A Different View

I'm currently "hiding" in the beautiful bluffs of MN to work. Writing fiction is a solitary labor. Luckily, most days I find my characters to be entertaining company. Sure, I occasionally get together with a few real-life friends in the area during these encampments, but I don't need to pack a suitcase to do so. I just hop in my car and drive down the hill. Bliss. Predictable. My friends are there—and always will be, right? We take so many things for granted.

However, even though I'm encamped, yesterday I had to hit the road to do a little research for my novel. Yes, fiction is . . . fiction. Even so, I still need to render some things "factual." It's not fun to receive cranky emails from astute readers as to how dumb I am, so I try my best not to introduce falsehoods when I'm talking about real-life places, objects, careers etc.. In keeping with my last post, and since I had the time, I decided to once again travel the back roads to reach my destination.

What struck me this time was just how easy it is to miss things. Little did I know. . . .

Take a moment to scroll up to my opening image. See how the farmer plows circles around that stand of trees? When I first noticed the oddity off in the distance, I wondered why the farmer didn't just down the trees to make life easier for him or herself. Maybe he just likes going around in circles. Sometimes I do, or at least I act like it. Or the airlines renders me that way. Or maybe the trees are growing up through a marsh that makes that pocket of land unworkable. Maybe there's buried treasure in dem thar branches. This is, of course, why I write: my speculations never end. But not until I passed by the trees did I catch a glimpse of the object of the circuitous plowing. A house. A decaying house. Since I had a little time, I turned around for a closer look.

I usually travel with my teensy Canon PowerShot in my handbag or the pocket of my jeans. It's only an SD600, but it does a terrific job. I can even take short videos if I want, with sound. I keep pictures of my granddaughters on it (high-tech Grannie B, always ready for show-and-tell!); a shot of an Oriole that stalks me, then yells at me when I sit on the front porch to write; and a few other wonders of nature I discover along life's travels. But mainly I keep my camera close by since I never know when I'm going to want, or need, to capture something I'm afraid I'll forget (at 62, those odds grow increasingly higher), which is another reason I turned my car around and snapped a series of shots as I approached the trees from the opposite direction. The only thing I didn't know yesterday was why the scene captivated me. Today, I do.

All the trips we take, the places we fly, the meetings we sit through, the hassles we encounter, the victories we score, the people we meet on the road . . . they often get lost in the big blur of our crammed-with-dumb-stuff memories. What rises to the surface is far too often the chaotic, the terrible, the skeptical, the things that make us whine and complain. For instance, just today, I received an email from travel guru Joe Brancatelli informing me that American Airlines announced it would soon charge passengers $15 to check a single bag. Of course there will be exceptions. But since money-grabs like this have made me reject any type of airline loyalty, I won't qualify. I go with the airline that offers the best deal at the most convenient time. Nonetheless, the email set me off. I engaged in an immediate volatile diatribe. ONE MORE THING! DANG AIRLINES!

But the next email I read was from a friend's daughter letting me know she was catching a 2:30 plane today. Her father's medical condition--our long-time and precious friend--had worsened. Please pray, she asked. She is not ready to lose her dear father. Who is? No matter how brutally I was whining about the airlines, my spirit immediately U-turned toward thanksgiving for them, and I began to pray, to both God and the airlines. Get her there, and on time—in time. Give her a comfortable seat, a cool drink of water, a smooth ride, a smiling attendant.

I recalled all the flights I've made under extreme personal emotional duress. "Your mother had a stroke," my dad told me on the phone at 2 a.m.. "We don't know if she's going to make it." My mother was only 56! How could this BE! My heart raced the entire flight. The nonstop Chicago to Albuquerque flight felt like months. After ten days of sitting bedside in her hospital room, I had to come home. My babies needed me. Two weeks later, she was gone, and back I flew—to a funeral and my grieving father.

Fast forward.

"Your father died. Suddenly," I heard again on the phone in the middle of the night. A terrible shock and grief. A vacation ended. My life as I knew it, changed. When the representative of my airline (or so I called it then) didn't seem to care that I needed an immediate flight—or that I was crying on the phone—another airline's agent worked with me, expressed her sorrow, helped me get to where I needed to be in an expedient manner: to identify my father's body .

As in all of life, the line between good and evil often appears, and often is, wavy. One day something is our curse; the next day it's our life jacket, our hope, our chance to deliver a final "I love you" in person. One decade a young family builds a home; decades later, someone honors their memory by plowing around its decay. We are, in the grand scheme of things, here on this earth for such a short time. As we travel, may we be mindful of the needs of those around us. May we keep a check valve on our attitudes, perspective on our priorities, and the good sense to remember that nothing is all bad, not even the airlines, and that nothing good should ever be taken for granted.

Sidewerds Glances

During my recent earthquaking (literally) business road trip, I occasionally enjoyed the luxury of spending time traveling the back roads of Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee. Given my druthers, this is how I'd always get thyself from Point A to Point B: by winding my way up, down and sidewerds, as my Grandma used to say, on the grey roadmap lines between them. But alas, sometimes I'm just stuck with the airlines, and you can interpret that any way you like.

Will Allen III, another business traveling blogger, and one I always read, describes his occasional road trips in glorious detail—including traffic conditions. Sometimes we choose our cars over the airlines in a desperate attempt to assume and resume our sense of control over traveling matters, and sometimes it actually works. Other times, getting behind the wheel feels a draw at best, and an exhaust sucking nightmare at worst.

As for me and my auto traveling tales (and since I'm known as a "humorist"), I most enjoy discovering and sharing the uncommon, the absurd, the splendiferous and the Say WHAT?!s, even when at the time they seem nothing more than the terrible. Ain't it funny how hindsight can birth the amusing, when in Real Time, reality, and especially airline reality (is that an oxymoron?), is often nothing more than a headache.

But since I'm currently sitting here in Hindsight Mode, I'd like to share a few of the highlights you miss when you choose the commuter airlines over a sidewerds trip in your own comfy vehicle in which you can choose your own music, pack as many bags as you like with however many over-sized liquid containers as suits you (Bring it ON, you 3.5-oz bottles!), pull into any restaurant or drive-in that grabs your taste buds (LOVE Sonics!—and did you know that "participating" Sonics have a "happy hour" every day from 2 – 4?), and remember that the miniscule details of the Real Earth in Real Time are actually more lush and fascinating than any Google Map view, or the view from 27,000 feet.

So, in no particular order, I present to you a few highlights from my Chicago-to-Nashville-and-back-again journey. Yes, the business (you'll find me listed as a bonified AUTHOR) got done, but so did some mental refreshing away from my typical keyboarding grind.

WORTHY BACK-ROAD TIDBITS

*A Coney Dog from Sonic, although we've already covered that.

*Wild flowers and a few wild-and-woolly (one on the floor, face down, getting handcuffed--no KIDDING!) in Nashville.

*The opportunity to "Sleep In A WIGWAM," (they're cement) which we did not because we had to move on, but maybe one day. This is nothing new folks; this establishment had already been there for 60 years in 1997, it says so on their website! We would never had known this place existed if we hadn't accidentally discovered it alongside one of our "Let's try THIS road" choices, even though in looking up the info I discovered that NPR talked about them in 2001. You can listen to the audio! (That last click is SO WORTH IT, just for the READ!) If I wasn't currently stuck on a dial-up network (yes, they still exist), I could listen, too!

*TWO breakfasts at Waffle House, one in IN and another in KY. I've never been to a Waffle House where I wasn't greeted with a hearty HELLO! We don't have Waffle Houses in my home area, so I'm always excited to get the opportunity to order a "Regular hash brown, all the way," which means it comes smothered (onions), covered (American cheese), chunked (hickory smoked ham), diced (tomatoes), capped (mushrooms), and topped with Bert's Chili. If you think Bert's Chili isn't special, did you know there is an official Ode to Bert's Chili? I also get jalapeños in the "all the way" mix, too, but I can't remember the "call" for them. I just know they're included. Mm, mm, mm. The only thing that could be better as a hearty breakfast is the "double" or "triple" order of same, but that's more than I can handle, which I learned the hard way several years back.

In case you think Waffle House doesn't consider your health, please know they stock sugar free syrup. Neener-neener.

*A marvelous starry sign . You can see the lit version here--although I'm still wondering if it flashes. The motel's exterior was neat and tidy and their lot was filled with cars. We didn't get to stay here either, but like the Wigwams, maybe one day.

*A farm house with a giant sleeping dog on the front porch, and a wide-awake goat standing next to him or her. I'm still sorry I didn't stop and take a picture!

I'll leave you here with a word picture of one of the best reasons to occasionally take your business traveling backside to the back roads. People out in their yards in rural areas, and those traveling toward you on the county roads, almost ALWAYS wave or nod at you, and smile. You feel welcomed, honored, seen—really seen—and glad to be waving and smiling back. Whether traveling frontwerds, backwerds or sidewerds, now there's a travelin' grace worth gittin'. As Arthur Landers, a character in my Welcome to Partonville series would say, "Ya perty much don't in-counter that kinda be-havior in the airports no more. And that's a serious cryin' shame."

Didn’t see THAT coming!

So, I went to Yahoo to search for verifiable info about the earthquake I experienced at 4:37 a.m. last Friday morning. (Stay tuned for details about my ridiculous location at the time of the shakeup.) Yahoo led me here, to a site which appears to be that of an Official Government Agency. (For those of you unwilling to blindly click anywhere near a government agency, it’s http://earthquake.usgs.gov .) However, since many Official Government Agencies seem to function far better in “appearances” than “realities,” my radar was up.

But info I found! I discovered numerous links to last Friday’s southern Illinois event, including Details, Summaries, Maps, and Scientific and Technical data. The site even offers colorful swirly maps, which, oddly enough, I was talking about in my last blog post. It touts zip-codey maps, Seismogram Displays and a section called—and, like Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up--“Earthquakes for Kids.” (Is it just me, or does that sound alarming? Might not “Earthquake Information for Kids” seem less ominous?)

The endless pages even tout “Animations” which, once activated, remind me of the old Pac-Man game. (Scary implications, ey?) You can find links to just about any piece of information you might want (or not), regarding not only last week’s southern Illinois earthquake, but just about every earthquake happening NOW or throughout time, including listings of individual earthquakes that claimed hundreds of thousands of lives. Quite the "Top Ten." Make sure you run your mouse over every graphic, since most of them allow you to go even deeper (again, creepy) into the stats at any point on the graphic.

Wanna really freak yourself out? [WARNING: If you DO the following, the page takes so long to load, you'll think your computer seized up!] Go to this global page of “recent earthquakes within the last 8 to 30 days,” then spend time wondering how any of us have a filling left in our heads! Surely we should be jolted to pieces by now. And if you still haven’t had enough, head straight to “Today’s Earthquake Fact.” (Did you know there is “no such thing as ‘earthquake weather’?” Take THAT www.weather.com!)

If you live in, or often travel to, the west coast of California, you won’t want to watch the Animations maps for very long. If you reside in Minnesota and follow the links to the history of, say, Iowa earthquakes, you’ll learn that “Iowa has experienced only minor earthquake activity since the United States obtained control of the State under the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. It was not until 1857, 11 years after Statehood, that the present boundaries were drawn up. As a territory, Iowa had included Minnesota and parts of North and South Dakota.” Imagine, Minnesotans! Your state bird could have been the Eastern Goldfinch rather than the Common Loon, which is maybe why they let you go.

But I digress, and I can hear your burning question: So, Charlene, exactly where were you during the earthquake?

SHORT ANSWER: Business trip. Bowling Green KY. Holiday Inn. Fifth Floor. Room 523. On the toilet.

It is unclear to me if the earthquake awakened me and then I had to pee, or if I had to pee, so I woke up, stumbled to the bathroom, plopped down and then the earthquake hit. (Oh, MY! I hope the impact of my ample posterior didn’t cause it!) All I know is that I was sitting there basking in the familiar glow emitted by the night light built into the hair dryer (who thinks these things UP?) when I noticed that the toilet seat was vibrating.

As a business traveler who has never encountered an earthquake, my first response was not that of EARTHQUAKE! My initial thought was that perhaps the guests in the room next to mine had a Jacuzzi tub and an early morning breakfast meeting. Then I noticed that the entire bathroom felt like it was vibrating, or shaking, or . . . . I wondered if my room might be either above or below the laundry room. Perhaps someone had turned on all the industrial dryers. (I know this is reaching for explanations, but . . . ) As the shaking reached a crescendo, I thought, “Hm. I wonder if this is what an earthquake feels like?”

And then it stopped. I flushed and went back to bed, convinced I’d dreamed the whole experience. No more BBQ before bedtime, Charlene!

The next day, after I learned about the honest-to-gosh quake, a few simultaneous emotions and thoughts intersected. 1) HOW EXCITING! 2) What a great Traveling Laugh blog post! 3) A journalist’s regret: Why hadn’t I stood up and checked the water in the toilet. Just to see. I mean, when a quake shakes a building, does it cause waves? Ripples? Would they have appeared the same on the second floor as the fifth? 4) If I’d been brushing my teeth, would it have felt like an electric tooth brush? 5) GRATEFULNESS! I lived through an earthquake!

That last thought slam-dunked me into the profound. Every time I return home safely from a long or short business trip is a great time to give thanks. Oh, how easy it is to whine and complain; but compared to the horrific surprise disasters that befall so many around the world, how benign it is to have to sit in an airport for a few hours—or on a quivering toilet for a minute or so. For each safe mile we travel, each new breath of life we can breathe, a dose of perspective and a grateful heart can sure help breed its own reward.

Too bad it took an earthquake to shake some sense into me.

Whether Or NOT to Weather

IMAGES: Posted on the Bowling Green KY
Fountain Square Park site

There’s always something about the weather. Sometimes we can’t wait to get out of it, and sometimes we’re fretting we’ll have to fly or drive into and through it. Then again, maybe we’re hoping we can fly through it, or up and over it, or at least around it, since the option means our flight will surely be canceled. Argh.

We bookmark http://www.weather.com/ or set up options on our home pages to keep us up-to-the-minute-and-radarly informed. We watch the moving bands of swirling greens and yellows, blues and reds, highs and lows. Not even an old hippy-dippy lava lamp can compare to this action! The graphics speed and dip, swirl and pause. We groan. We hope. We tune in again at 5, then catch the late-night weather report before setting the alarm.

Airlines love to blame things on the weather. Sometimes the twirling and diving masses look to be headed out of our area before flight time. Hip-hip-HUR…WAIT a minute! Somewhere along the line, the storm actually ends up dinging us anyway since it hurdles itself toward the location where our scheduled flight originates, which makes it late, which makes us late. DANG! Who KNEW?!

When I tuck myself into a hotel room, the last thing I look for is the weather channel. The weather will do what it will do, no matter how much I think about it. Just let me rest in peace, okay? Only God knows, and to be honest, sometimes I think God is completely fooled, same as the weather guy, or gal—all whom my husband knows by name. He’s a weather channel addict. Let’s discuss.

One day George and a friend were downstairs speculating as to whether or not someone had had their baby yet. Overhearing their conversation, I sat in my home office mentally scanning our list of friends, their kids, their grandkids. I couldn’t imagine who the guys were talking about, so I went downstairs and asked. In unison, they named a name, one completely unfamiliar to me. Someone on the weather channel. I should have known.

Watching, waiting, speculating. Comes in all FORMS on the weather channel ey?

Today I’m packing for a road trip to a two-day speaking/appearance engagement in Bowling Green Kentucky. (For you book fanatics, check out the Southern Kentucky Book Fest. Even Mitch Albom is gonna be there!) We’re leaving a day early to spend a night with my cousin in Jamestown Indiana. I’ve double checked the KY hotel reservation, then our Sunday night Nashville stay, since HEY! We’re only going to be 65 miles from there, so let’s go enjoy the Country Music Hall of Fame before heading back. They've moved into fancy new digs since we last passed through.

But I have to admit, I’ve also checked http://www.weather.com/ for each destination. Looking through my office window, if we get out of here soon, we’ll be traveling in sunny skies. But if I can believe weather.com (and did you know you can check upcoming weather for a MONTH? BWAAAA-ha-ha-ha!), by tomorrow when we leave Indiana, we’ll be traveling with dark clouds. In Bowling Green, we’ll be slogging through thunder showers, and in Nashville, more dark clouds. Overall, we’ll experience highs in the 70s and lows in the 40s. This all either will or will not happen. This makes me alternately happy and sad we’re not flying.

Man, like I said, there’s always something about the weather.

The Waiting Game

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
- - - - -
On second thought, this past week it was--and continues to be--the singularly Worst of times if you and/or your captain and crew members depend upon MD-80s for any flight and/or connecting flight that might--as in might--end up taking you to wherever you need to go, and within a reasonable amount of time, which is hopefully before your meeting is over or you age out of life as we know it on planet earth.

If you're an American Airlines devotee, please know I'm praying for you as I type. If you fly any other airline, odds are your Worst of Times is coming, might already be here, or will come again, so I'll go ahead and pray for you, too. I'm sure every carrier is deluged with the onslaught of AA spillover, so may we all try to maintain peace, if not pleasantries, which are, of course, better than punches, upon which the TSA would surely frown.

In case you are stuck in an airport (or hotel room, or inside a plane, or sitting on the toilet), I thought I'd give you a little something to do to help you smile, or at least groan. (Hey, we take what we can get, right?) Please consider this multiple choice quiz my gift to You Who Wait. Although there is one legitimate answer for each question (I'd give it to you, but Googling for the answers will kill a bit more of your time), you'll note that some alternatives definitely qualify.

Enjoy!
- - - - - -- - - - - -

1. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ..." This quote is by:
a. Shakespheare
b. Charles Dickens
c. the CEO of Southwest Airlines
d. the CEO of American Airlines
e. the Chicago Cubs

2. "What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure."
a. Samuel Johnson, 1700s
b. Presidential speech writer
c. American Airlines, recent round of missing excuses

3. "When you drink the water, remember the spring."
a. flight attendant unable to serve beverages due to turbulence (accent on the word WHEN)
b. Chinese proverb
c. vacationer in Mexico

4. "You must continue to gain expertise, but avoid thinking like an expert."
a. Dilbert
b. FAA
c. Charlie Brown
d. Denis Waitley
e. all of the above

5. "It is pleasant to have been to a place the way a river went."
a. Henry David Thoreau
b. Ralph Waldo Emerson
c. Hermelda the cow
d. American Airlines

6. "Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former."
a. NASA
b. Albert Einstein
c. The designer of the electrical components of the MD-80

7. "Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable."
a. Woody Allen

If you're STILL in the airport, you deserve a break, so pick him and be done.
- - - - - - - -

Will Rogers said, "We are all here for a spell; get all the good laughs you can." To this I say, AMEN!

I'M GROUNDED!

Moments ago (well, by the time I get this posted, it could be hours, and you might be a little slow on the read-me trigger so it could be days), I received an email from Joe Brancatelli with the words "Breaking News" leading the subject line. When Joe talks, I listen. Always. When it comes to astute, timely, wry, invaluable travel information, Joe is my hero .

Joe was advising his subscribers (worth every penny!) that American Airlines had grounded some of its MD-80s today, Wednesday, March 26. Since I neither work nor travel with the news broadcasting in the background (just give me silence or some great tunes), as usual, Joe was my first source for this critical piece of info. But even if I was Our Lady of the Perpetual Need for News, Joe often reports pertinent travel news hours—and sometimes days—before the news actually does. I don't question his sources; Joe knows, and that's all I need to know.

The reason for this MD-80 grounding had to do with the FAA and the inspection of wires. (Yes, better safe than sorry, but that's not my point here.) At the time of Joe's email, 200 flights already had been or would be cancelled today. Just like that, at a first (or second or too often thousandth) sign of possible trouble, a major airline ACTIVATED. Whoa.

This got me to thinking. I believe I'm personally exhibiting signs of faulty wiring, if you will. I've experienced many warning signs lately (yawning, forgetfulness, sparks), and yet, I plow on. Perhaps—and who would have ever guessed I'd say this?—I should take a lead from the airlines and abruptly ground MYSELF from all activity until someone declares me safe enough to fly, baby, fly (write, speak, write, do laundry, clean the toilet, write) again!

Picture this approach working for you. Without warning to those who depend upon you, you quietly—because you don't want to upset anyone (or wake them up) or make them think you can just do this kind of thing—send out a high-priority email with the subject line, "BREAKING NEWS: I've grounded myself." The body of your missive might go something like this.

Take note: I might not be safe. I might yell, scream, roll my eyes, experience a breakdown or spiral downward from the height of your admiration. Because of this, my departure to reach our meeting could be anywhere from five minutes to eight hours late, depending on the climate of my temperament. I need time to get a grip on myself.

Due to rocky moods, when and if I do arrive, I won't be serving coherent thoughts, so bring your own.

Should you entrust me with your fancy widgets anyway, they likely won't pass my evil-eye inspection. But even before that, I will--and you can take this to the bank--ask you to remove your shoes when entering my office, even though I'M GROUNDED and we're NOT going to move one inch toward completion of our project any time soon.

Should you decide to abandon me for another partner during my sudden and temporary (oh, please, oh please!) grounding, you'll likely discover that all you've accomplished is to swap one rocky road for another. But go ahead and try it anyway. I'm sure you'll be back. After all, I'm ME!"

Flying Featherly High

It's an exciting time to be anywhere near MN, and I'm currently in it! I'm in MN because I'm "hiding" to work on a new book project, which is always exciting. But it's double exciting to be here because the National Eagle Center in Wabasha ("Home of 'Grumpy Old Men' movies"—but sorry to say, you've already missed this year's annual festival ) is only a hop-skip away from me, and this weekend, March 7, 8 and 9, the annual Soar With the Eagles celebration takes place. If you're within gettin'-here distance, GET HERE! You won't be sorry.

Last week, my husband came up to MN (we live in Chicagoland) to take a break with me. We enjoyed a relaxing (well, aside from the POT--feel teeth gnashing together--HOLES) and scenic drive up the river on Highway 61 to Wabasha, where, for the first time, we visited the new National Eagle Center. (Take several 360-degree tours.) It's right on the river, and it's chock full of educational info; LIVE up-close-and-personal eagles, both in and out of the center; souvenirs; and a stunning view.

Wabasha itself is a Worthy stop. Some of my personal favs: the Chocolate Escape (indulge yourself in gourmet chocolates while sitting in front of picture windows facing the river); the Book Cliffs book store (Nancy, the owner, is a wealth of knowledge, not only about books, but the area); and the historic Anderson House ). But I have to say, the National Eagle Center is now WAAAAY up there on my list of pleasurable educational experiences in the entire southeastern MN area.

This weekend, the National Eagle Center will not only enable you to SOAR with the eagles, but staff and volunteer workers will offer you a number of ways to get "nose to beak" with them, including via a narrated PADDLEWHEEL cruise, and/or a guided motor coach tour! (Tickets available online--although at the time of this post, they're currently instructing visitors to phone 877-332-4537 .)

To whet your appetite, here's a personal testimony from our recent visit. We enjoyed browsing the center and taking in the 3 PM Eagle Feeding and Education Presentation. A volunteer brought one of the resident eagles right into the room with us, and we got to watch her (the eagle, that is) chow down on raw rabbit and fish.

If you think that type of show will be the top billing, consider this: you can learn all about eagle POOP, too! Yes, eagle POOP is worthy of its own educational exhibit. Think about it, then consider why your pet's poop is not "display" worthy.

Then again, if you do believe your pet's POOP is display worthy, do not tell me.

The eagle has always represented all we hold dear, and through our combined efforts, it's about to come off the endangered species list. What else might we save if we all worked together?! Even funny man Steven Colbert is talking about this, and, as always, he's worth a thought-provoking, grin-inducing watch. Check out his show clip, and you'll not only get to meet Harriet, one of the eagle residents at the National Eagle Center, but watch her eat a snack. Get yourself to SOAR WEEKEND and you'll get to meet Harriet in person.

INTERESTING TIDBIT: Harriet is The Eagle on Minnesota's Veterans' license plates project.

DISTURBING TIDBIT: the awesome twangy feathery hairdo on the top of her head (watch the Colbert clip) was AIR BRUSHED OUT for the picture on the plates.

The eagle, our American symbol, air-brushed to perfection.

I'm not even gonna allow myself to think about all those implications.

Time is money, right?

Yesterday, when my husband and I were in my car running errands, I reminded him that my car needed gasoline. Within a couple miles, he pulled into the curb lane readying to swing into one of the gasoline stations we often frequent. But as we drew near the entrance, he changed his mind and headed on, saying we’d get it after the next errand on the other end of the next town, about a fifteen minute drive away, depending on traffic and trains.

After hitting all the red lights and enduring a l-o-n-g train wait, fast-forward with me now (don’t you wish ALL travel could happen that way!) to the other end of that next town, and envision us passing by the gas station near the bank, the destination of the aforementioned "next errand."

“I thought we were getting gas,” I said, pointing out the side window as we zinged by the station.

“I’ll go back to the first station,” responded he. “They’re fifteen cents a gallon higher here. That’s ridiculous!”

Now, since one store never seemed to accomplish any one task, we’d already spent several hours spinning our wheels on the errands, and we had so many more errands to go, I just needed to check something off the list. (Gasoline? CHECK!) Besides, who knew when he’d get back to that other place, and I’d already been running low for a spell--both on gasoline and patience. So swiftly and LOUDLY, of course I spoke up. (Surprise-surprise.)

“But you’ll spend lots of time and money to save money, and we’re here!” (TONE OF VOICE: somewhere between whine, despair and BULL HORN.) After all, I had a Traveling Laugh to write!

He sighed, relented, pulled into the station and likely mumbled to himself about the wasted two bucks. I didn’t blame him; what with all our remodeling, we’d already cut the budget to its outer edge.

However, when you spend so much of your life traveling, time is money, right? And even if you don’t spend so much of your life traveling farther away than to the gas station and back, time is still money, right?

But, A-HAH!, Mr. Hubby is retired. So, does that old adage still apply?

Then again, when is the more expensive choice the right option? How much extra time do you want to give to scouting out the cheapest rental car and airline tickets when that time could otherwise be spent preparing for the actual business end of the trip? Or taking a nap? Or playing with the kids? Or reading a good book (subliminal message: like one of mine)? When is it worth an extra twenty minutes to save a few bucks? And at what point do you make that decision? Two bucks? Twenty? Fifty? Five hundred?

What price do we allot to, and for, mental torment and/or health? What weight do we give to exhaustion by our own hand? What keeps a marriage together during the strains of travel and remodeling?

Whoops.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m sure it’s all relative. You’re making tons of bucks, you can spend tons of bucks. (Although I understand wealthy people always buy used cars. Go figure.) You’re living on a tight budget, you spend time keeping it tight.

But seriously, how DO you draw the line on time vs. money, especially as it applies to travel? Please post your comments. My husband needs to hear them.

Then again, maybe on this topic, it’s ME who needs a boot to the behind .

When everything goes right

Previous to my last flight home (a 757 from SNA to ORD), I don’t recall ever landing forty minutes early. Forty minutes? Now that is some tailwind, or light plane (maybe 2/3 capacity and no gaggle of elephants in the cargo hold?), or no air traffic, or, perhaps I fell down Alice’s hole straight into Wonderland. Of course we had to park for ten minutes and wait for a gate, but even so, we still deplaned thirty minutes early.

On that outbound trip to SNA, we left on time and arrived on time. Mercy me. And my seatmates were . . . mostly absent! Outbound: I sat in an aisle seat. Nobody sat in the middle or the window. Ahhhh. Flipside: me in the aisle and nobody in the middle. Plenty of room.

Both directions: minimal turbulence. Clean toilets. No commotion or LOUD jabberers aboard, and the captains didn’t chat us to death either.

Security lines weren’t very long; I didn’t leave anything at the checkpoints (miracle); my rides to and from the airports showed up and drove nicely. My checked bag (no option this time) arrived both directions. My hotel room was clean, quiet and “away from the elevator and ice machine,” just like I’d requested.

Even the business portion of my trip ran like clockwork. I was surrounded by obliging people who took excellent care of me and appreciated my contributions to their event. I even sold some books.

BIG perk: Since the gig was in California, I didn’t have to wear pantyhose.

Although everyone apologized for their “terrible weather,” I assured them that their rainy 60 degrees was bathwater compared to the blustery three degrees of freezing everything I left behind in Chicago.

I slept pretty well, ate great food and even enjoyed a social evening out too.

Then the entire trip ended with that WAY early arrival home, and my gallant husband ushered me straight to a delicious Mexican dinner out.

Of course I’ve still managed to find something to complain about: smooth sailing doesn’t make for funny material, and I’m supposed to be writing a Traveling LAUGH. Instead, out flows a Zen-like travelogue filled with the “We’re All Wonderful” stuff that too many boring Christmas letters are made of, not a punch line in sight. Too bad I didn’t imbed a picture of the handsome pilot whose mother perhaps wrote her holiday letter about her handsome pilot son, and/or an MP3 of soothing harp music playing as this page opened, ey?

But seriously, the only REAL thing I’m going to complain about is me having the bad taste to find something to complain about, especially after one of those rare trips when everything went right. Shame on me. Seriously. I herewith withdraw my last two paragraphs.

So, even though this isn’t funny, I shall officially end this missive by encouraging each of us to cultivate a heart of gratitude. May we wandering wanderers work at noticing when even the teensiest things go right, and then take a moment to tuck them into our memory portfolios. That way, they'll be available to us on those days when the wheels fall off our best-greased plans. We can then peruse through them to remind ourselves that not all of life on the road is miserable. We can hold fast a good and true perspective that decency still exists, nice things do happen, kind people often stand beside us, and we’ve lived to tell about it.

Amen.

Panic Turned Pathetic Turned Miracle

Last night’s typical preparations for today’s business trip:

*Fire out confirmation e-mails for the next few days’ doings.
*Stay up late to pack everything. (Even though I hate it, I’m always a last-minute packer.)
*Don’t get everything packed (never do), so set alarm for EARLY morning wake-up to finish.

This morning’s preparations:

*Check e-mails.
*Set up Flight Status Notifications for AA flights.
*Shower and finish packing, making sure each product I use during and after the shower is also packed in my flight bag.
*Unplug charging laptop and pack it.
*Unplug charging cell phone and pack it.
*Print copy of itinerary to insert in my back-of-the-room book sales’ suitcase I have to check, which contains books, which is why it weighs 42 pounds.
*Get in car for airport. (Retired husbands make handy limo drivers.)
*Use curbside service to check in, and check bag.

"WHAT?! They can’t find my reservation?"

After checking the spelling of my name and listening to me repeat, several times, my flight number and destination, Curbside Check-in Man says he’ll have to go inside to investigate. I tuck the collar of my Transition Travel Coat (going from a snowy 19 degrees here in Chicago to a rainy 70 in Irvine CA, so I wear the trench coat with a zip-out lining) up around my ears and wait. And wait.

Finally, I ask Curbside Check-in Man #2 if I’m naming the correct airport. After all, I told Man #1 I’m going to Irvine, John Wayne Airport, but I notice my e-mail flight confirmation, which I finally drag out of my itinerary packet, says Santa Ana.

“Let me see that,” he demands. Frustrations run high when it’s cold. His eyes scan the document. “Yup, we’re checking the right flight. But you’re here on the wrong day. Your reservation is for tomorrow.”

"WHAT?"

I check it myself. Sure enough, it says Thursday the 24th, which is tomorrow.

Dollar signs fly before my eyes. How did I screw this up? Trying to morph an economy ticket into a last-minute purchase will likely cost me thousands.

I tell my husband, who is still standing on the curb waiting for the parking Gestapo to make him move along, to go to the cell lot and wait for a call. I kick all my bags inside and get in line, then remember a major rule of the road: call the airlines while you’re standing in line. My first attempt to right my DUMB WRONG receives an “All circuits are busy” message.

Perfect.

My brain keeps repeating, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?! I sent my itinerary to the good folks who hired me, a friend who’s taking me to dinner tonight, my husband . . . . How did nobody notice I booked an incorrect date?!

Kick the bags. Move forward. Try not to panic.

What if the airlines can’t find a way to get me to my speaking engagement by tomorrow night, what with today's overbooking?!

I am now officially PANICKED!

I fan through my packet of travel documents and check the hotel reservation, which the kind folks who hired me arranged, as opposed to the airline tickets I screwed up.

WAIT! I don’t check in there until tomorrow, either! WHAT?!

Then the light dawns: some time between last November, when I made the arrangements, and today, I received a brain disconnect as to which days I actually leave, speak and return. Seems my RAM shortage set all systems to GO, but a day early.

OF COURSE YOU DON’T LEAVE UNTIL THURSDAY! YOU SPEAK AT LAFF NITE ON FRIDAY! (And aren't you the funny one!)

(Do you think we lose our traveling rhythm when we’re off the road for a few weeks? Seriously, do you think we do? In last week’s post I said I was so sick of the home remodeling chaos that I longed for a road trip. I wonder if my own preposterous power of suggestion is what caused this false start.)

I phone my husband, tell him to come get me, give him the short version of my stupidity. My saint of a man calmly circles back around, pulls up where he dropped me off, gets out of the car and helps me sling my bags back into the trunk.

“I absolutely cannot believe I did this!” I yelp as I fasten my seat belt. “How did this happen? After all, I forwarded YOU my itinerary, too! You should have known I’m not supposed to leave until tomorrow!”

Silence.

Pathetic, Charlene. True, but simply pathetic.

This mess is not his fault. It’s mine. I need to own it and forgive myself. I need to phone my friends and tell them dinner’s not until tomorrow. (Even they knew that.) I need to show up when I’m supposed to, speak when I’m booked, and return when I’m scheduled. I need to go back home to my chaos.

Yes, I need to go back home to my chaos, leave my stuff in the car and give thanks that for the first time in my life, I’m packed and ready to go an entire day early.

Another miracle in the life of a road warrior.

When Business Travel Hits Home

Since I’ve been off the road for a few weeks, we’re hip deep in a major home redecorating project triggered by my business travel. Although there are many drawbacks to life on the road, one of the perks is my own bed and the luxury of eating in it, control of the remote, and the ability to switch sides of the bed at will while hogging all seventy nine pillows hoteliers pile on the beds these days..

So, keeping in mind that while on the road I’ve become used to a space of my own, our kids are grown and gone, and due to grossly different sleeping patterns (including the fact my husband and I take turns snoring,) we sleep in separate bedrooms when I’m home. Shortly after the first time I publicly (in print) mentioned our separate bedrooms --yes, I had his approval--I learned, via volumes of e-mail and whispered admissions from our friends, that Separate Marital Bedrooms is more universal than most people think.

And here’s another fact: nearly every bed in every hotel is more comfortable than my circa 70s waterbed. Since my back doesn’t usually bother me on the road but always gets my attention after a night at home, at long last, I ordered myself a new frame, mattress and box springs. What better time to get the hardwood floor (waaaaay past needing attention) in my bedroom refinished than after the waterbed is disassembled (notice how easy that sounds?) but before the new bed arrives.

We decided that while we’re at it, why not also refinish George’s bedroom floor, plus the upstairs landing, plus maybe the stairs, which, following the trail, led us to the reality that our downstairs carpet has had it, which made us realize we also need to replace those old window coverings to match new … what? Carpet? Or maybe we should, after 38 years of burying it, refinish the hardwood floors downstairs, too. Which led to a frenzied bout of ripping up the yucky carpet, and three days of my husband slithering around on his belly ripping up carpet tack strips.

Of course we’ll also need to repaint everything, and get an area rug, and …. It’s like the time we needed to replace our built-in oven, and the next thing my husband knew, workmen were gutting the kitchen.

But back to the project at hand. Before the floor refinishing crew arrives, we must move nearly everything out of our house, which includes not only the furniture, but thousands of books (mine) that are stacked everywhere. This, of course, has hurled us into a giant bout of “Rather than move all this stuff here and there, why not get rid of a bunch of it!” Yeah, baby. This includes my first portable computer I found tucked in the back of my closet behind the teensy clothes, which I obviously haven’t worn since I tucked the portable computer behind them.

Which brings me back to business travel.

Notice I commented on a portable computer, not a laptop. The difference between it and the sexy little Sony I tuck into my handbag today? That old Hewlett Packard Portable Vectra CS weighs in at nineteen pounds, not including the giant cord, monster traveling case and all the 3.25” program and file disks you need to run the thing. My Sony? Barely 3 pounds, plus the chord. What a difference eighteen years makes in true portability, decorating and hip size.

A recent headline read, "Mighty little laptop takes over PC market". From desktops to portable computers to laptops, carpets to hardwood floors, waterbeds to euro-top mattresses, teensy clothes to midlife reality we go. Out with the old, in with the new! But after seven straight days of outing stuff, right now a business trip (oooo, all those pillows) sounds restful.

Man, I never thought I’d hear myself say that!

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PS Anyone out there need a 20-pound doorstop? Have I got a deal for YOU!

PSS Do you find the comfort of the hotel bed vs. your home bed relatable?

Travel Conditioning

Lately, I’ve been walking more, which is good for cardio, stamina, Think Tank Time, calorie burning, athletic shoe sales and concourse cruising.

Conditioning.

Last week we replaced the battery in my car, which is good for vehicled transportation, Chicago winters, safety, reliability, and therefore peace of mind.

Calculated Conditioning.

While riding 18 to 27-foot swells during our recent cruise, I staggered to the on-board store and purchased acupressure wrist bands, which I’d heard help conquer seasickness, the urge to shop (just kidding), lack of accessories (wink-wink), and an over inflated ego that once caused this mouth to utter, “I don’t get seasick.” HA!

Conditions Conditioning.

The Home Shopping Network (or was it QVC?) recently demonstrated “a fabulous” rolling overnight bag that organized your stuff; expanded its girth, yet was narrow enough not to pinball down the airplanes’ ever shrinking aisles; touted adjustable handle height; and came equipped with its own 3-1-1 waterproof bag, complete with its own 3-1-1 waterproof bag compartment.

Conditioned to think: I NEED THAT! FINALLY, the one bag that does it ALL! Good thing the cell phone wasn’t in bed with me, or I’d own one in each color, including a “fabulous” leopard print!

Several of my traveling friends are programmed to receive a “DING!” or pop-up screen or urgent e-mail when one of their “choice” airlines offers a cheap fare (often in the middle of the night) to someplace at least close to where they might consider going if it’s cheap enough, at which point they stop talking on the phone, working, or leap out of bed to check it out, then often BOOK IT!

Pavlov’s Conditioning.

I overheard two recreational travelers discussing how they would heretofore always, because they surely should, pack at least one complete change of clothes to carry aboard with them because “today the airlines lose so much luggage.” Then, as if pardoning the airlines, one of them added, “But then, I never understood how they used to keep all that luggage straight to begin with.”

Dumb Down Conditioning

Recently the Department of Transportation added yet another hurdle to our already complicated packing rules. This one has to do with the amount of batteries we may or may not pack and/or carry on with us. Like my professional travel savvy friend Joe Brancatelli said, “Lots of luck deciphering this one.”

Chaos Conditioning.

The airline industry, the Department of Transportation, the TSA, Homeland Security, Mother Nature, Human Nature: forces that just keep on giving and giving and giving.

Conditioning us to condition ourselves to just keep on taking and taking and taking.

The Ups and Downs of Freestyle Cruising

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. Due to tropical storm Olga, we are making a severe navigational adjustment.”

This, my fellow travelers, would have been music to my ears, had my ears—and stomach, and eyeballs (WHY DO I SOMETIMES SEE ONLY SKY THROUGH OUR WINDOW?!)--not been too seasick to register anything but . . . seasickness.

“We will seek shelter and calmer seas on the other side of Puerto Rico,” O' Ca-pi-tain added. He also informed us that due to that severe navigational adjustment, we would not be stopping in Samana, our very first port.

Whatever. Just find a way we can get out of bed without getting hurtled to the floor.

As the waves crashed onto our deck ten, bow-of-the-ship patio, we turned to the all-ship, all-the-time TV channel and saw what we suspected: we were riding 18 to 27-foot swells. No wonder we were getting tossed around!

(“Weren’t you afraid?” our friends asked us afterwards. “No. We were seasick.”)

By 3 PM, all was calmer. By dinner, we were pretty smooth. But by then, barely anyone remembered their seasickness since the HAPPY-HAPPY CRUISE STAFF added an extra karaoke AND bingo session to make up for (and fit right in with) our rock-and-roll seas and non-porting ship. However, the rest of the cruise was as deliciously relaxing as ‘twas before Olga. Only my second time out, and I’m hooked on cruising. It’s a great way to do nothing if you want, and everything if you will.

MY TOP TEN CRUISE TRAVEL HINTS:

*Everyone should send out their laundry at least once. Our underwear came back rolled up like little sausages, neatly arranged in tissue with a gold seal affixed, all tucked into a wicker basket. I realize many of you first-classers are used to this type of service, but we weren’t. We even took a picture of this lovely bouquet d'undies, which I shall spare you since, well, it’s our underwear.

*Don’t eat bacon at the buffet every morning. You’ll blow up like a puffer fish.

*If you simply must pay for an internet package, get the smallest one possible, which will help you allot only teensy pockets of time for daily usage, causing you to STAY AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER. At 75 cents per minute if you go over your package, baby, you learn to prioritize. You also get a great lesson as to how UN-urgent most e-mails truly are. Besides, you're on VACATION!

*Check the tally of your onboard charges at least once during the cruise, just to make sure you’re close to your budget. Drinks with paper umbrellas in them can really add up.

*Keep the umbrellas. They make cute Christmas tree ornaments, beach accessories for your hermit crabs, and souvenir reminders of your grand time.

*If you can afford to upgrade your accommodations, do it. We accepted a terrific last-minute upgrade offer for a penthouse. A PENTHOUSE! There is no going back! Although some people profess that they’re not in their cabin often enough to care about where they sleep, we thoroughly enjoyed hanging out in our own room, especially since we had such a great view, a large patio, fresh flowers, a sitting room, a giant bathroom, and Mark, our butler (HOO-HA!), who brought us a fabulous Hors d’oeuvre every night around five. Did you know they can make a cream puff look like a swan?

*Don’t think you have to get off the ship just because it stops at a port. Which goes along with don’t wear yourself out shopping at a port for stuff you don’t need, just because you can shop, or just because you received a coupon. Which goes along with how delicious and relaxing it is to snorkel, or just sit and stare at the ocean while digging your toes into beautiful white sand.

*Buy at least one of the budzillions of pictures they take of you on the ship, or while you’re getting on the ship, or getting off the ship, or standing with a colorful unknown creature that sidles up to you which might be a red Crustaceon, but who really knows. Or cares. Yes, the pictures are spendy, but they’re usually pretty good, and after you get home, you can store them with your paper umbrellas.

*Go to the ship's spa and sign up for something(s). Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

*Yes, it’s possible to take a twelve-day vacation, which includes a seven-day cruise, with only carry-on bags. We’re living proof. So we had to buy a few toiletries in Miami. So we USPSed one box home. Not fretting about the airlines losing our luggage was worth it. Plus, remember, we got to experience those neat-o laundered underwear.

In closing, I’d like to thank tropical storm Olga. Even though you threw us a brief topsy-turvy ride, you also gave us a reason to head to the sea again. After all, we still need to visit Samana. If it's half as beautiful as Tortola (right), WOWIE!

That's our ship, way down there slightly left of center. Our island tour was exceptional!

Traveling with an Amateur

Earlier this year, my husband and I readied to take a cruise. However, I broke my leg and fell down; while sitting on the couch (!), my husband blew out his knee and couldn’t get up. We not only needed the Clapper, but a crane, a cast, a surgical room, crutches, a walker, electronic equipment, a therapist . . . The list goes on and on. Needless to say, the cruise—all traveling—didn’t happen for quite some time. But alas, two knee replacements and a healed bone later, we’re walking carefully and looking forward to staying upright, even on our sea legs, during next week's cruise. (Please, Lord!)

I challenged us (read George) to pack for a two-week trip sans checking a bag with the airlines. I’ve business traveled often enough, and faithfully read the wise Joe Brancatelli’s drum-beat against it, to know better than to ever again check a bag. “No problem,” my husband said. “What do I really have to take anyway?”

“For starters,” I said, (see hand on cocked hip) “dress shoes, gym shoes and sandals. Two pair of your size 13 shoes will consume half a carry-on."

“Why do I need dress shoes?” queried Mr. Retired.

I shall spare you the discussion that ensued regarding “proper dining attire,” which, at the very least, also includes a sport jacket and dress pants—and no, cargo pants won’t cut it, not even if they’re “light beige.” But the most unbelievable tidbit wasn’t his desire to dress down; I was stunned to realize my husband has not flown (read dealt with the TSA) since The Quart Bag!

“I can’t take my can of shaving cream?”

“No, dear.”

“Can I take the large toothpaste that has a lot of it squeezed out?”

“No, dear.”

“How do men shave?”

“They buy shaving cream when they arrive, and/or many men have switched to the shaving brush and bar soap method of yesteryear.”

Then he went through the list of dilemmas we seasoned travelers long ago figured out. (Or did we?) What, exactly, constitutes a liquid or gel? Does squishy hair stuff qualify as either of those. (“Yes, dear.”)

As of this moment, we own three brands of quart-size bags. I told him they each pack differently, depending on the size of your stuff. “Some are taller than wider; others are, well, just different. Do you want it to zip, double lock or change colors when you run your finger across it? And honey, do you realize if you take that large glass bottle of cologne, that’s all that will fit in your baggie? No, you don’t need to put your pills in there, too. Yes, you have to . . . .”

My husband is a kind, wise and clever man. He scoffed at our neighbors who had all their stuff confiscated because they didn’t even KNOW about the quart bag. “Don’t they listen to the news?” He simply couldn’t believe it.

And yet, even when you have heard about it, but not until you’ve actually dealt with The System, does it reveal its mystery.

This all got me to wondering about something. What brand of quart bag do YOU use? Is there one you’ve found to be more reliable, that stays closed, even when you’re cramming that one last teensy item into it? And as for shaving men, do you buy when you get there? Rough it with shower soap? Use a shaving brush and lather? And ladies, have you found a makeup remover that also moisturizes? A moisturizer for which a little dab will do ya? A smart makeup base that isn’t liquid or gel? And everyone, is there a teensy toothpaste made that lasts an entire week? Chime in, won’t you?

In the mean time, please send some positive vibes to my husband. The whole REALITY of the quart bag knocked him into a minor tizzy.

“Honey, I feel your pain.”

Don't we all?!

Desperate Measures

It’s scary how relieved one becomes to discover something one detests so much. Such is the case with me and public restrooms.

When I’m business traveling, there is no choice since “I have to go” = “I have to go.” This, of course, quickly escalates into The List of “I have to find a ladies’ room. That isn’t closed due to the always untimely cleaning person. That doesn’t have twenty women waiting in line. (HA!) That has toilet paper. That has a door on the stall that will close, and actually stay that way without contortions. That isn’t filthy. That flushes, and was flushed after the last user’s visit.”

To you male readers, I understand that your easier jobs don’t entail my entire list. And yet, when it comes to your more time-consuming bathroom duties, I know you get my drift here. Imagine what it would be like if your every pit stop involved so many variables! And especially imagine yourself always having to stand in the lines you see snaking out of the restrooms labeled WOMEN, DAMES, GALS, COWGIRLS, LADIES, FEMMES or ODD PICTURE OF SOMETHING THAT LOOKS LIKE IT’S WEARING A WOMAN’S HAIRDO AND/OR SKIRT SO I GUESS I’LL CHOOSE IT.

But the truth is, men usually don't have to stand in long restroom lines, so thank your lucky stars! Nonetheless, this blog post is all about you, so keep reading.

When I’m gearing up to go, but am not yet DESPERATE, I can afford the luxury of reordering my list, ruling out the inferior, heading down the concourse to the next ladies’ room, moving over one stall and/or first flushing (hoping it will) “content” that did not previously flush since there’s always the possibility someone simply forgot. I can, through years of involuntary training and endurance, hold the door, my breath and my patience. I can even hold my “content,” but I can only hold it for so long. Difficult decisions need to be prioritized and implemented, and as we all know, DESPERATE DESPERATENESS calls for DESPERATE ACTIONS. When I’m DESPERATE enough, I skip everything on that list but the “I have to find a ladies’ room” part.

Throughout my years of jogging through terminals, I’ve learned I can hurdle a “CLOSED FOR CLEANING” sign, endure all kinds of messes, get Very Creative when it comes to toilet paper (that was missing), stand on my head to check under stall doors for feet, invoke super-human tolerance skills to endure the line, and still make my flight. I am a grown-up woman possessing grown-up skills.

And now, Dear Male Readers, we’re back to you. At least one of you. (Apologies to all the sincere gentlemen--the majority of you--who understand the Mars/Venus thing. At least a little.) The POLICE OFFICER “one of you” who leisurely preceded me--as in right in front of me—into the mini store at a gas station during one of my road trips. There was no evidence or sound of sirens or squawking squawk boxes. We were just two folks walking single file on our way to the bathroom. Right in front of me, he tried the MEN’S door, but it was locked. Right in front of me, and in fact seeing me, hand outstretched heading for the WOMEN’s doorknob, he veered into the WOMEN's and clicked the lock. No asking or explaining. No shouting anything about an emergency. No DESPERATE begging for a line cut.

My emotional knee-jerk response was, WHAT?! Since I waited right outside the door, I heard the familiar seat-slamming-up-against-the-tank sound. Then I heard, um, an easy job in process. Then I heard a flush followed by a squirt of water in the sink. (Who was he kidding?!) By now, my arms were crossed and I was glaring when THAT MAN exited the WOMEN’s bathroom, grinning like it was all a one-big-family joke.

“Men can’t wait?” I asked incredulously. He turned on the charm, grinned some more, coyly shrugged his shoulders and waited for me to respond in kind. Waited for me to acknowledge that the entire incident was nothing more than an adorable kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar by his loving Aunt Betty. But he should have noticed my inhale.

“That was RUDE!” I spewed in a gusting hurricane of words.

Yes, I all but yelled at a police officer. Who offered no apologies or explanations. He simply turned red and sheepishly slunk away like the "Bad boy!" he was. He knew. He knew!

Then I entered the WOMEN’s room, only to discover . . . you guessed it! The seat was still up.

Like I mentioned before, I am a grown-up woman possessing grown-up skills. One of them is the old knee-to-groin maneuver. If you’re ever thinking about cutting in front of a lady to use the LADIES’ room just because you don’t feel like standing in line, think twice. I might be that lady, but I likely won’t respond like one.
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PS I had my husband read this before I posted it. He—way too defensively, I might add--tells me he (speaking for all men, of course) has waited in restroom lines. He mumbled something about sporting events and beer. To which I responded, “And don’t YOU try to cut in line in front of me to use the ladies’ room, either!”

PSS I know what some of you are thinking, and yes, I've seen women abandon the long lines outside the LADIES to sneak into the no-line MEN's. I know it happens. Just for the record, I don't like that behavior either. But at least when there's a dozen in the LADIES line (typical) and none in the MEN's (typical), I understand the temptation.

Survey Says

I recently noticed something, which doesn’t mean it’s new. It only means my sixty-something self has “awakened” to the fact that, at least in my area, the majority of fast- and faster-food restaurant and grocery receipts (check the back or the bottom) contain either a coupon for something free during your next visit--from them, or perhaps another merchant--or implore you to visit a website within 48 hours to fill out a survey about their service, which will enter you into a drawing to win some fabulous prize.

The problem is, I usually don’t notice these freebies and opportunities until they’re expired. I just missed a free hamburger from Burger King (where, gosh darn it, I can have it MY way!) because I didn’t read the fine print soon enough. However, my husband, who sniffs out coupons, receives calls from relatives asking if he has an extra haircut coupon, which he finds on the back of grocery receipts.

A waitress recently pointed out to me that my bill contained an offer for a free breakfast during my next visit. “Make sure you keep this copy of your bill when you check out,” she said, "and watch the expiration date." Sure enough, with the purchase of my next breakfast and a beverage (iced tea, in case you’re wondering), my friend got her breakfast for free because we used my coupon. Aside from the cost of her coffee, it didn’t cost me an extra cent to entertain. And guess what else? Although the waitress (not my usual that time) didn’t mention it, I got another coupon for a free breakfast, even though I’d only paid for one to begin with! Which made me wonder: how many of these have I missed? Honestly, the offer is presented in regular print at the bottom of the front of the receipt, but who reads that?

Microsoft (yes, that Microsoft), who cares about my potential (see new trademarked slogan here) sent me four—FOUR—follow-up e-mails inquiring about my satisfaction with their recent tech support. After several HOURS of dinking with my computer—even allowing them to “take it over” to work on the problem--my issue was not resolved, but they genuinely seemed to care by letting me know they were archiving my case, should I desire to reopen it some time in the future.

This entire "we care and want your business" phenomena gets me to thinking how wonderful it would be if the airlines, including our seatmates, handed out coupons and/or survey opportunities.

Or would it?

Phone this number to let us know if you arrived on time, and we’ll enter you into a drawing for a free snack pack.

Bring this coupon to the gate for your next flight, and WE will attach your gate-check bag tag. During a recent flight, we were handed our gate-check tags and the guy behind me said, after he sighed, “Remember when they used to put them on?”

Turn this into your flight attendant when you deplane. IMAGINE if we, the passengers, had to undergo evaluation sheets filled out by our seatmates! Or better yet, IMAGINE getting to fill one out in front of your LOUD seat companion, who would learn—because she’s watching your every move—that during her next trip, she’ll have to sit in the time-out chair across from the lavatory.

How’d you like my landing? Phone 1-800-get-down to use our automated system.

Did you truly find our skies ‘friendly’?

We’re sorry your flight was delayed. Please accept this coupon as our token of apology. It’s good for one free cab ride to your next transatlantic destination. See how THAT goes for you, buck-o!

Because we couldn’t serve our beverage cart today, this coupon is good for one free flight.* You could hardly believe your eyes when, right after touch-down, the flight attendant handed you this generous gift! Until . . . you noticed the fine print on the date/time-stamped coupon, and that teensy qualifying asterisk. *Coupon expires two minutes after presentation, and must be presented to gate agent in Oklahoma.

NOTES FROM THE OTHER SIDE

Earlier this week, our oldest son flew from Albuquerque (his hometown, and that of the International Balloon Festival) into Chicago O'Hare (my home airport) for a business trip, which meant I was part of the Picker Upper Crew rather than the Done Dropped Off Again. Travel from the pickup side is a whole new adventure. And my, how things have changed.

Let us take a mind’s ride through the history of The Greeting, at least as it’s changed at O’Hare Airport.
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Remember the good old days when . . . we used to press in around the arrival gate and try to glance down the loading bridges, straining to get a peek at the One We Loved heading straight for our open arms?

Remember when . . . we were first told we had to wait outside the security area for that to happen?

Remember when . . . we used to have a place to sit down while we were waiting?

Remember when . . . we used to pull our car up at the curb (we had a place to sit in our car!), turn on our flashers and cast our eyes about to get that first look at our loved one exiting the terminal—and WITH their luggage?

Remember when . . . the road traffic control person didn’t bang on your window when you slowed down your vehicle in order to scan the crowd for your loved one?

Remember when . . . we didn’t have cell phones, so the picker upper circled and circled, having no idea why, two circling hours later, their loved one still had not appeared?

Remember when . . . we all got cell phones, and thus we could happily call each other to report we, the arrivers, were standing in a long line to fill out a missing luggage claim, or we were still sitting on the tarmac, or . . . ?

Remember when . . .

WAIT! I don’t remember when O’Hare Airport put in a remote cell phone lot, because I’m always the arriver.
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When we left for the airport to pick up our son (Oh, HAPPY DAY!), I didn’t even know where the remote cell phone lot was located. Big George, my faithful picker-upper husband, has all but become One with the thing. So George drove us.

As was pre-arranged, we waited in our car, which we parked in the middle of the fenced in lot, until our Dear One called us, a call which came after he claimed his checked bag (it arrived on his same flight, halleluiah!) and headed for the curb, where, after a quick moving hug, you might call it, we catapulted both he and his luggage into the car before the road traffic control person had a chance to bust our chops.
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Remember when . . . greeting a loved one felt more like all was right with the world, rather than making you feel like you’d just auditioned for a James Bond movie by hiding out amidst a billion vehicles, activating after a phone call, then kidnapping your target right off the curb?

The "Spirit" of Today's Airports

Some incidents are best forgotten (or disappear from our memories, even when we don't want them to), while others keep tapping us on the shoulder with a message, long after the moment has passed. Thus was the case for me after I flew out of Dayton OH a couple weeks ago. The message—and in this case it's multiple messages—has to do with the difference in "spirit" between small airports and mega ones, like Chicago O'Hare (hear me groan), my home airport, the one travel gurus keep saying, and with good reason, to avoid.

While I was making my way through Dayton's security line, a female voice announced over the loudspeaker that "an earring with a bunch of dangly stars on it" had been left at the security checkpoint. The owner should come claim it, she said, in a warm friendly voice. Even though I had not yet passed through (so to speak), I immediately checked my ears since I own many pairs of dangling starry adornments. Stars are my thing. And after all, I was in the area. But nope, two earrings accounted for.

Some time later, again came the earring announcement, which, in words, was an exact repeat -- aside from the fact that this time she started with "We still have . . . ." But this time, the female's tone of voice sounded like a cross between sorrow , sympathy and "Please, somebody, don't leave this beautiful thing behind!" Obviously the kind lady was concerned for the person who would one day discover her bobble done disappeared, likely while at 27,000 feet. "Please come to the security checkpoint to claim it," she nearly begged, her sympathy for the lose-ee clearly rising.

While standing in line to buy a bottle of water, the urgent tone of this second message caused me to start obsessing over what this earring looked like. Was it silver or gold? Multi-color or plastic? Chandelier in presentation, pinwheel, exotic . . .? Good thing I'm honest, I thought, otherwise I might go claim it for myself since it must be stunning to cause such concern. (Diamonds, perhaps?) Or maybe I should find out where unclaimed lost things end up (some giant warehouse somewhere, as I recall) and see if I can buy it. Honestly, I could not stop thinking about it. This is the type of stupid stuff that hijacks my brain when I'm travel weary.

I NEED THAT EARRING, IF FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN TO HELP THAT KIND ANNOUNCER HAVE A HAPPY ENDING!

By the time I unscrewed the cap on my water, another announcement thankfully interrupted my momentary insanity. This time the "found" item left at security was a cane with four feet at the base. I think this was followed by the starry earrings thing again, but I'm not sure since . . . .

WHAT?! Who needs to use a four-claw cane so badly that they go through the hassle of getting it through security, and then forget to pick it up? Are they crawling now and haven't noticed? Are they in a wheelchair? If you can believe it, this announcement was also repeated before I boarded. Thankfully, Dayton offers big comfy rocking chairs in their boarding areas in which I could sit and rock and ponder these things.

(Hear music from Jaws que up.)

And now, let's talk about O'Hare and other Monster Airports, where, at security checkpoints, I've left my driver's license, my laptop and sundry other items, as do tons of other people. Let's talk about O'Hare, where no personal announcements are made about anything. Nope, just cranky recorded canned warnings about unguarded bags, and unsympathetic information about delays, cancelations and gate changes. And where there is often NO waiting seat available in the gate area, let alone a comfy rocking chair. And the seats that are available are those molded things that were certainly not molded for my body that wants to slide right out of them. In fact, part of my time-passing time at O'Hare is spent trying to remain upright in those things!

Now I realize smaller airports offer a more personal feel, because, well, they're smaller. And I realize that if every item left behind at the security checkpoints at O'Hare came with an immediate announcement, they would rifle at us nonstop.

But still, wouldn't it be nice if the Big Guys occasionally offered a cheery grandmotherly sounding voice in their rotation of canned announcements saying something like, "You got everything, honey? You know it's easy to forget this or that when you have to strip nearly buck naked and turn over all your valuables to a stranger to have a look-see." Or, "We know gate G15 is a long way off and down a set of stairs, but YOU CAN MAKE IT!"

Or how about this. "We're sorry – seriously – to have to inform you that our on-time ratings are so pathetic, but we're working on it. Seriously."

Book Tour, Part Deuce

After 1266 “southerly” driving miles and one errant night at home, on to “northerly” MN and WI I traveled, ultimately adding another 800 miles and three more appearances to the four-wheeled portion of my book tour log. While fall colors waved to me through my open car windows and gaping sun roof, one good tune after another escaped. This time the back roads treated me kindly. Ahhhhhh.

Then, home again for two nights and one local appearance. The next morning, away to O'Hare airport I yawned. However, within a few minutes of my arrival, I morphed into Stupid Traveler. It’s amazing how quickly one becomes rusty when road tripping rather than air slogging.

Yes, I remembered the 3 oz. rule and tucked all dangerous deodorant and lethal eye makeup remover into a quart bag. However, I forgot to take the quart bag out of my carry-on before passing through security. Thankfully, the TSA—currently nixing the trial shoe scanners because they don’t catch the stuff they’re supposed to--didn’t catch my entire quart bag filled with stuff. Do you think I should suggest to them that none of their machinery actually works?

But I digress. Onto my next Stupid Traveler Trick, which was to seat myself in seat 5B, build my nest (electronics in seat-back pocket in front of me etc.) and buckle myself in, only to have a kind gentleman point out to me that I was in his seat, which was 5A. I wasn’t even on the correct side of the aisle, which was one of those narrow aisles on all American Eagle flights. But wait, there’s more.

After a late-night book signing and visit with friends, I scrambled around my hotel room this morning, checked out, paid more than two bucks for a bottle of water to drink during my cab ride to the airport (during which I listened to my cabbie whine about people who used credit cards to pay for cab rides, which is what I did since it was thirty-two bucks), then tucked the balance of the bottle of water into my handbag and zipped it up. Seems Dayton’s scanning machines (or machine watchers) work better than O’Hare’s because a “BAG CHECK!” was required to rid me of the Dangerous Dasani which, had it stayed in my possession (and the TSA KNOWS this), I could have easily poured up someone’s nostrils in an attempt to drown them, thereby revealing myself to be one of dumbest terrorists ever since everyone knows things run OUT of noses, not UP them.

The height of my personal stupidity was, however, matched by the inefficiency of the flight attendant, who was so busy chatting with folks that he never once noticed that the man in front of me left his seat back reclined during the takeoff and the landing. I might have been more upset about this, and even ratted out the fellow traveler, had the guy kitty-corner and one aisle up from me (4A) not turned out to be such a fascinating person to study. Fifty minutes’ worth (the entire flight), I studied him. Here’s why:

*You know the lever you turn to let your tray table down? I’ve always wondered why it looks like a little hook, and what, pray tell, one might hang on such a teensy hook. Well, Fascinating Person enlightened me when he hung his suit jacket from it by the thingie sewn into the inside neck area of men’s jackets, apparently for such a purpose. Who knew?! (DID YOU? Seriously, did you know that hook could inspire such a clever tactic?)

*He efficiently worked his Blackberry with a combination of his right thumb and left index finger. Wow! Fascinating. That was a new technique on me, and I'm herewith naming it the Thumbinger. I could hardly wait until we landed so he could check out his phone calls and e-mails, thereby Thumbingering his way to the gate.

*He worked USA Today’s “Word Roundup” with lightening speed. He also tackled “QuickCross” and Sudoku, then ripped out the page to finish them later, tucking the folded paper into the interior pocket of his cleverly hung suit jacket. I studied the faintly balding back of his head for a long while wondering a) where it went to college, b) whether or not he’d have a go at the Crossword puzzle later too--and I suspected he would, and c) did he get all his answers correct? Hey, how would I know? I can't see that far--and I stink at puzzles.

Then we landed. THUMBINGER ROCKS! If I ever get me a Blackberry, I swear, I’m gonna try it. Then, since I had an aisle seat, as soon as the seatbelt sign unlit, I quickly stood up, stepped back and all but insisted the HUGELY TALL gentleman folded up next to me unfold himself before he got stuck that way. Turns out my Stupid Traveler Self had unknowingly struck again: American Eagle planes are so small, he couldn’t stand up straight in the aisle anyway.

BTW, if you flew in seat 4A on American Eagle from Dayton to Chicago today and a strange woman tapped you on the shoulder to thank you for educating her about The Hook, that was obviously me. Pretend I just made up all that stuff about studying you, okay?

Keep Those Doggies Rollin'

During the first five days of my book tour (in the next installment of Traveling Laughs, I'll report on leg two---oh BOY!) I logged five book tour presentations (I usually talk for about an hour, then sign books); 1266 miles on both my car's odometer and my aching backside; four different hotels (the first night was a local event, after which I slept in my own bed); two rounds of cold leftover chili for breakfast (but I LIKE it!); three skipped meals; a teensy slice of the best pecan pie I've ever tasted (thank you, Mt. Zion Road Baptist Church in Centralia!); gallons of iced tea (eyes OPEN!); dozens of glorious moments; two gasping near-miss auto accidents; and countless other graces and irritations.

I also logged a Terribly Helpful Hint: do not, in an attempt to relax, take the back roads when you're in Farm Country, it's harvest season and the price of corn is high. (Can you say, TRUCKS FULL OF CORN BARRELING 110 MILES PER HOUR STRAIGHT AT YOU AND BEHIND YOU! (?)

At the end of my first 1266 miles, at 9 PM I pulled into my garage, turned off my travelmobile and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving that I'd made it home after driving five straight too-tired hours. But the simultaneous rub: Instantly—as in while I was sending up a Thank You--I realized that journeying home just to sleep in my own bed for a single night was a mistake.

Here's the thing about road warrioring: When you're out there, and, to your sublime satisfaction, you discover you're traveling with everything you need, that's the time to just keep going. No more double and quadruple checking to see if you remembered to stick your full itinerary back in the bag. No stopping to, once again, have to buy a teensy toothpaste (if you're flying), a sassy missing blush (if you're a woman), or phone the office for the info you left on your desk. No, miracle of miracles, you've got it ALL, so press on until you can stop.

I realize this "keep on keepin' on" strategy might not apply to those of you still raising munchkins since, well, sometimes you've just got to give them a hug or take in their latest theatrical adventure or sporting event. And I'm sure my "stay away from home" theory will ring dumb if you're inclined to homesickness. But as for this travelin' Grannie B, my kids are long gone and my retired husband does a great job holding down the fort and relaying messages, so trust me on this: we're BOTH better off when I can keep my stress levels at a minimum, so when I'm in the midst of a traveling roll, that is where I need to stay until it's over.

SUPPORTING MY THEORY:

*Once you carry anything into your house, such as a suitcase, giant handbag or briefcase, you'll quickly pick it apart and therefore will no longer know if you still have everything you need.

*When you first leave your home, if you're like me, you're running late, so you'll also leave a wad of chaos behind. Dipping into that chaos for a night will feel depressing, which is what you don't want to feel since you still have so many more miles to go.

*Stockpiled phone messages and mail -- especially those luring travel accessory catalogs that promise to organize your every shirt and undershorts -- will distract you from the task at hand, which is SLEEP.

*Odds are that nearly all hotel beds are just as comfortable, if not more so, than your own bed, so why not just stay at that last place with all the fluffy pillows and cloud-soft comforters another night and spare yourself an extra dose of dragging your stuff on and off, in and out of cars and airplanes?

*If you're traveling on your own dime (and even if you're not), it's likely cheaper to stay an extra night, then go straight to your next stop, rather than to travel home and fly or drive out again.

*It's dumb to drive when you're too tired, and flying when you're worn out often incites the desire to smack the snot out of anyone who gets in your face.

In conclusion, this all sounds wonderful in theory. In reality, thinking you can actually get a good night's sleep in a hotel room (DING! BUZZ! SLAM!) is often delusional.

Therefore, in a new conclusion, I herewith suggest to you that the only way to survive extra long trips is to get Real Delusional with yourself and stay that way.