T A B L E_T A L K What are the hot spots in Finland? Exchange advice and stories in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y Rights of passion By Leah Kohlenberg Contrary to popular lore, sometimes casual sex is just what a woman traveler wants (10/20/98) Going native in Mongolia By Julie Vallone A horseback journey across the Mongolian steppes becomes an odyssey through time (10/18/98) Señor Gringo By Maxine Schur An innocent encounter turns crazy for two travelers and a heartbroken, gun-toting Mexican sheriff (10/16/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news (10/16/98) Herbal ecstasy By Mark Jenkins By the spoonful, a restaurant in Singapore supposedly cures everything from sexual ennui to diabetes (10/15/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		-------------A summer odyssey affects a young ---------------------------Republican in the most unexpected way. BY HANK HYENA | "Seven hundred dollars each for two months in Europe," announced my roommate, Steven. He squinted through his tiny John Lennon glasses at the sequence of numbers. "$280 for round-trip air to London, $120 for the Eurail pass and 60 days at $5/day. Total: $700." "Groovy!" smiled Alex, our long-haired best friend. "I got the bread! Mon cheres, here I come!" A week earlier, the three of us -- tight chums bonded by girls, games and hallucinogens -- had a simultaneous vision that depicted us traveling together in Europe. Glorious adventures glowed in our imagination. Econ student Steven, Alex in French Lit and me, a U.S. history major, were now discussing the manifestation of our dream. "Only $700?" I frowned. My military science classes urged me to prepare cautiously before any campaign. "Your estimate seems idealistic, naive." "Read it yourself," said Steven. He tossed the Europe-on-a-budget guidebook at me. I shrugged. "The old continent better be worth it." "Far out!" said Alex. "We'll be 'Les Tres Musketeers!'" "I'll outline an itinerary that will include 13 countries," said Steven. "Sixteen, if you count Monaco, Vatican City and Andorra." One month later, we checked in our backpacks at LAX -- three 19-year-olds eager to expand our soft innocent brains in the radical summer of 1972. Steven and Alex sported the traditional olive green Kelty packs, but mine was an "Old Glory" design that I purchased at a fish and game shop -- a U.S. flag pattern, striped red and white with a starred blue flap. "You're crazy!" groaned Steven when he saw it. "People will hate us!" said Alex. "Cool Euro-hippie chicks won't even talk to us!" "What's the problem?" I asked. "I'm proud to be an American!" Neither of them spoke to me until the plane was way past Wisconsin. Politics had never before affected our friendship, but now, my hawkishness was napalming their doves. Steven was a McGovern Democrat, and Alex was an even bigger commie -- he supported the People's Party candidate, Dr. Benjamin Spock. They were both mimicking their parents, really: Steven's dad taught psychology at a junior college and Alex's folks had spent time in the Peace Corps. I was the freak in our trio: a Richard Nixon fan. I admired the incumbent prez because he'd give us "peace with honor" in Vietnam, so the entire region wouldn't just fall over like the dominoes of Eastern Europe. Sure, he carpet-bombed Cambodia, Laos and maybe some innocent villagers, but hey, war isn't pretty. My father fought in Korea for a reason. My parents took me to John Birch Society meetings and I admired Barry Goldwater's "None Dare Call It Treason." My domestic views were also perched on the far right wing. Food stamps, affirmative action and the income tax were, in my opinion, just socialist plots to undermine the American spirit. "There's Lake Huron." Steven finally addressed me, pointing below us. Alex sighed, five minutes later. "In Sweden they'll spit on you," he warned. "Even the prime minister marches for peace, and a lot of draft dodgers and deserters have moved there." "OK," I conceded. "Maybe I can cover my pack up with a poncho or something." "Yes!" They both agreed. "Great idea!" Harmony was quickly reestablished and we launched into a spirited debate about which stewardess was the prettiest. We landed in foggy Luton airport at 11 a.m. -- immediately, we scarfed down some bangers and mash before hitching a lift in a lorry that sped us on the left side of the motorway past Canterbury Cathedral to the white cliffs of Dover, where we hovercrafted across the windy English Channel. Steven's sadistic itinerary allowed us only 15 days of youth hostel lodging. The remaining 45 days had to be "free," i.e., sleeping on trains or "camping out." I didn't dispute this detail before departure, but after 32 hours of adrenalin-pumped and sleep-deprived consciousness, I was eager for some comfortable bedding. "That looks all right," I mumbled, pointing at a cozy pension. "No!" snapped Steven. He was waving the itinerary like it was the Magna Carta. "Tonight's a 'free' night." We "slept" in a filthy alley behind Lille's largest cathedral. Cobblestones tortured my insomniac organs. When dawn's cruel light arrived, it found me shivering, starving and sniping. "Damn! That sucked! I hate this!" "This is what we've been saving our money for," said Steven. "What's wrong with you? Homesick?" "I need a bath, a big breakfast and a shower." "There's art all around us," Alex scolded me. "History. Culture. Don't bum me out." My companions had both slept soundly; they were now exuberant eager beavers, psyched up for a long day of exploring Belgium. But me? I was the weight-lifting athlete, but budget travel had turned me into a wimp. I thrived on my fitness schedule -- four huge meals, two hours of exercise, three bowel movements and a scalding 25-minute shower before nine hours of sleep -- but deprived of it, my macho brain and brawn panicked -- I became a frightened brat. "Please ... Let's destroy the itinerary! Food! Sleep! I want to feel alive!" "The itinerary is the backbone of our expedition," said Steven. "It keeps us on budget." "Antwerp tomorrow!" gushed Alex. "And then ... Utrecht! Wowie zowie!" Nations flew by me, like nightmares. I averaged three and a half hours of sleep a night: Holland was a hallucination, Switzerland was evil TV. At Pompeii, I envied the ash-covered corpses, sleeping soundly for eternity. In Oslo, I trembled before Edvard Munch's "The Scream" because I felt precisely the same. Wretchedly I tossed and turned in the most inhospitable beds -- Vienna on an iron bench, Paris in a phone booth. Rome under a roaring bridge, Madrid in a subway toilet. I suffered scores of zombie hours on the second-class trains. The itinerary thought the iron horse's lullaby would rock us to sleep, until our arrival in a distant land -- this worked for Steven and Alex, but the roaring rolling kept me alert and increasingly demented as we entered Andalusia, crossed the Appenines or slithered past fjords. Even the 15 days in youth hostels provided small respite. In Heidelberg, we were triple-bunked in crowded rooms, like concentration camps -- the Irish lad above me snored, the Dane below passed poison farts ... Invariably, I was also forced to rest my 6-foot-2 bones on a lumpy pad that was no more than 5-foot-9. N E X T+P A G E | "Europe hates Nixon."