I FELL DOWN
by Scott Young, copyright 1999
March 6, 1999, Vancouver
I fell down, I fell down too far. So far as I know, I am the world's only near
bankrupt, destitute, penniless, substance abusing exile and rake, waiting in a
flea-bag hotel room for a Western Union transfer to arrive with around a
thousand dollars US and my dispatch papers, my ticket out of Cardiac Arrest
Hotel. Actually, it's the St. Louis* in ooh... maybe Calgary? In the morning, a
taxi will take me two blocks to the rather grand Palliser hotel, where a contract
deal I have scant intentions of fulfilling has allowed me to make a weekend love
nest for a secret assignation with some highly desirable dangerous goods,
getting in from the airport at nine. You can't eat airfares, as every travel
writer knows, but I come pretty close. For a guy who never has any money, I sip
my lobster bisque and Dom Perignon in some pretty swank joints. I also stay in
places where you can hear the winos and the junkies scream at night. When it
began, it was sunshine - or via con dias - all the way. I travelled with a
photographer, my Iago as it turns out, and everywhere we went we were feted as
visiting dignitaries or celebrities - of which species we were neither. We
cruised in jet boats with Argentine aristocracy, and trawled the fantastic
discotheques of Buenos Aires. I made love to an ice-blond beauty who spoke
barely a word of English. English/Spanish dictionaries on the table when we went
out for dinner at the Parilla Steakhouses, and another girl in Salta, ripe as a
peasant wench home from the fields. Further adventures have of course ensued.
I've been to Patagonia, where I had the dream like experience of walking into a
fully staffed casino as its only customer; the Yukon, which inspired a piece
about a frozen toe shooter - and Hawaii, where I almost lost my mind.
But when the stories have been published and the relevant airlines and agents
paid for their space around it, I am always the last schmuck on the food chain
to be paid off. From El Cielo discoteca to this dismal, unloved little room with
the dirty sink and stains on the walls, I have obeyed the paradigm of my paradox
- five star poverty. Landed gentry to fall down drunk, I'm a modern-day
Remittance man. So, I'm taking the job in Eastern Europe. Editing and writing
guidebooks and websites in Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Hungary and
Poland. And I'm going to show those lazy, puff piece writing, intellectually
dubious, late model land cruiser driving losers back in the old country, what
media empire building is all about. I Fell Down, now I gotta get up again.
*The St. Louis is an old hotel near city hall in downtown Calgary, near the LRT and
CPR train tracks. Faded painted ads on the side of the building promise good food and
clean rooms. It's similar to the Transit Hotel in Edmonton, near the former-Gainers meat packing plant.
It promises gerbil races nightly at 7 pm.
