A newly discovered liminal space

The line at Delta customer service at 12:50am looks like the line for a Russian

McDonald’s

The train operating in reduced service mode, so get to steppin’

37 hours and counting wandering around the hottest after hours club Atlanta

Hartsfield eating a double quarter pounder with cheese

I overhear two Spirit flight attendants talking about getting their backs blown out

and

I’ve yet to find a single open restroom

but

I’ve found where all the vagrants hang out - concourse F

With all the chairs and couches pushed together

My camp for the next few hours

A toddler screams and our little village groans

After an hour of napping in settlement F, I move on

The only 3 departures between the hours of 1am-3am are gone

and

The next earliest flight is 5:02am to Baltimore

Which anytime is to early to go to Baltimore

By 3:30am flight crews and a smattering of passengers start arriving

Perhaps these are the brave souls being whisked to Baltimore?

From the moment I hit the train platform, I knew Kyoto was suffering from over

tourism. Western tourists, loaded down with groups and luggage, waited in line

for the Kyoto Station McDonald’s. Get me out of here!

My route quickly took me down the backstreets where I am most comfortable,

most free, and most in touch with possibilities.

I came across several temples and I wanted to go have a look, but saw the ¥

symbol everywhere I turned. One more sign that Kyoto is working to combat

over tourism. Or make some money off of us. My feet kept me moving forward.

The Otani Hombyo Temple sits tucked away from the road, but Kyoto residents

dressed in black dresses, black suits, and black robes drew my attention. I

quietly climbed the stairs to the courtyard where they have just finished some

sort of service or ceremony. I remained silent and reverent. Realizing my skin

tone and brightly colored shorts already labeled me “gaijin” or “foreigner”. I

bowed, greeted, and smiled when it merited. I began to take a few photos as the

congregation cleared.

Part of the temple appeared to be open for any and all who would show

reverence for this holy space. Some other young western tourists were not so

considerate. Not bothering to adhere to the no shoes and taking photos of the

inside. even though they were eye level with a sign that stated otherwise.

The fragrance of burning incense filled the air and seemingly lured me to a pit

where incense sticks have been placed by those who had engaged in the sacred

rites before. I wafted the smoke over me (as I had observed), removed my shoes

and faced them outward (as I observed), bowed, and stepped inside.

All of the noise from the outside seemed to have been silenced and all of the

noise inside me was stilled as well. There was only one elderly man in there.

Kneeling, hands in prayer position, and a bouquet of flowers in front of him. I

knelt on the tatami and closed my eyes.

What did I need most in this moment? What was required of me? Silence?

Gratitude? Petitions and pleas? Some kind of prayer? How do I proceed when

I’ve so vocally railed against a god that remains so distant, so quiet, so out of

touch? All there was for me to do is to remain quiet and to feel a peace that

something greater wanted to be near me, wanted to comfort me, and wanted to

love me. I don’t know what this “greater” was, but all I could do was consciously

allow it to do so.

Gratitude welled up, overflowing through me, and then releasing the years of

sorrow that I’ve so desperately tried to cling to as if they were my crowning

jewel.

Tears.

One for every time I’ve been wrong, for every time I’ve been wronged, for every

moment I’ve tried to deny the power of my own soul, for every time someone

tried to take over my joy, for every time I’ve allowed selfishness, self-loathing,

rage, and jealousy to overwhelm and conquer.

Tears.

Followed by peace and forgiveness. Of others. Of self. Of the greater.

Welcome to Kyoto, Tolar Parker.

This is the land of the rising son.

Ugly travel is beautiful. It’s living out of a backpack for 1-2 weeks while you

circumnavigate a country you’ve never been to. It’s only carrying a passport,

some clothes that you may have to wear for multiple days, a camera (or your

phone), a notebook, hand sanitizer, some local currency, and just enough of the

language to be dangerous in a bar, a transit station, or a drug deal. It’s the dark

circles under your eyes from a 13 hour time difference and trying to sleep under

less than favorable circumstances. It’s your family thinking you’re out of your

mind for going at it alone. It’s learning some customs on the fly. It’s illumination

about using high tech toilets or just a hole in the ground. It’s showing kindness

to strangers and seeing their faces light up. It’s not having plans and adapting as

you go. It’s a long, sweaty walk to see something only to get lost, but seeing

something better. It’s eating weird delicacies from a convenience store or street

stalls down a hidden alleyway. It’s having a beer with a local and listening to

their story (even if you can’t understand it). It’s parking your ass on a bench to

watch people go to their jobs, to school, on dates, and figuring out that we’re all

the same and all want the same things.

We all want to do a little honest work that puts money in our hands so we can

have a safe place to lay our heads, go watch a baseball game, see our favorite

bands, ride roller coasters, eat hotdogs, hold hands and smile in selfies with our

friends and loved ones, and listen to country music... even in Japan.

When you ugly travel, a light bulb flips on and you quickly learn that your racist

and nationalist war noise bullshit doesn’t hold up in the real world. It’s a

realization that you’re one small piece in leaving a place better than you found it

while understanding that you’re better than when you arrived. It’s doing it for

you, not for the Gram. It’s you discovering yourself for the first time, seeking

inspiration, healing a broken heart, or doing it because your next evolution is

beckoning you to. It’s coming to a knowledge that you don’t need as much as

you believe. It’s having a quiet moment to realize how fucking lucky you are to

even exist in the ever expanding void. It’s learning to love the skies you live

under. It’s missing someone and allowing that amplify their station in your life.

It’s coming home to their arms with photographs and stories of how you traveled

ugly and, in doing so,

became

more

beautiful.

Cut the excuses, get your passport and some courage, and go see the world.

xoxo, Tolar

I’ve always traveled to heal a part of myself. Knowing that my destination holds

a new piece for my heart to replace the broken part that I’m leaving behind. This

isn’t a running from failures. Instead, it’s an intentional running towards deep and

authentic joys. I am making room for what is truly mine. So that when I return -

my heart will not allow bitterness to arise nor will it allow despair to overcome. I

will still hope, still love, and still pursue deeper joys. This journey, my path, my

story is one of rebirth. It is never finished, but unfolds with each flight, each

road, each city, each person, and each experience along the way.

He told me that he moved out to Montana from Chicago about 5 years ago. He

left behind two kids and an ex-wife because he grew tired of the big city. He

commented on how the amount of people moving to the area are driving up

housing prices so he lives in an RV with his dog thirty miles outside of the town.

The arctic cold spell caused the heat source in the RV to stop working, so he

and the dog have been sleeping in the shuttle vehicle with the engine running

during the nights. Last night was -16°F. One night he splurged and got a hotel

room in town, but has to be mindful because he only brings home a little over

$500 every two weeks shuttling tourists, like myself, to and from the airport. He

does some Door Dash on the side for beer money. For him, it seems that the

tourist trap has just become the local trap.

How many flesh covered meat suits can we squeeze into an aluminum tube and

hurl through the sky? Did I mention we’re all hacking, coughing, and sneezing?

At least there’s second rate coffee and we’re not all forced to watch “The

Expendables 4”. Well... I am. My neighbor chose, on her own volition, to watch

aging action icons shoot prop guns at a CGI helicopter. I swear Sly Stallone’s

face slides further down his skull with each one of these movies. Hell, it feels like

my face may slide off by this end of flight. Welcome to the plague plane!

Do not... I repeat... DO NOT fuck with people who raw dog modern air travel.

No carry on. No backpack. No headphones. No fucks given. Just a baggage

receipt erupting from a shirt pocket. These people walk through the airport

looking for fights, purposely bumping into those who are traveling with

EVERYTHING - a roller, a backpack, a kid in one hand, and an overpriced coffee

in the other - hoping to watch these savvy passengers relinquish any illusion of

control of their possessions and sanity. Such mavericks are rivaled by only one

other type of traveller - the guys who carry on in a garbage bag. Hefty bags,

knotted closed, and full of clothes and miscellaneous accessories. Are the

clothes clean or dirty? And is that 1979 Sony Walkman on your belt? I want to

see these two meet in an airport sanctioned octagon in the nearly abandoned

terminal B in MSP. Who ya got? Place your bets!

My experience in the other NYC airport (JFK) had me ready to put up fists as

soon as I left the skyway. However, as I came into a newly facelifted LGA, this

Instagram worthy remodel was a far cry from the airport I remembered that more

resembled a crowded ER on a Saturday night. Open shops and restaurants

attempting to capture the charm of NYC on spring day line the terminals. The

passengers seemed to have gotten an upgrade as well. Everyone was cool,

calm, and collected. No one gave crazy eyes, no one was sprinting, no one was

passed out in front of a fire exit. Instead, there were schools of sharply dressed

movers and shakers, looking as if they’re going somewhere important to shimmy

up that corporate pyramid scheme... I mean ladder. But in reality, they were just

ready to talk numbers and figures with Gerald on the flight home to Columbus,

OH.

It’s 03:30 and we’re coming to you live from the Kalispell airport where there is

only one passenger around.

Airport staff wander through this small regional airport discussing their pipes

freezing, drinking too much, and the fact that this subzero weather still isn’t

enough to chase off the Californians.

It seems that Californians, while loved by themselves, are putting a bad taste in

the mouths of other western states. We’ve heard similar reports from locals in

Washington, Oregon, and Colorado. While we’re unsure what California is doing

to earn such a bad rap among these states, one might say that California is to

the western U.S. what Ohio is to the eastern seaboard.

Stay tuned for more details on this breaking story.

Reporting live from Kalispell, MT, this is Exhaustion Jones for WWTF.

JFK, you’ve become my new champion of people watching. Atlanta-Hartsfield -

amateur hour. LAX - a monastery. JFK is what it looks like if you kick a fire ant

hill of world travelers. Colonies of pissed off people, running in multiple

directions trying to bite you. Where else can you be overtaken by a mob of

Hasidic Jews while waiting for your coffee? Or wonder if you should be wearing

a hard hat as you transfer terminals? A group of passengers heading to Ethiopia

break out into a choreographed dance as their pilot arrives. Groans and jeers

can be heard 7 gates down as flight cancellations start to get announced. Indian

nationals making way for legions of battle worn families wearing Mickey Mouse

ears. Me? I’m heading to Dublin and it’s looking like a 24 hour travel day for me.

It’s not about the destination, right? It’s about the show along the way. So,

move over SeaTAC and BWI, let JFK give you the encore that you’re really

paying for.