The notion of traveling abroad has always intrigued me, long before academe whistled me in… kind of like how the sirens lulled lonesome sailors to the rocks. In my case, I had considered various branches of the military and even mulled over the consequences of setting the world on fire (think “global warming”) by posing as an — ew — missionary (I don’t even like that word) to spread some gospel-du-jour, just so I could get to other countries. Obviously, since earth is still here, I did not assume the position (out of loyalty to the planet) and especially because no evangelicals would have me. Go figure. Also, I got a wicked case of p-p-p-poker face and can’t sell that which I don’t buy.
That said, I put the dream of traveling the world on the heavily clichéd back burner until such opportunities presented themselves. Upon returning to college I discovered that there is a big push for students to experience world cultures by traveling abroad for a semester or more. While I am thoroughly intrigued by this notion, and always enjoy participating in anything that involves crossing borders and altering identities, I was dismayed to discover that it costs a small fortune to color outside the lines of my own State. Overseas travel entails so much more than just procuring a passport. In fact, that step was as easy as hitting bait in a puddle. Getting off the Rock and crossing ponds requires so much more. It requires an effing sugar-daddy. I didn’t know if I was up for the effort. (Also, I ran out of stuff to get taken away by future ex-husbands.)
Determined to still get around the globe, I have to come up with a more amenable strategy. One that involves retention of my self-esteem while simultaneously bleeding some poor shmucks’ bankroll. As part of my pre-travel strategy, I fancy myself finishing college and obtaining a high-paying “position” — not an MRS., nor the traditional Dominatrix, but something more respectable – that doesn’t require advanced creative storytelling to my family and friends. Something more along the lines of a c-a-r-e-e-r.
Until that happy day when I procure the Holy Grail (read: diploma), I have been mulling over the realities of securing said employment with a pending Liberal Arts Degree (not to mention the hours of practicing saying “Would you like paper or plastic with that?” in pretentious foreign accents) and I daresay that I may have stumbled upon an amenable method to getting the passport stamped. Savvy babes, take note.
I am currently *partial* to men from different countries. I have recently enjoyed the fare of Russia, Eastern Europe, and Iceland. I have set my sights on portions of Scandinavia, Asia, and African nations. Western Europe, the Baltics, and Polynesia can’t be far behind. The trick is to do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel: You meet up at the watering hole and then seal the deal by flaunting your exotic flair. Once the deed is done, you get them to stamp the passport with their, uh, stamper. Voila! You are a world traveler – without any of the messy complications that actual overseas travel entails! No missing your friends, no long lines, and no wanding by creepy TSAs indiscriminately touching yer pink junque.
Bonus: If you get any of those gooey love feelings that sometimes linger like the flu, you can quickly neutralize the angst by (a) trying to remember his name, (b) trying to find your skivvies-slash-cell phone, or (c) doing illicit drugs that conveniently provide even better alibis than the ones you thought up in the first place.
Thanks to Covertress for the passport pic (it obviously ain’t mine).