They Really Didn't Want My Money

(This follows a piece of yesterday's post.  Reading that will fill in any gaps.)

All the relevant parties being vaccinated and on vacation and available for hugging, it was time to buy tickets to see our grandchildren.   My excitement was tempered with the overwhelming number of choices and decisions to be made.  Which airline?  Which airport?  Which days?  

I gathered my thoughts and my phone as TBG watched the NFL Draft, hour number nine zillion and twelve, and failed dramatically to purchase round trip airfare on Allegiant.  Yesterday's post was written before I rewarded myself by opening the tabs and choosing flights and dates and seats and once again being rejected.

After the third time the laptop reset itself to the box for my email and refused to accept the reservation, I began to take things personally.  The Live Chat Now told me it was my devices' faults and not their system at all.  Sometimes people have to clear their history and their caches and turn the computer off and then on again......  it was the on again that made me scream out loud.

Plus, the fares were now $400 more expensive than they had been when I started way back on Saturday night.  We began considering our options - wishing that COVID didn't preclude our taking the train from Midway to South Bend.  I decided to enjoy the sunshine and stopped trying.  

This morning, armed with an even more detailed description of my daughter and her family's activities for the foreseeable future, fortified by the hummingbird considering the crepe myrtle outside my window, on my turned off and then on again computer I logged on to my profile, chose flights and seats and used my points and my voucher (amazingly not rejected as it had been a few times during this odyssey) and was, once again, reset to the email box..... over and over and over every time I clicked on Purchase.

I dialed the appropriate phone number even though the Chat person said it was less busy between 9pm and 4am Pacific time,  She must be right.  I just got a busy signal, not even voice mail.

I was seriously pissed.  

Channeling all that energy into my iPad, I went through the very familiar steps, having memorized the voucher's numbers and letters by checking everything to be sure I hadn't made a mistake at every step along the way.  If nothing else, it was excellent mental exercise.

Miraculously, the price was lower than it was yesterday, and - even more miraculously - it stayed that way until I clicked on Purchase.... held my breath.... and was rewarded with a confirmation number and an email and an itinerary that only took five days and $200 to acquire.  

High speed rail is looking real good right now. 

 

Hotel Alert

A daily destination amenity fee of USD 32 will be added to the room rate. I was proud of the discounted flight I found to take me to a Cornell alumni leadership conference in Las Vegas this month.  I opted not to choose a seat, not to bring anything that didn't fit in the space it would share with my toes, to board last, and not to ask for anything extra.  It's a two day trip; I don't need a lot of clothes. I'm a small person; I don't need a lot of room. The flight is short.  I'll be fine. I researched the least expensive way to book the hotel, combing through all the travel sites and the AAA and the hotel's direct website.  Cornell's group rate was the least expensive so I booked the room the way I could have done before an hour's stroll through the interwebs. It wasn't going to cost me very much to figure out how to increase the membership of the Cornell Club of Southern Arizona, of which I am now the president. I was flying in for two specific presentations, for the opportunity to coordinate a strategy to save my college, for the chance to learn and, perhaps, make a difference. I wasn't planning to participate in any amenities.....and is participate even the right word? When I think of amenities I flash to the free toiletries in the room, perhaps a bathrobe in the closet, perhaps a bottle of water that is complimentary rather than showing up as a $5 charge on my bill at checkout.  I think of the decor and the ambiance. I'm not bringing gym clothes (no room for them) or fancy partying clothes (no need for them) nor a swimming suit (no time for it).  I won't be gambling.  If they are considering the options available to me (that I won't be using) as amenities, then I think we have to have a conversation around a dictionary. Vocabulary.com agrees with me:  Amenities are the little things in life that make you comfortable — like more legroom on a flight or the chocolate on your hotel pillow.  Wikipedia, however, gave me the real story: In real estate and lodging, an amenity is something considered to benefit a property and thereby increase its value. My trip is no longer quite as affordable.  I'll be paying for things I won't be using.  I'll be wondering why the daily destination amenity fee wasn't mentioned in the information promulgated by Cornell when they invited me to the conference.  I hate it when a perfect plan develops an asterisk

There's a Lesson Here

The well dressed businessman, the one who knew it was Tuesday because he was leaving O'Hare for work, boarded with four others who looked just like him.

The rest of us, First Class and Elite and Sapphire and Gold were a motley crew. In full Summer Vacation Mode, we moved at a different pace. We were free.  He was not.  

TBG and I found ourselves seated next to him, aisle and middle to his window. He was not displeased. 

Then a mom with two pre-schoolers hoisted her roller bag into the bin above us and swiftly, cleanly, with little muss or fuss, settled herself and the kids and their snuggles blanket and backpack-cum-bear and Snow White into the row behind us. In complete sentences, the big sister was narrating the experience with the delighted excitement only a four year old feels while anticipating the Food Cart. 

The worker bee by the window sighed a sigh which could have propelled the plane on its own.

The mom was smiling and gentle and in charge so the girls were just fine. The cell phone was used to call Daddy, awaiting them in Tucson.  The little one wanted him to help her right now, and her sorrow was palpable, but the Food Cart Fan soon distracted her.

Their chatter, amusing and loud and giggly, was soothing to my just-left-FlapJilly soul. Obviously, not everyone shared my opinion.  My businessman showed his indignation by pulling down the window shade, appropriating the entire shared armrest, and falling asleep.

The girls rattled on as Mom handed out surprises, discussing their relative merits while answering their constant stream of questions.  It was delightful and distracting and they were definitely in my personal space... and then I sneezed.

I sneeze in threes.  Not earthshaking but certainly noticeable, three let's-all-turn-on-our-air-vents-at-the-same-time dust storm dry sneezes put three distinct aachhooos out there. I stopped, and then, from the row behind me, after a decent pause, came a friendly, high pitched, heartfelt "Bless You!"

I returned the favor with a "Thank You!" and then the engines started and no one could hear anything and I sat back and realized that I'd just been taught a lesson.  

In our increasing interconnected world, where we all seem to share one another's social spaces, it's easier to be friendly and polite than to tilt at windmills and pray that a mom and two kids don't sit behind you on your Tuesday morning commuter flight.  My sneeze was in her space as much as her Food Cart Obsession was in mine.  As long as we accepted that and were respectful to one another, we'd have no problem.

I think My Businessman must have felt the vibe, too.  He crossed his arms snugly around his chest, leaving some of the arm rest to me.

Preparing for the Polar Vortex

Warning to Parents: Do not make random promises to your children. 

You will be expected to adhere to them. 

 

Long, long ago, in a house far, far away, I told Little Cuter that when she had children she could host the holidays. Until then, she'd have to travel to her parents.  I said it.... I'm sure I did.... it sounds like me.... I'm not disputing the evidence.... I'm just whining about the consequences of a one-off remark made to quiet a kid who didn't want to travel.

 

TBG and I are packing our polar fleece and our heavy socks and our turtlenecks this week as a result of that conversation.  We'll be joining the throngs at O'Hare on Saturday, leaving the sunshine and 70's, arriving to rain and 40's.... then snow.... then 30's and 20's and clouds...lots and lots of clouds. 

 

Only the presence of a granddaughter could induce me to get on a plane right now. 

 

My house is a disaster; the library and the kids' rooms and my closet are overflowing with holiday preparations and out-of-season clothing. I need time to put it all away.

 

I have to collect the greeting cards and the stickers and the stamps and the pre-paid mailing envelopes I thought I'd ordered but apparently did not. All of this has to be in the house by December 1st if I am to adhere to my Brownie List schedule.

 

The Tucson Festival of Books' Kick Off Party is this weekend; I'll be on a plane instead of hearing the list of authors and buying my ticket to The Rock Bottom Remainders concert on the first day of sales. 

 

Tucson is filling up with arriving grandparents and grandchildren and aunts and uncles and cousins.  They are figuring out the No Left Turn directions on Oracle Road and its major cross streets.  They are wearing shorts and sleeveless shirts instead of sweaters. I will miss laughing at them.

 

Those of us who live here wait anxiously for these six weeks, the only ones cool enough for our cold weather attire. We Tucsonans are smug in our long sleeved sweaters as the visitors amuse us with their summer clothes.  Scarlett, newly arrived from NYC, emailed that she was sitting on her porch, freezing and loving it.  I love defining freezing as anything below 65 degrees, too.

 

But, this weekend we will don winter weight pants.  We will have our scarves and gloves and hats and shoes that have traction to resist the ice and snow.  Our parkas live in the kids' basement; they are picking us up at the airport so we don't have to bring other outer garments. That, at least, is a blessing.

 

In October, I smiled as TBG resisted leaving his winter clothes in Illinois.  I'm going the opposite route.  I'm collecting all the sweaters I love but haven't worn in the eight years I've lived here. I'm packing them and taking them and then leaving them all in the plastic box she has reserved for me.  It lives in her crawl space when I'm not there.  It doesn't disturb anyone.  Eventually, the plan will be for me to travel with only a purse.

 

I just wish I didn't have to travel into the Polar Vortex.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Road Trip

It's not the prettiest part of the desert, nor the pretties part of the Golden State.

Still, it had its moments.

The road is straight and flat, even as it goes up and down for miles 

The crags of Arizona give way to softer hills in California.

The scale of the roads expand, too. 

The trucks are lost in the immenseness and closeness of the hills.

The road steepens,

and the Runaway Truck Ramp signs begin to appear. 

They are on both sides of the road, with blockades where there isn't enough room to slow down.



I'm not sure how effective those metal barrels would be.

There wasn't anything on the other side of that ramp, either.

 

The San Joaquin Valley feeds America.

The greenery is an overwhelming contrast once you come down into the valley.

Trees

and more vines 

 and more trees line the roadside.

 

So does James Dean.

 

There are also oil rigs,

dipping and raising and dipping and raising,

 right there along the side of the road.

Also mesmerizing, not nearly as pretty.

 

Is it boron which turns these mountains white?

We've driven through the 20 Mule Team Borax fields and they have this same color.

Unfortunately, there was nothing on Points of Interest on Uncle Beemer's GPS to explain it.

There are times when I miss the verbiage in AAA Trip Tiks.

 

After another night, we were in Monterrey, on the beach, smelling the salt air.

Needing to appease the tourist gods (aka G'ma and Daddooooo), we drove through Old Monterrey. 

Parts of it are glitzy 

and parts are very old 

and parts have been refurbished

but none of it drew us out of the car.

We were not alone. 

Though it was noon on a sunny Saturday, the streets were sparsely populated and there was parking available in front of every store and attraction.

We'd taken the kids when they were small.

We saw no need to take ourselves now that they are large.

 

After the wedding, we turned around and drove home. 

It looked exactly the same as it did on the way out. 

We even stayed in the same side-of-the-road motel, and ate at the same pizzeria.

The meatball and cheese sub was sublime.

The pizza crust was perfect.

And the music..... how did they know that was what I was doing? 

Celebrating our anniversary with eponymous music.

Life is good.

On The Road Again

Big Cuter's friends are getting married. TBG and I are the only parents of friends who were invited.  It's an honor we couldn't refuse and so, today, Mr. I Hate Hotels and I are packing and planning for a road trip.

He's got a brand new BMW 435i, dubbed FlapJilly's Uncle Beemer by Little Cuter, which is clean and shiny and ready to roll.  His knee is acting up, he's anxious about travel, and I'm trying to ignore the angst and concentrate on the adventure .... and on the love at the end.

It's been much too long since I've seen my son; I'm looking forward to lots of big hugs and long talks and leisurely walks.  He has no compunctions about straightening my gait and complimenting me when I self-correct; it's physical therapy with lots of love and it makes me very happy.

It's a two day drive to Carmel, the destination wedding's destination.  We cross Arizona, eschewing the no-tell-motels in Quartzite.  On our first drive to Tucson we spent seven miserable hours in the best place we could find, wearing protective clothing on every body part which might touch a surface in the room.  We checked out as the sun rose.  Now, more seasoned travelers on that route, we know to climb The Grapevine and sleep in Valencia.

You can see Valencia from a long way away, because the roller coasters at Six Flags tower over the landscape.  But first, you have to go over The Grapevine. 

Did I mention that TBG and I spent several hours at a rest stop on The Grapevine, watching his overheated brand new Mercedes gasp for air, waiting for the tow truck, going back down into the valley from whence we'd driven only hours before, leaving that car and piling into my little Honda v-tech hatchback ... and sleeping in Valencia?

The California Department of Transportation describes it as 40 miles of concrete, a twisty, curvy eight lane highway that has a dramatic 6% downhill grade terminating at the community of Grapevine.  Google Maps tells us that the village consists mainly of roadside services.  For us, it's a place to pull off and stretch our legs after negotiating the descent from Fort Tejon,  4,183 feet above us. 

Without the 19,000 big rigs Caltrans estimates travels this road daily, it might be lots of fun. The scenery is magnificent, the air is cool and crisp (if it's not raining), and the road surface makes a pleasant hum.  If I ignore the trucks pull out here if brakes fail lanes (they go uphill on the mountain side of the highway and end in giant sand walls), if I close my eyes when we are passed on the left and the right by giant metal boxes, if I can take deep breaths and count on TBG to be the safe and careful driver I know he is, I'm fine.

There are times when the flatness of the Midwest is very appealing.

But I won't be behind the wheel.  Of that we can be certain.  When we drove from Tucson to Chicago I was the pilot for exactly 60 miles .... between one rest stop and the next .... as my most reluctant passenger refused to close his eyes and sleep .... because he couldn't relax with someone else driving.  He drove thousands of miles, without complaint.  I read. I looked out the window.  It worked for us then and it works for us now.

Valencia is a creation of its location.  The frontage road of I-5 is chock-a-block with hotels of every affinity group imaginable.  There are four Marriott brands alone. I'm torn between the free breakfast and WiFi at the Fairfield Inn and the newly renovated rooms at the Courtyard.  Since we'll be traveling through town again on the way home, I suppose I could use both of them. 

Such are the decisions facing me.  They are nice problems to have.

$725 a Night?

It seems to be a year for weddings.  The kids' friends are hovering around their 30's, and biology seems to be catching up with them.... or is it the opportunity to register at Bed Bath and Beyond that's feeding the frenzy? 

Whatever the reason, my mailbox has been filled with invitations.  We're the only "family of friend" invitees to one event; we're beyond flattered to have been included. Little Cuter's old soccer buddy is marrying her girlfriend and thought that TBG and I would enjoy the celebration, too.  In the midst of all this carrying on, I'm going to be practicing my grandparenting skills.  There are so many places to be, and all of them are filled with love.

We'll meet Big Cuter in Carmel for his friend's wedding.  There were a range of hotel options presented to us, and, since I live with a pool on the edge of a golf course, there was no reason to stay at the country club resort.  We chose a smaller hotel in downtown Carmel, within walking distance of shops and restaurants and the ocean.  Large and anonymous hotels are fine when I want to disappear into the scenery; smaller and more intimate feels better for this trip, somehow.  We've known the groom since the boys were freshman at Georgetown; I need something personal and less generic than a mega-resort to put me in the mood for his nuptials.

The reservation process sealed the deal.  There will be three of us staying in one room and the big resort had no rooms with two queen size beds.  It's not that they were sold out; they didn't exist.  The reservationist could request a roll-away, but couldn't guarantee it.  There were no rooms or suites with a pull-out sofa bed, either.  For three times the price of the smaller hotel, we could have the privilege of worrying if Big Cuter would be bunking on the carpet.

The smaller hotel clerk remembered my name, and used it throughout the booking process.  We discussed the rooms still available, their location within the property, the various attributes, and what we needed.  Though the two-bedded rooms in the reservation block were all gone, the lovely young lady on the phone made an administrative decision and gave us one for the lower, one-king-bed-room, price.  There may not be parking in their small lot, but that's why they invented young sons with strong legs; I'll order the cocktails while he tries to find a place to park.

The girls are getting married in Santa Monica in October.  The wedding is at Shutters on the Beach.  Have you heard of Shutters on the Beach?  It's glitzy.  It's trendy.  It's gorgeous. 

It's also $725 per night..... and that's without the taxes and other add-ons that arrive at check out.

Yes, you read that correctly.  From 4pm until noon the next day one could reserve 400 square feet of no-view, up the stairs, luxury.  For $36 per hour, I'm not sure I'd ever go to sleep... although then I'd be missing the use of the bed.  There are other options available, of course.  There are suites for $1200... and more.... with partial-ocean views and a table and chairs. 

I can't make myself even look at the website any more.

There are other options in Santa Monica, but the reviews are sketchy and they aren't very convenient unless I have a car... and then there's the parking issue once again.  None of these beachside hotels seem to think that parking for their guests is a necessary amenity. 

I'd love to be there to watch them tie the knot.  I could visit my LA friends and stick my toes in the Pacific.  The parents are dear to me, and sharing their joy would be wonderful.  I just don't know if I want to go into debt to celebrate with them.

And then, there's TBG.  He hates to travel.  He doesn't like big parties.  He's a wonderful human being but he's not much fun at things like this.  I'd bring Little Cuter as my date, except she'll be a new mommy and, I surmise, unwilling to leave the babe behind.

These are good problems to have.  Too much love in the world..... what is a woman to do?

Hertz Hurts

We made these plans three months ago.  I bought the airline tickets on Southwest, taking advantage of the lowest fares I'd seen since we've been traveling from Arizona to Illinois.  I've promised that visiting our grandchild will be effortless, carefree, easy-peasy. Checking two bags, having no carry-ons, not worrying about overhead space, B12 and B13 on our boarding passes... I did everything I could to remove the stressors from my reluctant traveler's path.

I want him to travel with me.  I don't want him to worry. I want him to know that visiting the kids can be stress free.  So, I planned ahead.

We discussed the advantages of a car service versus renting our own vehicle. Living in the suburbs, the kids depend on Bessie, their Hyundai.  We couldn't be stranded. Relying on a taxi would quickly tax the budget.  I watched the online offers, crawled through websites of car rental agencies, clicked on the banners scrolling across the screen, responded to the emails offering all kinds of deals, and settled on renting a full size vehicle from Hertz via the AAA website.

What a mistake.  What a colossal mistake.

The roads were clear in Tucson; we got to the airport in no time.  The park-and-drive lot was nearly empty and the bus to the terminal was driving up as we locked the car.  The driver took the luggage from our hands and returned it to us on the sidewalk at the airport.  There was no one in line before us at the baggage check in area, we were not over the maximum weight limit, and five minutes after we arrived we were in the security line.

I received a TSA Pre-Check pass, and was able to wear my shoes through the metal detector.  Though the coffee shop had no muffins, sufficient provisions were available to get us through the three hour journey to Chicago.  We had seats next to one another, the third passenger in the row was neither large nor smelly, and we landed twenty minutes early.

The trip went downhill from there.  It's all the fault of Hertz.

The car rental facility is not in the terminal, as the reservation stated. We shlepped our suitcases outside and across the road and mounted a bus and stepped over rude patrons who wouldn't reel in their feet and collapsed onto the bench.  Disgorged with other disgruntled travelers, we wrangled our own suitcases off the bus and into the curiously deserted car rental center.

When I made the reservation, the AAA website informed me that the reservation included a membership in Hertz's Gold Club.  This would ensure that I had to do nothing but arrive at the airport and walk to my car.  Would that that had been the case.

The two young women behind the Hertz counter seemed to be allergic to eye contact.  Without a Hello or a How may I help you,  I was greeted with a blank stare ... and nothing else.  I presented my printed email confirmation.  I spelled my name, twice.  She told me to go to the .... I have no idea.... being heard by the customer was obviously not part of her training.  I asked again and she pointed to a door around the corner.

We dragged ourselves out to the garage, finally attracted the attention of one of the women behind the counter, presented our paperwork, and tried to smile.  She fumbled and mumbled and typed and waited, giving me no information.  Finally, she looked at me, smiled, and told me that my Gold membership had expired.  I needed to go back out to the lobby and sign up.  Then I could return.

"How can that be?  AAA told me that the reservation included Gold Membership."

"All I know is that it is expired.  You have to go back to the counter."

"You do have a car for me, though, right?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have a car for you."  I wish I could type in her attitude.  It was snarky, snide, just this side of nasty. It was definitely not helpful.  But, she had a car for us, and all I needed to do was paperwork. Annoying, but not that big a deal.

Or so I thought.

Back we went to the first counter.  I approached the representative who had sent us out to the garage, told her that we'd been rejected, and asked for advice.  She pointed to the (by now 5 person long) line..... and, as I walked away, as an after thought, mentioned that there would be a wait of an hour or an hour and a half since they had no cars.

"But, they told me outside that they have a car for me."

"There are no cars.  It WILL be a wait."

"But, I have a prepaid reservation.  It says the time I will arrive.  How can you have no cars? You have my money."

"You have to wait on the line."

We left.  Got back on the shuttle to take a cab downtown.  There are no cabs at the car rental center.  We called Little Cuter to tell her that we'd be delayed.  We called the friends we were to meet for lunch and reorganized our plans.  We stewed.  We tried not to yell at one another.  We tried not to pout.  It was hard.

I called AAA.  I explained my problem.  I paid.  Hertz did not deliver as promised. AAA was the travel agency involved.  HELP!

She was lovely.  She apologized.  She said she would call.  Would I hold.  I did.  I put the Muzak on speaker phone as the husband spoke to the daughter. She, who does things like this for a living, managed to find us a rental through National.  I was still on hold.  AAA came back, told me she was still on hold,waiting to speak with a supervisor, and would I continue to hang on so that she could go back and not lose her spot in the queue.  I held on.

We got ourselves and our luggage down the long corridor and out to the curb.  I hung up on AAA; twenty minutes with nothing but bad music was enough.  We rode the bus - again - and got our now beyond bedraggled selves back into the rental car center, and ten minutes later we were in a brand new Nissan Maxima, courtesy of our daughter and National.

Let me also mention that the workers in the National area of the garage greeted us with a joy filled Welcome, offered to help us with our luggage, escorted us to the very first car in the row, and wished us well.

I've put a hold on the charge on my credit card. In the morning, I'll call AAA and Hertz and see what they can offer.  The National rental is much more expensive than that which I'd booked in January, paying in advance to secure the lower rate, through Hertz. I'm seeking an apology, a refund, and compensation for the extra expenses we incur. I'd also like an explanation; they had my email address and could have informed me of the problem before I left home, or landed, or rode that damn shuttle bus.

I'll keep you posted.  Right now, I'm going to schedule this post for tomorrow morning, turn off the computer, and hug my little girl.

Hertz tried, but they cannot wreck my vacation.

I refuse to allow them to win.

Being Away

When travel is easy, I wonder why I ever stay home.

There was no traffic on the way to the airport, the parking attendant picked up my car keys before I could leave them on the ground in the lot, all the boarding pass kiosks were available, and the gate agent let me walk down the jetway earlier than everyone except the First Class passengers so that no one would bump my still vaguely-unstable-on-uneven-surfaces self.

With only one-third of its seats filled, the plane was blissfully peaceful.  Everyone had room to spread out, and the only baby on the flight screeched once and then was silent.  The flight attendants were helpful and unobtrusive, the tail winds got us into O'Hare twenty-nine minutes early, and no one was stupid about getting bags out of the overhead compartments.  I was in the car with Seret and Mr. Dreamy Cakes, on our way to Little Cuter and SIR, in no time.  The traffic was moving, the roads were dry, and we didn't get lost.  Not once.

My girl is a great cook; even her OMG-I-forgot-to-get-hors-d'oeuvres display of goat cheese and toasted bread was fabulous.  She's having such a good time using all the beautiful wedding gifts that it would have been churlish to complain about anything at all.  A giant Nambe wooden salad bowl (did you know that Nambe was doing woods, now?), unchipped and perfectly sized dinner plates, a decanter that poured perfectly - I'd forgotten how much fun new stuff can be. The kids are so proud of themselves, and rightly so.  They've created a home out of a renovated house.

Chicago's western suburbs are filled with creeks and prairie grasses.  Their neighborhood is bounded by a path through one such oasis and Little Cuter and I followed SIR and Thomas-the-Wonder-Dog over the bridge and past the ducks, the boys racing ahead, one on roller-blades and one on the world's fastest paws.  I managed a mile or so, using one pole as needed.

We took the dog to the groomer, had a lovely lunch in downtown Naperville, and came back to watch Indiana defeat Michigan in a blow-out-turned-nail-biter.  Now, dog retrieved and post being written, we're melting into Cozy Rosie, Douglas's couchy cousin, snuggled under wedding afghans (thank you, Aunt Terri, it's quite wonderful) with football lulling us to sleep.

There will be a family-owned-Italian-restaurant dinner tonight, and more televised sports on Sunday.  I'll take the train to the city, breakfast with friends, and travel on to Detroit on Monday.  But, for now, I'm basking in the love.

I hate that they are so far away; I love that they make me feel like I'm at home.  I'm away, but it feels familiar.  With the skies darkening as a wintry mix of precipitation comes in as predicted, the comfort of family and football and blankets and hugs is feeling pretty perfect right now.

I'm a little sleepy, denizens, and Cozy Rosie is singing a siren song.......

On My Way

I set the alarm. I never set the alarm. I'm retired. I don't schedule early morning appointments on a regular basis. I sleep until I'm not tired and then I rise and shine.

This morning, the alarm roused me from a wonderful dream, a green dream, a forested walking dream. I was bitter about the interruption but excited for my trip. I'm on my way to BlogHer'12; at least, that's the plan.

Shower, dress, grab a Kashi Bar and toss the rest of the box into the carry-on because there's room and mini-bar snacks are expensive, and I'm out the door with TBG allowing me to heft my own bag into the trunk. I'm travelling alone; I have to be able to handle its weight.

He's taken to driving me to the airport. We've made those trips optional since he was working and travelling and I refused to drag the kids to and fro for those extra 45 minutes of bonding time. Off-site parking at the Tucson Airport cost $2.88 per day in the summer time; there's no reason not to drive and leave The Schnozz. But TBG likes those extra minutes of bonding time and I am not one to look askance at assistance. I've learned to accept help with grace, as you all know.

American Airlines let me scan the barcode on my confirmation email and the stand alone machine printed out my two boarding passes and my two receipts in no time. Four pieces of paper – two stashed in the carry-on for tax purposes, two in the outer pocket of my purse for easy access in the airport. 

Not much of a line at security, as usual, and a lovely gentleman behind me to catch my hiking pole and my luggage cart as they nearly toppled while I grabbed a gray plastic bin for my shoes. That pesky purse was scanned twice; why do they ask if that would be okay? What would happen if I were to say “NO!” I wonder?

(Grammar Freaks – does a comma follow that exclamation mark? The end of that sentence looks ugly.)

Sneakers retied, hiking pole re-sized, carry-on secured to the wheels, I strolled to the end of the terminal, all the way to the end. Gate 8. No moving walkway. No directional signs. Just a small collection of airport food vendors, two free wi-fi counters with stools and plugs, and a really nice gift shop. I love Tucson International Airport, even if I can't fly anywhere but Chicago without changing planes.

I debated buying a granola topped yogurt container, or a chicken salad sandwich, but nothing looked yummy. The barrista at the coffee cart didn't have a blueberry muffin for me. I ate one of my Kashi bars as I enjoyed the warm glow of the 40-something businessman buying breakfast for the 20-something soldier in line before me. Explaining that he could only retire from the Army if new recruits showed up, he fed them so that he could really enjoy his separation from the service.

You don't have to look very far to find joy and wonder in this world.

We landed early at Dallas-Fort Worth, with plenty of time to make my connection to my flight.... which was cancelled.... “there is weather in New York and LaGuardia is experiencing delays”. American called my house, American called my cell, TBG called my cell..... I was well informed, if stuck.

Standby on the 1:15-delayed-til-2:00 flight was a nightmare. Aggravated travellers couldn't get upgrades, couldn't get on, couldn't find information. At times like these, I try to channel Little Cuter and overwhelm the worker bees with smiles and kindness.

“It's hard to be you in times like these,” was my opening salvo. A rueful grin, a shake of the head, and suddenly I was 16^th on the list instead of 38^th. My girl is right; you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. The snarky New Yorker in me battles, but the proof is in the pudding.

It made no difference; there were only 2 available seats.

So, it was off through the terminal again, back to the gate from which I'd exited an hour before. I passed more restaurant feeding stations, but neither Aunt Annie's hot-dog-in-a-pretzel nor another yogurt cup with granola was tempting. TGIFridays had immediate seating, but I had to get on another stand-by list and stay close to the gate in case there was room for me on the 3pm flight.

My plan was to eat after I didn't get on the 2^nd flight.... but some connecting passengers still had to pass through customs before joining this voyage and they weren't going to do that in time. All 20 of us waiting on stand-by seats could be accomodated.

So, I am sitting in a window seat, halfway back, over the wing, watching the flatlands of the UsofA pass beneath me. The pilot hopes that we won't be stuck in air traffic control hell in New York and that we will land just a few minutes after our scheduled arrival time.

With the time changes, the flight changes, the altitude and the weather changes, I am truly confused. It's a good thing that NY stays open all night long; I will find myself a piece of greasy pizza or a real New York hot dog or a pastrami sandwich on the kind of rye bread that exists only in The City no matter how late it is.

I'm on vacation!

*****

A $12.50 shuttle bus took me to Grand Central Station and a free shuttle took me right to the Hilton.  Kathleen at the front desk found me a lovely room with a king sized bed and a sofa bed in case I want to recline on something other than the 5 pillows atop the somewhat gooshy mattress.  Chatting up the reservation clerk is another way I'm channeling my girl, who, between her wedding and buying a house has no time to gallivant in NYC with her mother and 4000 other bloggers this weekend.  

The hotel lobby is filled with laughing women, some of whom must be going to the conference too, I guess,  Radio City is right across the street, and so is a small and wonderful grocery store which provided sushi and cut fruit and sparkling water for my late night dinner in my room.  

Olympics on the tube.... a full belly.... Facebook messages from bloggy friends who want to meet up.... life is good.

Seen at Midway Airport

I am at my gate 2 hours early.  Hileman-time we call it, and it's a source of amusement to our family and friends.  We are never running through airports, a la O J Simpson.  Instead, we stroll and snack and observe......

....the lady two chairs down who is checking the Lotto numbers with her phone on speaker.  "The winning numbers for the game you have chosen are:.."  Her tickets are strewn on the armrest of the chair.  She played several games and I heard all the numbers.  I tried to type to you but it was just too distracting.

....the gentleman in the row behind me whose customer support team is not meeting their quota and "it's my bad because I should have done it myself."   He's sharing sales figures and company names and I wonder if his supervisor would be pleased to know that I am following his dealings so closely.  He's got his hand in front of his mouth the way football coaches cover their play calls on the sidelines, but I'm hearing every word.  I am sure his suppliers will be thrilled to know that they, at least, are on time and appropriate.  I could list the employees who are disappointing him, but that would just be compounding the problem.

....the Asian girl across the way who's wearing huge headphones which she attaches serially to a tablet , a phone, and a lap top.  Her Hello Kitty shopping bag is overflowing and her fingers are flying over the keys as quickly as her teeth are chomping her gum.  I don't think I'll be choosing the seat next to her on this Southwest flight. No indeed.

....the young man next to me, reading a large print copy of Assholes Finish First, which, given the profanities sprinkled on the page he's turned over to face me is probably not a book I'll be picking up anytime soon.

Then, there was the kerfuffle at the security line.  There were two streams of passengers once we passed the ID checkpoint, and I chose the shorter and (I thought) faster lane.  I was third, behind the sandal-footed 50 year old and the pushed-in-a-wheel-chair octogenarian.  It was she who gave the TSA people all the trouble.  Her tiny little dog couldn't be touched by anyone who was going through the back-scatter screening booth, and the pooch was not amused.  The wheel-chair-pusher had no interest - and I mean absolutely no interest - in holding the beast.  The passenger was worried, the screeners were giving orders, and no one was moving,  Finally, the chair and the dog went one way, the passenger went another, and the rest of us stood there shaking our heads as we were shuffled rather uncermoniously through a swinging-door and a regular scanner.  Five minutes had turned into fifteen in the blink of an eye,

It's not that hard to make travel more pleasant.  A smile, a "take your time," a quick answer to an obvious question, a recognition that you are not alone in the universe - these are the things that smooth the way.  Today I've been treated to "Huh?" and blank stares and a moving walkway that I swear to you sped up as it was ending and nearly sent me sprawling onto the solid ground.

RIC convinced me that I'm making progress.  Limping through Midway put that proposition to the test.  I am exhausted but unbowed.  Now, if everyone would stop sneezing........

Traveling

Typing that title, I remember standing at the blackboard (in the dark ages, before white boards were replaced by smart boards) and arguing with the teacher that traveling had 2 L's, not one.  I was fairly adamant about it, as was she.  Richard Levine opened the dictionary and told us that we were both correct as I watched the teacher shake her head and erase my extraneous (in her eyes, at least) L.  She was the teacher, she was in charge, what did we know, anyway?  Fifth grade was a hard year.

Travel(l)ing with a leg and a half is hard, too.  Brother and 2 of the 3 women in his life took me to the National Zoo on Friday morning.  It was 60 and sunny in DC; the rain clouds were gone by the time we met up at my hotel and it was a glorious day for a walk.  By the time we got to the end of the hotel's approach road (it was much too long to be called a driveway) I was exhausted.  We piled into a taxi to save my hip for the hippos.  $10 to cover 4 blocks; disability is expensive.  

We saw the cheetahs stalking the zebras.  Their habitats are next to one another, which seems vaguely hostile.  The zebras were calmly munching their hay as the cheetah paced and sniffed and watched and was thwarted by the moat and the electrified barrier separating their domains.  I know that they exist beside one another in the wild, but this just seemed mean.

The great apes were in rare form, pulling lettuce out of balls-with-holes suspended from the ceiling.  Extra-long pointer fingers are very handy when your palm is the size of a large paperback book and the hole is 3" across.  The baby grabbed lettuce and shared with the grown-ups; good manners are apparently a cross-species trait.  

Staring into the eyes of the silverback, thinking about the Harry's Law episode where the client wants to establish an ape's personhood so she can adopt an escapee, Brother and I pondered the joy and the sorrow of watching our genetically related neighbors living behind plexiglass.  Zoos do that to me - I am never sure just how I feel about the whole on exhibit thing.  

The zoo, like Washington itself, is not flat.  The animals have lots of room to roam, the paths are wide and nicely paved, and there are benches along the route.  That was a good thing for my achy hip and me.  Brother began to worry as the sweat began pouring down my cheeks; was I in pain and keeping quiet so as not to disturb our lovely morning?  Not at all; walking is sweaty exercise for me. I feel every muscle, every insertion, every contraction and expansion.  I compare and contrast as I attempt to duplicate on the right what my left side is doing without effort; sometimes I actually succeed.  Being questioned about my rolling gait serves to remind me to balance my hips and use my foot and ankle.

Strolling didn't used to be this hard.

There's an O-line between the Great Apes's domain and the Think Tank. I know. I know. That sentence doesn't make much sense. It would have been equally opaque to me before Friday. The O-line is a series of towers and wire-ropes over which the apes travel to the research station 200 yards away. In the Think Tank, keepers and scientists are analyzing the thinking patterns of their charges. With computerized picture-matching exercises the animals behind bars perform for those uncaged. It wasn't very crowded and we were an interested audience as the volunteer docent followed us from area to area, bringing us up to date on the latest in primate research while holding a plastic ape-skull under her arm.

The only thing missing was Daddoooo. He would have loved it.

The clouds had rolled in while we were inside, and Kyle-the-orang utan (yes, it's two words in Borneo-ese and, respectfully, at the Zoo, too) had to be coaxed outdoors. Across the wires he went, resting on the towers with their electrified bases to keep him atop and not on the path below. The keepers warned us to stay out from under the wires; orang utans urinate at will and she didn't want us to take a smelly shower.

I was, once again, delighted and sad. Kyle was swinging and loping and stopping and looking and doing the bidding of the humans who keep him. The science being done at our National Zoo will change our perceptions of what thinking really is. I just wish there were a way for our genetic neighbors to help without being held hostage.

On the other hand, there aren't many predators lurking in the shadows, waiting to snatch an ape-baby for brunch. Like most of life, it's a trade-off.

I had to be back at the hotel for a 1:30 meeting so we started uphill at noon. Sweaty and smiling, I set benchmarks for distances I would travel. If I could get to the next intersection I'd allow myself to rest. If I could get to the benches I'd let myself sit. Brother and the ladies were accomodating and understanding and appropriately sympathetic. There was no coddling, but no one was pushing me, either. Good relatives are to be cherished.

We rested while watching the cheetah (or chiquita as one employee called them) pace and the zebra chew and I had a chance to marvel at the wonder of a free animal exhibit right in the middle of town. Washington's full of magnificent freebies, but I do believe that the National Zoo is my favorite.

Oh, yes, we did take a cab back to the hotel. My hip was definitely done for the day. I didn't feel sorry for myself, though. I'd walked for two hours and heard Brother wonder why I was setting such a speedy pace. Impressed that I was confounding and not annoying, I merely smiled and reminded him that I was, in fact, a speedy little devil.

I guess Daddooooo was around after all. That's what he used to call me.

San Francisco, part deux

We had tried to go to the Academy of Sciences on Monday.  Using the handicapped parking placard I'd cleverly remembered to bring along this time, we secured a spot and followed Big Cuter's directions on the pathways and there we were at the Bandshell, looking out at a plaza that had been a parking lot before the renovations began as we were leaving the state in 2006.  

You may remember the Bandshell from J'Lo and Matthew McConaughey's Wedding Planner, one of our favorite San Francisco love stories.  It was the setting for the bride-gets-into-the-taxi scene toward the end.

But we didn't want music.  We wanted Natural History right up until we hit the ticket booth and saw that it would be nearly $60 for us to enter.  That wouldn't get us into the special beastie exhibit.  That required its own admission fee.  We grimaced.  We groaned.  We turned away.  My heart was just a little bit broken.  Taking Big Cuter to a museum was one of my favorite ways to spend a Monday morning back when he was in kindergarten.  I'd been looking to reprise the experience.  Alas, $60 was just more than we could bear to spend for an hour's entertainment.  I wonder what families with kids do nowadays; our museums were free back then.

As an alternative, since the sun was shining and there was barely a breeze, we parked ourselves on a bench and watched San Francisco go by. 

Bicyclists were everywhere, including this one who looked like an ad for living in San Francisco.  Is this hipster cool or what?

Big Cuter spent the weekend trying to show me the difference between hipster and yuppie and I guess nobody is preppy anymore.  Who knew?  Are there still jocks and greasers?  Do I care?  Such was our conversation that long and lovely afternoon.

There were frisbees and skateboards 

and dogs and babies and hawks floating on thermals.  We stared in fascination as one and then two little birds swooped and pecked and annoyed the hawk who was hovering over their tree.  They were tiny in comparison to his bulk, but they were undeterred.  He'd glide over the tree and there they were, slamming their little selves into his body and his wing span.  Protection was their game and they were not giving up without a fight. They drove him away, only to turn whirl around and find a sea gull diving in where the hawk had dared to try.  They undercut his approach and he took off squawking.  The good guys had won the battle, and retired to the nest to check on the chicks.  It was high drama.

We helped a tourist locate the restrooms and admired fancy socks and well-behaved children and mocked poor sartorial choices and tonsorial disasters and then we Zip Car'ed back to Big Cuter's apartment and fell asleep.  

Sight-seeing is exhausting

The Conservatory of Flowers

http://www.hoteltravelcheck.com/sfo/san-francisco-conservatory.html

It was built from a kit.  Seriously.  The original purchaser died before he could put it together but a consortium bought the kit from his estate and erected this confection in Golden Gate Park.  The flooring must have come with it.

The grates are good for drainage but interesting terrain to navigate as a tri-ped.

It didn't matter to the boys that it was rainy nor that it would be humid inside.  Big Cuter had picnicked and run by the building often enough to be intrigued, and TBG was so impressed with my stamina and mobility that I do believe he would have walked around Stow Lake with me had I asked.  Luckily for all concerned, all I wanted to do was go inside that white birdcage and walk around.  

The special exhibit was on poisonous plants.  Did you know that Abraham Lincoln's mother died after ingesting a poisonous plant?  I'm sure you have no idea how many murders were concocted out of the sap or the husk or the leaves of a euphorbia 

or foxglove

or oleander

This plant is not an oleander.  The sign behind it is terrifying.

Ever wonder why you can't buy raw cashews in the grocery store?  Shelling them exposes the worker to all manner of toxins; they are steamed open to get to the nut inside.  Although the sign assured me that cashews sold in the USofA are not dangerous, I'm going to look askance at their appearance in Spicy Cashew Chicken next time I'm at Beijing Restaurant.

No exhibit advertising Assassins could avoid the carnivorous plants.  

I kept looking for the sacrificial flies.  I was in the mood for some action.  I was disappointed.

Many of the displays were beautifully color coordinated.

There were many fantastic orchids I'd never seen before.

The conservatory was steamy and drippy and filled with green and there was no extra charge for the special exhibit.  Feeding my soul apparently costs only $7. 


I'm a cheap date.