the logistics of bringing a toy dinosaur to museums, UNESCO heritage sites, and religious locales, borders on the absurd. Everywhere I go, it’s in the back of my mind: where can I take a picture of this crazy little dino? And then, when I have mustered the courage and bottled up my embarrassment, I reach into my bag and brandish the one and only Roary.

Heads turn. Giggles begin. I can feel the eyes looking at me or looking away. When somebody does something odd, it can be hard to put your finger on it. As a paramedic, I often see behavior that disarms other people. When people do things that don’t fit inside our mental frame or expectation, it registers as, well, odd.

So when I placed Roary on a rock ledge with the Dome of the Rock of Jerusalem in the background, I imagined that the lookers-on would scoff and jeer. But alas, no.

Our friends who lived in Jerusalem at the time took us to this location specifically to find a pose for Roary. They were getting into it. The overlook on which we stood overwhelmed us. Possibly the most important city on the planet lay before us. Parts of the Old City could be seen from here. We had already stood at the Western Wall. I’d seen bullet holes in the stone from the Six-Day war in 1967. And now we stood with the Dome in the background, the sun setting before us.

And there sat Roary, in all his regal majesty. We snapped our photos. We all laughed. And out of nowhere I heard a Dutch-tinted English voice.

“That’s amazing!”

I turned to see another traveler gawking at our escapades.

I smiled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That’s amazing!”

Confused as ever, I just smiled again and said something stupid, like, “Oh yeah,” or, “thanks.” I can’t remember. The only thing stranger than me taking a picture of my toy dinosaur by the Dome of the Rock, was this older Dutch guy standing by as a curious observer.

He called his wife over. And now she began watching.

“That’s amazing,” she repeated in the same flabbergasted style.

As I neared the point of calling the Israeli loony bin, the gentleman strolled over to me and asked me a very unexpected question.

“May I borrow?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“My camera?” I asked. What else could he mean?

“No, no—the dinosaur!”

I slowly handed Roary over the clearly wacko Dutch guy. He reached out and grabbed him. He then hurried over to the same ledge Roary had just finished his photo shoot. He propped Roary up, jut like we had done before, and began taking his picture.

I have since that moment felt less and less embarrassed with taking pictures of Roary. People get it. It’s fun. It’s funny. And it’s something we can enjoy everywhere we go. When people look and laugh, they are most likely laughing because it’s hilarious, no because it’s embarrassing.

But this story isn’t over.

As we spoke with our new friends, they told us how they hailed from the city of Haarlem in The Netherlands. We said that we had just returned from there and excitedly told them of our trip to a lovely little museum in that very city. To top it all off, the wife exclaimed that she currently works at and curates that exact museum. In fact, I had probably been emailing with her regarding an English-speaking tour, not one month ago. She conducts the Dutch tours.

Laughs and smiles were shared all around. And I can only say that I am thankful for the little dinosaur that helps us grow closer to people around the world. He even helps to unite strangers in the most unique ways.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Part 2: How it began

He Prays at the Feet of a Dead Man

February 8, 2021 / / 2 Comments

I hesitated to write the following post. The main goal of this blog is to entertain people, offer them joy, and give a glimpse of the world abroad. Most of the writings you find here are lighthearted and tell tales of travels.

What follows wanders slightly from the intended path. What follows shows the dark and light of what I do. I rarely write poetry or stories about my work as a paramedic. But my work life, travel life, personal life, and Christianity are actually all one. The overflow of these things produces my poetry. And though what follows may start in darkness, I promise it ends in light. I promise it ends in Hope.

 

He Prays at the Feet of a Dead Man

 

One moment standing, drawing breath

Heart pounding unaware of

Death

At the door

Breath

No more

-Our Father, who art in heaven-

Help is coming- “soon” is an eternity

But the caring-ones come

Hastily

They fight

Skillfully

For life

-Hallowed be thy name-

Yet, despite hopeful care

Death smiles

That Evil smile

And we despair

Battle done

No more trial

Death has won

-Thy kingdom come-

Mourning tears stain cheeks

Streaks down makeup

Of mothers

Of wives

Now alone

Family, minus one

-Thy will be done-

stop

Turn and notice the Cross

On the kitchen wall

House awash

With God

I think, “Not lost”

And wife gives a nod

-On earth as it is in heaven-

Here, a poorly kept secret

Of a faith till the end

This secret

A burning life

Alight

With Christ

and so…

Dabbing eyes now

And in sorrow, smiling

Knowing how

This man

This dead man

On the floor

No more

Drawing Breath

Can yet live

Death, you have no sting

For this man

Who had faith in a King

Was truly delivered from evil

-Our Father, who art in heaven-

anthony forrest

Roary Story: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 2

January 28, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 92

How it began

Traveling the world accompanied by a toy dinosaur draws attention. And I am not one for drawing unneeded attention. And to top it off, I imagine most people don’t think to themselves, “there must be an excellent reason why this full-grown man is playing with a toy dinosaur by the Liberty Bell.”

I assure you, lookers-on, there is a reason. Good or not, you be the judge.

Once upon a time, in the wild west of Cody, Wyoming, there lived a small boy with a love of dinosaurs. This is a ridiculous statement, since all small boys love dinosaurs. One Christmas or birthday or Easter (some such gifty-day), the small boy received a plastic mesh bag filled with delightful plastic dinosaurs. There were triceratopses and brachiosaurs and tyrannosaurs and all-kinds-of-saurs.

The boy loved playing with his dinosaurs. Until one day, the boy returned home from church with his family and found that the dinosaurs had been brutally deformed and mutilated.

The dinosaurs lay scattered across the living room floor. My seven-year-old mind struggled to grasp such a horrifying mass grave of plastic dinos. It did not take a criminal autopsy to discover that the family dog, Bogie, would now be labeled a plastic dinosaur serial killer. None went unmaimed. Each bore the wounds of missing faces, lopped tails, and amputated legs. How can this poor boy play with these terrifying toys that once gave him so much joy? In the words of the immortal Joseph Conrad in his novel Heart of Darkness, “The horror!”

As you can imagine, I was indeed horrified. But that was ages ago. And I promise, my mental and behavioral health has not overly suffered from loss of dinosaurs. And I have since forgiven and granted clemency and full pardon to the schnauzer known as Bogie.

As you can very well imagine, I remind my family of this story often. I joke with them that such trauma scarred me for life. It’s all in jest.

Twenty years later, we all met at a hotel in Fargo, ND. It was one of those rare times when we all get together. With family spread all over the US, seeing everybody at once borders on the impossible.

“This is for you,” my parents said, handing me a small gift. I tore the wrapping paper wildly. To my delight, they had given me a small rubber and plastic dinosaur—a T-rex. And we all had a great laugh about how now I couldn’t tell the story of having my childhood ruined by dino-destructive trauma. (I still bring it up. No one can stop me!)

The next morning, I awoke with craftiness and hilarity in my heart. I proceeded to take pictures of the little T-rex in all sorts of comical positions performing impossible actions, such as brushing his teeth and sitting in the hotel hot tub. I began texting these pictures to the family at around 6 a.m.

Each text said one thing: roar. Thus, Roary was born. And thus he came into our lives. He now travels all over the world, seeking adventure and mischief. He has been in some fun pictures and has given us a great amount of joy. We enjoy the reactions we get from on-lookers. And we enjoy the objective of taking a picture with Roary in remarkable locations.

“What have we started,” my family bemoaned, all those years ago in Fargo.

But it started long ago, in a living room far, far away—with a little boy, distraught over losing his plastic toys.

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Roary Story: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 1

January 21, 2021 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 91

Seattle Bus Ride

I hear it all the time:

“It rains constantly in Seattle.”

But each time I go there, the sun shines. Apparently, they get something over 150 days of rain a year. But is that all day? Or just part of the day. I don’t know.  Sure, the city lies on the coast in a very temperate zone. It’s almost like a North American version of Barcelona, Spain, just not as hot. But though they tons of rain, it’s worth a visit. And all political and social strife you might see on the news can’t change the fact that this is coffee Mecca, and that the Pike Place Market has outrageous fish and chips.

But I wasn’t there for the food, coffee, meteorology, or sociopolitical lesson. I simply missed my flight. But a missed flight is nothing to complain about when it gets you a 24-hour stopover in a place like Seattle.

So here I was, sitting on a bus near the Space Needle. At that moment I turned and looked down to my backpack. Something seemed amiss. The side pocket looked baren. And in fact, it was. Suddenly a cold sweat developed and I began frantically looking around my seat and on the floor.

Where was he?!

Panicked, I say out loud, “Roary?”

The person sitting next to me cast me a concerned and embarrassed look. But I don’t pay him any attention.

And at this point, you may need an explanation. For the past several years, I have carried a small, rubber and plastic dinosaur—a t-rex to be exact.

His name is Roary—you know, because he’s a dinosaur and he, well, roars.

He rides in the side pocket of my backpack and I take him out at various locales around the world for less-than-ordinary photo opportunities. And it has gotten me concerned looks from concerned citizens on multiple occasions. While I have never declared or claimed even a modicum of mental stability, I promise, it’s harmless.

At least, that’s what I thought until I looked around my seat on a Seattle bus and couldn’t find Roary anywhere. Perhaps this attachment isn’t healthy after all. I tell myself that I will have time to get a psych evaluation later, I have to find my green little friend! I fear that I left him at a coffee shop. Travel would not be the same without him.

Roary has traveled far and wide. He has been to five continents, almost 20 countries, and every State in the Union. And I’ve apparently betrayed him, forgetting him on a dirty table in a dirty coffee shop while I sipped a latte. How could I?

I was actually nearing the shedding of tears when I grabbed my backpack. I stepped off the bus and slung the bag over my shoulder. Just then I happened to see what I had missed.

I have two side pockets in my backpack; one on the left and the other on the right. I usually let Roary ride around in the left pocket. But today, I must have put him in the right pocket.

“Roary!” I cried out loud (with people all around me).

“There you are! I’ve been worried sick.”

Reunited, I promised to take better care of him. And I don’t think there were too many hard feelings. At least, he’s never said anything about it.

anthony forrest

Finding Peace when the Skies Grow Dark

January 11, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Oh, the pains of the searching

and seeking

to find

peace in a time

of chaos and fear.

Though life may appear

dark

and the evil stark,

fear not,

for the sun shall always rise.

 

 

Oh, the woeful tales cried in the streets;

they vie for attention,

and at their very mention

cause memory loss

of the Maker,

the Orchestrator,

of all the world in full.

 

 

Oh God, grant us clarity—

your charity, we beg

when dark grow the

skies.

Open our scaly eyes

to the Prince of Peace,

the Righter of ships,

from who’s lips

springs the Sword

of the Word—

the ruin of all evil things.

 

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Of Strong Hands and Reservations

December 31, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Once a month I will post a favorite story from the year prior

Travel Journal, 90

Would you like to hear a confession?

I had never had a massage. I’ve heard tell of two-hour-long massages. A complete stranger touching a rubbing my body in a calculated and meticulous way just hasn’t ever attracted me. And then when they’re done…you pay them. Paying for a massage seems a little, shall we say, illegally scandalous?

But this story is not about preconceptions. It’s about stepping into and through the looking glass, breaking down barriers. It’s about trying strange dishes and going strange places.

It’s about strong hands.

I walked into the house and found my dear friends from college (eons ago) speaking with their language tutor. As they chatted, I disappeared to shower away the travel-blues and airplane funk. Even more than sleep, I find that a cup of coffee and a hot shower cures most ailments and alleviates most travel woes. But if I was asked to nail down one negative aspect of travel, I would immediately reply with, “back pain.” Sitting knees-to-chest on a plane and sleeping in all manners of positions wreaks havoc on my body. And though the hot shower helped, it had been nearly 8,500 miles of airplane travel to get here.

After cleaning up, I joined in on the English side of the conversation.

“You okay?” I was asked, upon sitting. I must have winced.

“Oh yeah,” I lied.

“Are you sure?” My poker face could use some work.

“I’ll be alright,” I confessed, “my back just gets sore when I travel.”

Translations ensued and bilingual discussion commenced. It was decided (for me?) that I should get a massage. But I have never had a massage, said I.

No matter, said they. I needed a massage—but not just any massage.

No.

The only hands with power enough to lift the dark discomfort from my body were the hands of the great Pak Omar. Who, you might ask?

“His hands are like magic,” said the local language teacher. But finding him could be difficult. And for the next several days, we tried getting in contact with him, to no avail.

I was not sure if he even existed—this magical remover of back pain. Was he a legend? A name whispered in the wind? Was he a story fathers with aching backs believed in, like a pain soothing Santa Clause?

But finally, one day, we received news of his whereabouts and an appointment was set.

We pulled up to the small home to find Pak Omar waiting for us. We removed our shoes and he led us into the house. A couple of wooden benches lined the wall and two children watch a television on the floor. Omar disappeared and reappeared wearing what looked like a nicer, new shirt. I took his hand and noticed the sheer strength in this elderly Malaysian man (who, by the way, is greatly respected in his community).  My friend communicated my back-pain. He led me into a small room with a little wooden table, a pillow on one end.

Face-down, I laid on the cold wood and Pak Omar went to work. With those powerful hands he poked and prodded and whittled away the knots. Sometimes it felt like a waterfall of relief. And sometimes it felt like he was running me over with a large truck. But after twenty minutes, I knew I was a different man. Not only did I find relief from my back pain, but I now understood massage. But then he sat me up and looked at my shoulders.

With grunting, we tried communicating. He told me to turn my head from side to side. I did. Then I told me to reach and touch my toes. I did that, too. But he was not pleased with my performance.

Soon he put me on the floor. And before I knew what was going on, he sat behind me, wrapped his legs around and under mine and used an English word that frightened me.

“Relax” 

And with little notice, he started cracking my back and shoulder like twigs and branches. I stood up in a daze and Pak Omar went to work on my shoulders and neck.

I must have gotten the premier package, thought I.

But when all was done, I felt like a little Lego man who had been disassembled and then put back together. And boy did I feel great.

We shared a cup of tea and, without any language skills, talked about nothing. We just smiled and grunted back and forth.

Both my friend and I got massages that day. And it cost us 12 US dollars, for both of us. If I lived there, in the beauty and wonder of Malaysia, Pak Omar would have a steady client in this weary traveler.

 

anthony forrest

Better Things to Come

December 28, 2020 / / 0 Comments

as the old comes to close

the end now in sight

it’s easy to glance backward

at the plight

and failures

of the unmet goals

so resolute at the first

we met life with thirst

ready to drink it down

but this glass had holes

and now it ends

a new time is come

more of the same?

perhaps

but such a shame

to go about this world

without a hope stirred

in our hearts

awaiting

better things to come

 

anthony forrest

The Reason

December 21, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Nativity we found in Israel

Not for lights not for laughter

Not for feasts nor the fellowship after

 

Not for friends nor for family

Not for the gifts though given are many

 

Without all these things a reason there is none

Save that God sent His only begotten Son

 

He is the reason that Christmas is here

His Child should be the focus of our holiday cheer

 

Not for trees in the houses nor boxes on the shelves

Not for the time we spend shopping for somebody else

 

Without all these things a reason there is none

Save that God sent His only begotten Son

 

anthony forrest

Dark Magic

December 17, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 89

My work as a paramedic has led me down strange roads. And the care I’ve provided has caused me to think differently about modern medicine. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in modern medicinal treatments. But if I was some kind of plague doctor in the Early Middle Ages, my type of patient care would probably get me burned at the stake, or maybe drowned, or both. I hear that was pretty popular.

For example, I was treating a patient many, many years ago. As part of this person’s treatment, I administered a very strong medication with a psychoactive and hallucinogenic affect. It’s not a medication used often; it can be an addictive-controlled substance. And to be honest with you, I didn’t use it very often. But as I injected the medicine into the patient’s IV port, the patient’s eyes jittered for a while, he paused like a possessed mannequin, and time (for him at least for him) stopped. After a few moments, the patient began to move like a toy being rewound. He eventually looked at me with a shocked look on his face.

“How do you feel,” I asked.

With a wild look in his eyes he said, “It feels like you pulled my soul through the back of my head.”

If that wouldn’t get me gullied in the market square back in A.D. 850, what would?

As a general rule, I personally try to stay away from most medication. But I didn’t feel like I had a choice at the Haneda airport in Tokyo. We had just finished a great visit to Japan, one of our favorite places. My wife was leaving for the States soon. But my flight on to Malaysia to visit a college friend would leave two hours later. I had worked a 12-hour night shift that culminated in climbing onto a 13-hour flight to Tokyo. We had a whirlwind trip of excellent food and great experiences.

But I was tired. And I still had 10 more days in Malaysia.

Between all the traveling and the endless nights of work as a paramedic, sleep isn’t exactly something I get often.

After I got my wife to her gate and kissed goodbye, I wandered the airport in search of some coffee and then, I saw it—a small pharmacy nudged in the upstairs of the airport. It looked like a place most Americans wouldn’t go. Perfect.

My eyes scanned the shelves for something to help me sleep on my forthcoming 8-hour red-eye. And then I saw it.

The box had a little crescent moon and a tiny person sleeping on a bed with a line of “Zzzzzzz” floating from his head.

Being medically minded and endlessly curious, I got out the ‘Ol Google Translate and went to work on the ingredients list.

And Lo, listed before my eyes, were two ingredients made directly from Barbiturates—that long lost sedative no longer in use in the US. But here in Japan, a guy can buy the proverbial good stuff.

I bought my packet and walked to my gate. Just prior to the flight, I popped one tablet (as recommended) and then an additional two Benadryl (as is entirely not recommended).

The next eight hours are a blur of slow-motion flight attendants and on/off sleeping in strange positions. Never have I produced so much saliva. But I will say this; the flight went pretty quick.

Dark magic indeed.

 

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Seamless

December 3, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Every month I post a favorite story from the year prior.

From Travel Journal, 41

Both my wife and I grew up in small towns, I in the west and she in the north. We both remember dirt roads, corner stores, small communities, smaller buildings, and limited diversity. Though we live in a small town now, our lives are heavily peppered with city influences.

Traveling to cities over the years has grown on us, taught us. And though each may have their similarities, each city is different.

Our faces hit the sunlight as we climbed up and out of the hole in the ground. With subway stations every quarter mile or so, getting around is easy. All around us rose sky-scraping towers. And the streets were paved with the purest of golds—street food. At first blush, it looks like any other city, until, right in the middle of it all, a clearing in the concrete jungle reveals the Kabuki-za Theater.

No, this is not New York, Chicago, London, or Paris.

This is Tokyo.

Some cities claim to mix old and new. But no place achieves such a pure blend as Tokyo. To your left: Yodobashi Camera, selling technology that most Americans won’t see for years. To your right: a Shinto shrine that is older than most sovereign nations.

And the blend is seamless.

From the subway station we step onto the famous Ginza and up to the old theater. We wait in line to buy our tickets, just for one act. Our attention spans are far too short for five hours of theater. Nearly a hundred of us filed into the doors and up the elevator, onto the fourth-floor mezzanine of the theater.

A curtain hangs below. It depicts Mount Fuji—the Rising Sun in the background. The play begins; the curtain is drawn. The actors below dance and portray an ancient story from the olden-time, the time of the Samurai. Their movements are lavishly exaggerated. And the milky-white face paint can be seen easily from my seat in the balcony. Drums beat. Three-stringed tones of the shamisen call. The audience shouts strange encouragements to their entertainers on the stage.

Yet not too far away, on the busy street below, taxis take businessmen to airports. Women walk into Louis Vuitton Stores. And sitters in booths try to convince passersby to change their cell phone plan.

Seamless and new.

Timeless and old.

This is Tokyo.

 

anthony forrest

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