Free Carpe Diem by Autumn Cornwell Page A

caps, and blobs of chewed gum leaned against the wall—which had neither a discernable subject nor a pattern.
    After the twenty-plus-hour plane trip, three-hour car ride, and four-hour wait in the lobby, and our hour excursion to buy food and pick up trash—I was exhausted. All I wanted was to sleep. But first, I had to unpack my toiletries and pajamas from Bag #3.
    Grandma Gerd scooped up a mound of clothes and an empty wine bottle from one of the beds. “There. All yours.”
    Lovely.
    After carefully putting her Everything Book away in the top drawer of her dresser, Grandma Gerd opened the plastic bag and removed the large, oblong fruit with the prickly, brownish skin. She began to cut it into sections with a Swiss Army knife.
    A rancid, sweet, fetid smell filled the room.
    There didn’t seem like much space for my suitcases. “What about my luggage?”
    â€œHere, taste.” Before I could dodge her, Grandma Gerd
shoved a chunk of white into my mouth. The assault on my nostrils and the conflicting savory-sweet-onion-dip taste propelled me into the bathroom, where I deposited my mouthful into the toilet. When I emerged, Grandma Gerd was still chewing contentedly. Savoring.
    â€œNot your cup o’ tea, eh?”
    â€œWhat was that!?”
    â€œDurian. The most popular fruit in Malaysia. A delicacy. You just don’t have the palate for it. Yet .”
    I shuddered and scraped every last bit off my tongue with a Kleenex. She would be waiting a long time. I’d never encountered a worse flavor in my life—and that included the time when I was five and ate Dad’s antiperspirant deodorant stick.
    She sprawled across my bed, propped her toe-ringed feet up on the bamboo headboard, cramming durian wedges into her mouth. Why couldn’t she do that on her own bed?
    It took the clerk’s son and his preteen brother half an hour to carry Bags #1 through #10 up the narrow flight of stairs. As my luggage filled the room, Grandma Gerd said, with her mouth full of durian:
    â€œDid you think you were staying until menopause?”
    I couldn’t help but feel irritated. Of anyone, she should know the importance of proper preparation for Third World countries. “A good traveler anticipates every eventuality. Mom says—”
    â€œOh yeah, we sure know what Althea would say, don’t we?”

    Grandma Gerd pulled a rubber bag the size of a box of Junior Mints from one of my suitcases and unzipped it.
    â€œI hate to break this to you but you won’t be needing an inner tube.”
    â€œIt’s not an inner tube; it’s a Traveler’s Friend Hygienic Seat. Dad bought it for me.”
    â€œA what?”
    I plucked it out of her hand and demonstrated its attributes. “First you unscrew this little nozzle; after it inflates, you place it on the toilet and use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you simply push it back inside the special rubber bag and—this is the revolutionary part—it sanitizes itself! All ready for the next usage. And it doesn’t waste paper like regular seat covers, so it’s environmentally sound.”
    She looked away and coughed, then said, “Anyway, you’ve got to consolidate. You can’t trek through the jungle with all this. I’m shocked the airline let you check it all.”
    Time to change the subject. “So,” I said. “What’s the plan?”
    â€œPlan?”
    â€œThe comprehensive itinerary for the whole summer.”
    Grandma Gerd just stared at me and took another bite of durian.
    â€œYou mean,” I said, my stomach constricting, “you really don’t have a plan?”
    â€œYou want a plan, huh?” She rummaged around in her oversize woven bag and pulled out an envelope. I eagerly took it from her and opened it.

    â€œBut there’s nothing in here.”
    â€œExactly. We’re adventurers, kiddo. And adventurers don’t plan. They live.