During Travel Post #3

“San Francisco isn’t in the same country as Lakeside anymore than New Orleans is in the same country as New York or Miami is in the same country as Minneapolis.”
“Is that so?” said Shadow, mildly.
“Indeed it is. They may share certain cultural signifiers—money, a federal government, entertainment—it’s the same land, obviously—but the only things that give it the illusion of being one country are the greenback, The Tonight Show, and McDonald’s.”

-- Neil Gaiman, American Gods

So.  I found out what my problem with Ireland is.

I'm on the wrong side of the island.

Now, don't get me wrong. Dublin is a perfectly lovely place, once you get used to it. You do have to make the effort, but you can find history hiding in places -- or pubs, of course, all of them proclaiming that some famous writer or other once drank there. But it's like going to New Orleans and going, "Okay. Seen the Gulf Coast!"

 

Today, I went to the famous Cliffs of Moher. I took a tour that I'd selected specially because it included a hike up a Burren mountain.

Now, let me pause to say that I? Am not a nature girl. I do not take to camping, walking, or generally being outdoors very well. But I thought, What the hell? It says 'gentle mountain hike'. It'll be a charming little stone-lined path up the mountain.

GUYS, I CLIMBED A BLOODY MOUNTAIN. And I mean, climbed up, stepped over stones and through windy, well-trodden paths the width of your foot, with a hiking pole to support myself up and everything. I was red-faced and out of breath every time we stopped.

But I made it all the way up to the top.

The Burren is a part of Ireland that once was under water; then when the Ice Age came, the glaciers pushed all the soil off the land, leaving exposed limestone mountains. You can't grow anything in the soil because it's very thin and the limestone doesn't allow water to stay in the ground, but grass grows well there; so it's the picturesque farm country you see in postcards. As I was climbing over these massive limestone rocks, all I could think about was how the ancients thought rocks and fossils were the remains of giants and dragons.

I was walking through a graveyard, a gorgeous, blossoming necropolis.

At the very top there was a tree with bits of paper and string tied around it -- there was a legend concerning that type of tree (ash, I think) that if you tied something of yours around the tree you left the problem behind for the faeries to take care of.

Paper is biodegradable, so I don't feel too guilty for littering.

After the hike (HIKE PEOPLE, HIKE), we had tea and cake, then went to the Cliffs of Moher. The weather was, apparently, perfect -- sun-shine and little wind. The guide kept remarking how gorgeous the weather was and how lucky we were.

Now, the Cliffs? Breathtaking. Sheer rock faces that fall straight down into the sea, the water breaking over boulders and sea life just off the coast. Little white caps kept breaking out in the (blue, blue, deeply gorgeous sapphire blue) water, like dolphins surfacing. Or Selkies.

After that, we drove around the coast and into Galway. Which, actually, is in the general area where my great-great grandmother came from, way, way back in the day, so it had a bit of an extra-special meaning to me. We walked through the main street of Galway and then back again to meet our bus back to Dublin.

Today? That's the sort of day I was expecting in Ireland. If you're heading this way, the tour I took is MacCoole's Tours; you meet up early with Caroline in front of the TI on Suffolk Street, and she walks you to your bus and gives you a lovely little walking tour of Dublin and explains about where you'll be going. John is her cousin, who gives the hiking tour. They're both rather brilliant, too -- she's got a history degree and actually teaches in Dublin, and he's got an archaeology degree. And they feed you cake. Did I mention that? You can get cake or pie at the end of the hike. Hey, you climbed a freakin' mountain.  You've earned it.

It's well past one AM over here by now, but I had to get out and tell you even just a little bit about how magical my day was today. Tomorrow is my last full day -- shopping, anyone?

During Travel Post #2

NOTE #1: This post was written on August 20th; typed up and posted today, the 21st.

"Did you find adventure?" Dinadin asked.

"No," the man said grimly. "Nor does anyone else. Adventure is something that happens to someone else. When it's happening to you, it's only trouble."

|You found something better than adventure," Palomides said gravely. "You found wisdom."

-- Gerald Morris; The Tale of Sir Dinadan

Ever built up an event or a holiday in your head? You had the whole thing planned out up there, didn't you? What route you'll take, or who will sit next to who at Thanksgiving dinner. You're imagining the conversations, probably. And it's amazing while it's up there, isn't it? Just perfect.

And then the day comes and -- well, you miss your exit. Your Uncle Rusty and Aunt Francine had a fight in the car on the way over, and their sniping spills over into the meal.

It's not ruined, per se. More like marred.

That's been Dublin for me so far.

Granted, I've only been here for...  about five hours so far, but it's been...

Well, let me try to explain.

If we were personifying cities: Bath would be the stately grandmother, proud of her history and eager to share her stories. London would be the middle-to-upper class older businessman, suit and hat and umbrella, confident and experienced and just a touch arrogant.  Cardiff would be the just out of university twenty-something, with a head full of knowledge that they can't wait to show off, young and confident while old in the same breath.

Dublin's the teenager who could care less about the museum, they just want to hit the gift shop.

Maybe it's because getting in was taxing -- travel tends to be, and missed stops and delayed planes make it worse -- but it's almost like Dublin's fighting its own history. This is the land of Wilde, of Joyce, of Swift, the proverbial literary land of milk and honey. All I see are shops and pubs.

There is an old joke about not being able to walk a block in Dublin without passing a pub. The answer, of course, is to go into every one. Then you haven't passed it.

Of course, my locale is vastly different here than it was in my other stops. London's digs were Te-Tiny (capitals needed)) but remote enough to be almost charming. Bath was a stately B&B. Cardiff was a renovated old house by the river. Here I'm in the Temple Bar district, the city's high street. I'm sure that if I had been in Picadilly or right off the Plass I'd have different opinions.

(I don't think Bath can get down the way the Romans used to do it.)

I think, maybe, it was the build-up. I'm Irish way back, and Eire is the homeland. I expected it to be home so much that when it wasn't, I got disappointed. And, maybe, just a touch homesick.

Tomorrow will be better. Rest and sleep will do wonders.

NOTE #2: As I wrote this, I sat in the Merchant's Arch Bar and Restaurant, eating a delicious Irish lamb stew, drinking a red lemonade and vodka, and listening to a live musician sing classic Irish songs as well as some modern covers. He did "Walkin' in Memphis" and honestly, it was just what I needed to hear.

During Travel Post #1

NOTE: This post was written on Aug 19th, and typed up and posted today, Aug 21st.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.” 

-– Antoine de Saint Exupéry

I realize that I am not the stereotypical backpacker. That when people look at me they expect two pieces of rolling luggage to be trailing behind. And, in general, that's true. Backpackers here are younger, college kids or look like they might have a kukari tucked away in their bag. I'm...  somewhere in between. A middle-class traveller staying in cheap accommodations to stretch every dollar.

It's bizarre, actually. How normal this all feels. I could do this forever. And it's unbelievable because I know when I get home, I won't be able to put it into words. How at peace I feel. How hilarious it is to see the locals, especially in Lacock, who were almost amused at how charming we found the little hamlet when they were obviously as bored as I am at home. How it feels to be a stranger in a strange land, but not be scared in the slightest. How as I expected, I did miss some people, but it's more a fond remembrance than a longing, a pining (and yes, there is a difference) while, at the same time and for no fault of their own, I don't miss others. How all our misconceptions are wrong -- the only downright rude people I've met over here have been foreign, the food's amazing (and all fried), that it's possible to have efficient, clean public transportation (US, take note.)

How I'm finding a little more of myself each day. I'm finding inner and outer strength, that getting lost is just fine.

I'm writing this on the train to Cardiff, going down into the Welsh countryside, my ears popping. I love train travel. I get to sit back and watch the world fly by. This will sound corny, but it makes me feel like an adventurer. It reminds me of railroad men and the Wild West, the bravery and excitement and the unknown.

In the tunnel under the Bristol Channel, Wales and the future on the other side... And the light approaches...

The Road Goes Ever On And On...

"I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted."

--  Jack Kerouac; The Dharma Bums

So.

Tomorrow I take off. Less than 24 hours.  But before I go, I thought I'd let you all in on a bit of personal introspection.  Some aspect of blogging -- blogging like this, that is -- is more personal and diary-like anyway.  And this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime, could possibly change everything type of trips that you build up and put up on a pedestal. Honestly, I'd like to see if it is one of those life-changing trips.  So what better way to do that than to record who I was before my trip, and compare it to who I'll be in half a month.

I leave for this trip... Well.  I leave homeless, isolated physically from dear friends, and with a broken heart.  I leave inches, centimeters, from completely falling apart, and not caring if I even bother to put myself together again.  I leave physically, spiritually, emotionally drained. It's less painful to be empty.

That's what I leave as. Empty.

Tablua rasa, from the Latin. Blank slate. The philosophical ideal that we're all born a blank slate, an unscribed tablet, everyone equal.  Nurture over nature.

I hope and pray to powers I doubt even exist anymore that something good comes from this. I'm terrified that it won't the big dream that I'm making this out to be. I'm terrified that it will, and that I'll come home and be stuck.  I think I'd die if I got a taste of what could be but couldn't have.

So. I leave terrified, and empty, and broken, wanting things I don't have, don't know if I can have, or if I should even want them.

I leave with my Entire Life hooked over my shoulders. I could conceivably drop off the face of the planet as long as I have what I've got packed. Do you know how humbling it is to know that you have every belonging of importance packed away for easy transport?

Do you know how... freeing it is? Knowing you could just go on and on, 'down from the door where it begins'? Knowing that maybe, just maybe, you'll be brave enough to do that one day?

So this is me. Terrified, yes. Empty, yes. Broken, of course. That is default human condition.

But grateful. Grateful for the chance, the opportunity. Grateful for those who inspired me, who taught me how to be brave. Even if you don't know it.

I'm shutting everything off for the night.  At the latest, you'll all hear from me on the 31st, when I get back home.

If I decide to get back on the plane.

The road goes ever on and on.

Once is a Coincidence, Twice is a Pattern

"I've only got teabags, I'm afraid - but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?"

-- Remus Lupin; Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling

So Monday, with one more week to go, I came across a five pence coin in an innocuous roll of dimes while I was at work.  It was a sign. Even my job wants me to go on my vacation!

I have a very interesting relationship with superstitions.  For example, I don't believe that walking under a ladder or crossing a black cat is bad luck -- I do, however, throw salt over my shoulder, and knock on wood to ward off a jinx. I don't believe in ghosts, but if a friend of mine tells me they've seen one, I believe them.  I love collecting the little tidbits of cultural information into my mental filing cabinet, but I rarely use or believe any of them.

In short, like mythology, I love superstitions. Even if I think some of them are hilariously silly.

Everyone follows a few at times, even if we're just keeping with tradition. The old adage "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue" is said at least once at every single wedding in the Western world, lucky penny or silver sixpence in the shoe optional. Some ball players (and rabid fans) have to wear the exact same clothes -- underwear included -- or do certain things in the locker rooms and stands at every game in order to ensure a win.

Lots of airlines do not have row 13 on their flight.  The rows go from 12 to 14. I always want to make a scene about 13 being gone -- either throw a fit about 13 being my lucky number or demanding that someone send out a search party for the missing row. IT COULD BE LOST AND ALL ALONE AND SCARED AND CRYING FOR ITS MOMMY.  You see the same thing in high rise hotels. I can understand such a superstition in, say, Las Vegas, where Lady Luck is a fickle mistress, but to me, the whole thing is just silly. But the 13 superstition is strong in the padawans, so the bottom line is this: People think that 13 is unlucky (why is still a mystery lost to history, but most blame the Vikings or the Christians for triskaidekaphobia). Customers will not buy airline tickets or rent hotel rooms on those rows/floors, so the company has lost money. Making a silly acquiescence to keep the revenue up is a small price to pay.

I did not know this until I started looking into this post, but it's supposed to be bad luck to start a trip on Friday. Maybe that explains my trouble getting to California three weeks ago? Do curses work if you don't know about them?

Some people think this harkens back to the Vikings and Christians again. Thanks, guys!  Friday was supposed to have been Frigg's day -- Frigg, the wife of Odin (or Woden), got her own day too. (Wednesday was Woden's day, if you didn't know) When Christianity swept through the world, Frigg became a devil and, like Halloween, Friday became bad luck. Unless you work weekdays. Then Friday's a godsend come quitting time.

But when does a tradition become a superstition, or conversely when does a superstition become a tradition?  It's a fine line.

For example, my mother always changes the beds in the entire house before she goes on a trip. She says it's because she likes coming home and sleeping on clean sheets, but it's become a sort of travel tradition in my family. I know it's something I do, clean up a bit before going on a trip because it's nice coming home to a nice, clean room.  From what I've read, some people have to clean. Others have to have a certain piece of jewelry on, or have a lucky penny in their pocket.

Personally, I think it's a bit of a Jedi mind-trick we give ourselves, like -- well, like wearing racy knickers: You feel sexy, so you act sexy. When you have on a lucky necklace, or lucky earrings, or have a lucky coin on you, you feel lucky and confident and like nothing can strike you down.  If you don't have that special talisman and are keenly aware of it, every little bump is a terrible blow. 

Does anyone else have any travel superstitions or lucky charms they travel with? Come on, confess your deepest neurosises to the class, children!

And yes, I'm going to be leaving Monday with my lucky 5p. We'll be fine.

With Two Weeks To Go...

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”
-- Mark Twain

When people find out you're traveling, they want to know all about it.  As I've been planning my trip, when I tell someone that I'm going alone, they have varying reactions.  The most common reaction I've gotten is some combination of staring and worrying for my safety.

"Are you crazy?!"

Well, short answer? Yes. But not the kind of crazy that you're thinking.

Every time I've had to fly, I've gone alone.  I've usually had someone waiting for me at the terminal -- I flew to Wisconsion and Seattle to visit an ex a few times, I had friends meeting me in San Diego and Riverside, while I didn't have anyone at the airport for me in Vegas last June I met up with people later, and when I went to Washington DC in high school, I had a group meeting me at the airport.  And yes, there actually is safety in numbers -- it's not a cliche if it's true.

However, the nice thing about this whole info-tech age we're living in?  I'll be connected.  I'm bringing my Kindle-turned-Hitchkhiker's Guide that accesses email and wikipedia and social media, and Starbucks are all international and offer free wifi.  My new phone is a 3G smartphone, so I'll be able to be contacted (even though I know the roaming fees would kill me).  I picked out places to stay in that are highly recommended, and most have security on-site (the little B&B I'm staying at in Bath has no security, but the owners live on-site).  My family has traveled extensively and despite what they think, I actually do listen to them from time to time and have picked up tips here and there on what to do, how to behave, where to stay and when to listen to that little voice in your head when it says not to go down that dark side street.

I'm going to London, not to Giza.  Sure, there's a chance that something could happen; there's a chance something could happen to me while I'm here in my hometown, or when I'm in New Orleans for a weekend.

I'm not stupid.  Not completely, at any rate.

View of Balboa Park from the Skyfari in the San Diego Zoo, June 2009

Another reaction I get a lot is "Oh, you won't have as much fun if you go alone."

Allow me to respond with a resounding bullshit.

Would I like to go with a travel buddy?  You bet.  I'd love to be able to wander through the British Museum with my parents and grandmother and aunts and uncles; have a pint at a pub with my brother and cousins; go see Much Ado with my geeky, theater-going friends (you know who you are!); share a breathtaking, panoramic sunset view on the London Eye with a partner.  But the timing, the cost, the lack of travel partner able to afford or get the time to go...  It doesn't work out like that.

I know there will be moments when I see something and say, "Oh, I wish [insert name here] could see this!"  I think that's part of traveling, of going away.  Absence and the heart and all that.

The thing about going somewhere with someone else is both a pro and a con.  It's a pro because no two people are exactly alike, they don't have the same likes and dislikes, you do things you wouldn't think to do.  One of my favorite day excursions I've ever taken was when I went to the aforementioned wedding in June, and it came up completely at random; I'm on my way to the airport, a family friend said to me, "Oh, you should try to get out of the city and go to Hoover Dam if you have the time."  The idea hadn't even crossed my mind, honestly.  I ended up renting a car and driving down to the Dam, then around Lake Mead for the day.

Yes, I didn't do the whole Vegas strip thing -- In fact, the only time I went down the main drag was when three of my fellow bridesmaids and one of the groomsmen went to the Charthouse for dinner the day after the wedding.  Quite a few people have scoffed at hearing that.

I like to think that I found more of myself out in the sand and heat and desert scrub than I would have found losing my money in some casino.  And now I have a reason to go back; to do the casino crawl.

In the funniest twists of fate, I'm actually going to be meeting up with an old friend while I'm over there -- she's an army wife, currently living in Germany, and she booked her Much Ado tickets for the same weekend I did! I think we'll probably do something ultra-geeky together, like hit up the Doctor Who Experience or something.

Lake Mead, taken on the Nevada/Arizona state line on top of Hoover Dam, June 2010

One across-the-board reaction I've gotten from everyone, however, is, well, jealousy.  Some of it's not real jealousy; maybe more envy, want, desire.  But some are jealous, and seem actually, honestly offended  that I'm going.


I know I'm not explaining it very well.  Let me try again.


There's a difference between saying "Damn!" because you're impressed and "Damn!" because you're mad, or in pain.  It's the inflection, the tone, the context of the conversation.  You see this often with swear words -- take something as simple as "shut up".  If you're telling a friend about a crazy event, and they're sitting there going, "Oh my God, shut up", you know to keep going because they just don't believe what you're saying.  If you're giving your opinion on a topic and someone says, "Oh, just shut up", you get mad because they're insulting you, they don't want to hear what you have to say.

So when you, person I do not know -- or at least not that well -- look at me and say in a nasty, nasily voice, "Well, must be nice!" when I say that I'm going on my trip?  Why, yes.  Yes it is.  I'll bring you back pictures.  Yes, this is a hell of a luxury.  I'm well aware of this.  Bringing up children and bills does not make me feel guilty, nor does it make your life mean more than mine.  It makes you look petty and, well, jealous.

So, you know, shut up.  You're supposed to do all this stuff when you're young, anyway.

Entrance to the San Diego Zoo, June 2009

I've also been told that I should See America First, with that backwards undercurrent of patriotic fervor that insinuates that I don't love my country because I'd like to go Elsewhere.  I have seen America -- I've stood on the shores of the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Gulf of Mexico, and I've crossed over into Canada for about 30 minutes.  Granted, I haven't seen all of the middle part, but I'm working on it.

I'm prefering to think of myself as an abassador!  Not to brag too much on myself, but I'm fairly intelligent, well-read, well-adjusted for the most part. Polite, friendly, outgoing, go-with-the-flow...  We as Americans NEED that image.  Going overseas and bitching about getting a full English breakfast in a restaurant in London a) makes you look like a dumbass and b) makes us all look dumb. It's like going to your friend's house and bitching because they don't have your sheets on their beds. Why the hell did you bother leaving home in the first place?


Honestly, in all, I'm rather glad I'm going to be traveling by myself. I get downright cranky when I'm trying to make trains and airplanes, and I don't like people seeing me when I'm like that -- at least, not people I know. I'm going to be doing what I want, when I want to. That sounds like a great vacation, does it not?

I just wish justifying and explaining it wasn't such a chore!

Bravery and the Fine Lines

"Can you hear that? That’s me smiling, y’all. I’m smiling so loud you can fucking hear it."

-- Jenny the Bloggess

My last entry concerning what I am coming to call The Great California Wedding Rush was, basically, a rant post.  It was quick (well, for me) and off the cuff, and full of sarcasm and anger.

Well, I'm back from Cali now, not as well rested as I'd like to be (damn you jetlag, still kicking my butt two days later). I've still got the sarcasm, but now I've got a serene focus that's helping me glide through the days.

The weekend was short -- far, far too short, but then again all time is when it involves good friends.  I spent the majority of my time at the beautiful Mission Inn in Riverside, California, where my friends got married in the gorgeous chapel on site. 

Now, in my last blog post I mentioned the story of the Origin of Love, from Plato's famous Symposium, a conversation about love that supposedly occurred in real life and was heard down the line by Plato and written down.  The particular story I cited was told by the character of Aristophanes, a real-life contemporary of Socrates'. Since he was a comic poet, some scholars have interpreted his myth as a parody of creation myths. But even if it was intended to be that way, it still contains that one good thing that call great comedy does:

On one level? It's true.

People always say, "You're starting out on this journey together" to newlyweds. Roads and travel and new lives are easy parallels, and it's easy to equate a partner with a passenger or fellow traveller; someone you've brought along for the ride, to talk to you during the long stretches of nothing, to take over when you need some well-needed rest, and someone to enjoy the sights with.

So let me say this, to our lovely newlyweds, M & S (I'd switch the order, but it wasn't that sort of wedding): Thank you. Thank you for inviting me to be a part of your happy, happy day. Thank you for reminding me, the old cynic that cringes when someone says "God bless you" when I sneeze, that not all religious people are the fire-and-brimstone types that get far too much press and ruin it for the rest. Thank you for showing me within twenty minutes of meeting the two of you exactly what I want, and for giving me the hope that someday, I will be as complete as you (seriously, you both just glow when you talk about the other). Thank you for giving me a moment during the day where I was able to realize that there was no room for the typical single-at-a-wedding melancholy, that everyone I loved was happy, that there was absolutely no room for anything but overwhelming joy, that I was fiercely happy.

Yes, your road together will be hard -- potholes that most people don't even imagine will probably be your norm -- but you are both strong, and strong together.  You have faced tough times before, and you will face them again, and damn it you will be stronger for it, not weaker. Steel is forged through fire and water, after all.  And we love you, even when it feels like no one else does.  Wholly, completely, no matter what.  Fuck them. You have us. And we're better anyway.

While I've got everyone here, though, I'd like to say something to my not-so newlyweds (EL and her honey), my no-longer newlyweds (A & R), my almost-weds (N & E), my never-gonna-happen-and-we're-just-fine-thank-you-very-muches (Midassa and Walkabout Man):  You are all so much braver than you think.  You've chosen a path and you're sticking to it and to each other and that? Is brave. Even if you don't think so, I find you to be incredibly brave.

To the rest of us, the never-doing-that-agains, the never-gonna-happens:  Love actually does exist. I've seen it. And with far too alarming regularity for it to be a fluke.  But even if it doesn't, that's okay.  Striking out on your own and doing things that make you happy is brave as hell as well.  I daresay even moreso, because you'll have ignorant fools telling you how brave you are to do that all by yourself!  And we'll smile and nod and say Oh yes, it is, isn't it? and secretly laugh inside at how easy it is to please ourselves.

And finally, to all of you, named and unnamed: Thank you for letting me a part of your journey, even in the limited capacities of annoying backseat driver and quick pit stop crew.  I love you all.

One day I hope to be as brave.

Carelessness versus Cost Efficiency

"To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness." 

-- Lady Augusta Blackwell, The Importance of Being Earnest

CAUTION: This post will contain swearing, pinpointing where I live, and the put Continental's dirty laundry on blast. That's right. I'm naming names.

Ever heard the story about the Origin of Love? It's a story from Plato's Symposium, about how humans used to be very different than how they are now: Two faces, four arms, four legs, and three races (male/male, male/female and female/female). The gods grew scared of our power and angry with our insolence, so to punish us they split us into two -- two arms and legs, one face, and a belly button scar to remind us that we'd been cut in half -- and scattered us apart from each other.  And if you're lucky, really truly lucky, you find the other half of your soul. The person who gets you, completes you, loves you fiercely and completely and utterly.

A few of my friends have been privileged enough to find their other halves. You probably know people like that -- the couple that is disgustingly, adorably perfect for each other, the two that make you just fucking green with envy at how wholly at peace they are.  One of these rare whole people couples is getting married this weekend, and they graciously invited me to join in their joy.  This joyous (re)union is taking place in Riverside, California.

I'm down in Southwest Louisiana.

Slight logistical problem, no?

So. I arranged to stay with some friends (another disgustingly whole couple).  Got a dress -- got two, actually.  And I booked my plane tickets.

Oh, plane tickets.  What the hell.

My local airport is Lake Charles Regional Airport.  The nearest 'big' airport -- one where I can get straight point a to point b flights out -- is Houston International, which is three hours away.  And that's three hours without a traffic jam, without a wreck on I-10, without rush hour traffic.  Normally it's about three hundred dollars more to save on the headache and fly out of LC, but this was one rare occasion where it was actually cheaper.

I try to be a responsible flier.  I know that sometimes flights get delayed due to forces outside everyone's control, so I like to have two, three hours worth of layovers if I have to change flights.  My flight to California had a three-hour layover in Houston. 

 A man with a metal briefcase in an airport. Two things being like this: bad spy movies and good political thrillers.

Allow me to pause for a SPOILER ALERT:  I do not know everything.

Sure, I like to pretend that I do, but there's scads of stuff that I don't know.  I don't know how to fly a plane, or cook a gourmet meal, or write computer code.

What I do know? Is customer service.  I've been doing what boils down to customer service since I was TWELVE, and yes, I'm including 'teaching' in the lump sum of 'customer service'.  It's a skill that I am proud to (mostly) possess -- the ability to say just the right thing at the right moment, to sense when someone needs help with something and to know when to back down, and how to do it all with a smile on my face.

I know that times are hard.  They're tough all over.  Companies are trying to cut costs everywhere while trying to not pass it on to the consumer, but in the end everyone still gets shafted:  No one is hiring, no one is promoting.  No one wants to work with the company because "Every time I go there, the service sucks!"

Now.  Allow me to explain why I've gone on this lovely little rant.

From what I later came to understand through talks with fellow travelers and overheard from workers talking to each other, Continental had four flights coming out of Lake Charles today -- the first one this morning, the second one at about 2, the third at 5, and the last one at 7.  The first one got canceled. Unfortunate, but these things happen. Some people on the 5 PM flight came in really early and were offered seats on the second flight.

... Which also got canceled.

Now, Lake Charles is a small airport, and in the past they have canceled flights due to underbooking. However, they have since signed contracts with airlines to shuttle pondhoppers from Lake Charles to one of the hub airports.  The weather today was partly cloudy, and it rained for maybe ten minutes today.  THERE WAS NO LEGITIMATE REASON GIVEN AS TO WHY THESE PLANES WERE CANCELED.

When I arrived well over an hour before my flight at 5, the SOLE CUSTOMER REPRESENTATIVE was hard at work at the Continental desk. See, all the people who had moved from the 5 PM flight to the 2 PM flight lost their seats -- and everyone who had been put on standby when the first flight got canceled snapped up their (now vacant) seats.

Fifteen minutes before my flight is scheduled to go out, we get the announcement -- delayed until 9 PM due to repairs.  And while I am thrilled that they're doing repairs on an airplane, they HAD TO WAIT UNTIL FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE WE'RE SCHEDULED TO LEAVE TO TELL US THIS?!

There is a fine line between cost efficiency and carelessness.

THIS WAS CARELESSNESS ON THE CORPORATE LEVEL.

We all run down to the customer service desk, where there are now four people working -- and three of them are from the American Airlines desk, helping out the Continental woman.  Why? Because they've critically understaffed the desk and she's drowning.  I stand in line for an hour waiting for my turn to reschedule my flight because let's face it -- I'm missing my connecting flight at 9; even if I could possibly get on the 7 PM flight, I would land at 8. If it wasn't delayed. And that's land -- they don't count the twenty minutes you have to taxi and sit on the tarmac in their time schedule.

I'd like to take this moment to thank the literary gods for inventing the ebook.  Yes, it's killing the printed word, but you helped me pass what would have been a very terrible hour waiting in line pleasantly rereading fluffy, smart ass Gerald Morris Arthurian romances.

When I get to the front, the American Airlines representative informs me that the 7 PM flight is (over)booked (which I know already) so I have two options: Fly out at 9 and stay overnight in Houston, or fly out tomorrow.

Had the flight been out at 7 AM, I would have been in Houston for the night.  But the flight was out at 9:30.

THAT IS HALF A DAY IN AN AIRPORT.  Or, alternately, a hotel in Houston. At six on a Friday night. By the airport.  I'm looking at $200 -- easy.  $200 that I, frankly, don't have.

I'm not doing either.

There was a flight out of Lake Charles at 9:00...  But when the guy mentions it, the Continental rep next to him snaps "DON'T OVERBOOK MY EARLY FLIGHTS".  When he says that they've booked 31 out of 36 seats, she says, "THAT'S OVERBOOKED, DON'T GIVE IT TO HER".  It was like hearing the evil queen in Snow White lecture the looking glass over who was the prettiest woman in the land, and I'm not exaggerating by much.

By this time, I honestly don't fucking care.  I really don't.  The wedding's taking place on Sunday, so I can fly in on Saturday and then come back on Monday.

So I'm booked on a flight out of Lake Charles at 2 PM.  I'll get into Riverside at 7:30 tomorrow night.

The guy, to his credit, was nothing but nice.  I did thank the guy for his help, apologized for my bad mood -- it wasn't his fault Continental is being stupid after all, he doesn't even work for them -- and made sure to get the number of the reservations desk.  Because I'm getting some compensation out of this.

I'm FUCKING MAD because I had been looking forward to spending the weekend with three of my favorite disgustingly whole couples, and meeting my little nephew for the first time.  And am probably going to use the cleaned up version when I write a sharp note to Continental.

To top it all off?  I overheard the Continental rep say that the 7PM flight was going to be delayed as well.

TWO CANCELED FLIGHTS AND A THIRD THAT NEEDS REPAIRS?!  THIS IS NOT CUTTING COSTS, THAT IS CUTTING YOUR THROAT, CONTINENTAL.  People don't like to travel nowadays because of the expense.  Giving people the runaround isn't going to make us jump through hoops to fly with you again.

Tomorrow morning, I'm getting up early and calling the Lake Charles terminal and asking if they honestly, truly think that the flight will go through today.  If they say no, I'm getting my ass into the car and going to Houston.

I am not happy, people. This is bullshit. And if something goes wrong tomorrow, I may seriously end up in jail.  Any volunteers for my one phone call? I'll pay you back for my bail.

Getting Closer To Take-Off

“When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money.”

-- Susan Heller 

So yesterday, 6/16, I realized two things:

One, that I would be landing in London in exactly 60 days.

Two, that I would only be landing with my passport, my wallet, an Oyster card, my British Museum card, and about 300 pounds.

Since The Great Fire of 2011, I have pretty much no clothing and absolutely no luggage.  Now, I'd been putting off buying things for my travels, but I figured that by now I'd have most of it bought.  The one big purchase I did make, my backpack to take with me instead of hauling a rolling suitcase all across southern England and Ireland, is ruined; due to the metal struts in the interior framing, the cleaning company won't touch it, and I can't exactly run it through the washer.

So I let the madcap buying of travel necessities begin today while things were slow at work.

Allow me to say the following: As a stereotypical member of the female population, I do have a weakness for shopping. Especially online shopping.  I'm not all that big a fan of schlepping out to stores and trying on outfit after outfit (conditioning, I believe, from other people continuously throwing items over the door and going, "Just try this one on, just try this last one on..." there is no last item. it's a lie), so if I can sit on my ass and have them bring the goods to me, I'm all for it.

As a member of the human species, I'm not all that keen on having to pay for it all.

But needs must, of course.  I spent all day on various travel sites, ordering luggage, checking for adapters, and looking for travel knick-knacks.  Let me share some of the...  strangest ones I've come across.  They seem to fall into two categories, camping or hotels.

* Homeopathic Cure-Alls

I am a good old-fashioned skeptic when it comes to homeopathy.  Some of it, I believe, really does work.  Some of it, I believe, only works because we think it works. Mind over matter and all that. So I am skeptical of jet lag, motion sickness pills and wristbands, and (my personal favorite) hangover cures, I get skeptical.  But if it actually works -- or tricks your mind into it -- I'm all for it. Especially that hangover cure.

* Drinking and Traveling

Speaking of imbibing liquor, it seems that quite a few people like to do it on the go.  My three favorite items I've found are a collapsible shotglass (which I get the feeling I may need for Dublin...), packable wine glasses and packable martini glasses.  I adore it, I really do.  It's a real pity that the 3-1-1 rule is now in effect, because the plastic wine bottle would have made the flight over to the UK just oh so much easier.

*Necessities

The problem with toiletries is that they don't exactly travel well nowadays: toothpaste busting in your checked baggage is terrible, but you can't exactly bring it in your carry-on (thanks, you stupid terrorists).  But necessity is the mother of invention, and you now have toothpaste tablets if you have access to a sink, and waterless toothbrushes (complete with toothpaste) if you don't.  I have personal misgivings about the waterless version.

Speaking of water access versus waterless, there's the ever-accessible baby wipes for adults if you need a quick touch-up (you all know my personal opinions on running water and my being able to get to it) or soap sheets and instant washcloths.  I've actually used soap sheets before, they actually work very well; and I've always loved those little instant washcloths.  They always remind me of those sponge dinosaur caplets you played with when you were little, the ones you'd drop into the bath and watch an orange T-Rex sponge pop open.

I'd like to mention the pop up hairbrush at this moment.  This works if you have virtually no hair. The moment you pull it through a thick batch of hair, the brush curls in on itself.  Just bite the bullet and buy an actual hairbrush.

I also came across some tan towels.  Yes, tan towels.  Disposable wipes with self-tanner on them.  I'll let that sink in.  Although, having never given in to the desire to make myself turn inhuman shades of orange, I imagine it helps provide a more even tan, but I'll let you lot figure that out.

Now, this is going to get a little...  bizarre.  As I said, some of these things are geared for when you don't have access to water -- or, indeed, a bathroom.  There is, of course, the standard disposable camping toilet, but there's also...

Well, I don't quite know how to describe it.  Basically, it's a device that allows women to use a urinal should there be no access to a sit-down toilet, or use the restroom standing up should there be no toilet whatsover. The one I've linked you to is my favorite of the two varieties offered, the reusable one (yes, there is also a disposable version).  I realize that this item is probably extremely useful in certain situations, but the reusable one cracks me up -- how do you wash it if there's no running water?

There's also disposable underwear (the link's super sexy, guys, you should totally click it) and disposable socks, neither of which is particularly disposable, since you can wash and wear them a few times before throwing them away.

This, of course, is merely what I discovered after one day of searching on one single website.  Do you have any weird/interesting/bizarre travel items you'd like to share with the class?

The Great Fire of 2011, or Why the Month of May is FIRED

“If you are going through hell, keep going.” 

-- Winston Churchill 

Keep Calm And Carry On, motivational poster by an unnamed British civil servant, 1939, in the event of a German takeover of England, rediscovered in 2000 in a used bookstore
Now Panic and Freak Out, parody motivational poster by artist Olly Moss, circa 2009

Allow me to introduce a new word into your vocabulary:  Hurrication (v.) -- when one evacuates their place of residence for a hurricane and ends up staying in a hotel or with extended family for an unspecified amount of time.

There are trips that no one intends to take.

Natural disasters are...  vicious.  Sometimes -- floods, hurricanes -- you get warning. Other times -- tornadoes -- you're lucky to make it out with shoes on.

On May 2 at 9:25, we were having a terrible thunderstorm.  I know it was 9:25, because Mom and I were watching Law and Order: LA, and while they hadn't quite caught the criminal yet, they were really, really close.  Lightning struck a tree in the yard across the street, and when the current grounded, it went into a water main and into three houses.  The house the tree belongs to lost their ice maker in their fridge. The house next to us lost a TV and a fan.

In ours, it made nearly everything plugged in spark out. The desktop, I am not kidding you, let off a five-foot arc of bright blue electricity when the screen blew out, from its position on the former kitchen table to halfway across the living room, three feet high and even with the middle of the fireplace.  The TV in my mother's room died, while our big screen up front just got really snowy.

It also set the hot water heater on fire.

Mom had been in the back, laying down and watching TV; she got up to come finish up the episode up front with me.  Thank God she did.  We started smelling smoke, and I naturally assumed that it was the desktop and started unplugging it.

And then the smoke alarm in the hallway started going off.

Now our hot water heater resided in our laundry room, a little closet-sized room in the middle of our hallway.  Fire in a small, contained space caught fast.  The next thing I know, my mother's yelling for me to call 911.

This is going to sound awful, but I laughed.  I really did.  I couldn't see the room, just a little bit of smoke.  I honestly thought she was overreacting -- which really isn't all that much of a stretch if you know her.  She tends to get a little bit jumpy every now and again, bless her.  It's probably a good thing that she did.  I had been on my laptop at the time, so I snagged that, threw on some sandals and called the fire department.  Mom grabbed our purses and her gradebook (she's a teacher, it's almost the end of the year...  that would have been a terrible thing to lose).

Mom is, by this time, hysterical.  And I'm actually starting to get that way because there's all this smoke pouring out of the house.  Monday is traditionally my father's poker night.  It's me and Mom and a fire.

So my mother does the sensible thing and calls my father, yells that the house is on fire.  Then hangs up.

She then proceeds to call one of our neighbors, Ms. T.  Her husband Mr. T (who is not black, but he does kick ass) and her two high-school aged sons come running over to help.

By this time Mom is seriously flipping, and she remembers that our next door neighbor is a volunteer firefighter.  She sends me over -- she is refusing to leave the house -- and I said to the person who opened the door, and I quote, "Can we have some help, please? Our house is on fire and my mother's losing her mind."  Our neighbors have been giving us headaches throughout the years, especially since the two sons have acquired strays that live with them now and they can get rowdy on occasion, but bless them, all of them came running out with fire extinguishers to help us.

The Ts and our neighbors probably saved most of our house by doing that.  They didn't manage to put it out before the smoke completely drove them out, but they got it under control long enough for the fire departments to show up.

Did I say departments?  Yes.  Four of them.  We had four trucks from four different cities/districts/areas show up in under 10 minutes from the time I called 911.  The first two that turned up were the volunteer departments.

One of the girls next door came up and put her arms around my mother and prayed with us, which didn't really do anything for me, but it made my mother feel better.  We bundled her up and the two of us walked across the street to Ms. T with one of the boys.

Ms. T, by they way, has the most adorable granddaughter. Her mother was a friend of mine when we were younger, and the baby is the spitting image of her mother at that age.  She was sort of exactly what was needed, because she looks up at me and goes, "What happened?"

Me: "There was a fire, baby girl."

Her eyes got even wider.  "Is everyone okay?!"

Me: "Yes, honey.  The firemen are doing very good jobs and putting the fire out."

Deep sigh of relief.  "Okay.  Wanna play Barbies?"

Yes.  I actually did.

The paramedics turned up and listened to all of our lungs because we'd been exposed to smoke, but Mom was the only one who was wheezing, so we got to have a trip in an ambulance.  It's 10 by this time, and I'm just realizing that holy crap, I have work the next day.  I played a little phone tag and managed to score my manger's phone number, explained the situation, and told her I was very sorry but I wouldn't be in.

The paramedic told me that I was the most apologetic fire victim he'd ever heard.

Mom was fine -- it, of course, took us two hours for the doctors to figure that out -- and in the meantime I managed to talk to Midassa and her darling partner Walkabout Man, both of who made me laugh at a time when I dearly needed it.  I was in the middle of posting a story when the lightning struck, so they teased me mercilessly about angering the gods with my mad writing skillz.  My vote is that I've attracted the attention of a trickster god.  I would so be one of their favored, don't you think?

So... Yeah.  Since then, we've been living in a hotel.  A month on a fold-out couch is not good.  My hips and back will never be the same.  But next week, we get to move into a new rent house, which is about five minutes away from our house.  We'll be able to keep track of everything while we're rebuilding.

Insurance is taking care of a lot of stuff. Most of our stuff, actually.  They've been really stellar.

The bookshelves in our living room.  The fire -- or at least heat from it -- spread through our attic and out the vents.  The paint (and the wood paneling under it) bubbled up from the heat.

We lost a lot of things in our attic.  Pretty much everything over eight feet got heat damaged and is going to be lost.  A lot of heirlooms are gone, but we keep finding little treasures here and there; pictures, baby clothes.  Mom found a St. Francis cross she'd bought when she was a student in Italy and blessed by Pope John Paul II after his coronation that was perfectly fine, while the lamp two feet away was completely burnt out.  I freely admit that Faith and I have been at odds for years, but it makes her happy and I can't begrudge her that right now.

After something like this, everything you can save is precious.  You go through your life, piece by piece, and decide what you want and what you don't, what you can save and what you can't.  I love this, but I can't save it.  I hate this, but it's all I have left.

We also got two inches of water in the house.  Remember when I said that the electrical current came up through the water pipes?  So it was like Heaven and Hell fighting for our souls, heavenly fire and the Kracken, the seas boiling.  All that was missing was a demon with a tire iron.

 A picture taken from the source of the fire. Yes, that is sunlight coming through my roof.

Despite all that damage, though, most of our stuff is merely smoke damaged.  Merely being relative, of course.  Porcelain, white clothing, pine wood, it soaked up all that smell; but  apparently they can get the smell out of books and DVDs (almost all of mine were saved due to clothes that weren't in the closet hanging over my books and moving my DVDs into a new bookshelf; I lost a few books I was in the middle of reading, but that's easily replaced).  Stuff I personally lost was mostly tech, and honestly needed upgrading anyway.

I was honestly okay with everything -- someone has to be the stable one -- until I found out that we're going to level the house.

Right now, the structure is good, even with holes in the roof and my bedroom window knocked out to allow water and smoke out of the residence.  Four contractors have come through and said no matter how much money we put into the house, without leveling it we will be limited on what we can get back in resell because there will always be a question of structural integrity.

So...  I'm homeless.

Home will never, ever be the same again. Sure, we'll rebuild, and quite a bit will be put back the way it was -- we really had a gorgeous house -- but...  It won't be Home.  It won't be familiar.  Midassa says I should pretend like I slipped through a different universe, that the Doctor made everything just a little different.  Trust me; I wish I was traveling.

I wish that my heart wasn't breaking.

I wish I didn't feel like I was homeless.  I've had friends who've had it a lot worse than me in the past couple of years -- the economy has been highly unforgiving to many people I know.  I just feel so helpless and alone, and I feel terrible for feeling this way.  I'm alive.  I have my family.  I have most of my stuff.  Home is what you make of it, blah blah blah.

I. Am. Homeless.

I was fine until I heard that.

The current view out of my bedroom window.

It does get better.  It's been about a week since my parents decided to level everything, and I'm not so shattered anymore.  It'll be much better once we're in the rent house.  I'll have a decent night's sleep, for one, and that always makes everything better.  We're doing mattress shopping this long weekend; I'm going to go find the biggest, comfiest one I can.

And damn the expense.  Insurance is paying for it, anyway.

Jigsaw Travel

"Kilometers are shorter than miles. Save gas, take your next trip in kilometers."

-- George Carlin

So, that post I made about planning travel sucking big time?  Now that I've actually bitten the bullet, made plans -- and most importantly, paid for it all -- everything's much better.

Here's the itinerary -- and yes, I'm putting it out INTO THE WORLD so all the Brit friends who want to can schedule to meet me, and so my parents and grandmother and friends and extended family will know what I'm up to:

• Fly out on the 15th of August, land on the 16th
• Staying in London through the 17th of August
• Bath the 18th of August
• Cardiff the 19th of August
• Dublin the 20st of August through the 24th of August
• London again, the 25th of August through the 30th of August
• Sleep like the dead on the 31st
• Back to the grindstone on the 1st of September

Accommodations are booked -- have been safely vetted and come highly recommended by travel experts, tour books, travel websites, and (most importantly) by people I know who've stayed there.  Most major transport is booked, too, aside from trains (which can only be booked up to 3 months in advance).

Now that I have the framework structured, I get to hyperventilate about what I want to do when I'm at these places.  I've managed to schedule some days of downtime (London and Dublin, mostly) so I can do a "what do I want to do today?" meander about town.  I'll have plenty of options, since everyone and their grandmother whose gone to Europe has opinions on what's good to do, where to go, what to eat.  And for my birthday, my parents bought me a membership to the British Museum -- no lines, in free to the special exhibits, discounts in the restaurants and gift shops, and a members-only lounge.  The hotel I'm staying at in London is on the same block as the museum.  I'm going every. Bloody. Day.  That much I do know.

Meanwhile, my trip to Bath is rather structured:  Stonehenge tour in the afternoon, then a walking tour (the mayor's office puts it on for free, how cool is that?), and the Roman bath museum before getting on the train to Cardiff the next afternoon.  In Dublin and London's second leg, I'm going to be planning a day trip to the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland and a day in Stratford-Upon-Avon.  What days those trips will be on, though, I don't know yet.

In many ways, travel planning is like doing a jigsaw puzzle.  Most people find it easier to find all the end pieces and put together the picture frame before filling in the middle picture.  I guess that makes the play the bottom right corner?

Things, I'm sure, will firm up more as I get closer to travel day.  These things always do.  It's just bizarre to look up and realize that yes, I really do have only 4 months to go until I leave.  It makes me all nervous and excited and ill and thrilled at the same time.  It's a feeling remarkably similar to dread, actually, except that it makes me fidgety and flighty instead of morose.

Charting the Course

“Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.”
-- Paul Theroux

Someone, somewhere, has said that planning a trip is half the fun of traveling.  It was that, or party planning, or wedding planning...  Something like that.  I'm not sure who or where or what was being planned that was half the fun of the event, but I can say this, with absolute certainty:

These people?  Are full of crap.

Planning is torture, especially for someone as impulsive and flighty as I can be.

At this point, I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't explain the whole impulsive process that's taking me overseas.  Those of you who don't know how nerdy I can be, strap in.  It's about to get real.

So I'm a big Doctor Who fan.  Please don't run away, I promise not to go on and on about it (at the moment).  Anyway, one of the actors who played the Doctor, David Tennant, is also well known in the UK for being a Shakespearean actor.  He's actually a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company based out of Stratford-Upon-Avon, and he starred in Hamlet a few years ago with Sir Patrick Stewart, who played the evil King Claudius (better known in the States as Picard from Star Trek or Xavier from X-Men).  I've seen the movie adaption the BBC made due to the popularity of the run, and if you're theatrically inclined, I highly recommend it, if only for the To Be Or Not To Be soliloquy and Claudius' prayer scene.

But I'm getting off on a tangent.  I apologize, I do that from time to time.

For Christmas this year, I decided to gift myself with a passport.  I had multiple reasons behind this move: One, it never hurts to have another form of ID.  Two, my mother and grandmother went to Ireland last year, and I want to be ready if I get a phone call from my grandmother going, "Ireland, next June!"  Three, a passport is good for ten years.  If I get one, I'll use it before it expires.

Traveling overseas, for me, has never been a question of if but of when.

Two weeks after I applied for my passport, I found out that Tennant was doing a production of Much Ado About Nothing with his former Doctor Who costar, Catherine Tate.  Tate is a comedienne who is better known in the UK because of The Catherine Tate Show, and she's honestly one of the funniest people on the planet.

So. Two of my favorite actors, in my favorite Shakespeare play.  And did I mention that they're playing Beatrice and Benedick, the two best characters ever written?

Confession time: I want to be Beatrice if when I grow up.  Okay, actually I want to be Emma Thompson, who played Beatrice in Kenneth Branagh's adaption, but that's an unattainable dream; I'll settle for being the fictitious, sharp-tongued little shrew.

When I found it out, I announced at dinner, "Going to London this summer!"  My family thought it was a joke; and to be honest, I was only joking at first.

Then I started actually looking into it, and could afford to go.

So now here I am, with a plane ticket and a play ticket and a vague idea with what I want to do while I'm over there.

Taking a break after the first day of Comic Con, June 2009, San Diego, California (I believe we were at The Blarney Stone Pub, and I was well over the age of 21)

I'll admit it:  When I bought the ticket, the parental units were not pleased.  But I knew Mom, at least, was on board when she looked at me and said, "Got us an appointment to go see a travel agent!"

That's right.  Us.

The agent...  Well.  Not to knock the South, but sometimes getting all dressed up for work doesn't seem to cross some people's minds down here.  Mom and I hit up the agency when, apparently, all the agents were out conducting field research; there were -- maybe -- two people in the entire office, and neither of them were dressed in what you'd expect an agent to be wearing.  I have never been to a travel agency personally, but I've peeked through windows on occasion and I've seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, so I was expecting...  Business casual.  Possibly a suit and tie.  At the very least, a clean pair of jeans or khakis and a polo.  Something that makes you look professional, or at least trustworthy with someone's travel itinerary.

What I got was a gray tee-shirt and cotton shorts.  Actual shorts, not British it's-really-underwear shorts.

He was friendly enough -- teased me a little about going to London, mostly because he lived in France for a few years and that mutual French/English hatred is dying a long, hard, slow death.  I admitted to wanting to go to Dublin, and he rolled his eyes in that typical tourist sort of way.  I'm sure everyone who goes to London who has even a distant relation to anything Irish feels the pull when you're that close to the homeland.  He conducted a quick-spot interview, asked what hotels I had looked at, places I'd like to go, et cetera.  I mostly have NO CLUE as to what I'm going to be doing, but I pretty much know how long I'm going to stay at one place before moving to another, and I have plenty of room to change my mind and spend another day at one place if I just fall absolutely in love.

"Well, it sounds like you don't want a lot of structure," he said, my mother nodding along in agreement next to him, "and it pretty much sounds like you've figured out what you want.  But what I'm going to do is give you some itineraries.  Read over 'em, get some ideas, and if you find an actual tour that you'd like to go on, let me know and we'll book it."

And then, and then, and then.  He dropped the f-bomb.

Now, given the chance and pushed in just the right direction, I can swear like the proverbial sailor.  Most of my writing is littered with cuss words.  What can I say?  I work blue.  More and more, I find myself biting my tongue in public, around children...  At work....

Because it's not.

Bleeding.

Appropriate.

Anyway.

He got up from behind his desk and started listing the tour companies he had information on, and when he listed one, said -- and I quote, "I'll be happy to have that one off my hands, it's as heavy as a f*@#ing Bible," as he walked out the door.

Mom and I are sitting next to each other on the couch.  I can't quite bring myself to look over at her, because I know, I know, I know the look that is painted across her face -- that wide-eyed, gobsmacked, My-Ears-Must-Be-Broken-Because-There-Is-No-Way-You-Actually-Just-Said-That expression.

In emoticons, it looks like this:  O__________O

I meanwhile, decide to focus on the small desk clock, a red London phone booth with a clock face set in it.  Because I know if I look over, I'm going to bust out laughing.

Like this:   XD

"... Did he just say f*@#?"

"Yes.  Yes, he did."

"Good thing your grandmother's not here.  She really hates the f*@# word."

We then proceeded to spend the rest of the time while he was getting the f*@#ing brochures feeling the plants in his office to see if they were real or not.

I am pleased to announce that he'd opted for the economical, easy-to-maintain silk ivy in a pot of moss, so no poor potted plants are subjected to profanity on a daily basis.