Display by Label: Travel

C and I have been in California on a ten-day road-trip up the coast. Our first stop was LA, where we participated in Frank's wedding at the posh Hotel Bel-Air. I was one of the groomsmen and had the responsibility of holding on to the rings and producing them for the bride and groom during the ceremony. I was not nervous about this task before the day of the wedding, which proved to be an oversight on my part. The wedding planner quickly set me straight. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, she'd stop me every 15 or 20 minutes and say, "Show me the rings!" And it was clear from her demeanor that if I did not have them, she would, in all probability, breath fire and unleash a swarm of locusts on my ass. So I'd dive my cold, clammy fingers into my interior jacket pocket with no small degree of panic, convinced the rings had somehow disappeared between that time and the last time she had stopped me. Because, as you may know already, when things are out of my sight, they basically cease to exist to my brain. Thankfully, the two silver bands remained in my pocket up to and during the ceremony and when the crucial moment finally came, I was able to take them out and set them carefully in the hands of the betrothed without dropping them.

As it turns out, though, I was not able to recite the ee cummings poem that I was tasked with reading without banging the microphone with the clipboard on which the poem was attached. In retrospect, I think the subsequent loud boom which echoed across the lovely green served as a nice counterbalance to the somber poem, which I otherwise read exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'd love to think I have the kind of voice that could bring a woman to tears, but it would have been horrible if one of the bridesmaids had actually started crying, or swooned, or collapsed at my eloquence. So, a little boom of the mic stand. You're welcome.

At the wedding, I reconnected with the groomsmen I had hung out with in Vegas, which was cool. While in mixed company, nobody discussed the bachelor party. Which was good. We just stared at our shoes and shuffled our feet a lot.

After the wedding, C and I went down to Laguna Beach and stayed at her sister's boyfriend's parent's cottage. It was beautiful and magical and all those other adjectives people use for locations like that. We sat on the beach and went to art galleries, and I can say with certainty that, for both of us, the earth moved. Literally. We experienced our first earthquake. A 4.7, which was not quite on the scale of wetting one's pants, but still enough of a shaker to be thankful that you're still of an age where you have reasonably good control of your bladder. We were sitting in a little Mexican restaurant off the main drag. Enjoying our second margarita on the second floor. Then there was a loud rumbling noise and things started shaking. When I say "things" I mean heavy things. Things that don't normally "shake." Like our table. Like my soul. Then there was a little heave thrown in, and just a tinsy bit of ho. As in give her the ol' heave-ho. Like the earth was feeling finicky and just decided to move the building a smidge to the left. On a whim. Just to scratch an itch. It's a strange sensation to feel that the building you're in is moving, especially given the fact that buildings should not, you know, move. The rumble and the shake went on for a good five seconds or so. We looked at the other people's faces in the small restaurant. It seemed to sink in for everybody at the same time that holy shit, this was a fucking earthquake! A few people stood up and started for the door. Then as soon as it had begun, it stopped, and the relieved waiter shouted out, "Tequila!" And we laughed uncomfortably.

For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. For a little while, anyway. (I'm not that great at maintaining "perspective.") For those who are keeping track, this is the third time I've lost a phone this year. It's still early, though. So don't cash in your bets yet. I have an old Palm Treo which still sort of works and which I have begun using as of yesterday. It doesn't have a holster so there's pretty good odds this one will end up disappearing before too long. Incidentally, if you've texted me over the past week, you may have received the ominous reply "Message Deleted." This is not due to the fact that I hate you. At least not entirely. It's mostly due to the fact that my phone has been deactivated and for some reason this is the response it sent back to C's test text last week.

Onwards ... there was a stop to visit two warm-hearted, lovely women we met four years ago in Costa Rica. They live in the Hollywood Hills, in Laurel Canyon, which has been home to many rock stars and is about as great a location as you can want. A wonderful steak meal. Even better conversation. And Chet Baker on the stereo.

Then we met up with our Dallas Buds, Jeff, Eric, and Kim at LAX and hopped in a rented van we named "TheMitch" for a drive north up the coast. The name has a back-story, but I think it's something I'll leave untold. For mystery and, you know, intrigue and shit. I will say, however, that it had nothing to do with my good friend of that same name and everything to do with a good several hours of hard drinking. Oops. I meant "thinking."

There were stops in Santa Barbara, Avila Beach (I highly recommend this hotel), San Luis Obispo (known to LA'ers as "SLO"), Hearst Castle, Nepenthe, Carmel, Monterey, and finally the San Francisco Bay area, where we spent three nights at C's parent's house. They tried to culture us with a trip to Sonoma and Napa, and I think it may have even worked. We drank plenty of wine. And some brandy. And a few ports. Oh, and an ice wine. And we brought back six bottles from Ledson and two Mondavi Moscato d'Oro, and some fancy vinegar from B.R. Cohn.

Andy and Sabrina met all of us in the city our last day and we walked around North Beach and drank and laughed and talked. And it was just good, is all—to be in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

Three hours sleep the last night. One of those morning alarms that confuses you. Like, why in holy hell is that thing going off and what is it anyway? A long flight back to the Garden State by way of LAX. Hasty pasta followed by dead sleep. Picked up Honey the next morning at her friend Chubby's house. Chubby is a dog about the same size and temperament as Honey only she's black and white, with longer hair, and a curved tail. They roughhouse and chase and smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their owners. I think Honey had about as good a time as we did. Eating cat food and all kinds of treats from the fingers of a seven-year-old girl who, for those ten days, along with Chubby, became her new best friend and let her sleep in her bed.

And Honey didn't know or care that C and I had spent ten relaxing days on the west coast, or that I had lost my phone, or that for five breath-stopping seconds we were in the deep rumble of an earthquake, or that for days after the earth moved and we along with it. And that's why, I guess, it was so good to see her.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  San_Francisco  Friends  Family 

At the dog park in the Verdun neighborhood of Montreal, C and I watch Honey play with another crazy Pit. Tongues are out. Panting sounds. It's below freezing in April and my feet are cold and the Quebecois Pit can jump as high as my head. Honey keeps running over to me to ask me why all the dogs there are "talking funny." I say it's not polite to say things like that. I say just roll with it.

We chat with some regulars. An old lady with a deep voice tinged with too many cigarettes and a gruff Quebecois accent tells us that pretty soon a few other dogs will come and then it's time for all the others to leave. This doesn't really make sense to us, but it seems of great importance to the woman and we nod our heads.

The drive up had been rocky. We were hungry. Frazzled. We kept making stops for things. A New York trooper had given C a ticket in a stretch of highway that for no apparent reason had become a 55-mile an hour zone. And we had forgotten some things. And we were just tired.

But we had remembered quite a few other things. And that was good. And at the border, the customs agent smiled at us and wished us well. And now there was maple syrup in our stomachs, and tortiere, and all kinds of other food and beer and wine. And Honey enjoying a good romp around the muddy field, still saturated from melted snow.

And the worries we brought with us too melted, but still formed pools on the surface making it clear to us that a longer break was needed.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Weekend  Travel 

Saturday morning, up early. Some hurried grits. A vitamin and a pain killer. This is the way things start. Then C and Honey took me to Newark Penn, where I caught the Northeast Regional to Union Station and transferred to the Metro Red toward Glenmont. Much on the docket. Some minor apartment fixes on order. And some holy (and unholy) communing with friends and family. I was ready.

It began with a late afternoon feast of sauce served atop a mound of pasta, meatballs, and spicy sausage. (The heavier bits were just filler. Like any true Italian family, we were really only there for the red stuff.)

Then, belly full, and my sense of what was right and good in the world renewed, I boarded a metro car at Glenmont and took it south to somewhere in the DC diamond to play ball with this blond blogger who's all the rage down there. She told me she got held up returning some shoes at Neimens, but I suspected "returning shoes" was actually code for "a quickie." And so I let myself into her place and was greeted by a fur coat on a white leather couch. And man oh man, the most intoxicating velvety scent, like flowers and vanilla and grapefruit ... only infused with sugary pornographic undertones. So I read Martin Amis to the art on the walls and the coat on the couch and the pump heels on the floor and together we all waited for our hostess to arrive. And I downed two Stella Artois and coolly pretended to ignore the other distractions in the flat, because I feared I might actually be on camera and playing live in a sticky-walled, coin-operated booth somewhere.

Thus began the second feast that night: a traveling alcoholic buffet that took us from the hoppy nose of an Irish Harp, to the chilly wet island fuzz of Stockholm Absolute Peach Vodka, then to the French fields of Dom P, and on to the dark and dirty St. Louis basement of Everclear Grain. Actually, this last stop is suspect, and you probably shouldn't take my word for it, but I would not be surprised if there were some 151-proof involved in an otherwise innocent looking round of shots.

And let me pause here to mention that there had been a hard rain earlier that night and the DC sidewalks were wet and the the windshield wipers in my soul were still flapping wildly back and forth in sync with the song that had been on my iPod. And that song was So What by Pink. And if you're raising your eyebrows at that and thinking about passing a little bit of judgement on my ass, then ... so what? I've got my rock moves, brother, and I definitely don't need you tonight.

Let's move on ...

Very tall drinks ordered at a hotel bar, where SB and I were joined by FreckledK, and where it made a whole lot of sense to me, as it often does in these situations, to order a round of shots. And since tequila had recently played an upsetting role in my complete dissolution this past July, I thought it was only fair to SB (and the physical and moral integrity of her bathroom) that I stick with something more mild, like Lemon Drops. Only I think some cruel fucker had taught this bartender that Lemon Drop shooters should be mixed up with pure, unadulterated Everclear. Because the shit kinda burned going down and Lemon Drops—they're supposed to be sweet, man. And all this lead to Freckles stealing the mic from the strug-ah-lin cantor who had been choking out his playlist at half the proper tempo. And she got up on stage and delivered a sizzling a cappella lounge act full force at SB, a number so filled with girl-on-girl innuendo that it brought tears to my eyes and warmth to my heart.

And speaking of pure, this is about the point in the evening when we were picked up by a wedding-white stretch Hummer, tremendous in its indecency. Inside, multi-colored laser lights danced on the ceiling and in our hair as we sipped OJ and Peach Vodka from plastic champagne flutes while reclining on those magnificent dark seats. And not being partial to the Peach Vodka myself, I imbibed Bud Light from a can. Because I'm all freakin' class, people. You understand this?

The Hummer came compliments of an exuberant Fauntleroy who was also the one responsible for delivering us to the birthday party of a 22-year-old girl who I'm sure was a lovely person when she wasn't shit-faced drunk and bubbling up spittle on herself. The party was on the top floor of an all-too-swank club full of imperially coiffed twenty-somethings sodden with red bull and vodka. And here's one thing I learned that night, thanks to Freckles: a good way to start a fight in this kind of atmosphere is to pop open the birthday-girl's bottle of celebratory Dom P. You know, the one and only bottle chilling on ice, which the honored inebriatée herself was supposed to open at the stroke of midnight. And a truly great way to carry off this coup de grâce on your wallflowerdom, in case you're taking notes (because I sure was), is to slide that cork out so gently it's like you're making love to it, and then pour yourself and your friends a glass. And then it might help matters further if you offered a toast to each other for your incredible good fortune. And one more toast to the devil for bringing you to this cross-roads in the evening.

But these are merely suggestions. You should try to stretch your creative muscle, because I'm sure this doesn't begin to exhaust all the myriad possibilities. The bottom line is if you hit it just right, the vibe will turn ominous and menacing, and the people whose party you just crashed will begin whispering about the three uninvited assholes who just got into the Dom P and what the fuck were they doing here, anyway?

And then what you'd need—and this is terribly important, I can't stress it enough—is a Peacemaker, a sort of Ringleader of Debauchery, if you will, somebody who's got her fingers on the strings at all times and can pull and tweak them as the situation calls for it. Somebody like SB ... to pay for the champagne and smooth things over with the natives. Then you could take your newly-acquired bubbly outside where you would be told that no, you could not drink it directly from the bottle and what were you anyway, animals? Obviously you needed to use plastic cups in an establishment such as this. And so you would take some of those cups and stake claim on a table and alternate taking sips and pouring some out on the sidewalk to mourn your loss of propriety. Because if you're hearing a kling-klanging sound right now, it's the sound of Klass ringing loud and true and ... unadulterated through the DC streets at 2 am.

Somehow we made it back to SB's flat and found sleep. And the next morning, shell-shocked and twitching, I stumbled to Starbucks for the acquisition of caffeinated beverages. And this managed to score me enough points to get invited into SB's bed, where we sipped, together, Naked, and I fumbled with the remote control, searching for the button that read "art-porn and football."

Oh, god.

Peach Mangosteen Bliss, brother.

And I mean every word of that.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Weekend  Travel  Debauchery  DC 

It was a barnstorm of a weekend in San Francisco, where we flew for the wedding of a close friend ... C's first wedding as a "groomsperson," and she was dang cute in her suit and tie. Friday was a 26-hour day that began in the dark hours of morning at Newark Airport and ended at a North Beach strip club. The devil built Columbus and Broadway out of discarded bottles of original sin, brother. And he called it good. Believe.

And I woke up Saturday morning at a time that was afternoon back home, and read some news about a little hurricane named Ike that had bore down relentlessly on a town called Galveston. And thought about how, at the same time, 2,000 miles northwest, the g-stringed pelvis of a little stripper named Mia had bore down relentlessly upon the struggling remnants of a soon-to-be-married bachelor's soon-to-be-arrested libido. Flooding streets. Flooding veins.

And the soundtrack was Telephone Call from Istanbul, man.

Sunday ceremony out at Stern Grove by the Golden Gate. A wedding officiated by a pirate. Drove home via the 280, recovering from an 11:30 am Bushmills buzz, with the fog sticking to the trees like cotton on broccoli spears, carrying my love for this city on its back.


A red-eyed flight back to the Garden State to pick up a hoarse Honey at the PetSmart. Thinking about our next transcontinental wedding trip in May (these things can be habit forming). This one in LA, where my college roommate will be hitched. And this time I'll be the groomsman, and the lap dances will be ordered somewhere on the Las Vegas strip, and sleep will be put on hold for a more convenient time.



link to this | comments (0) | File:  Weird  Weekend  Travel  Friends  San_Francisco 

I have a hard time letting go of things. No, really. I know it's hard for some of you to believe. But it's true. I tend to do a bit of the Dwelling. Upon subjects ranging from what to have for breakfast (Is it really safe to have grits, again? Answer: Yes. Of course.) to more serious things like what to put in a glass of scotch (Drambuie, Amaretto ... or just rocks? Answer: Just the ice, Daddy. This isn't the 60s.) But one of my favorite things to dwell on is travel, especially of the air variety. I've written before about this topic, right before a trip to the same place I'm going this weekend, in fact, so I'm sorry to be redundant. But this time, I've got a new source for my Fret: Honey.

It's hard to believe, but this will mark the first time I've been away from Honey for longer than a day since I brought her home back in April. Now, she won't be totally alone. C is staying behind, so she'll be able to take care of her most of the time. And I'm sure she'll do an excellent job. But just in case, it can't hurt for me to type up a page full of instructions for her, can it? And just give her some tips about things. You know, like how much food to give her. And what times we go for walks. And when and where she might poop. Or the more practical stuff ... like how she likes her pillow fluffed. Or how she appreciates her kong served with a side of caviar. And how she usually enjoys hugs and lots of belly-rubbing when she wakes up from naps.

See, the thing is ... C just doesn't have my penchant for pampering Honey silly. She takes a slightly different approach. She treats Honey kind of like ... a dog. And I'm not sure how I feel about it, honestly. Like this morning. As a good "warm-up," I decided to linger in bed and let C take Honey out for her morning two pees and a poo. This happens every morning at 6:30. Pee in spot one. Pee in spot two. Poop in random location to be decided. You could set your watch to it. C has done this job in the past. She knows the routine. In fact, I think she invented it. But I've taken the job over more and more for two reasons: C likes to hit snooze, and I suffer from a slight case of OCD. But I've grown to kind of like the morning trek outside. And what I've learned is that Honey needs support when she does her business. She needs encouragement and congratulations. But this morning C decided to just change all of that up, and to just stand at the back door while Honey went out to do her stuff. I heard the door open and close ... a little too quickly. So I had to get up and investigate.

"That was quick."

"Yeah, I just stood at the back door and let her go out by herself."

"What?!"

"Yeah."

"Did she poop?"

"No. She just peed."

"Well, of course she just peed! But she needs to poop. I mean, there is poop in her butt ready to come out. She just doesn't realize it."

"I thought it would be a good experiment."

Head-shaking. Sighing. Exasperation.

Needless to say, I took her out to poo.

I'm not sure if it was entirely clear or not, but there was OCD, and a touch of the morning grogginess to blame for this little tirade. I weren't always so level-headed, folks.

I admit it: I'm guilty of a little pampering. And so I guess my biggest worry about leaving for a few days is that Honey will just be too sad without me around and will decide she can't take it any longer and propel herself through a second-story window. I just see her waking up each morning and doing her butt-shake, foot-stomping thing over to my side of the bed, her ears back, her tail wagging, only to find that I'm not there. And I imagine this will crush her soul like nothing else in her six months on this earth. And she'll fall into a fit of depression and start hitting the bottle and smoking Pall Malls. And I'll come back home, and say, "Look Honey, it's me! I'm back!! It's okay now. All will be right with the world." But it will be too late. I'll have an alcoholic, chain-smoking dog on my hands. And she'll never forgive me for the pain and suffering I've caused her.

The truth is she'll probably see the empty spot on the bed and be sad for about the time it takes her to realize it's time for breakfast. Then she'll quickly go back to pondering the tragedy of leashes. Or dreaming about giant rawhides covered with bowlfuls of melted provolone cheese. Or peanut-butter-and-chicken stuffed kongs dancing with giant, day-glo pull-toys on a road paved with jerky treats. Yeah, she's probably more likely to pine over the neighbor's dog, Riley, than she is over me. And how she'd like to chase him in the back yard and lick at his slobbery mouth until it makes all the humans nearby want to vomit.

The truth is I'm the one who's going to miss her. I'm going to miss the routine of taking care of her. Of going for walks. Of teaching her tricks. Of giving her belly-rubs and hugs and kisses on the snout. It's me who's going to have the separation anxiety. I'm the one with issues, here. Clearly.

So if you see me, unshaven and unbathed. Passed out somewhere in Big-D with a bottle of Dewars in one hand, mumbling something about don't forget her bed-time snack, just look the other way. I'll be better in a few days. It's just my way of dealing.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Travel  Honey 

I've had this misconception about roosters. And that's not something I ever expected to have a misconception about. But, holy crap, I really have. And I've had it for about as long as I can remember. I think maybe I got it from watching cartoons. Or possibly from reading books with colorful drawings in them where all these animals live together swimmingly in a big red barn. And for a kid growing up in the concrete, strip-center sprawl of suburban Houston, life in and around the big red barn seemed pretty damned great and idyllic. Because farm animals were awfully considerate and well-behaved and all these creatures did their part to contribute to the cycle of life on the farm and they just played and slept and sometimes worked, but even the work they loved. And they also loved each other and were a team and never disturbed anybody. And from this early education I acquired about farms, I understood that roosters were vitally important for getting the whole operation going in the morning. And they did this by crowing once at dawn. Just a cock-a-doodle-doo. Just one. A friendly message to the people on the farm who might still be sleeping that ... Hey everybody, so sorry to interrupt your restful slumber, I'll be brief ... I only wish to inform you that the sun is indeed up now, its rays just became visible over the horizon there and it looks like we're in for another day of blue skies and no rain ... so if you want, it's safe to go ahead and get up, have a shower, take a whiz, stretch a bit, you know ... but if you're still tired, if you were up late drinking and you just now discovered you'd actually forgotten to take off your clothes and your sleeping diagonally across your bed and your arm is asleep under the weight of your body and your cheek is laying in a wet pool of drool, and your head is just a great big god-dammed boulder, and the sun isn't something you want to see until sometime next week, well, I apologize ... I'll just shut up now and you can go back to bed ... I'm so very sorry for the intrusion ... unfortunately, it had to be done, because it's my job ... and yes, I'll be back tomorrow at the same time, but I'll try to be quick about it.

Well, I was set straight about roosters in Mexico. And I'm sorry to break this to you all, but Margaret Wise Brown lied to us. And it's been perpetuated by other kid-media throughout the years. By cartoons. Probably even by freakin' Sesame Street. Believe: this shit goes straight to the top. And I don't understand the cover up. I really don't—why nobody ever told us that roosters sometimes liked to crow, you know, at two in the a-m, for instance. Or three-thirty for that matter. Or five. And really at just about every time leading up to, and including, dawn. And then frequently throughout the day. This would be useful information to have. Because if you're going to be staying anyplace where there might be a rooster living next door, then you might make plans. You might call ahead and find out if there's somebody who can procure a shotgun, for instance. Or a flame-thrower.

Here's some more truth: Cock-a-doodle-doo doesn't even come close to describing the hell-scream that is the rooster crow. And the one single crow at dawn and then back to sleep schtick is ... crap. Roosters have a small brain. They forget they just spoke. And so they repeat themselves. Over and over. And over. And over. And each time, they seem surprised by their remarkable profundity, and ... sheer volume. And at their uncanny ability to render horrifying and dreadful the peaceful calm of an early morning in a sleepy coastal town in Mexico.

Here's a video, to give a feel for things. It's 3 am. I'm on the balcony across the hall from our room. Note the waves crashing in the distance. So peaceful. And that big light in the corner ... that's the moon. Because—did I mention this?—it's three in the morning. The recording doesn't do justice to just how loud were those cock-a-doodle-doos, but you get the idea. Imagine these calls echoing around in a house interior made up of marble floors.



I'm sure, just like with the fire-engines that used to go up and down Mass Ave in front of our building in DC, we would have eventually gotten used to the rooster crows, but after the first couple of nights with the windows open and waking up to that screeching, we caved and closed them up and ran a fan for white noise. It was an unfortunate but necessary step.

Despite the rooster, or maybe because of him, the trip to San Pancho was quite great. And a wonderful reprieve from a New Jersey that's still having temperatures in the 30s and 40s.

The pics are here. Or check 'em out below:



link to this | comments (5) | File:  Travel 

Saturday morning, shoveling snow from our driveway before heading to Newark for a flight. Five hours later, it's all sunshine and t-shirts, sipping margaritas on the patio of the Blue Goose in Plano. A soccer dad with shin-guarded kids beside us. And, on the other side, Harleys rumbling in the parking lot. Tattoos on display. Double D moms with "Don't Be Jealous" t-shirts. Suburban grey-beard banker bikers, bandana'd and leather-vested and flaunting their mid-life crises a month or two early. This strange mix of cultures. This strange mix of seasons. Because it's 70 degrees and sunny in early March in North Dallas. And we're sitting on a patio—the same exact one—where ten years ago I would've been found serving drinks. And not much has changed, except the name on the building. Time travel happens, ya'll.

Then it's light-weight longsleeves on E&K's back porch for pool, and beer on draft, and a broken E string. And man, that sentence would read a lot differently if you just changed a single letter, wouldn't it? Here there's another Harley rumbling, asleep on a lawn chair. Magnolia splayed out like a morning prayer. And us laughing over a shed in Jersey that's never been opened because there's mostly been a river of ice between me and it. And an empty shed is a scary prospect in Soprano country. And wow, jackets and gloves and shovels and boots seem so far away. Three hours northeast.

Sunday, the wind and rain began while we puzzled at Mom's. 2000 pieces. And the pot roast made some smoke, so we opened the windows. And then left them open. Because puzzling can make you hot—all that brainpower spent matching shapes and colors together. And it's nice to do that kind of work with a cross-breeze.

And then the rain got heavier. And the winds got colder. And last night, on the third day of March, North Dallas saw what might be described locally as a "blizzard" of snow, short-lived, but furious and heavy. Leaving a blanket of white on the flat landscape. Jackets and scarves back on. Pushing wet snow off the windshield with our arms. Then, us in our all-seasoned rental, headlights screaming against this horizontal army of flakes. Feeling like Star Wars at warp speed. Passing through another weather wormhole.

Then this morning waking to sunshine and highs in the mid-50s. Dallas will be back to t-shirts and margaritas in no time. And there's a bit of the sadness, because they don't grow Tex-Mex in North Jersey. The patios, chips and salsa, and salted rims. But that's what time travel and weather wormholes are for.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Weekend  Weather  Travel  Friends  Family  Dallas  Chewing 

I've got a second glass of sake on the way and I'm thinking I could get used to traveling this way. We splurged a bit on the tickets home. Used some miles - and some cash - for an upgrade to business class. Because I don't fly well. Because I'm big and awkward in coach. Because I tend to carry my stress in my spine like a lead pipe for days. A three-hour flight I can handle. But twenty hours of travel - it sort of puts me over the edge. The flight out taught me that. I've had a funny strut for most of my time in Japan as a result. As if I didn't stand out enough already. (Not many tall white guys there, you know.) Anyway: the walk. 'Waddle' is probably the best word to describe it. It was a sort of hunched over, stiff-legged affair, as embarrassing to perform as it is hard to describe properly. Occasionally I'd catch my reflection in a hotel lobby mirror and think, Who is that poor sod? And why the hell does he look so constipated? I'm not sure when it was that my body developed such a cruel sense of humor. I'd like to say, the way I've been walking, I've maybe looked a little like John Wayne. But evoking the image of his famous swagger might be stretching it a bit. In reality, it's nowhere near as manly. Now, let's say the Duke just spent a few nights in a Mexican prison. Now you get the picture.

I've been dreading the flight home. The last couple of days I've been standing a bit more straight. And I've been afraid I would go back to square one. But the wonders of business class have made all the difference. I've got so much room in front of me I can actually sit on the floor and do some simple stretches whenever the mood strikes me. And my seat - wonderful, roomy seat - is large enough that I can shift this way and that, achieving several different positions effortlessly. Not just the single position I maintained on the way out. My shoes are off, feet slightly elevated by the foot rest . . . I'm downright comfy. And damnit, I really wish somebody would bring me a vine of fresh grapes already and hand feed them to me!

Speaking of food, let's walk through the lunch menu, shall we? We started out with warm nuts, followed by a salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing and a few sushi rolls on the side. I ordered a glass of Gekkeikan Horin Daiginjo Sake to wet the palette. Then came the main course, Madeira Chicken with linguine in a basil cream sauce, followed by desert: vanilla ice cream in a strawberry sauce and walnut cookie crumble topping. Delicious. It's been kind of like traveling in a restaurant. I won't even tell you what I had when I was in coach. It kind of brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.

Oh, hold on just a second . . . I see the waiter - I mean flight attendant - now.

Eh hem. Yes, excuse me. Be a dear and hurry up with that second glass of sake, would you? I'm feeling a bit parched.

I think I'll have a nap now. I'll get back to you in a bit.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Japan  Travel 

OK. I hate to do this, but let me just take a moment to be a shining example of the kind of spoiled American attitude that makes a terrorist's skin crawl. . . [foot stomp] What do you mean I can't bring my cup of Starbucks on the plane with me anymore?! Guess I'll have to start packing chocolate covered coffee beans, instead.

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Photos are up from Philadelphia and Montréal. They've actually been up for a week, but I forgot to mention them, probably because I was too busy writing an incredibly long-winded post about publishing and scanning of books. I realize rule number one in blogging is to keep posts to a length where the reader does not need to break for meals. Oh, well. I say, just make the 'meal' a glass of wine and it will go much quicker.

Also, as an interesting follow-up to the last post I mention, an author named Blake Schwendiman has put a full electronic copy of his book online for people to download . . . for free. Interesting move. Why is he doing it? From the author:

I'm putting this full-length novel online and encouraging you to read it, send it to your friends, blog about it, distribute it on your blogs, etc. and we'll all see what happens. Maybe nothing. But maybe ... something. In fact after weighing the pros and cons of doing this, I can't find any actual downside.

(link via Seth Godin)

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