Jill Thomas is a rambler, traveler, and storyteller with a big laugh who believes life takes her where she needs to go, no matter the roundabout path.
I have a hard time understanding why people don't like the things I do. For instance, my husband (whom I affectionately call Stormy) teases me because I often add milk to his coffee, even though he likes his coffee black. He is good-natured about it but gets a little fed up occasionally. Yet I persist in adding milk to his coffee. I also can't wrap my head around the fact that he doesn't like lemon in his chicken soup.
I am lucky that Stormy and I share one thing we both think is fun that most people don't enjoy. We love lengthy, exhausting, often overwhelming rambles in foreign cities, especially in places completely unlike where we live. For us, the best rambles are in areas with difficult-to-navigate sidewalks, unfriendly smells, crowded outdoor markets, surprising modes of transportation, chaotic traffic, and a high potential of getting lost.
When traveling to a 'point of interest' in a foreign city, we walk, even if it takes hours and the route is uncomfortable. The walk is often the point for us rather than the place of interest. Stormy takes pride in never taking a cab and has frequently pushed me to my breaking point.
There was a time in Colombo, Sri Lanka when we were looking for a dive bar we had read about in a novel. Finding it was challenging, and we spent hours lost in chaotic, crowded (yet fascinating) neighborhoods. When we finally found the bar, it didn't look welcoming, so we abandoned the plan. I was hot, dirty, and overwhelmed, so I insisted we go for a drink in a fancy hotel lobby to recover. Stormy isn't a fan of fancy, but he knew that I would have had an epic meltdown if he didn't submit.
Later that same trip, we took a train to Jaffna, a city recently recovering from a civil war where the only foreigners in residence were UN workers. We had to track down the Station Master in the Columbo train station to be issued a ticket. We spent an hour in his wood-paneled office while he did his best to dissuade us from going. We wandered every street in that war-torn town, examining bullet holes in the walls of the homes while carrying rocks in our pockets to throw at the many mad dogs.
When Stormy suggested we walk to the bus station in Guadalajara to buy a ticket to San Miguel Allende, I didn't resist. The walk took two hours, and much was on busy, loud, crowded streets in neighborhoods most tourists never find. The bus station was decrepit and worn to the bone. We wandered from one terminal to the next, saying "boleto San Miguel Allende" to various people in booths with no luck.
Finally, a woman phoned her friend, who spoke English and passed Stormy her phone to figure out what we wanted. It turns out we were at the wrong bus station.
Later that evening, we were strolling through a quiet neighborhood when we walked into a travel agency and bought the coveted bus ticket. I realized Stormy knew we could do this all along, but purchasing tickets at the bus station was cheaper.
However, Stormy knows that one of my favorite things is figuring out how to travel through a country like a local and walking through neighborhoods other tourists don't venture into. He knew I would not have missed the bus station experience for anything but likely would not have agreed to it had I known about the travel agent option. He is crafty that way.
When I’m in a foreign city, I find a hairdressers, usually in a back street and get my hair washed and blow dried. Not because I particularly want to look good but to chat with the local hairdressers who are often much better at giving advice on the locality than many tourist officials. In Japan, I got a head massage as part of the blow-dry. In Queenstown, I met the stylists for a drink after work and was immediately part of their gang. My latest was in Portugal, where the hairdresser didn’t have great English but said she would practice with me. She noticed that I was looking for someone on facebook and said " you search friend on facebook" I replied that I was actually looking for my cousin but only as she would have the contact details for the taxi-driver, Andre whom I needed. I had earlier messaged my friend in Portugal but she was obviously golfing and not picking up. The hairdressers then discussed whether any of them knew Andre and asked me what I knew about him, where he lived, his second name but I was no help. The entire salon were discussing Andre and who he might be when my golfing friend texted me with his number. Everyone cheered and were genuinely so happy that I had found my taxi-driver. It was a lovely experience and my hair wasn’t bad either.
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