Somehow, We Never Saw Where It Was Going

So after a very pleasant few days in Montreal and then Quebec, it was time to go home.  Unfortunately, United Airlines had other plans.   They seemed to think we should apply for Canadian citizenship instead.

We arrived at the airport at zero-dark-thirty (with not even a sip of coffee to improve the mood since our beautifully renovated hotel (HA!) did not begin serving coffee till 6am.  Um, hellooooooo....no coffee??? Seriously?  So you want people to be surly and uncommunicative when they check out?  Job well done.) to stand in a moderately long line for check-in. (No coffee, no self-check-in.  We should have seen where this was going.)

There were two United flights leaving at approximately the same time, ours and one to Chicago. There were three people working at the counter: one for the Chicago flight, who seemed able to work a computer, deal with customers and chew gum at the same time; one for our flight, who seemed able to chew gum, and...nope, that's about it, she could chew gum; and one handling the "priority" customers, who seemed only slightly more talented than the woman taking care of our line.  Maybe.  Apparently, our need for coffee was even greater than we thought, because Helen Keller would have seen where this was going.

Now it just so happened that a fairly large group of people swarmed into the priority line at this point because they had "oversized" baggage (sports equipment) with them and claimed they had talked to some employee or other who gave them the go-ahead to get into the priority line (You can see where this is going, right?  Yeah.  We still didn't.)

Meanwhile, the woman working the "Chicago" line finished with her last customer and.....naturally....only to be expected.....started chatting with another employee. GRRRRRRR. But then, wonder of wonders, she logged on to another computer, put up a sign that listed our flight... and then shut everything down and took her break.   Double GRRRRRRRR. (Once again, we should have seen this coming a mile off.  Damn coffee withdrawl!)

Hey, don't mind us.  We've only been standing here for an hour and a half inching forward like constipated snails pulling a wheel of cheddar.  And we really appreciated the game of "got your nose" that you just played with us.  What a fun way to start off the day before being stripped searched, then herded into a metal tube with a hundred of our closest friends,  strapped into a seat designed for one of Santa's undersized elfs,  unloaded through a shoot narrower than a livestock pen to claw our way through a mob to reclaim our bags only to stand in another line.  (And we still didn't see where this was going.)

"I'm sorry,  we've overbooked the flight and there are no more seats available," the woman tried to fake sincerity for our plight.  "We can see if someone with a seat would be willing to give up their tickets for compensation."

Oh.  Yeah. Right.  Labor Day weekend, and you think that three  people are going to give up their seats.  What drugs did you put in your coffee this morning? 

"What's the next flight you can get us out on?"  I asked, trying to hold Tim back from hurdling the counter and making her one with her computer.  How could she not see where this was going?

Rose just pretended she didn't know us.

"Well..." Tap, tap, tap.  "I see a flight to Montreal with a five hour layover and then a late afternoon flight to DC."

So, let me get this straight.  Montreal has hotels where you can actually fit into the bathrooms, cab drivers who don't mess with your heads, and now the only flights home?  If only we had seen where this was going three days ago.

"Fine, we'll take it."


Twenty minutes later, she was still tapping on her computer with not a ticket in sight. 

Um, I hate to interrupt the copy of War and Peace that you are clearly typing out, but any chance we are going to get our tickets before we miss the flight?

"Oh.  You have to go to the window down there," gesturing the counter furthest away in the airport, "for the tickets.  I am working on compensation for you."

Now Tim was holding me back.

"Give us our passports NOW." I channelled the Great and Powerful Oz. This was going to a very bad place, very quickly.

"Here are the passports for Tim and Rose," she offered.

Yup.  She could just about manage to chew gum on a good day.

They took off for the other counter, while the tapping continued.  After another eternity, she upped the degree of difficulty and got on the phone as well.  

Oh, goody.  Now it can take you eight times as long. Going downhill on skates.

Rose came rushing back.

"They are closing the window now," she panted.  "If you don't get down there, you'll miss the flight."

The girl behind the counter still tapped and whispered into the phone, unperturbed.

"I need my passport.  Now." I snapped.

"But I'm still working on your compensation.  Don't you want your $100 coupon toward another flight?"

She should have seen where that was going before she even opened her mouth.

Speak Up!!!

Upon arrival in Quebec, we arranged to do a tour of the city with a guide.  Too bad we didn't bring an interpreter.  One who knew sign language.

At first, everything seemed okay.  Our guide was a nice, older gentleman who pointed out all the historic sights as we passed them.

"And there is Joan of Arc gardens......Here is the the Cathedral......This is the American Consulate."

All very interesting, but then we started to ask questions and things got really interesting.

"Are those the remains of the original fort down there, under the boardwalk?"

"What's that?   You want to walk?"

"No" (louder).  "Remains of the fort?" (pointing to the area in question)

"Names of sports?  Well...let's see."

"The original fort.  FORT!!!  REMAINS!!!  RUINS!!! YOU KNOW, MILITARY.  BANG BANG!...Oh, never mind." I finished lamely as he walked away, probably trying to figure out why I wanted to play sports with a broken foot.

"And here is the first school for girls, started by the Urselines in the 1600's...." And then proceeded to give us a fifteen minute history lesson while trying to open the door of the chapel which was locked and labeled as closed till the afternoon.

Hoping to distract him, I foolishly asked a seemingly innocuous question: "Has school started here yet for the year?

"The start of school?  Well, it was in the 1600's that the Urselines opened the first school........"

Dreading a repeat of the same lecture, I tried to head him off at the pass. "NO.  SCHOOL  THIS YEAR.  AUGUST?  SEPTEMBER?"

  I started pantomiming reading a book and writing, like that was actually going to help. (It reminded me of the time in Italy where they turned the air conditioning off for the night and expected you  to open your windows.  BUG SPRAY! I remember my mother shouting at the desk clerk, because speaking really loudly always makes you instantly understandable to someone speaking another language.  YOU KNOW, PSSSSSSSST! (using an imaginary aerosol can) AAAARGH! (Grabbing her throat to mimic a mosquito choking on fumes), CLECH ( tongue out, eyes rolled back in head, head flopping to one side).  Not only did we not get bug spray, I think they slipped some Prozac into our morning coffee, and dear God, I really have become my mother!)

"Today is August 29.  You think it's cool?  Probably a lot hotter where you are from, eh?"

I bowed my head in defeat.

Tim and Rose fared no better.  They asked about the average price for a condo unit he pointed out and he told them about the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar.  Tim asked something about the government, and he responded by showing him the gardens outside the parlaiment and asking him to translate the names of the herbs from French into English.

"OREGANO! BASIL! PARSLEY!" Tim was shouting out names like he was Mr. Greenjeans making a salad.

Mercifully, the tour ended, and we were left to our own devices and the guidebook.  But the fun was not over yet.

The next night, we went out for dinner to a restaurant that was too far to walk to with my boot.  Upon leaving the restaurant, we hailed a cab and climbed in.

"The Frontenac," Tim said, shutting the door.

The driver bent his head toward us, cupping a hand to his ear.

Tim repeated the name of the hotel, a bit louder.

The driver leaned closer, a puzzled look on his face. Rose and I exchanged glances.

"FRONTENAC!"  Tim bellowed, pointing up the hill.

Once again, the driver gestured for him to be louder.

"FRON-TEN-AC!" Rose and I joined in this time, doing our best to be heard...in Miami.

Visions of ending up in Vancouver drifted through my mind, or worse yet, an hour-long disemenation on the difference between the FRONT and the BACK.  Our hands were on the door handles, ready to abandon Tim to his fate when the driver burst out laughing.

"I'm only kidding," he chortled.  I heard you the first time."

NOT FUNNY.

You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover...Or a Hotel By Its Website

Many years ago, Tim, myself, and five other family members travelled to Ireland together.  I am still trying to repress those memories. 

We stayed mostly at small  B&Bs, but decided to treat ourselves to one really nice hotel/castle for a night.  The brochure boasted endless, rolling, green lawns with a plethora of outdoor sports and activities to partake in.  And inside?  Even better.   Plushly furnished rooms that would have made a Hollywood set decorator  with an unlimited budget green with envy at what they could never achieve.

At least, that's what the brochure promised.  The reality??? Not even close.  Think Phantom of the Opera (and I mean the Phantom's lair underneath the opera house) meets Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (no explanation necessary). 

First of all, the castle was located in Brigadoon and only appeared once every hundred years.  Sign on one side of the bridge in town: Castle Ahead.  Sign on other side of the bridge facing opposite direction: Castle Ahead.  Hmmm.  So the castle is halfway across the bridge in the water? air?  Well, that's one way to keep those pesky tourists out.

After crossing the bridge for the four thousandth time, asking directions from every farmer, tourist, cow and goat, we finally did find the castle, and it probably would have been better if it had indeed been located underwater.  At least fighting off the Loch Ness monster (or its Irish cousin) would have given us something to do.

Upon check-in, we enquired about the skeet shooting.

Oh, sure, that's once a year we have the big competition.  You just missed it.

Sigh.  Horseback riding?

Ah and sure isn't there a stable just a wee bit down the road.

Wee bit down the road: Irish-speak for "the other side of the country".  No way were we leaving the castle to disappear into the mists of time with all our luggage inside.  I mean, come on.  Where would I find another gazillion watt hair dryer in the land time forgot?

And then there were the rooms.

Our room in particular looked like it had last been renovated in the 50's...the 1850's.  By a decorator who specialized in houses of ill repute.  Who was drunk at the time.  And hated his client.

Big gold cupids flitted around an overly ornate chandelier that looked like it belonged in a third-rate horror movie which hovered above an orange carpet (or what used to be an orange carpet.  It was hard to tell what the original color was under all the stains).  The four poster bed was carved with demonic cherubs leering down at the bed's occupants like Johns at a 42nd Street peep show.

 The tub and shower curtain had so many layers of filth coating them, that we would not have been surprised to find out  Jimmy Hoffa was under them all.  The poor bugger had probably checked in and become entangled in the centuries of crud and simply...disappeared.

The other rooms were equally charming.  My mother and sister were in the turret on cots (guess they forgot to put those pictures in the brochure) which actually was a relief, since when we booked the hotel, they thought we were asking for cats!  Would you like tabby or ginger-striped?  (Whoa!  What kind of weird, crazy-assed cots do you people have in this country?  Ah well, that's another blog)

So now, many years later, an entire ocean away, we were once again planning to treat ourselves to a "special" hotel in Canada. 

The pictures on their website looked amazing.  "Huge renovation!" they advertised.  A face lift for a beautiful, historic grande-dame. 

They should have sued the renovation surgeon for malpractice.

Our room in particular was a real treat.  Upon entering, the bathroom was immediately, and I mean immediately inside the door.  Like when you showered, the guy across the hall could hand you the soap.  

The bedroom?  Across the window-filled "living room" and up a stair.  Wow, wasn't that convenient.  So they want me to break my other foot in the middle of the night and provide a show for the masses of people who filled the courtyard outside every single moment of the day and night.  Darn, and me without my g-string and feather boa.

But back to the bathroom.  Sink, toilet, tub.  That's it.  All in a row.  If I was in there getting ready, I had to step into the tub in order for Tim to open the door and grab whatever he might need.  You could shampoo your hair in the shower while applying make-up at the sink.  We had to keep the towels outside on a chair in the living room if we didn't want them to get wet, and that shower curtain managed to make it to at least third base every time you took a shower.

If this was a renovation, I shudder to think what the original rooms looked like.  A bucket of water by the door and a chamber pot next to the bed?

Next time we want to stay someplace "special", I think I am just going to stay home and order take-out.

Showtime!

Rose is a great travelling companion.  She provides hours of entertainment...without meaning to.

On our recent trip to Canada, Tim, Rose and I took the train from Montreal to Quebec, about a three hour trip.  Somehow, Rose and I began talking about Les Miserables.  (All the French accents and second-hand smoke must have addled our brains and lured us away from Candy Crush-- Hey, I know.  Let's sit and talk about depressing movies--Terms of Endearment?  No, only one person dies there. Beaches?  Nah.  Only one song came out of that one.  Les Mis?  Perfect!!!  Lots of death and lots of songs about death.  Yeah.  That'll make three hours go by quickly.)

***Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the play or movie and think that something called Les Miserables is going to have a happy ending, you probably shouldn't watch Old Yeller, Bambi or most other Disney movies involving animals either.  So.  Much.  Death.

Many years ago, Rose and her mom had gone to see the play. 

"How'd you like it?" Tim and I asked afterwards.

"Um.  It was ....good."

"Good?"  Just good?  Didn't you think the ending was so amazing and sad?"

"Not really."

"OMG!  Don't you have a heart?  Everyone dies!!!  How is that not sad?"

"What do you mean, everyone dies?"

"Well, they get sick, shot, blown up, jump off a bridge.  You know...die."

"No.  Only the one woman dies.   Wait.  Who jumps off a bridge?"

"What do you mean, 'who jumps off a bridge?'  What'd you do, sleep through the second half?"

"Second half???  There was a second half?  Didn't it end with a barricade and a really big song where they wave a flag?"

"Yeah.  The flag song was called the end of Act I!!!"

Silence.

"Oh no you didn't.  Please tell me you didn't leave halfway through the show."

"Well, it was over two hours!  How were we supposed to know there was a second half?"

Gee, that is a puzzler.  Didn't you think it was a little odd that nobody else left the theater?  Did you maybe think they were hanging around waiting for autographs?  Hmmm if only there was some way of getting information about the play you were going to see.  You know, a book where they could maybe list the songs, tell you how many acts, give you information about the actors.  Somebody should really invent something like that.

So now, twenty-five years later, I offered Rose my ipad to watch Les Mis and find out who jumped off a bridge (because, really, doesn't everyone have Les Mis on their ipad?).  She popped in her earbuds and that's when the real show began.

"Oh no!,"  she burst out, "That's awful!"

Um, inside voice, Rose.  A few fellow passengers turned their heads.

"No! No!" she bellowed at Hugh Jackman, totally oblivious to the fact that she was louder than the actual French Revolution.

Being a true friend and big help, I, naturally, convulsed in my seat, hysterical with laughter and let her continue.

"Whuuuhhhh.  Oh God!"

"What." she shouted, finally catching sight of my now-purple face.  "Do you want to watch too?"

By now, people four cars away were probably convinced someone was either being murdered or having really kinky sex in the restroom.

Trying to catch my breath, I motioned to her to take the earbuds out.

"Oh.  Can you hear this?" she mercifully popped one out.

Um, no.  Thankfully I cannot hear Russell Crowe mangle the songs because through the magic of technology, that wire is transmitting the sound only to you.  You, on the other hand, are shouting louder than a game show contestant trying to win the all-expense-paid trip for two to Dollywood.

"Oh, was I talking out loud?  Why didn't you tell me?"

Why? Because I was enjoying the show.

Close Encounters of The Embarrssing Kind

Checklist for vacation:
                                   passport --check
                                   toothbrush and mini-toothpaste -- check
                                   large sunscreen --check
                                   extra large bag of embarrassment --check

As we got ready to go on vacation last week, I couldn't help but think of the preparation for last year's vacation.

We had booked a safari-- photo.  It's bad enough that the dog looks at me accusingly when I accidentally step on her.  Shooting something?  That kind of guilt I don't need-- and I was running around to all the "outdoor" stores trying to gear up for our adventure.  (Outdoor gear to me has always meant wedge sandals as opposed to 3-inch heels.  Who knew there was a whole world out there of zip-off pant legs and vented shirts!)

Somewhere between REI and LL Bean, I decided that none of my present jammies would do ( you know, for the nightly fashion show in front of the lions), and so I headed to the real stores at the mall.  Unfortunately, trying to find light-weight PJs in October is like trying to find a bathing suit in July or a winter coat in January.  Just.  Not.  Happening.

Except at Vickie's (aka Victoria's Secret, but she and I are on a first-name basis).  God bless their little, "Damn the torpedoes, we sell cotton in winter" hearts.  There, where an inch of lace and two rubber bands worth of elastic can make up a whole trousseau, it is always summer.

Mission accomplished, I was zipping through the mall, bright pink bag dangling conspicuously from my arm (okay, there may have been a dozen few other bags as well--girl cannot live on safari clothes alone-- when I ran into the wife of one of my husband's co-workers, teenage daughter in tow.

"So, your trip is coming up?"

"Yes.  Just grabbing a few last minute items that I need."

At this point, I was blissfully unaware that the Vickie's bag was front and center shouting, "Woo Hoo!!!  Paaar-taaay in Africa!  Let's give those elephants something to really remember!"

Aaand it kept getting better.

"You must be excited."

"I am.  Tim is really looking forward to it too.  Work has been so crazy lately; he needs to get away, relax and have a good time."

"I know what you mean.  The stress can really build up."

"Yes, I'm hoping all Tim's stress will be all worked out by the time we get back."

It was somewhere about halfway through that sentence that I realized the teenage daughter was not really paying attention to us, she was  instead following the neon pink bag like a FOX News reporter follows a presidential candidate.

Now, at this point, I had two options:

A. Explain the bag, which would have gone something like this:
No, no.  The brown bags with the uglier-than-orthopedic footwear is what I meant by preparing for the trip.  Honest.  Look...I have enough khaki here to camouflage Star magazine's 10 Worst Beach Bodies!  I only go to Vickie's for the cotton.
                                                                  or 

B. Ignore the fact that I had just basically told this woman and her daughter that Tim and I were going to make 50 Shades of Gray look like a Mother Goose fairy tale.  I could already hear the conversation when they got home:
     --Well, Tim is going to be really  relaxed when he gets back from vacation.
     --Oh, yeah?
     -- Oh yeah.  Like 'have the neighbors call the police because they think someone is being murdered' relaxed.  Like 'complete all positions in the Kama Sutra: check' relaxed.
    --Oh.  Yeah.  (sound of speed dial being hit on phone)

I went with option B.  Sigh.