Part Two (& Last) of Travel Diary: Being There

I feel soooo much better for having unloaded my angst and frustration about travel in the previous post- you know, "venting" as they say- so now I can just skip the part about the six hours on the plane (well, seven if you count boarding, taxi-ing and waiting interminably on the runway) as if it never really happened!

Day Something or Other
It's one of those perfect, eighty-degree-ish, low humidity, halcyon blue skies, Wizard of Oz clouds of cotton candy floating serenely overhead creating a kind of fairy tale canopy.

I'm sitting on an uncrowded beach in Newport, soaking up the energy, basking in the warm, soothing light, getting fried and not realizing or caring, and the Nootch is running down to the shore in her two and a half year old doll's bathing suit. 

This almost makes it all better. . . you know, all that stuff I said in the previous post about traveling. . . almost. . . .

Oh, and you know what the little elf says when a bedtime story is over? Get this- it's amazing-
                                The End!!!!

Travel Diary: A Rebuttal to All "Travel Section" Fantasies, and a Warning

As some of you may know, I detest travel of all sorts. We were put on this earth to have fun, not to worry about losing stuff or waiting in long lines or driving in traffic or sitting in claustrophobic, mechanical birds on seats designed for miniature aliens. In addition to loathing the process itself from beginning to end, the actual act of finally being somewhere else often does not quite make up for the journey; in fact the whole process at times effects such a conclusion to this miserable undertaking that the destination itself can be even more intolerable than all the annoying means of getting there!  

Living in the 21st century however, and not wanting to become one of those weird, hermit-like oddballs who does not even use the internet or own a phone- you know, one of those people who is inexplicably proud of their tech aversion, seems perpetually in terrible need of a haircut, and has a rather glazed, look that blares "I pine for the nineteenth century" - occasionally I am forced to partake of this form of incredible, unbelievable inconvenience. 

The ascending order of bothersome, insufferable experiences connected with the various types of excursions that force you to leave your home for extended periods starts with road trips at the bottom at the list of inconveniences and works its way up to dreaded TSA and flying experiences. If a car rental is involved, add a hundred points.

Day One of What Will Be a Short Diary
It's so weird getting up at 5:00 a.m., and this is not even the big day of departure (when I will have to be awakened well before 4:00 a.m.)!!! It's the day before alighting, because like many insane people, we are rehearsing for something we really needn't rehearse for. Of course when we first purchased tickets we had to snag the 7:00 a.m. for the upcoming trip, at one of the world's busiest, most confusing airports, because that was the only affordable time matching our desired dates. This arrangement means waking at 3:00 a.m. tomorrow, or will it still be kind of today? 

 And so we decided to ease ourselves into the horror of opening our eyes in shock and awe in the dead of night as if from a bad dream by attempting to do that very same act of idiotic, wake-up endurance the day before, in order to get used to the idea; crazy, huh? I've omitted some of the more grisly details here that will be involved in the actual early, early morning getting- out- of- the- house challenge on departure day, like the nuances of too quickly showering in the dark and then lugging suitcases into a cab with wet hair and no breakfast. It's too awful to even write about.

Efforts to get to bed at 8:00 p.m. this past week failing miserably, we threw it all into the day prior to the trip. So as I write, here I am, it's already 8:30 a.m. and I've been up for three and half hours, actually wide awake for the last one hundred eighty of those two hundred and ten minutes!!! And we're not even leaving today. . . .

The first glimmer of consciousness upon arising at such an hour always is the most horrible. After quickly cycling through all the familiar stages of grief regarding trip preparations, there is finally acceptance as we eat a tasteless breakfast- badly prepared since we've gotten rid of most  perishables- and then deal with the joys of upset stomach. We are now ready to start the final, day before prep.

An hour on and zombie-like we are going through the motions of seeing to the last details, getting the house ready, over watering the plants until the poor, helpless roots are veritably drowning, repacking for the fifteenth time. Aaaahhh, packing. . . .  an activity (an obsession?) that may well merit a novella at a future date. As my friend Diane says, you still have to get dressed each day, but you do not have your closet with you.

Now all we have to do is wait until 8:00 p.m. tonight so that we can unsuccessfully try to fall asleep and then proceed to toss and turn, get up and watch TV and hit the pillow again about 1:00 a.m., when we can catch an hour so of something resembling sleep (but not really qualifying as sleep!) before getting up again and leaving.

People do this for fun???
                                                       
                                            (Next Week: Part Two, Being There. . . .)

Eclipse Flips

Like many things in life, I fell into the eclipse by accident.

Okay, it was only a partial, but still. . .   a twice in a hundred years unique alignment of sun and moon. . . .

The event caught me by surprise; even the park in which I happened upon it managed to provide a kind of unexpected, magical setting-  it juts out over some rocks along the Long Island Sound and is quite picturesque. I had gone there to stroll and gaze, not thinking about any imminent or unusual lunar movements.

The mood was festive when we arrived and something clearly was up.

I approached a family sitting on a bench wearing those silly sci-fi eclipse goggles redolent of 1950's thrillers about aliens and asked, “When?”

“Now!” they said. “We have an extra pair, here!”

And that was it, we had joined the party.

We took the glasses and wandered up the rocks toward the water to a warm, stone bench; in front of us the anchored sailboats were bobbing on small, dark blue waves.

Sharing the lone pair of eyeball protectors back and forth, we looked up into the void and experienced that ooooh/aaaaah sensation of the floating cosmos while people nearby chatted and giggled. Strangers looked at each other with warmth and curiosity. It was a communal happening of clear importance, and everyone looking appropriately awe struck.

Like others who viewed this phenomenon, I too wanted to feel I’d gotten something incredible out of it. The darkness of the universe, the intense gold of the blinding orb- blocked only in part by a slice of deep moon- like a chunk of the most velvety of chocolate cake, the illusion of something downright mystical.

The tiny waves moving on the water and we mortals awash in the glory of it all, checking out a heavenly mystery first hand. It was like a medieval illumination, virtual style, or perhaps a glimpse into infinity. It beat cable news, hands down.

My store of metaphorical fancies ran amok. A flat, somber sky over gray-green water, the invisible screen moving in and shedding of a pale a shadow over what had just been a sunny afternoon as the eclipse slid by, a snowy blue horizon fading to pastel; the wind coming up as a grand finale to this first rate cosmic show. My thoughts continued along such untamed paths of wild and willful poesy.

Then my neck started to ache so I turned my attention back to solid land and looked around. Not wanting to feel like an uninvolved nihilist or astronomical pessimist while the rest of the world seemed to be aiming their smart phones ever so smartly up, up, up at the galaxy, I too needed to capture the image, albeit with my trusty, exceptionally junky, though new, flip phone (please try to hold those snickers). And the little devil came through!  It made that slow clicking sound that signifies yes!

The only problem is that now I cannot seem to transfer the once in a hundred years phenomenon, as seen through my particular, simple, very personal lens, to any other device on the planet Earth because I can't get it out of the phone.

It seems the new flip model is even cheesier than the crappy old one. I’ve since searched online, consulted with strangers and eventually called the store. Apparently the current replacement is so cheaply made it can only take miniscule pictures that will remain locked into its tiny soul, maybe forever, never to be shared or seen on a normal size monitor, unless perhaps you unearth some secret code or get amazingly lucky. But if I “come in,” the disembodied voice on the store phone said, they might be able to “help out.”

Hmmm. The Rosetta stone of keeping flip phone customers happy until eventually they can phase us out? The supposed “upgrade” to something crazily more expensive? Not over my flipping flip phone!

So why did I post this? Reading it over, I have to admit that a simple vignette about a small, plastic piece of outmoded tech may lack the irony of an O'Henry story or the magnetic attraction, wide audience appeal, and ubiquitous cultural references of "A Game of Thrones" (whatever that may be);  but now I'm  kinda' seeing the whole episode as possible fuel for a quirky, lovable indie, a film with one of those compelling, single word titles: Reactionary! 

Well, okay, maybe not. . . . people are so proprietary- dare I say addicted?- so positively chauvinistic about their smart phones they have completely closed their minds to the subject of alternatives, like the possibility of using an uncomplicated flip phone for example, perhaps as a means of holding back time as tech marches idiotically on, and worlds continue to near collide.

The eclipse thus eclipsed by daily digital life, a too fetid imagination and a flair for intense stubbornness about keeping up with the Tech Joneses, I still needed to recapture the image- my very own personal take on a star studded happening for which you did not even need a telescope, now locked down inside a dinosaur of a "device" (can we even call it that??)- and so I began steeling myself for another trip to the flip store. . . . 

How was your eclipse? Can I see your pictures? 

Showdown at Tech Town

Flip phones are like toddler toys- designed to break, quickly like plastic water guns. They are not very smart. And much like toy weapons, they still have a kind of small presence.

It is not the phones of course who are dumb, but the idiots like me who buy them. These tiny, plastic-like pieces of hayseed half the size of a playing card tend to slip through your fingers like a child’s marble, often sending the stupid thing flying; then the flip part frequently and continually deconstructs, eventually hanging precariously and piteously from one thread like a broken limb as you dolefully face the prospect of finding a Verizon store out there on the prairie, then spending the better part of a day. . . . It’s a crap shoot really, in terms of dependability.

On the other hand, smart phones do not render a user more intelligent although they do significantly increase the revenues of the savvy tech manufacturers who construct them to last just a might longer than the annoying flip phones, albeit at even crazier, more outrageous prices. These purchases are like risking the chance of losing big at poker when the dealer’s deck is stacked and loaded.

Let’s cut to the chase.

I am one of those who has hung on tenaciously- nay, heroically!- to my landline. I’ve not even succumbed to “Triple Play,” lacking as I do any faith whatsoever in the reliability of cable servers. But I do not like to leave the house completely unarmed. I’m a proud American and wear my flip phone arrogantly like a ten gallon hat or a Colt ’45.

Despite my yearnings to be alone at a campfire watching the stars with a dog named Shep and a steaming cup of java, living in the 21^st century I am forced to have a line of communication as mobile as a talking horse, a mechanism commonly and simply referred to as a “phone,” since a huge majority of the population relies entirely on this pony express. There is a clear rationale to this. What if we had not over-peopled the earth after all and destroyed every speck of greenery, then planted yet another Starbucks even in far reaches of the highest mountain in the Rockies? You just might find yourself one dreary midnight on that long, lonesome trail, far, far away from anyone who can help with that pesky flat tire and tired horse, just as a particularly mean hombre closes in from the nearby desert and surreptitiously pads his way towards you. . . . .

Unlikely? Perhaps. But better safe than sorry. It pays to be strapped, holstered, safely armed with a six shooter at the ready, prepared for the worst. No telling what’s out there in that untamed sagebrush.

And so there I was at the Verizon store, having phoned ahead to make sure they carried and had in stock the same brand of cheap, stupid phones that continually break. In line ahead of me were two compadres, each already being waited on by the two reps at the counter, everyone sitting on those impossibly high, uncomfortable stools. The place gave off the whiff of a Wild West barroom and you could hear a pin drop.

The first guy, who was approaching the elderly stage but still slick with a sardonic air, perhaps a retired rodeo rider or weekend golfer, was listening intently to the rep, who spoke to him like a horse whisperer. The second customer, a waiter from a nearby restaurant, could not understand why he had to pay the remaining balance on his now inoperative iphone, even though it had totally deconstructed like a palomino with a fractured leg and therefore was totally useless, and then immediately start making payments all over again on a new device. He was ready to call the sheriff and organize a posse.

Forty-five minutes later when my own turn came, of course they did not have the item I wanted that they had said was in stock. They did not even carry it in fact. The person who had erroneously given me this misinformation, twice (I had called again to make sure), or “mis-communicated” because she was a lazy, mean lout who refused to go back and look, already was gone for the day. My hand instinctively moved toward my hip and I was ready to kill. The manager assured me she would “speak to her.” Great.

But then the tide turned, and the lonesome stranger who was engaged in quiet, intense conversation with the first rep whirled around, pulled out his flip phone like Gary Cooper in High Noon, and offered it to me! He was sick of flip phones he said. It was unclear if he was moving on to another, fancier, shinier “device,” perhaps with a pearl handle, but for now he was gettin’ out of Tech Town. He’d had it with Laredo and was movin’ on.

He tipped his golfer’s hat, strode out of the store, jumped onto his Ford Bronco parked outside just as the meter maid was ambling threateningly down the street, and rode away into the sunset.

I gazed longingly out the door but the rep who was taking my order put his hand comfortingly on my shoulder and said, “He’ll be back. . . .” 

Part Two of Vacation, Water Water Everywhere

I'm soooo. . .  clean!

Water water everywhere, and we're not only talkin' all the Crystal Geyser you can drink, but hot tubs, cool pools, oversized showers with jets staring haughtily, coming at you from every which way, assertive sprays thoroughly searching out and cleansing your nooks and crannies, baptizing your weary feng shui from every angle.

I'm floating in the morning rays twinkling on the aqua surface of the peaceful albeit chlorinated heap of H2O in the pool, looking up at a perfect blue sky and binging on the scent of nearby lavender bushes recently watered.

Soon I will alight to the dining area, float into the room swan like as the vaguely rippled though unbowed cellulite queen that I am, and partake of the perfect omelet- truly a repast almost too delicate to eat, yet oddly not sufficiently filling- then wash it down with a large goblet of melted ice cubes that holds a single slice of lemon in the glass. Amid the low buzz of breakfast chit chat I catch the phrase "perfect beach day" and am fully expecting some young, rubber-suited stick of energy to charge in at any moment and yell surf's up! even knowing this usually only happens in the movies.

Later on in the afternoon I stop at the neighborhood drug store to pick up some bottled water. The sign advises me that this is no ordinary mini CVS- no indeed-  but an "integrated pharmacy" calling itself "Pharmaca." Register and stock folks are identified by badges stating their particular specialties- a message that tells you clearly these people have not been put on this earth simply to punch keys and take your money. Vanessa is a "wellness educator." Luann is a(n)? "herbalist." The door person is an acupuncturist. I pay for my water and leave before I am quickly surrounded and subsumed by this coven of health fascists.

My thirst for adventure thus slaked, eventually I will return home to the east coast- frequently and annoyingly referred to by the happy west coast zombies as "back east." There I will neglect to drink anything at all during the day for days on end, immediately become enveloped in glorious, adrenaline manufacturing stress- it's like riding a bike, you never forget- and fast walking through the streets "excercise." I will complain about the weather, yearn for more sunny days, and quickly transform back into the wizened, dehydrated, skeptical, wisecracking little New Yorker that I am. 

And in this manner I will welcome the transition to dry land joyfully, contentedly gazing at the banks of the storied Hudson from afar, until perhaps the next time. . . .

Working (at) Class, or the Vacation Conundrum

Notes from a previous, ambiguous vacation, alternately titled "Why I prefer to Stay at Home." Every time I think about going somewhere, I reread this.
.

The robes provided by our wine country inn are the softest cotton ever, silky on the outside, fluffy, non scratchy, luxuriant terry on the inside. They are light, and suggestive of something "classy"- not like those horse blankets supplied by supposedly five star hotels that make you feel like a sumo wrestler in loosely tied knots. 

The whole kit and kaboodle- or should I say spa ensemble?- soft sheets, crystal clear bottled water from the fountain of youth, tiny, magical shampoos, conditioners and lotions giving off a whiff of fresh peppermint should you wish to snack on them- is designed to make you feel like you’re on that long, long, much  anticipated, post, post operative recuperative journey. Words like "yoga" and "zen" and inexplicably "shambala" pop into mind.

The innkeepers have seen to details, oh yes, right down to the friendly wicker coasters underneath the pristine wine glasses- two sparkling vessels serenely awaiting the elixir of the famed Sonoma grape gods should you deign to use them. Their stems rest on the smooth surface of a black, hand woven cocktail table, underneath which you detect the warm, woody vibe of a redwood deck. Eucalyptus fills the fragrant, evening air as you worry obsessively about the price. 

The whole scene silently blares soothing, trancelike, west coast, mind-freeing, eternal sunset!! (no matter the hour), a command that ironically creates intense levels of stress as it exhorts you to ENJOY and GET FIT. For one mad moment I am overtaken by thoughts of home and trying clumsily to perfect warrior or downward dog on my little pink yoga mat with no one watching.

The bedside table holds a single, slim volume: trendy little sci-fi morsels entitled “Stories for Bedtime.” Nat King Cole croons dreamily over the speakers, pool water gently laps to and fro not far from your small deck. Two of your fellow guests are from the Bronx, like you. Another couple hails from Long Island and cellulite abounds, but everyone is trying to appear temporarily glamorous, if feeling just a tad strange and awkward. I can’t decide whether all this is an unbelievably cool respite, or maybe just a sanitarium, known in decades past as a sanitorium and occasionally featured in Hitchcock films.

What did I do to deserve such highfalutin weirdness, and why is it making me so nervous? Is this really how rich people live? Well, no.

This is class simulacrum. It’s all in your head. Insanely stupid bourgeois yearnings. Most people work for a living at enterprises markedly low on glamour, and rich people frequently are anything but classy. In addition, they do not go to fancy shmancy little inns but own huge tracts of land with mansions and compounds comprising small cities. They do not need to get cheap airline tickets either nor meticulously measure the size of their carry-ons because they possess their own set of wings; they carry on nothing but a smile, generally underneath large, dark, unbelievably expensive sunglasses. The spa scene is for suckers.

Which is why, among other things, I hate fancy hotels. Gimme an Econo Lodge anytime.  Oh, wait. . .  this may not be entirely true either. . . . Oh hell, is there never to be any tranquility of mind for the ninety-nine per cent???

The last straw was a sign seen on a leafy albeit busy road not far from the inn:

Running low on faith? Stop in for a fill up!

The Cloud and Me

The Cloud 

Remember when people thought the gods lived up in the sky, hurling down itinerant thunderbolts and such at whim?

Well, the deities of old may now be only dim collective memories, dog eared text books relegated to middle school mythology lessons, but the magicians and sorcerers of the tech universe have figured out a way to tease us with more than just a whiff of immortality: The Cloud.

In essence, we're talking about all your stuff, everything! And by extension, you too! All this can remain, safely stowed somewhere in the galaxy forever and ever like space debris. Yes, everything attached to your wandering mind, all your junk, every thought, note, contact, photo, memo, video, even your grocery list can now be happily immortalized in cyberspace. Forever young! To be accessed at will by your and your heirs: The Cloud.

How heavenly. Nonetheless, I feared the underside of this strange phenomenon.

At first I resisted, knowing that if I got sucked in it all would lead to hours and hours of frustration as I tried to figure it out. Backing up your entire life as you know it thus far in pixels, so that it all may be uploaded, up, up, up and away into, and then downloaded at some future date: The Cloud.

A dozen or so calls to Apple within 24 hours because they hooked you in, trapped you into intimations of immortality in a manner that Wordsworth never dreamed.

Blake’s infinity in the palm of a hand- i.e. your device- but eternity in an hour??? Good luck! Indeed a far cry from the world in a grain of sand but a concept relying rather heavily on things, many many things, all sorts of things! Devices, devising, ipads, iphones-uphones-mephones, cameras, screens big and little, and screams too of being fed up with the process of figuring out how to back up all your stuff, an assortment of techies along the way smart and dumb, and of course: The Cloud.

And finally, the process of uploading. A rather hellish experience for the uninitiated and a far cry from Valhalla. It took the better part of three days, numerous cries and calls for help, and a growing if somewhat odd, obsessional predilection for eternal screen life amid visions of cloudlike formations. But I did it! I did it!!! And now I’m set, baby! What, me worry?

My life, my idiotic little existence, every stupid or sublime image, thought, photo, tune, video or impulse- the good, the bad, the ugly- all tucked away for time immemorial: The Cloud.

Now what?