The Atlanta climate was a balmy 100F with 100% humidity as I slogged across the Hertz lot to slot 138. There a tiny, green (the official color was probably something like “Organic, Free Range Avocado”) Toyota sat simmering on the asphalt griddle. I plopped my stuff into the back seat and climbed into a fairly new Prius. Closing the door transformed my vehicle into an instant, compact Japanese Hot House.
I've never driven a hybrid, and sat staring at the dashboard trying to figure out how to start it up. Gobs of sweat rolled off my nose as I desperately tried to lower the windows to no avail. Finally, I spotted a power button, which I depressed without obvious effect. Then I fastened my seat belt hoping that the safety gods simply wouldn't allow you turn this baby over without being properly secured. Still nothing.
I threw open the door, gasping for oxygen and noticed a Hertz attendant nearby. "Do you know how to start one of these things?"
He laughed and explained, "Put your foot on the brake and push the power button". I did as instructed and didn't detect any difference except that the LED display on the dash came to life. He continued, "It's on, but you can't tell because it's in battery mode. Just shift into drive and she'll go." Why didn't I think of that?
The shifter was a tiny handle protruding from the dashboard. It doesn't slip into gear, it's all digital and just delivers your intentions to the gear box. I nudged it into the 'D' direction and, off I went. Thankfully, the battery had enough juice to allow me to drop the driver's side window delivering a steady breeze of steamy air.
As I approached the highway, I decided to put the Air Conditioner to work. I scanned the usual locations for such controls and came up empty. Next, I took my eyes off the road to inspect less obvious spots. The center console? Nope. The Glove compartment? Well, no glove compartment, so no. The door? Uh uh. Wait, there it is... on the steering wheel. Of course!
Window up, a/c on, I cruised down the interstate at... 117 km/hr. Shoot! How fast is that? Where do I change that setting? I depressed a button called "Mode" which released a torrent of rap music into my rapidly chilling cockpit.
After several minutes of pacing myself to other cars on the highway, and with my fingers turning blue, I gave up and adopted the metric system for good. Now, how do I ease off of the air conditioner? I checked the rest of the perimeter of the Steering Wheel and found a temperature directional button. Before long, I defrosted and moved back to being overheated.
Up on the video display, the Prius was giving me a schematic which indicated the car's switch back and forth between battery and engine. This useless information seemed to show that the battery was about 60% charged. I must have drained it a bit during my voyage to Antarctica, because I wasn't powering anything else. Eventually, I figured out that the screen could be changed to "Climate" and "Audio". I touched these displays in the right places to get the temperature reasonable and the CD player working... but I was still doing 120 km or so. The little car was, indeed, miserly on gas consumption. But, I felt kind of conspicuous driving this green machine so fast, even though my exhaust no doubt smelled like cheap potpourri. Perhaps, I'd feel a little better if I dressed in a safari hat with a drawstring, multi-pocketed button down shirt, khaki shorts and Birkenstock sandals.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Jameson Inn
I don’t know what it is about this place! Nothing ever goes smoothly at the Jameson Inn. If the hotel wasn’t located, literally a stone’s throw from our customer’s plant, I’d consider relocating to a finer establishment… like the Hawkinsville Super 8, or perhaps the Bleckley Correctional Institute.
They had no record of my reservation. Producing my itinerary didn’t help any. The two desk clerks… let’s call them Betty Jean, and Shaniqua… looked at the document like I’d asked them to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls, or something. They asked if my reservation could be under another name. “I don’t know. Who hasn’t checked in yet?” Apparently sarcasm ends at the Dodge County line because they simply responded with, “We can’t tell you that sir!”
Recovering nicely, I inquired, “Okay, do you have any rooms available for tonight?”
“What kind of room?” C’mon, this has to be a trick question, right?
“Is the Honeymoon Suite available?”
“We don’t have one of those”, Betty Jean tittered.
“Then, how about one that no one is already in, shaped roughly like a rectangle, clean and with a panoramic view of the back lot?”
Shaniqua, apparently the brains of the operation, now knew that I was a wise-ass, and came back with, “King or two doubles, smoking or nonsmoking?”
“King and nonsmoking but what about that view?”
They ignored me. “Have you stayed with us before?”
“More times than I care to remember.”
Betty Jean requested my name, which hadn’t changed since we checked for my elusive reservation a few minutes ago and Shaniqua asked if I was still a member of AARP? I think that there’s only one way to leave that club, but I produced my card as proof nonetheless. “And which credit card will you be using?”
“How about the one that’s in your left hand?”
“Oh, right.”
Betty Jean photocopied my license and my AARP card… one at a time… at a Xerox machine located in the nearby office. All of these precautions had me wondering if maybe I took a wrong turn and this is actually the Correctional Facility.
After the intake processing, I was handed back all of my belongings and a key to room 210. I waited a moment to make sure that I wouldn’t be given orange prison garb and shower sandals too.
Just as I was about to make good on my getaway, Betty Jean called out, “Do you know about our breakfast?”
“Oh my god yes, it’s why I drive three hours from Atlanta to stay here. Is it still scheduled for the morning?”
“Good night sir!”
210 turned out to be on the backside of the Inn, overlooking the pool. A small gathering of men in baseball caps sat around the cement pond drinking and rubbing bellies that flooped over their swim trunks like deployed airbags. A glance at a line of nearby rigs left me thinking that the Jameson caters to a long haul clientele. I’ll bet they come for the breakfast too.
I don’t think my new neighbors were much impressed when I slid my tiny Toyota Prius into an empty slot and started unloading my matching luggage.
The room met my exacting specs and I flipped on the TV while unpacking my stuff. I turned on my computer and waited for it to come alive. Unfortunately, and in a final demonstration of ineptitude, I learned that the internet was down at the Inn, limiting the kind of work that I could accomplish.
They next morning, I explored the Jameson’s world renowned continental breakfast. I’ve got to hand it to them... it was the best instant oatmeal I’ve ever tasted!
They had no record of my reservation. Producing my itinerary didn’t help any. The two desk clerks… let’s call them Betty Jean, and Shaniqua… looked at the document like I’d asked them to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls, or something. They asked if my reservation could be under another name. “I don’t know. Who hasn’t checked in yet?” Apparently sarcasm ends at the Dodge County line because they simply responded with, “We can’t tell you that sir!”
Recovering nicely, I inquired, “Okay, do you have any rooms available for tonight?”
“What kind of room?” C’mon, this has to be a trick question, right?
“Is the Honeymoon Suite available?”
“We don’t have one of those”, Betty Jean tittered.
“Then, how about one that no one is already in, shaped roughly like a rectangle, clean and with a panoramic view of the back lot?”
Shaniqua, apparently the brains of the operation, now knew that I was a wise-ass, and came back with, “King or two doubles, smoking or nonsmoking?”
“King and nonsmoking but what about that view?”
They ignored me. “Have you stayed with us before?”
“More times than I care to remember.”
Betty Jean requested my name, which hadn’t changed since we checked for my elusive reservation a few minutes ago and Shaniqua asked if I was still a member of AARP? I think that there’s only one way to leave that club, but I produced my card as proof nonetheless. “And which credit card will you be using?”
“How about the one that’s in your left hand?”
“Oh, right.”
Betty Jean photocopied my license and my AARP card… one at a time… at a Xerox machine located in the nearby office. All of these precautions had me wondering if maybe I took a wrong turn and this is actually the Correctional Facility.
After the intake processing, I was handed back all of my belongings and a key to room 210. I waited a moment to make sure that I wouldn’t be given orange prison garb and shower sandals too.
Just as I was about to make good on my getaway, Betty Jean called out, “Do you know about our breakfast?”
“Oh my god yes, it’s why I drive three hours from Atlanta to stay here. Is it still scheduled for the morning?”
“Good night sir!”
210 turned out to be on the backside of the Inn, overlooking the pool. A small gathering of men in baseball caps sat around the cement pond drinking and rubbing bellies that flooped over their swim trunks like deployed airbags. A glance at a line of nearby rigs left me thinking that the Jameson caters to a long haul clientele. I’ll bet they come for the breakfast too.
I don’t think my new neighbors were much impressed when I slid my tiny Toyota Prius into an empty slot and started unloading my matching luggage.
The room met my exacting specs and I flipped on the TV while unpacking my stuff. I turned on my computer and waited for it to come alive. Unfortunately, and in a final demonstration of ineptitude, I learned that the internet was down at the Inn, limiting the kind of work that I could accomplish.
They next morning, I explored the Jameson’s world renowned continental breakfast. I’ve got to hand it to them... it was the best instant oatmeal I’ve ever tasted!
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Undersea World of Gary Cousteau
Sunday peeked through our blackout drapes while butterflies scattered throughout my belly. This morning Tony, Krystal and I are going scuba-diving. Kim is accompanying me on the boat ride out to the dive site in order to file the life insurance claim as quickly as possible.
First a welsh woman named Ingrid appraised our bodies to get us properly equipped. God, I felt like such a piece of meat! I was handed a set of flippers (we divers call them “fins”), a wet suit, a mask and a belt holding lead weights and enough leftover gnocchi’s to hold me underwater. Curiously Kim made the helpful suggestion that they also put my feet into concrete galoshes. I started to wonder if this whole scuba diving thing was such a swell idea after all as I managed to put the wet suit on backwards and lose my sunglasses before the lesson even started. But I wasn’t the only one struggling as Krystal returned her fins asking if they had something in a three inch heel instead. Tony is a certified diver which meant that he would be snapping photographs while I planned to flail around gasping for breath.
The lesson took place in a small pool, and consisted of simple instructions including the signals used to communicate underwater. I was particularly amused by the calm shoulder to shoulder motion that was intended to convey that, “Hey, I’m out of oxygen.” My mother-in-law, Carol, commented later that this display was remarkably similar to the sign of the cross. I’m pretty sure that despite this tutorial, if I ran out of air, they'd know because I’d be ripping the regulator out of Ingrid’s mouth and putting it in mine… let her make the sign! I paid surprisingly close attention to the whole thing though and passed the brief in water drills with flying colors. Of course, under these circumstances, if anything went awry, then I could simply stand up. And, there was nary a shark in sight!
The boat trip to the dive area went by too quickly. At station, Ingrid explained that she would be bringing us to a shark cage that had been blown up by the “Mythbusters” guys, and then we’d see the wreck of an airplane used as a stunt in a scene from Jaws 4. I wasn’t crazy about all this shark talk, and worried that instead of seeing me return to the surface, Kim would see a Great White wiping it's lips and making the international sign for “Check Please!” But I soon garbed up in wet suit, fins, mask, etc. Everything was swell except that I couldn’t get up! Nothing to worry about, it turned out that there was a bungee cord over the tank holding me fast in place. I was the last one in the water as I was rather unceremoniously tossed overboard about a moment after Ingrid said to me, “Oops, let’s turn this on and give you some air.” My vest was deflated and I slowly felt myself submerging below the surface. Unfortunately, I was the caboose in a long line of novice divers pulling themselves along the anchor rope to the bottom. I passed one person, then another…Krystal, I think? She looks different when surrounded by bubbles, who can be sure? Every few feet, I stopped to equalize as instructed by the pool. This involves holding your nose and blowing into it until you feel your ears pop a little. The air has to go somewhere, of course, so I worried that if my ears didn’t pop, then bubbles would be escaping from less polite orifices.
Finally, I reached the end and the instructor signaled me to take a knee in the nearby sand. I gotta tell you, I was pretty proud! There I was sucking oxygen, about twenty feet underwater and, as far as I could tell, not having the least bit of difficulty. Tony was already there coolly clicking away on his underwater camera. We took snapshots of each other and I looked around nervously taking stock of the environment while keeping Tony within sight. The remaining scuba time seemed very disorganized. I couldn’t tell who was who for instance. I followed different swimmers about without seeing anything resembling a cage or a plane. However, I was surrounded by large colorful fish (snappers, I think) and small blue ones that looked just like Dory in “Finding Nemo”. Floating above the coral was kind of a neat effect and the whole experience was kind of surreal. After some period of time, a blond diver, who I took to be Ingrid, signaled me to follow her. Unfortunately, she led me back to the anchor line and flicked her thumb up in an unmistakable message to return to the boat.
That night we decided to wander over to the fabulous Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island. The towering buildings stand out like a Disney Park above the Florida swampland. And, inside, the resort has all the garish opulence of a Las Vegas Hotel. We located the aquarium, and spent around an hour exploring this wonderful attraction. I had no idea that a ray could be so gargantuan. One passed us with a wing span of about twenty feet. There were thousands of lobsters, jellyfish, moray eels, sharks, and other fauna that I was pleased to meet now rather than during my little dive expedition.
We asked around for an inexpensive place to eat, and guest services suggested that we try Little Havana in Miami… ha ha. But, we traversed another, larger Casino and found a grille that would do. Gigunda yachts were docked outside the windows by where we sat. It’s hard to imagine that kind of wealth, and I tried to take solace in the fact that those boats are no fun for tubing or water skiing.
First a welsh woman named Ingrid appraised our bodies to get us properly equipped. God, I felt like such a piece of meat! I was handed a set of flippers (we divers call them “fins”), a wet suit, a mask and a belt holding lead weights and enough leftover gnocchi’s to hold me underwater. Curiously Kim made the helpful suggestion that they also put my feet into concrete galoshes. I started to wonder if this whole scuba diving thing was such a swell idea after all as I managed to put the wet suit on backwards and lose my sunglasses before the lesson even started. But I wasn’t the only one struggling as Krystal returned her fins asking if they had something in a three inch heel instead. Tony is a certified diver which meant that he would be snapping photographs while I planned to flail around gasping for breath.
The lesson took place in a small pool, and consisted of simple instructions including the signals used to communicate underwater. I was particularly amused by the calm shoulder to shoulder motion that was intended to convey that, “Hey, I’m out of oxygen.” My mother-in-law, Carol, commented later that this display was remarkably similar to the sign of the cross. I’m pretty sure that despite this tutorial, if I ran out of air, they'd know because I’d be ripping the regulator out of Ingrid’s mouth and putting it in mine… let her make the sign! I paid surprisingly close attention to the whole thing though and passed the brief in water drills with flying colors. Of course, under these circumstances, if anything went awry, then I could simply stand up. And, there was nary a shark in sight!
The boat trip to the dive area went by too quickly. At station, Ingrid explained that she would be bringing us to a shark cage that had been blown up by the “Mythbusters” guys, and then we’d see the wreck of an airplane used as a stunt in a scene from Jaws 4. I wasn’t crazy about all this shark talk, and worried that instead of seeing me return to the surface, Kim would see a Great White wiping it's lips and making the international sign for “Check Please!” But I soon garbed up in wet suit, fins, mask, etc. Everything was swell except that I couldn’t get up! Nothing to worry about, it turned out that there was a bungee cord over the tank holding me fast in place. I was the last one in the water as I was rather unceremoniously tossed overboard about a moment after Ingrid said to me, “Oops, let’s turn this on and give you some air.” My vest was deflated and I slowly felt myself submerging below the surface. Unfortunately, I was the caboose in a long line of novice divers pulling themselves along the anchor rope to the bottom. I passed one person, then another…Krystal, I think? She looks different when surrounded by bubbles, who can be sure? Every few feet, I stopped to equalize as instructed by the pool. This involves holding your nose and blowing into it until you feel your ears pop a little. The air has to go somewhere, of course, so I worried that if my ears didn’t pop, then bubbles would be escaping from less polite orifices.
Finally, I reached the end and the instructor signaled me to take a knee in the nearby sand. I gotta tell you, I was pretty proud! There I was sucking oxygen, about twenty feet underwater and, as far as I could tell, not having the least bit of difficulty. Tony was already there coolly clicking away on his underwater camera. We took snapshots of each other and I looked around nervously taking stock of the environment while keeping Tony within sight. The remaining scuba time seemed very disorganized. I couldn’t tell who was who for instance. I followed different swimmers about without seeing anything resembling a cage or a plane. However, I was surrounded by large colorful fish (snappers, I think) and small blue ones that looked just like Dory in “Finding Nemo”. Floating above the coral was kind of a neat effect and the whole experience was kind of surreal. After some period of time, a blond diver, who I took to be Ingrid, signaled me to follow her. Unfortunately, she led me back to the anchor line and flicked her thumb up in an unmistakable message to return to the boat.
That night we decided to wander over to the fabulous Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island. The towering buildings stand out like a Disney Park above the Florida swampland. And, inside, the resort has all the garish opulence of a Las Vegas Hotel. We located the aquarium, and spent around an hour exploring this wonderful attraction. I had no idea that a ray could be so gargantuan. One passed us with a wing span of about twenty feet. There were thousands of lobsters, jellyfish, moray eels, sharks, and other fauna that I was pleased to meet now rather than during my little dive expedition.
We asked around for an inexpensive place to eat, and guest services suggested that we try Little Havana in Miami… ha ha. But, we traversed another, larger Casino and found a grille that would do. Gigunda yachts were docked outside the windows by where we sat. It’s hard to imagine that kind of wealth, and I tried to take solace in the fact that those boats are no fun for tubing or water skiing.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Zen of Jet Skiing
Saturday arrived with the sun wrestling the wind for control of the temperature. In the morning, the breeze was ahead on points so we decided to head downtown to shop for awhile. But the first order of business was the next meal challenge. The breakfast buffet, originally deemed too expensive, became manna from heaven when we factored in the customary taxi rip-off. After our repast, we boarded the #10 bus ($1.25 per person, exact change only) for a twenty minute trip to Nassau center.
We were in the midst of great disparity in wealth. Unbelievably enormous cruise ships towered over the modest city skyline and lined up at Prince George’s Wharf right alongside an army of hawkers pushing deals on scooters, carriage rides, hand made trinkets and now infamously priced cabs. We passed elegant stores selling Rolex watches, Gucci, jewelry, and upscale fashions, followed by T Shirt shops and a fellow pushing his sculptures made entirely out of coke cans.
After a couple of hours we were weary, unburdened by purchases and looking for the bus stop. We turned a corner to find a crowd of #10 buses bunched. Several men in dirty clothes drank from paper bags, sucked on cigarettes and beckoned us to board. Fortunately, our driver appeared to be sober and was bearing the familiar bored countenance of the T personnel back home. In fact if he started texting as soon as pulled away from the curb then I think he would have qualified for that very position.
Back at the Sheraton, we changed quickly and made our way back out to the pool. Soon talk turned to renting Jet Skis. Well, truth be told, I was the one incessantly jabbering on about it until Kim and Tony conceded that that was a fine idea, if only to get me off the subject. Kim negotiated a fine deal of $100 for an hours ride, including the tip. This was my first turn at jet skiing, so naturally a large Bahamian man had to jump on the sled and reach around me to explain the controls. It didn’t take me long to master “dis on, dis off, dis your gas, no brakes”. It took me longer to figure out his last instruction, “no crazy drivin’!” I asked him to point me toward Miami and off I went like a bat out of hell. In full disclosure, my first couple passes were more like a turtle out of heck, but each turn brought greater confidence and velocity.
What a blast! Riding over the crest of waves and smashing on the trailing surf with warm ocean spray drenching me completely. I was literally laughing out loud all by myself until the wall of salt water threatened to drown out my insane giggling. After one particularly crushing slam, the engine cowl popped off. I reached up and banged it back into place noticing a menacing crack in the plastic cover… no way I did that, did I?
I swung back to shore to pick up Kim. During the slow ride back out she kept up a steady rap in my ear, “Remember go slow! I’m on the back don’t forget! Don’t be crazy!” Kim ended up showing a mixed appreciation for the sport. First wave: “Whoa!” Second wave: “Wheee!” Next one: “Slow down!” And so on.
After several minutes of moderate joy-riding, I dropped Kim off on the beach and headed back out into the surf. After a few more runs, unencumbered by inexperience and the voice of reason behind me, I was now at a relatively blistering (some might say break-neck) speed, I was chased down by one of the Jet Ski guys and summoned to return to “port”. I toweled off and offered that I couldn’t believe an hour had passed by so quickly. Unbeknownst to me, Tony had checked the time before we launched, and sure enough, we were owed about another twenty minutes. My cute, bikini clad, wife marched across the sand and approached the rather rotund Bahamian managing the Jet Ski operation to give him a piece of her mind… a rather precious commodity, by the way. “Ali” wisely conceded to my angry, little swimsuit model and offered Tony and me another half hour of frolicking in the surf whenever we wanted.
After showering, it was once again time to choose a dinner venue. We walked through the Casino (no small task for certain members of our party who know for certain which of the machines are just about to yield their fortune), and on the back end (so to speak) found a buffet for $35.59 per person (fifty-nine cents?). There was a sumptuous spread of food before us, not a hideous cab ride away. This place was just the ticket!
We were in the midst of great disparity in wealth. Unbelievably enormous cruise ships towered over the modest city skyline and lined up at Prince George’s Wharf right alongside an army of hawkers pushing deals on scooters, carriage rides, hand made trinkets and now infamously priced cabs. We passed elegant stores selling Rolex watches, Gucci, jewelry, and upscale fashions, followed by T Shirt shops and a fellow pushing his sculptures made entirely out of coke cans.
After a couple of hours we were weary, unburdened by purchases and looking for the bus stop. We turned a corner to find a crowd of #10 buses bunched. Several men in dirty clothes drank from paper bags, sucked on cigarettes and beckoned us to board. Fortunately, our driver appeared to be sober and was bearing the familiar bored countenance of the T personnel back home. In fact if he started texting as soon as pulled away from the curb then I think he would have qualified for that very position.
Back at the Sheraton, we changed quickly and made our way back out to the pool. Soon talk turned to renting Jet Skis. Well, truth be told, I was the one incessantly jabbering on about it until Kim and Tony conceded that that was a fine idea, if only to get me off the subject. Kim negotiated a fine deal of $100 for an hours ride, including the tip. This was my first turn at jet skiing, so naturally a large Bahamian man had to jump on the sled and reach around me to explain the controls. It didn’t take me long to master “dis on, dis off, dis your gas, no brakes”. It took me longer to figure out his last instruction, “no crazy drivin’!” I asked him to point me toward Miami and off I went like a bat out of hell. In full disclosure, my first couple passes were more like a turtle out of heck, but each turn brought greater confidence and velocity.
What a blast! Riding over the crest of waves and smashing on the trailing surf with warm ocean spray drenching me completely. I was literally laughing out loud all by myself until the wall of salt water threatened to drown out my insane giggling. After one particularly crushing slam, the engine cowl popped off. I reached up and banged it back into place noticing a menacing crack in the plastic cover… no way I did that, did I?
I swung back to shore to pick up Kim. During the slow ride back out she kept up a steady rap in my ear, “Remember go slow! I’m on the back don’t forget! Don’t be crazy!” Kim ended up showing a mixed appreciation for the sport. First wave: “Whoa!” Second wave: “Wheee!” Next one: “Slow down!” And so on.
After several minutes of moderate joy-riding, I dropped Kim off on the beach and headed back out into the surf. After a few more runs, unencumbered by inexperience and the voice of reason behind me, I was now at a relatively blistering (some might say break-neck) speed, I was chased down by one of the Jet Ski guys and summoned to return to “port”. I toweled off and offered that I couldn’t believe an hour had passed by so quickly. Unbeknownst to me, Tony had checked the time before we launched, and sure enough, we were owed about another twenty minutes. My cute, bikini clad, wife marched across the sand and approached the rather rotund Bahamian managing the Jet Ski operation to give him a piece of her mind… a rather precious commodity, by the way. “Ali” wisely conceded to my angry, little swimsuit model and offered Tony and me another half hour of frolicking in the surf whenever we wanted.
After showering, it was once again time to choose a dinner venue. We walked through the Casino (no small task for certain members of our party who know for certain which of the machines are just about to yield their fortune), and on the back end (so to speak) found a buffet for $35.59 per person (fifty-nine cents?). There was a sumptuous spread of food before us, not a hideous cab ride away. This place was just the ticket!
Friday, May 15, 2009
Vacationing with Kim's Family
After a short hiatus, I was once again a traveling man. This time for "pleasure".
The plans for this dream family vacation were slow to get out of the gates, but enthusiasm can be contagious, and before long, my brother-in-law, Tony was e-mailing me a Jet Blue itinerary. The idea was to take my Mother-in-law, Carol, away for a warm holiday. Together, Tony and my wife, selected the Bahamas as our destination. At first Carol balked, but soon she joined Kim and Tony’s girlfriend Krystal in the blitzkrieg diet and exercise routine which ordinarily portends any vacation involving bathing suits of course.
As the next few weeks passed, Tony, Krystal and I began planning events like Jet Skiing and Scuba Diving, which, as we all know, are probably the number one and number two most popular Senior Citizen holiday activities. I’m pretty certain Carol will join us for the cliff diving too… after all, how much of a splash can a slimmed down version of my mother-in-law make?
The trip got off to an exciting and unexpected start. Tony arranged for a limo to take us to Logan Airport, and we all gathered at her Mom’s house to await its arrival. We surmised that, given the size of our party and the number of suitcases required to cover three women for four days, we’d need a van with the displacement of the Maersk Alabama. Instead, a gleaming stretch Hummer drew around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the house. Squeals of child-like delight exploded from our party and my proximity to Tony garnered me a few unearned, but welcome hugs. Gotta Love Italian Families!
After a quick stop at Carol’s workplace, to show off the limo and her doting children, we turned toward Logan. We were naturally curious about our ride’s amenities and clicked or flipped every switch within reach. At one point, we decided to test the TV. There was a phone that was a direct line to our chauffeur, Lee. I picked up this Bat-phone and asked him if the TV was working. Lee replied, “Sorry, but the cable just pulled out!” I wonder how many times he’s used that line.
Everything went smoothly at the airport, and we spent about an hour touring Terminal C, while staying close to the doors so that certain smokers in our party could get their fill. Eventually, we made our way to the gate and boarded, expecting to occupy the entire row 18. Unfortunately, we found a couple of young women sitting in 18C and 18F. Somehow Carol and her boyfriend Peter were assigned seats further aft in Row 24. I always believe in the whole "making lemonade" thing, so I asked the Flight Attendant refused to explain to my Mother-In-Law that First Class is in the back of the plane. He refused, and so everyone froze in place and chatted on and on about what to do. The queue up the fuselage started to back up like a busload of Senior Citizens at the Christmas Tree Shop the day after social security checks arrive. Finally, the two ladies relented and offered to move… ostensibly to be nice, but I bet they simply wanted to get as far away from us as possible.
Aloft, we learned that the only non-functioning headrest TV’s on the entire plane happened to be ones facing Krystal, Kim and me. The slightly effeminate Flight Attendant explained that this inconvenience had earned us free drinks. The ladies quickly ordered up two Vodka and Cranberry Juices, while across the way, I caught Carol trying to sabotage the wire connections to her own screen. The overly attentive flight attendant may not have been as gay as I thought, because he frequently paused to offer the girls additional nips.
A few hours later we landed in Nassau and Kim was tickled to get her virgin passport stamped, or perhaps this was simply the vodka settling in. From there, we took a ten minute taxi ride to the Sheraton Resort at Cable Beach which lightened my wallet by $36. There seems to be a horrible shortage of shock absorbers on New Providence Island as each bump in the road loosened my fillings and threatened to dump us out of our seats.
Check in placed us all on the second floor, one down from the lobby. I was a little worried that we were in the basement, but Carol & Pete’s room had a lovely view of the pool and ocean front. A bit further on, Tony & Krystal’s pad had an equally good perspective. Only then, did Kim and I realize that our room was the only one with an odd number. Sure enough, we opened the door and peered at the façade of a building right next to the hotel with several piles of building materials filling the gap in between. Just freakin’ lovely!
We spent the rest of the afternoon jumping in the ocean for a swim, and exploring our new digs a bit. The water was all wrong though. First of all the color’s off. Whoever heard of teal seawater? As I plunged into the surf I was stunned not to feel my skin shock chilled as if immersed in liquid nitrogen as proper ocean water like what you find off of Cape Cod. It was… well… warm! In fact, by comparison, the air was a bit bracing.
Later, we gathered in the lobby to debate where to eat. The Café was deemed too expensive of a buffet, the Italian restaurant menu proved to be even more startling priced. We asked a bell hop for his suggestion of an inexpensive place to eat, located nearby. He quickly offered up the “Fish Fry” and summoned a cab for us. The woman driving the van handed a fin over to our restaurant advisor and we all piled in. About five minutes later we were unceremoniously deposited in a square of small ramshackle pubs and diners. Our van driver led us into the Fish Fry and spoke to the guy running the bar. My guess is that she bribes the hotel guys to get her fares and then, in turn, gets a kick back from the establishments wherever she delivers the unwary tourists. This short ride cost another $40 but dislodged several kidney stones.
It took thirty minutes for the staff to deliver our complicated drink order consisting of four bottles of water, a bottle of beer and a can of cranberry juice. My guess is that they couldn’t afford the taxi ride to a convenience store to pick up our drinks and had to walk. The meal took even longer. Despite Pete haranguing every waitress in the place, our plates didn’t make an appearance for over an hour. In total, we took up residence at the Fish Fry for about three hours. It took longer to consume dinner, than it did for us to fly to the Bahamas. Had I known, I’d have ordered ahead while Carol and Pete re-dosed with nicotine outside Logan’s Terminal C that morning.
We pooled our money to rent another bone-crunching ride back to the hotel and resolved to learn the bus system on the morrow.
The plans for this dream family vacation were slow to get out of the gates, but enthusiasm can be contagious, and before long, my brother-in-law, Tony was e-mailing me a Jet Blue itinerary. The idea was to take my Mother-in-law, Carol, away for a warm holiday. Together, Tony and my wife, selected the Bahamas as our destination. At first Carol balked, but soon she joined Kim and Tony’s girlfriend Krystal in the blitzkrieg diet and exercise routine which ordinarily portends any vacation involving bathing suits of course.
As the next few weeks passed, Tony, Krystal and I began planning events like Jet Skiing and Scuba Diving, which, as we all know, are probably the number one and number two most popular Senior Citizen holiday activities. I’m pretty certain Carol will join us for the cliff diving too… after all, how much of a splash can a slimmed down version of my mother-in-law make?
The trip got off to an exciting and unexpected start. Tony arranged for a limo to take us to Logan Airport, and we all gathered at her Mom’s house to await its arrival. We surmised that, given the size of our party and the number of suitcases required to cover three women for four days, we’d need a van with the displacement of the Maersk Alabama. Instead, a gleaming stretch Hummer drew around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the house. Squeals of child-like delight exploded from our party and my proximity to Tony garnered me a few unearned, but welcome hugs. Gotta Love Italian Families!
After a quick stop at Carol’s workplace, to show off the limo and her doting children, we turned toward Logan. We were naturally curious about our ride’s amenities and clicked or flipped every switch within reach. At one point, we decided to test the TV. There was a phone that was a direct line to our chauffeur, Lee. I picked up this Bat-phone and asked him if the TV was working. Lee replied, “Sorry, but the cable just pulled out!” I wonder how many times he’s used that line.
Everything went smoothly at the airport, and we spent about an hour touring Terminal C, while staying close to the doors so that certain smokers in our party could get their fill. Eventually, we made our way to the gate and boarded, expecting to occupy the entire row 18. Unfortunately, we found a couple of young women sitting in 18C and 18F. Somehow Carol and her boyfriend Peter were assigned seats further aft in Row 24. I always believe in the whole "making lemonade" thing, so I asked the Flight Attendant refused to explain to my Mother-In-Law that First Class is in the back of the plane. He refused, and so everyone froze in place and chatted on and on about what to do. The queue up the fuselage started to back up like a busload of Senior Citizens at the Christmas Tree Shop the day after social security checks arrive. Finally, the two ladies relented and offered to move… ostensibly to be nice, but I bet they simply wanted to get as far away from us as possible.
Aloft, we learned that the only non-functioning headrest TV’s on the entire plane happened to be ones facing Krystal, Kim and me. The slightly effeminate Flight Attendant explained that this inconvenience had earned us free drinks. The ladies quickly ordered up two Vodka and Cranberry Juices, while across the way, I caught Carol trying to sabotage the wire connections to her own screen. The overly attentive flight attendant may not have been as gay as I thought, because he frequently paused to offer the girls additional nips.
A few hours later we landed in Nassau and Kim was tickled to get her virgin passport stamped, or perhaps this was simply the vodka settling in. From there, we took a ten minute taxi ride to the Sheraton Resort at Cable Beach which lightened my wallet by $36. There seems to be a horrible shortage of shock absorbers on New Providence Island as each bump in the road loosened my fillings and threatened to dump us out of our seats.
Check in placed us all on the second floor, one down from the lobby. I was a little worried that we were in the basement, but Carol & Pete’s room had a lovely view of the pool and ocean front. A bit further on, Tony & Krystal’s pad had an equally good perspective. Only then, did Kim and I realize that our room was the only one with an odd number. Sure enough, we opened the door and peered at the façade of a building right next to the hotel with several piles of building materials filling the gap in between. Just freakin’ lovely!
We spent the rest of the afternoon jumping in the ocean for a swim, and exploring our new digs a bit. The water was all wrong though. First of all the color’s off. Whoever heard of teal seawater? As I plunged into the surf I was stunned not to feel my skin shock chilled as if immersed in liquid nitrogen as proper ocean water like what you find off of Cape Cod. It was… well… warm! In fact, by comparison, the air was a bit bracing.
Later, we gathered in the lobby to debate where to eat. The Café was deemed too expensive of a buffet, the Italian restaurant menu proved to be even more startling priced. We asked a bell hop for his suggestion of an inexpensive place to eat, located nearby. He quickly offered up the “Fish Fry” and summoned a cab for us. The woman driving the van handed a fin over to our restaurant advisor and we all piled in. About five minutes later we were unceremoniously deposited in a square of small ramshackle pubs and diners. Our van driver led us into the Fish Fry and spoke to the guy running the bar. My guess is that she bribes the hotel guys to get her fares and then, in turn, gets a kick back from the establishments wherever she delivers the unwary tourists. This short ride cost another $40 but dislodged several kidney stones.
It took thirty minutes for the staff to deliver our complicated drink order consisting of four bottles of water, a bottle of beer and a can of cranberry juice. My guess is that they couldn’t afford the taxi ride to a convenience store to pick up our drinks and had to walk. The meal took even longer. Despite Pete haranguing every waitress in the place, our plates didn’t make an appearance for over an hour. In total, we took up residence at the Fish Fry for about three hours. It took longer to consume dinner, than it did for us to fly to the Bahamas. Had I known, I’d have ordered ahead while Carol and Pete re-dosed with nicotine outside Logan’s Terminal C that morning.
We pooled our money to rent another bone-crunching ride back to the hotel and resolved to learn the bus system on the morrow.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
We Gotta Get Out of This Place!
I’m heading home today!
But first, a trip to a printing company that Nelson and JC had discovered. The place was, well, an old shithole. We held our meeting upstairs around a Coffee table set with a well used Tea pot and cups. We were greeted by a friendly mutt who periodically nuzzled JC’s back pack (he probably stored a few snacks in there), and would slide his snout under my hand for a pat. I was informed that his name meant “fat” in Mandarin. He was definitely plus-sized, but hardly a canine version of Kirstie Alley. At one point in the conversation, a lady put Fat into a secretarial chair and pushed him over to our meeting. I have to say, he didn’t contribute a helluva lot, but I still enjoyed his company more than the company president spilling steaming hot water over flavored tea leaves for our benefit at the other end of the table. A few minutes into the discussion, some guy came over, pushed JC’s notebook aside and grabbed the newspaper underneath. He sat down next to JC, oblivious to protocol (which clearly states "thou shalt not interrupt a meeting unless there's a fire or you are a family pet the size of Big Papi") and began reading said newspaper.
I had to see if these guys were for real, and asked for a plant tour. Bad idea. The flexo press was running solvent inks with zero air handling. I was getting high on the pungent fumes. My god, how do the operators spend their day inhaling that stuff? That kind of experience is actually a bit humbling and makes me very fortunate that I don’t have to do something like that to provide for my family.
“Fat” was kind enough to show us out, and we headed back to my hotel to get my things.
My first flight is on China Airlines to LAX. Everything went okay except for someone nearby with a loose sphinter! Every few minutes he drops another bomb and I was forced to bury my nose under my blanket until the toxic cloud evaporated! I don’t know what he had eaten earlier, but we cannot let that meal fall into the hands of our enemies. Reeling from yet another inhuman release made me long to be back smelling the solvent during this morning’s press tour.
I departed Taiwan at 4:40 PM Wednesday, flew for over fifteen hours and arrived in Los Angeles at 1:25 PM… three hours earlier than I left. Man these modern jets can go fast!
But first, a trip to a printing company that Nelson and JC had discovered. The place was, well, an old shithole. We held our meeting upstairs around a Coffee table set with a well used Tea pot and cups. We were greeted by a friendly mutt who periodically nuzzled JC’s back pack (he probably stored a few snacks in there), and would slide his snout under my hand for a pat. I was informed that his name meant “fat” in Mandarin. He was definitely plus-sized, but hardly a canine version of Kirstie Alley. At one point in the conversation, a lady put Fat into a secretarial chair and pushed him over to our meeting. I have to say, he didn’t contribute a helluva lot, but I still enjoyed his company more than the company president spilling steaming hot water over flavored tea leaves for our benefit at the other end of the table. A few minutes into the discussion, some guy came over, pushed JC’s notebook aside and grabbed the newspaper underneath. He sat down next to JC, oblivious to protocol (which clearly states "thou shalt not interrupt a meeting unless there's a fire or you are a family pet the size of Big Papi") and began reading said newspaper.
I had to see if these guys were for real, and asked for a plant tour. Bad idea. The flexo press was running solvent inks with zero air handling. I was getting high on the pungent fumes. My god, how do the operators spend their day inhaling that stuff? That kind of experience is actually a bit humbling and makes me very fortunate that I don’t have to do something like that to provide for my family.
“Fat” was kind enough to show us out, and we headed back to my hotel to get my things.
My first flight is on China Airlines to LAX. Everything went okay except for someone nearby with a loose sphinter! Every few minutes he drops another bomb and I was forced to bury my nose under my blanket until the toxic cloud evaporated! I don’t know what he had eaten earlier, but we cannot let that meal fall into the hands of our enemies. Reeling from yet another inhuman release made me long to be back smelling the solvent during this morning’s press tour.
I departed Taiwan at 4:40 PM Wednesday, flew for over fifteen hours and arrived in Los Angeles at 1:25 PM… three hours earlier than I left. Man these modern jets can go fast!
Monday, May 11, 2009
I've Never Seen Rachel Ray Serve This
Nelson and JC (my colleagues in Hong Kong) met me at the Hotel at 8 AM. We took a taxi to the High Speed Rail for our trip to see a key supplier. The High Speed Train zips along at about 300 miles an hour through the Taiwanese countryside. Factory, then Temple, then Farm, then Rice Paddy, then Apartment building… these people have never heard of zoning.
Our supplier, SBI, gave their entire day over to us. We watched them run Ash colored material, then coat the adhesive on the backside of some Snow hued film. At around noon, their Director, brought us in some box lunches. Not exactly sandwiches from Panera. I lifted the cover and found most of the space filled with a whole dried fish. The poor creature’s baleful eyes looked up at me so pitifully, that I had to set him aside with a piece of kelp over its face. I ate a few tiny morsels of what I think was beef (don’t tell me otherwise, okay?) and the steamed rice was fine. But you gotta try to be a little adventurous, and so I snapped up a pinkish disk between my chopsticks and asked JC what I was about to ingest. “Octopus” he replied matter of factly. Then he clarified himself with, “Well Octopus tentacles”, like he was worried that I’d think the head was too gross but the tentacles are as ordinary as French fries or something. To be truthful, it wasn’t very tasty, kind of chewy, and yet oddly still more appealing that the little brown guppy cowering nearby under the seaweed.
We returned to Taipei in a warm rain. I wanted to meet Nelson’s staff, and so we went to the Simeb Taiwan Sales Office. There I greeted Peter and Lisa warmly.
They were anxious to treat me well and to that end Nelson had made a reservation for all of us at a nearby, very swanky Taiwanese Steakhouse. We walked down the street, all the while Peter was scampering alongside of me, trying desperately to keep me covered with his umbrella. Man, a fella could get used to this sort of treatment! The meal was wonderful and arrived in several courses. They were amused to watch me nibble on some yellow, vaguely familiar fruit. “Do you know what that is?” “Nope”, I answered. “It’s watermelon”. “You’re kidding!” I said amazed. Apparently this sun-colored watermelon is unique to Taiwan. It tasted like the real thing, seeds and all. Next, I dipped my spoon into a split Kiwi, and teased them with, “And I suppose this is an orange”. Everyone laughed which was a great relief. Between the language barrier and my somewhat unique sense of humor, I worry that I'm acting like any other American boor
Our supplier, SBI, gave their entire day over to us. We watched them run Ash colored material, then coat the adhesive on the backside of some Snow hued film. At around noon, their Director, brought us in some box lunches. Not exactly sandwiches from Panera. I lifted the cover and found most of the space filled with a whole dried fish. The poor creature’s baleful eyes looked up at me so pitifully, that I had to set him aside with a piece of kelp over its face. I ate a few tiny morsels of what I think was beef (don’t tell me otherwise, okay?) and the steamed rice was fine. But you gotta try to be a little adventurous, and so I snapped up a pinkish disk between my chopsticks and asked JC what I was about to ingest. “Octopus” he replied matter of factly. Then he clarified himself with, “Well Octopus tentacles”, like he was worried that I’d think the head was too gross but the tentacles are as ordinary as French fries or something. To be truthful, it wasn’t very tasty, kind of chewy, and yet oddly still more appealing that the little brown guppy cowering nearby under the seaweed.
We returned to Taipei in a warm rain. I wanted to meet Nelson’s staff, and so we went to the Simeb Taiwan Sales Office. There I greeted Peter and Lisa warmly.
They were anxious to treat me well and to that end Nelson had made a reservation for all of us at a nearby, very swanky Taiwanese Steakhouse. We walked down the street, all the while Peter was scampering alongside of me, trying desperately to keep me covered with his umbrella. Man, a fella could get used to this sort of treatment! The meal was wonderful and arrived in several courses. They were amused to watch me nibble on some yellow, vaguely familiar fruit. “Do you know what that is?” “Nope”, I answered. “It’s watermelon”. “You’re kidding!” I said amazed. Apparently this sun-colored watermelon is unique to Taiwan. It tasted like the real thing, seeds and all. Next, I dipped my spoon into a split Kiwi, and teased them with, “And I suppose this is an orange”. Everyone laughed which was a great relief. Between the language barrier and my somewhat unique sense of humor, I worry that I'm acting like any other American boor
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