Not Kosher

5:30 a.m. My alarm goes off in Malé, Maldives. I jump in the shower and as the dark sky turns to half light I am out the door to the ferry across the harbor to the airport where I spend my few remaining rufyiaa on breakfast by the waterfront as the sun comes up.

12:00 noon I arrive in Doha, Qatar where I am met by my sister’s best friend from high school, who takes me to the Diplomatic Club for a feast fit for a sheik, followed by a tour of the city.

5:30 p.m. Sundown at the camel race track where I watch a procession of hundreds of dromedaries in the waning light.

11:30 p.m. Back to the airport with Janice and my new friend Youssef to catch my connecting flight to the Seychelles.

12:00 a.m. Going through passport control I roll my eyes at another passenger as a child at the far counter squawks over and over and over again like a manic parrot...“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

“With my luck she’ll be sitting in the row right in front of me” I joke.

12:45 a.m. I am mistaken. She is seated 3 rows in front of me. And her squawks have increased both in pitch and in tempo.

Flight departs Qatar for Seychelles.

1:30 a.m. The passenger to my left has been wracked with paroxysms of coughing since before take off. He begins to complain of leg cramps and I begin to consider euthanizing him to put him out of my misery. Mercifully, the flight attendant reseats him somewhere out of earshot. Hopefully his new seat mate is deaf and does not contract tuberculosis.

As I step into the aisle to make way for him, a flight attendant approaches me with what appears to be a pizza box. “Mr. Langford….I believe you ordered the kosher meal? If you’ll open the box for us, we’ll start preparing it for you.”

“What the…? I didn’t order the kosher meal...I promise!"

The entire cabin crew is Muslim.

"I’m not even Jewish!” I add hastily.

As I take my seat, my sleep-starved brain cannot make sense of this. Suddenly, a light bulb comes on over my head. It is not the reading light. It is the realization that for the first time in 15 months, having made all my own flight arrangements along the way, I have emailed my sister to book this series of flights for me since she's good at finding rock bottom prices on everything from airfares to housewares. Despite my hours of research, she is able to save me about $600.00 in less than 10 minutes.

A dim memory begins to take shape...the last time she made travel arrangements for me was 12 years ago when she and I were flying to our brother’s wedding together. On the return trip I was traveling solo, and when meal time came, the flight attendant approached me and, looking at her clipboard, asked “Are you Mr. Langford?

“Yes...that's me” I responded.”

“I just wanted to confirm that you ordered the Hindu meal.”

She got me then, and she got me again 12 years later.

2:30 a.m. I curl up in the fetal position on the three adjoining seats in an attempt to get some much needed shut-eye while trying to ignore the immovable object poking me in the rib cage.

5:30 a.m. I am awakened after 3 hours of fitful sleep by an announcement that our flight will be landing in about an hour. I feel like something the cat dragged in and my mouth tastes like something the cat stepped in.

6:30 a.m. I arrive at Mahe Airport, Seychelles.

Just to see if I can do it, I have arrived in this country with no guide book, no map, and having done absolutely no research. My only contact is an Italian chef named Lucio whom I have never met but with whom I’ve had several email exchanges. I found him on a website called couchsurfing.org where travelers can meet people who are willing to host them for free. I have less than 1 hour to get to the ferry pier.

I somehow manage to stumble through immigration and customs despite the fact that I am sleep-walking, my entry card is only partially filled in, and my evasive answers regarding my accommodations while in the Seychelles arouse suspicion. The truth is I’ll be staying with the chef at the resort where he works, but I can’t give the the name of the resort in case they call to confirm my reservation, which I don’t have. I also fail to satisfy the immigration official’s inquiries as to how and when I’ll be leaving the country. That information is stored on my laptop which is in my bag, and I'm using my limited brain function to remain upright. Against all odds, he lets me go.

Finally, I am questioned thoroughly by a representative of the local drug enforcement administration, and even though I am squeaky clean, by this point I'm feeling anxious and rattled and am unable to maintain eye contact. I really don’t know why they let me in the country. I wouldn’t have.

After my interrogation, I have just enough time to dash to the ATM machine and withdraw US$200.00 worth of local currency.

7:00 a.m. The clock is ticking. I sprint across the terminal to find a representative of the ferry company which will take me to the island where my host lives. I am told to wait nearby…that a shuttle bus will be along directly. But I have no way to reach him besides a phone number and an email address. I can’t wander into the resort with my backpack on and ask for the chef…that will blow his cover, because employees aren't allowed to have guests.

I search the terminal for a place to by a SIM card for my phone, and manage to find a newsstand that has just unlocked its doors. I purchase a SIM, but the girl behind the counter can’t figure out how to activate it. Plus, her fingernails are so long she can’t operate the touch screen on my iPhone. I’m really starting to panic…if I miss the bus, I’ll miss the ONLY ferry to the island of La Digue until tomorrow.

I emerge from the store frantic…has the bus already come and gone without me? No…all is well. I board the bus, get to the jetty, find the ticket office, purchase a fare. In the meantime, I've managed to get my phone working.

7:30 a.m. I board the ferry. Once again I have made it by the skin of my teeth, despite my complete and utter lack of planning.

9:30 a.m. I arrive at my destination without puking, which is more than I can say for many of the other passengers. We tie up at the jetty and disembark. I phone Lucio, realizing that I have traveled several thousand miles and 48 hours to stay with someone whom I know absolutely nothing about. He tells me to meet him at a grocery store called Gregoire’s, which he says is about 10 minutes away on foot. This is starting to feel like an international scavenger hunt.

I spot a guy with dreadlocks and a wool cap who's the spitting image of Bob Marley and ask him for directions. He tells me it’s way too far to walk with a heavy backpack...20 minutes away at least. And now it’s starting to rain. As luck would have it, he has one last bike I can rent for $10 a day. I accept his offer. Note to self: Never ask a guy who rents bicycles how far away something is. Of course he’s gonna tell you it’s too far to walk, even if it’s around the corner.

Keep in mind that the backpack containing all my earthly possessions weighs about 40 lbs. And my carry-on bag containing my computer, charger, hard drives, a jacket, my toilet kit, flashlight and raincoat and weighs another 10lbs. or so. Ever tried throwing your leg over the cross bar of a mountain bike with 50 lbs. strapped to your torso? I wish I had a video. Even funnier was my dismount...let’s just say my bike and I invented a new dance called “The Seychelle Shuffle.”

11:00 a.m. After chatting with Lucio, he goes back to work and I take a shower and fall into a deep sleep and dream that the heavens have opened, filling my backpack with rainwater.

1:00 p.m. I awake from my coma to discover that my dream was a premonition. I go outside to find that the rain is coming in at a 45 degree angle and that my shoes, which I left on the front porch, are soaking wet.

Puppy Dogs, Unicorns and The Heart Of Darkness

A lot of professional photographers I know are loath to photograph sunsets…or cute kids or animals. Because it’s way too easy and it’s been done to death. Anyone can do it.

So every time I photograph one of those subjects, I feel a little bit sheepish. Like I’m slam-dunking a basketball on a children’s playground. But I do it anyway…for the same reason I listen to Karen Carpenter singing “Close to You” whenever it’s playing in the elevator. It’s a guilty pleasure.

I always wince a little when someone says “Wow! That looks just like a postcard!” I know they mean this as the highest form of praise, but what I hear instead is “That's trite. Boring. Predictable. It's the same photo any grandmother with a point-and-shoot camera could have taken if she'd been there.” We've all seen those postcards in every gift shop between here and the Point of No Return.

Even worse than the “postcard” compliment is the one word response…"Nice”.

This one is usually uttered by self-important, self-absorbed, self-indulgent, self-centered, self-involved, self-seeking, self-conscious, self-loathing, selfish advertising agency art directors with a heart of darkness who subscribe to "Self" magazine.

These are the same guys who dress in all black and wear über-hip sunglasses from Germany and wouldn’t be caught dead in shorts and a t-shirt or shopping at Target or getting a haircut that costs less than $75.00. They’ve had a complete sense-of-humor-ectomy, so the closest they come to laughing is when they affect a completely deadpan expression as they monotone the words “That’s funny.”

Some of my dearest friends are art directors. And some aren’t.

In my over-active imagination there’s this scenario where some art director who once owed me $15,000.00 and strung me along for 90 days sees my sunset photo (yes, I’m thinking of someone in particular...even in my fantasy I can hold a grudge!) and, brandishing his pitchfork, beckons one of his minions. “That’s it!” he says, stroking his goatee. “That’s the one! That is the quintessential sunset and I must have it! Money is no object! Bring that sunset to me now!”

I can’t be bothered to respond to his emails, so he phones me personally and says “Mr. Langford, we’d like to purchase exclusive rights to use your sunset photo from now until eternity for worldwide print ads, brochures, leaflets, annual reports, textbooks, bus stops, point of purchase displays, packaging, airport kiosks, baseball caps, t-shirts, movie posters, coffee mugs, key rings, trading cards, refrigerator magnets, school lunch boxes and banner ads on every website on the internet. And billboards in every major metropolitan city in the world, including La Paz, Bolivia. And on the big screen in Times Square. Our client is MegaCorp., a conglomerate of Sony, Time Warner, Microsoft, CocaCola and Nike. Name your price.”

I’ll let you know how that works out.

Nothing To Write Home About

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit. :: Aristotle

I want it to be funny.

And soulful. With just the right amount of insight and poignancy without being sappy or tying everything up in a neat little bow. I want it to be honest and provocative and to raise questions. And I want to retain a vulnerability and a child-like curiosity about the cosmos.

In other words, I want my writing to be a blockbuster, laugh 'til you cry, lump-in-your-throat, chart-topping, best-selling epiphany every single time.

I suffer from the delusion that if I just chisel it, whittle it and sandpaper it long enough…that if I rearrange the words and sentences and paragraphs in every possible permutation, I’ll get it right. And that is the death of creativity.

That approach will whip the very life out of any artistic pursuit, and turn it into a scientific endeavor. Instead of dancing like nobody’s watching, I often feel paralyzed by the criticism of the imaginary reader in my head who’s thinking “This is crap!” That voice, of course, is mine. Someone once told me "Fill the balcony in your mind with a standing-room-only crowd of your biggest fans." Why is it that I listen to the handful of jeering hecklers in the cheap seats?

It’s not like I have any shortage of material. Even when I’m not traveling to exotic destinations, I have something to write about every single day. I live in a world that is filled with humor and poignant, mystical moments and lots of joy and plenty of sadness. I am perennially curious, and frequently filled with wonder by things I can’t explain, and skeptical of those who think they can.

When I have an experience I want to recount, a story I want to tell, a feeling I want to convey, I often think in grandiose cinematic terms: a screenplay, complete with storyboard illustrations, lighting diagrams, camera angles and an orchestral soundtrack.

And so I begin to write. Except that I’m not tapping on my computer keys, or putting pen to paper. It’s in my head. And that kind of writing goes nowhere. It's too much trouble for me to actually do it. Or I'm too tired. Or there's not enough time. What!? I've got nothing if not TONS of time right now.

But I want it to be polished…primo…perfect. With just the right amount of alliteration. I’m not talking about grammar or run-on sentences or dangling participles. I want it DO something to the person reading it…whether it’s a eliciting a chuckle, or a sigh, or a memory, or sharing my skewed perspective on things.

And so what it comes down to is what I know already. It’s the dilemma of every artist. If I sit and wait for the muse to grace me with her presence, I might miss dinner. It’s not like Mozart banged out a greatest hit every time he sat down at the piano. And I feel certain that Mr. Van Gogh used up a lot of yellow paint before he before he got those sunflowers just right. In fact, he didn’t sell a single painting while he was alive.

And yet I let my fear of putting anything mundane out there keep me from writing. And perfection can stand in the way of a lot of great art. Someone once said "Art is never completed, just abandoned."

I feel certain that Sir Isaac Newton, the inventor of gravity, would tell you that it’s not every day an apple falls on your head. There’s a lot of hard work and tree shaking and days with no apples.

So even when there’s no tangible payoff, any kind of artistic pursuit has to be a regular discipline. Sitting down at the keyboard...whether it's a computer or a piano, picking up the brush or the camera or the pen. Stepping out on the tight rope and realizing that falling or failing aren't even remote possibilities. I mean...how bad can it really be? If anything, it’s one more lesson in how NOT to do it next time.

And by the way, I've been working on this for about 6 hours and I’m still not happy with it. But I'm gonna walk away. And come back and fiddle with it some more later.

Even when I do not feel like work, I sit down to it just the same. I cannot wait for inspiration, and inspiration at best is a force brought into action by effort.

Igor Stravinsky