In the years since Budapest, I’ve made up for lost time and traveled either for work or pleasure any chance I could because every single time I returned home, the growth in me as a person was palpable. That’s what travel is really about. Having nice pictures to post on Instagram or flexing your vacation wardrobe for strangers to see doesn’t compare to the possible internal transformation that awaits us. Interacting with different people and cultures makes them real, as opposed to composites of half-baked assumptions, unnecessary fears, and misnomers that may have existed in your mind. You might see how there’s more than one way to do things, or learn to appreciate an aspect of life that you never considered before, such as sleep. The go-go-go energy of New York that I’ve adopted as my own personal philosophy is always challenged whenever I leave the city. Like, oooh, corner stores aren’t open 24/7 in case I get peckish at three in the morning while writing. People here rest. Huh. Maybe I should, too. And that’s just the beginning.
I’ve done a retreat with my boyfriend and mingled with farmers; I’ve stood on the stage at Red Rocks and avoided haggis in Scotland. I loved the malls in Denver, and I want to go back to Copenhagen purely for Hija de Sanchez’s tacos. My favorite part of the twenty-four-hour trip to Dublin that I took with Mai was her popping my Guinness cherry as we realized our flight was boarding, so we chugged half the pint before running to our gate. As a Top Chef aficionado, I knew I had to swing by Kristen Kish’s Arlo Grey restaurant during my stand-up tour stop in Austin, Texas, and it was one of the most deliciously gluttonous meals I’ve ever had in my life. Clearly, plenty of my treasured traveling moments are food related and happened because being a stand-up comic requires me to be on the road. But, as it turns out, one of the best nights of my life was the result of a last-minute trip out of Brooklyn. A little backstory.
I’m an incredible gift giver. Okay, fine, I’ve messed up a time or two, but, overall, I have a 95 percent success rate, mainly because I do my research and I’m not afraid to be a little selfish. When it comes to research, I comb through people’s social media accounts and cross-reference with the folks in their lives to make sure that I’m on the right path, or I take mental notes when someone mentions something they want or would like to experience.
But the truth is that every once in a while, the gift is one that is not just for the recipient, but also a skosh for me. I know this sounds trifling, but hear me out! For some inexplicable reason, I can thread that needle, baby, between “Mother Teresa wishes she had the range of my selflessness” and “I’m too cute to not reap a little fun for myself out of this.” Yes, that is a mess, but also, if you’re reading this and thinking, I’ve never given another person a birthday present that wasn’t 100 percent for them, you ain’t telling the truth. Periodically, the lines of pleasure blur and mutual enjoyment is a by-product of the gift.
For example, if you’ve given lingerie as a present, that was for the other person and also because you want visual stimulaysh. Or maybe the gift is a book. On the surface, that seems completely innocuous, as you bought it with the good intentions of “Oh, I know [insert xyz person] would just love it!” Um, unless that person is a bibliophile such as myself, all you did was give an already too busy person homework! Not only that, but you’re probably low-key expecting them to follow up with a verbal book report, and every time you see them enjoying their life via social media, you’re cussing them out for not documenting their reading of Their Eyes Are Watching God. So, ya know, we all get caught up in the game of mutually beneficial presents. All of this, of course, is a preamble to justifying the present I got for British Baekoff: a trip to Mumbai to see U2’s first ever concert in India, which was also the last show of their Joshua Tree reboot tour celebrate his thirty-first birthday.
In my defense (there is none), I was invited by some homies from #TeamBono (Ha! Like I’ve ever needed an invitation to go to one of their live shows), but there was one problem. I had already planned a staycation birthday weekend for Bae in NYC after months of us being on the road for our respective jobs. Between the two of us that year, we had flown sixty times for work, and the idea of being in one place for four days in a row, in which we were guaranteed to get eight hours of sleep nightly, felt downright revolutionary. On the flip side? It’s a personal invite from U2 to see their final Joshua Tree show. Ever. For the rest of time. Like never again would we hear, live, “Where the Streets Have No Name,” “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” and “With or Without You” in that exact order. Okay, that’s dramatic, but also truthful. That concert was going to be one for the books.
So, when I was asked to come to Mumbai, it was more than an invitation. I was being summoned to be a part of history (tbh, Black history), and take my rightful place next to Henrietta Lacks and Alvin Ailey.* Moving on. As much as I was looking forward to the weekend I had planned for Baekoff, I didn’t want to miss out on a one-of-a-kind experience, so I FaceTimed him, told him the deal, and, without a moment’s hesitation, most likely due to a trifecta of him understanding how much I love U2, that he does not care about his birthday in the slightest, and the fact that he loves to travel and experience the world, he responded with, “I’ve never been to India before. Let’s do it.” I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited . . . then immediately, I felt guilty. He was tired. Hell, we both were, and here I was hijacking his birthday. I began trying to talk him out of dropping everything to go to Mumbai. He resisted: “How many times are we going to be invited to India? Let me know what shots I need to take and when the flights are booked.” Even as I’m writing this, I cannot believe I’m lucky enough to date someone so unbelievably generous that getting hepatitis A and typhoid shots and taking malaria pills counts as acceptable birthday pregaming. So, with help from my assistant, I quickly put together an all-new birthday itinerary, and off BB and I went.
It was a whirlwind trip (we could only be there for a few days before heading to the UK to celebrate Christmas with his family) and despite it happening two years ago, the memories are so vivid that I can close my eyes and it’s as though we’re back in the heart of Mumbai. The sparkle in Baekoff’s eyes because no matter where we ate, there was a plethora of vegetarian options for him to choose from. The controlled chaotic driving, which could unnerve the average person, made me feel right at home as if we’d never left Brooklyn. Each step on uneven rocks in the Elephanta Caves was worth it because they got us closer to the sculptures of Hindu and Buddhist iconography. Our time at Zero Latency, a VR video game space where we shot zombies, was punctuated by my yelps and screeches because VR is too real for me, yet I’d happily do it again for my gamer boyfriend, who, in past relationships, was made to feel bad for playing video games. I miss the scent of our skin, which was a combination of our sweat, sunscreen, and lotion. I miss those spectacular Mumbai sunsets. Then, there’s the U2 of it all.
Bono dedicating “With or Without You” to British Baekoff and me in front of over fifty thousand people is a once-in-a-lifetime and full-circle moment, since BB and I met at a U2 concert. Hanging out at the after-party and talking about big life shit with BonBon,* dancing our behinds off, and drinking wine, which resulted in our driver silently cussing us out because we’d previously said, “We’ll only have a drink and then be back in thirty mins,” and then we didn’t leave the party until like five a.m., are moments I think about routinely because we wouldn’t have experienced any of them if we stayed in NYC. And given what the world has been through because of Covid, the memories of before times, when we could go anywhere we wanted, are even more special. But the icing on the cake is that Baekoff said that trip was, hands down, one of the best birthdays of his life. Yay! My streak of great gift giving continues, and the roles were reversed for once since I was the one taking this well-traveled man somewhere he’d never been before, but that’s not what’s important. Cuddling with the love of my life in India was proof that traveling could help me surpass my wildest dreams or, in the case of Mumbai, the bel
ief that I had as a child that because a place like Mumbai is so far away, it’s not even worth hoping I could go there one day. Truthfully, being carefree, Black, and female at home, let alone abroad, was not something I believed was possible for me because society has proved otherwise, so I never dared to dream it. And if I hadn’t started traveling in 2015, I would have continued not dreaming, accepting that all those stories, movies, and TV shows where white people go somewhere to find themselves, adventure, love, a different worldview than the one they’re used to, or simply to relax, were reminders of what I couldn’t have, of the life that I would never be allowed to live.
And while Covid has put me and the rest of the world (except for the obscenely rich, who have been quietly and not-so-quietly bouncing around) on the bench, I’m looking forward to the day when I can bust out my passport once more and go to a different city to see a U2 concert. I mean, to experience different cultures and all the ways my worldview will be challenged and expanded. Heh. Okay, fine. It’s mostly U2 and a smidge of everything else a foreign city has to offer. Kidding! It’s a fifty-fifty split! I need middle-aged white man angst and adobo seasoning to awaken my butthole upon its exit out of my body to remind me I’m alive. More than that, I need to leave the protective cocoon of quarantine and reemerge in the world as a more confident Black woman traveler who refuses to shrink herself in an overseas country or put strangers’ comfort ahead of her own.
Traveling shouldn’t be an elitist or racist activity. It should be available to everyone who wants it because exploring the world changes you. It changed me. Relaxing outside the confines of my home renewed my spirit. Seeing people who look like me whose brains aren’t wired like mine because they don’t live under the white America gaze was awe-inspiring. I mean, learning shouldn’t be limited to what we read in books, and evolving can’t always happen when we’re confined to our area code. Connecting with a person via food, music, conversation, cultural smells, architecture, and any other thing that’s different from what you’re used to can be life changing. And when Black people are told and shown that only white people and rich people are allowed to do this, we are also told and shown that only white people’s and rich people’s lives are worth expanding. That their stories are the only stories that get to be told. That they are the only ones who get to write them, with people of color—if we’re “lucky” enough to be mentioned at all—serving as exotically beautiful, tragic set dressing.
Well, I’m writing my own story. I am a Black girl. I am a Black girl who travels.
Please Don’t Sit on My Bed in Your Outside Clothes
If you’re curious about what I’m like before I have sex—my parents are reading this like, “I’M GOOD!”—just imagine that local reporter you know and love who’s dressed in the uncool attire from New York & Company (aka anything not from the Gabrielle Union capsule collection) and barely keeping it together as drunk and rowdy people repeatedly interrupt her puff piece about that year’s Halloween parade. Despite how distracting the ruckus is, her confident gaze into the camera and plastered-on smile serve as evidence that not only can she handle the unexpected, but she invites it in. Her even tone is proof she will get through this story like she has hundreds of times before, leaving viewers dazzled by her ability to both be amiable and handle things like a pro. And for a long time, leading up to sex, I felt as though I was that local reporter, and the drunk and rowdy folk were the thoughts jockeying for position in my overactive brain.
To be clear, it’s perfectly natural for hundreds of half-thoughts, random notions, and unrelated tangents to fire off in people’s minds due to the anticipation of what’s about to go down. The problem for me is that most of these thoughts aren’t particularly salient or helpful. In fact, the majority are half-formed, ignorant, reeking of self-doubt, or, worst-case scenario, funny, which can make me accidentally laugh out loud instead of focusing on sex. I swear to you, my brain always starts out fine: I hope this’ll be good. Or I hope I don’t catch feels. And Why did I wear jeans so skinny that they require this dude to engage his core in order to help me take them off? Ya know, basic stuff. Then it quickly devolves from there:
I really hope this motherfucker doesn’t want me to put the condom on him because the only way I know how to do it is like a disgruntled Zara employee who got stuck on window-display duty and has to clothe twelve mannequins by herself before midnight. What if I were to turn on the “Baby Shark” song halfway through just to keep things interesting? Ugh, I’m such a slob. Do you think he notices that my bedroom looks like the FBI came through here with a search warrant? TBH, I’m not the biggest fan of his first name—too damn formal—so maybe I could test-drive some nicknames and see what he responds to? If he fumbles with my bra, I’m not smashing. J/K. He’s hot, and just like the proverb “Each one teach one,” which originated during slavery because Africans were denied the right to read, so that when an enslaved person did learn to read, it was their duty to teach someone else, I’m going to educate this mofo, so maybe this is my way of giving back? Aaaaaaaand now I’m thinking about slavery. Great. But also, does teaching this dude how to unhook a bra make me a philanthropist? Okay, maybe not a philanthropist, but at least on the path to having a street named after me, or a Tuesday in August declared Phoebe Robinson Day, or being given keys to the city. Like, all I want is to hold a comically large pair of scissors, cut a ribbon, and have people applaud me. What exactly do I have to do in order to make that happen? Have city-approved plans to construct a building? Start a brick-and-mortar business? Okay, bitch, you need to focus on the task at hand. A few beats pass. Should I give Emily in Paris a chance? That’s it. You’re allowed one last thought and then it’s game—I really wish I focused on squats at any point from middle school to my middle thirts, so I could have built up the thigh strength to ride the D for more than 8.6 seconds.
Y’all, I’m aware that last one is a touch specific, so I’ll explain. Recently, as I was descending into the squatting position over my boyfriend’s penis, about seventeen thousand of my hip bones snapped, crackled, and popped, and I had so many questions: Did someone light some kindling? Is a box of carpenter nails tumbling down the staircase I don’t have in my apartment? Like, why do my hips sound like the breaking-glass sound effect at the beginning of WWE’s “Stone Cold” Steve Austin intro music? And if you think it’s any better in missionary position, it ain’t! As I’m lying down, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that Bae moving my thighs up to my chest will sound like me when I’m at my parents’ house for the holidays and it’s three a.m. and I ever-so-delicately touch the plastic lid on the store-bought cake and crinkle noises reverberate for half a minute.
In summary: I AM OLD. And instead of fighting it, I’m leaning into it. So bring on the bags of Werther’s Originals, having a strong opinion about how to fold fitted sheets, and writing in cursive. I know, I know. Calligraphy is making a comeback as a relaxing adult activity, but if you’re out here writing whole-ass letters to friends in cursive, you are, at the very least, pre-menopausal aka your puss puss needs a Ricola and a cup of Throat Coat tea to stay lubed up. But back to the matter at hand.
Despite all the thoughts that pop into my head pre-sex, there’s one that reigns supreme. Prior to British Baekoff, almost every time since I started having sex, I would think, Please don’t sit on my bed in your outside clothes, please don’t sit on my bed in your outside clothes, please don’t sit on my bed in your outside clothes, as if it’s an incantation that would magically make my suitor of the moment suddenly be mindful of the germs that his clothing is harboring and put a pin in the passion for a few minutes so he could take off what he’s wearing, fold it all neatly, then wash his hands before coming to bed.
Now, I suspect this whole “threat of outside clothes contaminating household furniture” is, to put it lightly, a cultural thing because “Please don’t sit on my bed in your outside clothes” is a directive I’ve said to almost every white being entering my space. W
hite parents. White friends. White dogs. That said, when it comes to men, race doesn’t necessarily matter. It seems that for all men, particularly the straight ones, this fear that I have isn’t top of mind for them, although if a Black dude is on the receiving end of this request, he’s not surprised. He simply responds with some variation on, “Yep, got it. My grandma used to say this to me all the time when I was growing up.” And if you’re still not convinced that this is a cultural request because you don’t have enough empirical data aka no friends of color, then I will appease you by chalking it up to being a Robinson special.
Now, I gave you a sneak peek into who Ma and Pa Robinson are as people in the previous essay, but that amuse-bouche isn’t enough. Oh, how I wish you could spend some time with them, but that isn’t in the cards because they have zero interest in meeting anyone new for the rest of their lives. I mean, they treated an all-expenses-paid trip to meet Michelle Obama like it was an offer to shovel cow dung on Old McDonald’s farm, so you’re foolin’ yourself if you think my parents will view hanging out with you as anything other than precious time they could spend driving to and from a Redbox kiosk to rent a DVD. Yes, my brother hooked them up with a Netflix account. Yes, I got them HBO Max. Yes, they pay for Hulu. But apparently, it’s not enough and they need to waste gas and pollute the planet so they can get the latest direct-to-video John Cena movie. Honestly, I wanna tell on them to Greta Thunberg so she can give them a stern talking-to about how they’re contributing to climate change, so they will stop going to Redbox to rent wack movies. But I digress. The point is my parents are delightful and you will never meet them, so the next best thing is me sharing three key facts that’ll give you deep insight into Phillip and Octavia Robinson.
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