I. FEAR
I’m standing alone, in darkness. As I take a step forward, the floor gives a hollow echo — like a snare dropped from a high rise. I start to run. My footfalls pound the floor, my heart beats in unison with my steps. I run out of breath. There is no exit. No entrance. Just me, stumbling through the darkness. Then, ever so faintly, a second set of footsteps. Danger.
The noise draws closer, booming like a timpani gone mad. I can feel the heat of another body, but I’m frozen in place. A hand reaches around my forehead, wrenching my chin up, exposing my neck. Then I see the glint of straight razor.
For years, the same dream plagued me. I’d wake up clutching my throat and stumble to my bedroom window, gasping for air. These are not the dreams teenage boys are supposed to have.
II. THERAPY
By 1999 I was living in Washington, DC. I’d decided to get a Juris Doctorate and become an FBI agent to work on Indian reservations around the country. I wanted to help my dad’s people.
The capitol came as a culture shock. Yes, it was still within the borders of the United States. Yes, the people there spoke the same language, used the same currency, and had the same blue passport as me. But, that seemed to be where our similarities dissolved. The Americans of the mid-Atlantic have a different history, heritage, and culture than Americans from the Pacific Northwest. When slaves were erecting the White House in the swamps of the Potomac, my ancestors were still in their long houses, stoking a fire that had been burning for two-thousand years.
I always felt adrift in my new home. The dreams about getting my throat slit were becoming more and more common. Sometimes twice a week. Sometimes twice a night. Finally, I decided to do something about it — I sat down for a straight razor shave.
Camillo — the Italian owner of Camillo’s Barber Shop — was as old and wrinkled as the mushy black chairs he sat people in. Walking in the door, I was immediately beckoned toward one of these seats by the man himself. I asked for a shave. Camillo wrapped my face in a warm hand towel for a good spell. We chatted about this and that. He mused about always wanting to make it out west one day. I mused about wanting to go to Italy one day. After the towel came off, Camillo’s fingers massaged hot shaving cream into my face for a few minutes. I could feel myself drifting off into a hypnotic trance. I let out a long breath.
Finally the razor came out. I tensed. Camillo put his hand on my shoulder and told me it was going to be okay. I fought to calm myself. Camillo then gently ran the back of the razor down my face, removing the excess cream. Then came the blade. I closed my eyes as tightly as they’d go. I could feel the razor’s edge scrape along my skin. The crrrrrrrrsh of the blade sounded in my ears. Then the next stroke came and went. And the next. I started to relax.
By the time the shave was over, my body had loosened. Camillo massaged some aftershave into my skin and sat me up. I noticed that my hands were still gripping the armrests, nails scratching at the leather. I let go and Camillo and I shared a laugh. The old Italian patted my shoulder and reassured me that the next time it’d be easier.
I never had that nightmare again.
III. MAKING A CONNECTION
A few years later, I started meandering around the world. Travel is tricky. You’re in a foreign land with gestures, rituals, and languages that are often completely mysterious. So you learn a few phrases. You smile and laugh. You listen for other people who speak your language and gravitate towards them.
As I moved further east, out of the familiar confines of Europe, things became stranger, more foreign, and harder to get a handle on. I found myself in Moscow around 2004 — a city where the people are gruff and have no problem walking right through you on the metro platform. The police were constantly on my ass, demanding my papers. To be fair Russia had just suffered several devastating terrorist attacks and I can easily be mistaken for an Afghani, especially when I have a full beard.
On the way home from work one bitter cold October evening, I took an alternative route from the metro station through the tower blocks. I wandered along the half-frozen, muddy paths as Muscovites scurried to-and-fro in their furs and caps. In Moscow, the tower block buildings are an exercise in utility. Each one will have various concerns on their ground floors: dentists, beer shops, shoe stores, and nail salons.
As I walked, I noticed a little corner sign with a crude painting of a man shaving another man with a straight razor. I peered through the painted window into the barbershop. A couple of old Russian dudes were in there smoking, drinking, and watching TV. Their grey sweaters matched their grey heads.Dusk was fading and the night was only going to get colder. I leaned into the heavy iron and glass door, pushing it open.
The shave wasn’t as luxurious as Camillo’s, but it was still adequate. I practiced my Russian. I learned a dirty joke. And I got a couple free belts of vodka. I made a standing appointment. As I went back into the dark night, the warmth of the aftershave on my skin seemed to brace my tender skin against the bitting cold. For the first time in Moscow, I was completely at ease.
IV. THE RITUAL
In Moscow, I’d figured out the algorithm. After spending eight days on the Trans-Mongolian the following year, I wandered the streets of Beijing until I found a barber. As I leaned back for one of the best shaves of my life, we chatted about places to eat and drink, and where the best food markets were hidden.
Getting a shave when I arrived in a new city became my private travel ritual. It was my method of connecting with people outside of the tourist system; a way to get a pulse of the city. I sought out shaves in Shanghai, Hanoi, Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur, Jakarta, Chennai, Kabul, Bishkek, Djibouti… Any fear I had being in a new land and surrounded by people I didn’t have a handle on yet dissipated as soon as that cold razor touched my throat.
A shave in Kuala Lumpur led me to the best curry I’ve ever eaten. A shave in Kabul scored me some amazing green tea and a tour of a medieval mosque. A shave in Rio got me about three caipirinhas and a tip for an amazing dinner in Lapa. The barber shop is a club, rich with secrets. Luckily, the price of entry is cheap.
THE ROLD OF RITUALS
A few years ago, I finally made it to Italy for a shave. I found a little hole-in-the-wall barber next to the fish market in Naples. I listened to Verdi crankily roll from a small radio speaker as cardboard icons of the Madonna loomed above me. An old man named Silvo pinched my cheeks and shaved me over and over again. Then he did another deeper shave. It felt great. I told him about my old barber in DC. He smiled and pretended to understand my pigeon Italian. When he finished, we drank grappa with a coffee bean floating in it. It was only nine in the morning.
Trust is a funny thing. It’s hard to reach across the various voids (cyber, language, culture, etc.) to connect in an honest way. But I can tell you this: you learn to trust a people quickly when they’ve got a straight razor to your throat. We open up through confronting what scares us. For a decade of my life, my irrational fears were rooted in a strange recurring dream. I linked my fear to a ritual and now I use that rite to build trust as I travel.
Traveling is good for you, we all know that. But that doesn’t mean it will be easy for you. It’s an act of growth. As you explore both yourself and the wider world, you push back against fear. That rejection of what scares us (but ought not to) is more important now than ever, because if nothing else, visiting the wide world is our reminder that we’re not alone in the dark.
