T A B L E_T A L K Is Colombia the Yugoslavia of Latin America? Join a conversation in Table Talk's International Issues area   How-to, why-not and what-for -- find it all at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Going without at Ramadan By Emily Zuzik At the beginning of the Muslim fast, a traveler decides to do as the Marrakeshans do (03/30/99) Mediterranean reverie By Anne Dowie Nestled in the rugged mountains overlooking the Ligurian Sea, Cinque Terre is the source of endless scenic and culinary delights (03/28/99) Ring in the loser By Mark Schatzker What you do on New Year's Eve 1999 says more about your economic -- and social -- status than anything else (03/26/99) Night of the living kava By Eric Hansen A traveler trips out on a magical root in the South Pacific (03/25/99) May I help you? By Jack Goldfarb From saffron to leather to edible silver paper, Johnny the market boy knew where to find it in the teeming Calcutta marketplace (03/24/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		HONEYMOON TURBULENCE | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - While waiting for my book to dry, I try to sleep on Chris' shoulder. Being a bride, committing oneself to loving, honoring and cherishing another, giving up a single life well lived is a traumatic, tiring business. I haven't slept well in days. I bury my face in Chris' shoulder. "God, I never realized your shoulder was so bony," I say. "Listen, baby. Don't pick on me," my beloved says. Then he bends over and extracts something from his backpack. It's a bottle of brandy. My favorite, Calvados. "Happy honeymoon, girl," he says. "I knew I married you for a reason," I say. "Might as well live it up," Chris says as he fills our plastic cups. "That's the last line of the poem." I say. "You might as well live." "Good, my sweet wife," Chris says, draining his glass. "Try to keep that in mind." "Razors pain you. Rivers are damp. Acids stain you. Drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful. Nooses give," I say. Chris lifts his shoulder twice in invitation and says, "Why don't you try and sleep." And -- all praise unto brandy -- I do sleep. For 20 minutes. Then I wake up because the baby is crying. I must here insert the predictable disclaimer that I don't dislike children. But there's a difference between understanding that it's almost inevitable that a baby is going to cry on a long flight and staying cheerful while it's happening. I'm about to offer the baby some Calvados when the little fellow's parents get him settled yet again. We hold our collective breaths while the baby drifts off. I'm so happy -- for the parents, for the baby and for the possibility of quiet. Our little row sleeps for a while; I know the baby's father is asleep, too, because his head falls on my shoulder. I dream that I'm being forced to walk up and down in a badly lit mall. The only song playing is "What If God Was One of Us." Singing along is a gang of teenage girls who are looking in store windows at striped sweaters and tiny corduroy miniskirts, the same kind I wore in 1974. (Get your own generation!) I move along in the mall. The smell of the guava-scented bath products coming out of the Body Shop is making me dizzy. I'm about to kick the guy whose job it is to stand in the doorway of Banana Republic, greeting everyone ("Hey, how you doin' today?"), when I wake up, having been kicked by the baby. "I'm sorry," the baby's dad says. And I'm able to say, "Really, I understand," because by now I do. I feel for the parents. Not the baby; I'm not so fond of the baby. But I really do feel for the parents. I put on the headset and try to become engrossed in the movie. It's yet another National Lampoon vacation movie starring Chevy Chase. Is Chevy Chase on the Elvis diet or what? Why is his face so swollen? Has he been flying recently? I myself am bloating even as we make our way to our destination, the place where I am supposed to slip into the black lingerie that fit me a mere three hours ago. Is it the peanuts? The cabin pressure? My ankles have disappeared to the point where my legs look like my Polish grandmother's. The crackling of the intercom interrupts the movie. It is our flight attendant: "People, if I could have your attention, please. One of the bathrooms in the rear of the aircraft is out of service. We believe someone tried to flush a" -- and here there is a lengthy pause -- "a paper towel," he says. Then he looks up and down the cabin, as if expecting someone to step forward and confess to the commission of this high crime. As if any of us could spring out of seats after five hours of sitting with cramped limbs. He clicks the mike back on and says, "I repeat, the bathroom in the left rear is out of service." He emphasizes "is" in that way that flight attendants have of emphasizing unlikely words. As if one of us had argued with him and said, "No, it isn't out of service. I just went in there to smoke a cigarette and everything flushed beautifully." The movie resumes, but even that is no longer a pleasant diversion when Wayne Newton's face appears on the screen. Chris, seeing me stiffen, pats my arm and whispers, "It's OK. It's probably just a cameo. He'll be gone soon." But he's wrong. Wayne Newton has a part in this movie. He's got lines to say, more than just "Welcome to Vegas." I take off the earphones and shut my eyes, but there's Wayne, in my head. He's singing, "I want some red roses for a blue lady." Going to sleep is now out of the question. We are sitting in the rear of the aircraft, and the line of bedraggled passengers waiting to use the single working bathroom on our side of the aircraft resembles a wartime queue for butter. I amuse myself by noting that, when approaching the last person in line, three out of four people utter the words, "Is this the line?" I finally nod off, snapping my head this way and that as I doze, not waking up until I hear the flight attendant say, "Excuse me! Wake up, honey! Chicken or beef?" "Chicken, please." "OK." There is a pause while the chicken is searched out. Then he says, "Oops, we're out of chicken. Beef OK?" And I think to myself, Beef? Beef? Yes, beef would be just fine. Give me a great big hunk of something, anything to gnaw on for a while. I'm being treated like a dog, might as well throw me a big old bone and then hustle back to that little curtained-off area where you've hung out for most of this flight and eat the chicken -- the one you saved for yourself -- while I wrestle with the gristle on the damned beef. "Beef's fine," is what I actually say. By the end of the flight, we've finished the brandy, and I've got the poem down: Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. And I might add, Calvados kills -- but way too slowly. SALON | March 31, 1999 Rosemary Berkeley is a freelance writer whose last piece for Salon was "Couped Up in Cambodia."     _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________