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ILLUSTRATIONBYMICHAELBYERS
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MARCH2015
•
HEMISPHERESMAGAZINE.COM
GoingBroke
Findingyourself far fromhomewithno
money canbeadiscomfiting, frightening
experience, but ithas itsupsides
BYCHRISWRIGHT
A
perpetually hard-up friend of mine—we’ll call him
Bernard—recently spent thenight at a lavishhigh-rise
hotel inBerlin.Duetohisbeingatravelwriter,he’dmanaged
to get the room comped,whichwas just aswell, as he had
about three euros tohis name.“Theyhad this beautiful bar
at the top,with a telescope so you could look out over the
city,”he toldme. “Iwas up there stuffing free pretzels into
mymouth,scanning thehorizon for aKFC.”
There’s something comical about this scenario—the
collisionofpovertyand luxury—butBernardwasn’t laughing
at the time.Understandably,hedidnot relish theprospectof
being far fromhome,“stone-coldbroke.”Therewas at least
some comfort in the fact that he had access to unlimited
pretzels, downy bathrobes and an order of spicy chicken
wings.For thispauper,therewouldbenobalefulheadline in
DieWelt
: “EmaciatedCorpseFoundonParkBench.”
I’vehadmyshareofcash-strappedvacations,andI’vecome
totheconclusionthat,undertherightcircumstances,theycan
bemorethanmerelysurvivable.Ifnothingelse,theyheighten
yourappreciationofacity’ssimplerpleasures.EvenBernard,
who’dbeen focused exclusively on rampinguphis body-fat
index,admits that thosepretzelshecrammed intohissystem
were“thebest I’veeverhad.”
Bernard’senjoyment,ofcourse,rested lessonthequalityof
thesnackthanonthecircumstances—specifically,thetension
betweenexpectationand fulfillment,whichalsoplays apart
in howwe respond to the things we see and dowhenwe
travel.Forexample,whilevisiting theLouvreawhileback,I
stareddully at theMonaLisa, trying to forcemyself to feel
something; later,inanoutlyingParissuburb,Iwandered into
an old courtyard and came across a dried-up ornamental
fountain, its once-burbling fish in the arms of a boywith a
cracked and crumbling smile.Tellingly, that’s the smile that
stayedwithme.
Ispenta lotof timewanderingaroundon that trip,largely
becauseIcouldn’tafford todoanythingelse.I’dbeenwaiting
onsomemoney tobewired intomyaccount,somy roaming
was punctuated by frequent exploratory stops at the city’s
ATMs,whose screens sneeringly remindedme that I was
without funds.But then, out of the blue: funds! I quickly
invested in a baguette and a lump of the stinkiest cheese I
couldfind,thenmademywaytothenearestparktoeatthem.
I don’t believemy satisfaction couldhave been any greater
if I’dbeen atMonVieilAmi, tucking intobabyquail confit
servedonabedof albino truffles.
travelessay
Thesedays,Idooccasionallyfindmyself inrestaurants like
this,andI’malwaysmystifiedby thepreponderanceofglum
expressions aroundme; it’s the same in five-star hotels and
fashion retailerswherebuyingaT-shirt requires input from
your accountant.Maybepeople are silently calculatinghow
muchmoneyall this iscosting them,or—more likely—they
simplytake it forgrantedthattheyshouldeat,sleepanddress
in thismanner.Theirexpectationsarehigh,so their senseof
fulfillment is low—an inevitable inversion that tellsusmuch
abouthow thewealthybehave.
Whichbringsusback to thatblessedParisian lunch.The
foodIate thatdaywasall themorewonderful,ofcourse,due
to the fact that Ihadbeen facing theprospect of starvation,
but therewasmore to the experience than this.The park
was small and pretty, but not remarkable enough to draw
in the tourists. Iwas surrounded by locals,ordinary people
enjoying a pleasantlywarm afternoon.Nobody tried to sell
me aminiature EiffelTower.Nobody really paidme any
attention at all. Iwas just ahungry guyhaving abite to eat,
alongwithabunchofpeopledoingthesamething.AsIstood
up to leave,Icaught theeyeofamiddle-agemanreading the
newspaper,andhenodded.Itwasn’t abignod,and itwasn’t
accompaniedbya smile,but itwas something.Youdon’tget
experiences likethatconsumingoverpricedcroquemonsieurs
at quintessentiallyParisian cafés.
