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....
Tundra Telle
A friend of mine is concerned that, in this economy, clients in need of her services as a psychologist may become scarce. My advice to her: move to Nome. The population of Alaska will assure her of the future of her chosen occupation.
The extremely friendly Alaska Air ticket agent in Nome was as blond-haired, blue-eyed as I am. So I bravely asked (you can assume everyone here carries a large gun without making a you-know-what out of u and me), "How did you end up in this town?" I wisely left out the adjective "God-forsaken" that ran on an unending loop through my mind as I explored Nome. "Well," eyes as blue as a glacier crevice sparkling,"I came up for a weekend about 30 years ago and just never left." "huh." This kind gentleman was fixing a glitch in my non-rev reservation to get me the heck out of this town, so I again wisely withheld my more candid response. This man had just returned from a trip to India; he was helping his mom move back to So Cal after living overseas for several years. His brother lives in Mongolia. So I guess within his family, he would be considered the more mundane.
Repeatedly, others were giving the response, "It's a great small-town feel. Everyone knows everyone, we're like family." I've visited Oregon. I've lived in Nor Cal and So Cal. I've lived in Alabama, Florida, Missouri, and Georgia. There are plenty of small towns, close-knit communities. But without the intensely severe isolation from the rest of society. So why go to this extreme? I could seriously live there myself for several months, only to analyze and marvel at the psyche of those who have chosen to make Nome their home. Also, the whispered rumors of skulking Soviet subs make for good fire-place stories.
There's just something about Nome. There must be, for any population to exist there. The city is about 12 blocks by 7. At least a third of the motorized vehicles were dashboard-deep in snow, out of commission for the winter. So were several boats, cranes, and planes, skeletal limbs akimbo, poking obscenely mechanical angles out of the deep snow banks. It's as if everyone hibernates for 6 months, allows the snow the absorb all semblance of outdoor existence, and waits it out until summer.
The tundra was a fascinating thing. During a few hikes to geocaches, I'd walk across alternating stretches of snow and tundra. The spongy underfooting felt like a pseudo-trampoline; all the energy of your footfall sunk in like a trampoline's surface but instead of rebounding and following the equal/opposite reaction law of thermodynamics, your foot would stall at the bottom of the footstrike. No energy was returned to your step. But it was minor enough you didn't really notice a huge difference. I wondered if I'd been abducted by aliens and placed in an artificially all-natural (jumbo shrimp, military intelligence)environment like an extraterrestrial version of the San Diego zoo. Maybe I was being observed by these aliens, a foreign creature behaving naturally in its own environment. But somehow they couldn't replicate the terra ferma concept; it was authentic enough to keep my brain from acknowledging that I was no longer on Earth, but there was a subliminal warning that the ground wasn't cooperating with my footsteps as it should. That, and the beginning stages of frostbite as I tried unsuccessfully to dig through two feet of snow searching for a cache should have clued me in that I was somewhere un-earthly.
I made this trip last March, and the memories still stir a fascination in me that Fiji can't even conjure. As disparaging towards the state as I may seem, I returned last October, this time to Juneau, and I'm determined to visit at least one more Alaskan town before the passes expire. I'll be employing the services of my shrink friend any day now.
The extremely friendly Alaska Air ticket agent in Nome was as blond-haired, blue-eyed as I am. So I bravely asked (you can assume everyone here carries a large gun without making a you-know-what out of u and me), "How did you end up in this town?" I wisely left out the adjective "God-forsaken" that ran on an unending loop through my mind as I explored Nome. "Well," eyes as blue as a glacier crevice sparkling,"I came up for a weekend about 30 years ago and just never left." "huh." This kind gentleman was fixing a glitch in my non-rev reservation to get me the heck out of this town, so I again wisely withheld my more candid response. This man had just returned from a trip to India; he was helping his mom move back to So Cal after living overseas for several years. His brother lives in Mongolia. So I guess within his family, he would be considered the more mundane.
Repeatedly, others were giving the response, "It's a great small-town feel. Everyone knows everyone, we're like family." I've visited Oregon. I've lived in Nor Cal and So Cal. I've lived in Alabama, Florida, Missouri, and Georgia. There are plenty of small towns, close-knit communities. But without the intensely severe isolation from the rest of society. So why go to this extreme? I could seriously live there myself for several months, only to analyze and marvel at the psyche of those who have chosen to make Nome their home. Also, the whispered rumors of skulking Soviet subs make for good fire-place stories.
There's just something about Nome. There must be, for any population to exist there. The city is about 12 blocks by 7. At least a third of the motorized vehicles were dashboard-deep in snow, out of commission for the winter. So were several boats, cranes, and planes, skeletal limbs akimbo, poking obscenely mechanical angles out of the deep snow banks. It's as if everyone hibernates for 6 months, allows the snow the absorb all semblance of outdoor existence, and waits it out until summer.
The tundra was a fascinating thing. During a few hikes to geocaches, I'd walk across alternating stretches of snow and tundra. The spongy underfooting felt like a pseudo-trampoline; all the energy of your footfall sunk in like a trampoline's surface but instead of rebounding and following the equal/opposite reaction law of thermodynamics, your foot would stall at the bottom of the footstrike. No energy was returned to your step. But it was minor enough you didn't really notice a huge difference. I wondered if I'd been abducted by aliens and placed in an artificially all-natural (jumbo shrimp, military intelligence)environment like an extraterrestrial version of the San Diego zoo. Maybe I was being observed by these aliens, a foreign creature behaving naturally in its own environment. But somehow they couldn't replicate the terra ferma concept; it was authentic enough to keep my brain from acknowledging that I was no longer on Earth, but there was a subliminal warning that the ground wasn't cooperating with my footsteps as it should. That, and the beginning stages of frostbite as I tried unsuccessfully to dig through two feet of snow searching for a cache should have clued me in that I was somewhere un-earthly.
I made this trip last March, and the memories still stir a fascination in me that Fiji can't even conjure. As disparaging towards the state as I may seem, I returned last October, this time to Juneau, and I'm determined to visit at least one more Alaskan town before the passes expire. I'll be employing the services of my shrink friend any day now.
Merry Christmas, fellow bloggers and bloggees. Hasn't this been a crazy year? I hope that those of you that read this celebrated the joy of traveling sometime this year, even if it was a simple overnight road trip. There is something about exploring this big, bold, beautiful world that fills us with appreciation for creation, for humanity, for adventure, for discovering the unknown, and ultimately for the home and family we get to return to. Please send me a short snippet of the most meaningful travel experience you had this year. And, if by the infrequency of my postings you think I've been allowing dust to settle on my carry-on, think again. This year I was blessed with amazing experiences in Dominican Republic (where I rang in 2009), Puerto Rico, Baltimore, DC, Alaska (both Nome and Juneau -- why am I so strangely attracted to that cold, forsaken place?), Victoria BC, Seattle, Spokane, Moaning Caverns, San Diego multiple times, Portland, Rhode Island, Monterey, Vegas; I think that's most of it. So here is my early New Years resolution: I will have a new posting every week. Maybe by traveling less next year - the passes are about to expire - I'll be forced to relive this year's memories to keep the travel bug alive. Ok, quit laughing, you're thinking what I'm thinking. There's no way I'll be happy to live in the past. I've already got a running list of new destinations for 2010, even if it takes paying for a ticket! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Hail Mary, full of grace...that's all I know.
Ok, so I'm not a big fan of crabcakes. They were probably very good ones, the ones I ordered at Shuckers at Fell's Point, but trying to eat both fist-sized cakes after an order of
calamari might not have been the best way to appreciate them. I was too mesmerized with the view of the sunset over Chesapeake Bay to really care at that point. The retiring sun was painting merciless hues of red and orange behind silhouettes of schooners, sailboats, and other assorted maritime majestics. Plus the miles of power walking around Baltimore's Inner Harbour area had left me too hungry to be picky. And most importantly, I had a game plan for dessert: Meli Patisserie and Restaurant. My Napoleon was so incredibly sinful, I just might have to learn the words to Hail Mary to ease my conscience. I was so excited when the waitress served my dessert and coffee ('Meli' was written in chocolate script on the dessert plate) that I literally dumped my creamer pitcher all over the table in my efforts to take a picture of the masterpiece. Of course, that didn't stop me from getting a to-go dessert later on that evening after the Ghost Tour.
The tour itself was one of the best ones I've been on. Since that entailed being outside for an hour and a half in 40ish degree weather, you know that's quite an endorsement from me. The guide, sticking to her Colonial character, accent and all, had just the right balance of humor, historical education, and creeps-ville stories. She was a bit sadistic; because of the mass graves (immigrants that didn't make it to the Promise Land on the coffin ships) under the cobbled streets, she made us hold hands as we walked across. Four grownups holding hands like kindergartners. If that doesn't get you funny looks from the pub patrons, then you might be in Vegas.
calamari might not have been the best way to appreciate them. I was too mesmerized with the view of the sunset over Chesapeake Bay to really care at that point. The retiring sun was painting merciless hues of red and orange behind silhouettes of schooners, sailboats, and other assorted maritime majestics. Plus the miles of power walking around Baltimore's Inner Harbour area had left me too hungry to be picky. And most importantly, I had a game plan for dessert: Meli Patisserie and Restaurant. My Napoleon was so incredibly sinful, I just might have to learn the words to Hail Mary to ease my conscience. I was so excited when the waitress served my dessert and coffee ('Meli' was written in chocolate script on the dessert plate) that I literally dumped my creamer pitcher all over the table in my efforts to take a picture of the masterpiece. Of course, that didn't stop me from getting a to-go dessert later on that evening after the Ghost Tour.
The tour itself was one of the best ones I've been on. Since that entailed being outside for an hour and a half in 40ish degree weather, you know that's quite an endorsement from me. The guide, sticking to her Colonial character, accent and all, had just the right balance of humor, historical education, and creeps-ville stories. She was a bit sadistic; because of the mass graves (immigrants that didn't make it to the Promise Land on the coffin ships) under the cobbled streets, she made us hold hands as we walked across. Four grownups holding hands like kindergartners. If that doesn't get you funny looks from the pub patrons, then you might be in Vegas.
TWA 800
"Ah sho am glahd ah droave heyah on tha freewayah," he says in a Southern accent as thick as the gravy on any decent Southerners biscuits. We're walking a loose circle around the amazingly reconstructed TWA-800 fuselage situated in the NTSB's training center in Ashburn, VA. I've never appreciated how perilously thin the metal skin is that separates airline passengers from atmospheric pressure at 35,000 feet. I almost think twice when boarding my flight home at the end of the week. Well, not really. I'm in a class of mostly medical professionals - forensic anthropologists, medical examiners, coroners, NTSB mass disaster response agents, even an FBI agent. We're reviewing ad noseum how to (VERY CAREFULLY)sort through the rubble and debris of various disaster scenes to locate, retrieve, and identify human remains, in both associated and disassociated states. And I don't mean 'states' as in America's United. Two and a half days of slide after slide of airplane crash sites, WTC scenes, mass grave sites, nature's after-math destruction, multi-car crashes, even a presentation of University of Mercyhurst's summer class that explodes a car filled with pig carcasses to study the dispersion of debris, both biological and non. These amazing people live in a realm of death's certainty, and the accompanying pain of the residual living that are trying to cope with extreme loss. These people see in blood-and-guts detail just how calamitous our various means of transportation can be. And yet they probably burn more miles of asphalt and rack up more frequent-flier points in a month than I have this past peripatetic year. So for those of you who are particularly fearful of flying .... if these professionals have confidence in the airways, so should you. At the very least, recline your seat comfortably, adjust your little neck pillow and sleep well knowing that if the plane does go down in a fabulously explosive crash, some of the most dedicated and compassionate professionals will be piecing you back together again.
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