I think it was my grandparents that raised my interest in travel. My grandfather’s business often sent him to Singapore and Indonesia, and so for much of the time period before I was 10, my grandparents lived overseas. They sent me postcard after postcard, telling silly stories, and things about the cultures in those respective countries. I found it fascinating and at the same time, it normalized overseas travel–I thought it was something that everyone did.

The stories were wild and fantastical, usually involving Grandmere turning into a tiny pony, and when Grandpere turned her back into a princess, he put on his prince clothes and then they went out and everyone asked for their autographs because they were my grandparents.

‘Gila’ is a word my grandpa picked up somewhere that means ‘crazy’, or so he has claimed for years. If it’s a fib, he’s really sticking to it. One postcard he sent me had a picture of a man driving a horse-drawn cart. They became ‘Mr. Pony and Mr. Ponyman’ and they’ve been part of our insider language ever since.

Another of our inside stoies were about how The Three Billy Goats Gruff weren’t just going over the bridge to chew on any old grass. No, they were going to the other side to chew on the sweet-smelling grass that tastes like gum. (Bubblegum, specifically. None of that mint stuff.)

Grandpa also used to send me cassette tapes where he’d read me stories. I remember quite clearly the one about the Billy Goats Gruff, but the others I cannot. I’d give a kidney to have those tapes now. It’s likely that in some bit of foolishness, I decided I was a grownup and didn’t need to hear kids’ stories anymore. Of course, at that age, I also thought my grandparents would live forever, and he could ALWAYS tell me the stories if I wanted to hear them again.

So very early on I associated overseas travel not only with adventure, but also with the idea that it would help you grow closer to people; not just new friends, but with the people you loved. In 1999, I put an application in at the Rotary to be a foreign exchange student.

Paul responded to my distress signal last night, bravely venturing into Hillcrest with his friend Anthony, whom I hadn’t met before. Anthony had lost his wallet so he had no identification. This meant no bars. We made our way first to Denny’s, but everything about that place is…well…Every time you eat at a Denny’s, you can rest assured that everyone else there is as miserable as you are. It was maybe 10 minutes of nonstop Office Space, Family Guy, and the Big Lebowski quotes going back and forth and then we decided we needed to get out of that place that so resembles the bleakest moments of the human soul.

We decided, of course, that the next stop would be a liquor store. Being Christmas day, of course none of them were open. We were not daunted by this and went to 7-11 to purchase our wares there. As soon as we bought our booze, we realized we really didn’t have a place to drink it. I certainly couldn’t bring them into my dad’s place, what with my dad sleeping on an air mattress on the kitchen floor, my grandparents sleeping on the bed upstairs, and the whole thing being so open and ‘airy’ that any sound made by anyone in ANY ONE of those rooms is amplified a billion times to the rest of the apartment. Balboa Park was out. Too many security guards, too many junkies. The athletic park didn’t have any place to park that didn’t scream out “Look! We’re here and drinking in public!” so we did the next thing that any resourceful person would do. We went to Jack in the Box to get cups so we could drink on the street with reckless abandon.

We swing into the drive-through and place our order–3 ninety-nine cent cheeseburgers and 3 large waters. Paul pulls up and we were all surprised to see a guy standing at the drive-through window. What the…? Did they start serving walk-ups at the drive-through window after the restaurant portion closed? Why does he look so angry? It becomes clear as he starts shouting at us. “You might as well just back up and leave because you’re not getting your food until I get a fucking burger. All I want is a fucking burger and they’re calling the cops on me, so it’s going to be a half an hour til the cops get here and then I’ll get a fucking burger and you’ll get your food.”

We looked at each other incredulously and after just a moment of debate about revving the engine to make it seem like we were going to run the guy down, Paul began to back out of the drive-through. He stopped at the menu and asked the worker inside if she knew she had a crazy guy waiting at her window. She replied she did, and that she had called the police, and that she was sorry, but we’d have to wait until he was gone. We pulled around the corner and lo and behold, the dipshit had left the drive-through. So Paul pulls back in, we get our large waters and burgers, and we pull away. Paul starts eating a buger, drives around for a minute, and we see the crazy guy walking away in the distance. Most people would let things be. Some evil people might slow down and flaunt their purchase. We slowed down, rolled down the window, and Anthony chucked Paul’s half-eaten burger out the window at the guy, shouting,”Here’s your fucking burger, asshole!” and sped away. Down a dead-end street.

This story will live on forever in the annals of our history as one of the funniest, most satisfying moments of all time.

God someone come get me PLEASE. My grandparents were passing around pictures of their NEW DRIVEWAY. If you loved me you’d drive down to Hillcrest and GET ME OUT OF HERE.

P.S. BRING BOOZE.