T A B L E_T A L K What are the hot spots in Finland? Exchange advice and stories in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y Rights of passion By Leah Kohlenberg Contrary to popular lore, sometimes casual sex is just what a woman traveler wants (10/20/98) Going native in Mongolia By Julie Vallone A horseback journey across the Mongolian steppes becomes an odyssey through time (10/18/98) Señor Gringo By Maxine Schur An innocent encounter turns crazy for two travelers and a heartbroken, gun-toting Mexican sheriff (10/16/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news (10/16/98) Herbal ecstasy By Mark Jenkins By the spoonful, a restaurant in Singapore supposedly cures everything from sexual ennui to diabetes (10/15/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		HOW EUROPE CHANGED MY LIFE | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - The Europeans we met were overwhelmingly anti-Nixon, anti-war. In Florence two anarchists told us they wanted to blow up the U.S. Naval bases in Italy. In Grenoble my distant relatives scolded me, "France left Vietnam; why can't you?" In Glasgow we played soccer with quick-footed lads who dropped their smiles when I said I was a Republican. In Cologne, lovely Gretel flirted with me until she discovered my politics; she ended up smooching with Alex instead. Every day, my opinions encountered harsh rejection. In Salzburg, we partied wildly at the house of a Schnappes-drinking father and his three shapely daughters -- a scenario too good to be true. We thought they'd give us a place to sleep, but we were booted outside when I praised Nixon's recent actions. The only hawk I ever found on the entire continent was an alcoholic Norwegian who claimed to love only caviar and NATO. "You don't look strong anymore," Steven remarked when I took off my shirt in Naples. He was right -- my thick musculature had decayed into slender flab. The whirlwind pace didn't give me enough slurps at the trough -- daily gruel was often just a stale baguette or a rancid sausage. I left California weighing 184 pounds, I returned at 157. A half pound a day withered off my frame: Biceps bolted, quadriceps collapsed. The only muscles that retained their tone were the nervous slivers that twitched in my face. Why are there so many harelips? I wondered. Children with cleft palates, blind youths, painfully crippled elderly. Steven and Alex didn't see them, but everywhere I looked I saw beggars without any teeth, Down's syndrome twins. Europe was poorer than the United States in 1972, and the hostels were often in "slums" -- but still, I think these sad apparitions appeared before me in my weakened state to batter the last brittleness of my heart. "We're anti-war! Don't spit on us!" yelled Alex, when our ferry docked at Malmo. Three drunken Swedes were lofting phlegm at the patriotic backback that I carried off the ship. "I vote for McGovern!" Steven explained to the surly Vikings. He waved the peace sign at them. "See? 'No more war! No more war!'" "Outta ... Vietnam!" The Swedes continued to expectorate on my luggage. I stared, unable to deter the goo. Eventually, the dried-up Norsemen wandered off. Shaking, I removed their spittle with a useless map. "See?" said Steven. "Europe hates Nixon! Are you still going to vote for that Kent State killer?" "I dunno ... Maybe." "You took acid," said Alex. "How can you vote for Nixon after eating psychedelics?" "Maybe it was bad acid," joked Steven. "Republican acid!" "Ha ha ha ha ha!" laughed my two best friends. "Ha ha ha ha ha." I sat down, suddenly, on a concrete wall that outlined the Baltic coast. I was exhausted, to the depths of my marrow. Nearby, I saw a small, dying, half-eviscerated fish. It looked like someone had caught it, started cleaning it, but then decided it was just too small to bother with. The fish's guts gleamed in the Scandinavian sun. Three flies crawled on the intestines. Tears started blubbering out of my eyes. "What's the matter?" asked Steven. "We were just teasing," said Alex. "Give me a minute," I shivered. "I'm having a nervous breakdown." I couldn't take my eyes off that innocent, trembling fish. "I'll buy you a polser," Steven said. "On me, buddy. I'll pay for it." "The fish is dying!" I sobbed. "It's suffering horrible pain!" "Don't freak out," begged Alex. "It's a living animal!" I wept. "Don't you understand? We're all in this together!" Steven hurried back with a polser (hot dog), but I couldn't eat it -- I was having a psychotic vegetarian attack, a spasm of compassion for all sentient beings. Weeks of sleep deprivation and starvation had shattered my sense of separatism -- I became the disemboweled fish, I felt its pain and all the pain of the world, the pain of the poor maimed and mutated, the pain of the bombed Vietnamese, my pain was crazy, Christlike, uncontainable. "It's the flies," Steven told Alex. "I think the flies on the fish are bugging him." They tried to shoo the scavengers away, but one gleaming insect, slurping on the minnow's liver, refused to budge. Swat! Steven bashed the fly into the viscera of the still-twitching fish. "No more death!" I blubbered. "No more meanness!" "Shit, he's losing it," said Steven. "His parents will kill us," worried Alex. I sniveled for about 20 minutes. When I stopped, I felt like I'd stepped into an alien brain. The seagulls above me were beautiful. "I don't know who I am anymore," I announced. "Hank, you're Hank," said wide-eyed Steven. "Yes, but ... who's Hank?" I replied. Gently, they guided me into a hotel. They pushed me into bed. I said I wasn't hungry but they made me eat two bowls of fish chowder. I slept on-and-off for three days, near-catatonic. When I was awake, I thought about Thomas Eagleton -- he was McGovern's vice-presidential running mate, until he was forced to resign when it was revealed that he'd had electroshock treatment to combat nervous exhaustion and fatigue. I wondered: Were all depressed people Democrats? Did I need a good zapping? Steven and Alex watched over me, sullenly. There was nothing to do in Malmo, and the scheduled itinerary events -- Stockholm, and a museum in Göteborg -- were canceled by my collapse. A week later, we flew back to Los Angeles. My parents were appalled by my emaciated frame and disoriented tales -- they put me on a pampering schedule. My physique soon recovered, but I remained quiet. In September I returned to my college campus. I avoided the beer parties the first week; instead, I went for long walks, trying to sort things out. Finally, I jumped out of bed one morning -- I ran to the local McGovern headquarters. I volunteered all my free time, canvassing, going door-to-door in conservative suburbs. When McGovern lost in the ghastly landslide (520 electoral votes to 17), I stood in a room, surrounded by his weeping supporters. My eyes were dry, though, because my disappointment was dwarfed by the miracle of actually being there, in my new personality. In Europe, I saw Picassos, cathedrals and castles, but what I remember most is my psyche shredding in Malmo. People travel externally for decades in the hopes of traveling internally. But me? I imploded my entire personality on my very first trip! Thank you, Alex and Steven, you sadistic, penny-pinching brutes, for giving me the best nervous breakdown I hope I ever have. SALON | Oct. 21, 1998 Hank Hyena is a weekly columnist for SF Gate and a frequent contributor to Salon. His mental health has recovered -- in fact, just the other day he gutted two fish and barbecued them.