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.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, September 20, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Will The Real Donkey Step Forward?
In planning our trip to Paris with our nieces, I asked them what they most wanted to see. The Eiffel Tower? Notre Dame? Versailles?
Oh. Yeah. Those would be great. But wait. Did you mention that Versailles had a little farm? With animals?
Well, yes, but...
OMG!!! How fast can we get there??!!!
Really? We are travelling to a city that has some of the most priceless and famous works of art and architecture in the world and your top priority is....a donkey?????
So off to Versailles we went where we explored the sumptuous palace, magnificent gardens...and trekked four thousand miles to the furthest part of the estate (As a matter of fact, I'm not sure we were actually still in France. I think I may have heard Russian spoken, and not by a tourist.) to see livestock.
If I had known how far it was, I would have packed a toothbrush...and PJs. Through the gardens, past the Petite Trianon, waaay past the Grand Trianon, ask someone who doesn't speak a word of English to give you directions and take a wrong turn or six, ask someone who does speak English to give you directions and take another wrong turn or seven, go to the second star on the right and straight on till morning. I knew we were in trouble when I saw the sun-bleached remains of the last group of tourists to attempt the trek.
Finally, though, we reached Mecca, er the farm. And they say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
"Oooo. Look. Bunnies. Can I have your camera?"
Yeah. Sure. You can never have too many pictures of bunnies. You know, most people come to Paris and take pictures of , oh, I don't know, the Mona Lisa. Idiots. Don't they know they could be snapping photos of bunnies instead?
"Look at the geese and ducks. Aren't they cute? I wish we could take them home with us.
Um, okay. You are aware that you are talking about birds, right? I mean, I appreciate a good fowl as well as the next person, but maybe you could work up the same enthusiasm for the Eiffel Tower?
On and on it went: goats, fish, pigs, you name it, we have a photo of it. After about fourteen hours of cooing and clucking over French dinner menu items, uh I mean totally unique, super-cute farm animals that you can't possibly see in the good old U. S. of A, there they were...the piece de resistance, the coup de grace, the gooey chocolate truffle on top of the yummy, decadent eclair: the donkeys.
There were big ones, small ones, bold ones, shy ones, but they all had that same magnificent allure, that irresistible quality sure to draw the attention and win the hearts of tourists from all over the globe: eau de poo poo.
Yes, nothing says, "I've been to Paris" like the subtle odor of fresh manure, dirt and donkey sweat.
Chanel? Dior? Yves Saint Laurent? Hah!!! Frou, frou potions meant for those sissies who think a trip to Paris is all about Monet and Renoir. This was the real Paris, unchanged from the good ole days of Marie Antoinette (in fact, judging from the odor, some of them may have been the same actual donkeys who played milkmaid with Marie).
"Take my picture with this one! Now this one!" they squealed with delight. "Can we email them to my mom and dad?"
Yes, as long as you take one of me with them too and label it,"Which one is the real jackass? The one getting petted, or the one who traveled several time zones to stand in a field, batting at flies and wishing she were someplace less smelly, like, oh, say a sewage treatment plant?"
Finally, after more photo ops than Brangelina at a red carpet event after a six month absence and an entire packet of anti-bacterial wipes, they were ready to go.
"Okay, tomorrow we go to the Louvre," I promised them, "where you'll see all kinds of unbelievable and amazing paintings and sculptures and..."
"Yes, but will we see donkeys?" they wanted to know.
Only if you look in my direction.
Oh. Yeah. Those would be great. But wait. Did you mention that Versailles had a little farm? With animals?
Well, yes, but...
OMG!!! How fast can we get there??!!!
Really? We are travelling to a city that has some of the most priceless and famous works of art and architecture in the world and your top priority is....a donkey?????
So off to Versailles we went where we explored the sumptuous palace, magnificent gardens...and trekked four thousand miles to the furthest part of the estate (As a matter of fact, I'm not sure we were actually still in France. I think I may have heard Russian spoken, and not by a tourist.) to see livestock.
If I had known how far it was, I would have packed a toothbrush...and PJs. Through the gardens, past the Petite Trianon, waaay past the Grand Trianon, ask someone who doesn't speak a word of English to give you directions and take a wrong turn or six, ask someone who does speak English to give you directions and take another wrong turn or seven, go to the second star on the right and straight on till morning. I knew we were in trouble when I saw the sun-bleached remains of the last group of tourists to attempt the trek.
Finally, though, we reached Mecca, er the farm. And they say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
"Oooo. Look. Bunnies. Can I have your camera?"
Yeah. Sure. You can never have too many pictures of bunnies. You know, most people come to Paris and take pictures of , oh, I don't know, the Mona Lisa. Idiots. Don't they know they could be snapping photos of bunnies instead?
"Look at the geese and ducks. Aren't they cute? I wish we could take them home with us.
Um, okay. You are aware that you are talking about birds, right? I mean, I appreciate a good fowl as well as the next person, but maybe you could work up the same enthusiasm for the Eiffel Tower?
On and on it went: goats, fish, pigs, you name it, we have a photo of it. After about fourteen hours of cooing and clucking over French dinner menu items, uh I mean totally unique, super-cute farm animals that you can't possibly see in the good old U. S. of A, there they were...the piece de resistance, the coup de grace, the gooey chocolate truffle on top of the yummy, decadent eclair: the donkeys.
There were big ones, small ones, bold ones, shy ones, but they all had that same magnificent allure, that irresistible quality sure to draw the attention and win the hearts of tourists from all over the globe: eau de poo poo.
Yes, nothing says, "I've been to Paris" like the subtle odor of fresh manure, dirt and donkey sweat.
Chanel? Dior? Yves Saint Laurent? Hah!!! Frou, frou potions meant for those sissies who think a trip to Paris is all about Monet and Renoir. This was the real Paris, unchanged from the good ole days of Marie Antoinette (in fact, judging from the odor, some of them may have been the same actual donkeys who played milkmaid with Marie).
"Take my picture with this one! Now this one!" they squealed with delight. "Can we email them to my mom and dad?"
Yes, as long as you take one of me with them too and label it,"Which one is the real jackass? The one getting petted, or the one who traveled several time zones to stand in a field, batting at flies and wishing she were someplace less smelly, like, oh, say a sewage treatment plant?"
Finally, after more photo ops than Brangelina at a red carpet event after a six month absence and an entire packet of anti-bacterial wipes, they were ready to go.
"Okay, tomorrow we go to the Louvre," I promised them, "where you'll see all kinds of unbelievable and amazing paintings and sculptures and..."
"Yes, but will we see donkeys?" they wanted to know.
Only if you look in my direction.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Vive la Difference
Question: What's the difference between twelve and seventeen?
Answer: Enough to drive you to drink!
Recently, Tim and I took our two nieces, twelve and seventeen, to Paris for a few days. While he worked, I got to show the girls around one of my favorite cities...and lose my mind in the process.
Our second night there, we took them for an after dinner walk up the Champs Elysees to see the Arch de Triumph. Big mistake.
Oh, we saw the Arch, all right. We also saw lots of lights, people, noise, and, as a special surprise, a riot. Yea.
First, we thought it was a parade. "Hey, look at those people with lights, coming up the street, singing. Cool."
Oh. Wait. Those aren't lights, they're torches, and they aren't singing, they are chanting (probably "Death to the Ugly Americans" and "Look! There they are! Let's Get them!!!") Except for the fact that there was no hunky Hugh Jackman, bald Anne Hathaway, or annoying little kid with a British accent leading them, it was just like being in Les Miserables. Well, except that we didn't have any barricades to hide behind, only Tim.
Fortunately?, Unfortunately?, right behind them came the riot police, all dressed in black, marching with a precision that would make Inspector Javert sit down and weep with pride (except all I could think of was the witch's army from The Wizard of OZ --Oh we oh, yo oh! Oh we oh, yo oh!--and my mother wondered why I had a hard time sleeping as a child!)
Now at my age, the inclination is to move away from the impending disaster, and try to avoid unpleasant situations like, oh, I don't know...jail? In a foreign country. Where you only speak enough of the language to get a table at a restaurant and buy a really cool pair of shoes. At seventeen, the inclination is apparently to run toward the men in black with sticks and guns chasing desperate people wielding fire. With a camera. In a foreign country. Where you don't speak the language.
Fortunately, we must have looked enough like (sing along with me, those of you who are Sesame Street fans) "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." because we were spared having to explain to my brother-in-law why his children had a prison record.
From that moment on, however, the seventeen-year-old was fascinated by the Champs Elysees. "Can we go there again? Have lunch there? Dinner? Walk? Shop? Try for another riot?"
The twelve-year-old could have cared less. Champs Elysees??? Yawn. Hey, but let's go back to the hotel and swim!!! Or how about having a bubble bath??? Oh, oh, let's watch a movie!!!
Um, okay, cause these are all things we can't do at home, right?
No, no, really. I can stream the movie Marie Antoinette from You Tube onto my ipod and we can huddle around the 4-inch screen and watch all 4,952 parts they've broken it into in just under 56 hours! It'll be great!!!
And we can gorge ourselves on chocolate and macaroons, because it's only 11pm, so we'll only be up till around 5am with the sugar and caffeine buzz, but we weren't planning anything for tomorrow, right? Except maybe a bubble bath and oh, I know, a swim!
Yeah. Vive la difference.
Answer: Enough to drive you to drink!
Recently, Tim and I took our two nieces, twelve and seventeen, to Paris for a few days. While he worked, I got to show the girls around one of my favorite cities...and lose my mind in the process.
Our second night there, we took them for an after dinner walk up the Champs Elysees to see the Arch de Triumph. Big mistake.
Oh, we saw the Arch, all right. We also saw lots of lights, people, noise, and, as a special surprise, a riot. Yea.
First, we thought it was a parade. "Hey, look at those people with lights, coming up the street, singing. Cool."
Oh. Wait. Those aren't lights, they're torches, and they aren't singing, they are chanting (probably "Death to the Ugly Americans" and "Look! There they are! Let's Get them!!!") Except for the fact that there was no hunky Hugh Jackman, bald Anne Hathaway, or annoying little kid with a British accent leading them, it was just like being in Les Miserables. Well, except that we didn't have any barricades to hide behind, only Tim.
Fortunately?, Unfortunately?, right behind them came the riot police, all dressed in black, marching with a precision that would make Inspector Javert sit down and weep with pride (except all I could think of was the witch's army from The Wizard of OZ --Oh we oh, yo oh! Oh we oh, yo oh!--and my mother wondered why I had a hard time sleeping as a child!)
Now at my age, the inclination is to move away from the impending disaster, and try to avoid unpleasant situations like, oh, I don't know...jail? In a foreign country. Where you only speak enough of the language to get a table at a restaurant and buy a really cool pair of shoes. At seventeen, the inclination is apparently to run toward the men in black with sticks and guns chasing desperate people wielding fire. With a camera. In a foreign country. Where you don't speak the language.
Fortunately, we must have looked enough like (sing along with me, those of you who are Sesame Street fans) "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." because we were spared having to explain to my brother-in-law why his children had a prison record.
From that moment on, however, the seventeen-year-old was fascinated by the Champs Elysees. "Can we go there again? Have lunch there? Dinner? Walk? Shop? Try for another riot?"
The twelve-year-old could have cared less. Champs Elysees??? Yawn. Hey, but let's go back to the hotel and swim!!! Or how about having a bubble bath??? Oh, oh, let's watch a movie!!!
Um, okay, cause these are all things we can't do at home, right?
No, no, really. I can stream the movie Marie Antoinette from You Tube onto my ipod and we can huddle around the 4-inch screen and watch all 4,952 parts they've broken it into in just under 56 hours! It'll be great!!!
And we can gorge ourselves on chocolate and macaroons, because it's only 11pm, so we'll only be up till around 5am with the sugar and caffeine buzz, but we weren't planning anything for tomorrow, right? Except maybe a bubble bath and oh, I know, a swim!
Yeah. Vive la difference.
Monday, July 15, 2013
A Year in the Life (in 1000 words or less)
Obviously, the blogging twice a week thing did not work out for me, but I think I may be sliding in just under the wire on blogging twice a year!
It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about. Hmmm. Let's see......I've been ticked off by the cable company, phone company, yard people, dry cleaners, sales people, telemarketing people, Tim, assorted other family members, friends, strangers, pretty much anyone living, a few that are dead and some that are currently living, but that if they keep annoying me will soon be dead. The usual stuff I blog about since it is cheaper than a good psychiatrist and less time consuming than finding one on YELP!
I've travelled a bit.... Paris and Africa most notably, though I'm sure if I really think about it, I can come up with some bizarre things that have happened to me going no further than down the street. A trip to the drugstore can quickly go from a stroll through Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Nightmare on Elm Street in the blink of an eye for me.
I've also been busy having cancer this year. This is sure to generate a lot of blogs, as most of the things about this disease have and continue to really tick me off. I have a whole new set of people in my life who keep trying to tell me what to do that I need to blog about or I will have to rip off their arms and beat them to death with them (oddly, cancer has not really made me less violent). At least since they are doctors, they can sew their own arms back on and keep poking at me like I am some giant science experiment (which I kind of am since I have had totally strange reactions to pretty much every drug they have pumped into me. Go figure--bad reactions to toxic substances. Hmmmm. So there are people who have good reactions to poison?)
Anyway, I now have plenty of fodder for my blog, and lots of stored-up angst, so the twice a week thing should work out just fine as therapy.
It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about. Hmmm. Let's see......I've been ticked off by the cable company, phone company, yard people, dry cleaners, sales people, telemarketing people, Tim, assorted other family members, friends, strangers, pretty much anyone living, a few that are dead and some that are currently living, but that if they keep annoying me will soon be dead. The usual stuff I blog about since it is cheaper than a good psychiatrist and less time consuming than finding one on YELP!
I've travelled a bit.... Paris and Africa most notably, though I'm sure if I really think about it, I can come up with some bizarre things that have happened to me going no further than down the street. A trip to the drugstore can quickly go from a stroll through Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Nightmare on Elm Street in the blink of an eye for me.
I've also been busy having cancer this year. This is sure to generate a lot of blogs, as most of the things about this disease have and continue to really tick me off. I have a whole new set of people in my life who keep trying to tell me what to do that I need to blog about or I will have to rip off their arms and beat them to death with them (oddly, cancer has not really made me less violent). At least since they are doctors, they can sew their own arms back on and keep poking at me like I am some giant science experiment (which I kind of am since I have had totally strange reactions to pretty much every drug they have pumped into me. Go figure--bad reactions to toxic substances. Hmmmm. So there are people who have good reactions to poison?)
Anyway, I now have plenty of fodder for my blog, and lots of stored-up angst, so the twice a week thing should work out just fine as therapy.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
So We Had A Bad Day...Or Two...Or Four
Friday morning, we woke up to no hot water...again. So I went down to the basement and tried everything to get the heater working. I unplugged, plugged, pressed buttons and flipped switches. I flipped the machine off. No hot water. Not one drop.
Faced with the prospect of a cold shower on a hair wash day, I panicked and called the plumber who informed me that he could maybe squeeze me in on Tuesday.
Tuesday?! As in five days away? As in five days of cold showers? As in washing my hands in cold water after I've cleaned up after the dog for five days? Oh, and perhaps we can just lick our dishes and pots and pans clean for the next five days. Thanks, but I'll try somebody else.
Two hours, twenty gazillion googles and a dozen phone calls later, I got someone to come out...between 12 and 4. Fine. Except they didn't come until 5. Fine. Except they couldn't figure out what was wrong with the heater, but they did get it working again. Fine. Except they knew it wouldn't last, so they'd have to come back...Tuesday. Really?
Was this some kind of plumbing conspiracy? You don't know what's wrong with it today, but you'll know Tuesday? Was the solution going to magically come to them over the three-day weekend? Would it come to them in a dream, or perhaps they could visit a fortune-teller or call the psychic hot line. And how do you temporarily fix something when you don't even know what's wrong with it?
As if suggesting Tuesday wasn't pushing it far enough, (I guess my body language was making my feelings a bit unclear. Folded arms, scowl, bared teeth and lows growls emitting from my throat must have indicated I was happy with the way things were going.), the guy started talking to me about different kinds of heaters and how the Super-Duper-Jiffy-Heater worked better than ours.
Wow. So let me get this straight. You are standing in my kitchen, a room equipped with knives--sharp knives--and trying to sell me a new heater instead of fixing mine which is less than two years old? One of us here must be stupid or have a death wish. Did you miss the part when I explained that I had had a cold shower this morning and it was a hair wash day? Do you think that put me in the happy zone?
And following your logic, if you can't fix something, just replace it? I'm glad you're not my mechanic, because when my car breaks down, I suppose you would recommend just leaving it on the side of the road and buying new. And thank goodness you weren't my husband's surgeon last month when he had broken disks in his back. I am guessing your solution would have been to just get a new guy. "Sorry about your husband, but here's an application for Match.com."
Restraining myself (I didn't have enough hot water at that point to do a good job cleaning blood off the walls), I sent him on his way and called someone else who said they could come...Tuesday. Okay, so it was a conspiracy, but at least we had a temporary fix, and besides, as it turned out, we were leaving the next day and coming back Monday, so it would all work out.
Or not. Saturday morning...no hot water... again. Definitely a conspiracy going on here.
Biting the bullet (cursing, yelling and pounding on the heater didn't seem to be working), we shivered through cold showers and comforted ourselves with the thought that we could take a nice hot shower at the hotel before meeting colleagues of Tim's for dinner.
Arriving at the hotel at 3:30, we found that our room wasn't ready yet. Twenty minutes, they promised. Fine. Thirty minutes later, they assured us that our room was their top priority and housekeeping was in there even as we were speaking. Fine. One hour later, we were still wandering, homeless and showerless around the lobby. Now it was not so fine.
So did you lie about housekeeping being in there or do you just have the sloooowest peeeeople ooon the plaaaanet woooorking for youuuu? Perhaps they are using a tweezer to clean the carpet and a toothbrush for the bathroom? Did they have to take the bedding down to the river and beat it on the rocks to clean it?
But the best part of the wait was not being able to go anywhere but the lobby because it was 4000 degrees outside, and between the puppy and Tim still recovering from back surgery, we were pretty much stuck. To say it wasn't pretty would be like saying Medusa was a supermodel.
One the one side, I had a sixteen week old puppy who thought we had moved into a great big, new home with lots and lots of cool friends for her to meet and greet. And those friends got her soooo very excited that she peed...a lot...many times...but not outside. Oh no, the heat must have addled her fuzzy little brain because she decided the grassy area wasn't really up to her standards, and she much preferred the nice tile in the lobby as her potty spot. Guess who got to clean it up? Yippee. My new favorite way to spend a Saturday.
On the other side was Tim, who thought that somehow he was unhappier about the state of affairs than I was. Hmmm. Let's compare. You've been talking to people about food and wine, swapping notes on restaurants and beaches, and I've been scrubbing the floors with paper towels and Nature's Miracle while simultaneously trying to keep the puppy from jumping and nibbling on everyone and anyone who comes within ten feet of her, looks her way, or looks like they might possibly even be thinking of looking her way.
Oh, and the little trip to the shopping arcade off the lobby where you looked at the merchandise? Yeah. I was pretty occupied trying to explain to six pounds of wiggly fur that Gucci shoes and Louis Vuitton bags were not must-have chewable accessories for a dog.
Finally, we did get into our room, but without time for a hot shower before we had to leave for dinner. However, I consoled myself with the fact that tomorrow would be a better day. Until the next day when I smashed my head on a glass table and gave myself a giant goose-egg on my forehead, and we came home to no hot water...again. And the showerhead in our bathroom stopped working...completely.
Oh yeah, a conspiracy is totally at work here.
Faced with the prospect of a cold shower on a hair wash day, I panicked and called the plumber who informed me that he could maybe squeeze me in on Tuesday.
Tuesday?! As in five days away? As in five days of cold showers? As in washing my hands in cold water after I've cleaned up after the dog for five days? Oh, and perhaps we can just lick our dishes and pots and pans clean for the next five days. Thanks, but I'll try somebody else.
Two hours, twenty gazillion googles and a dozen phone calls later, I got someone to come out...between 12 and 4. Fine. Except they didn't come until 5. Fine. Except they couldn't figure out what was wrong with the heater, but they did get it working again. Fine. Except they knew it wouldn't last, so they'd have to come back...Tuesday. Really?
Was this some kind of plumbing conspiracy? You don't know what's wrong with it today, but you'll know Tuesday? Was the solution going to magically come to them over the three-day weekend? Would it come to them in a dream, or perhaps they could visit a fortune-teller or call the psychic hot line. And how do you temporarily fix something when you don't even know what's wrong with it?
As if suggesting Tuesday wasn't pushing it far enough, (I guess my body language was making my feelings a bit unclear. Folded arms, scowl, bared teeth and lows growls emitting from my throat must have indicated I was happy with the way things were going.), the guy started talking to me about different kinds of heaters and how the Super-Duper-Jiffy-Heater worked better than ours.
Wow. So let me get this straight. You are standing in my kitchen, a room equipped with knives--sharp knives--and trying to sell me a new heater instead of fixing mine which is less than two years old? One of us here must be stupid or have a death wish. Did you miss the part when I explained that I had had a cold shower this morning and it was a hair wash day? Do you think that put me in the happy zone?
And following your logic, if you can't fix something, just replace it? I'm glad you're not my mechanic, because when my car breaks down, I suppose you would recommend just leaving it on the side of the road and buying new. And thank goodness you weren't my husband's surgeon last month when he had broken disks in his back. I am guessing your solution would have been to just get a new guy. "Sorry about your husband, but here's an application for Match.com."
Restraining myself (I didn't have enough hot water at that point to do a good job cleaning blood off the walls), I sent him on his way and called someone else who said they could come...Tuesday. Okay, so it was a conspiracy, but at least we had a temporary fix, and besides, as it turned out, we were leaving the next day and coming back Monday, so it would all work out.
Or not. Saturday morning...no hot water... again. Definitely a conspiracy going on here.
Biting the bullet (cursing, yelling and pounding on the heater didn't seem to be working), we shivered through cold showers and comforted ourselves with the thought that we could take a nice hot shower at the hotel before meeting colleagues of Tim's for dinner.
Arriving at the hotel at 3:30, we found that our room wasn't ready yet. Twenty minutes, they promised. Fine. Thirty minutes later, they assured us that our room was their top priority and housekeeping was in there even as we were speaking. Fine. One hour later, we were still wandering, homeless and showerless around the lobby. Now it was not so fine.
So did you lie about housekeeping being in there or do you just have the sloooowest peeeeople ooon the plaaaanet woooorking for youuuu? Perhaps they are using a tweezer to clean the carpet and a toothbrush for the bathroom? Did they have to take the bedding down to the river and beat it on the rocks to clean it?
But the best part of the wait was not being able to go anywhere but the lobby because it was 4000 degrees outside, and between the puppy and Tim still recovering from back surgery, we were pretty much stuck. To say it wasn't pretty would be like saying Medusa was a supermodel.
One the one side, I had a sixteen week old puppy who thought we had moved into a great big, new home with lots and lots of cool friends for her to meet and greet. And those friends got her soooo very excited that she peed...a lot...many times...but not outside. Oh no, the heat must have addled her fuzzy little brain because she decided the grassy area wasn't really up to her standards, and she much preferred the nice tile in the lobby as her potty spot. Guess who got to clean it up? Yippee. My new favorite way to spend a Saturday.
On the other side was Tim, who thought that somehow he was unhappier about the state of affairs than I was. Hmmm. Let's compare. You've been talking to people about food and wine, swapping notes on restaurants and beaches, and I've been scrubbing the floors with paper towels and Nature's Miracle while simultaneously trying to keep the puppy from jumping and nibbling on everyone and anyone who comes within ten feet of her, looks her way, or looks like they might possibly even be thinking of looking her way.
Oh, and the little trip to the shopping arcade off the lobby where you looked at the merchandise? Yeah. I was pretty occupied trying to explain to six pounds of wiggly fur that Gucci shoes and Louis Vuitton bags were not must-have chewable accessories for a dog.
Finally, we did get into our room, but without time for a hot shower before we had to leave for dinner. However, I consoled myself with the fact that tomorrow would be a better day. Until the next day when I smashed my head on a glass table and gave myself a giant goose-egg on my forehead, and we came home to no hot water...again. And the showerhead in our bathroom stopped working...completely.
Oh yeah, a conspiracy is totally at work here.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
All Things Considered, We Should Have Stayed at Motel 6
Last Friday, we went to New York City. Just a quick trip up on Friday afternoon to attend an event on Friday night, and back on Saturday morning. Not quick enough as it turned out.
Despite the rain and traffic , we got there with enough time to spare so that Tim could work up a good aggravation before dinner.
First of all, when we asked if the room had a refrigerator, they apparently thought we asked if the room was a refrigerator. Now I'm all for air-conditioning when it's ninety degrees outside, but when it's sixty? Call me crazy, but somehow, I think that you should at least consider switching over to heat, or at the very least turning the air off. A good rule of thumb would be: if the guests' fingers and toes are turning blue and they are calling room service to request parkas and hot water bottles, the room is probably TOO COLD!!!!!
Thinking this was a problem easily solved, we chipped our way through the block of ice encasing the control panel, and bumped it up to ninety...and the air just blew colder. Great, now we could become honorary members of the polar bear club. Finding the blower control, we explored those options as well while we still had some feeling in our limbs and at least a smidgen of fine motor skills left...and, impossibly, the air blew even colder!!! On the bright side though, by morning, we would be cryogenically preserved, and for just a fraction of the price Walt Disney paid.
Before frostbite could set in, we just shut the system down altogether, and ordered flannel PJs, thermal sheets and blankets, a book of matches, some graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows (why be cold and miserable? When life hands you a frozen lemon...make s'mores!).
Anxious to be warm again, or at least not colder than a block of ice, I went into the bathroom to change, so we could go downstairs to the event. Through the door, I could hear Tim muttering to himself, which is not usually a good sign. Sure enough, when I came out, he was squinting morosely at his computer.
"Bad news?" I enquired, then wanted to kick myself for opening that can of worms.
"The internet service isn't working, so I can't get online," he groused, "and, the light on the desk isn't working either, so I can't see a darn thing." (Okay, so he didn't actually say darn, but it was close, although there may have been one or two other four-letter words and colorful adjectives in there as well. I'm not sure because I was too busy trying to lock the room safe which kept beeping at me.
He interrupted his tirade when it became clear that something took precedence in my universe over him being able to get online.
"What are you trying to do?" he interrupted himself.
"Nothing. I can't get the safe to lock," I pressed the series of buttons once again as though it would make a difference, and got computerized groans and an error message in response.
"You're hopeless with mechanical things," he informed me with an air of superiority as he brushed me aside, "I'll do it."
Oh yeah, and you're so good at getting things to work. How's the whole online thing working out for you? Would you care for a flashlight to see it? I thought it, but I didn't say it.
"All you have to do is punch in four digits and hit 'lock'" he instructed me loftily.
Gee, now why didn't I think of that? I guess because I've never traveled before and seen one of those new-fangled contraptions. Go-ool-ly. Is that what they call tech-no-lo-gy? Too bad I can't read either, or I might have seen the directions printed right on the front. By the way, you manage to get the heat working?
Beep...beep...beep...beep. Rattle, rattle. Boop boo. Error.
I just smiled smugly.
"Clearly, it's broken," he defended his computer expertise.
No. Really? I guess that's just one more thing to add the the (growing) list then.
Not in the best of moods, we somehow made it through the rest of the evening and into the next morning without further incident. They did come and fix the safe, but not the internet or lamp, and although the heat never came on, at least we had stopped the cold air from actually blowing, so we considered it a victory to get one and a half out of four. Woo hoo!
I took the first shower in the morning, and while Tim tried to defrost himself with the hot water, I finished packing up. I heard the shower shut off, and then Tim laughing, which is not his usual reaction to being clean.
Almost afraid of the answer, I called out, "What?"
Choking back more laughter (which frankly had a slightly maniacal edge to it), he told me that it was a good thing that I had taken the first shower.
"Why?"
He opened the door to show me the knob to the hot water cradled in his hand.
"It just fell right off" he explained, shaking his head.
Before anything else could go wrong, we finished packing up and got out of disaster central.
"Did you have a good stay?" the guy at the reception desk asked Tim as we checked out.
"Yeah, Fine," realizing it was not this guy's fault, Tim decided to forgo the litany of complaints associated with our stay.
"Good," the clerk enthused.
Tim rolled his eyes and bit his tongue.
"Glad you had a great experience with us."
That was it. The magic word. The duck dropped. Tim couldn't keep it bottled up inside for another second.
"Great?" he fired back at the bewildered man who looked like he had pulled the tail of what he thought was a kitten only to realize too late that it was a lion. "Great? Yeah, it was great when the internet didn't work and there was no light in the room. And it was really great when the safe didn't work. It was super great that our room was so cold you could hang meat in it. But the greatest thing of all was when the hot water handle fell off in the shower this morning. I tried to be nice, but you just couldn't let it go. You couldn't accept 'fine'. No, you had to push it with 'great'!"
I don't think I've ever seen anybodies eyes grow that large that fast before. I'm guessing it was at that point that the man erased the word great from his vocabulary. I imagine him now enquiring of departing guests, "How was your stay? Adequate?"
Despite the rain and traffic , we got there with enough time to spare so that Tim could work up a good aggravation before dinner.
First of all, when we asked if the room had a refrigerator, they apparently thought we asked if the room was a refrigerator. Now I'm all for air-conditioning when it's ninety degrees outside, but when it's sixty? Call me crazy, but somehow, I think that you should at least consider switching over to heat, or at the very least turning the air off. A good rule of thumb would be: if the guests' fingers and toes are turning blue and they are calling room service to request parkas and hot water bottles, the room is probably TOO COLD!!!!!
Thinking this was a problem easily solved, we chipped our way through the block of ice encasing the control panel, and bumped it up to ninety...and the air just blew colder. Great, now we could become honorary members of the polar bear club. Finding the blower control, we explored those options as well while we still had some feeling in our limbs and at least a smidgen of fine motor skills left...and, impossibly, the air blew even colder!!! On the bright side though, by morning, we would be cryogenically preserved, and for just a fraction of the price Walt Disney paid.
Before frostbite could set in, we just shut the system down altogether, and ordered flannel PJs, thermal sheets and blankets, a book of matches, some graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows (why be cold and miserable? When life hands you a frozen lemon...make s'mores!).
Anxious to be warm again, or at least not colder than a block of ice, I went into the bathroom to change, so we could go downstairs to the event. Through the door, I could hear Tim muttering to himself, which is not usually a good sign. Sure enough, when I came out, he was squinting morosely at his computer.
"Bad news?" I enquired, then wanted to kick myself for opening that can of worms.
"The internet service isn't working, so I can't get online," he groused, "and, the light on the desk isn't working either, so I can't see a darn thing." (Okay, so he didn't actually say darn, but it was close, although there may have been one or two other four-letter words and colorful adjectives in there as well. I'm not sure because I was too busy trying to lock the room safe which kept beeping at me.
He interrupted his tirade when it became clear that something took precedence in my universe over him being able to get online.
"What are you trying to do?" he interrupted himself.
"Nothing. I can't get the safe to lock," I pressed the series of buttons once again as though it would make a difference, and got computerized groans and an error message in response.
"You're hopeless with mechanical things," he informed me with an air of superiority as he brushed me aside, "I'll do it."
Oh yeah, and you're so good at getting things to work. How's the whole online thing working out for you? Would you care for a flashlight to see it? I thought it, but I didn't say it.
"All you have to do is punch in four digits and hit 'lock'" he instructed me loftily.
Gee, now why didn't I think of that? I guess because I've never traveled before and seen one of those new-fangled contraptions. Go-ool-ly. Is that what they call tech-no-lo-gy? Too bad I can't read either, or I might have seen the directions printed right on the front. By the way, you manage to get the heat working?
Beep...beep...beep...beep. Rattle, rattle. Boop boo. Error.
I just smiled smugly.
"Clearly, it's broken," he defended his computer expertise.
No. Really? I guess that's just one more thing to add the the (growing) list then.
Not in the best of moods, we somehow made it through the rest of the evening and into the next morning without further incident. They did come and fix the safe, but not the internet or lamp, and although the heat never came on, at least we had stopped the cold air from actually blowing, so we considered it a victory to get one and a half out of four. Woo hoo!
I took the first shower in the morning, and while Tim tried to defrost himself with the hot water, I finished packing up. I heard the shower shut off, and then Tim laughing, which is not his usual reaction to being clean.
Almost afraid of the answer, I called out, "What?"
Choking back more laughter (which frankly had a slightly maniacal edge to it), he told me that it was a good thing that I had taken the first shower.
"Why?"
He opened the door to show me the knob to the hot water cradled in his hand.
"It just fell right off" he explained, shaking his head.
Before anything else could go wrong, we finished packing up and got out of disaster central.
"Did you have a good stay?" the guy at the reception desk asked Tim as we checked out.
"Yeah, Fine," realizing it was not this guy's fault, Tim decided to forgo the litany of complaints associated with our stay.
"Good," the clerk enthused.
Tim rolled his eyes and bit his tongue.
"Glad you had a great experience with us."
That was it. The magic word. The duck dropped. Tim couldn't keep it bottled up inside for another second.
"Great?" he fired back at the bewildered man who looked like he had pulled the tail of what he thought was a kitten only to realize too late that it was a lion. "Great? Yeah, it was great when the internet didn't work and there was no light in the room. And it was really great when the safe didn't work. It was super great that our room was so cold you could hang meat in it. But the greatest thing of all was when the hot water handle fell off in the shower this morning. I tried to be nice, but you just couldn't let it go. You couldn't accept 'fine'. No, you had to push it with 'great'!"
I don't think I've ever seen anybodies eyes grow that large that fast before. I'm guessing it was at that point that the man erased the word great from his vocabulary. I imagine him now enquiring of departing guests, "How was your stay? Adequate?"
Friday, July 17, 2009
Happy Anniversary
In honor of its tenth anniversary next month, Blogger has invited people to write about the role blogging plays in their life. Apparently, some people use their blogs to help them find a job, keep in touch with family and friends, form support groups and even showcase their talents.
Not me. I keep a blog because this month is my twenty-second wedding anniversary, and, after twenty-two years of listening to me ramble on about the latest disaster to befall me, Tim has finally managed, with much diligent practice, to tune me out. I'm convinced that when I talk, it's like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. All he hears is, "wah-wah, wah wah. "
I would share my woes with my friends, but, well, then I would have no friends, so in the end, keeping a blog is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can't blame Tim too much though, because I do seem to have more than my share of issues with cable companies, phone companies, computers (okay, technology in general), planes, trains, automobiles and, oh yeah, inanimate objects.
The first few years we were married, Tim was very sympathetic to whatever my latest plight was. For example, when my new car developed a personality of its own, sort of like Stephen King's Christine, he was there for me.
As I rode down the street, Christine Jr. would decide she didn't feel like listening to rock, and change the channel to, say, rap or maybe talk radio, never anything I would even remotely, under pain of death, be interested in.
I would try changing it back. Christine Jr. ignored my request. I tried changing it to something else, anything else, before I had to either slit my wrists or become Vanilla Ice's number one fan. Christine Jr. decided to go with a solid, "no way". Finally, in total frustration, I would turn the radio off completely. Or not. Use of the button depended on whether or not Christine Jr. was finished with getting me to appreciate the finer points of the latest Milli Vanilli song.
As if that wasn't enough, Christine Jr. also taunted me by randomly locking and unlocking the doors. Bad neighborhood? Unlock! (he he he) Stopping to get gas? Oooooh, too bad for you. Lock! Hey, just so you know, you can push those buttons all day. Nobody tells me what to do!
Naturally, when I took her into the shop, there wasn't a thing wrong with her. Oh no, I was the crazy one. Tim took my side though against Christine Jr., and helped me exorcise her (okay, so we traded her in...and I could only hope it was some smug, know-it-all mechanic who somehow got saddled with her).
As the years have passed though, Tim has come to accept situations such as this to be the norm, sort of like Darrin accepted Samantha, Major Nelson, Jeannie, or Ricky did Lucy; you know, calm, cool and collected.
Latest case in point was a few weeks ago on the train to NYC.
Tim had forgotten his ipod, so I insisted on getting a splitter and second set of earbuds so we could share mine. As we settled into our seats, Tim opened his newspaper and began reading. I began setting up base camp.
First: shelter. Knowing from past experience that Amtrak has somehow gotten the idea that they are transporting sides of beef as opposed to people in the cars, I came prepared with a jacket and a pashmina, which I proceeded to wrap myself in, mummy-like.
Second: food. The only thing worse than airline food is train food. Reheated, microwaved chicken. Rubber ball. Enough said. So, I pulled down my tray table and foraged in my Mary Poppins-like bag for my stash of cookies, pretzels, honey-roasted almonds and bagel. That should be just about enough for a few hours. About this time, they came through offering beverages, so I took a coffee and added it to the growing pile.
Third: necessities of life. I rooted out my copy of the latest People magazine, blackberry, hand sanitizer, reading glasses, tic-tacs, ipod, and kindle. Now I was ready to enjoy the ride.
Over Tim's objections that he had plenty to occupy him (please, he only had a few measly newspapers and his blackberry, the equivalent of going on a week's vacation with only a toothbrush and single change of underwear), I began setting up the ipod. And that is when the curse struck.
Somehow, through no fault of my own, the cords and wires had become inextricably tangled into one giant mess. Patiently, I worked at the knots, snaking an earbud through here and a prong under there. I threaded, tugged and pulled for a good ten minutes. Tim just rolled his eyes and hid behind his paper as though that would make him invisible.
After another fruitless few minutes (seriously, how do neatly coiled cords become so entangled? Are there little purse gnomes that get their jollies out of stuff like this?) I decided I needed to get a fresh perspective and tried to recline my seat a bit (yeah, more room was going to magically untangle the cords--I remember learning that my first year of high school physics).
I pressed the button and pushed back, and...nothing. I used two thumbs to press the button...still nothing. I used four fingers and a forearm...and still nothing. I tried just the middle finger which I knew wouldn't work, but it made me feel better, and flung myself back against the seat like a battering ram...once again, nothing.
Finally, Tim could ignore it no longer, and with a muttered oath, he stood up, leaned across the seat and tried to muscle the seat down. It moved a whole quarter of an inch...and so did my coffee, right onto my lap.
You see...disaster. And that is why I keep a blog.
Not me. I keep a blog because this month is my twenty-second wedding anniversary, and, after twenty-two years of listening to me ramble on about the latest disaster to befall me, Tim has finally managed, with much diligent practice, to tune me out. I'm convinced that when I talk, it's like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. All he hears is, "wah-wah, wah wah. "
I would share my woes with my friends, but, well, then I would have no friends, so in the end, keeping a blog is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can't blame Tim too much though, because I do seem to have more than my share of issues with cable companies, phone companies, computers (okay, technology in general), planes, trains, automobiles and, oh yeah, inanimate objects.
The first few years we were married, Tim was very sympathetic to whatever my latest plight was. For example, when my new car developed a personality of its own, sort of like Stephen King's Christine, he was there for me.
As I rode down the street, Christine Jr. would decide she didn't feel like listening to rock, and change the channel to, say, rap or maybe talk radio, never anything I would even remotely, under pain of death, be interested in.
I would try changing it back. Christine Jr. ignored my request. I tried changing it to something else, anything else, before I had to either slit my wrists or become Vanilla Ice's number one fan. Christine Jr. decided to go with a solid, "no way". Finally, in total frustration, I would turn the radio off completely. Or not. Use of the button depended on whether or not Christine Jr. was finished with getting me to appreciate the finer points of the latest Milli Vanilli song.
As if that wasn't enough, Christine Jr. also taunted me by randomly locking and unlocking the doors. Bad neighborhood? Unlock! (he he he) Stopping to get gas? Oooooh, too bad for you. Lock! Hey, just so you know, you can push those buttons all day. Nobody tells me what to do!
Naturally, when I took her into the shop, there wasn't a thing wrong with her. Oh no, I was the crazy one. Tim took my side though against Christine Jr., and helped me exorcise her (okay, so we traded her in...and I could only hope it was some smug, know-it-all mechanic who somehow got saddled with her).
As the years have passed though, Tim has come to accept situations such as this to be the norm, sort of like Darrin accepted Samantha, Major Nelson, Jeannie, or Ricky did Lucy; you know, calm, cool and collected.
Latest case in point was a few weeks ago on the train to NYC.
Tim had forgotten his ipod, so I insisted on getting a splitter and second set of earbuds so we could share mine. As we settled into our seats, Tim opened his newspaper and began reading. I began setting up base camp.
First: shelter. Knowing from past experience that Amtrak has somehow gotten the idea that they are transporting sides of beef as opposed to people in the cars, I came prepared with a jacket and a pashmina, which I proceeded to wrap myself in, mummy-like.
Second: food. The only thing worse than airline food is train food. Reheated, microwaved chicken. Rubber ball. Enough said. So, I pulled down my tray table and foraged in my Mary Poppins-like bag for my stash of cookies, pretzels, honey-roasted almonds and bagel. That should be just about enough for a few hours. About this time, they came through offering beverages, so I took a coffee and added it to the growing pile.
Third: necessities of life. I rooted out my copy of the latest People magazine, blackberry, hand sanitizer, reading glasses, tic-tacs, ipod, and kindle. Now I was ready to enjoy the ride.
Over Tim's objections that he had plenty to occupy him (please, he only had a few measly newspapers and his blackberry, the equivalent of going on a week's vacation with only a toothbrush and single change of underwear), I began setting up the ipod. And that is when the curse struck.
Somehow, through no fault of my own, the cords and wires had become inextricably tangled into one giant mess. Patiently, I worked at the knots, snaking an earbud through here and a prong under there. I threaded, tugged and pulled for a good ten minutes. Tim just rolled his eyes and hid behind his paper as though that would make him invisible.
After another fruitless few minutes (seriously, how do neatly coiled cords become so entangled? Are there little purse gnomes that get their jollies out of stuff like this?) I decided I needed to get a fresh perspective and tried to recline my seat a bit (yeah, more room was going to magically untangle the cords--I remember learning that my first year of high school physics).
I pressed the button and pushed back, and...nothing. I used two thumbs to press the button...still nothing. I used four fingers and a forearm...and still nothing. I tried just the middle finger which I knew wouldn't work, but it made me feel better, and flung myself back against the seat like a battering ram...once again, nothing.
Finally, Tim could ignore it no longer, and with a muttered oath, he stood up, leaned across the seat and tried to muscle the seat down. It moved a whole quarter of an inch...and so did my coffee, right onto my lap.
You see...disaster. And that is why I keep a blog.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Living the Fairy Tale
I have to tell it. There is part II to the previous story. There was one other time in Ireland that we had trouble with finding a place, although in retrospect, it would have been better for us if it had stayed, er, lost.
Since none of us had much money, we had opted to stay at a lot of small bed and breakfast type hotels. We decided, however, to splurge and treat ourselves to one night in a real, honest-to-goodness castle. We were gonna live the fairy tale. Too bad it turned out to be Shrek instead of Sleeping Beauty.
Our first indication that things were not going to work out for us was when we couldn't find the castle. Once again, there was no real address, but we figured ,"how hard could it be to find?" Biiig castle, tiny little town. It should stand out, right? Nope. Wrong. This place was hidden away better than Brigadoon.
Finally, we did spot a sign with an arrow, indicating that the castle lay over the bridge on the outskirts of town. Ahhh. Directions at last. So over the bridge we went. Five miles later, there was still no castle, and no more signs, so we turned around, trying to figure out where we had gone wrong.
As we approached the bridge again from the opposite direction, we spotted the same sign showing that the castle was over the bridge in this direction.
Excuse me? If both signs were correct, that meant the castle was somewhere...on the bridge?...under the bridge?...hovering over the bridge? Hey, maybe we were staying in Brigadoon after all. Sadly, it took us about four more trips back and forth across the bridge before we were willing to admit that the castle wasn't actually there.
Just as we were about to cry "uncle", Tim spotted a road near the bridge. Or what might be a road. Maybe more of a lane. Or perhaps a path. Whatever. It looked like perhaps someone, at some point had driven what appeared to be a vehicle with wheels this way, and after all, it was Ireland, so we took it.
Twenty minutes later, as we sat in some farmer's field facing a very large, very angry-looking bull who seemed to view our little car as a rival for his cows' affections, we came to the conclusion that perhaps it wasn't really the road to the castle after all. We're smart like that.
Once again, we found ourselves back at the bridge trying to interpret the signage. Eventually, and I appear to have blocked this out of my conscious memory, we did find the castle. Even after all these years, though, I have not been able to block out the actual castle itself, no matter how hard I try.
Glad to be there, we eagerly ascended the grand staircase to our room. Tim and I were on the second floor, while my mom, Pat and Mary Ann were in the turret. (he he he)
As we pushed open our door, we recoiled in horror. Far from the sumptuous decor we expected, it looked like our room had last been updated in the 5o's...the 1850's...by someone who had mistaken it for the local bordello.
Bright orange carpeting (stained, by what I still don't want to know) warred with the red and black flocked wall paper, while an enormous naked, gold cupid chandelier hovered over the bed which was covered by a nasty-looking spread with large gold tassels. The shower curtain was stiff with age and I'm pretty sure the mold was the only thing keeping it from completely falling apart. Ewwwwww.
Were they kidding us? Really? Seriously, where was the hidden camera? We were supposed to sleep here and not have nightmares? I began wishing we had given up looking for the castle when we didn't find it on the bridge.
Turns out they were completely serious about the room though, and the castle was fully booked (apparently, we were not the only suckers, I mean tourists, in town that night). Suddenly, the turret didn't look so bad. Maybe I could hang my hair out the window and somebody from "Maid Brigade" would climb up and rescue me.
With no other choice, we resigned ourselves to our fate for the night, consoling ourselves with the fact that, with all the castle had to offer, we would not even be in the room anyway.
With cheerfully grim determination, we enquired at the front desk about the skeet-shooting offered in their catalogue.
"Oh, shooting? We host a contest once year. Too bad you just missed it, it was last weekend."
Grrr. How about horseback riding?
"Weell, it's not actually here at the castle, but it's really close. Just over in the next village. It's easy to get to."
Yeah, I'll bet. We'll probably only need a map, compass, guide dog, Sherpa and picnic lunch just to get there. Thanks, but I think we'll pass. So what is there to do besides shrieking in horror at the accommodations?
"You could visit the town?"
After weighing our options, which were, um, let's see none, we decided to go into town, gorge ourselves on fish and chips and try and plot a course for our escape the next day back to the comforts of a lovely little motel by the airport.
As hard as it was finding our way to the castle, we wanted to make darn sure we could find our way away from it!
Since none of us had much money, we had opted to stay at a lot of small bed and breakfast type hotels. We decided, however, to splurge and treat ourselves to one night in a real, honest-to-goodness castle. We were gonna live the fairy tale. Too bad it turned out to be Shrek instead of Sleeping Beauty.
Our first indication that things were not going to work out for us was when we couldn't find the castle. Once again, there was no real address, but we figured ,"how hard could it be to find?" Biiig castle, tiny little town. It should stand out, right? Nope. Wrong. This place was hidden away better than Brigadoon.
Finally, we did spot a sign with an arrow, indicating that the castle lay over the bridge on the outskirts of town. Ahhh. Directions at last. So over the bridge we went. Five miles later, there was still no castle, and no more signs, so we turned around, trying to figure out where we had gone wrong.
As we approached the bridge again from the opposite direction, we spotted the same sign showing that the castle was over the bridge in this direction.
Excuse me? If both signs were correct, that meant the castle was somewhere...on the bridge?...under the bridge?...hovering over the bridge? Hey, maybe we were staying in Brigadoon after all. Sadly, it took us about four more trips back and forth across the bridge before we were willing to admit that the castle wasn't actually there.
Just as we were about to cry "uncle", Tim spotted a road near the bridge. Or what might be a road. Maybe more of a lane. Or perhaps a path. Whatever. It looked like perhaps someone, at some point had driven what appeared to be a vehicle with wheels this way, and after all, it was Ireland, so we took it.
Twenty minutes later, as we sat in some farmer's field facing a very large, very angry-looking bull who seemed to view our little car as a rival for his cows' affections, we came to the conclusion that perhaps it wasn't really the road to the castle after all. We're smart like that.
Once again, we found ourselves back at the bridge trying to interpret the signage. Eventually, and I appear to have blocked this out of my conscious memory, we did find the castle. Even after all these years, though, I have not been able to block out the actual castle itself, no matter how hard I try.
Glad to be there, we eagerly ascended the grand staircase to our room. Tim and I were on the second floor, while my mom, Pat and Mary Ann were in the turret. (he he he)
As we pushed open our door, we recoiled in horror. Far from the sumptuous decor we expected, it looked like our room had last been updated in the 5o's...the 1850's...by someone who had mistaken it for the local bordello.
Bright orange carpeting (stained, by what I still don't want to know) warred with the red and black flocked wall paper, while an enormous naked, gold cupid chandelier hovered over the bed which was covered by a nasty-looking spread with large gold tassels. The shower curtain was stiff with age and I'm pretty sure the mold was the only thing keeping it from completely falling apart. Ewwwwww.
Were they kidding us? Really? Seriously, where was the hidden camera? We were supposed to sleep here and not have nightmares? I began wishing we had given up looking for the castle when we didn't find it on the bridge.
Turns out they were completely serious about the room though, and the castle was fully booked (apparently, we were not the only suckers, I mean tourists, in town that night). Suddenly, the turret didn't look so bad. Maybe I could hang my hair out the window and somebody from "Maid Brigade" would climb up and rescue me.
With no other choice, we resigned ourselves to our fate for the night, consoling ourselves with the fact that, with all the castle had to offer, we would not even be in the room anyway.
With cheerfully grim determination, we enquired at the front desk about the skeet-shooting offered in their catalogue.
"Oh, shooting? We host a contest once year. Too bad you just missed it, it was last weekend."
Grrr. How about horseback riding?
"Weell, it's not actually here at the castle, but it's really close. Just over in the next village. It's easy to get to."
Yeah, I'll bet. We'll probably only need a map, compass, guide dog, Sherpa and picnic lunch just to get there. Thanks, but I think we'll pass. So what is there to do besides shrieking in horror at the accommodations?
"You could visit the town?"
After weighing our options, which were, um, let's see none, we decided to go into town, gorge ourselves on fish and chips and try and plot a course for our escape the next day back to the comforts of a lovely little motel by the airport.
As hard as it was finding our way to the castle, we wanted to make darn sure we could find our way away from it!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Lost (Literally)
No matter where we are in the world, Tim has a pretty good sense of direction. He knew the driver in Paris was not heading the right way, even though he couldn't communicate it to him without his translator.
In Tim's book, there is nothing worse than getting lost or not being able to find a place. It's a total guy thing. But sometimes it can't be avoided.
Years ago, we took a trip with my mother, sister, brother and two family friends to England, Scotland and Ireland. Due to the mountain of luggage we toted around with us, we needed to rent two cars for the duration.
Tim drove car one while I navigated with the map (this was way before nav systems), and my mom followed in car two. The rest of our happy little band alternated between the two cars.
Everything went well enough in England where they believe in putting up fairly accurate signage and have paved roads and maps whose lines actually represent the roads. And then we got to Ireland.
On our way out of Dublin to the west coast, Tim got quite ill, so I had to drive. With much trepidation, I handed over the map to my mother, sister, Pat, and our friend Mary Ann, and told them they would have to lead the way. I would have done better putting on a blindfold and throwing darts at an atlas. Those three could get lost in a broom closet with a flashlight and mapquest. But I had no choice.
True to form, two hours later of careening around hairpin turns and dodging suicidal sheep, we ended up dead-ended at a lake. This would not have been nearly so distressing had we been planning to visit the lake, or even the county, but since we were actually aiming for a major city on the opposite coast, it was not a good situation.
Tim woke up, and I believe his first words were, "Where in God's name are we?" And the really tragic part was, nobody knew for sure.
"A lake," did not seem to be the answer he was looking for, especially when it was not accompanied by the actual name of the lake.
"What county are we in?" he rasped out. Again, his question was met with blank looks and helpless shrugs.
"Are we still in Ireland?" Okay, now he was just grasping for straws. After all, Ireland is an island and we hadn't crossed any water...well major waterways...I didn't think. I don't know, I was too busy trying to keep from plunging over the edge of a cliff every time another car wanted to pass on the wrong side of the narrow cow-pass they laughingly refer to as two-lane roads in that country.
Eventually, we found a native who was able to assure us that: A. we were still in Ireland (so there!) , and B. we were still on the east coast.
After pouring over the map for a good half hour, we were able to figure out where they went wrong, if not why, and plot a course back to civilization (my mother, trying to put a bright face on things by saying, "At least we got to see a place most tourists don't see. Aren't we lucky?" was not helping. It was like the captain of the Titanic trying to put a bright face on the whole sinking thing by pointing out that at least there was plenty of ice for cocktail hour.).
Tim managed to keep it together and climbed back behind the wheel to finish off our journey, which was uneventful until near the end.
The hotel we had booked into in Cork had no actual address that we could find, only a description that it was "on the hillside overlooking the river" (Gotta love the Irish--ask a simple yes or no question of us and you get a forty-five minute dissertation with the most detailed, colorful descriptions you will ever hear in your life. Ask for a little help with directions and you get the vaguest, most rambling explanation that leaves you more confused than when you started.).
But we were young and still had a shred of hope and optimism, so we figured we would find it.
The only problem was, as we pulled into Cork, I looked behind us and there was no blue car following our red one. My mother, Pat and Mary Ann had vanished!
Tim, being gallant, pulled over and waited for them to appear. After all, he reasoned, there was only one main road and we were on it. Foolish boy. Applying reason to my family. Tsk, tsk.
Black cars whizzed past, red cars whizzed past, even blue cars whizzed past, but not the one we were looking for.
Feeling a sense of duty, Tim turned the car around and backtracked to find them, against the strong urging of Mike and myself to "Save ourselves" and not end up dead-ended at a cave or a giant pile of cow-dung which is where they were sure to be.
Much later, after a fruitless search (duh. Tim couldn't have seen that coming?) we convinced him to head to the hotel where we could check in and perhaps marshall some troops for a fresh search party later.
As we drove up the hill and prepared to make a right turn into the hotel, we encountered the blue car chugging down the hill and making a left into the hotel. Turns out, they had started chatting and followed the wrong car! Fortunately for them, the luck of the Irish was with them and they didn't end up back at the lake (which was a real possibility).
Poor Tim. And that was the last group trip he went on. Wonder why?
In Tim's book, there is nothing worse than getting lost or not being able to find a place. It's a total guy thing. But sometimes it can't be avoided.
Years ago, we took a trip with my mother, sister, brother and two family friends to England, Scotland and Ireland. Due to the mountain of luggage we toted around with us, we needed to rent two cars for the duration.
Tim drove car one while I navigated with the map (this was way before nav systems), and my mom followed in car two. The rest of our happy little band alternated between the two cars.
Everything went well enough in England where they believe in putting up fairly accurate signage and have paved roads and maps whose lines actually represent the roads. And then we got to Ireland.
On our way out of Dublin to the west coast, Tim got quite ill, so I had to drive. With much trepidation, I handed over the map to my mother, sister, Pat, and our friend Mary Ann, and told them they would have to lead the way. I would have done better putting on a blindfold and throwing darts at an atlas. Those three could get lost in a broom closet with a flashlight and mapquest. But I had no choice.
True to form, two hours later of careening around hairpin turns and dodging suicidal sheep, we ended up dead-ended at a lake. This would not have been nearly so distressing had we been planning to visit the lake, or even the county, but since we were actually aiming for a major city on the opposite coast, it was not a good situation.
Tim woke up, and I believe his first words were, "Where in God's name are we?" And the really tragic part was, nobody knew for sure.
"A lake," did not seem to be the answer he was looking for, especially when it was not accompanied by the actual name of the lake.
"What county are we in?" he rasped out. Again, his question was met with blank looks and helpless shrugs.
"Are we still in Ireland?" Okay, now he was just grasping for straws. After all, Ireland is an island and we hadn't crossed any water...well major waterways...I didn't think. I don't know, I was too busy trying to keep from plunging over the edge of a cliff every time another car wanted to pass on the wrong side of the narrow cow-pass they laughingly refer to as two-lane roads in that country.
Eventually, we found a native who was able to assure us that: A. we were still in Ireland (so there!) , and B. we were still on the east coast.
After pouring over the map for a good half hour, we were able to figure out where they went wrong, if not why, and plot a course back to civilization (my mother, trying to put a bright face on things by saying, "At least we got to see a place most tourists don't see. Aren't we lucky?" was not helping. It was like the captain of the Titanic trying to put a bright face on the whole sinking thing by pointing out that at least there was plenty of ice for cocktail hour.).
Tim managed to keep it together and climbed back behind the wheel to finish off our journey, which was uneventful until near the end.
The hotel we had booked into in Cork had no actual address that we could find, only a description that it was "on the hillside overlooking the river" (Gotta love the Irish--ask a simple yes or no question of us and you get a forty-five minute dissertation with the most detailed, colorful descriptions you will ever hear in your life. Ask for a little help with directions and you get the vaguest, most rambling explanation that leaves you more confused than when you started.).
But we were young and still had a shred of hope and optimism, so we figured we would find it.
The only problem was, as we pulled into Cork, I looked behind us and there was no blue car following our red one. My mother, Pat and Mary Ann had vanished!
Tim, being gallant, pulled over and waited for them to appear. After all, he reasoned, there was only one main road and we were on it. Foolish boy. Applying reason to my family. Tsk, tsk.
Black cars whizzed past, red cars whizzed past, even blue cars whizzed past, but not the one we were looking for.
Feeling a sense of duty, Tim turned the car around and backtracked to find them, against the strong urging of Mike and myself to "Save ourselves" and not end up dead-ended at a cave or a giant pile of cow-dung which is where they were sure to be.
Much later, after a fruitless search (duh. Tim couldn't have seen that coming?) we convinced him to head to the hotel where we could check in and perhaps marshall some troops for a fresh search party later.
As we drove up the hill and prepared to make a right turn into the hotel, we encountered the blue car chugging down the hill and making a left into the hotel. Turns out, they had started chatting and followed the wrong car! Fortunately for them, the luck of the Irish was with them and they didn't end up back at the lake (which was a real possibility).
Poor Tim. And that was the last group trip he went on. Wonder why?
Friday, June 19, 2009
Lost in Translation
I have a friend who speaks five languages fluently. I speak one--English--but I can say hello and order wine in at least four languages. Pretty much all you really need to know. Sometimes though, it would be nice to know just a couple more words.
The other day in Paris, three of us were in a car on the way to dinner with a driver who, I believed spoke about as much English as we do French. But, no matter. He understood our mangled pronunciation of the name of the restaurant--we thought.
After the first few turns though, we began to doubt that he was taking us in the right direction.
"Are we headed to la Fontaine Gaillon?" Tim enquired in loud, slow English, which is exactly the same as speaking any foreign language.
Pause. No response.
Our friend in the front seat gave it a try. Whew! Glad he speaks French, I thought.
"Are we going to la Fontaine Gaillon?" he repeated.
Wait. What? I looked at Tim to see if I was nuts or if he had heard his question repeated in loud, slow English.
Surprisingly, he got an affirmative answer. Hmmm. Guess Tim wasn't loud enough or slow enough.
Not satisfied that the driver really understood his concern, Tim persisted. "I thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," he leaned forward and yelled in the driver's ear.
Pause. No response.
"We thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," once again our friend's language skills dazzled us.
"Yes, I go this way," the driver replied.
Okay. This was getting just plain weird. I was hearing English, but clearly our friend was actually speaking French to the driver. I guess the jet lag was worse than I thought. I looked at Tim to see if he had heard the same thing I did, but he was too intent on getting at least one answer out of the driver without a translator.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he bellowed, leaning so far forward his nose was practically pressed against the windshield.
Once again a pause and no response. Oh, this guy was good.
We exchanged puzzled glances with our friend who gamely interpreted one more time.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he once again repeated loudly and slowly.
"Yes, but the traffic is bad, so I go around," the driver answered straightaway.
Okay, now this was just getting bizarre. I know our friend was speaking English that time. I could tell from the bright red color creeping up Tim's neck. So why wouldn't the driver answer Tim? Had he offended him in some way? He was wearing Italian shoes, but the tie was French. Didn't that count for something?
Hey. What if it was the accent? Did our friend's mid-western twang sound more Parisian than our flat, east-coast diction? Maybe Tim would have gotten further if he'd tried a "Hey y'all" or "How you doin'?". Even a "Yo. 'sup?" might have actually gotten some sort of acknowledgment.
Alas, we would never know the truth because before Tim could go with his instincts and throttle the driver until he admitted he actually understood and spoke flawless English, we arrived at our destination...Where I promptly ordered us each a nice glass of wine...in French...I think.
The other day in Paris, three of us were in a car on the way to dinner with a driver who, I believed spoke about as much English as we do French. But, no matter. He understood our mangled pronunciation of the name of the restaurant--we thought.
After the first few turns though, we began to doubt that he was taking us in the right direction.
"Are we headed to la Fontaine Gaillon?" Tim enquired in loud, slow English, which is exactly the same as speaking any foreign language.
Pause. No response.
Our friend in the front seat gave it a try. Whew! Glad he speaks French, I thought.
"Are we going to la Fontaine Gaillon?" he repeated.
Wait. What? I looked at Tim to see if I was nuts or if he had heard his question repeated in loud, slow English.
Surprisingly, he got an affirmative answer. Hmmm. Guess Tim wasn't loud enough or slow enough.
Not satisfied that the driver really understood his concern, Tim persisted. "I thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," he leaned forward and yelled in the driver's ear.
Pause. No response.
"We thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," once again our friend's language skills dazzled us.
"Yes, I go this way," the driver replied.
Okay. This was getting just plain weird. I was hearing English, but clearly our friend was actually speaking French to the driver. I guess the jet lag was worse than I thought. I looked at Tim to see if he had heard the same thing I did, but he was too intent on getting at least one answer out of the driver without a translator.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he bellowed, leaning so far forward his nose was practically pressed against the windshield.
Once again a pause and no response. Oh, this guy was good.
We exchanged puzzled glances with our friend who gamely interpreted one more time.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he once again repeated loudly and slowly.
"Yes, but the traffic is bad, so I go around," the driver answered straightaway.
Okay, now this was just getting bizarre. I know our friend was speaking English that time. I could tell from the bright red color creeping up Tim's neck. So why wouldn't the driver answer Tim? Had he offended him in some way? He was wearing Italian shoes, but the tie was French. Didn't that count for something?
Hey. What if it was the accent? Did our friend's mid-western twang sound more Parisian than our flat, east-coast diction? Maybe Tim would have gotten further if he'd tried a "Hey y'all" or "How you doin'?". Even a "Yo. 'sup?" might have actually gotten some sort of acknowledgment.
Alas, we would never know the truth because before Tim could go with his instincts and throttle the driver until he admitted he actually understood and spoke flawless English, we arrived at our destination...Where I promptly ordered us each a nice glass of wine...in French...I think.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
No Rest For The Weary
This past weekend, we were in Paris. We arrived very early Friday morning, and since neither one of us got even a wink of sleep on the plane, we decided to take a short nap before we landed face down in a plate of quiche.
Never imagining we would be bothered at 7am, we neglected to put out the "I'm relaxing" sign before we slipped into our jammies. As it turned out, not only should we have put it out, we should have had it flashing in bright, neon-colored lights.
The first knock came just as we were headed for nirvana--the bed. A way-too-chipper-for-7am hotel staffer stood there bearing a complementary fruit plate and bottles of water.
"Welcome," he beamed, and proceeded to set up our treat, making at least thirty trips back and forth for plates, napkins, silverware, moist towelettes, etc.
Somewhere around trip number twenty, I began to think it was too bad they haven't invented some sort of device that he could use to make life easier. Something that maybe had, oh, I don't know, wheels. Yeah, maybe some sort of a wheeled cart that could be rolled into the room, and either left there or quickly and easily unloaded and wheeled back out. Something maybe like that thing in the hall he used to bring all this stuff to our room in the first place. Nah. Crazy idea. It'd never work.
Finally, he was done, and with a cheery wave au revoir, he disappeared and we were left to see who could make it to the bed and fall asleep the fastest.
The last thing I remember is making sure Tim set the alarm, which turned out to be totally unnecessary.
The next thing I remember is hearing Tim say, "Get out!" and prying open one bleary eye to find another member of the hotel staff standing in the bedroom doorway.
"I came for the mini-bar," he was muttering, clearly misinterpreting "Get out" to mean "Please, come in. Don't mind the people in the bed. You just rush right over and check out that mini-bar to see how much damage they were able to do in the whole HOUR they were in the room."
The second "GET OUT!", accompanied by Tim rising from the bed like a grizzly coming out of a really long hibernation, seemed to need no translation. Last we saw of that guy, he was booking it out of the room like he was going for the gold in the 100 meter dash.
This time, we made sure we had the "I'm relaxing" sign firmly placed on the door, and briefly contemplated wedging the couch, the coffee table and the bed under the handle before heading back to sleep.
What we failed to realize though, in our sleep-deprived state, was that we had two doors, one in the sitting room and one in the bedroom. The hotel staff unfortunately realized that they had yet another chance to keep us from getting our beauty sleep though, and right on schedule, one hour later, there was a pounding on the door.
"Bonjour! Make up the room?" a woman who clearly had a death wish called out.
"No! Go away!" Tim responded in a tone that threatened to set back foreign relations a good two hundred years. I guess we won't have to worry about an ambassadorship any time soon.
"I will come back later. OK?"
Yeah, sure. How about in, oh, say, an hour? We wouldn't want to break our pattern here and get more than 40 minutes of sleep at any given time. Hey, maybe you could bring back fruit guy and mini-bar guy, and we could eat all the tiny little bags of chips, drink all the itty-bitty little bottles of vodka, pig out on strawberries and macaroons and then get really crazy and open all the cute little shampoo bottles. Par-T!!!
Once again, we headed wearily back to bed only to have the alarm go off before our heads even hit the pillows. At that point, we were afraid of who might show up next, so we gave up, showered, and headed out without bothering to remove the useless "I'm relaxing" sign.
As we waited for the elevator, it occurred to us that maybe that was our mistake in the first place. Instead of putting the "I'm relaxing" sign on the door, maybe we should have put out the "please make up room" sign instead. It wasn't like we could have had any more people coming into the room. I don't think the hotel staff was that big.
Never imagining we would be bothered at 7am, we neglected to put out the "I'm relaxing" sign before we slipped into our jammies. As it turned out, not only should we have put it out, we should have had it flashing in bright, neon-colored lights.
The first knock came just as we were headed for nirvana--the bed. A way-too-chipper-for-7am hotel staffer stood there bearing a complementary fruit plate and bottles of water.
"Welcome," he beamed, and proceeded to set up our treat, making at least thirty trips back and forth for plates, napkins, silverware, moist towelettes, etc.
Somewhere around trip number twenty, I began to think it was too bad they haven't invented some sort of device that he could use to make life easier. Something that maybe had, oh, I don't know, wheels. Yeah, maybe some sort of a wheeled cart that could be rolled into the room, and either left there or quickly and easily unloaded and wheeled back out. Something maybe like that thing in the hall he used to bring all this stuff to our room in the first place. Nah. Crazy idea. It'd never work.
Finally, he was done, and with a cheery wave au revoir, he disappeared and we were left to see who could make it to the bed and fall asleep the fastest.
The last thing I remember is making sure Tim set the alarm, which turned out to be totally unnecessary.
The next thing I remember is hearing Tim say, "Get out!" and prying open one bleary eye to find another member of the hotel staff standing in the bedroom doorway.
"I came for the mini-bar," he was muttering, clearly misinterpreting "Get out" to mean "Please, come in. Don't mind the people in the bed. You just rush right over and check out that mini-bar to see how much damage they were able to do in the whole HOUR they were in the room."
The second "GET OUT!", accompanied by Tim rising from the bed like a grizzly coming out of a really long hibernation, seemed to need no translation. Last we saw of that guy, he was booking it out of the room like he was going for the gold in the 100 meter dash.
This time, we made sure we had the "I'm relaxing" sign firmly placed on the door, and briefly contemplated wedging the couch, the coffee table and the bed under the handle before heading back to sleep.
What we failed to realize though, in our sleep-deprived state, was that we had two doors, one in the sitting room and one in the bedroom. The hotel staff unfortunately realized that they had yet another chance to keep us from getting our beauty sleep though, and right on schedule, one hour later, there was a pounding on the door.
"Bonjour! Make up the room?" a woman who clearly had a death wish called out.
"No! Go away!" Tim responded in a tone that threatened to set back foreign relations a good two hundred years. I guess we won't have to worry about an ambassadorship any time soon.
"I will come back later. OK?"
Yeah, sure. How about in, oh, say, an hour? We wouldn't want to break our pattern here and get more than 40 minutes of sleep at any given time. Hey, maybe you could bring back fruit guy and mini-bar guy, and we could eat all the tiny little bags of chips, drink all the itty-bitty little bottles of vodka, pig out on strawberries and macaroons and then get really crazy and open all the cute little shampoo bottles. Par-T!!!
Once again, we headed wearily back to bed only to have the alarm go off before our heads even hit the pillows. At that point, we were afraid of who might show up next, so we gave up, showered, and headed out without bothering to remove the useless "I'm relaxing" sign.
As we waited for the elevator, it occurred to us that maybe that was our mistake in the first place. Instead of putting the "I'm relaxing" sign on the door, maybe we should have put out the "please make up room" sign instead. It wasn't like we could have had any more people coming into the room. I don't think the hotel staff was that big.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
W is for Women, M is for Men
I will admit, I have been in my share of men's restrooms.
Once, many years ago at a theater in NYC where there was a short intermission between acts and a long line for the ladies' room, one of the women, in desperation, finally commandeered the men's room, and a bunch of us followed her in. My father-in-law (who was standing in a nearby hallway), never quite got over it. To hear him talk about it, you would think we had desecrated holy ground. Till the day he died, he couldn't pass a restroom without shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about Visigoths, Huns or Vikings.
Then there was the time at Versailles when one of the bathroom attendants motioned for a whole group of us to come over and use the men's room. Unfortunately, I was the last one in, last one out, and by that time, the men had reclaimed their turf.
I figured I had two choices at that point. I could either stay in the stall (which had a floor to ceiling door and one very tiny window) until they closed down for the night, or I could try to squeeze out the window. Just as I was measuring the size of the window against my butt (and the two were not compatible), someone started pounding on the stall door and rattling the handle.
Since they both looked old enough and therefore fragile enough to actually be from the reign of Louis IV, I decided to go with option three. I put my head down, wrenched open the door and beelined it for the exit. I still have the impression of a whole row of guys frantically hugging the walls imprinted on my brain. Not good. (That was also pretty much the end of my liquid intake for the day. Dehydration was definitely preferable to repeating that experience!) I could almost hear my father-in-law rolling over.
Last Sunday night though, the tables were turned.
We had gone to dinner at one of the old, historic hotels downtown, and I had visited the ladies' room, which was down a corridor off the main hallway of the hotel. As I was freshening my lipstick at the mirrors in the first of the two rooms, the door came flying open, a man stuck his head in and yelled, "Teresa!"
He halted briefly upon seeing me. "You're not Teresa."
No, and I can't tell you right now how glad I am that I'm not. "Can I help you?"
"No thanks, mind if I look in there?" he gestured toward the second door, even as he breezed by me and started to push it open.
"Um, sure." Don't mind me, I'm only in the ladies' room.
"Teresa, are you in here?"
A muffled, "I'm putting my lipstick on," answered him.
"Well, I'm ready to leave. Now." Wow. Whatever happened to a five minute warning?
With that, he strode back out, nodded at me, and said, "Thanks."
Sure. No problem.
I never did see Teresa, but when I exited, there was no sign of the guy in the corridor or the hallway, and I thought I heard a soft male chuckle.
Once, many years ago at a theater in NYC where there was a short intermission between acts and a long line for the ladies' room, one of the women, in desperation, finally commandeered the men's room, and a bunch of us followed her in. My father-in-law (who was standing in a nearby hallway), never quite got over it. To hear him talk about it, you would think we had desecrated holy ground. Till the day he died, he couldn't pass a restroom without shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about Visigoths, Huns or Vikings.
Then there was the time at Versailles when one of the bathroom attendants motioned for a whole group of us to come over and use the men's room. Unfortunately, I was the last one in, last one out, and by that time, the men had reclaimed their turf.
I figured I had two choices at that point. I could either stay in the stall (which had a floor to ceiling door and one very tiny window) until they closed down for the night, or I could try to squeeze out the window. Just as I was measuring the size of the window against my butt (and the two were not compatible), someone started pounding on the stall door and rattling the handle.
Since they both looked old enough and therefore fragile enough to actually be from the reign of Louis IV, I decided to go with option three. I put my head down, wrenched open the door and beelined it for the exit. I still have the impression of a whole row of guys frantically hugging the walls imprinted on my brain. Not good. (That was also pretty much the end of my liquid intake for the day. Dehydration was definitely preferable to repeating that experience!) I could almost hear my father-in-law rolling over.
Last Sunday night though, the tables were turned.
We had gone to dinner at one of the old, historic hotels downtown, and I had visited the ladies' room, which was down a corridor off the main hallway of the hotel. As I was freshening my lipstick at the mirrors in the first of the two rooms, the door came flying open, a man stuck his head in and yelled, "Teresa!"
He halted briefly upon seeing me. "You're not Teresa."
No, and I can't tell you right now how glad I am that I'm not. "Can I help you?"
"No thanks, mind if I look in there?" he gestured toward the second door, even as he breezed by me and started to push it open.
"Um, sure." Don't mind me, I'm only in the ladies' room.
"Teresa, are you in here?"
A muffled, "I'm putting my lipstick on," answered him.
"Well, I'm ready to leave. Now." Wow. Whatever happened to a five minute warning?
With that, he strode back out, nodded at me, and said, "Thanks."
Sure. No problem.
I never did see Teresa, but when I exited, there was no sign of the guy in the corridor or the hallway, and I thought I heard a soft male chuckle.
Friday, April 18, 2008
How Can I (Not) Help You?
Not only did Tim's trip get off to a comical start, but a rocky one as well.
About an hour after he had gotten on the train, I realized that he had forgotten to pack his medicine. A few calls later, we found out that if we called our doctor with the number of a pharmacy, she could order a temporary prescription for him.
Getting online, I quickly found a list of pharmacies that were open twenty-four hours, but since I am unfamiliar with the area (he was actually staying in Jersey), I couldn't tell which ones were close to his hotel.
Quickest way: Call the hotel and ask them. Not.
First call: -Hi. I'm looking for someone there who can help me find a drug store near the hotel.
-Hold Please.
John Denver song. Julio Iglesies song. I hung up before Willie Nelson warbled out a tune.
Second call: -Hi. I need to speak to the concierge.
-Oh, you're the one who needs a drug store, right?
-Uh, Yeah. (Did I call the hotel or the psychic hotline?)
-We don't have a concierge at the moment. Hold on and I'll connect you to someone though.
Oh good. Someone. Someone helpful, or someone who will aggravate me? She went with option number two, but only after subjecting me to a lovely little ditty by KC and the Sunshine Band.
-Hello, you need a drug store near the hotel?
-Yes. One that has a twenty-four hour pharmacy.
-We have an Eckerd down the street.
-I know, but it doesn't have a 24-hour pharmacy. I pulled up a list online, but I'm not sure which ones are close to the hotel.
-Eckerd is closest. You'd need a ride to get anywhere else. I can pull up a list online though.
-(in my mind) Grrr. (out loud) Actually, we are coming from the train station, so I already have a car. And a list. I just need--
-We also have a shuttle bus that will take you to Eckerd.
-(in my mind) Okay, whatever Eckerd is paying you, I'll double it if you don't say Eckerd again. (out loud) Look, I'm going to read off the addresses of several CVS pharmacies, and you tell me which is closest to the hotel, okay?
-There aren't any CVS in the neighborhood, but...(if he said the E-word again, I was googling Tony Soprano and asking for a favor)...I can give you directions or get a cab for you.
--(in my mind) I don't want a cab, or a shuttle, or directions. I just want a yes or no as I read you the list. Think you can do that? (out loud--well, actually, that was out loud.)
Quickly, I started running down the list.
#1: he knew the road, but not exactly where on the road it was. Maybe ten minutes away. He could...Before he could repeat a previous suggestion which would get him killed, I moved on.
#2: closer to the train station than the hotel. Next?
-Wait. This one is close to the station? Do we pass it on the way?
-Yes. But we can take you there from the hotel, or you might want to go the the first one on the list because it is only ten minutes away.
-(out loud. And this was nowhere near a bad as what I was really thinking) Sure, we'll pass the one on the way from the station, come to the hotel, get rid of our car, and then you can get us a cab and give us directions to the other one. Thanks. That would be a huge help.
-Well, uh, (perhaps he sensed the sarcasm? Finally?) Don't you want to check in first, then go to the drug store?
For his safety, and to preserve what little was left of my sanity, I hung up and called the doctor.
About an hour after he had gotten on the train, I realized that he had forgotten to pack his medicine. A few calls later, we found out that if we called our doctor with the number of a pharmacy, she could order a temporary prescription for him.
Getting online, I quickly found a list of pharmacies that were open twenty-four hours, but since I am unfamiliar with the area (he was actually staying in Jersey), I couldn't tell which ones were close to his hotel.
Quickest way: Call the hotel and ask them. Not.
First call: -Hi. I'm looking for someone there who can help me find a drug store near the hotel.
-Hold Please.
John Denver song. Julio Iglesies song. I hung up before Willie Nelson warbled out a tune.
Second call: -Hi. I need to speak to the concierge.
-Oh, you're the one who needs a drug store, right?
-Uh, Yeah. (Did I call the hotel or the psychic hotline?)
-We don't have a concierge at the moment. Hold on and I'll connect you to someone though.
Oh good. Someone. Someone helpful, or someone who will aggravate me? She went with option number two, but only after subjecting me to a lovely little ditty by KC and the Sunshine Band.
-Hello, you need a drug store near the hotel?
-Yes. One that has a twenty-four hour pharmacy.
-We have an Eckerd down the street.
-I know, but it doesn't have a 24-hour pharmacy. I pulled up a list online, but I'm not sure which ones are close to the hotel.
-Eckerd is closest. You'd need a ride to get anywhere else. I can pull up a list online though.
-(in my mind) Grrr. (out loud) Actually, we are coming from the train station, so I already have a car. And a list. I just need--
-We also have a shuttle bus that will take you to Eckerd.
-(in my mind) Okay, whatever Eckerd is paying you, I'll double it if you don't say Eckerd again. (out loud) Look, I'm going to read off the addresses of several CVS pharmacies, and you tell me which is closest to the hotel, okay?
-There aren't any CVS in the neighborhood, but...(if he said the E-word again, I was googling Tony Soprano and asking for a favor)...I can give you directions or get a cab for you.
--(in my mind) I don't want a cab, or a shuttle, or directions. I just want a yes or no as I read you the list. Think you can do that? (out loud--well, actually, that was out loud.)
Quickly, I started running down the list.
#1: he knew the road, but not exactly where on the road it was. Maybe ten minutes away. He could...Before he could repeat a previous suggestion which would get him killed, I moved on.
#2: closer to the train station than the hotel. Next?
-Wait. This one is close to the station? Do we pass it on the way?
-Yes. But we can take you there from the hotel, or you might want to go the the first one on the list because it is only ten minutes away.
-(out loud. And this was nowhere near a bad as what I was really thinking) Sure, we'll pass the one on the way from the station, come to the hotel, get rid of our car, and then you can get us a cab and give us directions to the other one. Thanks. That would be a huge help.
-Well, uh, (perhaps he sensed the sarcasm? Finally?) Don't you want to check in first, then go to the drug store?
For his safety, and to preserve what little was left of my sanity, I hung up and called the doctor.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
I have always considered my bungee-jumping, motorcycle-riding sister to be the risk-taker of the family, but last Friday, I did something I'm betting even she wouldn't even do. I rode in a pedi-cab in NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
In my defense, it was NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
My friend and I tried to get a regular cab. Really. We frantically waved, we jumped up and down, we planted ourselves in the path of oncoming traffic, we practically did semaphore with our bags, but all the cabs were taken.
As we scurried along the crowded streets, wondering whether we could make it the twenty-five blocks to the station before we either drowned or missed the train, we heard it. The ding ding of a bicycle bell.
"Where to?" the driver (?) called. Clearly, we looked like tourists. Dumb tourists.
Politely declining (which confirmed his whole tourist theory), we moved up the street and renewed our efforts (along with about two dozen other soggy people) to catch a real cab.
Ding ding. "I'll give you a good rate." Yeah, right, on what, the funeral costs when we end up as roadkill?
Again, we declined, less politely this time, and began madly waving our arms like some large, flightless birds recently escaped from the zoo in order to secure a cab that was larger than a Cracker-Jack box.
Ding ding. Apparently, our disparaging remarks with regard to the safety factor of a large tricycle competing with actual rush hour traffic failed to deter this guy. "Anywhere in Manhattan, faster than a regular cab and just as safe."
Hmm. Why not just say "as safe as a swim in shark infested waters", or "as safe as juggling chainsaws that are on fire". Yeah, he might want to rethink that as a possible slogan.
Brushing him off once again, we slogged through another block teeming with rain and cranky pedestrians, but no cab was to be had.
Ding ding. And that is when is struck. Temporary insanity. We looked at each other, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of idiots and squeezed into the "cab".
After zipping the plastic cover, sealing us in like leftovers in a Ziploc baggie, our driver hopped on his bike and took off down Fifth Avenue. Before we could even register the lack of seat belts, protective headgear or roll bars, the nice "safe" ride became the Tour de France and our driver Lance Armstrong.
We hurtled down the street zigging and zagging through traffic, narrowly missing cars, buses, construction barrels, concrete barriers and a few stray pigeons. Pedestrians dove for safety, horns blew, brakes squealed, and we learned some wonderful new phrases that are sure to make us a lot of friends in several different languages.
We flew like the wind, hitting every pothole, rut and sewer lid until we felt like a couple of pieces of Shake'n Bake chicken. Finally though, the end was in sight...Penn Station. But wait, we weren't slowing down. We were still doing Mach 10 in a Mach 3 zone and three lanes over from the curb. As we tried to attract our "driver's" attention by clawing at the plastic (apparently, he had grown immune to our screams about fifteen blocks back), he suddenly swerved one final time, cutting off a cab, a limo and a bus and propelling us up and over the curb to come to a bone-jarring halt three feet from the door. (well, that explained the speed. It's hard to get airborne doing anything less than sixty mph I guess.)
As he unzipped us with a grand flourish and boasted, "Ten minutes!", we pried our fingers from around the sides of the "cab" and practically fell to our knees and kissed the pavement in sheer gratitude at still being alive.
I think I'll leave the daredevil stuff to my sister from now on.
In my defense, it was NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
My friend and I tried to get a regular cab. Really. We frantically waved, we jumped up and down, we planted ourselves in the path of oncoming traffic, we practically did semaphore with our bags, but all the cabs were taken.
As we scurried along the crowded streets, wondering whether we could make it the twenty-five blocks to the station before we either drowned or missed the train, we heard it. The ding ding of a bicycle bell.
"Where to?" the driver (?) called. Clearly, we looked like tourists. Dumb tourists.
Politely declining (which confirmed his whole tourist theory), we moved up the street and renewed our efforts (along with about two dozen other soggy people) to catch a real cab.
Ding ding. "I'll give you a good rate." Yeah, right, on what, the funeral costs when we end up as roadkill?
Again, we declined, less politely this time, and began madly waving our arms like some large, flightless birds recently escaped from the zoo in order to secure a cab that was larger than a Cracker-Jack box.
Ding ding. Apparently, our disparaging remarks with regard to the safety factor of a large tricycle competing with actual rush hour traffic failed to deter this guy. "Anywhere in Manhattan, faster than a regular cab and just as safe."
Hmm. Why not just say "as safe as a swim in shark infested waters", or "as safe as juggling chainsaws that are on fire". Yeah, he might want to rethink that as a possible slogan.
Brushing him off once again, we slogged through another block teeming with rain and cranky pedestrians, but no cab was to be had.
Ding ding. And that is when is struck. Temporary insanity. We looked at each other, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of idiots and squeezed into the "cab".
After zipping the plastic cover, sealing us in like leftovers in a Ziploc baggie, our driver hopped on his bike and took off down Fifth Avenue. Before we could even register the lack of seat belts, protective headgear or roll bars, the nice "safe" ride became the Tour de France and our driver Lance Armstrong.
We hurtled down the street zigging and zagging through traffic, narrowly missing cars, buses, construction barrels, concrete barriers and a few stray pigeons. Pedestrians dove for safety, horns blew, brakes squealed, and we learned some wonderful new phrases that are sure to make us a lot of friends in several different languages.
We flew like the wind, hitting every pothole, rut and sewer lid until we felt like a couple of pieces of Shake'n Bake chicken. Finally though, the end was in sight...Penn Station. But wait, we weren't slowing down. We were still doing Mach 10 in a Mach 3 zone and three lanes over from the curb. As we tried to attract our "driver's" attention by clawing at the plastic (apparently, he had grown immune to our screams about fifteen blocks back), he suddenly swerved one final time, cutting off a cab, a limo and a bus and propelling us up and over the curb to come to a bone-jarring halt three feet from the door. (well, that explained the speed. It's hard to get airborne doing anything less than sixty mph I guess.)
As he unzipped us with a grand flourish and boasted, "Ten minutes!", we pried our fingers from around the sides of the "cab" and practically fell to our knees and kissed the pavement in sheer gratitude at still being alive.
I think I'll leave the daredevil stuff to my sister from now on.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful
We got our first significant snowfall recently, and, as usual, people reacted with complete and utter panic. Store shelves were cleared of bread, milk and toilet paper in under an hour. (Hint: Don't rush out and buy the first two, and you won't need the third!)
Having moved here from the northeast, Tim and I always shake our heads in disbelief. A few inches? Don't make us laugh! Let us know when it's really going to snow. After all, we once survived a blizzard. (This is where the screen should get all white and wavy and harp music should play.)
We had driven back home for an Easter visit, and when Tim, Tom and I left on Monday (in Tim's new car), the snow was gently falling. No big deal. We'd seen worse. Yeah. Turns out we hadn't.
Six hours, sixty miles, about sixteen tons of snow and half a basket of Easter candy later, we were zipping along at a speedy five miles per hour, looking for the first exit with a hotel or motel. Anything. The interstate and turnpike were both being closed, and the weatherman on the radio was predicting a bad storm (No! Ya think ?!)
Finally, through the driving snow, we saw it. A sign for a motel just a mile ahead. Yea! Civilization. Well, sort of. The motel itself wasn't actually a mile ahead. The formerly dirt and gravel road that led to the motel was a mile ahead. The motel itself was down this road which now resembled the black diamond run at Camelback Mountain complete with moguls.
As we skidded to a stop in front of the motel, Tim pried his fingers one by one from the steering wheel and mopped up the rivers of sweat pouring down his face. We bundled up in our spring jackets and dashed (well, not so much dashed as plowed) into the office.
Before we could even get a "hello" past our chattering, blue lips, the woman behind the counter informed us that they were full up, and then returned to watching her game show. Okaaay. Um. Sorry to interrupt your busy schedule, but do you know of any other places nearby? Maybe some down the line, but you really don't know. Great. Well, thanks for all your help. No, no. Don't get up. We'll see ourselves out.
So, down the line we crept, in Tim's new car, through a bunch of tiny little towns whose names I couldn't even begin to spell while the snow continued to waft down at a rate of about twenty feet an hour.
Place after place (including one which I'm pretty sure was the model for Hitchcock's Bates Motel), the answer was the same: No room at the inn. (Hellooooo. It's Easter. Didn't these people know that was the Christmas story?)
As we approached the town of Pottsville, desperation began to set in (hey, the candy was running low), and we had expanded out search to include all-night McDonalds and 24-hour laundromats. Just as we were debating whether our igloo should have an eastern or western exposure, we found it. A motel with the last two rooms in all of Pennsylvania (well, eastern PA at least).
Dumping our bags in the rooms, we rushed up to the restaurant for dinner, licking our lips in anticipation of anything that was not shaped like either a bunny or an egg. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea because the dining room was full, there was at least a two hour wait for a table, and they weren't sure exactly what they would have left on the menu at that point.
Not willing to see how low our blood sugar could drop before we passed out, we opted for the bar. Unfortunately, they were not in a much better position. They had Yingling beer and steamed clams (at this point, I would almost have eaten a real bunny). But, since our only other choice was to eat the actual Easter basket (there was a brief moment when I did wonder if it could be any worse than rice cakes), we bellied up to the bar.
To add insult to injury, the next morning, the snow was rapidly melting and about an hour later when we crossed over the Maryland border the grass was green and the trees already blooming.
A few inches of snow? Hah!
Having moved here from the northeast, Tim and I always shake our heads in disbelief. A few inches? Don't make us laugh! Let us know when it's really going to snow. After all, we once survived a blizzard. (This is where the screen should get all white and wavy and harp music should play.)
We had driven back home for an Easter visit, and when Tim, Tom and I left on Monday (in Tim's new car), the snow was gently falling. No big deal. We'd seen worse. Yeah. Turns out we hadn't.
Six hours, sixty miles, about sixteen tons of snow and half a basket of Easter candy later, we were zipping along at a speedy five miles per hour, looking for the first exit with a hotel or motel. Anything. The interstate and turnpike were both being closed, and the weatherman on the radio was predicting a bad storm (No! Ya think ?!)
Finally, through the driving snow, we saw it. A sign for a motel just a mile ahead. Yea! Civilization. Well, sort of. The motel itself wasn't actually a mile ahead. The formerly dirt and gravel road that led to the motel was a mile ahead. The motel itself was down this road which now resembled the black diamond run at Camelback Mountain complete with moguls.
As we skidded to a stop in front of the motel, Tim pried his fingers one by one from the steering wheel and mopped up the rivers of sweat pouring down his face. We bundled up in our spring jackets and dashed (well, not so much dashed as plowed) into the office.
Before we could even get a "hello" past our chattering, blue lips, the woman behind the counter informed us that they were full up, and then returned to watching her game show. Okaaay. Um. Sorry to interrupt your busy schedule, but do you know of any other places nearby? Maybe some down the line, but you really don't know. Great. Well, thanks for all your help. No, no. Don't get up. We'll see ourselves out.
So, down the line we crept, in Tim's new car, through a bunch of tiny little towns whose names I couldn't even begin to spell while the snow continued to waft down at a rate of about twenty feet an hour.
Place after place (including one which I'm pretty sure was the model for Hitchcock's Bates Motel), the answer was the same: No room at the inn. (Hellooooo. It's Easter. Didn't these people know that was the Christmas story?)
As we approached the town of Pottsville, desperation began to set in (hey, the candy was running low), and we had expanded out search to include all-night McDonalds and 24-hour laundromats. Just as we were debating whether our igloo should have an eastern or western exposure, we found it. A motel with the last two rooms in all of Pennsylvania (well, eastern PA at least).
Dumping our bags in the rooms, we rushed up to the restaurant for dinner, licking our lips in anticipation of anything that was not shaped like either a bunny or an egg. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea because the dining room was full, there was at least a two hour wait for a table, and they weren't sure exactly what they would have left on the menu at that point.
Not willing to see how low our blood sugar could drop before we passed out, we opted for the bar. Unfortunately, they were not in a much better position. They had Yingling beer and steamed clams (at this point, I would almost have eaten a real bunny). But, since our only other choice was to eat the actual Easter basket (there was a brief moment when I did wonder if it could be any worse than rice cakes), we bellied up to the bar.
To add insult to injury, the next morning, the snow was rapidly melting and about an hour later when we crossed over the Maryland border the grass was green and the trees already blooming.
A few inches of snow? Hah!
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
But She Never Said, "I Told You So..."
After sitting in traffic last Thanksgiving for over six hours (for what is normally a less than four hour trip), we decided to be smart this year and travel back early on Saturday instead of waiting for Sunday. Apparently, fate had another plan.
Since my sister-in-law, Rose, had her car, and Tim and I had ours, I decided to travel back with Rose and her dog, Murray, the first half of the trip, then, when her ears were bleeding from listening to me talk for two hours, I would switch cars and make Tim listen to me for the second half of the trip.
We had been following Tim for less than a half hour when he suddenly pulled off the road (which was barely enough time to complain about how much we ate and how fat we were). Puzzled, we pulled up behind him on the shoulder only to find that his left front tire had gone flat. Surprisingly, he was taking it quite well (only three or four curses, and no kicking the tire, car or roadside debris).
After emptying a can of Fix-A-Flat into the tire and having it hiss and foam back out at us from a slit near the bottom, we decided to call roadside assistance and see if we could get the tire replaced (250 miles on a doughnut? Please. Just the thought of having to drive two miles on the highway while keeping it under sixty was making Tim break out in a cold sweat.)
So there we sat, Tim, Rose, Murray and I (foul mood, bad back that was out, sore throat and clogged sinuses, and needing a bathroom -- and Rose, Murray and I were not in happy places either), when Tim's brother, Tom, came along and pulled in as well to commiserate. (Wohoo! a tailgate party!)
Fortunately, help arrived within twenty minutes (which was what Rose had optimistically predicted). That was the good news. The bad news was that there was not a replacement tire to be had within a, well, 250 mile radius. Great. Another six hour trip. Our happy places now were in the land of Far, Far Away.
Thirty minutes later, we were on the road again, but this time I was with Tim and we had convinced Rose and Tom to go on ahead of us (Rose was the hardest sell, wanting to follow us in case we had problems with the doughnut, but we finally insulted her enough and got her to go on ahead. In retrospect, it was like watching the last lifeboat from the Titanic head for the horizon while we danced to the final verse of "Amazing Grace".)
Several hours of Christmas music later (which was not making our day either merry or bright), we were finally nearing the end of our journey. Only an hour and a half to go. Tim was holding it together pretty well, although there had been one or two tense moments such as when a carload of senior citizens passed us (and I'm pretty sure they flipped us off) doing a speedy sixty in a sixty-five zone. But the worst moment came when we were passed by a Winebego--towing a car! I never thought it was possible for someone's skin to simultaneously turn white and red until I looked over at Tim, who was clenching his teeth and the wheel with equal force.
Just as we were discussing where we should have dinner, it happened. The right front tire went flat. As we coasted to the side of the highway for the second time that day, and discovered that that tire too was beyond help, I waited for it. I was sure it was coming any second now. The Rumplestiltskin dance.
But there was no stamping. No spewing of cuss words. No disappearing through a whole in the ground, never to be seen again. Amazingly, Tim calmly called roadside assistance and ordered a tow truck. (Meanwhile, I was wondering who this stranger was and what he had done with my husband. Had he been switched out for a Stepford husband, or had aliens taken over his body? Would a pod shoot out of his stomach at any moment and attack me?)
While I was still pondering the possibilities, Rose pulled up behind us once again ( she had stopped for a bathroom break--for her and the dog-- and shrewdly stayed some miles behind us, anticipating this very thing). After transferring our luggage to her car, we all sat and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Which he did one and a half hours later (after he finished watching his movie--no sense everyone having a bad day).
By then, darkness had fallen, Rose and Murray had fallen asleep and Tim had fallen into the long anticipated but expected foul mood (there he was... the guy I married!).
After a truly speedy trip to the dealer (Who knew a flatbed tow truck could do eighty?) Rose drove us home where we went to the diner for dinner (and I got moldy bread with my tuna sandwich---the perfect end to the perfect day). It had only taken us eight and a half hours to make that four hour trip.
Before she left to go home though, Rose made one final prediction...on the price of the tires. Tim disagreed. Two days later, after speaking with the dealer, we found out that, once again, Rose was right!
Since my sister-in-law, Rose, had her car, and Tim and I had ours, I decided to travel back with Rose and her dog, Murray, the first half of the trip, then, when her ears were bleeding from listening to me talk for two hours, I would switch cars and make Tim listen to me for the second half of the trip.
We had been following Tim for less than a half hour when he suddenly pulled off the road (which was barely enough time to complain about how much we ate and how fat we were). Puzzled, we pulled up behind him on the shoulder only to find that his left front tire had gone flat. Surprisingly, he was taking it quite well (only three or four curses, and no kicking the tire, car or roadside debris).
After emptying a can of Fix-A-Flat into the tire and having it hiss and foam back out at us from a slit near the bottom, we decided to call roadside assistance and see if we could get the tire replaced (250 miles on a doughnut? Please. Just the thought of having to drive two miles on the highway while keeping it under sixty was making Tim break out in a cold sweat.)
So there we sat, Tim, Rose, Murray and I (foul mood, bad back that was out, sore throat and clogged sinuses, and needing a bathroom -- and Rose, Murray and I were not in happy places either), when Tim's brother, Tom, came along and pulled in as well to commiserate. (Wohoo! a tailgate party!)
Fortunately, help arrived within twenty minutes (which was what Rose had optimistically predicted). That was the good news. The bad news was that there was not a replacement tire to be had within a, well, 250 mile radius. Great. Another six hour trip. Our happy places now were in the land of Far, Far Away.
Thirty minutes later, we were on the road again, but this time I was with Tim and we had convinced Rose and Tom to go on ahead of us (Rose was the hardest sell, wanting to follow us in case we had problems with the doughnut, but we finally insulted her enough and got her to go on ahead. In retrospect, it was like watching the last lifeboat from the Titanic head for the horizon while we danced to the final verse of "Amazing Grace".)
Several hours of Christmas music later (which was not making our day either merry or bright), we were finally nearing the end of our journey. Only an hour and a half to go. Tim was holding it together pretty well, although there had been one or two tense moments such as when a carload of senior citizens passed us (and I'm pretty sure they flipped us off) doing a speedy sixty in a sixty-five zone. But the worst moment came when we were passed by a Winebego--towing a car! I never thought it was possible for someone's skin to simultaneously turn white and red until I looked over at Tim, who was clenching his teeth and the wheel with equal force.
Just as we were discussing where we should have dinner, it happened. The right front tire went flat. As we coasted to the side of the highway for the second time that day, and discovered that that tire too was beyond help, I waited for it. I was sure it was coming any second now. The Rumplestiltskin dance.
But there was no stamping. No spewing of cuss words. No disappearing through a whole in the ground, never to be seen again. Amazingly, Tim calmly called roadside assistance and ordered a tow truck. (Meanwhile, I was wondering who this stranger was and what he had done with my husband. Had he been switched out for a Stepford husband, or had aliens taken over his body? Would a pod shoot out of his stomach at any moment and attack me?)
While I was still pondering the possibilities, Rose pulled up behind us once again ( she had stopped for a bathroom break--for her and the dog-- and shrewdly stayed some miles behind us, anticipating this very thing). After transferring our luggage to her car, we all sat and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Which he did one and a half hours later (after he finished watching his movie--no sense everyone having a bad day).
By then, darkness had fallen, Rose and Murray had fallen asleep and Tim had fallen into the long anticipated but expected foul mood (there he was... the guy I married!).
After a truly speedy trip to the dealer (Who knew a flatbed tow truck could do eighty?) Rose drove us home where we went to the diner for dinner (and I got moldy bread with my tuna sandwich---the perfect end to the perfect day). It had only taken us eight and a half hours to make that four hour trip.
Before she left to go home though, Rose made one final prediction...on the price of the tires. Tim disagreed. Two days later, after speaking with the dealer, we found out that, once again, Rose was right!
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Warning! Never Offend the Gods of Travel
Last Thursday, my friend and I made our bi-annual pilgrimage to NYC by train, and in the process, somehow offended the gods of travel.
Oh, things started out well enough. We got to the station early enough to have breakfast, we got two seats together that were not in the quiet car (which was a lucky break for everyone in the quiet car), and we arrived in Midtown with just enough time to have lunch before our 1:00 appointment (clearly, we live in great fear of missing a meal).
I should have known our luck was too good to be true. Maybe we weren't appreciative enough, or maybe we just took it all for granted. Either way, we were about to pay for it.
Going directly to our "usual" Italian restaurant, we discovered that it didn't open until 11:30. Hmmm. This was new. Oh well, no problem. We would just take a little walk around, do some window shopping and and still have time to stuff ourselves before 1:00.
Unfortunately, we soon found out that they considered that 11:30 time more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. At 11:35, the door was still locked, and the waiters were all sitting at the tables folding napkins. At 11:40, they were unpacking bottles of wine from crates littering the main aisle. Meanwhile, we stood outside, tapping our toes, pointing to our watches and glaring at them through the glass windows, all to no effect. At 11:45, we gave up our intimidation tactics and decided to explore our other options.
Since this was a mostly high end shopping area (ever see Dolce and Gabbana haute couture on someone over one hundred pounds?) there weren't a lot of them. A few doors down, there was the Four Seasons (anyone for a thirty-eight dollar hamburger?), and next to that a sushi place (fifty dollars for a plate of raw fish?). On the other hand, we could go to the take-out place (Yummy. Pre-packaged sandwiches fresh from yesterday!), or how about some chestnuts and hot dogs from the cart on the corner (yes, but what would we tell them at the ER when they wanted to know exactly what had caused the food poisoning?).
While all of this was tempting, we decided to give the Italian place one more chance, and this time, we weren't taking no for an answer. Returning to the restaurant, we banged on the door until one of the waiters (undoubtedly, the one who drew the short straw), grudgingly let us in and seated us at a tiny table in the front window.
After serving us bread and water, he informed us that the regular menu items would not be available for another five to ten minutes, and the specials for at least another ten after that. He then attempted to make his escape. The fool. Did he really think it would be that easy? Apparently, he had never dealt with women suffering from low blood sugar before (hey, it had been almost four whole hours since we had eaten!).
After a quick game of "torture the waiter", we did get our food (which I'm pretty sure they spit on), and made our appointment in time. Then, the gods struck again.
Emerging out onto Fifth Avenue at 4:20, we attempted to hail a cab to take us back to Penn Station for our 5:00 train. Since there were about ten cabs scattering the block waiting at the red light, we thought it would be easy enough. Wrong.
The first cab rolled down his window just enough to refuse us. The second cab pretty much had the same response. Odd. When the third cab inched away from us as we approached, we began looking around for the hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher.
As the light changed, we decided to walk over a block or two and try our luck there. Coming upon a cab just letting people out, we went to jump in, but the driver yelled something in a language neither of us spoke and took off. Now, it was getting really weird. Maybe we should be looking for a tourism office and bowing down before it, trying to appease the gods instead of hailing cabs. The next cab didn't even slow down, but I think it veered toward us a bit before zooming off.
This was pretty much the pattern for the next twenty-two blocks until we reached the station at 4:50, hot, sweaty and a little bit cranky from doing the two minute mile, only to discover a long line of cabs happily letting people out and picking new people up as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Fortunately, we made our train, but the gods were not through with torturing us yet. The only two seats together were at a table for four with an older gentleman who alternated between telling us jokes even older than he was (and I'm guessing he entertained the troops at Valley Forge with the same jokes) and paying us what I'm sure he considered to be compliments, but which would probably get him sued in the workplace.
By the time we realized what we were dealing with, every available seat on the train was taken (don't think we didn't look), and, of course, he stayed on until the very end of the line.
I'm still not sure what we did wrong, but next time, I'm not taking any chances. I am going to find the nearest tourism office to Penn Station and pay a visit before trying to eat or catch a cab. Maybe I'll even buy one of those I love New York T-shirts or baseball caps just to be on the safe side.
Oh, things started out well enough. We got to the station early enough to have breakfast, we got two seats together that were not in the quiet car (which was a lucky break for everyone in the quiet car), and we arrived in Midtown with just enough time to have lunch before our 1:00 appointment (clearly, we live in great fear of missing a meal).
I should have known our luck was too good to be true. Maybe we weren't appreciative enough, or maybe we just took it all for granted. Either way, we were about to pay for it.
Going directly to our "usual" Italian restaurant, we discovered that it didn't open until 11:30. Hmmm. This was new. Oh well, no problem. We would just take a little walk around, do some window shopping and and still have time to stuff ourselves before 1:00.
Unfortunately, we soon found out that they considered that 11:30 time more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. At 11:35, the door was still locked, and the waiters were all sitting at the tables folding napkins. At 11:40, they were unpacking bottles of wine from crates littering the main aisle. Meanwhile, we stood outside, tapping our toes, pointing to our watches and glaring at them through the glass windows, all to no effect. At 11:45, we gave up our intimidation tactics and decided to explore our other options.
Since this was a mostly high end shopping area (ever see Dolce and Gabbana haute couture on someone over one hundred pounds?) there weren't a lot of them. A few doors down, there was the Four Seasons (anyone for a thirty-eight dollar hamburger?), and next to that a sushi place (fifty dollars for a plate of raw fish?). On the other hand, we could go to the take-out place (Yummy. Pre-packaged sandwiches fresh from yesterday!), or how about some chestnuts and hot dogs from the cart on the corner (yes, but what would we tell them at the ER when they wanted to know exactly what had caused the food poisoning?).
While all of this was tempting, we decided to give the Italian place one more chance, and this time, we weren't taking no for an answer. Returning to the restaurant, we banged on the door until one of the waiters (undoubtedly, the one who drew the short straw), grudgingly let us in and seated us at a tiny table in the front window.
After serving us bread and water, he informed us that the regular menu items would not be available for another five to ten minutes, and the specials for at least another ten after that. He then attempted to make his escape. The fool. Did he really think it would be that easy? Apparently, he had never dealt with women suffering from low blood sugar before (hey, it had been almost four whole hours since we had eaten!).
After a quick game of "torture the waiter", we did get our food (which I'm pretty sure they spit on), and made our appointment in time. Then, the gods struck again.
Emerging out onto Fifth Avenue at 4:20, we attempted to hail a cab to take us back to Penn Station for our 5:00 train. Since there were about ten cabs scattering the block waiting at the red light, we thought it would be easy enough. Wrong.
The first cab rolled down his window just enough to refuse us. The second cab pretty much had the same response. Odd. When the third cab inched away from us as we approached, we began looking around for the hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher.
As the light changed, we decided to walk over a block or two and try our luck there. Coming upon a cab just letting people out, we went to jump in, but the driver yelled something in a language neither of us spoke and took off. Now, it was getting really weird. Maybe we should be looking for a tourism office and bowing down before it, trying to appease the gods instead of hailing cabs. The next cab didn't even slow down, but I think it veered toward us a bit before zooming off.
This was pretty much the pattern for the next twenty-two blocks until we reached the station at 4:50, hot, sweaty and a little bit cranky from doing the two minute mile, only to discover a long line of cabs happily letting people out and picking new people up as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Fortunately, we made our train, but the gods were not through with torturing us yet. The only two seats together were at a table for four with an older gentleman who alternated between telling us jokes even older than he was (and I'm guessing he entertained the troops at Valley Forge with the same jokes) and paying us what I'm sure he considered to be compliments, but which would probably get him sued in the workplace.
By the time we realized what we were dealing with, every available seat on the train was taken (don't think we didn't look), and, of course, he stayed on until the very end of the line.
I'm still not sure what we did wrong, but next time, I'm not taking any chances. I am going to find the nearest tourism office to Penn Station and pay a visit before trying to eat or catch a cab. Maybe I'll even buy one of those I love New York T-shirts or baseball caps just to be on the safe side.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Vacation, Round Two
Clearly, God does not want us to go to the beach again this summer.
Here we were, sorting through bathing suits, buying trashy novels and stockpiling sunblock fifty when it happened...Hurricane Dennis.
Now we had thought of hurricanes in the Carribbian when we planned this vacation. After all, we have gotten blown out twice before (Once apparently was not enough, but hey, we eventually got the point. It's not like we need a house to fall on us or anything, just a few palm trees). So we very carefully chose our destination. A place that was so unlikely to be affected by the hurricanes that just the mere thought sent our travel agent into gales of laughter...Grand Cayman.
We asked around, we got recommendations for restaurants, we surfed the net, we even got a book on the island. We received our travel documents, gathered up our passports, left an itinerary for our families...and then Mother Nature had a bad hair day.
We watched, with disbelieving eyes, as the hurricane headed straight for our dream vacation spot, the one we had spent so much time planning for (all right, the one our travel agent spent so much time planning for, but we spent a lot of time complaining and vetoing his ideas, so why split hairs?).
Fortunately, we had purchased insurance, so we were able to cancel without a penalty, but that left us right back at square one...wanting a vacation, but not sure where we wanted to go, just knowing we didn't want to go...there.
After we talked our agent down from the ledge (Since it was only a three story building, and he probably would have survived the fall, he surrendered fairly quickly. He was probably afraid we would follow him into the intensive care unit and there would be no possible chance for escape then), he began checking out possibilities.
Beach reservations the second week in August for the third week in August. Oh, yeah, and we'd like to borrow the crown jewels too to take with us.
As luck would have it (it was either luck, or our agent did something really bad that I don't want to know about...that way I can't be called upon to testify in court), we got the last room at a really great place(he says) on Turks and Caicos. Of course, he had to explain exactly where that is, since we were both absent the day that was taught in geography class (my grandmother never did trust that Jesuit education).
Anyway, we picked up our new tickets (our agent was trying to hide at a branch office, but we found him anyway) and take off first thing tomorrow morning for someplace we've never heard of, in a place we only recently found on a map for two weeks. I am not bringing my computer with me, so I will have to blog about it when I get back.
Anyone want to take bets on whether the hurricane doubles back and heads straight for us?
Here we were, sorting through bathing suits, buying trashy novels and stockpiling sunblock fifty when it happened...Hurricane Dennis.
Now we had thought of hurricanes in the Carribbian when we planned this vacation. After all, we have gotten blown out twice before (Once apparently was not enough, but hey, we eventually got the point. It's not like we need a house to fall on us or anything, just a few palm trees). So we very carefully chose our destination. A place that was so unlikely to be affected by the hurricanes that just the mere thought sent our travel agent into gales of laughter...Grand Cayman.
We asked around, we got recommendations for restaurants, we surfed the net, we even got a book on the island. We received our travel documents, gathered up our passports, left an itinerary for our families...and then Mother Nature had a bad hair day.
We watched, with disbelieving eyes, as the hurricane headed straight for our dream vacation spot, the one we had spent so much time planning for (all right, the one our travel agent spent so much time planning for, but we spent a lot of time complaining and vetoing his ideas, so why split hairs?).
Fortunately, we had purchased insurance, so we were able to cancel without a penalty, but that left us right back at square one...wanting a vacation, but not sure where we wanted to go, just knowing we didn't want to go...there.
After we talked our agent down from the ledge (Since it was only a three story building, and he probably would have survived the fall, he surrendered fairly quickly. He was probably afraid we would follow him into the intensive care unit and there would be no possible chance for escape then), he began checking out possibilities.
Beach reservations the second week in August for the third week in August. Oh, yeah, and we'd like to borrow the crown jewels too to take with us.
As luck would have it (it was either luck, or our agent did something really bad that I don't want to know about...that way I can't be called upon to testify in court), we got the last room at a really great place(he says) on Turks and Caicos. Of course, he had to explain exactly where that is, since we were both absent the day that was taught in geography class (my grandmother never did trust that Jesuit education).
Anyway, we picked up our new tickets (our agent was trying to hide at a branch office, but we found him anyway) and take off first thing tomorrow morning for someplace we've never heard of, in a place we only recently found on a map for two weeks. I am not bringing my computer with me, so I will have to blog about it when I get back.
Anyone want to take bets on whether the hurricane doubles back and heads straight for us?
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Train Ride
Last weekend, my sister-in-law and I took the train to New York. Unfortunately, so did half the population of the east coast, and they all showed up at the same time.
Friday, 4:30...the departure gate is not even listed, so I go out to the front of the station to meet her. Friday 4:40...we return to the deparature area to find a line that would rival the Great Wall in length. This was even worse than the lines at Disneyland because there were no colorful cartoon characters to entertain us. In all fairness though, there was a man in back of us who had a lot of colorful words to say about the length of the line. Not quite the same thing, but close, and we did learn some new words, although I think a few of his suggestions may have been anatomically impossible.
Naturally, by the time we got onto the train, all of the cars were filled except the quiet car. We snagged two seats together at a table for four near the back of the car, and took out our stack of magazines and ipods. Maybe this quiet car thing wouldn't be so bad after all. Without being able to chat nonstop (Whispered conversations only? Please, we're irish. We don't even know how to spell whisper.) , we couild devote ourselves to learning which bathing suit is best for our body type and the top ten things guys really want to do in bed ( okay, so there weren't a lot of surprises here). Two minutes later, a man sat in one of the other seats, and we pulled out of the station.
First came the general announcements: Where the train was headed, the first stop we would make, the fact that the train was sold out, etc. Then came the special announcements for the quiet car: no cell phones or other noisemaking devices, no conversations above a whisper. Of course, they repeated this at top volume several times, just to make sure we understood what it meant to be in the quiet car. They then repeated it again at our first stop ten minutes later and once more at the stop after that. Add to that the fact that the conductor came marching down the aisle at every stop demending tickets at the top of his voice and, well, they call this the quiet car? Can you say "irony" boys and girls?
Despite the fact that most of the people probably didn't want to even be in the quiet car (I'm guessing this wasn't the first choice for the family with four children) We tried to be good little do-bees and set our phones on vibrate, not to mention texting everyone telling them of our unfortunate circumstance. Of course, by the time we figured out how to do this, we had both received several calls. We were making friends already!
About thirty minutes into the trip, the guy across from us did decide that he wanted to be our friend. He turned off his computer and pulled out a bag of chocolate cookies, which he offered us. We politely declined and returned to our magazines and ipods. He went to the cafe car and returned with plates, cups and cartons of milk, which he distributed among the three of us. Apparently it was snack time. I wondered if nap time was next or perhaps show and tell.
Once again, we tried to decline. I, personally, have not had a glass of milk since I was about ten, and I was not about to make an exception to my "no milk" rule now. (And adding chocolate to it does nothing but ruin a perfectly good food--the chocolate, not the milk).
He put a cookie on our plate and insisted we at least try it, attempting to entice us by regaling us with the history of this cookie and how it is beloved by people the world over. Finally, we tasted the thing, out of consideration for our ears, which were beginning to bleed. In retrosect, we should have held out longer, as in forever, because the only thing that will ruin chocolate more than milk is raw coconut mixed in with it and huge salt granuals sprinkled on top of it. Yuck!!!
Somehow, he was able to divine that we did not care for his cookie (maybe it was the gagging noises, or it could have been the razors we pulled out to shave our tongues -- and they say guys aren't intuitive!). Did that stop him though? Nope, it didn't even slow him down. Chocolate cookies not working for you? How about a box of Belgian chocolates? No? Let me show you a picture of my cute little dog. (I'm thinking the quiet car was not his first choice either.)
Apparently, ipods, magazines and insulting the man's cookie wasn't enough to convince him we were not interested in bonding with him. It was time for a more direct line of approach. We pulled out the cellphones and blackberries and began texting like crazy. We got up and went to the restroom, threw away the garbage(a.k.a. the cookie), and we encouraged the glare of the man across the aisle. Still no effect. He was determined to share his life with us if not his chocolates.
Just when we began to truly despair, we arrived at our destination. When last seen, our friend had found a new victim (I think it was it was the man from the line, and I'll bet he had a few more colorful words to say after about five minutes), and was happily hounding him as he took the stairs up into the station.
We made sure we found only two seats together on the way back, and not in the quiet car.
Friday, 4:30...the departure gate is not even listed, so I go out to the front of the station to meet her. Friday 4:40...we return to the deparature area to find a line that would rival the Great Wall in length. This was even worse than the lines at Disneyland because there were no colorful cartoon characters to entertain us. In all fairness though, there was a man in back of us who had a lot of colorful words to say about the length of the line. Not quite the same thing, but close, and we did learn some new words, although I think a few of his suggestions may have been anatomically impossible.
Naturally, by the time we got onto the train, all of the cars were filled except the quiet car. We snagged two seats together at a table for four near the back of the car, and took out our stack of magazines and ipods. Maybe this quiet car thing wouldn't be so bad after all. Without being able to chat nonstop (Whispered conversations only? Please, we're irish. We don't even know how to spell whisper.) , we couild devote ourselves to learning which bathing suit is best for our body type and the top ten things guys really want to do in bed ( okay, so there weren't a lot of surprises here). Two minutes later, a man sat in one of the other seats, and we pulled out of the station.
First came the general announcements: Where the train was headed, the first stop we would make, the fact that the train was sold out, etc. Then came the special announcements for the quiet car: no cell phones or other noisemaking devices, no conversations above a whisper. Of course, they repeated this at top volume several times, just to make sure we understood what it meant to be in the quiet car. They then repeated it again at our first stop ten minutes later and once more at the stop after that. Add to that the fact that the conductor came marching down the aisle at every stop demending tickets at the top of his voice and, well, they call this the quiet car? Can you say "irony" boys and girls?
Despite the fact that most of the people probably didn't want to even be in the quiet car (I'm guessing this wasn't the first choice for the family with four children) We tried to be good little do-bees and set our phones on vibrate, not to mention texting everyone telling them of our unfortunate circumstance. Of course, by the time we figured out how to do this, we had both received several calls. We were making friends already!
About thirty minutes into the trip, the guy across from us did decide that he wanted to be our friend. He turned off his computer and pulled out a bag of chocolate cookies, which he offered us. We politely declined and returned to our magazines and ipods. He went to the cafe car and returned with plates, cups and cartons of milk, which he distributed among the three of us. Apparently it was snack time. I wondered if nap time was next or perhaps show and tell.
Once again, we tried to decline. I, personally, have not had a glass of milk since I was about ten, and I was not about to make an exception to my "no milk" rule now. (And adding chocolate to it does nothing but ruin a perfectly good food--the chocolate, not the milk).
He put a cookie on our plate and insisted we at least try it, attempting to entice us by regaling us with the history of this cookie and how it is beloved by people the world over. Finally, we tasted the thing, out of consideration for our ears, which were beginning to bleed. In retrosect, we should have held out longer, as in forever, because the only thing that will ruin chocolate more than milk is raw coconut mixed in with it and huge salt granuals sprinkled on top of it. Yuck!!!
Somehow, he was able to divine that we did not care for his cookie (maybe it was the gagging noises, or it could have been the razors we pulled out to shave our tongues -- and they say guys aren't intuitive!). Did that stop him though? Nope, it didn't even slow him down. Chocolate cookies not working for you? How about a box of Belgian chocolates? No? Let me show you a picture of my cute little dog. (I'm thinking the quiet car was not his first choice either.)
Apparently, ipods, magazines and insulting the man's cookie wasn't enough to convince him we were not interested in bonding with him. It was time for a more direct line of approach. We pulled out the cellphones and blackberries and began texting like crazy. We got up and went to the restroom, threw away the garbage(a.k.a. the cookie), and we encouraged the glare of the man across the aisle. Still no effect. He was determined to share his life with us if not his chocolates.
Just when we began to truly despair, we arrived at our destination. When last seen, our friend had found a new victim (I think it was it was the man from the line, and I'll bet he had a few more colorful words to say after about five minutes), and was happily hounding him as he took the stairs up into the station.
We made sure we found only two seats together on the way back, and not in the quiet car.
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