Picture this: I’m on a train from Romania to Germany with a fever above 38 degrees Celsius (100.4 degrees Fahrenheit). Not “slightly warm.” Plus, as in: I could have heated the carriage.
The journey had other plans for me too. At some point the tracks seemed to be running backwards. (Or perhaps that was the fever.) Then, as if the universe wanted a bigger audience, the clocks changed that very night. The timetable fell apart. Trains arrived when they felt like it. I stopped believing in time as a concept.
And then, a miracle. A Japanese gentleman, whom I had never met and whose name I still don’t know, quietly handed me a blanket and a plaster. A blanket I understood. The plaster, I have never figured out. For what? For my dignity? For the cold? For the sheer drama of my face? I said thank you, and I kept both like holy relics.
When I finally reached my destination, my eyes were tiny, my face was the color of a candle, and I looked like someone who had been recently unplugged. But the cold had passed. The fever had left. And I had a story.
That’s the secret of the worst travel experiences: they are terrible for exactly one week and hilarious for the rest of your life.
This is the philosophy behind my book, Anti-Memoirs of a Muse. An anti-memoir doesn’t tell you a polished, heroic life. It tells you the real thing: the fever, the wrong turns, the strangers who rescue you, and the way a disaster turns into the funniest chapter. If you like your life stories a little crooked, you’ll feel at home.
Like the fever, my Amazon reviews mysteriously vanished. Many disappeared overnight, and I’d like them back. Buy Anti-Memoirs of a Muse, read it, and leave an honest review. Even two sentences help a lot. Thanks so much.
What’s the worst trip you’ve survived? Tell me in the comments. Misery loves company, and so do readers.
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Julia Kalman
Editor at NLS | Writer & Editor
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