No Kingdom, No Magic (Part III)

I’ve never, ever had to break one post into three pieces. I’m only grateful that this is not in Word so you can’t see how many words it actually is. And at this point, I’m only about 12 hours into a 2-day business trip, so I’m sure it looks like it’s going to end up like the Encyclopedia Britannica.

After a few hours of semi-fitful sleep, in the morning I meet a couple of my co-workers and we head off in a rental car to breakfast. We are a few blocks along before we realize that none of us really has a clue where we’re going, and we’re each mostly waiting for the other to take charge. We wander aimlessly enough that we have to call the hotel to ask them how to get back; by chance, we run into a 7-11 and decide to give up and stop for donuts etc.

Let’s recap how well we are meeting our objectives so far, shall we?

• Comfy hotel room: not so much
• Housekeeping picking up after me: don’t hold your breath
• Ample expense-account meals: I did have a second donut. Um, and later, an apple fritter, and a couple pieces of chocolate, and 3 of those cookies the size of hubcaps... but I digress. Fortunately, any food eaten in a conference room doesn't count -- more on that in a moment.
  

And although we didn’t mention “balmy Florida climate” as a primary objective, I’m compelled to point out that it rained almost all that day as well… or perhaps the skies were merely weeping in sympathy. Of course, it could be worse: the second day was lovely weather, but since it was experienced almost entirely through the conference room window, I didn’t get much benefit.

As for the meals, the meeting hosts had sandwiches brought in for lunch both days, which fell well short of deluxe but was at least catered by Panera and quite tasty. And the one dinner the team went out for was mind-blowingly delicious. Pursuant to my standard Road Policy, I ate until I was full and then continued for about 1000 calories more (causing me to wake up sick in the middle of the night…and I would do it all again in a heartbeat, assuming it continues beating).

The meetings themselves were pleasant and productive enough and not very interesting in this context. There’s probably something funny to be said about PowerPoint presentations and project plans, but I’m trying not to turn into a complete Dilbert here.

With regard to the trip home, perhaps the less said the better (although as a general principle it’s certainly too late for that). I will say this: US Airways is the Kmart of airlines. They’d like you to think they’re “thrifty” and “no-frills”, but mostly they’re shabby and dirty and just putting in time. Have you ever heard of that old illustration about monkeys and typewriters – if you have enough monkeys, eventually by random chance you get all the works of Shakespeare? That’s USAir’s business plan: take a bunch of planes and some people wearing uniforms, then find people with a wad of cash and the need to get somewhere; eventually, just by random chance, somebody’s gotta make it home, right? The generally haphazard air is accented by the cattle car ambiance – except I’m pretty sure cattle would take one look and say, “No thanks, we’ll walk.”

Every stewarde… oops, flight attendant… can do the whole spiel in her sleep, and often does. In this case, the “welcome to your destination” message included an apology for being late – and it didn’t sound like she had to reach back too far into her memory to recall the correct phrasing. It turns out that the departure/arrival times on the tickets and schedules are mere placeholders because they can’t fit “your guess is as good as ours” in the little boxes.

The upside is, since all the flights are equally screwed up, you seldom miss your connection.

I got home just about an hour later than originally planned, and since I do these trips perhaps twice a year, I’d say I have about a 50/50 chance of recovering from this one in time for the next one. With any luck Southwest will fit my schedule best and be cheapest... or maybe it'll be a location served by Amtrak.

No Kingdom, No Magic (Part II)

In Part I, we managed to travel 1500 miles or so in the space of about 700 words; I’ll warn you ahead of time that our mileage is going to vary from here on out (and not in the direction of economy).

When I left off, I was traversing the entirety of Central Florida in a taxi…

Finally, about 45 minutes out from the airport and with the meter showing $55.75, we pull up to the hotel. I get my luggage first, then hand the driver $61 – knowing this falls well short of a 15% tip, but also mindful that I have to keep something in my wallet for the rest of the trip. I say thanks and walk away quickly, thus forfeiting the opportunity to learn a few interesting words in some obscure dialect. I head into the hotel…

…Or at least “toward” the hotel. The front door is locked and although I can see the front desk there’s no one in sight. I have to pick up the intercom phone and get buzzed in. I go to the desk to check in, slide my credit card under the security barrier that’s drawn across the counter and get myself checked in (making certain to request the $4.99 “unlimited Internet access for the length of your stay”), then head wearily down the hall.

The growing unsettled feeling I’ve been experiencing suddenly snaps into place as the realization dawns: other places that could be described as Extended Stay are hospitals, nursing homes, and minimum-security prisons, which is in fact the vibe I’ve been trying to put my finger on.

Inside the door I discover that what makes this a “suite” is that the foyer has been replaced by a sink, refrigerator and 2 burners. Oh, and the cupboards contain a few pots & pans, dishes, and silverware obviously salvaged from the nearest yard sale. Other than that, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference from your basic Motel 6 or TraveLodge.

OK, I admit I’m disappointed at the absence of “deluxe”, but it’s late, I’m tired, and the TV works fine (not one but 4 ESPNs!), so I make a quick call to my wife and then head off to the shower.

The hotel industry for many years scammed us, or at least me, into feeling pampered to find toiletries and perhaps even a little package of coffee in our rooms. Some even had (gasp!) blow dryers, and you could call the front desk to get a toothbrush if Homeland Security stole yours during baggage screening. Then I, at least, stopped to consider that even if you’re paying as little as $60 a night (our frugal, corporate-bean-counter-appeasing rate on this trip) that’s the equivalent of $1800 a month for basically staying in a stranger’s guest room – and hoping he really washed his sheets since the last guest left. So when you get down to it, we probably shouldn’t be excessively grateful that they provide 49 cents’ worth of shampoo, even if it is laden with fruits and botanicals.

So I leave my glasses on the desk and head for the bathroom. At first I’m having difficulty locating the shampoo, so I assume it’s just my eyesight. Frankly I’m not a sure bet to locate the shower without my glasses unless there’s a pretty strong light… so I retrieve them and conduct a more thorough search of the premises.

Though I don’t find any shampoo, I do find a card that says toiletries may be obtained at the front desk – but my fully-corrected vision (well, almost) allows me to read the fine print which reads: “At selected locations”. I’m getting the feeling this is a location that isn’t selected for anything save perhaps the Witness Protection Program.

I note further on the card, incidentally, that since this is an Extended Stay Hotel, I will also have an Extended Wait for housekeeping; they don’t show up till day 7... unless you pay extra.

Well, it’s close to midnight and I have to be presentable for a meeting first thing in the morning, so there’s no alternative but to “shampoo” with a deodorant soap bar about the size of a credit card. At least I don’t have to worry about my scents clashing – and I suppose almonds and honey can stand in for fruits and botanicals.

Out of the shower and at least fresher than my post-air-travel/interminable-cab-ride self, I decide to pop on the Internet just for a sec. Note: this has everything in the world to do with the desire to catch up on important e-mails, and to maximize the value of my $4.99 expenditure, and is not related in any way to my fantasy baseball team. Or… my other fantasy baseball team.

I’m met with a login screen that requests a password and I realize that the desk clerk didn’t say anything about a password; there will be no Internet tonight. Nothing left to do but go to bed.

At home, I’m generally pretty good about getting to sleep – many nights it’s a race to hit the pillow while still conscious – however, I am susceptible to random background noise and stray beams of light. And since the word “hotel” is actually taken from the Old French meaning “random background noise and stray beams of light”, I lie awake and restless (I believe this is where I’m supposed to use the word “enervated”) for some while. Finally I give up and shove in my earplugs, which I’ve left out in an effort to ensure hearing the alarm, and drift into fitful slumber. But not before realizing the gibberish the desk clerk scribbled on the keycard sleeve must be the Internet access password; I briefly consider getting up but I’m exhausted and I don’t want to be The Guy Who Gets Out of Bed in the Middle of the Night to Surf the Web, so I finally surrender to my weariness.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a reader had roughly the same reaction (enervated, anyone?), so let’s all take a break here and marshal our strength for the big finish… next time, I promise.

No Kingdom, No Magic (Part I)

As a part-time employee working from home and a full-time dad, one of the big events in the year’s calendar is when Dad Goes on a Business Trip. Schedules are juggled – in particular, I have to be very careful how the week’s menu is set up, on behalf of one who is not an enthusiastic practitioner of the culinary arts – and there is a general buzz of anticipation.

OK, that’s mostly me (although my wife’s principal reaction was that she’d be able to keep the house clean, with a barely-unspoken “for a change”); as recounted previously, I just don’t get out of the house among adults too often. In this case the anticipation redoubles when the destination is revealed to be Orlando.

Orlando, while not quite Vegas, certainly evokes a certain mental picture: sunshine, warm weather, a giant frolicking rodent. Everyone I meet is jealous of my great fortune, especially with the last vestiges of snow on the ground and daily “high” temps in the low 40s. I protest in vain that I’m unlikely to have much recreation time on a two-day business trip, much less an opportunity to visit theme parks.

I am forced, however, to acknowledge that I am looking forward to a comfy hotel room, housekeeping picking up after me, and ample expense account meals. And it’s an Extended Stay Hotel, which means a suite! Living large, no doubt.

Of course, a trip to Orlando plus school-vacation week equals a plane full of families of all descriptions. Yet the flight down, a Southwest non-stop, is completely uneventful. Board on time, leave on time, arrive on time; everyone from 1 to 100 is placid and well-behaved. Even though it’s much more fun to be scornful and dismissive, I have to admit that Southwest rocks.

While I’m no road warrior, I’ve traveled now and then for the past 25 years, and it seems to me that all airports are more or less indistinguishable. The exception is probably Orlando: the airport is basically standard-issue, but you can always identify Orlando by the herds of families wandering around with dazed looks on their faces – either on their way, trying to reach the hotel “not far from the Magic Kingdom” before the kids explode; or headed home, fishing grimly in their Mickey-logo fanny packs for the last remaining 20 bucks needed to obtain the somewhat-edibles they’re not going to get on the plane. A novice traveler would do well to remember that, while the Food Network has programs on nearly every conceivable topic, there are no shows celebrating the joys of America’s Airport Food.

I get my luggage quickly and head for Ground Transportation. I’ve decided not to rent a car, since I have other teammates flying in who will be, but my hotel reservation says “Orlando”, so surely I can take a cab quicker and cheaper anyway. I neglected to visit Yahoo Maps ahead of time, but what’s the worst that could happen? Ten or fifteen minutes? $10-15 plus tip?

As I said, I’m no road warrior. The fare is close to 2 bucks before I even get out of the airport – not counting the mandatory 50-cent “airport surcharge”. As we travel, I’m mentally keeping a running tab of a 15% tip so I’ll be ready when we get there in a couple minutes. It gets harder to keep up as we pass from street to highway to toll road to interstate and the meter continues to click (well, digitally) like the gas pump when I fill up the minivan.

I do, of course, want to appear a road warrior and not Cletus just off the hay wagon – since I basically am just off the hay wagon, I’m always wary of being fleeced by cabbies – so I keep silent as if this is just what I expected. Finally, more than a half-hour and 40-some-odd dollars into the trip, I can’t help but ask: “Are we getting anywhere close?” The driver, whom you’ll be absolutely stunned to learn is a foreign gentleman, tells me it’s 3 more exits.

A reader would be forgiven for asking the same question… let’s just say I have a restraining order against me prohibiting me from using the phrase “to make a long story short”. And since I don’t want a single post to be longer than the cab ride, I’m going to resume next time.

April 1-7, 33

Seems like archeology is continually bringing us updates from the past. Witness the furor over the supposed burial place of Jesus and the wife & kids. And after all, what are the odds that a man named Jesus and a woman named Mary would be buried in the same tomb? Um... pretty good, actually.

OK, never mind that one. However, in the spirit of the Dead Sea Scrolls comes the news of the very recent discovery of Jesus' Day-Timer. It was so recent that scholars have not had an opportunity to translate it; but by an amazing coincidence, I actually majored in Aramaic in college. In fact, I was the treasurer of the Aramaic Club -- what a wacky bunch we were!

I wondered what the entries would look like for this same week back then. Here's my best translation:

Sunday, April 1: Parade -- Grand Marshal (note: the card below was attached)

Monday, April 2: Help apostles study for final exam

Tuesday, April 3: Temple -- help clean up; Exercise (upper-body workout)

Wednesday, April 4: Appear on "Pharisee Jeopardy!" Remember to answer in the form of a question.

Thursday, April 5: Dinner with the guys -- I bring the bread & wine

Friday, April 6: Full workout. *Out late -- stay over at Joseph of A's?*

Saturday, April 7: Don't forget to leave early wakeup call for tomorrow.

Wanted: Tiny Pretend Donuts

I didn't really need convincing, but I recently got yet another illustration of the importance of spouses having different strengths. I will forever be happy to handle "Electronic Devices" and "Food Shopping & Preparation", as long as my wife is designated for "Dioramas".

All the way into April, I'm still having trouble adjusting to how much homework we have now that we're in first grade. I beg your pardon; as it turns out, only one of us is in first grade... yet somehow the homework turns out to be a family affair.

We have muddled our way through the various math worksheets and spelling lists and flashcards and phonics readers -- it's been no bed of roses, of course, but anything in the service of education. Plus we have to initial the homework sheet every night and I'm afraid if I fib it'll go on my Permanent Record.

Just when we could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, came the dreaded Diorama Project. The first graders were assigned to make a model of our community, and we got to be Dunkin' Donuts.

Not to worry -- the seven-year-old springs into action. He finds a shoebox, assembles crayons and scissors and tape and construction paper, and before we know it he's busily sketching, cutting, and assembling.

No, of course he doesn't! Who in their right mind expects a seven-year-old to even make a tangible contribution to a project like that? Let’s not be coy, folks; we all know that even for the older kids, the parents are doing the lion’s share of the work here. And in the case of a first-grader, probably the best you can hope for is that the kid stays at the dining room table long enough to watch his parents (OK, his mom) build the silly thing. As far as I can tell, the only educational objective being served here is that the kid learns that the parents can be made to do almost anything when a teacher writes it on an assignment sheet.

The saving grace for me is that we all agree that my arts & crafts abilities are confined to coloring inside the lines. Even then I’m better off from an esthetic standpoint if someone else selects the colors for me. So my wife naturally took the lead without my even having to whine. I mean, suggest it. She took a big batch of digital photos, found all the materials, sat him down to do what little cutting and coloring he could contribute, and put it together. Well, almost.

You would no doubt be stunned to hear that, before we knew it, it was the night before D-Day and we had a shoebox resplendent in orange and pink, but not “branded”. So I (as the “Electronic Devices” supervisor; see above) got to spend the evening surfing for logos and resizing them and printing them – and, as it turns out, creating a few of my own signs from scratch.

I felt kind of vaguely icky about how much work we parents did until I saw the rest of the projects. As it turns out, there’s a high percentage of photographers, artists, architects and graphic designers in first grade these days. What are the odds?