Honduras 08: Archives

STEVE YACCINO writes:
When I'm preparing for a trip abroad, my friends and family often make fortune-cookie comments like, “You’ll come back a new person.” This statement—as it is a declaration, not a suggestion—either implies something lacking from my current self, which cannot be fully ruled out as an interpretation, or that there is a romanticism attached to the thought of traveling that anticipates internal transformation.

And why shouldn’t it? Travel, by nature, offers a healthy double dose of escapism and realism, as the traveler leaves the banalities of everyday life to experience new cultures and gain new perspective. The possibilities for adventure are endless and unpredictable!

But this change begins well before I step foot into any airport. As I pour over maps, brush up my Spanish, and make lists of things to pack, my imagination is hurled ahead to anticipate situations I may experience. Lying in bed at night, I'm already there. And though it is probably nothing like the actual place, my journey has already begun. So has the transformation. Just knowing I am about to travel alters my everyday perspective. I may return a different person than I left, but I don’t have to wait until the flight home to see things in a new light.

Steve Yaccino is an undergraduate journalism student.

STEVE YACCINO writes:
In recent travels and anticipation of our Honduras adventure, I've spent some time dusting off my somewhat pathetic Spanish II high school vocabulary. Over the past four years, I have forgotten the infantile feeling of knowing what I wish to communicate, yet having limited access to any expression of my desires.

There is also no literature class to escape to after the bell rings. My attempts at conversation in Spanish usually come out in small bursts of single words that I wrongly expect to represent all the well-formed sentences in my head. I'm quite sure I sound like a caveman—my grunts and crude, prehistoric version of sign language do not help this image. If nothing else, perhaps I will be admired for the effort, or provide a bit of laughter to someone on our trip. This I choose to embrace, even at my ego's expense.

STEVE YACCINO writes:
You don’t feel like reading and stare forward blankly. For the first time, you notice the “Fasten Seat Belt While Seated” embroidered in white letters on the airplane seat before you and wonder why so many words are necessary. An airline that charges three dollars for a regular candy bar should really be more frugal in such matters. You are intrigued, not just by the unlikelihood of reading these words unless you were already seated, but by the fact that you are sincerely baffled as to how one could buckle up in any other position. You kill five minutes of the three-hour flight imagining possible digressions from the traditional butt-on-seat standard and vow to try at least three before dying.

By then two flight attendants are pushing a drink cart up the aisle, but not before they placed a ham-and-cheese sandwich in front of a fan to flood the cabin with a palatable aroma, and remind you it’s been at least an hour since you last ate. If you weren’t so hungry, you’d feel antipathy toward such manipulation, but your mind is on other things. You pick up a menu from the seatback in front of you. The sandwich costs five dollars and looks the size of a dinner roll. The other items available include:

MegaBite Cookie 40 oz bag $3
(You can tell by the picture it would take less than a mega bite to wonder where your three dollars went and why you’re still hungry.)

3 Musketeers 3.28 oz $3
(You can’t believe anyone could be that desperate for chocolate, until you see the older woman four rows in front of you buy three.)

Great Nuts 4 oz $3
(You have a strict policy never to pay for something you once were given for free.)

Lay’s Stax 5.75 oz $3
(The best deal by far for a Pringles-style can of mediocre chips.)

You have less than two rows to decide before the flight attendant is upon you. Empty pockets often make these decisions easier, but you suddenly remember that your dad slipped you a twenty at the airport. “Get yourself a cup of coffee or a snack while you wait.” You spent three dollars at the Starbucks vestibule—tried out a short single-shot doppio latte with easy foam, your new signature drink—and suddenly resent the woman who gave you back a ten and seven singles. You found out later that "doppio" means two shots and hope she didn't notice.

You’re thinking about the Cliff bars in your backpack, but it’s in the overhead compartment. You are in a middle seat. and convince yourself it would be a bother to wake up the guy snoring next you. Besides, luggage shifts during take off and you wouldn’t want to get a concussion from a Samsonite avalanche. You debate this for so long that you missed your chance. The rolling cart is getting closer. You take another look at the menu. It flaunts pictures of plastic food styled and posed like movie stars airbrushed to perfection. You are still holding it when you order tomato juice—“No ice, please”—and watch the cart roll on. You decide to try and read some more.