DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Last December, we boarded a train in Amsterdam to find that our assigned seats were part of a pair of benches surrounding a table — we were doomed to spending the next three hours staring at the couple across the table from us.

This is an uncomfortable way to travel, staring at strangers. I mean, traveling is all about staring at strangers, but not necessarily the same ones over and over for multiple consecutive hours.

This happened to me once before, the day after St. Patrick’s Day about eight years ago. I had to fly to San Diego on business at 8:00 AM. I’d been, erm, over-served at Ireland’s 32 the evening previous and arrived at the airport feeling pain, at least in the parts where I was feeling anything at all. I became a victim of Southwest Airline’s “festival seating” policy — as the sad last guy to board, I was left with the worst seat on the plane: row 1, middle of three, facing backwards in a seat that wouldn’t recline (it was jammed up against the bulkhead) with my knees touching the person sitting across from me. My only consolation at being so uncomfortably squeezed by my five seatmates was that I probably smelled really bad.

The train ride in Amsterdam was less uncomfortable, but still worth a story, which I’ll return to presently, or in fact now. My wife and I had stopped at a deli on the way to the train station, and purchased two amazingly great-looking vegetarian sandwiches: crackling fresh baguettes, ripe tomatoes, cucumber, sprouts, crisp greens, peppers, splash of dressing, shake of pepper, mmmmm.

Inside the station, we spied an appealing dessert: warm pastries from a concession about 100' from the platform. We selected an apple tart and a chocolate baguette. My wife had some crazy idea that she was going to eat one of these but I made sure I was the one with the bag. I think I let her carry the napkins.

Entering the train with two gourmet sandwiches in my carry-on, wrapped lovingly in white butcher paper by the deli artiste, and a sack of warm pastries, I felt guilty like a smuggler sneaking out of Amsterdam with a sock full of heroin. Yet I was ready to go head-to-head with any suspicious-looking border sentries: no way was anyone going to get between me and my lunch.

Then we saw our seats, facing two other travelers 30 inches across the table. This was a depressing arrangement. I’ve always struggled with what I call “social eating,” and I outright dislike being watched while I eat. Partly it’s the worry that someone will be looking during the moment when I misjudge a bite and dribble food down my shirt, or that I’ll zone out and jab my fork into my teeth, and partly it’s the worry that I might have to share my food. (You’d think I grew up hungry, the way I guard my plate. In actuality we always had plenty to eat; I was just horribly deprived and abused in other ways, e.g. I had to share my Commodore 64. Also I was made to eat cauliflower on three occasions.)

So it was with mixed feelings that I unwrapped my lunch. On the one hand, I had this awesome sandwich that I’d been salivating over for a half-hour. On the other hand, sandwiches are the hardest of all foods to be watched eat. But I would not be deterred: the sensual gravity of my lunch overpowered any hesitation caused by fear of impropriety: my mouth fell into my sandwich at 9.8 m/s^2. We tore into the food, blasting bits of baguette crust across the table, dripping tomato and dressing on ourselves, smearing chocolate and apple tart over fingers and faces (my wife had half of each after all — it took only a stern look to relieve me of the fantasy that I’d bought those two desserts for myself).

Meanwhile, the couple across the table sat there looking forlornly out the window while we smacked and gushed and self-consciously enjoyed what was obviously the best lunch being served anywhere in the entire country that day. After a few minutes, they apparently began to know hunger, no doubt due to the sight and sound and aroma of our feast. The male of the couple rummaged around in his backpack, and pulled out a brown bag. I was immediately relieved, for if they had food too, not only would my social-eating karma be restored, but they’d be distracted from the tomato seeds that had just squirted down my arm.

I watched covertly while the man opened the brown bag. Food is salvation, especially in this case. And then he pulled out his hand to reveal… a wrinkled half-bag of Cheetos. My guilt returned with a vengeance.

So, as I licked the remains of my five-star sandwich and heavenly dessert from my fingers, the folks across the table munched wistfully on a few handfuls of chemically-stained, extruded, fried corn-puffs, which I’m sure provided exactly no relief from their longings.

I learned an important lesson from this episode. It is this: whenever I travel, I pack the most awe-inspiring sandwich I possibly can, preferably with fresh bread. Because, you know, why not?