EZ’s Travelogue - Barcelona Saturday Morning

Saturday, October 14, 2023. Gothic Quarter, Barcelona, Spain.

I am feeling somewhat better today after a more than three-day-bout with raging dyspepsia. Much Immodium has been employed. Nancy, our travel companion, was first afflicted Monday through Wednesday, slowly returning to ‘normal’ by mid-day Friday. She was able to take the Friday evening sunset cruise we had booked earlier. Not me. My worst was Wednesday through Friday, with some grumbles remaining this morning. But, at least this morning, I feel like I have some control, which I have missed for a few days. Glenda has not been ill, but we didn’t feel it fair to Nancy to send her on the cruise without me to help. Nancy did get some nice photos which she has promised to share. We don’t think the stomach illness was food- or water-borne as Glenda has had pretty much the same diet and water and she hasn’t been ill at all, so probably a ‘stomach flu’ we picked up somehow. I’m SO glad we paid to be 5800 miles from home to be ill for a week.

Despite the horrors being unleased in Israel right now, all seems normal and peaceful in Barcelona. The weather has been dry and sunny, with highs near 80F and lows in the mid-60s (18-26C). The forecast is for rain a few days next week, and the locals are pleased about that, as the region has been in the grips of an historic drought.

View from in front of our temporary morada in the Gothic Quarter

Barcelona is a much different place in the early mornings. I walked out around 7:30am to go to a 24-hour Farmacia for a few essentials. It was as dark as midnight. Sunrise is predicted for a few minutes after 8am and there was no glimmer of dawn visible at 7:30. This is such a change for me from the Phoenix area, where sunrise tomorrow will be around 6:30am and the sky turns dawn pink well before 6:00. The carrer and La Rambla of the Gothic Quarter were no longer crowded in the early morning, but were far from deserted. Few places are open: an occasional early morning cafe’, a small number of establishments still catering to the remnants of last night’s party crowd. Taxis are present, but mostly immobile, their drivers leaning against their cars, smoking. Nearly everyone not in motion is lost in their phone screen. A couple of whores on La Rambla are still trying to make their night’s Euro. One, a very tall and leggy blonde calls out, “Hola” to me. Her voice is deeper than mine. A few Goth trannies stroll by. One, dressed in black leather miniskirt and bikini top with red fish-net nylons, has a beautiful, thick, black beard.

The Farmacia has the body wash and wet wipes I came for. It seems, from the displays there, that the main stock in trade at this hour has been lube and condoms. Viagara is prominently featured, at a shocking Euro120/100mg tablet. I stop at a cafe’ for a morning beverage and decide to try a churro. That was a disappointment—soggy with no hint of sugar or cinnamon. Oh, well—most of the food and drink we have had has been excellent, so far. I think, ‘the gelateria I passed on the way here may have something for my taste buds.’ But, by the time I was back to that location, they were closed until morning opening at 11:00am.

How Dare They? An EZ saga of a table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

How dare they? 

All I wanted was a quiet cup of herbal tea and a sweet croissant while gazing out over the ocean. But they stole my table. How rude! I felt cheated, disrespected, and a little angry. 

I was tired. I love travel and I love Glenda, my wife. But traveling can be tiring and traveling with another, regardless of how compatible you are, can be more so. In our case, advancing age and my beloved’s failing vision and fading memory add more weight to the tiring equation. She can no longer see well enough to read directing signs and her short-term memory has no room for such details as cabin number and location. She can’t read menus or labels. As you can guess, that means that I accompany her any time we are out. We had enjoyed our morning of being out and about on this, our third day at sea, but now she wanted an afternoon nap. Even though tired, I don’t usually nap, but her napping means she gets the rest she needs. I get a few minutes on my own without feeling guilty. 

Perfect timing. It was afternoon tea time. I’ll take my notebook and write a bit about the trip as I watch the Adriatic slip by beneath us.

Our ship, the Costa Deliziosa, offered an afternoon tea. Along with a variety of beverages, it included pastries and small finger sandwiches. I guess it’s not acceptable for their guests to experience any hunger between the sumptuous luncheon and decadent dinner they provide. Afternoon tea was offered in the buffet dining room located aft on the 9th deck, three decks above our stateroom.

Aft Deck Costa Deliziosa in Port. Photo by author.

The Deliziosa is a beautiful ship of the Panamax class—the largest ships that can pass through the locks in the Panama Canal. She sails at 93,000 tons, 965 feet long and 106 feet wide. She has 11 decks and carries a crew of near 1,000. Just mature enough for the blush of newness to be worn away and replaced by a patina of familiar comfort, she can accommodate nearly 2,300 passengers in luxury suites, premium balcony mini-suites, window staterooms, and mid-deck economy cabins. Her offerings include casino, theater, shopping, lounges, discotheque, pools, spas, and gymnasium as well as dining, outdoor recreation, sunning, and promenade areas. Government restrictions due to COVID-19 meant our seven-day voyage from Trieste Italy to Greece and back provided passage for only about 1,400 passengers, leaving the ship’s facilities uncrowded. This provided some additional level of luxury. For instance, there was rarely a wait for an elevator. Buffet lines were short.

The elevator ride from our 6th deck mini-suite to the 9th deck took moments. I strolled the carpeted hallway to the buffet dining area at the back of the ship.

A young and attractive uniformed hostess greeted me, “Good day, sir. Are you joining us for afternoon tea?”

I nodded.

“Welcome. Please let me verify your Costa identity card, and I will check your temperature.”

Holding the small touchless infrared fever thermometer near my forehead, she said, “Very good, sir. Normal. Where would you like to sit?”

“May I please have a window seat?”

“Certainly, sir.”

She escorted me to a window table, starboard near the middle of the dining area. As we approached the table, I noted there were no other unoccupied window tables. 

“Will this be OK?” she asked.

“Certainly. Thank you,” I said, smiling.

Perfect, I thought. I was already feeling better looking forward to a few quiet moments at the table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

Glad I arrived when I did, I left my notebook and pen on the table and went to the buffet line where I selected some hot herbal tea and a sweet roll.

Upon my return, I found my table occupied by three women I didn’t know, and my notebook casually moved to an inboard, non-window table. They were deep in conversation. One of the women was probably close to my age, slight with a full head of white hair. The others were younger, perhaps in their forties. One, Rafaelian with long blonde hair, the other darker complected, her brown hair worn in a short cap style, slighter in build. No. I didn’t know these women. I stopped and stared in disbelief. They had taken my table. Well, it was a prime spot. Looking around I verified no other window tables available. I sighed and went to retrieve my notebook. I guess I can sit somewhere else. But on top of tired, now I’m feeling pissed. I wanted that table!

As I retrieved my notebook from the adjacent but less desirable table, I turned toward the women, hoisting my colorful notebook for all to see, and said loudly, disgust dripping from my voice, “Really!” As they gazed agog, heads swiveled my way at the loud interruption, their conversation on mute, I slapped the notebook onto my tray and stomped away to a table out of sight of these thieving women. How dare they? Why can’t I have what I want?

As I settled in at my second-class table, the taste of the hibiscus tea was unexpectedly bitter. The croissant dry. I wondered why. These foods had been truly delightful yesterday. As I pondered the situation, it occurred to me I had been churlish. My taste buds were telling me I had no need of complaint. So what if I’m not at a window table? Big deal. I’m on a luxury voyage and in complete comfort. I have a treat of pastry and tea and some quiet time. The deep blue sea is still visible out the slightly distant windows. 

I must have blushed a bit from deserved shame at my reaction to a trivial and non-personal slight. Those women did not deserve the wrath I directed at them. They may not even have been guilty of moving my notebook. It could have been the action of a busser or steward, anyone, leaving an unoccupied table for them to find. My feelings were muddled. I had so recently felt righteous indignation. Now I felt contrite embarrassment.

Stewing in my state of confusion, I opened my notebook, reviewing the last couple of pages with the thought of penning a few words to settle me and assuage my feelings. As I glanced down the lines a shadow fell over the pages. The older of the three women from the stolen table had approached.

Before I could speak, she said, “We took your table. We are so sorry. Let us trade places and you can have the window table.”

“Oh!” I said apologetically, looking up from my inferior position. “Thank you, but no. I’m the one who should be sorry and must apologize. I should not have overreacted the way I did. It’s really nothing. Please enjoy your teatime. I’m fine here.”

“But we moved your notebook. We should have realized it meant the table was occupied but instead we just assumed someone had left it behind. Please come take the table you wanted.”

“That’s very kind of you. I do appreciate it. But I feel bad I acted the way I did. I’m fine, now, really.”

On that note, she nodded then walked away. I returned to my notebook. Before I could settle my feelings enough to concentrate on the written words, three shadows fell across my table.

“No,” spoke the blonde woman forcefully. “You are not going to sit here by yourself while we enjoy your window table. You take that table, and we’ll move over here. We insist.”

“That’s right, you tell him, Victoria,” said the dark-haired table thief. Turning to me she said, “We can’t enjoy the view knowing we took it from you.”

“No. No! I’m fine.” I insisted. “Really. It’s not a problem and I shouldn’t have been so upset. It’s just I was already feeling frustrated and tired, but that should not excuse my behavior. It was wrong.” 

There was a slight pause.

“All right,” said blonde Victoria. “Then at least come and join us at the window table so that we don’t have to feel guilty all afternoon. You really don’t want to be responsible for ruining our entire afternoon by allowing us to wallow in our guilt, do you? Kristi, Norma, do you agree?”

“Oh, yes!” Exclaimed the older lady now identified as Norma.

“Positively,” said younger dark-haired Kristi. “It’s a win-win. You’ll be at a window table. We can feel we’ve done our penance. Oh, wait. I didn’t mean that sharing a table with you would be, somehow, penance, an unpleasant task…”

With that, I had to laugh. “Ok, ok,” I said, waving my hand in defeat. “I will be honored to join you at your table, and besides, now I feel obligated! By the way, now I know your names, you should know mine. I am Dan.”

And so, with that, I gathered up my tea and croissant and my notebook and moved to what was now their table. After such a painful introduction, the conversation flowed surprisingly well, thanks to the ice-breaking laugh Kristi conjured. All had a story to tell. Victoria and Kristi were sisters, traveling to gain some normality after the loss of their mother. Norma a new friend of theirs met onboard the Deliziosa. And all were booked on the same 7-day post-cruise tour of Italy Glenda and I would be enjoying after completing the cruise—booked through the same travel agency. I quickly realized I was glad they had insisted on extending, and my accepting, the invitation to join them. Without this chance to smooth over the ruffled feelings, meeting up repeatedly during the 7-days in Italy in our small tour group may have been awkward indeed after my childish behavior.

My moveable notebook. Photo by author. 

Kristi and Victoria spoke of their struggles during their mother’s last months, of their homes in cold climes and their children (left behind with spouses), of the pleasure of the sun-drenched Adriatic and the luxury of the ship.

I told them a little about Glenda and myself. Upon mention of our home in Mesa, Norma exclaimed, “Oh! I’m almost your neighbor. I live in Gold Canyon just up the 60 from Mesa.”

“That is close,” I commented. “How did you wind up on the Deliziosa and booked on the tour with us?”

“Well, that’s a story. I never travel. I never have. This is a first for me, and I wouldn’t be here now if my friends hadn’t talked me into it.”

“So,” I said, with a smirk, “You have other friends on the cruise, too. I can hardly wait to meet them. Should I leave my notebook in other places?”

Laughing, Norma said, “No. They didn’t make it to Italy. That’s the story I mentioned.”

“Well, do tell,” I said. “How did they not make it?”

“Before I tell that story,” Norma said, “tell me how you feel about the travel agency we all booked with. Are you satisfied?”

Looking from face to face and seeing the same critical look in six eyes, I replied, “Not really. The company is good at putting together a vacation package and then marketing it. Their ads and offers were attention-getting and made this all seem wonderful. When we first called, they were the personification of polite professionalism. While we were considering the purchase, they assigned a company representative by name and gave us their direct number. They always answered on the first ring and had all the right answers. But then they got our money. Big change in service after that. The direct number never got answered but went directly to voice mail that promised a call back in ’24 to 48 business hours.’ Note, that’s three to six calendar days! A long time to wait for answers.”

Assessing my audience’s reaction to what was becoming a rant, I noted knowing nods, so I continued. “And then, they didn’t ever call back. You couldn’t get an answer to a question to save your life, by phone or email. One week before we were to leave, they sent us the wrong trip itinerary that didn’t align with our air travel at all. It almost gave me a heart attack! We had booked our air travel separately from their tour offering. I was frantic trying to get ahold of someone. It wasn’t until late in the day that we got another email apologizing for sending out an incorrect itinerary and promising the correct one shortly. Which we never did get.”

“We got the wrong one, too.” Said Victoria.

“Yep,” Kristi said. “And we couldn’t get anyone to answer the phone. So we drove to their offices and pounded on the locked door until we were let in.”

“Drove to their offices?” I asked. “Yes. Their offices are in downtown Salt Lake City, and we live nearby.” Victoria replied. “Once inside, they agreed they had made a mistake. Like you, though, we never did get a correct itinerary.”

“Well, we’ve shared that experience,” I sighed. “We flew from Phoenix to Milan not knowing if anyone in Italy knew we were coming or if anyone would meet us, or what. I wasn’t overly worried, as I knew the sailing port and date for the Deliziosa, and I had all the documents for the cruise. I’ve traveled internationally a fair bit. We had passports, cash, and credit cards. One way or another, we were going to be OK. And, when we got to Milan a guide did meet us and all was in order, so good!”

Knowing eyes and agreeing nods all around the table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

“But at least,” sighed Norma, “You had your experience and knowledge and the comfort from that. I had none of that.”

“Right,” I said. “I got carried away with my story. You said you haven’t traveled much. Your traveling companions didn’t make it to Italy? But you are here safe. Tell us what happened.”

“Kristi, Victoria, you both know this story. Do you mind if I tell it again for Dan?” 

Kristi and Victoria both murmured ascents. Norma continued, “My friends, sisters like Victoria and Kristi, convinced me to come on this trip with them. It’ll be fun, they said. We’ll do it together, they said. Fly to Italy, cruise the Adriatic, then tour Italy before returning home. So, we booked it with that agency out of Salt Lake City. Yeah. Mistake. We experienced the same lack of service. Then, disaster. Our air routing was American Airlines from Sky Harbor in Phoenix to LAX and from there non-stop to Rome on Alitalia Airlines. We all got to LAX. When we checked in with Alitalia, the agent discovered the travel agency had misspelled the girls’ names, so their Alitalia tickets didn’t match their passports. They weren’t allowed to board.”

“What? No!” I exclaimed. “What did they do?”

“Well, I’ve heard from them, and they did get home safely, but they may be some time trying to get the travel agency to set things right financially for them. I closed my eyes, held my breath and boarded the plane alone. And here I am! Like you, I was relieved when the company guide met me at Leonardo Da Vinci airport in Rome. And I’m thankful for people like Kristi and Victoria for adopting this green traveler.”

“Wow!” I said. “Horrible for your friends. And brave of you. It seems we’re all involved in a magnificent adventure. It may not be normal to toast with herbal tea, but,” I said as I hoisted my cup, “here’s to new experiences. May we be bold and blessed by guardian angels.”

“Here, here!” Was answered by all around the table by the window as ceramic cups clinked together. We parted this meeting as friends and enjoyed congenial company together over the remainder of the cruise and the following tour. Glenda was quickly accepted into the circle and my new friends took her under their wing, improving the trip for both of us. 

I am so glad Norma, Victoria, and Kristi stole my table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

How a Mere Gondola Ride Redeemed Venice for Two Weary Travelers

I was sorry our gondola ride on the canals of Venice had come to an end. For many reasons, some of which may not seem obvious.

The gondola ride, unlike other parts of the journey, was everything I could have hoped for.

• The boat: Beautiful, flat-bottomed, made of various types of beautiful (and beautifully finished) wood, highly decorated with the traditional “Dolfin” at the bow and the standing platform at the stern for the gondolier.

• The colors: Black lacquer and gloss white with gold trim.

• The gondolier: Strong and capable.

• His attire: Traditional, with straw boater hat and navy woolen jacket over a white sailor’s shirt.

• His voice: Booming and full as he executed traditional, soaring operatic pieces.

• The cost: Fifteen Euros each. This seemed reasonable considering the Euro and U.S. Dollar were within twenty percent of equity at the time of our visit to Venice.

Gondolas in Venice. Photo by author.

After our rapid and tiring 30-minute walk from the water taxi stop at Venice’s waterfront docks, standing still while waiting our turn in line was a relief. The guide had advised us our tour group of 20 would need to hurry, as we were running a bit late, and the gondoliers stopped taking on new passengers at seven in the evening. But he didn’t tell us just how intense that walk would be. It seemed like a marathon with us striving to not fall behind the young and vibrant guide through crowds as we traversed cobblestones, steps, ramps, bridges, and uneven surfaces. All the time, we were scanning the rapidly dimming walkway ahead to keep the guide’s small, purple flag in sight. There was no time for looking at the gawdy souvenirs hawked by the young immigrants all along the way. I felt near panic. What would happen if we got separated? Would we be lost? Would I wish I spoke more than just a few words in Italian? I was breathing hard and only rewarded with the smells of Venice: Food, canals, water-fowl, cigarettes, and people. The city and the sea. The challenge of the walk seemed a constant reminder of our advanced age and our jet-lagged state. It had taken us two days to get to Venice. Two days on airplanes, buses, and trains with one too-short night in a hotel in Milan. When it seemed I could walk no further, our group paused for us stragglers, then took a right turn into a dark and narrow alley, which led us past St. Mark’s Square to the canal landing where the gondolas operated. Finally in line, we shuffled slowly toward the landing waiting our turn to board the gondola. The opportunity to sit down for a while seemed like a heaven-sent gift.

Ride or no ride, I wanted a rest.

Our ride began after 6:30 in the evening on October 24th. It was dark, damp, breezy, and cool. The boarding process was. After paying our fee (cash only!) we were escorted down four steep (and slippery-looking) steps to the edge of the canal’s water. After the gondolier positioned his craft, we were handed across the gap and over the gunnel with one, rather large, step down to the deck, the gondola rocking through the process. I felt a real sense of apprehension about the dark and likely cold waters under the boat. Once aboard, we were directed to our cushioned seats. We managed sitting without falling into or out of the boat, we were settled but still out of breath, and the ride began. We were pleasantly surprised there was no stale canal rotten-egg odor. Rather we noted a slightly sweet, salt-water smell. Our gondolier explained the canals in Venice are not stagnant but are flushed with tidewater from the sea twice each day by natural action and the canal water levels were managed by a series of ingenious dams and weirs.

With strong and steady exertion, the gondolier pushed his steed away from the landing and into the middle of the murky canal, the dark space only slightly wider than two of the shiny craft, stone and brick buildings on either side. We soon passed under a bridge and into a more open area. Here, the moonlight penetrated better, and we were relieved from the oppressive darkness of the earlier narrow stretch of canal. With greater light, we could appreciate the beauty of the buildings and the narrow walks along each side. As the gondolier, deep in his rendition of a barcarolle song, pushed us on with the boat’s rémo (pushing pole) we glided peacefully past the historical sights of Venice: palaces, churches, museums, and hotels.

Our gondolier, Enrico, told us it takes four years of training and apprenticeship, followed by a difficult exam, to qualify for a gondolier’s license. Venice limits the licensed gondoliers to a maximum of 400. In olden days, licenses were passed from father to son, but that is no longer allowed, and each must stand for exam on his (or her) own. Yes, there are female gondoliers. The gondola itself is a true work of art. Each new one costs about 50,000 Euros. Enrico said he loved his job and especially loved singing for beautiful women from around the world. Glenda averted her eyes. Was that a slight blush in her cheek?

Soon, the walkways opened a bit, accommodating café seating. Diners, mostly couples, were enjoying a meal or a drink under the moonlight as we slid past and entered the Grand Canal. Some waved to us as we glided past. Within moments, a noisy powered police boat sped past us running under siren and leaving a wake that rocked our gondola. Without cars, the old part of the city depends on fast speedboats to get police, fire, and other emergency services where they are needed. The next vessel was a stately funeral barge, returning from its day’s work transporting the dead to Isola di San Michele, the island that is Venice’s largest cemetery. The barge, painted a brilliant blue, was also powered, but running at a much more sedate speed, creating no visible wake. Powered vessels are not uncommon on the Grand Canal, Venice’s watery main street, as the commerce of the city must go on, even for departed souls. Unlike the gondola, powered vessels always run with lights at night.

Rialto Bridge. Photo by author.

We soon passed under the Constitution Bridge, Rialto Bridge, the Ponte dell’ Accademia, and finally the covered Bridge of Sighs over the part of the canal system called the Rio di Palazzo. Each bridge is unique and presents its personality expressed in architecture, size, construction materials, and color. Our gondolier explained the story of the Bridge of Sighs: It was the last part of Venice you would see if you were being shipped off to prison or otherwise banished from the beautiful city.

Too soon, it seemed, we had slipped across the glassy canals and had returned to the landing. Still, after the peace and beauty of the ride, I was refreshed, almost feeling like I was awakening from a dream. I was sorry the ride had come to its end. One reason was that I feared the fast-walking torture would recommence.

As stragglers, we had been among the last to board a gondola and among the last returning to the landing. We soon learned our group had gathered in a convenient gelateria and enjoyed the typical sweet, icy treat while awaiting the last of the group’s return. But sorry, not enough time left now for gelato. We must be on our way. A real visit to St. Mark’s would have to wait until tomorrow. At leaste the return trek wasn’t so hurried. As the noisy and smoky water taxi pulled away from the waterfront, I felt a wave of nostalgia for the sound of the gondolier’s singing voice and the sweet-salty smell of the canal. 

I’d go back to Venice. 

Without the comforting gondola ride, I’m not sure that I would say that.

Sunset over a restful ride. Photo by author.

An UN-EZ Day

October 5, 2021.

It was like a kick to the gut. I was beyond angry all the way to sick and actually felt like I might vomit. I told Glenda this is the kind of angry that makes a man drink and then commit violence. 

Our calendar says that we have nine days until our scheduled departure on October 14th for a trip that includes a tour of three Italian cities and a 7-day cruise in the Adriatic and around the Greek Isles. A trip we have anxiously awaited. A trip we have planned for months. A trip we booked and paid for in May of this year. I had slept poorly the night before, out of excitement and apprehension for the trip. We have made lists, shopped, located all essentials for travel, practice packed. Still, my mind wouldn't stop going over the lists and the mechanics of the travel. 

The Email in my inbox from the travel firm said, "Here's your updated itinerary!" Cool. Except upon examination, it proved anything but cool. 

This 'updated' itinerary was a major change. Nearly every aspect of the trip had been changed. The date of arrival in Italy was changed--meaning the date of our departure was changed to an earlier date. The city of arrival into Italy was changed. The date of the cruise ship's departure was changed. Its departure port was changed. The city and country of departure for our return flight to the U.S. was changed, along with its date. Nearly every detail of the two-week vacation was different than the one we had planned. And the changes were problematic. 

My mind boggled. I felt clammy, my breath rapid and shallow. My hands were sweating. The 'updated' departure from the U.S. was now only five days away--on a Sunday. 

Italy currently requires a negative Covid-19 test within 72 hours of arrival. A Sunday departure and near 24 hours in transit means we would have to have the quick-turn test done on Saturday next. Does anyone do that? Can we get an appointment? We have an appointment for the tests a week from tomorrow, Wednesday the 13th. We would have to cancel that one. 

That assumes that American Airlines can and will change our air reservations. We are booked to fly to Milan and then return from Rome 14 days later. The new itinerary calls for us to fly into Rome and return to the U.S. from Athens 11 days later. Does AA even serve these routes? We paid for upgraded seating--will AA have that available on new flights at short notice? What will the change cost us? (We booked our air travel separate from the main group because of our departure city and the fact that we had nearly $3,000 of flight credits with AA from an earlier Covid-related cancellation that needed to be used before the end of this year--so the travel firm is not, cannot, make changes to the confirmed air reservations for us.) 

An 11-day tour and cruise instead of a 14-day tour and cruise? Will we get a partial refund from the travel firm?

Sigh. Airport parking. I have a pre-paid reservation for airport parking in Phoenix for two weeks starting 9 days from today. Will I be able to change that?

And our furry best friend. The pet-sitter is expecting him the afternoon of Wednesday, October 13th. Can she accommodate the change? Will that impact the cost?

There's a hotel glitch, too. The original tour group was to wind up their visit so as to depart the Rome airport for the U.S. on October 27th. AA could not accommodate us at our required level of service on the 27th, so our return from Rome is booked for the morning of the 28th. As a result, we have a reservation at the Rome Airport hotel for one extra night. Pre-paid, of course, to the tune of $250.00. So many changes to be made! I didn't even think of the scheduled USPS mail hold.

But, of course, I can't make any of those changes until I speak with the travel firm and confirm that what they sent me is correct. So I called them. Three times. All I could do was leave a voice mail each time. I Emailed both the customer support team and the travel assistance team. 

Their voice mail recording said, "We'll get back to you within 24 business hours." It's Tuesday now. That means, at best, not later than Friday afternoon. For last-minute flight changes on an international agenda. For changes in parking, pet sitting, and a myriad list of other things.

Each Email elicited a prompt, automated response. "We have received your query. We will get back to you as soon as we can." Yeah, right. 

I wasn't feeling any better. But all I could do was wait. Or wait and pray. Probably the same overall impact, but quiet time might calm me down. After some solitary reflection (checking my Email every two minutes), I told Glenda, "Well, we have a roof over our head, food in the pantry, and a little money in the bank. We are OK."  After that, I decided I had other errands and I had better do them.

Bidding my bride farewell I headed to the grocery store three miles away. On my way, cruising northbound at the 45-mph speed limit, a traffic signal turned from green to yellow just as I entered the intersection. For some reason, the driver of the southbound red Mustang decided that was his signal to turn left. In front of me. Despite my full-panic stop and evasive maneuvering, our cars kissed, clipped ever so lightly. A piece of chrome trim was torn from his taillight trim. He didn't stop. When I stopped, after a few moments of shaking, I examined my car. I could see no sign of any damage at all. No dents. No scratches. No missing pieces. No sign that another car at speed had been so close. All the lights and accessories operated as normal. I resumed my drive and completed my shopping. The trip home was uneventful.

Waiting at home for me was a response from the travel firm by Email, "Hello Dan, The previous Email regarding a new itinerary doesn't apply to your upcoming vacation. That Email was sent to you by mistake. So sorry!"

Relief battled exhaustion. I think exhaustion won. 

Reminiscing is EZ; International Travel, not so much.

A question posted to Quora asked: “Have you, as a U.S. citizen, ever been denied entry to another country?”  Well, pull up a chair, children. I've a tale to tell:

Oh, yes! In 1990 I was living in Okinawa, Japan, working for the U.S. Military as a health-and-safety specialist. We provided consultative services to all U.S. organizations (military, State Department, Health and Human Services, etc.) located anywhere on the western edge of the Pacific Rim area from Alaska to New Zealand. We received a call from the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta, Indonesia for some assistance. I was tagged to make the trip. At this time the only passport that I had was a 'red' U.S. official passport — I had used that for all official travel for two years with no problem — it is what the U.S. Government, as my employer, had issued me. What I didn’t know was that Indonesia, at that time, did NOT recognize the U.S. official passport. All entry by U.S. citizens into Indonesia had to be with the standard 'blue' passport, with, at the least, an airline-issued visa. As I said, I didn’t know. But the good folks from the U.S. embassy in Jakarta knew. They also knew that I would be traveling with my red passport and didn’t bother to tell me about this little ‘detail.’ My transit from Naha was on Northwest Airlines, and *they* didn’t object to my routing and travel documents, either.

Photo by Wendy on Flickr. Used under Creative Commons License.

On my arrival at the customs and immigration desk in Jakarta, the immigration official, dressed in olive drab green military fatigues, took my passport, eyed it, then me, then it, then me…and loudly blew a big chromed whistle hanging from his neck. Looking up I saw two military uniformed men with semi-automatic-looking rifles hanging from their shoulders approaching rather rapidly. The man at the desk handed my passport to one of the military men and told me, “Go with them!” Well, what could I do? With one of the military men on either side of me, we proceeded to walk down the sloping floor of a long hallway away from the arrival area. This was distressing. This was pre- TSA and I’d never been treated like this. Even the facility seemed to echo doom and gloom with sickly yellow sulfur gas-discharge lamps overhead, dark and unpleasant colors on the concrete walls, and a black non-skid rubberized flooring surface. Visions of a dismal, damp concrete-and-steel cell swam through my mind. Ahead I could see large automated glass doors and beyond that a crowded arrival plaza.

As we approached the doors they slid open and, I swear, Agent K and Agent J from Men in Black, suits, ties, sunglasses and all, exited a big black Chevy Suburban and swept quickly into the building. Of course, it couldn't have been Agent K and Agent J. This was seven years before Men in Black was available for viewing. They approached the two Indonesian military men (the guys with the rifles) and began a rapid conversation in Indonesian, I assume. The conversation got a bit heated, with the sunglasses guys doing quite a bit of gesturing and head nodding. Finally, the taller of the sunglasses guys put an arm around the shoulder of one of the Indonesian military men and led him a few paces to the side—their conversation continued in a muted mumble for a few moments. Then the mood lightened and head-nodding seemed the new norm for the four of them. The taller of the sunglasses guys (Agent K?), now with my red passport in his hand, turned to me and said, in English, “Come with us”. Out the glass doors and into the back seat of the black Suburban we went.

As we drove away Agent J says, “Relax. We’re from the U.S. Embassy and we're taking you there.”

“My luggage…?” I asked.

“Taken care of.” Said Agent K.

So it was. I was taken to the embassy compound and introduced to the people I’d be working with for the next few days. They told me I was in the custody of the U.S. Embassy staff rather than in an Indonesian jail as a courtesy to the U.S. extended due to goodwill by President Suharto. The embassy official made it very clear that I was not, under any circumstances, to leave the embassy compound. Well, not too tough. I was escorted to a deluxe room near the embassy restaurant and club, poolside. There I found that all the creature comforts of a tropical resort were available for me in my off-duty time. Off duty staff, spouses, and family were relaxing around the pool outside my door. Some were being served exotic cocktails by white-coated wait staff. My luggage and professional equipment were already in my room. Not a bad way to spend a workweek.

When my work was done with the embassy’s medical staff, I got a ride in the black Suburban back to the airport where I was escorted by the two sunglassed agents into the custody, again, of armed uniformed guards. The guards took me to the outgoing customs/immigration desk where the officer there stamped my passport with the date and, in bright red, the words, “DEPORTED—REENTRY DENIED; DIUNDANG—DITENTUKAN.” I caught my Northwest Airlines flight back to Okinawa and found I’d been upgraded to international business class. I had not requested an upgrade.

So, this is how I got deported from Indonesia. It still irks me that the embassy staff there allowed me to walk into the situation unaware. In 1990, the internet was in its infancy, and it wasn’t so easy to research State Department advisories and travel information on the various countries. I had depended on the travel staff in Okinawa, the airline, and my U.S. Embassy hosts to let me know what I needed to know. In the end, they took good care of me, but I’ve got to admit to being a bit frightened as I was led away from the immigration clerk’s desk. Thanks, men in black, for keeping my week in Indonesia safe! 

The golden years may not be EZ.

I really, really want to rant. I know this has to be near the acme, the epitome of a privileged, first-world problem. I know I should sit down and shut up. I know how blessed we are, still, this hurts.

Photo credit - Heather Cowper, Flickr. Used under Creative Commons license.

The number one item on my bucket list of earthly delights has been, for some time, a Danube River Cruise with my sweetheart. Deluxe top-of-the-line service on a world-class ship, an upgraded stateroom with a balcony, evening drinks watching the sunset over the river from the shaded upper deck, guided excursions in Southern Europe's historic capitals and art musea, dining with the locals, symphony concert in  Vienna's  Musikverein Orchestra Hall, first-class air travel round trip, two nights in a luxury hotel in Budapest before the cruise.

Photo credit - Alex Talmaciu, Flickr. Used under Creative Commons license.

Importantly, to be most enjoyable, this trip needs (or needed) to happen while Glenda and I still enjoy good enough health for the travel, the walking tours, and such.

I have saved my pennies for years for this trip. YEARS.

Finally, in 2020, we can do it, we thought. Over a year before the trip, in July of 2019, we sought out a travel agent to help plan and arrange the travel. I have normally done all of our own travel arrangements, but this trip is complicated, with many international requirements and connections not to be missed. With the agent's help, we selected and booked a cruise with Avalon Waterways. We would leave Phoenix on August 3, 2020, and fly by Delta's best class of service to Budapest, Hungary. There we would spend two nights at the JW Marriot hotel, giving us time to overcome jet lag and to enjoy the relative luxury of the surroundings. After two nights of rest, we booked an escorted private tour of Budapest, concluding with a formal catered candlelight dinner for two on a balcony overlooking the 17th Century Chain Bridge crossing the Danube between the sister-cities of Buda and Pest. The next morning would begin our 8-day cruise with Avalon, visiting a new European treasure of a city each day with appropriate tours and such. Nights aboard the boat as we sail to a new city.

Then came Covid-19.

Today, May 12, 2020, Avalon notified us that all operations are canceled through August of 2020, including, of course, our August Danube Cruise. They really have no choice, as the government of Hungary is not allowing any international travel into the country right now, anyway, and it's unknown how long that will go on. They are allowing us to use our paid fares, along with an additional $400 credit, through 2022. Delta has also said that our airfare can be used as a credit for rescheduled travel through, I believe, September of 2022. So while the money is tied up with Avalon and Delta, it is not lost.

Photo credit - Krisijan Brkic, Flickr. Used under Creative Commons license.

So nothing is lost but time, right? Yes. But time...time becomes so precious when most of your time is certainly behind you. Or, as Bonnie Raitt puts it, "Life gets mighty precious when there's less of it to waste." Nick of Time (1989)

The trip couldn't have been better even if it had been EZ.

We got home from San Antonio at about 7 pm last night. I was tired but restless so I watched TV until 11 pm (just junk, the worse the better for my exhausted mental state at the time). Then I slept until 9:30 am. I don’t remember the last time I did that.

We had a great trip. The flights both ways were fine, on time and delivery of service as promised. Still not my favorite way to travel. In coach, I mean. In First, yeah, that’s my favorite way to travel. But, our air fare was $230 each RT PHX to SAT in American’s “Basic Economy.” With this fare there are additional fees so we paid $30 each way for one (large) checked bag and $30 each each way to select our seats (otherwise, with Basic Economy, you likely wind up in center seats in different rows.) Plus parking in Phoenix was $72 and our UBER from the San Antonio Airport to Derek’s was $18 and I passed out a total of $30 in baggage, porter, and driver tips. So the air portion really cost a total of $758 for both of us. American isn’t as bad as some of the other airlines when you buy the cheap seats. United even charges to use the overhead bin and you have to pay for peanuts and soft drinks. “Fly the Friendly Skies of United,” indeed. American includes those in the cost. Still, a two-hour flight each way means more time with friends and family and less time in transit than driving. Plus it would have cost that much or more to drive by the time we paid for fuel, hotel, and meals—even if we did it on the cheap, which I’m too old and worked too many hard years to do—I need a good bed, lots of hot water, and a decent evening meal. I admit to being spoiled. I will proceed to submit evidence of said spoiling, below.

We stayed at Derek and Jill’s. They gave us their room with a wonderful bed which was incredibly kind of them. I think maybe they’re trying to make us feel bad for moving. Our UBER driver from the Airport was a recent “escapee” from the socialist paradise that is Venezuela and he spoke no English. Fun. Thank God for Glenda’s Spanish proficiency. Derek loaned us his car for the stay, and I managed to put a few hundred miles on it. Jill fixed Thanksgiving dinner with ham, stuffing, and sweet potatoes which gave us leftovers for snacking most of the weekend. We did eat out quite a bit, as there are “go-to” cafes in the San Antonio area that we really, really missed.

Friday we had eggs Benedict for breakfast in Schertz at Able’s Diner. (https://abelsdiner.com/) Later, we drove by our old Hull Street house (looks fine) and we got to visit with Jack and MarJo Jones, Schertz neighbors that we have missed since we moved at the end of 2009.  That evening (Friday) we went with Derek and Jill to Johnson City 62 miles north of San Antonio to see the holiday lights display sponsored by Pedernales Electric Cooperative. 3.2 *million* lights in the display. We got a hay ride behind a vintage Farmall tractor and ate Texas-style BBQ at a booth in the fair. There were over 100 vendor booths set up in Courthouse Square as part of the event. I even bought Glenda a sterling chain and medallion with an agate setting that she likes. The vendor was from Nepal. Marvelous time and very Christmassy, if green grass and sweater weather under the Texas stars fits your idea of Christmas. (https://www.pec.coop/our-community/pec-holiday-lights/)

Saturday Derek, Jill, and Ian accompanied us to meet with Amy and family. She brought Lauren, Sarah, Connor, and her eldest son James along with his wife Dulce and their daughter Charlotte (Charlie). We met at an IHOP near Amy’s home and had a great brunch – enough food to have fed Venezuela for a day. There was great discussion and fun around a huge table assembled for us from several by the IHOP crew. We then went to Amy’s for a visit in her home. We got news of Jamie and Daniel though they couldn’t join us. Jamie is engaged to Jackie Acosta (he’s been dating her for several years, so it’s about time) and Daniel is in the Army currently at Fort Hood in central Texas but leaving there soon for an assignment in Alaska. Before we left Amy’s I handed out some small gifts that I had brought for all the children, to include Ian. I didn’t know that Charlie would be joining us, but Amy had a spare new, big stuffed toy of Olaf from Frozen 2 which was a perfect gift for 2-year-old Charlie—Amy saved the day! Hugs and tears of love preceded our departure.

Saturday afternoon I got a 90-minute massage from Phaedra at Moon Goddess Massage – she was our massage therapist for nearly 10 years before we left SA, and I’ve not had a massage since we moved until Saturday. (https://www.facebook.com/MoonGoddesssMassage/) She is a marvelous therapist, and as usual, I was weak jelly afterwards and had to be poured into a recliner when I got back to Derek’s. We may have watched a movie at Derek’s in their theater room, but I really don’t remember. I did sleep well that night. Glenda didn’t get her massage from Phaedra until Monday afternoon, but she did get a mani-pedi from Tulip at Nail Talk (her former and still favorite nail tech) at the same time I was being transported to another plane of existence on Phaedra’s table. That evening we got our Tex-Mex fix at Taco Cabana. (https://www.tacocabana.com/)

Sunday morning we attended church in our previous Ward in SA—Eden Ward in San Antonio East Stake. Great Sunday Sacrament Fast and Testimony Meeting and Glenda bore a succinct and strong testimony. We saw and greeted many, many of our old friends, as we had hoped to do. While the ward has a new bishop (Named Chandler who moved to SA from the Val Vista and Broadway area of Mesa about a year ago!?!) the bishop who had been “ours,” Jonathan Abercrombie, was there and we got to greet him. After church we met my dear friend Nancy Hanna and her husband Edwin Matos at Starbucks inside Barnes and Nobel and had a nice two-hour chat. I’m very glad we got to see them. Sunday evening, Derek, Jill, Ian, and we met with Jennifer who is in town for some training from USAA for dinner. We had a great family meal and dinner at Nicha’s Mexican Comida. (https://www.nichas.com/)  Lesson learned: Don't order a salt-rimmed drink when you have chapped lips. We got home late, but slept well.

Monday morning I went to Jim’s Coffee Shop, a San Antonio tradition since 1959, for a light breakfast. (http://jimscoffeeshop.com/lincolnpark/) While there I noted the restaurant was busy with people of many colors, ethnicities, backgrounds, politics, and beliefs. Wait staff moved around the restaurant chatting easily with everyone. Greetings and remarks flowed from table to table in a spirit of good will to all and laughter seemed the language of the day. This cosmopolitan feeling is common in San Antonio. I miss that, because you just don’t find that everywhere. Then I got Derek’s car washed and detailed and filled it with fuel. I can still hear my father telling me: “When you must borrow something, ensure that you return it when promised and in better condition than you got it.” His teachings have served me well for nearly 70 years. I also helped Derek with a couple of simple repairs in their home – took only a few moments for each and I was able to share some of the knowledge I’ve gained over the years.

Monday afternoon Derek, Jill, Ian, and we took a small spray of white carnations to Vincent’s grave at the Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. (https://www.cem.va.gov/cems/nchp/ftsamhouston.asp)  Today, December 4^th, is the one year anniversary of his passing. While we were there, Jillian was able to find her maternal grandparents graves—she had never visited them before. We also signed up to have Vincent’s grave included in the Wreaths Across America program ((https://www.wreathsacrossamerica.org/) This was a sobering but wonderful experience—alone, this would have been worth the trip to San Antonio.

That evening we visited with Alex and Amanda Cabrera in their home. That used to be our home on Overton Road. They’ve done it proud and I think it looks better than it ever did when we lived there. The home has a presence – a spirit, if you will. We felt it when we first saw the home in 2009, the Cabrera’s say they felt it on first entry in 2018, and I profess it is still alive. The Cabreras are the fourth owners of this Morton-Southwest 1972-built home. The first owners were the Holloway family. Mr. Holloway was the lead engineer and builder for Morton-Southwest in San Antonio. We think that he may have had the construction crews work a little extra hard on his own home. The son, Mike, is now a respected custom home builder in San Antonio. (http://www.mikehollaway.com/) The second owner was the Catholic Church and housed five lay ministers (not ordained) of the Focolare Movement (https://www.focolare.org/usa/). In order to buy the home, we had to wait for a signature from Rome. We were the third owners and the Cabreras own it now. We were joined by Martha Beard, next door neighbor, and we all went for a wonderful evening dinner at La Marginal Puerto Rican restaurant on Nacogdoches just north of Loop I-410. The restaurant has set the standard for Caribbean Hispanic food and immaculate service since 1999 in the same location. Can’t argue with 20 years of success! (http://www.lamarginalrestaurant.com/) I have, in the past, asked the owners what the name meant, as there doesn't seem to be a direct Spanish-English translation and the restaurant is certainly not 'marginal.' I was told it was intended to indicate the location in the suburbs near the edge of the city. The location hasn't been near the edge of SA for many years. A great meal and wonderful conversation was enjoyed by all. I was surprised when Alex asked me to say grace over the meal. Protestant, Catholic, and LDS joined in mutual compassion, respect, and gratitude.

Tuesday morning was time to pack. Of course, we couldn’t leave SA on a Tuesday without first enjoying a lunch of BBQ Frito Pie from Smokin’ Joe’s family-run restaurant. (http://smokinjoesoftexas.com/) This is Jillian’s favorite place in the world to eat and is only about 1 mile from their home. A delight. (Side note: The ham we had eaten for Thanksgiving had been smoked by Joe for Jillian. They have a family-like relationship with Joe and his family.) After lunch, we bid our farewells with hugs from Jillian and Ian. Derek dropped us with a big hug at the entry to Terminal B at the San Antonio airport and we were on our way home. Dak had been well cared for at our home by our friend Chandra Buchanan, but he seemed to be as glad to see us as we were to see him. Puppy kisses were shared by all.

It is good to be home. It was good to be in San Antonio with friends and family. It is good.

Mr and Mrs EZ take flight

“Ladies and Gentlemen, in just a few moments we will begin our descent to Ben Gurion Airport. Please take this opportunity to stow your belongings and prepare for arrival. In just a few moments, we will discontinue the operation of Wi-Fi and other on-board entertainment systems. Your attendants will now be passing through the main cabin to collect any trash or recyclable items you have.”

Blinking my eyes open and stretching, I took stock of the situation. My wife, Glenda, and I were aboard Delta flight 86 from New York’s JFK Airport to Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel. We were seated in the Comfort+ section and had two-up seating, row 13, seats A and B, at the main cabin bulkhead on Delta’s long-range Boeing 767-300ER. Glenda had the window seat and I was on the aisle. The air seemed heavy and muggy; my teeth felt fuzzy and my mouth tasted stale. I felt grumpy, stiff, and groggy; just a few dwarves short of a fairy tale. This had been a 12-hour flight and there is a seven-hour time difference between New York and Tel Aviv. We had departed JFK at 11:00 pm local Thursday and would arrive in Tel Aviv at 6:15 local Friday evening.

It had been a long flight, but not horribly bad. The Comfort+ seating did give us a bit more legroom and the two-up seating, which, to me, is a bigger improvement than all the legroom in the world. There’s nothing I hate worse than a middle seat on an airplane. Still, the service was disappointing and other than getting a free $.95 eye-mask indistinguishable from the lowest class of passage. And that in-flight service was certainly nothing to write home about. Meals? Swanson does microwave tray dinners better. Free drinks? This was the day after Thanksgiving in November of 2018. Delta began to offer free drinks for Comfort+ in January 2019. Plus, as we were at the front of the main cabin, but not in a premium class, the ‘heads’ were a long ways away behind us. In the hard airplane seat, even with Comfort+’s extra degree of recline and my trusty neck pillow, it was hard to sleep; just being away from my own bed probably had something to do with that. I was able to read, listen to music, and nap sporadically. Every time I did get to sleep, it seemed it was time for Glenda’s bathroom break. At least every couple of hours I’d gone out of my way to stand, stretch, and walk a bit; I didn’t want to risk a blood clot in my old legs.

I could feel the aircraft slowing and beginning to descend. Additional announcements were made indicating our final approach to the airport and instructing us to complete our preparation for landing. I noted that the lights of the Israeli coast were visible out Glenda’s port-side window. I managed to get my shoes on. I didn’t remember them feeling this tight, before. Our goods were all gathered and stowed. Taking another healthy stretch, telling myself to take a few really deep breaths, I noted an odd smell. To notice an odd smell in an airplane that’s been jammed full of people for 12 hours means that it is a really odd smell.  Wrinkling my nose I thought to myself, “What is that smell? Fishy? Garlic? Urine? It’s acrid, in any case, and it seems to be getting stronger.”

At just that moment, Glenda suddenly leaned forward, unfastened her seat belt and jumped to a standing position, bumping her head on the overhead bin on her way up. I don’t’ recall when I last saw her move so quickly. I immediately thought, “Oh, no! Now the flight attendants are going to reprimand us.”  Her sudden motion distracted me temporarily from the acrid smell. Looking at her concerned face, I asked, “What?”

Glenda declared, “Something is hot. Very hot. It’s burning my behind!”  She’s a very genteel soul. To use any stronger language would have been totally out of character.

What? Hot? Acrid smell? Oh, crap, smoke! That means fire. I reached down over the dividing armrest to feel her seat’s cushion; yes, it was very, very hot. I, too, quickly stood up and pressed the call button. By now, people in the row behind us are murmuring about smelling something. Quickly a flight attendant arrives and I explain to him the situation. He motioned for us to step out of our row into the aisle and when we were clear, he reached into Glenda’s seat.

Pulling back his hand with a cry, he shouts what was either a code word or something other than English to the senior attendant, which I assume was a call for a Halon fire extinguisher and to notify the flight crew of a potential “situation.”  He then yanked up the seat cushion. On the bottom inboard edge, it was smoldering; there was smoke but no visible fire. The attendant pulled a heavy cloth from his pocket and smothered the offending spot. A second attendant had arrived carrying a red fire extinguisher, but the first motioned for him to simply stand by.

Meanwhile, the aircraft continued its steady, droning, descent towards our landing. Once the attendant was sure there was no active fire he shouted, “Clear!” which I assume told the rest of the crew the problem was not serious. Then he again reached down and probed the seat tray under the cushion and pulled up a beat-up-looking old Bic butane-fueled lighter. Testing the business end of the lighter by touching with his thumb, he jerked his thumb back, and said, “It’s been ignited. Is this yours?”

“No!” I said, alarmed. “Neither of us smokes and we don’t carry any lighters.”

Apparently, the lighter had fallen out of someone’s pocket on an earlier flight. Seat cushions are not removed as part of the routine turn process, so it would not have been seen. As Glenda repositioned herself for the landing drill, her weight must have “flicked the BIC” in such a way as to activate it, which ignited the seat cushion. Most furnishings on modern aircraft are fire-resistant, as, thank God, was the seat cushion. Glenda’s ankle-length black polyester blend skirt, not so much. As we all recognized the crisis was averted and we were safe, the attendant replaced the cushion and asked us to quickly resettle so as to be prepared for landing. As we turn in the aisle to reenter our seats, I notice a flash of white at Glenda’s posterior.

“Wait,” I asked her. “Let me look at something.” With my hand on her shoulder, I turned her a bit to her left. Yep, there it was, just to the rear of her right upper thigh – a hole the size of grapefruit melted in her black skirt, allowing the exposure of her white underwear.

We had no changes of clothing in our carry-on bags, but at least she did have a sweater to tie around her waist and cover the view. 

After an otherwise uneventful and safe landing, we claimed our heavy luggage, cleared Customs & Immigration without incident, and got our rental car, a white Fiat sedan. I was exhausted and it was getting late, so we proceeded as quickly as we could to our comfortable Air BnB in Herzliya, along the Mediterranean coast north of Tel Aviv, allowing WAZE to guide us.

Once again, we had cheated death, as I’ve been doing for over 60 years. It easy to see that this situation could have been so much worse. There are not many things more frightening than a fire on an airplane in flight. Maybe Snakes on a Plane would be worse. I know that the movie of that name was painful to watch.

Writing is not EZ

This post is a re-work of an earlier post. I have been working with a writers group in my neighborhood. I've made an attempt to apply what I have learned there and from recent readings to improve the readability of this story. I hope you enjoy it.


-------------------------------

Monday, December 8, 2008, a small but busy airport somewhere in the rust belt of the U.S. Outside heavy wet snow is falling steadily from a cold gray sky.

Having extracted myself from a cramped coach window seat after the two-hour ride from Atlanta, I was anxious to get to the baggage claim and was feeling good stretching my legs as I left the concourse. Approaching the "once you pass this point you must reenter through security" line, I heard the following announcement over the airport's public address system (Note, names are changed to protect the guilty...and, also, because my old man's memory can't remember the real names):

"John Williamson, John Williamson, please return to security with your companion's passport and boarding pass so that she may pass through security. John Williamson...(repeat)."

"Wow." I thought. "What an error. To get through security with his companion's documents and leave someone stranded. Good thing there is a paging system."

As I passed beyond the security line, I noted an attractive early-thirties woman, tall, slender, blonde, dressed stylishly in black slacks and a black-and-white sweater, arms crossed, looking up the concourse passenger exit expectantly, tapping her foot. "Hmmm," thought I, "this must be Mr. Williamson's 'Companion'." I moved past her, never making eye contact, and proceeded to the near-by baggage claim. About then, I heard the earlier announcement for Mr. Williamson repeated.

At baggage claim, the flat-screen monitor over carousel 'A' announced the arrival of the luggage from the arriving Atlanta flight. The carousel was not moving and with about 120 other passengers, I waited. During a wait of 5 or 10 minutes, the announcement for Mr. Williamson to please return to security was repeated again.

About the time I began to get impatient for my luggage, a different announcement, this time aimed at passengers of my arriving flight from Atlanta, announced that bags were delayed and that the arriving passengers from Cincinnati could get THEIR bags on carousel 'A' and the bags from Atlanta would come soon. This announcement was followed almost immediately by a repeat of the plea for Mr. Williamson. I don't know if it was my imagination, or what, but it seemed that the plea for Mr. Williamson's return to security was getting more strident and forceful each time I heard it.

Since I had nothing else to do, I strolled back toward the security checkpoint. Ms. Companion was still there, arms still crossed, foot still tapping, now more slowly and with more deliberate force. The look on her face had changed from expectant to concerned. As I stood unobtrusively observing, her look morphed from concern to anger. I slowly shook my head, wondering just how dense Mr. Williamson could be as I headed for the Starbucks franchise for a bracing beverage. Meh, who knows? Perhaps he was detained in the men's room.

While I was in Starbucks, the airport PA system informed me that baggage carousel 'A' was malfunctioning and the Cincinnati luggage could now be claimed on 'C.' No mention was made of the Atlanta luggage. The paged plea for Mr. Williamson's return was repeated, twice, while I waited for the baristas to do their job. After I got my coffee, I headed back to the baggage claim area where I observed 120 other arriving Atlanta passengers doing what airline passengers do: Wait. Since I had nothing else to do...well you get the picture. I went back to check on Ms. Companion. Still there. Then, finally, after what seemed like forever waiting, an announcement for the Atlanta bags up on carousel 'C.'

Poor Ms. Companion. I last saw her on my way to the rental car kiosk, after I finally got my bag, the last one in on the carousel. She was still standing near the (only) passenger exit from the concourse. By now the look of expectancy, concern, and anger had melted to a look of distraught shame and despair. She was openly sobbing with huge tears streaking makeup down her face. Her arms were no longer crossed but hung to her sides, hands clenched into fists. About 50 minutes and at least a dozen repetitions of the announcement had passed since my first sighting. Can you even begin to imagine how she felt? I was impatient and I was only waiting for a piece of luggage. It reminds me of an anonymous quote that I once heard, that, to the world, you may only be one person but to one person you may be the world. Was Mr. Williamson, at that moment, her world crashing around her? Can you imagine Mr. Williamson, when approached by the airline's gate agent as the flight for Bermuda boarded, saying, "I'm not going back, she can take care of herself." The audacity is breathtaking; the agony heartrending. I don't think this method of dumping another was even mentioned in Paul Simon's 50 Ways. Did Mr. Williamson plan this? Or did he find himself separated and spontaneously decide to make the split permanent?

This story has no real ending. In fact, most of it is my impressions and my interpretation of what was happening at a small airport on a winter afternoon as snow fell outside. Perhaps the dreary weather made things seem more grim. Of this I am sure: The tears on her face looked very real, and hot enough to melt the falling snow.

Do not go EZ into that good night (with apologies to Dylan Thomas)

We lost my father in law, Glenn Elwood Baum, this morning at about 2:00 AM MST. He passed while sleeping at his home in Twin Falls, Idaho. His wife, Netta, and daughter, Carolyn, were at this bedside. His daughter, Laurie, said, "He was home, and that's where he wanted to be."

Glenda will travel from our home in San Antonio, TX, to Twin Falls to be with family.

First impressions of a city.

I am in St. Louis for a few days attending a training symposium and trade show. It is the first time I've been to this city on the Mississippi for quite a few years, and my impressions are quite mixed. My hotel is very old but recently renovated. My assigned room on the 17th floor is small but nicely appointed. I have a view east to the river and the Veteran's Memorial/Martin Luther King bridge. The view of the famous Arch, though, is blocked by a tinted-glass and steel office tower. Just across the street is the impressive America's Center convention center. People I've dealt with so far, in the hotel, convention center, restaurant, at the airport, have been friendly and helpful. Much of this part of St. Louis seems to be modern and vibrant and based on a foundation more than a century old. The city has a website that offers convenient services to the citizens (including a way to report potholes) and there is even a link on the website to a map of free wi-fi spots in the city. From my window I can see public art, a small park, and things seem clean and well maintained.

But these are kind of secondary first impressions, and quite different from the FIRST first impressions. After claiming my bags at Lambert Field, I travelled the 13.8 miles from the airport to downtown on the MetroLink light rail. Inexpensive, but impressive for all the wrong reasons. Getting to the airport's East MetroLink stop was an adventure in itself. The path led across streets, through parking garages and tunnels, up stairs, down stairs, inside, outside, inside again, and finally up two levels on an elevator. The route was, at least, well marked with signs pointing the way. I'm not sure how well lit the area is at night. I don't think I'd want to take that route at night. Had there not been clear signs with arrows indicating the way to the MetroLink, I would never have gone there in the daytime. It is hard to describe how ugly and uninviting everything looked along the way--how inconvenient it seemed. The floor in most places was wet and/or oily (the weather was warm and dry). The ceiling, when indoors, was low and the passage way narrow. For distances of 10s of meters at a time, the passageway was not wide enough for two people to pass in opposite directions without turning sideways to each other. On one ramp, the walkway was so narrow I could not carry my bags at my side, but had to drag them behind me. When indoors the smell was rank. And everything, walls, ceilings, railings, bannisters, stairs, were all unpainted (except for grafitti) concrete--much of the concrete was stained or crumbling. The feeling was that of an abandoned (hopefully!) war bunker. One's imagination could cause palpitations here! At the elevator, signs indicated two higher levels, "Ticketing," and "Platform." I boarded the elevator and pressed the button for Ticketing. The elevator rose, stopped, the doors opened...onto a completely empty and open area with no attendants, booths, or vending machines visible. I got back onto the elevator and pressed the button for Platform.

Upon arriving at the train platform I found ticket dispensing machines. Cash only. When was the last time you saw that? There were a variety of tickets listed, each with a button to push: One hour; two hours; day pass; week pass, etc. But nothing that told me how long it took to get from the aiport to downtown. I chose the two-hour pass, figuring that to be a good compromise between overspending and not having enough fare for my destination. The machine did, at least work well, and gave me back a quarter in change from my four dollar bills.

I'm glad the weather was nice. The exposed and un-roofed platform was in the middle of two open train tracks, one for an eastbound train and the other for westbound, and I'll bet it can get very uncomfortable here in windy and cold weather. There was no signage or maps telling a passenger which train to get onto to go downtown. A lady at the information desk in the airport had told me to be sure to get on the right train. A loudspeaker did make occasional announcements. For instance, it told the few waiting souls that the westbound train would arrive in 5 minutes and that the train would be out of service on Sunday, sorry for any inconvenience. From a paper map I'd picked up in the airport terminal, I determined that I needed to go East, so I let the westbound train come and go. I asked another waiting person if she knew how often the trains came by and she said she thought every 10 minutes. I did not tell her that I'd already been on the platform for over 20 minutes. Perhaps every 30 minutes is the schedule, for within another 10 minutes an eastbound train was announced and arrived. The train was labled "Shilo/Scott" with no mention of downtown, or of any other intermediate stops, for that matter. Once again, the paper map from inside the airport was the only source I found for the information that I needed. Did I mention that no copies of the paper map were available at the platform?

Once on board, I found the train was clean and relatively comfortable. A map of MetroLink stops posted inside the train did identify the intermediate and ultimate stops. As we rumbled along the driver announced stops, which side the doors would open on, and which bus lines served the upcoming stop. As the train prepared to pull away from each stop she would announce that the doors were closing and you were aboard the eastbound Shilo/Scott train. At least I think that's what she was announcing. I really could never clearly understand the announcements due to a combination of accented dialog, background noise, and a static-y loudspeaker system. During my 40 minutes or so on board many of her announcements were repeated often enough that I managed, I think, to figure out what she was saying. I still don't know where, or what, Shilo/Scott is, since it does not show up on the paper MetroLink map that I got, which ends its coverage at the Missippi River, while the MetroLink apparently goes on eastward into Illinois for some distance.

After we left the airport, the landscape rolling by was striking in the visible blight and decay displayed. Burned-out, tumbled-down, boarded-up, litter-strewn, a nightmare scene of former industrial strength. Right there, naked, in living color for all visitors and natives alike to see. Kabul looks cleaner, more modern, and better maintained. This part of St. Louis truly looked like the aftermath of a war. Perhaps much of our nation will look like this before the current economic crisis ends. I pray not. An old cemetery, headstones askew, seemed to speak of decades, centuries, of human dreams and disappointments. The scenery did improve a bit as we passed UMSL and some medical centers.

Passengers came and went with the stops. Working men and women, some perhaps homeless, college students, college professors, one very well-dressed and distinguished looking man on a power scooter, one young attitude-bearing urban male wearing the lowest sagging pants I've ever seen. As we approached my stop, the rail went underground. Leaving the train, I exited the station over wet tile floors and up concrete steps into the sun, and found myself disoriented. I knew I had to walk west about two blocks to my hotel, but I had no idea which direction was west. I looked for clues on the street signs but did not find anything helpful. I looked for street numbers on buildings. None visible. So, I flipped a coin, turned left and walked that way along Washington Avenue, dragging my luggage along, noisy with its well-worn wheels against the rough concrete.

Now, in an attempt at fairness, I should mention that the St. Louis MetroLink has a helpful website where you can plan a trip in advance. You tell it where you are and where you want to go and the website will provide a detailed itinerary with times, stops, train and bus IDs, and costs. I had not preplanned the trip. I've used light rail in Japan, Europe, other US cities, and the Middle-East and have never needed to pre-plan a trip to get from the international airport to a local convention center. Signage and announcements are generally well designed and posted for the convenience of a stranger. My trip on the red-and-cream colored St. Louis MetroLink was not an unpleasant experience, but, for this stranger, neither was the trip EZ.