Afghanistan. It was...something else. I did four tours there, Kabul, Bagram (twice) and Kandahar. I was cleaning out my email  and came across the most amusing list from the now defunct website ilovebagram.com. Tongue in cheek, of course, because no one who has ever spent time at Bagram loves it. The site was dedicated to people, military and contractors, who wanted to spout off reasons why they (don't) love Bagram. Here are a few curated gems that anyone who has spent anytime in the Stan, but particularly at Bagram, will find amusing.

1. Finding footprints in the porta-potties.

2. Getting to live with three other dudes on bunkbeds in an 8 x 20 cell.

3. Waking up in the middle of the night because the guy sleeping above you is pissing in a bottle.

4. The flies. Oh God, the flies...

5. Bagram: home of the budget depleting contractor.

6. Getting turned on by sling cleavage, it's the push up bra of Bagram. (this refers to the female soldiers carrying their weapon with a sling cross body)

7. A Bagram 6 is still a Jalalabad 9! (Bagram - more people = more female contractor's and soldiers.  J-bad was a smaller Forward Operating Base (FOB).

8. Port-a Jon grammar lessons. (full disclosure: I carried a red sharpie and gave some of those lessons.)

9. Attention on the FOB, attention on the FOB, there will be a controlled detonation in five minBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!utes.

10. Stop shitting on the shower floors.

11. Because the guy who sits next to you in the office has headphones on all the time and he thinks no one hears him when he farts. 

12. So you say the Russians abandoned this base. I wonder why?

13.  1 year - E5 - Base+BAH (Base Allowance Housing)+No Taxes = $48000/ 4 Months BAF (Bagram Air Base) - Contractor - With Taxes = $48000.

14. Seeing that one random Cost Guard guy once every six months and wondering WTF every time. 

15. Because masturbating quietly is a desirable quality in a roommate. 

16. Because my mother just asked me what a "fleshlight" was. Thanks guys. 

17. Because I get to hear smokers complain about air quality. 

18. Wondering what happened at the haircut/spa place that forces them to have a "no happy ending" sign.

19. Because yesterday Isaw a guy wearing an umbrella hat walking down Disney. (Disney was the main drag at Bagram and was named after Specialist Jason Disney who was killed at Bagram in 2002.)

20. As a gated community with a private airport, shouldn't BAF be nicer?

    Afghanistan. The housing was shit, the hours were long, the work was hard (but interesting) and many of the people were great. I'm still in contact with many of the friends I made there. The money was also great, which, TBH, was the real reason I was there. But hey, there was some fun to be had at Bagram (and every other base I was on) and I had it. Life is too short not to try to enjoy wherever you are and whatever you're doing. 

Smooth move or smooth move ex lax?

       I’m a fairly seasoned traveler. I’ve gotten on and off of a lot of planes, trains, automobiles into and out of a lot of hotels. One might think that I’m so seasoned, I’ve got dates, time changes, reservations and these check into-check out of things down, right? One would be quite wrong. I have a fantastic record of screwing travel related things up. Here’s just a few of my many (mis)adventures in travel:

     I was headed back to Afghanistan for another run in the sandbox and was in the Turkish Airlines lounge in DC. My flight was on Lufthansa metal, going first to Frankfurt, then to Dubai. I thought I had plenty of time and the Turkish lounge is one of the best in Dulles. I was enjoying my time there, noshing on the delicious food and perhaps enjoying an adult beverage or two. I strolled out of the lounge and to the gate (which was right next to the lounge) and heard my name being frantically called. Alan Taylor, final boarding call, Alan Taylor, please come to the gate immediately. Then I strolled right on to the plane as if I didn’t almost miss my flight. These days, I’m usually in the pre-boarding group so I don’t repeat that genius move.

                                     Turkish Airlines Lounge in DC, scene of one of my many travel crimes

     The next hiccup didn’t include hearing my name shamed over the airport loudspeaker. It was several years later. I was still in Afghanistan and was going to meet Gwyne in Bangkok. There was one commercial flight from Afghanistan and that was to Dubai, it got in the morning and my flight was that night at 2130. I found a cheap place to stay in Bur Dubai where I found a biryani wallah and whiled away some time in the souks for the afternoon. I got to the airport super early to the airport (due to my *ahem* errors in my past) and was told check in was closed. What did I do this time? The flight was due to leave at 2130. I was living on a military base at the time. I managed to somehow get in my head that 2130 (9:30) was 2330 (11:30). I had to find another place to stay in Dubai that night and paid $50 to change my ticket for the next day. I got in to Bangkok a few hours later than Gwyne. I also had to call her and fess up to missing my flight. Brilliant, right? But wait, there’s more!

                                                                       Biryani in Dubai

     Back to name shaming. I was going to Haneda through Los Angeles. All Nippon Airlines (ANA) was my ride for that flight. They are Star Alliance partners with United and I’m very much married to that network. I booked my ticket through United and showed my passport from wherever I was initially coming from, but ANA in Los Angeles needed to see it again. Alan Taylor, Alan Taylor, please report to the gate. They just wanted to see my passport. All good. But no one likes hearing their name called in the airport. 

ANA - the service is superior to any US legacy carrier

     Star Alliance network. In a marriage, sometimes you can experience a little bit of turbulence. I made a reservation from Istanbul to Belgium, Belgium to DC, DC to Huntsville. All reservations made with my United cc on United’s site. Turkish Airlines is a member of the network. I had a separate record locator code for Turkish, had made a seat selection on their network and got to the airport more than 3 hours early. It was Covid times and I had one of those nasty brain stabs that was good for that day only. I walk to the business class line, show my passport, and they said, “You’re not on this flight.” First name Alan, last name Taylor? Who? Here’s my UA record locator number. No. Here’s my Turkish Airlines record locator number. No. United did me dirty. I asked if there were any seats going to Belgium, they said the flight was sold out and then I asked them if they were flying anywhere else in the US that day. I bought another ticket to Houston, where I didn’t really want to go. I don’t think that mistake was on me, but it added to me being a pretty nervous traveler. 

                                Istanbul was great. The experience at the airport in Istanbul? Not so much.

     Laos. A repressive communist country. I was there on a visa run and was through the first security, second security and then immigration. I was getting ready to settle in the lounge and then heard it. Again. Taylor. Alan Arthur Taylor. Taylor. Alan Arthur Taylor, please return to the check in counter. I had to surrender my passport (I had already been punched out of the country) and make my way back through security. My bag was on the ground at the counter and they just pointed and said, “power bank.” I took it out, fumbled my way through security and got my passport back. It was okay in the end, but you know, in Laos? A little unnerving. 

    Laos. Where they still use a palm frond for a broom. That’s where I had my name called in the airport. 

     This is by no means a complete account of my travel foibles. There’s more. There’s so much more. But I’ve got it down now, right? Smooth air ahead? More like smooth move, ex lax.

     

    The power of the zebra, at least in in Warsaw and Krakow, Poland is strong. Amazingly so. Also known as the crosswalk in the the U.S., I was stunned at how absolutely compliant people in those two cities were when it came to crossing the street. There are zebras with stop lights and zebras that exist in the wild, without lights. I was out for a walk one morning and the pedestrian light at the zebra was red. There were no cars in sight. No cars or trams coming on the left, and nothing approaching on the right. But nobody crossed the street. No one moved. They waited for the pedestrian sign to turn green. Then we crossed. And at any zebra without a light, all you have to do is put your big toe out in the road and cars will stop. So much power! I had no idea what was going on, but I went with the zebra flow of things. Gwyne and I were walking along the sidewalk on the left hand side of the road towards a museum and my navigation told me to go straight. But I didn’t. I turned right, then turned left, then left again. We could have crossed the road once and stayed on the left hand side of the street. Gwyne turned her head back, noticed that we had crossed the street three times to stay in the same side of the sidewalk we were originally on and raised her eyebrows in question. I said, “The zebra. You cross at the zebra. That appears to be the law in Poland.” Later on, the same day, two young kids crossed the street. The green pedestrian sign blinks more rapidly to indicate it’s going to turn red shortly, so chop chop when it’s blinking. The young woman ran, the guy with her continued to stroll across the street as the pedestrian sign turned red. She turned, pointed at him and yelled, “Criminal! Criminal!” We laughed and laughed and laughed at that exchange. The next day, we took a train from Krakow to Berlin. Towards the end of the trip, we met a young woman (35) who was originally from Poland. I asked her about the power of the zebra and she said, “It wasn’t always that way. But now, there are unmarked police around and cameras. It’s 50 or 100 euro if you don’t follow the zebra.”     

                                                                Smile if you follow the zebra

Here, I am normal

     I’ve always had a whacked up Circadian rhythm. When I was a wee lad of 4, I woke up at my regular time and was peckish so I went to the refrigerator and got an apple to snack on. I wasn’t partial to the skin at that time, so I attempted to peel said apple. With a steak knife. Maybe because I was 4 and didn’t have the motor skills of an older fellow or perhaps because it was 4:00 am-ish, that steak knife slipped and I ended up with a trip to the emergency room and the first of many scars. That’s right, 4:00 am. Normal for me even back then. And a bit late for me these days. 

     When I was working as an HR Manager in Kuwait, we had 24/7 operations. Some of the folks on night shift complained there was no HR representation available to them, so I volunteered to take the newly established 5:00 am to 5:00 pm shift to be able to take care of all of the questions/issues that popped up at night. Other members of the staff were relieved that I heroically stepped up to take that time slot, which meant getting up at around 3:30 am to get ready and make the drive and wait in line to get through security. Heroic? Not in the slightest. Quite cowardly, in fact. I was terrified of the 7:00 am to 7:00 pm shift. Getting off at 7:00 pm meant getting home at around 8:30 pm. And in my whacked out sleep that’s frequently the middle of the damn night. 

     Some people are night owls, some are early birds. My early bird-ness is off the scale. Or so I thought. I’ve been in Thailand and mostly Vietnam for the past month +.  I’ve been coming to Thailand fairly regularly for about the last 40 years but I only visited Vietnam for the first time in 2019. On that trip, I discovered that my Circadian rhythm chirps to the same tune that many Vietnamese hear. And this time around things are the very much the same. 

     I started out in Bangkok to visit Bumrungrad Hospital, where I like to come every year for a comprehensive physical. I had just the first few days planned because I wanted to get a clean bill of health before thinking of my next move. Clean bill of health: cha-Ching! Then I spent a few days marveling at the fancy pot stores that had opened up since last year in Thailand and then hopped over to Vietnam. I thought I’d spend a few days in Da Nang and after day one, I planted my flag. Why? Well, there’s decent surf, there were a few museums I wanted to see and because my people were right outside the hotel, on the beach. Walking, exfoliating their skin with the sand, doing syncopated dances, exercising and swimming. There are people on the beach at around 4:00 am. It’s crowded at 4:30. By 5:00, it’s a party, completely thronged. Mostly old people, and that’s okay because I’m old too. Their Circadian rhythm says to me, “You are like us. This is okay. This is normal.”

                                                   Early morning aerobics/syncopated dancing

                                                       By 5:00 am, the beach is packed

     I think it’s fantastic. It’s been pretty much the same in Hanoi, HCMC and Nha Trang - a LOT of people out early. Very early. Dancing. Playing badminton. Cycling. Of course, in part they are out at that time to beat the heat because it does warm up quickly. I’ve been all over SE Asia, and I’ve never seen so many people out - exercising - so early. When I head back, I’ll miss the long walks on the beach at a reasonable (to me and my Communist Vietnamese friends) time and the fantastic fruit and food as well. Time to settle back into the normal rhythm (for me) of life. 6th try at retirement was a charm!

 

The fruit

And the food. Mango salad. I’ll be adding this to my repertoire.

 

Ali

      As I age, I think about people who have changed my life in some way. One of those folks? Ali Zeitoun. I had transferred from the University of Hawaii to Texas A&M University at Galveston (and that’s a story for another day). My very first night there, I was introduced to two girls who were deep frying pork chops in their dorm room. They cheerfully said, “We’re eating healthy! We’re having salad with dinner tonight.” So to frame this narrative some, I was in the hippy phase of my life. I grew sprouts, swam, surfed, did yoga, put yeast on popcorn and drank lemon water with cayenne. Hey, we were all young once, right? 

     But back to Ali. I was minding my own business dealing with the culture shock from moving from Hawaii to Texas one day, drinking a bottle of said lemon water with cayenne and he accosts me and says, “Is that lemon water with cayenne?” Okay. Here I am on the campus of Texas A&M University at Galveston where some people think a healthy dinner is deep fried pork chops with a salad and this guy spots a bottle of lemon water with cayenne. “Uh, yes it is.” He takes the bottle out of my hand and starts guzzling, because I guess if you’re drinking that stuff in Galveston, Texas and someone else sees it and knows what it is, it’s fair game. 

     And just like that, we were friends. There was a small tight group of us in Texas that had lived in or were from Hawaii. Jack and Amy, Bill, Stu, Ali and myself. 

                                                    Stu, Ali and Bill, Galveston TX, 1982?

     Ali had traveled in India and spent some time in an Ashram studying yoga there. I asked him how he found the place, what it involved, how he got there, gimme some more information! He told me that it was a well worn path and there were lots of people doing it, all you had to do was go there, I’d meet plenty of people along the way and there were lots of different Ashrams. Just go. I graduated, worked for about 8 months and then I went. No one I knew before Ali had just…gone. And then I did. Before the internet, before cell phones we had the yellow book (Southeast Asia on a Shoestring), a camera and travelers checks. Know what? He was right. After a few stumbles, once you get on that backpacker’s trail, you meet people. My trip started out in Bangkok, which led me to living for few months (off and on) in a Buddhist monastery in South Thailand, then gong to India and spending time in an Ashram there studying yoga. 

     No matter what offbeat place I am in the world, I always think I’ll run into Ali - he’s that kind of citizen of the world. My serious travel experiences, my adventures (and many, many, many misadventures) started with Ali. He told me it was possible. Easy. He, with his stories of his travels, set up that pile of dry kindling. Maybe I lit the match, but without his tales and subtle prodding, I wouldn’t have spent a 1.5 years traveling around SE Asia and the Indian subcontinent in my youth. Those years really formed my world view and I’m grateful for the gentle push. Thanks Ali. 

Compromises. And checks.

     I had an interesting conversation a few days ago. I needed new checks, and I almost never use them or cash, but there you have it. I had just used the last one and thought it might be nice to have a few of those buggers on hand. So I called. The gentleman asked me to confirm my address and I said I lived in Huntsville, AL. I paused and then said...unfortunately. That was what sparked the conversation.

     Now before all of my Huntsville friends freak out, I'm the one who nudged Gwyne to move here, based on our own mutually agreed upon list of things we value in a place to live. They were weighted on a scale of 1 - 10 using an x/y matrix. During our talks, Gwyne would express doubt about a possible Huntsville move and I always said, “If you have a better suggestion/idea, I’m completely open.” Whenever I asked for better ideas, the silence was deafening. We started off resolving that there is no perfect place to live, BUT, these are things that we valued and rated:

1. Convenient (we are not people who want to live the rural life)

2. Close to a hub airport (we like to travel and have family all over, hub airports also have better fares)

3. Easy to use efficient mass transit available, desire to go carless (99% me)

4. Bicycle friendly (all on my part)

5. Money is an object (there are more desirable places to live than HSV if money weren’t an object)

6. Not cold and not oppressively hot - temperate climate

7. Close to the ocean (99% Gwyne)

8. Good medical facilities

9. Relatively safe

10. Relatively low rate of natural disasters

11. Strong economy

12. Good water supply (100% me)

13. Like minded people

14. Business friendly (as defined by the Economist)

I think we missed on 3, 4, 7 and 13. 

3 - (my) Desire to go carless. We do get by quite easily with only one car, we’re within walking distance of a Super Target. 

4 - Bicycle friendly. Hard miss. Santa Barbara is bicycle (mostly e-bikes for slackers these days) friendly. Boulder, same but without the e-bike madness. Crazy bike/pedestrian paths there and you can go wherever you want - easily - without a car. Huntsville. Not.bicycle.friendly.

7 - Close to the ocean (that was Gwyne). We’re not in Kansas, but we’re not close either. 

13 - Like minded people. Whoopsie! Huntsville is no bastion of liberal democracy, and 5 minutes outside of Huntsville and you can hear the banjos playing. Swinggg (and a miss!)

     Back to the conversation. He asked, “Why Huntsville?” I told him about our list and said we were looking for permanent home base. In our mid 50’s (back then) time to settle down, eh? We were living just outside of DC and loved it, but I refer you to item number 5 on our list. It’s stupid expensive to live in and around DC. I told him that the move was sparked because of something that didn't appear on our list. I said my wife is an extreme FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and I’m on the other end of the spectrum, a committed member of team JOMO (Joy Of Missing Out). We know more people in Huntsville, AL than anywhere in the world, and that's really important to Gwyne. And he said, "You have just described EXACTLY my relationship with my girlfriend, man, how do you make that work? My girlfriend is always wanting to go out and hang out with people and she's all political on FaceBook." I wanted to ask him if he had been following Gwyne's FB posts. We all have political opinions/leanings but she likes to splat hers out to the world on FB, TikTok these days as well. I told him I love my wife for who she is, what she does and how she thinks. And she loves me for who I am, what I do and what I think. We’re very different, and we acknowledge that. I encourage her to be who she is, go out and have lunch with her friends and she recognizes that isn’t my gig and lets me be happy in my tight friend bubble. I said all you can do is love your partner and find a balance that works for you. Listening and compromise are pretty big components of making things work as well.

    He paused and said, "Wow. That’s something else. When I get married, I'm going to say this guy named Alan made it possible." I said, “Hey, keep my name out of it. But I hope you find something that works for you and her. This works for us. It may not work for you. But don’t forget, there are two of you.”

     Now. How about some of those checks, just in case I need one again someday, k?

      

Corn school

      Like so many other things in my life, I didn’t plan this, it just happened. I went to…corn school. And it was kind of glorious. 

     Before I get to the fascinating curriculum, let’s back this bus up a bit. Céline and I took a road trip down to ruralsville, Louisiana to see Bill. Céline has known Bill since birth, Bill and I have known each other for nigh on 60 years and have shared many, many, many experiences and more than a few misadventures.

I’m the little fella in the foreground with zinc oxide (thanks mom!)
In the background are Bill’s mom and dad and two younger sisters, Sandy and Laura are there. And Bill too. Leslie wasn’t there, so this was pre-1966.

     While in transit, we called Bill and he asked us to pick up some garlic. Céline was quick to ask him to quantify how much garlic he wanted. Bill said, “A lot.” ‘A lot’ might mean one bulb to some people. Bill wanted six. Glad we asked! We took off to explore a few food desert towns, Morton, Brandon and Chunky MS. I don’t think many people visit those places because there wasn’t much to see. Siri did me wrong when she directed me to Coopers Grocery store about 6 miles outside of Morton, which sold locally grown tomatoes and was mostly a hardware store. There was not a whiff of garlic in either Brandon or Chunky. We finally found civilization along the way and bought more than the requested amount of garlic.

     On the boring interstate, Céline noticed an astonishing number of blown out tires on the side of the road and asked about them. Why does that happen? What do you do if it does? Even though I was still a little irritated with Siri for the Coopers Grocery store recommendation, we went with her and discovered: most blowouts are caused by bad road conditions (potholes), improperly inflated tires, heat, high speed, heavy loads and uneven tire tread. Factoid of the day and you’re welcome. But then what to do when you have a blowout? You will hear a loud noise, like an explosion. BOOM! Remain calm. That’s their first piece of advice. Remain calm. Imagine doing goat yoga. Breathe in. Breathe out. Your car will violently pull to one side or the other. Be present. Do not use the brakes. Be deliberate and pull over to the side of the road. Calmly, put your flashers on. When you hear a loud explosion driving at 70 mph, you will not remain calm. Life doesn’t work that way, so stop it with that advice.

     We get to nowheresville and turn off the surface roads as directed by my GPS. It is partially and patchily paved.There is nothing but corn on either side as far as the eye can see. Céline says, “Whoa,”and quickly gets her phone out to take a picture of well, a whole lot of corn and a very lonely road. We take a left down Savage Lane and…we have arrived at our destination. Hugs, laughs and a quick tour, followed by dinner. After dinner, Bill informs us he has enrolled us in corn school the following morning. His uncle has a farm, is a corn savant and has invited us to pick as much corn as we want and answer any questions we might have. Okay, the first fascinating piece of minutiae I learned was about the silk that sticks out of the ear of the corn and is also in the corn husk. 

There’s the silk, making sweet corn love to each individual kernel. Behind closed husks, of course

Every piece of that silk is attached to and has made sweet corn love to one kernel of corn. The thingamagig at the top of the stalk is called a tassel and is the male flower. The female flowers are the ears and the pollen is blown from the tassels to the silks protruding from each ear. And each string of silk, again, is attached to one kernel. I did not know that. Please tell me more! 

Tell me more, please!

Does baby corn come from corn? Isn’t it another kind of vegetable? Baby corn, it turns out, is aptly named, because it is…baby corn. Before the silk has time to work it’s way down to and get all jiggy with the kernels and pollinate away, the baby corn is harvested before well, you know what occurs. 

Baby corn do do do do do do do baby corn do do do do do do do do baby corn

As I did some graduate work after corn school, I found out most baby corn is grown in Thailand, which is why you rarely, if ever, see fresh baby corn for sale in the U.S. And final fun fact from corn school is that all corn: is technically a grain, a fruit and a vegetable. The ear, or cob of corn is a vegetable, each kernel is a grain and all grains are fruits. 

And there’s the gang. Go ahead. Ask us a question about corn. Or blowouts, we got that too.