I Still Think Sadistic...

The waitress at Fox's Lobster House is either blissfully unaware of a life outside of romantically idyllic Maine (really, with the coastal views I'm enjoying from my dinner table, who could blame her), or wickedly sadistic. She places the steaming lobster in front of me, I tie the plastic bib tabs tight behind my neck, and realize.....I have no idea how to eat this thing. The closest I've had to a whole lobster was at Legal Seafood, and at least they had the courtesy to crack the carcass, remove the lobster meat, mix it with LDL-level enhancing scallops, crabmeat, and buttery goodness, and place it back in an easy-to-consume package on my dinner plate. Not a bad way to go. But this thing....I scan the other tables for potential clues of what to do next. Of course the table to my right ordered the bisque. Why didn't I think of that? The table to my left has three ladies from Utah, and I deduce they may be of little help. Sure enough, the waitress has to help one of them tie her bib on; at least this blond can handle a bib. Fortunately, my #1 Travel Buddy has done well to teach me the art of removing claw meat intact, and she would've been proud of the slab of meat I dunk in my butter cup. But the body...after several near reenactments of Pretty Woman's oyster-shucking scene and one contact swimming in lobster juice, I emerge victorious with a hunk of lobster goodness that I simply have to admire a moment before eating it. She has waited for that moment to approach my table, and ask, "Need any help here?" Is that sincere concern for my lobster-eating experience, or a mischievous glint in her eye? She's observant enough to have noticed the bib-challenged table, but waits until my last mouthful to belatedly point out the lobster-shucking instructions on my placemat, strategically hidden under extra napkins. I wonder. But by my final forkful of Maine-blueberry pie a-la-mode, I decide I really don't care.

Traveling Buddies part tres

3. Activities: Have a good combination of sharing common interests and being open minded to each other's . On our upcoming Philadelphia whirlwind tour, we both are looking forward to taking the ghost tour, geocaching in a few historical spots, and touring Independence Hall. I'm going along with C. to check out quilts and homemade jams in amish country, and she's not all that reluctantly going with me to the Mutter Museum and Eastern State Penitentiary. To quote the all-knowing Calvin (as in Hobbes, not John), a good compromise leaves everyone unsatisfied. But with a good travel buddy, you can always learn something interesting and have a good experience sharing the others' interest.

Travel Buddy Part Deux:

2. Hotel preference: I used to prefer ghetto-cheap to save money for activities; by now my travel buddy has taught me that safety and convenience of location are worth the extra cash. Safe and clean on a moderate budget is almost enough, we agree we don't need the W or Omni. But when we went super-cheap for a quick overnight in Vegas, the blood smear on the door (we have pictures if anyone doubts this), while titillating my obscene crime scene proclivities, relieved me of all accommodation-procurement duties. In my defense, when at an upscale hotel in San Francisco that my friend reserved, we returned from a late night out at the theatre to find a magnificent artwork of vomitus on our door that had actually projectiled almost 6 inches under the door and into our room. The hotel was booked to capacity, so we dangled our legs off the edge of the Tempur-Pedic(r)mattress with plush down comforters and 600-thread-count sheets as housekeeping futilely steam-cleaned the offended area and sprayed lavender room deodorizer. I'm amazed we didn't wake up the next morning with massive hang-overs from the residual alcohol fumes. So make sure you're in agreement about budget and quality issues.

Who's Your Travel Buddy?

My coworker/friend and I are planning a long weekend to Philadelphia, and the texts, emails, and phone calls have been flying frantically back and forth as we figure out how to squeeze as many activities into each 24-hour day as possible. After several years and several successful trips together, we are now travel buddies, bracelet buddies, necklace buddies, adventure buddies; I'm really working on her to become tattoo buddies. No luck so far. But we've found in each other all the key ingredients in a great peripatetic relationship. My next few blogs will help those of you who may still be in search of your travel buddy 'soulmate':

1. Eating styles: cheap? authentic? touristy? One big meal, several snacks? Know ahead of time. One friend - not the one I usually travel with - took a road trip with me recently, and rather than experience a restaurant with more local flavor, she wanted Subway. As in five dollar foot long. She even cheerily sang the jingle all the way there. It wasn't a deal breaker, but if I'm in Puerto Rico and find myself at a Burger King, I'm not happy. (That actually happened with my fully experienced travel buddy, but it was a unanimous decision because we were burnt out on deep-fried Alcapurrias and desperately needed green salad. Besides, that's her in the picture thoroughly enjoying a fish taco after an exciting day buoy-watching in Puerto Rico). Know if your travel buddy needs a hearty breakfast or yogurt on the run. Does dinner need to be at a trendy, upscale restaurant or can you scarf Philly cheese steaks as you race from a Duck Tour to the ghost tour?

J.G.

Who is John Galt? This weary world-traveler may never find out. Not because I'm too busy traipsing across the globe; unfortunately, my carry-ons have been collecting dust lately. But I've come to rely on my travel time to squeeze in guilt-free reading time. Atlas Shrugged pulls up when I press the 'now reading' toggle button of my new Nook, and I'm dying to find out who John Galt is. By the time I trundle off to bed after a busy day of not-traveling (isn't it amazing how time is so inversely proportioned to length of to-do lists?), I'm barely able to lift my finger to push the 'next' button. Many people complain of the waiting time wasted in airports, growing more belligerent with each delayed flight. (Seriously, people, if your aircraft has been held back for a maintenance concern, do you want to rush the mechanics entrusted with making a 138,000 pound iron tube stay as gravity-defiant as the clouds? And contrary to popular belief, the ticket agent isn't hiding his/her magic weather-changing wand out of sheer spite. Lay off the Harry Potter thinking already). But an oversold flight, weather delay, or aircraft swap fills me with excitement -- more time in my literary heaven. Sure, it's something easily done at home; however, that small voice muttering about the unloaded dishwasher, the front lawn deep enough to hide my 18-pound cat, marathons to train for, seeps into my subconscious and strangles the spirit out of the characters I'm desperate to get in to. All that is nonexistent in the airport, and I read in peace. So I need to book an oversold flight to the farthest destination on the east coast, and discover...who is John Galt?

Waddayamean, credit card number?

I feel queasy. I just bought my first Southwest Airlines plane ticket. Ick. How foreign to pull out my credit card to complete a reservation. My remaining passes will be expired before this trip in May - an office trip to Anaheim for a Dental Convention (ok, Disneyland, but I'm sure there's a Mass Disaster course somewhere I'll squeeze in). So this is how the traveling hoi poloi feel, paying hard-earned money to ride the silver birds. I'm not liking it. Being such the people-person I am (what ARE you sniggering at?!?), maybe I should get a job as a ticket agent to continue flying free. Ok, now that we've all gotten a good laugh in, I'm rethinking the $149 I just spent and what that means. I just might get an A-group boarding pass - no more wedging into middle seats (see post about POS'es). No more guilt asking for a second glass of spicy tomato. No more contingency plans if I don't make my destination on the same day as leaving home. And, the holy grail: actually getting vouchers if I'm bumped off a flight! Not quite worth trading the freedom to hop a flight to, say, Nome on a whim. Better start sharpening my cheap-flight google skills for the upcoming year.

We should go home now

Something big is changing in my mom's life; the self-proclaimed homebody has asked me to take her traveling for the second time in six months. So we're sitting in the Denver airport right now, and I'm already exhausted from all the things that I see as Bad Travel Omens. After arriving on a late flight to Denver, we were told that we weren't supposed to use my mom's particular pass to overnight and continue on the next morning to Tampa. I had even called the rez line before leaving home to make sure we could use her ticket that way. So now I'm worried that we may be stuck in Denver. And it's COLD. And by now you all know how I feel about the COLD. So that potential mishap aside, we stand outside for 45 minutes waiting for the hotel shuttle (did I mention it was COLD?), and we are about to be left behind for the second time because the shuttle only had one open seat. At the last minute, the driver offers to let me ride in the back with the baggage. So there I sit, hunkered down amongst the backpacks and Samsonites, fearful of being jettisoned out onto the freeway with every road bump, wondering if I should take the shaky start of our mother-daughter trip as a sign of things to come. Once at the hotel, the receptionist (her second day on the job) gives us the wrong room key. Once settled into our room, we both sleep fitfully; I have some awful nightmare about being bitten by a rattlesnake and am alternately directing my own medical care and yelling at the tour guide for not knowing the appropriate snake-bite procedure. By the time we're back at the Denver airport, I'm really nervous about whether my mom will be allowed on the Tampa flight, and I'm distractedly stuffing security passes and ID into my pockets while trying to sweet-talk the ticket agent. My mom leans over, and in a loud stage whisper, says something about imagining my pocket like a bomb, a big explosion, etc. I'm frozen in place, envisioning Mom being interrogated by the airport police for suspicious terrorist activities. Then I realize she's innocently referring to an effective mnemonic device to help me remember where I'm putting my ID so I won't be panicking in the TSA line. She sheepishly realizes how she could sound to fellow travelers and is appropriately embarrassed. But that only lasts a few minutes....somehow she, the passenger that was talking about bombs and explosions, makes it through security with her shoes on. She immediately feels redeemed. I, on the other hand, have nerves so frazzled that I'm ready to head home. TO BE CONTINUED....