It has been but a day since this undertaking began. Though my cockles warm at the thought of serving our honorable Duchess and Chancellor, my apprehension grows at the prospect of such a prolonged journey into the unknown. But, oh, what a great honor to be selected as the Emissary of Chamandia as we survey the people and their local customs, as well as the native flora and fauna, of our outer territories!
I know that you instructed me not to, dear Geiger, but I have brought along with me my favorite photograph of us.
It reminds me of simpler times, times when resources were abundant and every monster knew its purpose. One can only hope that this expedition into these outer realms can help restore the glory and lustre of our great nation.
As you know, Chamandia has long relied on stories as our primary means of commerce. We can only pray that these travels yield previously undiscovered caches of this once-abundant narrative resource. Otherwise, I fear that our nation will continue its descent into the tedium of John Grisham books, Jeff Dunham jokes, and Triscuit crackers.
The first day brought hints of an outer realm ripe with stories, but I dare not get my hopes up just yet. Instead, allow me to recount for you the following experiences.
We arose at dawn bleary-eyed and befuddled. The Duchess prepared her usual breakfast of oats and boiled water whilst the Chancellor traipsed about their marital home muttering under his breath. I suspect he may not enjoy the day’s first light as I do.
Upon reaching the train station, the lady at the check-in desk noticed the Duchess’s peculiar necklace—a solitary serrated tooth hanging from a thin silver chain—and inquired of the tooth’s origin.
“It came from our enemies,” the Duchess replied, lifting her eyebrow.
We checked our bags, boarded the train, and embarked on our voyage.
11:20: The Woman with No Imagination
We must discuss the unusual seating procedures of our nation’s rail service. First, I found it highly peculiar that the Chancellor and the Duchess—the highest nobility in the land—were given neither deferential treatment nor preferential seating upon boarding.
I suspect this is due to their dress. The have chosen the attire of commoners for this voyage and, as the introverted and literary masses of Chamandia are wanting in their ability to make eye contact, have thus far blended in with nary a second look.
This suits our purpose. Our voyage, after all, is neither diplomatic nor celebratory. Quite simply, we must secure more stories for Chamandian commerce, lest our crocodilian republic become too weak to fend off the explosive allure of the next Transformers sequel. For such a future, I am not yet prepared to weep.
Upon our arrival from the north to the village of Seatown, I feared the Chancellor and Duchess’s cover may be blown when a woman of permed hair and floral cardigan clambered aboard our rail car. She approached us in great visual distress, gesturing to a handwritten slip of paper and explaining that we were in her seats.
We explained that this was impossible, that we had boarded at the Chamandian capitol and had received clear instructions not to change seats upon our arrival in Seatown. Not wanting to cause a row and inadvertently reveal our identities, we assured the permed woman we would abdicate our seats should the conductor require us to do so. In the meantime, we gestured around the half-empty cabin and explained she was welcome to any of the many other available seats.
Three times the woman raised the issue with three different conductors. Three times the conductors explained that the Seatown station had incorrectly and unnecessarily assigned seats. A peculiar situation indeed, but certainly no cause for alarm.
Even three rows back and jamming to the new Queens of the Stone Age record, I could feel the side-eye cast out by the permed woman.
The rest of our journey continued without incident.
You must forgive me, dear Geiger, for my memories upon our arrival to the land of Odnarotoop are hazy from drink and ribaldry. However, during dinner with the Duchess’s sister (the Cultural Attaché to Artists No One Has Heard Of) and entourage in this coastal hamlet, we may have encountered our first story.
As it turned out, the Attache’s manservant had recently returned from the country, where he worked at a festival designed to observe the recent eclipse. There, he told us tales of forest fires, hundred-dollar schwarma, topless lost-and-found workers, children mistakenly drinking acid, and twenty-hour traffic jams to depart the campgrounds.
It is by the glory of the Spaghetti Monster that her manservant survived. Such tales riveted our near-inebriated Chancellor and Duchess, and we knew in that instant there may be hope for Chamandia yet.
The rest of the night, however, can only be summed up in a single picture with the Chancellor, which I have enclosed here.
Fare thee well for now, dear Geiger. I will resume our correspondence when able, though I fear we are in for some grueling days ahead.