50 posts tagged “travelin fool”

Las Vegas gives you the opportunity to view your fellow man/woman at their presumable best and their presumable worst. Dine out in a fancy restaurant (as we did at Fleur de Lys) and you see him/her at their best: dressed nicely, observing manners, eating leisurely, etc. We spent 3 hours in that restaurant and at no time did it get boring or too leisurely; I recommend getting the PrixFixe and the Chef's wine pairings (yum!). Only downer, and this was very very very slight, is that, being the only group of single women at a table and being oogled by the only group of single men 3 tables away. Oogling is nice, but it shouldn't be a constant oogle. More like an occasional oogle. Say, one per dish.

You also get to see your fellow man/woman at their presumable worst: the chainsmoking granny in a wheelchair WITH her oxygen tank, the guy who literally walked up and grabbed me (Him: "Hey, there you are!" Me (pushing him off): "Oh my God..."), the tourists who literally stop mid-walkway and block access to stores, food, drinks, etc. for the rest of us who have done Vegas and are able to glide by moving statues in Caesar's Palace without gawking.

I had one of the best trips to Vegas I've ever had. There was no drama, which is unusual from my Vegas history. There was no pennypinching, and no massive exravagance (the only purchase I made at the forum shops was from BCBG and was $118... before 50% off). (It is also crazy hot). About the time I got tired of shopping and walking (the former is not usually my thing) my compatriots were too; I spent about 3-4 hours in those shops and not once was I bored. If I were to acquire a shoe habit (Nomi brought 7 pairs. 7. pairs.) I could do it there, though: for some reason at one point leopard print peep-toe pumps with a 4" heel seemed extremely reasonable.

I didn't gamble at all; I'm not sure how I feel about that. Part of me misses the blackjack table. Part of me is patting myself on the back that that means I have something to show for my expenditures (oh, MAC, I love you...).

But all of me is going back to Vegas... in 2010... when they open the new Star Trek Experience. Warp speed to next year!

THEHotel. Oh, THEHotel. It is beautiful. There are dimly lit corridors stuffed with marble and sumptuous carpets and elegant flower arrangements and terribly disturbing art. The toiletries are many and varied, attend me: hair cleanser (not shampoo), hair masque (not conditioner), body masque (not lotion), 3 kinds of soap, a sewing kit, shoe polish kit, the ubuquitous and yet never actually used shower cap, and a real glass holder with real cotton balls. The shower is separate from the tub (which could fit two very understanding people) (so could the shower) and there are two potties in our suite! When you have 3 girls to one room, that is just right.

Incidentally, I am eating the most expensive Starbucks breakfast I have ever had. That would be a $4 grande nonfat latte and a $3.50 croissant; while on my $20/day wifi. It's a good thing I turned in early last night (11ish) and didn't hit the tables with the girls :p.

Actually, what has happened is far more disturbing: as I landed in LAS I got an email from work: six months ago our computers got infected with a virus that saved, among other things, passwords and keystrokes. It then sent them out somewhere. E.g, if you had ever gone to your bank account via a work machine, you should probably change all of your passwords. Again: I got this when I landed. In baggage claim. In Las Vegas.

After checking in I got online and changed all of my passwords and all of my pins. However, with my new pins being sent to me -- at least for my main account -- I am stuck without the ability to get cash. That is to say, I can get cash, if I get it off of my card as if it were a credit card, and then I would pay $20 for the honor. I can't bring myself to outright pay the $20 for the privilege of losing another $100 at the table (at least the table part would be entertaining). I may work a barter system with the girls.

We did however sample the local bars here in the hotel (including MIX, at the top, which has an amazing view) and did a little light shoe-shopping. This morning I went for a run, and today promises real shopping, as some of us (cough) underpacked on the dressy clothes. We also have appointments for someone to professionally apply colorings to our face (e.g., we're getting MAC'd) and then a French dinner at Fleur de Lis followed by "O", which two of us have never seen.

Then I will get exactly four hours of sleep before hightailing it to the airport (whee...).

This is, in short, a very different Vegas experience from my past trips: no one is getting drunk and disorderly, or missing at the end of the night; there is a higher share of shopping and a lower share of eating; I don't see rides in our future.

Unless I can get them on the NewYorkNewYork... 

Greetings from the Southwest Airlines terminal at the Seattle Tacoma International Airport.

I arrived ludicrously early to the airport this morning – as in, two and a half hours early. Bag check and security was negotiated within 20 minutes, and so I headed to Anthony’s for a drink. (I don’t like to fly).

Alas, the rumors of free WiFi via Google were grossly overstated: instead of starting on the 9th, it is now delayed and starting on Monday the 18th. This being the 13th, it does nothing for me, and I do not wish to spend $8 for AT&T Wireless for 2 hours.  I’ve spent the last hour or so trying to scrape some free Ethernets from the nearby “hoity toity” clubs (British Air, Delta) to no avail until now.

Why would I pay for in-flight WiFi and not for terminal WiFi? Well, yours truly is on a stop flight (non plane-changing) from Seattle to Las Vegas by way of… wait for it… Salt Lake City. I will be on a plane exactly twice as long as I need to be to save spending twice as much on a ticket. Ergo, my $8 for a realistic 2hrs of WiFi in the terminal would stretch longer on nearly four hours of flight.  (Oh, wait, it looks like I’ve just acquired a signal from British Air… with 40 minutes before boarding, awesome!)

Not that I expect to penny-pinch this trip, on the contrary: I’m trying to save on little things because I know in my heart of hearts I will be very bad this weekend. There has been discussion of custom face makeup application and fancy dress and fancier restaurants; of coercing concierges for favors. But the house taxes are paid and the savings account is getting better, I think I will be ok. Thanks to a work hookup, we are staying at THEHotel at Mandalay Bay (as much as my spell check does not like the way that is spelled, that is how it is spelled).  I have brought my running gear, which should hopefully offset all of the gastric and alcoholic excess.  Or, it will sit untouched in my bag while I, and my two cohorts, galavant.

Pursuant to this trip I spent yesterday in a frenzy of tying up work loose ends, obsessive cleaning, hair-cutting-and-coloring (I didn’t do it myself, which is why it turned out well), and general whack-a-mole-ing. I was, in effect, earning my time to Quark’s Bar. 

Which is not to be: while trying to find a link for the infamous “Warp Core Breach” I have discovered that the Star Trek Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton is no more! Curses! It is set to reopen at the Neonopolis Mall… in 2010.

I am at a loss for words. That was one of my favorite things about Vegas, it was literally a required stop from the time it opened. The last time I went I dragged some six members of a bridal party to go feel Ferengi ears. Yes, I am a geek; but dammit, man! Dry ice in a fishbowl with 7 shots of Rum is nothing to sneer at!

Oh, sure, I can acquire foot-long margaritas and make do. I suppose there is some new/shiny/better gimmicky thing in Vegas – for that is what Vegas does best – but I really think it’s unfair they didn’t consult me. That they are coming up with a new/shiny/better one Next Year is beside the point, I haven’t booked that trip yet.

Take off is in 50 minutes.  Next post courtesy of SWA WiFi… maybe…

Ah, home again.

The trip to Portland started with that familiar travel feeling: OMGGETMETHEF#$(%*OUT OF HERE! Seriously, we didn't even want to stop for gas; we drove straight through (well, mostly straight; stopping for gas is kind of a must) to Portland. To discover that they'd had us listed as checking in the night before (even though the confirmation email showed checking in that night).

Fortunately, our room was there and we checked in and greeted fellow drivers at the hotel's complimentary Welcome Reception. This is where I discovered that most men go on these trips to avoid their women, and here GH was proudly squiring his around. After being introduced to PJ the Helpful and Ed the Douche, we elected to go to Hooters for dinner.

Yeah. Hooters.

Sated with fried goods we headed back to the hotel. (Oxford Suites, rates as "Regular Unleaded" on my bathroom toiletries scale: "Conditioning Shampoo" but separate lotion). Up at 7 to go see all the pretty horses... and a few Lotus' and a couple of 'Vette's. Vroom went the cars, vroom went the DD through her books. At the end of the first race day I had finished 3 of the 4 books I had gone on the trip with, and it looked dangerously like I'd be forcing myself to learn to knit soon (the only other activity I brought with me).

Then it was 2 hours of drive to Moro, OR. Moro, OR is just outside of Grass Valley, OR, which in turn is where the race track is. Grass Valley, OR has a population of 160, and one market. Moro, OR has the Tall Winds Motel, which had the faint air of puke in the bathroom and a continental breakfast that included juice in a can and cold bagels. But the gal who ran it was nice and it was a surprisingly comfortable bed for the night.

More cars (mostly Porsches) the next day, more reading, and yes I learned to knit. Ed remained a douche, PJ remained cool. The winds were so high that we couldn't set up a tent and I spent most of my time in the trailer reserved for Nick's GT3. Spots of humor for the day included a sport racer asking one of the locals where the nearest auto parts store was (for his Porsche...in a farming community bedecked with American made trucks... where the nearest GAS station was 30 miles out), a driver confusing his paycheck with his driving ability (and starting a small fire), and identifying myself as "Pit Crew" on the track waiver.

Then a night with the 'rents, whose conversation included The Ringworld series and Dyson's Spheres, whether or not the wiring on my house will in fact electrocute a lineman if I'm using my generator (no, it won't), the precise amount of dryness/wetness for proper oven-baked macaroni and cheese, and the sheer volume of work my folks have done on their place. Somewhere in all of this I had hit an outlet mall and done some shopping.

Today was the trip home, boychild retreival, and dinner with Dad.

I am so glad to be home...

Ah, suburbia. How I've (sorta) missed thee.

Usually I am not a picnic when I return from travelling: the idea of catching up on 7 days of chores (laundry, vacuuming, dog run) catches up long before the deeds are due, and I fret about this and that. It's utterly ridiculous, because this is nothing that can't wait a day. Still, I fret and fuss and am a frenetic mess for the first couple of hours, and then it dies down.

Kudos to GH for putting up with this and even smirking with appreciation as he GOT TO WATCH ME VACUUM. This is more private than seeing me without makeup, even more than seeing my house un-vacuumed. If there is a more deep and meaningful act I know of (for I like to vacuum in private, thank you) I don't know what there is. Well, picking us up from the airport was nice too.

Yesterday was a day of catch-up: bank, goodwill, market, more laundry, dog walking, chiropractic, dinner, Dead Like Me (dammit, why did that have to be cancelled?) and finally some quality time with the aforementioned smirking appreciative male person. Nothing says romance like watching a show about people who relieve other people of their souls before they die (usually in awfully embarrassing ways) and then discussing what you'd write in your individual obituaries. We are odd little turnips, the GH and I; still, I wouldn't trade him for x-ray vision. Or almost.

Today was hell: I went to work. Now, I kept up on emails and so forth while gone, so the inbox was at bay. What I hadn't counted on was not one but 2 out of my 4 fine folks being out on vacation, and I had optimistically scheduled midyear reviews for the remaining 2. This... was not intelligent. Some frantic rescheduling and I was spared the reviews, but still had the queue to contend with and of course some data checking. I got home at 7pm this evening, a wee bit tired but nothing that some TV couldn't handle...

Oh, that's right. I don't have TV.

I used to have TV -- until I cancelled it in a fit of fiscal priggishness last August. I discovered in the last week that I really miss Discovery Channel, and so this is me, on the Dish Network page, ordering up cable again. I made it nearly a year, which is good; but dammit I want my Deadliest Catch, my Dirty Jobs, my Mythbusters.

And while I may no longer have a "Blue Hawaii" in my hands, my pinot grigio and I say, "good day".

It's only fitting that I discover, on my last day here, that while they insist downstairs (10 flights downstairs) that you can't get wi-fi in your room, you can. I've spent the last 7 days attached to a 12" Ethernet cable at the little desk in our room; had I but tested I would've realized that wifi is available 10' away in my bed. Say hello to bedblogging!

Whenever I travel, I do three things that make me feel weird and I don't know if they are things other people do. First, I check out the local real estate and job market and food costs. I want to know what the locals have to pay for their homes, condos, apartments. Is it reasonable? Is it comparable, either on an amount or percent scale? When they go to the grocery store, does it make a huge difference in their income vs. outgo? The closest approximation I can get to seeing how they can live their lives is by seeing how they live their lives... from the most pragmatic base. It can be a downer, to be sure: for example, Waikiki has Bellevue prices but Duvall wages -- I would guess that the average family can't live here, and/or they are working multiple jobs per person.

Second, I look at the local flora. Back home the typical landscaping includes rhododendrons, varying pine trees, ivy, crape myrtle (aka creeping violet), daffodils, sedum, blue fetusca, juniper, ferns, bayberry, and photonia. You can tell the original architecture of a home not necessarily by its eaves but by the landscaping around it; in the 1970's juniper was the bush-of-choice, in the 1980's it was rhododendron; these days new zealand flax and fetuscas abound. When I travel I try to figure out what their "standard" flora is; here in Hawaii it is largely palm varieties and two plants I see as regular houseplants all over the Northwest -- I have 3 at home; they grow as a weed here. It's strange.  The grass is low-growing and thick and woody; other shrubs have large and broad leaves and lush appearances. Most are monocots; primordial sorts with odd-numbered petals in their flowers (hello, plumeria and hibiscus!). This is so different from my home dicot plants, such as rhodys. Tropical plants always look so land-of-the-lost, primitive, exotic; home plants always look so... home. I often wonder what the local plants at my area look like to someone who has grown up in a tropical area... probably as foreign as anything else.

Third, I look at the food. There's a theory running that tropical/equatorial locales have natively spicy food; spices hide the flavor (and sometimes odor) of rotting meat. Meat rots when you can't refridgerate, and modern refridgeration (even if you count the harvesting and use of ice blocks) is only about 100 years old. The theory holds for southeast Asia, India, and Mexico; but it doesn't hold for Hawaii. Flavorful, yes, the food is very flavorful. Kahlua pig, pineapple (although that is introduced quite late, per Michener's book), lomi lomi salmon, etc. I went to a luau last night and have endeavored to experiment, but I've yet to find any spicy food here, even in the local Italian restaurant.

Which gets me to this point: I know about as much about Hawaii as the original missionaries did. Which is to say nothing: I know about it from what I've heard from other travelers, what I've read in Michener's book, and what I've experienced from a highly-privileged position as visitor (I don't care who you are, if you are in a hotel room whose sign advertises that this room goes for $370-$1100 per night, you are f*cking priviledged). Reading Michener is nice but it's tantamount to a visitor from England reading about the Wild West and visiting New York: Waikiki is a highly commercialized, vanilla-d Hawaii. They have hundreds of shops I wouldn't shop in at home (nor did I at home, we're talking Ferragamo, Coach, etc.) that offer things like dressy dresses (which no one seems to wear) and sweaters (which seems completely odd for an area where the temperature never goes below 75).

I don't think I've had a "native experience" here and I honestly didn't expect to: to seek that you'd have to move here, shed your "haole" roots and becom kama'aina; this takes something on the order of 20 or 30 practical years (you have to outlast the local military stationed families). You have to see what it's like to live in a place whose economy is driven, or at least officially 25% driven, by tourism. I don't see myself doing that.

But I think I can appreciate the effort it would involve.  

...Must come to an end. Today is our last day in Waikiki, and it was an even better trip than I thought. I was worried about expense and boredom, the two things that can cause a vacation to suck; neither happened. True, Waikiki is expensive -- but so is Bellevue. Beer is about the same price and is brought by Kevin or Angela, the two people who have been poolside attendants for me. My credit with them is apparently stellar, because yesterday after two (2!) Blue Hawaiis, I forgot to pay my bill when we went up to the room. Kevin paid it out of his pocket, because he knew he'd see me today. Kevin got a nice tip for that. (NB: apparently my credit is good with the bartenders, too. I have seen other people get "Blue Hawaii's" that were green -- mine are crystal blue and if there's any pineapple juice I haven't yet been able to taste it).

When we first got here, I kept a watchful eye on the C, a chair right next to the pool, to be there to do the heroic mom thing in case he got in over his head (the shallow end is 5' -- the deep is 9'). As of today I'm four rows back in the blissfull, non-burning shade. This is because in the 7 days we have been here he has improved his swimming skills exponentially, making friends and cannonballs alike. Also, I am amazingly burnt all over; and my purple bikini is showing off the delicate shades of red and fuscia that mark the exposed skin.

Why are we consistently at the pool? Several reasons, none the least of which is that the C prefers the pool to the beach. This is because the beach is crowded, noisy, and offers very little shade. You compete for swim space with surfers, catamarans, and boogyboards; the pool is saltwater, exclusive, crystaline, and offers a choice of 3 hot tubs. Plus, they bring food and drinks, which has been a novelty to the C. We've had lunch poolside pretty much every single day, which you would think is expensive; but it has been less so than going in to town for lunch (the one day we did that).

I will be glad when we are home and I am able to do some cooking, though. Eating out 24/7 is nice in terms of not having dishes to do or menu planning or wondering if you have enough milk to make BOTH lattes and pancakes. But it is hard on the system in terms of watching what you eat (I haven't run in 10 days) and I'm trying to be good. Fortunately, Hawaii offers many opportunities to be "good" and also explore: we've had teppanyaki (not benihana, much better), sushi, italian, "true" hawaiian, pub, luau, and steakhouse dinners here, the C trying everything and anything. We have discovered he doesn't like macadamia nuts (and good thing, too, the smell makes me want to retch), he loves pineapple, and he's ambivalent on papaya. He will eat the shrimp head with his mom, and likes squid.

I would go on and on about the wonderful relaxation this has given me, and how I will miss it but be glad to be home, and how this was the perfect amount of days... but...

my computer battery is dying. And I hear the boychild calling me from the pool. *splash*

I've got two days left in Hawaii, and I am a deliciously golden fuscia all over (well, except for where the bikini covers). Waterproof, sweatproof spf30 applied every half-hour does nothing, my friends, for my ghostly white (er... pink) ness.

I have discovered the following things in Waikiki these last few days:

• Waikiki prices == Bellevue, WA prices. Now eat out 3 meals a day, 7 days for the week. I planned on this, but somehow your mind rebells at the notion.
• Timeshares -- see next post -- worth it once, but only once.
• Bring 2 sets of sunglasses, as I have lost my 'crappy/running' set at the pool. Mommy had two mai tais...and things at the pool acquire legs and walk off.
• Poolside food delivery is *awesome*
• Every booth in the International Market has a duplicate, or triplicate. Ultimately, there are many variations of the "open the oyster get the pearl" kiosk, the "look! jewelry!" kiosk, the handmade candles kiosk, the "ooh, shark teeth" kiosk, and twenty or thirty stores that will happily sell you tylenol, a ukelele, or a tiki god.
• Men will hit on you even if you have the small child in attendance. Some will recover when the small child comes up and offer to buy a drink for you and your small child.
• Those same men will change their tune when their wife shows up. At least one had a wife, who showed up, and she looked like me plus five years,  minus five pounds, and with blue eyes. Almost down to the bikini design. (ick!)
• There are 8 million wealthy, cute, young japanese tourists in Waikiki, and they are all unfailingly polite, nearly bilingual, and fun to watch. About 40 of them gather each morning on the beach to be instructed in Hula dancing, and that is worth the free show from our breakfast buffet.
• People are crazy friendly on vacation. I have met:
• Suzanne B., from Malibu, CA, who discussed at great length popular mystery authors and her Kindle;
• Naomi C, from San Fransisco, CA, who discussed at some length her recent (2yrs) divorce and her new life selling time shares (more about that later),
• Unnamed cute older couple (with their 2 daughters and 2 nieces and 2 friends of the daughters) from Minneapolis, MN, who discussed the different interpersonal dynamics of carting 6 teenaged girls to Waikiki, and,
• Several couples in various stages of marriage (almost-wed, newlywed, wed 2 years, wed 5 years with kids) who are anxious to hear the next stages. I avoided letting them know what happens with divorce and emphasized the positive.

Naturally, when it comes up that I am a single mom on vacation with my 6 year old, they want to know how long and have I moved on and my how I have gumption to vacation on my own. No, I don't. I have realized that other people's perceptions of what you should and shouldn't be comfortable with, and what you can and cannot do as a mid-30's divorcee with a precocious, intelligent, mischevious boychild, is not dictated by other people's perceptions. I am not down, thusly, with OPP.

So I spent a good time in the pool the last 3 days launching the boychild into the air from the midst of the pool, coaching him on his swimming, ordering whatever the hell I wanted to, and generally having a hell of a good time.

Did I mention there's a Starbucks in our hotel?

On the flight from Seattle Tacoma to Honolulu I read James Michener's Hawaii. This book is 1130 pages thick, and I read it in 5 hours; the flight was uneventful to the point where I only accepted the complimentary mai tai because it was, well, complimentary. When we landed, then, I had no book... for the whole trip.

Within the first hour at the hotel I acquired a book that was truth-vs-fiction about James Michener's Hawaii, or at least a hefty portion of it. It was along the lines of "In James Michener's book, XYZ missionaries did ABC; in Real Life, ZYX missionaries did CBA". Charming, educational, and a brief (2hr) read. I am therefore still bookless.

Not that this trip has been boring; it's been quite relaxing. Up each morning at 6am (9am home time) and asleep by 8 (11pm home time), I've spent enough pool time to be burnt significantly in all of the places one wants tan. It is a ginger expedition to sit on a toilet seat, to put on a bra (oh... my), and to button my pants (despite fairly healthy eating habits).

We visited the Waikiki Aquarium, which is cheap ($10 for the boychild and I) and fascinating (some 60+ exhibits plus those little interactive wand-thingies, plus a touchie-feelie aquarium); we've signed up for a timeshare presentation (a self-avowed no-pressure one; if they can do the math to make themselves truly cheaper than my math -- and my BTCo discount -- and somehow fit into my budget (hello, Student Loans!)) which means we get free breakfast tomorrow and $100 in gimme-gimmies (likely to be turned into luau credit).

Meanwhile, we've taken some pictures...

After eloquenting (I think this should be "elocuting"-Ed.) (No, I meant "eloquenting" -- if Shakespeare can make up words so can I - DD) about the wonders of Savannah and how I was getting everything I wanted, the Powers That Be cocked an eyebrow at me and suggested I needed a genteel lesson in humility.

It started to rain.

We went to the Riverfront, where my dire starvation required stopping for beignets and brunch and cafe au lait. We browsed the various shops -- mostly T-shirt shops dotted with a few neat art stores -- and then decided, as the rain picked up, to wait it out in the hotel room.

The rain did not want us to wait it out, it seems. As the hours passed it went from "normal" rain to semi-apocalyptic rain, which "No one had seen for some time". Our horse and carriage ride was cancelled and I still have not been to Bonaventure Cemetary, which I'm surprisingly ok with. Having been to the local, older one, I got my "old dead people" fix in; and carriage rides can be found in Sunny Seattle. Yesterday ended with a great italian dinner -- surprisingly great -- and a Southpark episode. (She also didn't get to go to a Waffle House - Ed.)

Now, normally I get horribly depressed the last day of vacation. My To-Do list arises in my head for the "next" day (e.g., Day 1 of Reality) and I pretty much check out of vacation mode early. Having to go on a plane for the priviledge of returning to reality is no boon; today's initial plane ride -- we're stopping over in Chicago to change planes -- is courtesy of the Worlds Smallest Commercial Plane That Doesn't Have Propellers, an EMB. An EMB is what a Brasilia really wants to be when it grows up, which is a cold comfort. The damned thing is only slightly larger than my car. The turbulence felt at takeoff was enough to get me contemplating religion again; I think GH has some nail marks on the inside of his palm. Fortunately, there is booze.

Free booze, for those of us without exact change.

Which is not to say that I am not clicking through the list of prospective to-do's for when I get in; there is laundry and the boychild and vacuuming and grocery shopping (NB, I will be ordering via Amazon Fresh -- AMAP convinced me to do their trial month -- so that can be done during our Chicago layover) and probably rehearsing a presentation I get to make in front of 5 or 6 heavies for work on Wednesday. Not to mention the C's school meeting (8:30AM, woo-hoo) for his reentry into school (after being suspended). Even with all of this looming (ok, laundry always looms) I'm still pretty content; the last couple of days have been a great mix of relaxation and ooh shiny thing.

I may feel different about it after the next take off.