Bon Voyage

Today has been a long time coming, plain and simple.

A few months ago I decided it would be supremely cool if, for my 50th birthday (which just happens to fall on St. Patrick's Day,) I went overseas to celebrate actually in Ireland, because really, how many opportunities does one ever get to mark a half-century of life in the land of one's forebears--never mind on the ultimate Irish holiday (well, at least in America)?

The more I thought about it, the more exciting it sounded, particularly because it would offer me a change to go and learn more about my ancestry in the places where it began.  Didn't hurt that I've been hoarding frequent flyer miles for years for just such a trip.  Problem was, as with so much in life, there was always something else coming up to delay my journey.  First I had to wait till my house in Georgia sold.  Then April was crazy.  Then we were moving the girlie to New York for an internship.  Then I was painting all over the house in a desperate frenzy to get it finished and over with.  Then we were moving the girlie back from NY and then into her campus housing, and, and, and.

No doubt all these postponements would have continued indefinitely had I not needed to fit the trip in by mid-September or wait till next year rolled around, which would no longer make it the epic birthday trip it was intended to be.  What I ultimately realized is that you can't just wait till things are perfect...till you're ready.  If we waited till we were ready for something, we'd be waiting till the end of time, whether to have kids, to buy a car or a house, to take up fan dancing or naked Tetris, or to lose that last 20 lbs.  That's just not how life works--at least that's not how it usually works for me. 

So I purchased my ticket and prepared to set off even though I would not have a chance to lose the weight I gained back during the last year of stress and moving and chaos.  I would not have a chance to get back into a regular workout routine to guarantee that I'd have the stamina and energy to do all the walking I'd need to do.  I wouldn't have a chance to get as much prep or planning done in advance as I'd like because of juggling all the girlie's moving (never mind completing my painting).  Honestly, I might as well have been tossing around New Year's resolutions like Mardi Gras beads for all good my excuses were ever going to do in getting me to my goal.   Frankly, sometimes you just have to throw all the fears and concerns out the window and just go for it. 

Now I know what you're going to say--50 seems a little old to be gallivanting off to Europe to find oneself.  Perhaps it is. But it's only been a couple of years since I found my birth mother and so having access to my own genealogy is still a major novelty and one I could spend untold months traipsing around Europe exploring if only I could locate the pot of gold at the end of my St. Patrick's Day rainbow to fund it. But minor details.  Personally, I'm decided to place this little jaunt in the "better late than never" category and run with it.

As a result, I spent the last 48 hours running around like a chihuahua on speed trying to get everything done before flying out this evening.  I must have packed and repacked my carry-on bag 5 times in an effort to pare down my belongings to a more manageable quantity for my 14-day excursion.  No doubt I'll regret some of my choices, but it is what it is.  I was sorry to leave behind the spiffy new camera I got earlier this year, but I just couldn't justify finding room for the large padded bag when half my trip was going to involve spending time in dusty archives where I likely wouldn't be allowed to snap photos anyway.  But I did manage to acquire a small point and shoot camera to augment my iPhone camera as a compromise.  I mean, it's still England.  Pictures are not really optional.

This eyesore is really my own fault for joking that I needed to see a Pope bobblehead before he could visit Philly.

In a rare turn of events, I made it to the airport well ahead of time and even passed through security unmolested, in spite of the metal buttons on my shorts. Still, it's me, and that pretty much guarantees there's going to be a snag somewhere.  This time it was the security and assorted airport staff all insisting that my carry-on would have to be checked (even though it's never been a problem before) because it was 'too fat in front.'  Sigh.  I went over to some seating and yanked out the extra duffel bag I'd prepacked figuring I could rearrange my belongings so I could check the duffel if necessary while keeping the important stuff in my newly-compressed carry-on.  The baggage clerk at Delta told me it would be fine, but still made me shove consolidate my laptop bag inside the duffel so I would only have two items with me in the cabin.  Pre-security still got pissy with me about the bag, but I got the bag through the security scanners just fine and no one at the Delta gate even gave it a second glance.  Suck it, Security!  However, on my way to the gate I noticed the duffel bag was tearing at the strap and that I was likely minutes away from my laptop falling out and crashing to the floor.  Of course. So I went back to the main concourse to locate a replacement.  I found a tote with an obnoxiously large pink flower on it (because that's so my style) for around $50.  Airport extortion as usual, but still vastly preferable to spending a couple hundred bucks fora second carry-on bag.  Because karma has a brutal sense of humor, moments later I passed another shop with a duffel bag I'd originally missed hidden on a shelf for $20 less.  Naturally.  Regardless, the impending crisis was averted, so I guess that's all that really matters.

That can't be good.

Yeah...because I'm such a neon pink Hibiscus kind of girl.

Once at the gate I was held up by my passport, which it took them three tries to verify because I'd already checked in at home.  I can only assume they were going for the 'third time's a charm' motif.  I boarded and spent the next 30 minutes bobbing up and down like a fishing lure while my seatmates, two older ladies, kept needing to get up and dig through their luggage for one thing or another.  No sooner had everyone finally settled than an airline official came over with new tickets and informed the ladies that their seats were being changed to first class (without me!!) so they could keep a mother and child together.  So I got up again.  My fellow passengers were all trying to catch my eye to give me a WTF? look or the inevitable rolled eye.  And when exactly did all the transatlantic planes become so small?  The last time I flew to Europe there was a separate first, business, and coach class with 8 seats deployed across coach.  This plane only had the usual 6 seats across and didn't look big enough to go across the street, much less the ocean.  But I digress.

My new seatmates were a young mother with epic Scary Spice hair (of which I was wildly jealous) and her young daughter who had a cute British accent rendered in the deep, husky voice of an 80-year-old lifelong smoker.  She seemed pretty well-behaved though, so I had no complaints.

We settled in once again, only to be told that instead of leaving 10 minutes early as planned, we were going to be delayed while some potential mechanical problem was checked out...because that's just what you want to hear before spending several hours over an open ocean.  Ultimately it turned out to be nothing; I presume Penny just left her check engine light on again.  We finally took off around 7:15, nearly an hour late, but I was on my way overseas at last, some 6 months after my birthday.  But who cares--let the adventures begin!!

Bon Voyage

Today has been a long time coming, plain and simple.

A few months ago I decided it would be supremely cool if, for my 50th birthday (which just happens to fall on St. Patrick's Day,) I went overseas to celebrate actually in Ireland, because really, how many opportunities does one ever get to mark a half-century of life in the land of one's forebears--never mind on the ultimate Irish holiday (well, at least in America)?

The more I thought about it, the more exciting it sounded, particularly because it would offer me a change to go and learn more about my ancestry in the places where it began.  Didn't hurt that I've been hoarding frequent flyer miles for years for just such a trip.  Problem was, as with so much in life, there was always something else coming up to delay my journey.  First I had to wait till my house in Georgia sold.  Then April was crazy.  Then we were moving the girlie to New York for an internship.  Then I was painting all over the house in a desperate frenzy to get it finished and over with.  Then we were moving the girlie back from NY and then into her campus housing, and, and, and.

No doubt all these postponements would have continued indefinitely had I not needed to fit the trip in by mid-September or wait till next year rolled around, which would no longer make it the epic birthday trip it was intended to be.  What I ultimately realized is that you can't just wait till things are perfect...till you're ready.  If we waited till we were ready for something, we'd be waiting till the end of time, whether to have kids, to buy a car or a house, to take up fan dancing or naked Tetris, or to lose that last 20 lbs.  That's just not how life works--at least that's not how it usually works for me. 

So I purchased my ticket and prepared to set off even though I would not have a chance to lose the weight I gained back during the last year of stress and moving and chaos.  I would not have a chance to get back into a regular workout routine to guarantee that I'd have the stamina and energy to do all the walking I'd need to do.  I wouldn't have a chance to get as much prep or planning done in advance as I'd like because of juggling all the girlie's moving (never mind completing my painting).  Honestly, I might as well have been tossing around New Year's resolutions like Mardi Gras beads for all good my excuses were ever going to do in getting me to my goal.   Frankly, sometimes you just have to throw all the fears and concerns out the window and just go for it. 

Now I know what you're going to say--50 seems a little old to be gallivanting off to Europe to find oneself.  Perhaps it is. But it's only been a couple of years since I found my birth mother and so having access to my own genealogy is still a major novelty and one I could spend untold months traipsing around Europe exploring if only I could locate the pot of gold at the end of my St. Patrick's Day rainbow to fund it. But minor details.  Personally, I'm decided to place this little jaunt in the "better late than never" category and run with it.

As a result, I spent the last 48 hours running around like a chihuahua on speed trying to get everything done before flying out this evening.  I must have packed and repacked my carry-on bag 5 times in an effort to pare down my belongings to a more manageable quantity for my 14-day excursion.  No doubt I'll regret some of my choices, but it is what it is.  I was sorry to leave behind the spiffy new camera I got earlier this year, but I just couldn't justify finding room for the large padded bag when half my trip was going to involve spending time in dusty archives where I likely wouldn't be allowed to snap photos anyway.  But I did manage to acquire a small point and shoot camera to augment my iPhone camera as a compromise.  I mean, it's still England.  Pictures are not really optional.

This eyesore is really my own fault for joking that I needed to see a Pope bobblehead before he could visit Philly.

In a rare turn of events, I made it to the airport well ahead of time and even passed through security unmolested, in spite of the metal buttons on my shorts. Still, it's me, and that pretty much guarantees there's going to be a snag somewhere.  This time it was the security and assorted airport staff all insisting that my carry-on would have to be checked (even though it's never been a problem before) because it was 'too fat in front.'  Sigh.  I went over to some seating and yanked out the extra duffel bag I'd prepacked figuring I could rearrange my belongings so I could check the duffel if necessary while keeping the important stuff in my newly-compressed carry-on.  The baggage clerk at Delta told me it would be fine, but still made me shove consolidate my laptop bag inside the duffel so I would only have two items with me in the cabin.  Pre-security still got pissy with me about the bag, but I got the bag through the security scanners just fine and no one at the Delta gate even gave it a second glance.  Suck it, Security!  However, on my way to the gate I noticed the duffel bag was tearing at the strap and that I was likely minutes away from my laptop falling out and crashing to the floor.  Of course. So I went back to the main concourse to locate a replacement.  I found a tote with an obnoxiously large pink flower on it (because that's so my style) for around $50.  Airport extortion as usual, but still vastly preferable to spending a couple hundred bucks fora second carry-on bag.  Because karma has a brutal sense of humor, moments later I passed another shop with a duffel bag I'd originally missed hidden on a shelf for $20 less.  Naturally.  Regardless, the impending crisis was averted, so I guess that's all that really matters.

That can't be good.

Yeah...because I'm such a neon pink Hibiscus kind of girl.

Once at the gate I was held up by my passport, which it took them three tries to verify because I'd already checked in at home.  I can only assume they were going for the 'third time's a charm' motif.  I boarded and spent the next 30 minutes bobbing up and down like a fishing lure while my seatmates, two older ladies, kept needing to get up and dig through their luggage for one thing or another.  No sooner had everyone finally settled than an airline official came over with new tickets and informed the ladies that their seats were being changed to first class (without me!!) so they could keep a mother and child together.  So I got up again.  My fellow passengers were all trying to catch my eye to give me a WTF? look or the inevitable rolled eye.  And when exactly did all the transatlantic planes become so small?  The last time I flew to Europe there was a separate first, business, and coach class with 8 seats deployed across coach.  This plane only had the usual 6 seats across and didn't look big enough to go across the street, much less the ocean.  But I digress.

My new seatmates were a young mother with epic Scary Spice hair (of which I was wildly jealous) and her young daughter who had a cute British accent rendered in the deep, husky voice of an 80-year-old lifelong smoker.  She seemed pretty well-behaved though, so I had no complaints.

We settled in once again, only to be told that instead of leaving 10 minutes early as planned, we were going to be delayed while some potential mechanical problem was checked out...because that's just what you want to hear before spending several hours over an open ocean.  Ultimately it turned out to be nothing; I presume Penny just left her check engine light on again.  We finally took off around 7:15, nearly an hour late, but I was on my way overseas at last, some 6 months after my birthday.  But who cares--let the adventures begin!!

I Don't Think That Word 'Adventure' Means What You Think It Means

For most people, travel is an adventure.  Seeing new places, trying new things, and learning about different cultures is exciting.  I'm no different...I love all those things too and wish I could spend every day exploring the world and squeezing out every ounce of life and joy and discovery it has to offer.  The problem is that I tend to have as much or more adventure just trying to get to my intended destinations than when I'm actually there.  While I've never had a truly traumatic trip anywhere, the fact remains that something still manages to happen nearly every time I go anywhere near an airport. The cumulative effect makes me look like Pigpen from Charlie Brown, only surrounded by a cloud of disgruntled TSA agents rather than one of dirt.

You know you're hearing the theme song right now.
( Image © Charles Schultz)

This past weekend was no different.   The plan was to fly to Georgia for a big SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) event on Saturday to support two dear friends who were heavily involved in the event.  In spite of carefully planning how much time I needed to allow for check-in, I still nearly missed my flight--in part because the economy parking lot is located in approximately Luxembourg (which I didn't realize in advance, this being my first time to park at the Philly airport), and because of a slight delay while TSA felt up my ankle to make sure my sock and airport pants were not packing tiny AK-47s.

After running OJ Simpson-style--complete with untied sneakers--to my gate at the very end of the concourse, I arrived just in time to board.  There I soon discovered that my Delta "Comfort+" aisle seat was neither comfortable nor plus.  I settled in as best I could, only to spend the next 15 minutes getting whacked in the head and shoulder by an endless parade of baggage like some sort of ginger piñata. Seated next to me was Hoggy McHoggerson, who had already selfishly commandeered both armrests before I arrived.  Hoggy proceeded to spend the entire flight with his elbows digging into both me and his other seat-mate while he happily snored away, oblivious to our discomfort. Once everyone was seated, we watched an unexpectedly amusing safety video full of sight gags and snarky humor (my favorite!); for example, we were ordered not to smoke on the flight, which caused an apron-clad guy sitting in a plane seat and holding a steak on his leg to slam down the lid of a smoker grill in the aisle in disgust.

Guess which one was me?

In spite of a late curbside bag check, my suitcase managed to make it onto the flight, though the brand-new address tag with updated info I'd just put on it hours before was mysteriously missing.  Hopefully it just got torn off in transit rather than stolen by some creepy dude collecting addresses.  I grabbed my bag off the carousel and went to collect my rental car.  Alamo tried to shaft me with a compact car instead of the mid-size I'd paid for, but the garage clerk was cool about it and directed me to pick from a long line of silver, red, and white cars.  So naturally I found the single blue vehicle hiding behind the others and quickly grabbed it (red clashes with my hair). After adjusting all the mirrors and such, I messaged some friends in the off-chance one could meet me for dinner en route to my hotel. As expected, none could join me, though one said I might be able to assist another friend and told me to stay near the phone.  Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself "I'm currently doing 70 mph down Hwy 20 in Atlanta...how far away from my phone could I possibly go?"  She messaged back all the details and the next thing I knew, I was barreling down the highway towards Joann Fabrics in a Hail Mary attempt to acquire quilt binding before the store closed so this other friend could finish a garment for Saturday's festivities.  I arrived a few minutes after closing but luckily managed to slide in and purchase the required trim before the door was locked.  Quite pleased with my successful conquest, I then went across the street to grab a very late meal at O'Charley's, one of my favorite restaurants and one which is sadly non-existent in the northeast.

I was bound to succeed.  (See what I did there?)

After dinner, things began to get really interesting.  I tried to contact my friends to ask if they wanted their trim that night, but the location of the event was in a rather isolated state park with very poor cell reception and I couldn't reach them.  So I made the executive decision to go anyway, driving past my hotel to deliver said trim.  When I got to the state park I found a big gate rolled across the road to prevent entry after 10 pm.  I may have uttered one or two terms of sailorish vocabulary displeasure.  Then I thought, "Well, I can just walk to the campground, deliver the trim, and make somebody drive me back up to the gate afterwards."  I walked around for 5-10 minutes, decided absolutely nothing looked familiar, then headed back to my car.  Unable to get a strong GPS signal or double-check the address online, I drove all around the state park trying to find the correct campground, eventually ending up right back where I'd started--in front of that big-ass gate.  I sighed, got out of the car, and proceeded to walk around the gate and down the hill towards the campground to find my friends.

To complicate matters, it was raining (and apparently had been for several days); the warm spring weather and heavy, misty rain created a deep and eerie fog which encompassed the entire state park.  Also, as in most state parks, there wasn't much in the way of ambient lighting at night so between the rain and the fog and the remoteness of the location, my surroundings were pitch black...and I do mean black.   I couldn't see squat, which might explain why it was so difficult to get my bearings.

Where movie co-eds go to DIE.

With nothing but a sad little travel umbrella, spotty GPS, and my iPhone flashlight to keep me company, I walked about a mile down the road looking for the event campground only to come out by some cottages overlooking a lake.  Unfortunately, the relevant campground does not overlook a lake...that would have been too easy.  So I turned around and started the long hike (mostly uphill) back to my car.  As I walked in the silky darkness and incessant rain I kept thinking to myself that it was a damn good thing I don't scare easily since my current situation was a Friday the 13th movie just waiting to happen. Oh, and did I mention?  I was doing this late at night...because walking all alone around a very dark, very secluded park's woods in the rain and fog at midnight seems like a sensible thing for a woman to be doing, right?

Meanwhile, the next day one of my oh-so-helpful friends informed me that, as it happens, Friday the 13th VI: Jason Lives actually WAS filmed in that very state park right around where I was walking...in pitch blackness...at midnight...alone.  So were the movies Poison Ivy and Little Darlings.  Turns out she worked at the park back when those were being filmed.  Only I would be ridiculous enough to channel a horror movie in the exact same location where said horror movie was filmed.  That's just how I roll.  Yup.

"Oh, Gingerrrrrrrrrrr..."

Needless to say, I made it back to my little TARDIS-blue Volkswagen Jetta without being assaulted by any random hockey mask-wearing dudes. Giving up the whole enterprise as a bad job, I headed back to my hotel to check in.  There I found the doors locked and a sign up that read "No Vacancy."  A couple more colorful epithets may have escaped my lips...possibly...okay, probably.  I rang a doorbell to call the desk clerk to let me in, learned that my room was still waiting on me (phew!), and was even given a much-needed bottle of water for free.  I went upstairs to shower off the sweat and the rain (because clearly I needed more water pouring over me), only to find that the sliding shower doors were stuck.  Eventually I got one jammed door shifted enough in its track to open the other door so I could get in the shower.  Afterwards, I got on my laptop to check my messages quickly before going to bed, only to discover that it had picked up a virus and was busy popping up windows and downloading random programs as fast as I could delete them like some syphilitic 18th century prostitute.  Exhausted and lacking the requisite cybercillin, I slammed the lid shut and went to sleep.

No more computer viruses for me!

The next morning I finally located the correct campground, trim in hand. In spite of the 4-hour sewing extravaganza that ensued, during which I applied the binding I'd plundered to one garment and helped yet another friend finish an outfit of her own in a wildly unrealistic time frame, the rest of the day was calm and I had an absolutely wonderful time visiting with and catching up with my besties all weekend.  Lots of food, fun, and laughter (and also a few tears) were involved, and I even received some excellent swag:  A brilliantly badass friend gave me a book on dressing Italian Renaissance-style, another lovely friend gave me a sweet little green shoulder shawl she'd knitted ("I thought it would go with your hair"); I plan on pinning it together with a broach and running around everywhere pretending to be the kickass Claire Fraser, who has a hot ginger Scot waiting for me her at home.  Yet another dear friend made me a knitted crown so I can now be a self-rescuing princess, which is especially useful since the chances of me ever getting a crown in the SCA are about as likely as my freckles growing together into a permanent tan.  But I'm okay with that.

As anticipated, my trip home was not without its own bumpy ride--literally.  Monday morning I stopped at a few favorite shops in town before heading to the airport amid dark and stormy skies which the radio informed me were because of a tornado warning in the north part of Atlanta.   However, the airport is to the south of the city, so I arrived without major incident.  After returning my rental car (bye, pretty blue Jetta!), I headed into the always-crowded terminal of the Hartsfield-Jackson airport.  I quickly checked my bag but had to wait quite a while in the security line, primarily because of the doofus in front of me.  By the time I was able to leave the herd of people in line and shuffle up to the actual security scanners, the doofus, moving slow as Christmas in molasses, had divested his belongings into 4 different grey bins (most people use one or two), not counting an enormously over-stuffed black backpack.

Next his royal doofiness decided he needed to bypass all the body scanners for a personal pat down, only to get yelled at for forgetting to remove his belt first.  I escaped through the scatter scanner while they were bellowing for a male agent to come and feel him up.  For once I didn't set the scanner off, in spite of the metal brads on my jeans or wearing the exact same sock brand that nailed me on the previous trip.  While I collected my things, zipped up my laptop bag, and put on my shoes another agent yanked aside the doofus' big black backpack and my paper bag containing the jelly beans and fudge I'd purchased on my way out of town (as well as a necklace, pair of earrings, and my tablet).

The TSA agent asked if the bag was mine; thinking she had said "flat bag," meaning my paper one, I said yes.  Apparently she had meant the doofus' backpack and proceeded to get pissy with me because I'd said it was mine then said it wasn't. When I apologized for mishearing her and tried to explain my error, she got even more pissy and defensive to boot.  Presumably she thought I was in league with the doofus and trying to pull a fast one...I don't know.  At any rate, she put up her hand to shut me up and forced herself to shake off my verbal assault argument explanation (apologies can be so offensive), then grabbed the doof's backpack and started digging slowly through it.  She plopped aside big wads of dirty clothing (have some pride, dude--fold your crap), then tossed a grocery bag of dirty socks and undies in front of me.  I confess to being secretly glad she had to put all the guy's nasties back in his sack when her pitch made them fall out.  Next the agent pulled out three boxes of Schlage door locks--the kind with the combination buttons instead of a keyed lock.  At this point my friendly neighborhood doofus started getting twitchy; he tensely asked the agent if she had to open the boxes because he "wouldn't be able to sell them if the cardboard was damaged."  Since, you know, Home Depot never has dented boxes ever.  You'd have thought those boxes were filled with meth or state secrets the way this guy was sweating and fidgeting.  Meanwhile, the agent looked at him like he'd grown an extra couple of heads, barked out "YES" and proceeded to break open the tape seal with her pen.  Three boxes later she was satisfied the contents were indeed door locks, then set them aside to swab his suitcase with one of those little PH paper terrorist test strips, walking three aisles over to get the results...naturally.

By this point I was starting to twitch because this ludicrous charade was taking forever and I was about to be late for my plane yet again.  What made it worse was knowing that my bag would have taken approximately 90 seconds to check, but I still had to wait the 20 or so minutes for her to deconstruct Sir Doof's bag first.  Finally she finished and started to pile his clothes back into the backpack, at which point the doof tries to reach over to help her so he can pack it the way he wants.  The agent freaked.  That little move nearly got him arrested for trying to breach the sanctified air around a government official's table...I mean, how dare he interfere with an official government investigation by overly-enthusiastic TSA officials??  Also, and I say this with love, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING BRINGING 3 BOXES OF SUSPICIOUS-LOOKING METAL BOXES WITH COMBINATION/DETONATOR BUTTONS THROUGH SECURITY??  Seriously, dude--WTF???

Once he backed away, the agent shoved his bag aside while he received the TSA Grope Special™("all the junk-touching with none of the dinner or movie").  Instead of immediately getting my bag to inspect next, the agent meandered over to the line to stack up a bunch of discarded bins, chat with her colleagues, pick up a couple more bins, and finally bother to pull my paper bag over to the inspection table.  You'd almost think she was dawdling to punish me for disagreeing with her earlier.  The agent set aside my tablet, poked suspiciously at the jelly beans (they might have been made of explosive cherry gel, you know), then pulled out the box of fudge to examine more closely even though it had the name of a well-known candy vendor on it.  Because terrorism.  She opened the box, inhaled the chocolatey goodness, and ultimately decided perhaps it wasn't candied plutonium after all.  She put the box back in my now-torn sack, pushed it at me, and said I could go.  The jewelry boxes she never even opened...apparently fudge is way more threatening than metal objects.

Weapon of Mass Confection
Also? Best. Fudge. Ever.

Sometimes I wonder if TSA has my picture, emblazoned with an admonition for agents to screw around with me, posted in various airports around the country.  When I mentioned this, one of my friends suggested it's because I have an IRA dopplegänger somewhere stirring up trouble.  Another friend suggested maybe it's a redheaded prejudice thing (and people wonder why I have a hate-hate relationship with TSA).  All I know is that it's always something, every damn time.  I have no idea what the deal is, but I would like for it to stop.  I just want to fly in peace.  Is that really so much to ask?

After the very time-consuming Doofus Debacle, I jumped on the tram and once again zipped down the concourse to my distant gate, pausing only to use the bathroom and grab a bottle of water and a quick burger from 5 Guys, as well as to waste another 5 minutes explaining the meaning of the word "schlep" to a cashier ("Schlup?"  "Schlap?"  "Ohhhhh--Schloop??") who was just fascinated to learn a new word. I reached my gate and wolfed down the burger just before boarding began.  This time my seat was farther back in steerage with the rest of the serfs, and was significantly more comfortable than the Comfort+ seat I'd paid a couple of extra bucks for to avoid sitting on top of the engines last time; somehow that just seems wrong.  My seat-mates were quiet and nonintrusive college girls who allowed me to lean away from the baggage going down the aisle so I didn't have turn into a custom Delta bobblehead.  As a result, the flight was much more pleasant than my previous one, at least until we hit some major turbulence near Philadelphia, which also happened to be under a tornado watch.  Perhaps I should change my name to "Ginger Stormbringer, Terror of TSA."

Don't screw with me, TSA...I have a crown and I'm not afraid to use it.
(That goes for you, too, Jason.)

Still, I wouldn't change a thing in spite of torn tags or tornados or TSA trials because it means I got to see my "sisters from other misters"--women who love and support me unconditionally, even after only knowing me a scant four years.  Women whom I likewise love and support, and for whom I would even traipse around undead serial killer-infested woods at midnight...because that's real friendship right there. Right?  RIGHT??

I Don't Think That Word 'Adventure' Means What You Think It Means

For most people, travel is an adventure.  Seeing new places, trying new things, and learning about different cultures is exciting.  I'm no different...I love all those things too and wish I could spend every day exploring the world and squeezing out every ounce of life and joy and discovery it has to offer.  The problem is that I tend to have as much or more adventure just trying to get to my intended destinations than when I'm actually there.  While I've never had a truly traumatic trip anywhere, the fact remains that something still manages to happen nearly every time I go anywhere near an airport. The cumulative effect makes me look like Pigpen from Charlie Brown, only surrounded by a cloud of disgruntled TSA agents rather than one of dirt.

You know you're hearing the theme song right now.
( Image © Charles Schultz)

This past weekend was no different.   The plan was to fly to Georgia for a big SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) event on Saturday to support two dear friends who were heavily involved in the event.  In spite of carefully planning how much time I needed to allow for check-in, I still nearly missed my flight--in part because the economy parking lot is located in approximately Luxembourg (which I didn't realize in advance, this being my first time to park at the Philly airport), and because of a slight delay while TSA felt up my ankle to make sure my sock and airport pants were not packing tiny AK-47s.

After running OJ Simpson-style--complete with untied sneakers--to my gate at the very end of the concourse, I arrived just in time to board.  There I soon discovered that my Delta "Comfort+" aisle seat was neither comfortable nor plus.  I settled in as best I could, only to spend the next 15 minutes getting whacked in the head and shoulder by an endless parade of baggage like some sort of ginger piñata. Seated next to me was Hoggy McHoggerson, who had already selfishly commandeered both armrests before I arrived.  Hoggy proceeded to spend the entire flight with his elbows digging into both me and his other seat-mate while he happily snored away, oblivious to our discomfort. Once everyone was seated, we watched an unexpectedly amusing safety video full of sight gags and snarky humor (my favorite!); for example, we were ordered not to smoke on the flight, which caused an apron-clad guy sitting in a plane seat and holding a steak on his leg to slam down the lid of a smoker grill in the aisle in disgust.

Guess which one was me?

In spite of a late curbside bag check, my suitcase managed to make it onto the flight, though the brand-new address tag with updated info I'd just put on it hours before was mysteriously missing.  Hopefully it just got torn off in transit rather than stolen by some creepy dude collecting addresses.  I grabbed my bag off the carousel and went to collect my rental car.  Alamo tried to shaft me with a compact car instead of the mid-size I'd paid for, but the garage clerk was cool about it and directed me to pick from a long line of silver, red, and white cars.  So naturally I found the single blue vehicle hiding behind the others and quickly grabbed it (red clashes with my hair). After adjusting all the mirrors and such, I messaged some friends in the off-chance one could meet me for dinner en route to my hotel. As expected, none could join me, though one said I might be able to assist another friend and told me to stay near the phone.  Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself "I'm currently doing 70 mph down Hwy 20 in Atlanta...how far away from my phone could I possibly go?"  She messaged back all the details and the next thing I knew, I was barreling down the highway towards Joann Fabrics in a Hail Mary attempt to acquire quilt binding before the store closed so this other friend could finish a garment for Saturday's festivities.  I arrived a few minutes after closing but luckily managed to slide in and purchase the required trim before the door was locked.  Quite pleased with my successful conquest, I then went across the street to grab a very late meal at O'Charley's, one of my favorite restaurants and one which is sadly non-existent in the northeast.

I was bound to succeed.  (See what I did there?)

After dinner, things began to get really interesting.  I tried to contact my friends to ask if they wanted their trim that night, but the location of the event was in a rather isolated state park with very poor cell reception and I couldn't reach them.  So I made the executive decision to go anyway, driving past my hotel to deliver said trim.  When I got to the state park I found a big gate rolled across the road to prevent entry after 10 pm.  I may have uttered one or two terms of sailorish vocabulary displeasure.  Then I thought, "Well, I can just walk to the campground, deliver the trim, and make somebody drive me back up to the gate afterwards."  I walked around for 5-10 minutes, decided absolutely nothing looked familiar, then headed back to my car.  Unable to get a strong GPS signal or double-check the address online, I drove all around the state park trying to find the correct campground, eventually ending up right back where I'd started--in front of that big-ass gate.  I sighed, got out of the car, and proceeded to walk around the gate and down the hill towards the campground to find my friends.

To complicate matters, it was raining (and apparently had been for several days); the warm spring weather and heavy, misty rain created a deep and eerie fog which encompassed the entire state park.  Also, as in most state parks, there wasn't much in the way of ambient lighting at night so between the rain and the fog and the remoteness of the location, my surroundings were pitch black...and I do mean black.   I couldn't see squat, which might explain why it was so difficult to get my bearings.

Where movie co-eds go to DIE.

With nothing but a sad little travel umbrella, spotty GPS, and my iPhone flashlight to keep me company, I walked about a mile down the road looking for the event campground only to come out by some cottages overlooking a lake.  Unfortunately, the relevant campground does not overlook a lake...that would have been too easy.  So I turned around and started the long hike (mostly uphill) back to my car.  As I walked in the silky darkness and incessant rain I kept thinking to myself that it was a damn good thing I don't scare easily since my current situation was a Friday the 13th movie just waiting to happen. Oh, and did I mention?  I was doing this late at night...because walking all alone around a very dark, very secluded park's woods in the rain and fog at midnight seems like a sensible thing for a woman to be doing, right?

Meanwhile, the next day one of my oh-so-helpful friends informed me that, as it happens, Friday the 13th VI: Jason Lives actually WAS filmed in that very state park right around where I was walking...in pitch blackness...at midnight...alone.  So were the movies Poison Ivy and Little Darlings.  Turns out she worked at the park back when those were being filmed.  Only I would be ridiculous enough to channel a horror movie in the exact same location where said horror movie was filmed.  That's just how I roll.  Yup.

"Oh, Gingerrrrrrrrrrr..."

Needless to say, I made it back to my little TARDIS-blue Volkswagen Jetta without being assaulted by any random hockey mask-wearing dudes. Giving up the whole enterprise as a bad job, I headed back to my hotel to check in.  There I found the doors locked and a sign up that read "No Vacancy."  A couple more colorful epithets may have escaped my lips...possibly...okay, probably.  I rang a doorbell to call the desk clerk to let me in, learned that my room was still waiting on me (phew!), and was even given a much-needed bottle of water for free.  I went upstairs to shower off the sweat and the rain (because clearly I needed more water pouring over me), only to find that the sliding shower doors were stuck.  Eventually I got one jammed door shifted enough in its track to open the other door so I could get in the shower.  Afterwards, I got on my laptop to check my messages quickly before going to bed, only to discover that it had picked up a virus and was busy popping up windows and downloading random programs as fast as I could delete them like some syphilitic 18th century prostitute.  Exhausted and lacking the requisite cybercillin, I slammed the lid shut and went to sleep.

No more computer viruses for me!

The next morning I finally located the correct campground, trim in hand. In spite of the 4-hour sewing extravaganza that ensued, during which I applied the binding I'd plundered to one garment and helped yet another friend finish an outfit of her own in a wildly unrealistic time frame, the rest of the day was calm and I had an absolutely wonderful time visiting with and catching up with my besties all weekend.  Lots of food, fun, and laughter (and also a few tears) were involved, and I even received some excellent swag:  A brilliantly badass friend gave me a book on dressing Italian Renaissance-style, another lovely friend gave me a sweet little green shoulder shawl she'd knitted ("I thought it would go with your hair"); I plan on pinning it together with a broach and running around everywhere pretending to be the kickass Claire Fraser, who has a hot ginger Scot waiting for me her at home.  Yet another dear friend made me a knitted crown so I can now be a self-rescuing princess, which is especially useful since the chances of me ever getting a crown in the SCA are about as likely as my freckles growing together into a permanent tan.  But I'm okay with that.

As anticipated, my trip home was not without its own bumpy ride--literally.  Monday morning I stopped at a few favorite shops in town before heading to the airport amid dark and stormy skies which the radio informed me were because of a tornado warning in the north part of Atlanta.   However, the airport is to the south of the city, so I arrived without major incident.  After returning my rental car (bye, pretty blue Jetta!), I headed into the always-crowded terminal of the Hartsfield-Jackson airport.  I quickly checked my bag but had to wait quite a while in the security line, primarily because of the doofus in front of me.  By the time I was able to leave the herd of people in line and shuffle up to the actual security scanners, the doofus, moving slow as Christmas in molasses, had divested his belongings into 4 different grey bins (most people use one or two), not counting an enormously over-stuffed black backpack.

Next his royal doofiness decided he needed to bypass all the body scanners for a personal pat down, only to get yelled at for forgetting to remove his belt first.  I escaped through the scatter scanner while they were bellowing for a male agent to come and feel him up.  For once I didn't set the scanner off, in spite of the metal brads on my jeans or wearing the exact same sock brand that nailed me on the previous trip.  While I collected my things, zipped up my laptop bag, and put on my shoes another agent yanked aside the doofus' big black backpack and my paper bag containing the jelly beans and fudge I'd purchased on my way out of town (as well as a necklace, pair of earrings, and my tablet).

The TSA agent asked if the bag was mine; thinking she had said "flat bag," meaning my paper one, I said yes.  Apparently she had meant the doofus' backpack and proceeded to get pissy with me because I'd said it was mine then said it wasn't. When I apologized for mishearing her and tried to explain my error, she got even more pissy and defensive to boot.  Presumably she thought I was in league with the doofus and trying to pull a fast one...I don't know.  At any rate, she put up her hand to shut me up and forced herself to shake off my verbal assault argument explanation (apologies can be so offensive), then grabbed the doof's backpack and started digging slowly through it.  She plopped aside big wads of dirty clothing (have some pride, dude--fold your crap), then tossed a grocery bag of dirty socks and undies in front of me.  I confess to being secretly glad she had to put all the guy's nasties back in his sack when her pitch made them fall out.  Next the agent pulled out three boxes of Schlage door locks--the kind with the combination buttons instead of a keyed lock.  At this point my friendly neighborhood doofus started getting twitchy; he tensely asked the agent if she had to open the boxes because he "wouldn't be able to sell them if the cardboard was damaged."  Since, you know, Home Depot never has dented boxes ever.  You'd have thought those boxes were filled with meth or state secrets the way this guy was sweating and fidgeting.  Meanwhile, the agent looked at him like he'd grown an extra couple of heads, barked out "YES" and proceeded to break open the tape seal with her pen.  Three boxes later she was satisfied the contents were indeed door locks, then set them aside to swab his suitcase with one of those little PH paper terrorist test strips, walking three aisles over to get the results...naturally.

By this point I was starting to twitch because this ludicrous charade was taking forever and I was about to be late for my plane yet again.  What made it worse was knowing that my bag would have taken approximately 90 seconds to check, but I still had to wait the 20 or so minutes for her to deconstruct Sir Doof's bag first.  Finally she finished and started to pile his clothes back into the backpack, at which point the doof tries to reach over to help her so he can pack it the way he wants.  The agent freaked.  That little move nearly got him arrested for trying to breach the sanctified air around a government official's table...I mean, how dare he interfere with an official government investigation by overly-enthusiastic TSA officials??  Also, and I say this with love, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING BRINGING 3 BOXES OF SUSPICIOUS-LOOKING METAL BOXES WITH COMBINATION/DETONATOR BUTTONS THROUGH SECURITY??  Seriously, dude--WTF???

Once he backed away, the agent shoved his bag aside while he received the TSA Grope Special™("all the junk-touching with none of the dinner or movie").  Instead of immediately getting my bag to inspect next, the agent meandered over to the line to stack up a bunch of discarded bins, chat with her colleagues, pick up a couple more bins, and finally bother to pull my paper bag over to the inspection table.  You'd almost think she was dawdling to punish me for disagreeing with her earlier.  The agent set aside my tablet, poked suspiciously at the jelly beans (they might have been made of explosive cherry gel, you know), then pulled out the box of fudge to examine more closely even though it had the name of a well-known candy vendor on it.  Because terrorism.  She opened the box, inhaled the chocolatey goodness, and ultimately decided perhaps it wasn't candied plutonium after all.  She put the box back in my now-torn sack, pushed it at me, and said I could go.  The jewelry boxes she never even opened...apparently fudge is way more threatening than metal objects.

Weapon of Mass Confection
Also? Best. Fudge. Ever.

Sometimes I wonder if TSA has my picture, emblazoned with an admonition for agents to screw around with me, posted in various airports around the country.  When I mentioned this, one of my friends suggested it's because I have an IRA dopplegänger somewhere stirring up trouble.  Another friend suggested maybe it's a redheaded prejudice thing (and people wonder why I have a hate-hate relationship with TSA).  All I know is that it's always something, every damn time.  I have no idea what the deal is, but I would like for it to stop.  I just want to fly in peace.  Is that really so much to ask?

After the very time-consuming Doofus Debacle, I jumped on the tram and once again zipped down the concourse to my distant gate, pausing only to use the bathroom and grab a bottle of water and a quick burger from 5 Guys, as well as to waste another 5 minutes explaining the meaning of the word "schlep" to a cashier ("Schlup?"  "Schlap?"  "Ohhhhh--Schloop??") who was just fascinated to learn a new word. I reached my gate and wolfed down the burger just before boarding began.  This time my seat was farther back in steerage with the rest of the serfs, and was significantly more comfortable than the Comfort+ seat I'd paid a couple of extra bucks for to avoid sitting on top of the engines last time; somehow that just seems wrong.  My seat-mates were quiet and nonintrusive college girls who allowed me to lean away from the baggage going down the aisle so I didn't have turn into a custom Delta bobblehead.  As a result, the flight was much more pleasant than my previous one, at least until we hit some major turbulence near Philadelphia, which also happened to be under a tornado watch.  Perhaps I should change my name to "Ginger Stormbringer, Terror of TSA."

Don't screw with me, TSA...I have a crown and I'm not afraid to use it.
(That goes for you, too, Jason.)

Still, I wouldn't change a thing in spite of torn tags or tornados or TSA trials because it means I got to see my "sisters from other misters"--women who love and support me unconditionally, even after only knowing me a scant four years.  Women whom I likewise love and support, and for whom I would even traipse around undead serial killer-infested woods at midnight...because that's real friendship right there. Right?  RIGHT??

Puttin' on the Ritz

It isn't often that someone offers you a free trip somewhere, much less housing at arguably the swankiest hotel in Philadelphia.  When Drexel called to invite the Spousal Unit for a campus visit, we expected that they would cover his travel.  What we did not expect was that they would also be covering my travel, or that they would be putting us up in the Ritz-Carlton of all places.  Helloooooo, decadence!  It's hard to believe that yesterday morning I was scrubbing my own toilets and yesterday afternoon I was answering emails from the Ritz about how they could "better personalize your service" and, oh, "what would you like in your honor bar?"  Because those two things go together.  But if Drexel wants to schmooze me too, who am I to argue?

Mario the Magnificent, Dragon Extraordinaire.

Our trip this morning started off with a bang--literally.  On the way to the airport, the Spousal Unit and I had to leave early so we could drop the Resident Diva Dog off at the kennel.  As soon as we got there, I opened the door and turned to grab the dog's leash before she could bolt out the door over me in her excitement to examine the calling cards of the innumerable pets who'd been to the parking lot before her.  As I turned to climb out of the car, I promptly slammed my head into the top of the door frame because I possess all the grace of a drunken rhinoceros (think hippos in tutus à la Fantasia).  Still, I figured if I was going to be a head-banger, then I might as well distract myself from the throbbing dent over my ear by composing a little ditty to the tune of I've Been Working On The Railroad:

Mary smacked the car door this morning,
Then Mary muttered loudly, "Ow, ow, ow, ow."
[And by "ow," I mean "string of enthusiastic swearing."]
Mary smacked the car door this morning...
And rung her personal Liberty Bell.

Mary whacked her head,
Mary whacked her head,
Mary whacked her head and swo-o-ore.
Mary whacked her head, 
Mary whacked her head,
And now her scrambled brains are sore.

Ginger Whack-a-Mole

And because I didn't want to forget these things so I could blog about them later (since that's what I frequently do and why I've been so bad about writing lately), I started dictating them into the notes app on my phone, which resulted in the Spousal Unit looking at me like I had perhaps done more damage to my head than he first thought.  On the one hand, he should be used to such things by now.  On the other hand, it's payback for forgettingto bring his CPAP machine, which basically means that now I'm going to be spending two sleepless nights in a swish Philadelphia hotel while he makes objectionable noises that I can only equate to the sounds a velociraptor might make if it were attempting to mate with a cement mixer filled with hardened chunks of concrete and a pre-oiled Tin Man.

On the plus side, because we had to get the dog to the kennel when we did, we arrived at the airport much earlier than usual, allowing plenty of time to cruise through the interminable security lines and checkpoints.  As usual, the Spousal Unit escaped the TSA Glove of Love™, while I was given the Traditional Pat-Down of Unmitigated Smartasses®.  At least the grope du jour was efficient and unenthusiastic this particular time.  I've got to give the Atlanta airport props; considering how many people go through there (94 million a year, according to our pilot), they're surprisingly good at not letting invasive security procedures get out of hand.

Apple's latest governmental contract:  iPat.

Security: Not just for lonely adults anymore.

Once through security we still had ample time to grab a bite of something to eat other than a reconstituted potholder burger and soggy fries.  After hoofing it down a different concourse, we finally settled for Longhorn Steakhouse.  Generally speaking the food was tasty enough, though my salad was swimming in vinaigrette in spite of my asking for it on the side, and the bread (which you apparently have to request specially at the airport restaurants) was frozen in the middle.  But I chose to Let It Go (see what I did there?)  I was mildly surprised to be given a plastic blade in lieu of a real steak knife but realized that I can now rest easier knowing our national security has been ensured as a result of my sacrifice and that Longhorn's making me feel like I'm eating in an institution out of a Ken Kesey novel is purely coincidental.  Probably.

Keeping steak secure for travelers everywhere.

After lunch we headed back to our gate just in time to begin boarding.  I admit I smirked smugly at the Spousal Unit because I got to board in Zone 1 while he had to wait for Zone 2 because he doesn't have the gold Delta Amex card and I do. Plus Drexel's administrative assistant made our reservations separately.  Clearly I'm a very supportive spouse.

The flight itself was uneventful, aside from a few "woohoos" from the back of the plane as as we took off;  turns out half our plane was loaded with a high school girls' volleyball team on its way to a tournament.  Everyone found them amusing, particularly before we deplaned when one of the attendants wished them good luck (resulting in even more raucous cheering) and welcomed the "other five of you on the plane" to Philadelphia.

As it happens, the volleyball team pretty much dogged the rest of our day.  First, I had to wait in line with several of them in a bathroom with only 5 stalls.  Afterwards, I headed towards ground transportation to get a shuttle to our hotel, which involved me negotiating a rather surly desk clerk.  Eventually the shuttle came, however, and we were loaded up our luggage along with four other people.  The shuttle started to drive off, slooooowly, only to stop a few yards ahead at which point the driver disembarked and promptly disappeared.  Some 15 minutes later he came back and installed one of the many volleyball players on our shuttle. Then he disappeared again.  This time he appeared to be arranging shuttles for the rest of the volleyball team with 2-3 other drivers.  Once again he climbed aboard and started to drive off, only to stop again.  A few minutes later, two more people were climbing aboard.  For a shuttle that's supposed to be running every 10-15 minutes, I found it interesting that no fewer than three vans were stalled across from the terminal for a good 30 minutes.

Can you dig it?

With 9 passengers crammed in like sardines, the driver finally decided to head out.  Just before hitting the highway, he turned to ask where all of us were going.  One by one, voices called out: "Hampton...Marriott...Home2Hilton...Courtyard..."  Then us.  "Ritz-Carlton."  I know it's probably foolish of me, but I was painfully aware of everyone looking at us with raised eyebrows and for the first time in years felt like sliding down in my seat a little to hide.  I imagined everyone thinking, "If you're posh enough to afford the Ritz, then why are you riding on a smelly, nasty airport shuttle??"  Of course they probably weren't paying the least bit of attention, but it still made me feel self-conscious and I had to bite my tongue to keep from explaining, "Someone else is paying...we're not snobs, I promise!"  (Meanwhile, "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." kept playing through my head on a loop.)

A couple of minutes later our respective destinations no longer mattered because we all became instant comrades-in-arms when we discovered that our driver could have put any NYC cabbie to shame.  He was whipping through the downtown city streets going a good 20 mph faster than the limit and coming so close to other cars as he pulled in and out of spots to let off passengers that half of us kept our eyes shut while he was doing it.  Since it was clearly going to be an interesting ride I took out my notebook and started to take notes old-school since my phone was out of juice.  Writing on that trip was challenging because it rapidly became clear that this particular shuttle's chassis was not blessed with shock absorbers; we were jounced all through town like small children in a particularly over-inflated bouncy house.  My handwriting resembled that of an arthritic, cocaine-addled physician, and not just because the only pen I in my possession had just moments before chosen to spontaneously dismantle itself.

True story.

The entire trip probably took 45 minutes, 90 if you count the Great Volleyball Transportation Negotiation of 2014.  First we drove through a less savory part of town (at which point I began humming the theme to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in my head), then we passed the famed Reading Terminal at Arch and 12th.  Next, we turned towards someone's hotel and got to watch dubiously as our driver bore down on some pedestrians crossing the road, gesticulating angrily at them to hurry across.  I'm pretty sure he was even revving the engine ominously at them as he kept lurching forward inch by inch.  Once around the corner our drive got close enough to a man waiting to climb in his car that I'm pretty sure he grazed the guy's backside.  Perhaps he was thinking "Buns-zai!" at the time. The remaining passengers exchanged glances of consternation.  At the stop before ours, a lady got whispered to us as she got off that she hoped we made it to the Ritz in one piece and that she hoped we enjoyed it there.  Sadly, she wasn't really joking.

Starring Walter Wait.

Since the Shuttle Ride of Impending Dismemberment, things have gone pretty smoothly.  We are now ensconced on the 15th floor, directly across from City Hall, which I discovered looming over us when I opened the curtain.  And now, as I sit here typing, my window is illuminated by a a glowing orange Big Ben-esque clock tower and a statue of William Penn is presiding over my work.  I guess you could say the Penn is mightier than the Shuttle.

Bigger than your average nightlight.

On the other side of our corner room, directly across, is an apartment building.  Each living room and dining room are made of wall to wall windows that you can look right into, and I can't help wondering if one of them houses an Ugly Naked Guy like in the show Friends.  One of the apartments does house an enormous television, which I can see clearly from my desk and which reminds me of a junior-sized version of the big marquis in Times Square.  Right next to the apartment building is a sculpture of a giant clothespin, which stands there in the middle of Philadelphia as an epic "WTF??" for tourists everywhere.  There are mints on the nightstand, bottles of water with a Ritz-Carlton label, and a bathroom with a glass-encased shower stall and a plush bathrobe.  And there may or may not have been a suspicious shutter click emanating from the toilet stall, to which the Spousal Unit responded with "You just took a picture of the phone, didn't you?" Mea culpa, dude...I guess you can't take me anywhere.  What can I say?  All the free airfare and hotel rooms in the world aren't going to keep me from secretly feeling just a little bit like a fraud who's going to be caught out at any moment.  I simply don't do pretentious well...apparently I'm far too busy embarrassing the Unit by behaving low-class.

Add caption

Still, it's nice to see how the other half lives on occasion if for no other reason than it makes me appreciate even more what I already have and more aware of what I don't really need.  Best of all, while the Spousal Unit gets grilled by Drexel professors for a potential job, I get to traipse all over the City of Brotherly Love on my own, taking in the sights while trying to decide if it's a viable place to live.  Deciding what to do on my day out was daunting, however.  Just looking at the list of available museums was enough to send me squeeing paroxysms of joy, never mind considering all the other arts and activities available both here and nearby.  There's no denying the place has a rich history and lots of potential; the real question is whether or not we could afford a home bigger than a refrigerator box or newer than the clock tower staring down at me.  One step at a time, though...one step at a time.


[Editor's note:  Taking a picture of a phone in the bathroom may be déclassé, but it's still a hell of a lot better than posting one which includes an awkward reflection in the silver toilet paper cover of the photographer in mid-snap while, um, deployed on the throne.  Mercifully, I noticed said reflection moments before I uploaded this post and am therefore not subject to unfortunate memes or plastered across tumblers all over the internet.  Thank heaven for small favors.]

Puttin' on the Ritz

It isn't often that someone offers you a free trip somewhere, much less housing at arguably the swankiest hotel in Philadelphia.  When Drexel called to invite the Spousal Unit for a campus visit, we expected that they would cover his travel.  What we did not expect was that they would also be covering my travel, or that they would be putting us up in the Ritz-Carlton of all places.  Helloooooo, decadence!  It's hard to believe that yesterday morning I was scrubbing my own toilets and yesterday afternoon I was answering emails from the Ritz about how they could "better personalize your service" and, oh, "what would you like in your honor bar?"  Because those two things go together.  But if Drexel wants to schmooze me too, who am I to argue?

Mario the Magnificent, Dragon Extraordinaire.

Our trip this morning started off with a bang--literally.  On the way to the airport, the Spousal Unit and I had to leave early so we could drop the Resident Diva Dog off at the kennel.  As soon as we got there, I opened the door and turned to grab the dog's leash before she could bolt out the door over me in her excitement to examine the calling cards of the innumerable pets who'd been to the parking lot before her.  As I turned to climb out of the car, I promptly slammed my head into the top of the door frame because I possess all the grace of a drunken rhinoceros (think hippos in tutus à la Fantasia).  Still, I figured if I was going to be a head-banger, then I might as well distract myself from the throbbing dent over my ear by composing a little ditty to the tune of I've Been Working On The Railroad:

Mary smacked the car door this morning,
Then Mary muttered loudly, "Ow, ow, ow, ow."
[And by "ow," I mean "string of enthusiastic swearing."]
Mary smacked the car door this morning...
And rung her personal Liberty Bell.

Mary whacked her head,
Mary whacked her head,
Mary whacked her head and swo-o-ore.
Mary whacked her head, 
Mary whacked her head,
And now her scrambled brains are sore.

Ginger Whack-a-Mole

And because I didn't want to forget these things so I could blog about them later (since that's what I frequently do and why I've been so bad about writing lately), I started dictating them into the notes app on my phone, which resulted in the Spousal Unit looking at me like I had perhaps done more damage to my head than he first thought.  On the one hand, he should be used to such things by now.  On the other hand, it's payback for forgettingto bring his CPAP machine, which basically means that now I'm going to be spending two sleepless nights in a swish Philadelphia hotel while he makes objectionable noises that I can only equate to the sounds a velociraptor might make if it were attempting to mate with a cement mixer filled with hardened chunks of concrete and a pre-oiled Tin Man.

On the plus side, because we had to get the dog to the kennel when we did, we arrived at the airport much earlier than usual, allowing plenty of time to cruise through the interminable security lines and checkpoints.  As usual, the Spousal Unit escaped the TSA Glove of Love™, while I was given the Traditional Pat-Down of Unmitigated Smartasses®.  At least the grope du jour was efficient and unenthusiastic this particular time.  I've got to give the Atlanta airport props; considering how many people go through there (94 million a year, according to our pilot), they're surprisingly good at not letting invasive security procedures get out of hand.

Apple's latest governmental contract:  iPat.

Security: Not just for lonely adults anymore.

Once through security we still had ample time to grab a bite of something to eat other than a reconstituted potholder burger and soggy fries.  After hoofing it down a different concourse, we finally settled for Longhorn Steakhouse.  Generally speaking the food was tasty enough, though my salad was swimming in vinaigrette in spite of my asking for it on the side, and the bread (which you apparently have to request specially at the airport restaurants) was frozen in the middle.  But I chose to Let It Go (see what I did there?)  I was mildly surprised to be given a plastic blade in lieu of a real steak knife but realized that I can now rest easier knowing our national security has been ensured as a result of my sacrifice and that Longhorn's making me feel like I'm eating in an institution out of a Ken Kesey novel is purely coincidental.  Probably.

Keeping steak secure for travelers everywhere.

After lunch we headed back to our gate just in time to begin boarding.  I admit I smirked smugly at the Spousal Unit because I got to board in Zone 1 while he had to wait for Zone 2 because he doesn't have the gold Delta Amex card and I do. Plus Drexel's administrative assistant made our reservations separately.  Clearly I'm a very supportive spouse.

The flight itself was uneventful, aside from a few "woohoos" from the back of the plane as as we took off;  turns out half our plane was loaded with a high school girls' volleyball team on its way to a tournament.  Everyone found them amusing, particularly before we deplaned when one of the attendants wished them good luck (resulting in even more raucous cheering) and welcomed the "other five of you on the plane" to Philadelphia.

As it happens, the volleyball team pretty much dogged the rest of our day.  First, I had to wait in line with several of them in a bathroom with only 5 stalls.  Afterwards, I headed towards ground transportation to get a shuttle to our hotel, which involved me negotiating a rather surly desk clerk.  Eventually the shuttle came, however, and we were loaded up our luggage along with four other people.  The shuttle started to drive off, slooooowly, only to stop a few yards ahead at which point the driver disembarked and promptly disappeared.  Some 15 minutes later he came back and installed one of the many volleyball players on our shuttle. Then he disappeared again.  This time he appeared to be arranging shuttles for the rest of the volleyball team with 2-3 other drivers.  Once again he climbed aboard and started to drive off, only to stop again.  A few minutes later, two more people were climbing aboard.  For a shuttle that's supposed to be running every 10-15 minutes, I found it interesting that no fewer than three vans were stalled across from the terminal for a good 30 minutes.

Can you dig it?

With 9 passengers crammed in like sardines, the driver finally decided to head out.  Just before hitting the highway, he turned to ask where all of us were going.  One by one, voices called out: "Hampton...Marriott...Home2Hilton...Courtyard..."  Then us.  "Ritz-Carlton."  I know it's probably foolish of me, but I was painfully aware of everyone looking at us with raised eyebrows and for the first time in years felt like sliding down in my seat a little to hide.  I imagined everyone thinking, "If you're posh enough to afford the Ritz, then why are you riding on a smelly, nasty airport shuttle??"  Of course they probably weren't paying the least bit of attention, but it still made me feel self-conscious and I had to bite my tongue to keep from explaining, "Someone else is paying...we're not snobs, I promise!"  (Meanwhile, "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." kept playing through my head on a loop.)

A couple of minutes later our respective destinations no longer mattered because we all became instant comrades-in-arms when we discovered that our driver could have put any NYC cabbie to shame.  He was whipping through the downtown city streets going a good 20 mph faster than the limit and coming so close to other cars as he pulled in and out of spots to let off passengers that half of us kept our eyes shut while he was doing it.  Since it was clearly going to be an interesting ride I took out my notebook and started to take notes old-school since my phone was out of juice.  Writing on that trip was challenging because it rapidly became clear that this particular shuttle's chassis was not blessed with shock absorbers; we were jounced all through town like small children in a particularly over-inflated bouncy house.  My handwriting resembled that of an arthritic, cocaine-addled physician, and not just because the only pen I in my possession had just moments before chosen to spontaneously dismantle itself.

True story.

The entire trip probably took 45 minutes, 90 if you count the Great Volleyball Transportation Negotiation of 2014.  First we drove through a less savory part of town (at which point I began humming the theme to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in my head), then we passed the famed Reading Terminal at Arch and 12th.  Next, we turned towards someone's hotel and got to watch dubiously as our driver bore down on some pedestrians crossing the road, gesticulating angrily at them to hurry across.  I'm pretty sure he was even revving the engine ominously at them as he kept lurching forward inch by inch.  Once around the corner our drive got close enough to a man waiting to climb in his car that I'm pretty sure he grazed the guy's backside.  Perhaps he was thinking "Buns-zai!" at the time. The remaining passengers exchanged glances of consternation.  At the stop before ours, a lady got whispered to us as she got off that she hoped we made it to the Ritz in one piece and that she hoped we enjoyed it there.  Sadly, she wasn't really joking.

Starring Walter Wait.

Since the Shuttle Ride of Impending Dismemberment, things have gone pretty smoothly.  We are now ensconced on the 15th floor, directly across from City Hall, which I discovered looming over us when I opened the curtain.  And now, as I sit here typing, my window is illuminated by a a glowing orange Big Ben-esque clock tower and a statue of William Penn is presiding over my work.  I guess you could say the Penn is mightier than the Shuttle.

Bigger than your average nightlight.

On the other side of our corner room, directly across, is an apartment building.  Each living room and dining room are made of wall to wall windows that you can look right into, and I can't help wondering if one of them houses an Ugly Naked Guy like in the show Friends.  One of the apartments does house an enormous television, which I can see clearly from my desk and which reminds me of a junior-sized version of the big marquis in Times Square.  Right next to the apartment building is a sculpture of a giant clothespin, which stands there in the middle of Philadelphia as an epic "WTF??" for tourists everywhere.  There are mints on the nightstand, bottles of water with a Ritz-Carlton label, and a bathroom with a glass-encased shower stall and a plush bathrobe.  And there may or may not have been a suspicious shutter click emanating from the toilet stall, to which the Spousal Unit responded with "You just took a picture of the phone, didn't you?" Mea culpa, dude...I guess you can't take me anywhere.  What can I say?  All the free airfare and hotel rooms in the world aren't going to keep me from secretly feeling just a little bit like a fraud who's going to be caught out at any moment.  I simply don't do pretentious well...apparently I'm far too busy embarrassing the Unit by behaving low-class.

Add caption

Still, it's nice to see how the other half lives on occasion if for no other reason than it makes me appreciate even more what I already have and more aware of what I don't really need.  Best of all, while the Spousal Unit gets grilled by Drexel professors for a potential job, I get to traipse all over the City of Brotherly Love on my own, taking in the sights while trying to decide if it's a viable place to live.  Deciding what to do on my day out was daunting, however.  Just looking at the list of available museums was enough to send me squeeing paroxysms of joy, never mind considering all the other arts and activities available both here and nearby.  There's no denying the place has a rich history and lots of potential; the real question is whether or not we could afford a home bigger than a refrigerator box or newer than the clock tower staring down at me.  One step at a time, though...one step at a time.


[Editor's note:  Taking a picture of a phone in the bathroom may be déclassé, but it's still a hell of a lot better than posting one which includes an awkward reflection in the silver toilet paper cover of the photographer in mid-snap while, um, deployed on the throne.  Mercifully, I noticed said reflection moments before I uploaded this post and am therefore not subject to unfortunate memes or plastered across tumblers all over the internet.  Thank heaven for small favors.]