To and Fro We Go

My youngest son received his private pilot’s license at age 16. “Aren’t you afraid to let him fly an airplane?” a few of my friends asked when he started taking lessons. My response was always the same. “But flying is his heart’s desire, and statistics prove that the drive to and from the airport is far more dangerous than the flying.” Yes, that was and remains true. But still, my mother-heart was relieved and grateful when, after each flight, I heard his vehicle pull into the driveway, knowing that whether by air or via hard road, as my grandma used to call it, my “baby” had made it safely home.

Fast forward: that “boy” is now 36. He’s a husband, a father and a very hard worker. Although he hasn’t piloted a plane for years now (but maybe again, one day), he owns a motorcycle, a truck and a minivan. Yes, he is a go-er, a do-er . . . a man. And yet, when he makes the five-hour drive to visit us, it’s as though time has stood still. I still breathe the same sigh of relief when I hear the horn toot, the signal in our family that We Long Distance Travelers have arrived. (We also toot the horn when we depart, waving like goofballs when we drive away, which is when I once again begin waiting for the “we made it home” phone report.) Yes, I have been and will continue to be a dedicated Waiting One.

NEW POINT OF VIEW: By plane, train, limo, taxi, automobile bus and ship, from here to there and back again we business travelers go. We sit, we jog, we rent, we buy and fly, we Mapquest. We stare at departure boards until we’re numb, or struggle to read them on the run. We sleep in comfy beds and lumpy ones (or maybe it’s just my hips), eat healthy food and handfuls of junk. (Okay, I’m speaking for myself there.) We talk on the phone while writing notes, resort to concourse conference calls when flights are canceled and often overcome amazing odds to give “face time” to people we’ve never met before.

All the while, those dear to us anxiously await word that we have arrived, or departed on time, or have finally returned to our hotel room after a long day. Even though our Significant Others are busy laboring at their own jobs, taking care of the kids, holding down the fort or licking their hind quarters (bless you, Kornflake the Wonderdog), they undoubtedly utter a sigh of relief or happy tail-wagging yap when the call comes, the door opens or, yes, our car horn toots.

Today’s blog post is dedicated to those who wait with expectant dog breath (hopefully limited to the canine variety), who greet us with a familiar back-pat or embracing arms, a phone message or a check-in door knock. This is dedicated to those who faithfully long to hear from us.

If you’re a road warrior (even if you’re home now), I herewith encourage you to STOP and take a moment to give a personal and hearty THANKS the Waiting Ones in your life.

If you’re a Waiting One and your traveling man or woman sent you this link without much else in the way of explanation (or none) as to WHY they sent it, please know that the flight attendant might have just requested they turn off their electronics, their battery was nearly dead, the meeting is just beginning or they're fading to black at the end of an impossibly long day.

And yet, what they wanted to let you know right this minute but couldn’t is THANK YOU. Thank you for waiting. “Thank you for the sigh of relief you utter when I depart," (well, you know what your loved one means ;>)), "or arrive. Thank you for caring.

Thank you."

The Little Call That Wouldn't . . .

Due to circumstances beyond my doofus self's control, I recently had to cancel a flight. No problem-o. (Okay, BIG problem-o, which is why I had to cancel, but I mean the canceling itself was a piece of cake.) I went on line, received my electronic cancellation confirmation and away I didn't go.

The exquisitely bad news about this scenario (apart from all the physical reasons why I had to cancel): my AA frequent flyer miles (which cost me $7.50 to use when I booked this now canceled flight) either had to be applied to this same destination within a year (which doesn't at this point in time seem likely), or I could pay a nifty $75 to add them back into my account. So, $82.50 not to use my miles. Sweet, huh?

The day I was originally scheduled to depart on the defunct vacation was a sad day, but it became sadder when my cell phone rang. The "caller" turned out to be an automated voice, the voice of the nifty automated flight status alert I always set up when I book a flight on line. The recording wanted to let me know my flight was on time, but that there'd been a gate change.

"Just rub salt in my wound, why dontcha," I said to Computer Woman before I hung up. Then I logged into my frequent flyer account to see why on earth I received an alert for my canceled flight. Yes, my account showed I wasn't going anywhere, but apparently canceling your flight doesn't automatically cancel notifications (?). Who would have guessed? While searching for the trail to discontinue the alerts, I toodled around the website until my clicking finger nearly went numb. WHERE WAS IT? The trail was easy enough to follow when I scheduled the alerts, but now that the flight was canceled, all trails were gone.

Finally I gave up and phoned my airline. The kind and professional agent who took my call was as stunned as me to learn the auto-alert didn't automatically cancel. "We need to look into this!" she said, with bold authority. "Hold on while I call tech support." (Hear the thunder of stamping hooves racing off to save the day.)

La-la-la. La-la-la--la-la. "Okay," she said when she returned, a note of triumph in her voice. "The tech needs the confirmation number given to you when you set up your auto status. Do you know what he's taking about?" It was obvious she didn't.

"Yes, I know what he's talking about." Dregs. "But it never occured to me to keep it. I know that sounds dumb," I said, feeling my shoulders slump in my own defeat, "but they have like a billion numbers or letters in them and . . . I don't ever recall seeing a place where you can handily just e-mail yourself the numbers, and. . . ." Okay, I think, I'm currently lame in body AND mind. I don't even like listening to me right now. Rather than sounding like the savvy business traveler I am, I sound like a whiney punker.

Pause. "Let me talk to him again," she said. "Hold on." Looooong pause. Finally, however, I heard those fatal words. "I'm sorry." And she truly sounded like it--bless her valiant heart. "He said he can't do anything without that number. I told him," she said, now sounding as whiney as myself, "that your outbound has connections and that your return flight is very early morning with that 2-hour pre-flight notification scheduled you mentioned. But he said without that number, he can do nothing."

Nothing. Nothing can be done. I simply had to live with The Little Call That Wouldn't ... STOP! Of course I'll be smart enough to leave my cell phone turned OFF on my defunct return flight day, but still, there will be those messages automatically reminding me, NEENER-NEENER! You didn't get your vacation!

So, traveler beware. Be smarter than this Foolish One. (Although you undoubtedly aleady are.) If you set up those nifty alerts, also set yourself up for the possibility to be able to cancel them. Or, join the ranks of those of us (me) who will be reminded of all the places we're not going--every delay, gate change and status alert of the way.

The Loooooong Layover

It was the best of times that -- bada-bing, bada-BANG! -- became the worst of times. Yes, it was the whirling dervish of a traveling schedule that instantly slam-dunked me into a two-month, unconquerable layover.
***
On January 3rd, my husband and I made the 300 mile Geezermobile "holiday trip" home from Minnesota. In a few days I would return to MN alone to "hide" and work on the copyedited version of my upcoming novel. Two weeks after that I would return to IL for a local speaking engagement. Not quite two weeks after that, we would both fly to Miami, cruise-ship our way to exotic places in the Eastern Caribbean (first REAL vacation in years), then drive five hours to The Villages to visit friends. I would appear at the local Barnes and Noble for a presentation and book signing. (Okay, mostly vacation.) Then we would drive the five hours back to Miami and fly home, where I would gear up to fly to MI for another speaking engagement, then. . . .

Oh, the places we didn't and won't go. Oh, the long-distance friends we won't see. Oh, the genuine GROUNDING and grumbling of it all!

You see, within five hours of that holiday trip home, everything changed. After unpacking the car, his brother invited us over for a post-holiday visit. While sitting on his brother's couch (SITTING ON HIS COUCH!), something inexplicable and diabolical happened (bada-bing) to my husband's knee. When he went to get up, he couldn't walk. He had to borrow an old set of crutches to help get him to the car.

But, no problem: he'd rest the knee, ice it, heating-pad it and fa-la-la-la-la, he'd be well. The only thing wrong with that plan was that it didn't work and so he continued to gimp.

January 7th, I took The Traveling Trip I Won't Soon Forget, which I initiated when I stepped onto our basement floor--not. As it turns out (bada-...), I stepped into thin air due to the fact there was one more stair, and I broke my leg (...BANG!). (And I thought my last airplane landing was jarring!)

Fast forward two days from my splat: I'm wearing a cast (crutches, "no weight on that complex fracture" AND I've fallen again!) and my husband phones Orthopedic Man since he's still gimping. His news: knee replacement, which is now scheduled for 2/13.

No return to MN. No cruise. (We had balcony cabins!) No book signing. No business trips more than 10 miles away. Lots of anti-inflammatories, doctor appointments (preparing for surgery and broken-leg follow-up) and Tiger Balm. Hey, when you're 61, fluffy and suddenly traveling on crutches, LOTS of things ache!

By hook, crook, hobble, cane or walker, I'm planning on making my 3/15 and 3/17 speaking engagements. But aside from my one local wheelchair podium experience and George's upcoming brief hospital/rehab stays, from 1/3 until 3/15 we were, are and will be grounded. With each other. Mostly on the same floor of our small home. (Could I hear a group groan, please, especially from those of you who are in relationships accustomed to ongoing bouts of apartness?)

I've had plenty of chair time to fantasize about how wonderful my writing time alone (always heaven) would have been, how romantic our vacation flights and cruise (thank goodness I bought travel insurance) would be, how many throngs of people would show up for my book signing--how it would feel to once again go to the bathroom without having to start heading that way 15 minutes before I know I need to go.

I've had plenty of time to forget what it's really like out there on the road much of the time: flight delays, rough seas, sparse appearance turnout. Yes, plenty of time to sit with my leg elevated above my heart (for the first THREE DAYS after the break--and at 61, that is no small acrobatic trick), watch mindless television, absorb the pain on my husband's face when he walks--eat the brownies and fruit and chocolate and fabulous casseroles and food dishes friends have brought to our home, thereby expanding my ever-expanding expanse--plenty of time to long for those traveling inconveniences that feel like the world's biggest drag when I'm road weary and caught up in them.

And so on this dreary day from my recliner in the western suburbs of Chicago, as I longingly stare out the window at the jet streams--leg up, surrounded by every convenience we've been able (okay, not actually WE but everyone else) to drag within my arm's reach--I say to those of you who might be grumbling your way through the airport, or collapsing in your hotel room at the end of a day full of early-morning wake-up calls and exhausting meetings, or gallavanting from one interstate highway to the next: the grass is always greener on the other side of the lounge chair. As exhausted as you might be, I'm stunned to find myself ENVIOUS!

Somewhere between the polarized conditions of running the concourse and being grounded, feeling frazzled and living glazed over, being ambulatory or broken, able to run the Road Warrior Race or only able to daydream about it, is The Truth, which, I've concluded, is that ALL of life is better with a little bit of chocolate and sympathy.

I feel your pain (yes, I can still remember the exhausting frustration of it; I reread all my Traveling Laughs just to refresh myself) and I hope you feel mine.

Traveling Along with Forrest Gump

Third day of 2007. Near the Wisconsin Dells. On the road for 2.5 hours. Half-way home. I am the sole passenger in my husband’s '01 Buick LeSabre which is traveling along at a steady 72 mph.

“Old is as old does,” I suddenly hear Forrest Gump say, referring to senior citizens and leisure travel. On a good day, I would refute his statement. “Speak for yourself, Forrest.” But on this medium day, with the sun warming the right side of my face as it streams through the tinted windows, I’ll simply take half an issue with Forrest’s travel interruptus since I am, after all, really assessing myself right now, and I’m kinda tired. (Still recuperating from staying awake on the couch till 11:25 PM New Year’s Eve, plus I got that whole warm sun thing going.) I’ll therefore only briefly tackle my debate with Forrest before I nod off or my laptop runs out of battery. And like I said, it is only the third day of a New Year. We all have things to do, people to meet, places to travel—which brings me back to the Geezermobile.

You’re reading the words of someone who, as a senior in high school, owned a 1957 powder blue and white, two-door, Chevy hard-top. Even the kids in my 1963 graduating class at Wheaton High School (“Orange-and-black, fight, fight! Gooooooo, TIGERS!”) recognized the supreme worthiness of that way cool piece of machinery. After all these years, my heart still skips a beat at the mere memory of it. (Or did I forget to take my blood pressure medicine—again?) So as I sit here this first week of the new year in a geezer beige LeSabre (okay, "dark Bronzemist, metallic" beige—big whoop—but the man used to own a Buick WILDCAT!) while reflecting on years past and contemplating the ever decreasing years left before me, I know for a fact that I did not “travel along” in that ’57 Chevy. I cruised, preened and bombed around in it. Head thrown back and windows wide open, I put my foot in it, vroom-vroomed, hammered down, did a quarter-mile with style. I barreled along, squealed to a stop, and like a cougar on the low prowl, I sleekly slid into a stall at the A&W, goosed it a couple times then just sat there to be one with (and to be seen in) that beauty. But nay, nary once did I ever simply “travel along.”

You’re reading the words of someone who recognizes the sound of a Harley, who sports a tattoo (although I think it used to be a half-inch higher on my ankle before my skin got all loose), who used to be able to eat spicy food without taking reflux medication and who loved diving down that first hill on wooden roller coasters—back before my neck started going out. And why does my neck go out? Because years ago the vehicle I was in (somewhere on the cool-o-meter between a '57 Chevy and the Geezermobile), which was sitting at a complete stop, was rear ended by a speeding car—twice, six years apart. (Thank goodness that didn’t happen while I was in my ’57 Chevy. At least it had the decency to simply blow its own engine!)

But you’re also reading the words of someone whose need for speed has morphed into a fine appreciation for the glide ride and decent miles per gallon. Someone whose back says thank you to the lower lumbar adjustment and whose mode of transportation gets more use out of cruise control than the tachometer (which I forget I have) in my mid-size SUV, which is at least painted a mysterious black rather than geezer beige, and which sports a sun roof and six-changer CD.

Shut up, Forrest.

But Forrest, before I nod off I will give you this much about “Old is as old does.” Traveling along in a Geezermobile—especially with a lovable geezer who is only slightly older than my Geezerette self—isn’t all that bad. Why, we wild things might even stop at a Cracker Barrel before today’s journey is over just to prove we still can.

Seriously, Forrest, shut up. I’m taking a nap now before my bladder reminds me that it’s time for a pit stop involving no V-8 engines, no checker flags and no victory laps. You’ve made your point. Now run, Forrest, run. Far away from my leisurely, senior citizen’s traveling-along brain.

DISCLAIMER: To all who own a Buick LeSabre, nothing personal. It is a good car. It gets good gas mileage. It has swell pickup. It offers a nice ride. It's been Very Dependable. You've made a good choice. It is not a '57 Chevy and I am not a young babe. Amen.

Super Powers

While sliding my credit card in and out of the self check-in kiosk at the Memphis airport, I look up and . . . Spider-man! Coincidentally, the scheduled intermittent "If-you-see-anything-suspicious..." recorded message begins broadcasting over the PA system.

"Okay," I say to myself, "it seems like a guy dressed in a Spider-man suit might qualify as suspicious--especially since his Spandex pants reveal too saggy of buns to be those of the Real Spidey." But a gun-toting policeman mingles among the band of onlookers, so I figure everything's under control. (At least I assume he's a Real Policeman and not just another guy impersonating a policeman, like the Spider-man guy is impersonating the Real Spidey.)

After passing through the checkpoint and grabbing a sandwich, I arrive at my gate and discover Spider-man is now there. (What are the odds?) He's been joined by Buzz Lightyear, sporting hefty backside buns and carrying a towel with which he occasionally swipes his face after raising the face guard on his space helmet. There is now a bigger crowd and a giant cake, its cut pieces circulating throughout the gate area along with free bottles of water. (Wouldn't you know THIS time I'd been smart enough to buy one!) A fabulous congratulatory sign hangs near the boarding area.

After a brief assessment and a little unintentional eavesdropping, it all comes into focus for me: a small child, who has become the center of attention, and his family are receiving this special sendoff through Make-A-Wish and the good nature of two airport maintenance men nabbed for the superhero jobs. I study the expressions on the boy's parents' faces, recall my friend's daughter who was long-ago granted a going-to-Disney wish and silently give thanks for her good health all these decades later. I pray the same fate for the boy, then can't help but add a prayer for the ongoing wellness of my sweet granddaughter.

While the bald boy shyly chats with Spider-man and Buzz, I notice a female security guard quickly sidestep out of their view to hide behind a nearby pillar. What on earth? But the angle at which I'm sitting reveals her purpose: to wipe away tears, so touched is she--so touched are all of us--by the possibilities we know lurk at the root of this celebration. I swallow as I catch her eye, then both of us quickly look away.

So as not to continue to stare (and to keep myself from snagging a second piece of cake) I decide to check my e-mail. Although Memphis is a Wi-Fi-for-pay airport, I don't want to fork over my credit card number until I find out if there is consistent reception in this area. (Hey, you know how it often goes in airports: good reception by the second barbecue place but none in front of the hot dog stand.) I ask the man sitting next to me--the lanky laid-back man with the well traveled briefcase--if he's by chance logged on yet.

"I don't travel with a laptop," he says. "I'm also antiquated in that I don't travel with a cell phone either."

"How often do you travel?" Briefcases usually don't lie and his looks like it's been through serious rigors.

"Three or four times a month."

"For business?" Surely not!

"Yes," he says, flashing a beatific glow of serenity my way. "I can always find a pay phone," he explains, obviously taking note of my raised eyebrows. "I have an 800 number in my office and I call in once or twice a day to pick up messages. I've learned that 99.9 percent of business issues can wait until tomorrow."

I stare for a moment, no doubt blinking like a wide-eyed South Park character. I look once again toward the boy, his parents, Spider-man and Buzz Lightyear (who suddenly appear remarkably more Real), the security guard who has now stepped back out from behind the beam, the laughing ladies cutting more cake. . . .

I slip my iPAQ back into my bag, sit back, take a deep breath, exhale and relax. I take a swig of refreshing water, noting the sweet remnant of frosting still bathing my pallet.

I realize I am surrounded by-- ZAP! KAPOWIE! BAM!-- everyday super heroes, each using his or her powers to infuse a tired family with a moment of joy and hope. Heroic, too, the small boy who has undoubtedly endured so much and yet who beams his bright and precious smile at everyone surrounding him. People who serve, those who slug on no matter what the nature of their hearts . . . and yes, a heroic and inspiring road warrior packing centering words of wisdom rather than ray guns or electronics.

As 2006 winds down and this, my twentieth Traveling Laugh, hits cyberspace, I take my hat off to all of you everyday heroes, each finding your way while at the same time lighting the way for others. Thank you for stepping up to don capes and smiles, or for sitting down to catch your breath so you can breathe relaxation and a good dose of perspective into those around you. There is always somebody watching, and on a grace-filled day in the Memphis airport, this time it was me.

What every good Scout knows

United Airlines out of O'Hare. I'm running late to the gate but think, "Oh, you should buy a bottle of water!" Then I check my watch again, swallow a couple times (okay, spit still goes down so I'm hydrated enough for now) and board. After all, the drink cart will be coming down the aisle before you know it. (You feel it coming, don't you? But still, there might be a surprise, so keep reading.)

The jam-packed plane (is there any other kind?) departs on time. Oh, happy days! We launch into the air, fly for a while, then a while longer, then a LONG while longer. My swallowing mechanism is starting to bog down. I keep turning my head hoping to see the aisle clogged by liquid refreshments heading my way. Nothing. Like a director on a movie set, I want to yell ACTION!

Eventually, a voice crackles over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we were going to serve beverages, but it seems food service"--or whatever they call them--"didn't provide us with any cups. We only have four cups. If you are really in need of a drink, please ring your call button." I don't remember this being followed by an apology. After all, it wasn't their fault. Dumb food service.

I think to myself, oh, yea, fly the "friendly skies" where fists and briefcases fly as dehydrated people brawl over four thirst-quenching cups. But what followed stunned me: silence. Not a DING to be heard. Was I the only nincompoop without a water bottle? Were people too dehydrated and therefore too weak to lift their arms? Have business travelers gotten so used to today's travel oddities that we all now just shrug our shoulders and say, "First we lost the pillows, then the five pretzels, then blankets and now the water. Ho-hum. Whatever."

Then a sinister thought tries to take hold: Maybe the airlines are testing us to see if we CARE about beverages and the entire cart will be next on their list of take-aways if we don't rally. I almost leap to my feet to strike a kung-don't-mess-with-me stance.

Then another thought occurs to me. Perhaps people, OTHER people, were smart enough to say, "Hey, just give me the whole can." I actually lift myself out of my seat and cast my eyes about. Nope. The masses are simply reading, sleeping, chatting--sipping on their own water bottles. Those "safe" water bottles they were smart enough to purchase on their way to the gate. Those water bottles that need no cups and no cart service.

You know, for someone who was a short-lived Girl Scout and long-time 4-H gal (I made the switch when I realized there were no boys in Girl Scouts), you'd think I'd have learned by now to be prepared for . . . just about anything the airlines can throw at me. Back in the day when I could travel with my good old Tupperware container full of my own water (far left in the photo of what used to be my travel essentials), I was. But things have changed and so, therefore, must I. In fact, I'm going to stop typing right now and pack an extra seat belt and call button in my bag. Just in case.

Time Travels

Like millions of others, two days before Thanksgiving I was on the road. But rather than heading to Granny's house (since I AM the Granny), I was traveling home from yet another road trip. Home to no company for the holiday. Home to Black Friday sales I would not attend.

Home to blissful tranquility and a day of rest. Perfect.

But even so, yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, was not without travel. At 10 A.M. I set out for the nearest White Castle to partake in a decade-old traditional Thanksgiving breakfast with a friend. Okay, MY traditional Thanksgiving breakfast of jalepeno burgers, cheese fries and a diet cola. This year my friend went for the sausage and egg sandwich on toast, which, in my personal opinion, is not even remotely related to Slyders [and I should know since I was a 1996 celebrity judge for White Castle Hamburger's Fifth Annual Cravetime Recipe Contest--HONEST] but which he nonetheless enjoyed.

Between beverage refills and memory lapses, for nearly ninety minutes we nibbled and chatted. It was like modern day Time Travel for the over sixty set: we transported ourselves back to the good old days by recounting a few stories (no seat belt required); some timelines were blurry; we couldn't explain how we "suddenly" got this old but it all turned out well in the end since we still recognized we each.

While I was Time Traveling (and later belching), my husband stayed home and traveled from his comfy bed to his cement driveway to retrieve the newspaper, onward to his coffee pot, then to his familiar lounge chair where he checked out the sale flyers. After I arrived home--and was happy to learn we still recognized each other, too--I cooked us a simple turkey dinner; he cleaned the kitchen afterward.

I fly all over the country for business; he holds the fort down while I'm gone. I drive to White Castle for breakfast and he remains sane. Two old married folks, each traveling to their own tune while freeing the other to do the same.

For all these things I give thanks, even the day after Thanksgiving.

Happy Connecting

After the terribly tormenting tragedy I INDUCED the first day of my week-long, new-state-every-day leg of a book tour, things perked up--well, for the most part. Due to the immeasurable doofusness of my own self, it seemed I had nowhere to go but UP. Yes, my own fallible humanness set the mental bar for my expectations, point of view and attitude as it applies to traveling snafus.

Keeping all that in mind, I decided to focus on what went RIGHT during my traveling days (okay, traveling daze), so here ya go with a happy-happy spin on some not-so-happy moments.

*Since I was determined I would not check luggage (different airline and state every day), I loaded carry-ons to the max. With a backbreaking lack of speed, I drug, kicked, grunted and hip-checked my way down the ever narrowing (in part due to my ever widening) airplane aisles.

HAPPY SPIN: Without solicitation, kind and gallant gentlemen offered to help me with my overhead bags. Anything to get me out of the aisle and settled down, I'm sure, so they could relax, but nonetheless truly appreciated, no matter what their ulterior motives. They didn't have to offer but they did.

*Even though I was nestled in a soft luxury bed at a many-starred hotel the two mornings I could sleep in a bit, housekeeping had not seen fit to make sure unrequested radio alarms wouldn't go off before the crack of dawn. (These things are no doubt certified by James Bond against anyone's ability to figure out their secret codes) Thus, with no assistance from me (I swear I never TOUCHED those radios!) by 6:15 a.m. either a CD started playing, someone on a static radio channel suddenly blathered into the darkness or a LOUD buzzing sounded.

HAPPY SPIN: I was already awake due to a banging door, or elevator ding, or ship's blast (along the ol' Mississippi), or ambulance siren, or train whistle (or all of the aforementioned) and once by the 5:45 a.m. arrival of a bell hop knocking on my door to pick up luggage--at the wrong room. ("Sorry, ma'am," I heard through the door after my loud "WHAT?!?!?!")

HAPPY SPIN DISCLAIMER: Sadly, the HAPPY SPIN (okay, I stretched the happy-happy factor there) was also slightly tainted by the fact these morning alarms usually surprised me while I was on the toilet. I'm sure my neighbors hated the length of time my "alarms" were ringing/singing/talking/buzzing and in one case started out singing then relayed to buzzing, but some things just can't be rushed. Plus, maybe it was THEM who awakened me with their slamming door! (Payback, as it turns out, is often accidental.)

HAPPY GONE BAD: Then again, by default and through no fault of my own--aside from not being smart enough to UNPLUG the radio immediately after checking in--I became the perpetrator who awakened my neighbors causing someone else to likely be writing about their rude hotel neighbor.

*Brilliant planning found me traveling with no laptop, just my good old HP iPAQ (love that thing) with Wi-Fi and a portable keyboard. Too bad so many hotels offer Wi-Fi that doesn't work, employees who don't have a clue how to help you and maintain no business center. My e-mail stacked up for days at a time. (I'm due for my "New Every Two" and I'm seriously considering a Smart Phone after this trip! But honestly, do you think I'm smart enough to run it?)

HAPPY SPIN: Upon my arrival home I read a brilliant article that affirmed my wireless (aka connected-less) trials. Misery does love company, at least company that "gets" life on the road as well as life on the wild, bumpy, often frustrating Internet highway. THANKS, Will Allen III. Thanks.

Turning Beet Red

Sunday past. O'Hare Airport. United Airlines terminal, concourse C.

I've purchased a sandwich and a side of beets (do you read an error there) from Berghoff's and I'm looking for a place to sit down to eat them because I dare not eat beets on my lap since there are about 20 of them with a circumference about the size of a fat quarter, all swimming in JUICE. The bar side, which is the only seating Berghoff's offers, is mobbed due to the Bears' game. People are standing 2 and 3 deep (plus out in the concourse) watching the the big-screen TV in the corner.

I ask a gentleman if I may share his table to eat my beets. He's not too thrilled, but he lets me. We're sitting under the television in good viewing range--not of the TV, but of the 50+ (I'm probably underestimating) people watching.

I decide the sandwich is too salty for my blood pressure so I only eat a few bites, then concentrate on the beets. A few beets goes a long way (see the windup?) so I decide to dump the rest of the remaining 15 or so in the garbage. I stack up my containers, grab the handle of my roller bag and make my way to the receptacle, which is also in viewing range of everyone because it is in the proximity of the TV. I'll be glad to get these things disposed of since, well, HELLO! BEETS and BEET JUICE. It was a dumb choice since I'm just heading out on a book tour with limited clothing because I don't want to check any luggage.

As I try to cram the stuff through the stiff swinging garbage door, the backlash
catches the plastic container of beets and beet juice and sends it flying. The red explosion lands on the floor -- on top of a man's cashmere coat (in hindsight, it could have been camel hair) rolled up on top of his briefcase. Since I am in viewing range of EVERYONE, there is a collective gasp, a nervous chuckle or two and it is then the man who owns the coat appears. He is wearing a pinstripe suit and an unhappy face. "I just BOUGHT this coat," he says, watching me pick beets from its beige beauty while trying to decide how to best be helpful. I'm afraid if I pick the coat up, the beets and juice will run even more places.

"I am so sorry. What can I do?" He doesn't speak for a moment while he watches me remove the remaining beets, then he picks the coat up. I mean beet juice is everywhere!

"Go to the bar and get a glass of soda water." I squeeze my way through the mob to get up to the bar. The room is LOUD and I'm yelling to get the bartender's attention, which she's ignoring since I'm YELLING! After a L-O-N-G while I get the goods and make my way back to the man who is now dabbing at his coat with paper napkins.

"How can I help?" He has me hold the coat while he carefully dips and dabs, wipes and assesses. I see the Brooks Brothers label. I think about this poor man on the road with THIS mess. I think about my savings account. I am mortified as this plays out in view of everyone.

The man--the handsome man with a tan and beets all over his expensive coat--smiles. SMILES. He tells me he bought the coat because it is "cold here in Chicago." I ask him for a business card so I can pay the dry cleaning bill, a process which I am sure won't work. So I can buy him a new coat, send him flowers for the smile. He HEAPS kindnesses on me while he tells me that just last night, two waiters collided and spilled lobster bisque on it.

Because of the man's kindness, and the fact he won't hand me a business card, I am overcome by the gift of his grace and I start crying. I KNOW THIS IS NOT PROFESSIONAL but I seem to have no control over my emotions. Equal parts of mortification and gratefulness squeeze a well of tears out of me. The nicer he is, the more I cry. He tries to distract me with small talk, asks me where I'm off to. Anything to stop the crying. All the while he keeps dipping and dabbing at the beet juice as quickly as I'm swiping tears off my face.

Eventually he says, "There." He looks at the coat as though it's as good as new, which it is not. One last time I ask him for a card, again he SMILES and refuses. He tells me he shouldn't have placed his coat there on the floor near the garbage in the first place, owns part of the blame. I'm all but SOBBING now.

It's time for us to part; I need to get to my gate. I cry as I walk. (Who knows, maybe the man cried happy tears too that I was finally out of his range and he was now safe!) I find a seat. Call my husband and tell him the story. The woman sitting next to me busts out laughing when I get to the "and all of it, beets, juice ... ends up on a man's cashmere coat." When I hang up, she apologizes for laughing, says she didn't mean to be listening but she couldn't help it.

You know, a few tiny things have gone wrong for me on this book tour since this incident, but I say to myself, "Charlene, remember the beets."

Next time when something goes wrong--REALLY wrong--on one of my sojourns, I hope I find the strength, courage and good humor to Remember The Beets and respond in the same kind and grace-filled way. My life feels remarkly better because of the kindness of a stranger.

Bless you, kind man. Bless you.

Ripley's got nothin' on me!

The last leg of our driving trip from Chicago to a book engagement at the Woolly Worm Festival in Beattyville KY last week was breathtaking. Never in my sixty-one years on planet earth have I driven so many consecutive miles surrounded by a more glorious fall splendor. Spontaneously (and suddenly, according to Big George, which was perhaps my subconscious payback for his last veering - second paragraph) I couldn't help but dive off the four-lane into the colorful back roads for a slower and more intimate submersion into God’s splendor.

George, who was taking a turn at map reading, deftly eyeballed the map and charted our route back to the interstate. But for an hour or so we took our wind-y time to explore an unlined two-lane (yes, there is two-way traffic on the road in that picture, which is reminiscent of many scary places I drove in England back in 1995), stopping when something, anything, caught our attention. This time it was a flock (a word that sounds WAY too pretty) of buzzards or vultures or whatever they were, thickly perched on telephone poles, wires and tree branches off to the right of this scene. (They are not what I’m trying to show you.)

After noticing the mass of those ugly whatevers, I eked along until I came to this little pullover place where, since the car was visible from both directions, it felt safe to get out, rummage the car for the camera and then saunter a few paces closer to my subjects to snap a dozen pictures or so.

I exited the driver’s side and walked around the front of the SUV to the passenger-side back door, retrieved the digital camera, turned it on, stepped toward my subjects and . . . WHOOOSH! I suddenly looked like an airborne, backward-swimming cartoon character since, believe it or not, I slipped on a banana peel! Out there in the middle of NOWHERE! What, I ask you, are the odds?

You can see (well, the picture is kinda small) my slip-n-sliding trail on the ground just off to the right of the back door. I took more pictures of the smashed banana peel than I did of the whatevers! Never in my life have I slipped on a banana peel (nor do I know anyone who has) and I had to drive three states away, spontaneously veer off onto a back road, notice a gathering of ugly somethings, cruise to a “safe” spot in the remote location, walk around to my SUV's back door and take a few steps toward a flock of BUZZARDS (or whatevers) to do so.

Luckily I didn’t hurt anything since my backside didn’t touch the ground due to my stupendous aerodynamic flight pattern. But let me just say I went a long way for this Traveling Laugh, which is much more fun to write about than the incident felt while I was airborne.

Traveling with Mr. McNally (.com)

I write to you this morning from just outside Cincinnati, home of the Purple People Bridge. We’re (Big George and me) on our way to Beattyville KY where I’ll be mainstaging 2 PM Saturday at the Woolly Worm Festival. (You’re sure to receive a report on THAT!) Luckily we made it to our hotel last night since Mr. McNally, whom I often rely on, proved to me that yesterday I should NOT have done so—at least all the time.

My husband was behind the wheel and I rode shotgun reading to him from my printout of what Mr. McNally had to say about our upcoming junctures. The first time George needed a hint (we knew the way up until Indianapolis), McNally said to take I-465 E to I-465 S to get to I-74 E. George said why go E to end up going S when the sign at this split says S is right HERE? (Okay, he didn’t say any of that, he just veered.) Can you sing here we go loop-de-loop? George 0, McNally 1.

When we got closer to Cincinnati, I read McNally’s instructions to George again. This time he listened. Too bad. Can you say here we go loop-de-longer-and-longer-but-never-find-the-hotel? Tie game. (George, winning ugly like da Bears last Monday night!)

Before departing on this trip, I found a new dog boarding facility for Kornflake. The kennel’s website said we should NOT use any online instructions (read Mr. McNally and Mr. Mapquest) since they both seemed to think he was located about a mile West of where he really is. Then again, I’ve arrived plenty of times using printouts, and all went well, so I guess it’s a game of chance, ey?

Every once in awhile I consider getting a GPS system. Then again, if it’s always right (and is it?), ah, sweet mystery of life where art thou, and how much might I miss thee dueling with my honey for my traveling entertainment.

A spoonful of sugar (Oh, honey, honey)

In the Grand Scheme of Traveling Incidents, some events are soon forgotten. But sometimes, you don’t forget (a miracle for me) and you’re saddled with a need to document the episode—with the officials. Thus was the case after my 11.5 hour captivity in the Pittsburg Airport (scroll to return trip).

In order to share my thoughts with the powers that be, I tooled around American Airline’s website (or maybe it was my AAdvantage account—yes, we have already come to the end of my memory miracles) and found a place to submit feedback. One of the drop-down menus on the form presented two choices which I’ll sum up as Good News and Bad News.

First I submitted a Good News form which named the names of two gate agents who remained upbeat, kind, sensitive, TRUTHFUL, hopeful, polite and helpful throughout a very long day. Next I filled out the Bad News form regarding this same incident which entailed a brief summary of my numerous delays and a complaint about my luggage, or rather lack thereof. I quickly received auto e-mails confirming that my messages were received. I felt proud of me (doesn’t take much) that at least I spoke my mind to the airlines rather than mumbling only to myself, my spouse and a host of friends--again. (Okay, I did that, too.) I figured that was The End.

But alas, a week or so later I received an e-mail from AA containing the Good News that they were SORRY about my day and that for my trouble they’d credited my frequent flyer account with 5,000 miles. I was grateful and am still in shock since airline complaints often fall into the same black hole as political campaign promises. Why, I wondered, did this particular complaint produce an apology and a “thanks for your loyalty?”

I can’t help but think my spoonful of earnest verbal sugar regarding two congenial and attentive gate agents might have set the perspective stage for the receipt of my complaint. Perhaps someone noticed I wasn’t strictly a whiner. And that would of course be a Mega-miracle, both that they noticed, and that I’m not. Right, honey?

HONEY?!

Oh, honey. Honey, honey, honey. Hows bouts you get yourself a drop-down menu so I know exactly where to file my … thoughts concerning this issue?

On Bears and BBQ

A couple weeks ago a kind and astute reader e-mailed to inform me of a typo on my upcoming book tour website page. Although folks at That Bookstore in Blytheville, Arkansas ("The natural state") are expecting me on November 9, a slip of the finger had me traveling to Alaska ("North to the future"). You physics experts will immediately recognize that AK does not equal AR.

I’m excited about my AR stop since it’s not only at a WONDERFUL book store complete with a potbelly stove (I've been there before), but it's in BBQ country. I can almost taste the dry rub seasonings as I type. Mm-mm-mm. However, I also have to admit I’m sorry I'm not going to AK this tour because AK is beautiful. Stunningly beautiful. And WILD. My only AK visit thus far found me traveling from Anchorage to Wasilla to the Homer Spit to Valdez and back again.

But it was during a stay at the scenic Motherload Lodge in Hatcher Pass that I experienced THE most unusual traveling episode : a dead bear behind the bar. A Real Dead Bear. Let me clarify that was in AK with BEAR, not AR with BBQ. (And do you have ANY idea how many times I’m checking the handiwork of my swiftly typing fingers here? And how I once again had the STATES’ INITIALS BACKWARDS the first go-around! GHEESH!)

But back to the dead bear in AK. We checked into the Motherload Lodge, left for the day and returned late that afternoon to find someone standing outside flagging traffic past the driveway breathlessly announcing, “Sorry! We’re CLOSED!”

“But we’re staying here. You have our luggage.”

“Oh. Then it's okay to come in. But so you know, I just shot a bear and he’s behind the bar.” And so it was so.

Here’s the glorious thing about those rough and tumble AK folks: nothing stops them. Not even a dead bear behind the bar. They straddled the bear's warm body in order to draw themselves beers around since there was no other way to reach the tap! I witnessed it with my own eyes. I even took pictures (hey, I’m an old farm girl) which I will NOT post here since, well, I’m sure they’d be a little TOO rough and tumble for some of you. In the strange aftermath it was all very exciting, not to mention surreal and sleep prohibiting.

Even if you're not a physics expert you may wonder what the bear was doing behind the AK bar. Simple: reeking havoc with the booze bottles--before he was shot. We were told that no matter how they tried to "let him out," he would not go. (Hey, bar snacks!) When the owners' dog appeared and started challenging the bear, things got out of control, thus leaving only one option.

But Charlene, how did the bear get behind the bar to begin with? I hear you asking. He climbed an outside staircase and came in through (as in slashing and clawing through) a window screen, then lumbered through the empty dining room, down the hall PAST OUR BEDROOM DOOR, then on down the interior staircase into the bar. Imagine their surprise!

You know, this whole slip-of-the-finger obviously set me to ruminating about BBQ and bears, but it also caused me to speculate about something else. I wonder if this is how our luggage ends up in the AL Luggageland Graveyard instead of say home with me in IL. Just one teensy typo can make a wild world of difference, ey?

Digital Decisions - UPDATE!

The kind and generous daughter of a friend of ours took pity on my pitiful self and procured me a FREE battery! (No askie, no tellie—although I’m assured it was a legal procurement.)

Ahhhhh, I feel all powerful again. At least until my New Every Two offer swings around and I finish my shopping, at which time I’ll momentarily be just another stupid who doesn’t know how to use her new equipment.

But in the blissful meantime, thanks to those of you who made suggestions. Misery does love company, especially cyber company with inquiring minds and a few fresh ideas for a fellow traveler's conundrum.

By the way, my husband is a subscriber to this blog, which I forgot. After reading my teensy comment about dropping my phone in the toilet, he kindly (HA!) reminded me (bless his steel-trap engineering brain) that I didn't drop my cell phone in the toilet but rather the dog's water dish.

For the record, I do not stand corrected as to the "where" I dropped the phone in the water, but the number of times--which officially stands at two. And George, since I told my blog readers not to ask about the toilet incident (even though one reader told me that was cruel), that includes YOU!

Digital Decisions

Wouldn't you know it: I'm not eligible for my New Every Two phone discount (including the two months of "early" grace they offer with this program) until five weeks from now, just enough time to have to live through one of my densest travel schedules without an upgrade.

The untimely re-up wouldn't be a big deal if my phone wasn't misbehaving and I wasn't so attached to the You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman ring song I long ago downloaded (read all about this humiliating experience in the TwinkleGram's 10/20/05 archived edition -- bottom of the page) and assigned to my husband's incoming calls. I don' t know if those Important Extras transfer to new phones, or when, in a dying last gasp, my current fading phone might simply go silent, never to affirm me again.

You might not consider the soulful belting out/ringing/singing of Natural Woman very businesslike, but it's only assigned to My Man (Mr. Retired) who doesn't call very often because he patiently waits to hear from me. I call to let him know I've arrived, or that I'm waiting for my food, I am well, I think I’m catching a cold, the plane is delayed, or on time, I feel crabby, I just noticed a sweet scene in the airport, the meeting was great or lacking, I'm back in my hotel room, made it through the security check point, waiting for my luggage, locked out of my car, wishing he were here, out at the curb, looking down the circular drive in front of the airport, waiting for my prince to arrive in his carriage to welcome and whisk me home again.

Hearing that song belt out of my handbag or pocket, knowing who's on the other end before I even look at the caller ID, is a great reminder that yes, I am a natural woman, even though when I'm on the road I often feel more like an unnatural disaster.

But back to my phone dilemma. One of my phone’s problems is that if I'm traveling in Verizon’s "extended networks," which I often am, the original-equipment battery will no longer hold a charge throughout an entire day. Why it uses more battery juice in extended networks I don’t know. Perhaps because it (whatever makes a cell phone work) has to . . . extend so far?

Too bad I recently lost my spendy backup battery, ey? And sure, I can replace the tired battery, but I'm only FIVE WEEKS away from not having to do that. But sadly, a good part of the time my "portable"--HA!--phone now forces me to leash myself to a wall or car socket. Not handy, especially when all of YOU are already hogging all the airport/coffee shop/anywhere sockets. (Feel free to explain yourselves in the comment section.)

Another "issue" with my phone: missing parts. It’s missing parts because I've dropped it so many times. Never on a soft carpet, of course, and once in a toilet (don’t ask) and several times during failed attempts to retrieve it I’ve had to kick it out from under here and there. But it's still basically WORKING, so do I really want to hurry up and get rid of a phone that keeps on calling after taking so many fallings?

I have to stop typing now because I have a decision to make. Do I invest in a tide-me-over-for-five-weeks battery? (Seems such a waste.) Do I ride out the five weeks to save the bucks (times are tough), keep my power cord in my pocket and the phone turned off when I'm not in a position to answer it anyway? (Some of you might be thinking my husband could use the peace and quiet, but keep that to yourselves, okay?) Or do I bite the financial bullet and get a new phone now, before the upcoming hectic travel schedule? And if that is my choice, which phone do I buy? Can I even make a decision AND get acquainted with a newbie in five short weeks?

Do I make the giant leap to a SMARTPHONE like travel tech guru Phil Baker suggests, one that could also replace my HP iPAQ, which I ADORE and that gets me on the internet (in Wi-Fi zones) during trips when I choose to leave my laptop behind? Would I dare attempt to use a new whiz-bang SMARTPHONE (perhaps one way smarter than me and thus not affirming but humiliating?) on a book tour when I’m too tired to tackle new technology?

When you're self employed, these decisions need to be made by you. "Corporate" isn't setting things up, paying the bills, making the tough decisions. In my case there's only me. A natural woman. A natural traveling woman traveling with a tired battery and a few missing parts.

Yup, that would be me.

I'll keep you posted as to my decision. Just don't expect me to CALL you with it, what with the battery situation and all. But if you should hear a SMARTPHONE (and are they really THIS smart?) singing “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman,” you’ll know I’m nearby and that my husband, Big George, has something important to tell me.

A cacophony of traveling companions

I was awakened early this morning by a LOUD Traveling Band of birds outside my bedroom window here in Minnesota where I come "hide" to write. Red-winged Blackbirds, to be exact. My favorite. If a celebrity (say Grover from Sesame Street) asked me what type of bird I'd like to be, there you have it.

I always admire these brave birds as they tenaciously cling to the very tops of wildly swaying roadside stalks, cheering me on, extending their happy trills as I zing past them in my SUV as though I'm a marathon runner in desperate need of their offerings. Which I am.

But today, rather than watching me pass by, they discovered me planted for a spell. I wrenched my groggy self out of bed, walked down the flight of old creaky farm house steps and went out on the front porch in my flannel PJs to get a look-see. Huddled into myself against the early morning chill, I stood staring at the towering pine trees come alive with hundreds of cheering cheerleaders. Three of them were perched like black and red morning stars at the very tops of the trees. They seemed to be leading their chorus of fellow travelers suspended in the branches below them, no doubt on their way south. Lucky things. "Thank you, my traveling companions," I whispered into the brisk breezes blowing their way. "Thank you for stopping to say hello, for stopping to say good-bye."

The damp cold finally chased me in and nature called (although perhaps not in that order), so I'm not sure how long they stayed in their green wayside, but I think of them now as I type, wish them well as they dart across the friendly skies while my fingers race across these familiar keys.

Yes, thank you, dear Red-winged Blackbirds, for showing me how to cling tightly to the edges of life on the road, how to cheerfully land for a rest now and again before moving on to the next place. Thank you.

Middle Man Strikes Again

I experienced a Traveling Incident some time ago (one of about a billion) and it's funny how often I think about it. In fact, I've been thinking about it a lot today since I've had occasion to look at my index finger several times. Let me explain.

During the boarding process I arrived at my aisle seat (yes, women strive for them, too) near the center of the plane, nodded at the gentleman in the middle, dropped one bag on the floor and kicked it under the seat in front of me, loaded the other in the overhead, then plopped myself down. (Okay, gently lowered myself so as not to break my hip on the ever-closer-together arm rests.) I wasn't really in the mood to talk but Middle Man asked me if I was coming or going, then explained that he and Window Man were on their way to present . . . wherever. To tell the truth, I was only half listening since I was much in need of a relaxing nap. I smiled, leaned back, closed my eyes and didn't give either of them another thought. I lived happily in my own little content world.

After liftoff and considerable flight time, I heard (light sleeper) the drink cart closing in on me so I opened my eyes. Middle Man says, "Aren't you afraid you're going to lose that ring?" It's as though opening my eyes opened his mouth. Kinda creepy. How long, I wondered, has he been waiting to ask me that? Has he been staring at my face just waiting for my eyes to fly open?

I glance at my hands. I'm wearing several rings so I look at him to see if I can tell which one he's talking about. His eyes are locked on the index finger of my right hand where I'm wearing a ring between my first and second knuckles. Yes, the ring is a tad big for that "perched" location, but I occasionally get attached to things/behaviors (until I get attached to the next one) and I'm currently and emotionally attached to this oddity. The ring is an eighth-grade graduation gift from my now deceased parents and it makes me feel close to them. I miss them even more certain times of the year and this would be one of those seasons. I opened my jewelry box a few days ago, spotted it, realized that with effort I could cram it over my knuckle and so . . . here we are.

I decide to answer his security question since he seems genuinely worried for me. "No. It won't come off. Luckily," I continue, grabbing the ring and giving him a demo of my words, "I've grown old enough to inherit my grandmother's giant knuckles. The trick was getting in on!"

We receive our sips of liquid and a small bag of something (back in the good old days when you got, say like four peanuts for free, remember those good old days?). We artfully arrange them on our trays. We chat, I close my eyes and go back into my world, ready to resume my slumber.

But all the time I'm wondering, What is he thinking about me now, studying on me now? What, I wonder, should I be worrying about me NOW?!

I clasp my left hand around my right index finger, secure the ring in place--even though it would take a band of gypsies to remove it. And then I wonder, might Middle Man be one?

I WILL NOT LIVE IN FEAR. I WILL NOT LIVE IN FEAR.

Eyes still closed (so as not to open his mouth) I unclasp my death grip from my ring. I blantantly open my hand on my knee, palm down, letting the ring dance right in front of his eyes.

Some people worry too much, I think as I doze off.

You make me feel so . . .

I'd like to take a moment to thank the man in front of me, the one who recently went through the security checkpoint, left his laptop behind and was called back to retrieve it.

I'd like to thank the woman talking on her cell phone and scurrying to her gate who first dropped her cell phone, then her purse, then her cell phone.

Thank you to those who enter business meetings with food stains on your clothes, circles under your eyes and a prayer on your lips that nobody notices you haven't brushed your teeth since, well, there was no time to buy a new tube (airplane late, again) of toothpaste and of course you couldn't travel with such a dangerous ORANGE-ALERT! item.

Thanks to those of you who barely fit in bathroom stalls with your suitcases (and those GIANT rolls of toilet paper), who stand holding your hands in front of you under sink faucets that are NOT automatically activated and then act like you knew it, and who survive countless toilet flushes (feel the spray beneath you) before you're ready for them to flush.

Thank you everyone who buys a book in the airport because you forgot your reading material--again. (And if you buy MY books in airports, a special kudos. http://www.welcometopartonville.com)

Bless the hearts of those who snore on airplanes, bang your heads on the overhead bins (yet again), forget to turn your noise reduction headsets off after the "turn off all ..." announcement since you didn't hear it, what with your noise reduction headset and all.

WAHOO to those who make your own corporate, self-employeed decisions to buy the snack pack on the airplane (even though you swore you wouldn't), and find that entertaining yourself by counting the little wad of cashew nuts before chowing them down is not only the highlight of your day, but your best meal.

A nod to those who talk to strangers, e-mail in concourses, mutter to television news casters in an attempt to feel like SOMEBODY knows you're out there in another time zone doing your exhausting thing.

Thank you, one and all, for making me feel so normal, so One With The Travel Weary . . . so understood.

A Wi-Fi and Wayport Neighborhood

I came to Omaha Thursday to present on a humor panel at the Omaha LitFest (if you are anywhere near here next year during LitFest and like to read or enjoy art, this is a MUST STOP! http://www.omahalitfest.com) and am now gearing up to pack up to fly home today. I am happily tired (stayed up three hours past my bedtime last night), creatively refreshed and still wallowing in the afterglow of this successful and eclectically ripe gathering. Yes, it was a business trip for me, but one which smacked of vacation since I got to rub shoulders with Those I Read, attend juicy, informative, brave, vulnerable and lively panels and hang out in Omaha’s Old Market area, which itself is worth the trip.

Packing up is no small chore for me since tidiness isn’t my mantra. When I arrive in a hotel/motel room I fling things here and there in an attempt to create a familiar nest of sorts. If I’m only in for a night or two, no housekeeping, please. Don’t make me pick up my stuff (cram my makeup back in a bag, “hide” -- HA! Like THAT is humanly possible in a hotel room! -- my valuables and undies) just so you can make my bed. I like things ruffled.

As I gather and pack this morning, I remember my newest and latest half-hour friend. We first met the day of my arrival (hers, too) in the internet café off the lobby of this Embassy Suites, she a tall lanky blonde, me a short fluffy salt-and-pepper head. We were looking to slam a good dose of caffeine while accessing the “free” Wi-Fi which we were errantly, as it turns out, told existed in the internet café.

By happenstance we two strangers parked our backsides and laptops in contingent work stations and discovered out loud and together that all internet roads led to payment. “You got anything?” “$9.95 for twenty four hours.” “Wait, I’m picking up another . . .” “No, not gonna work.” “They’ve got us.” It fries my hide to pay extra for Wi-Fi or Wayport in spendy hotels. Yes, there was free internet available in the internet café just off the lobby, but it's on one computer back in the corner, the one with a landline, the one with the human line. “Might as well pay the $9.95 for the Wayport in my room. Time is short today.” “Yes.” Ta-ta.

The next morning at breakfast (the one included with the price of all Embassy Suites stays and which seems much more difficult to supply every morning than a port), there was my new friend. “Well good MORNING!” We smiled, shared a breakfast table and pieces of our lives as though we’d known each other for decades. Turns out we have numerous things in common. We exchanged website info, promised to keep in touch and off we went, she to finish her work, check out and head home, me to move on with my next Big Literary Day. Life on the road is a strange beast. But sometimes, just sometimes, two temporary nests built in the same tree on the same night make for a friendly, albeit ever so temporary, neighborhood.

When I finally pick up my hotel bill , the one I’m looking at right now on the floor, the one they slid under the door in the wee hours like a stealth bird adding one more twig to my messy nest, I shall find thirty bucks tacked on to it for my internet services. I could grind my teeth over this again, but hey, I’m going home today and I’m working to leave these niggling nags behind. My husband’s been holding down the Family Nest and he’s dealt with his own issues.

Besides, I’ve already checked out my new friend’s website (Wow! I’m IMPRESSED!) and sent her a quick e-mail, and now I’m sending you this Traveling Laugh. If it hadn’t been for the unfulfilled promise of free Wi-Fi, none of this (new friend, writing in my PJs) would have happened. These memories and that attitude, my fellow traveler, are what I’m most hoping to pack up and take home with me. Life’s too short to lug a load of sour grapes around. My suitcases are already heavy enough.

N0 (or nothin' but) Time to Spare

What’s this? A single blog post written in two days’ worth of consecutive order? Yes. But try it anyway. You might like it—or at least relate.
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Sunday AM, September 10

I'm sitting in an airport, again. It turns out I have (well, had) ninety minutes to kill. In order to help the clock fly I just polished off a 9 AM “brunch” at Manchu Wok. Rice or noodles--and I pick noodles--plus two entrees (orange chicken and broccoli beef). I’m still swilling the lemonade. You know, one of those “banned” beverages the TSA believes I might use to . . . well, I’m not sure what they think I might do with it, but I must admit I’ve never tried to light a lemonade with a match before. Who knows!

I ended up with this pocket of time because I arrived early at O'Hare, checked my bags curbside (as usual) and felt very smug as I passed by the snaking terminal bag-check lines (now THAT’S got double meaning!) of people kicking and dragging their worldly goods along. Then the woman waiting to check my documents at the head of this odd and somewhat isolated little American Airlines security checkpoint stood yawning as I walked right up, then right on through the “don’t touch the sides” tunnel—zero waiting. I use this particular “secret passageway” when I'm flying American Eagle, which seems like always lately. I don't know where the Big Boy AA aircraft fly, but I'm assuming they still exist.

PAUSE

Oh, MY! I’m undoubtedly sitting here on the verge of countless perils since I just remembered MSG is an excitotoxin! I’m sure my brunch contained a billion milligrams of excitotoxins. If you have a moment, Google “effects of MSG” and read those first few links including http://www.msgmyth.com/brochure.pdf#search=%22effects%20of%20msg%22. Threat of terrorists? Stay alert. Excitotoxins? HELP!


FAST FORWARD TWO DAYS (September 12): MY RETURN TRIP

Having thankfully survived my hearty blast of excitotoxins, I lived to sit in an another airport. Pittsburg, this time. Today I arrived nearly four hours early for my flight. Long story, but it had to do with hilly terrain, a rental car and the threat of fog (warning signs everywhere) and torrential rain. Let's just say none of the above slowed me down more than two miles per hour. Although I did not zip through security today (which, to the best of my observation and experience, is much more rigid here in Pittsburg than O'Hare), I still have All This Time. Enough time to STEER CLEAR OF EXCITOTOXINS while concurrently spending too many bucks buying smeary face products with which I cannot legally travel. Luckily, I’ve spent enough that they’ll ship them for free.

FAST FORWARD.

Seems I was optimistic about arriving 4 hours early. I now find I arrived 5.5 hours early. It occurs to me that “nonstop flights” are often “nongo,” or at their very best, “go-later.”

FAST FORWARD

Seems 5.5 hours was optimistic since it turns out I arrived at least 6.5 hours early, which turned into 8, which. . . . After “mechanical delays” turned later-later-later-whoops “canceled,” a rerouting to another airline which then postponed (Okay, I am CRAVING a high dose of excitotoxins by now! Anything to break the tedium!), another rescheduled late-night flight out on the last flight out—which was late, I finally made it home in the nick of time to wait forty minutes before filling out my missing luggage (two-bags’ worth) report.

The good news is that after driving back to the airport this morning to personally look for my bags (that sweet and caring recorded voice told me she was so sorry to report SHE hadn’t located them yet), I found them hiding right there on the floor in front of the conveyor belt. No WONDER they couldn’t find them! Too obvious.

Thankfully I recovered them in just enough time to swirl their contents before tomorrow morning’s flight. I shall try to be early, although not too.