Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Change Thyself
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Dear Travel Journal,
At a dinner party last night, I bored even myself. Over appetizers and drinks, I droned on about successful travelers adapting themselves to new situations and local practices. Without wearing a tunic or toga, my oration was a cheap plagiarizing of ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans do.’
No one accused me of hypocrisy but only because they weren’t with me last year at the Hotel Diplomat in Stockholm. When I flew from California to Sweden, I took off in one epoch and landed in another. Somewhere over Greenland, I traveled from the known world of cash into a new world of invisible cyber money.
It all started at the front desk when the uniformed clerk in a natty black blazer unfolded her most professional smile of understanding before refusing to cash my check. Pleasantly and with a practiced tedium, she announced the immutable truth that the hotel was cashless, no exceptions.
No matter how much I cajoled and charmed, inside the hotel I could not buy a candy bar, a toothbrush or a newspaper using Swedish krona. In grumpy resistance, I huffed out of the hotel, enduring the fierce, unfriendly weather gusting off the Baltic Sea to trudge to a market with a functioning ATM.
I exited the hotel wearing a heavy green parka the color of a faded dollar bill, fur-lined gloves and a scarf that made me look like I was wearing a rusty copper penny. Stepping face front into the winds, my eyes watered. My nostrils filled with salty air. The battleship grey sky blended seamlessly into the cobbled streetscape.
Moms with strollers stuffed with bundled babies promenaded by. Tourists with bright red cheeks gawked at church steeples peeking over distant rooflines. Joggers exhaled mouthfuls of mist. Across the harbor, an abandoned pier with rusty bollards and rotting planks was slowly disappearing.
By the time I got back to the hotel with my newspaper and room snacks, the clouds had darkened. Heavy raindrops were bombing the pavement. I stepped into the dry warmth of the hotel’s lobby and used an electronic key to operate the elevator. In my room, I ordered a pot of tea which was automatically billed to my credit card.
A junior suite at the Diplomat is as good a hotel room as my dollar-denominated budget can afford. Romantic window view of Stockholm harbor. Polished hardwood floors. Gluttonous in-room breakfast. Ultra-modern bathroom. Fluffy white robes. Antique hallways decorated with contemporary Swedish artworks.
I like cities, hotels, eateries, neighborhoods that revere, remember and renew local customs and national traditions, that keep the quaint and the curious alive. I also like plenty of creature comforts and the conveniences of modernity.
The Diplomat called my bluff. Notwithstanding its old-world charm, the hotel required that I modernize myself, embrace cutting edge technology, do my bit to advance civilization.
Throughout my years of touristing, I’ve dealt with traveler’s checks, multi-language ATMs, debit cards, the euro, pound sterling, the yen and yuan. No doubt, I’ll get the hang of this new-fangled, fucked-up non-currency currency.
Maybe.
