The Awkward Traveler

New Orleans

NOLA day one:

 

Flight from DFW to MSY

I’m stuck in the middle of teenage church group.  Luckily, there were no kumbayas to be heard but the leader did snort phlegm obsessively.  Thank god for sitting in the back and engine noise.  I go to the bathroom, open the door, where one of these pre-pubescent angels is “engaged” and talking on his iphone.  Apparently they don’t teach locks in Sunday school.  He doesn’t seem to care.  If that had happened to me, I would’ve A) waited in that bathroom until the plane landed and if that were not possible, B) lit myself on fire until I was fully consumed.  

 

My room at the W is unbelievable.  Total rock star room.  Where Ed got some frilly floral nonsense that looks like a grandma brothel, mine is the opposite.   Stark, minimalist, white.    The receptionist was over-cheery reminding me that I was a W special guest and that I was WELCOME and that my WISH was her command and a whole lot of other stuff starting with W.   She frightened me.

 

We made our way down to Bourbon Street starving and wound up at an overpriced non-noteworthy place to eat.   I did notice that despite the linens, the other patrons managed to bring in cups of Huge Ass Beer. I know this because their plastic cups say Huge Ass Beer on them.   The meal was meh but we were in a hurry to start debauchering.  We walked down Bourbon Street and saw many places advertising Barely Legal girls.   We got a Planter’s Punch from one of the street vendors and it tasted like a Flintstone vitamin and Everclear.  

 

Made our way to the “oldest gay bar in New Orleans” which apparently meant the patrons.   Frightening.   After that, we headed to the 700 club.  Much better.  Regular bar feel but with Britney Spears and Abba videos.   We made the bartender make us blue drinks.   Don’t remember getting back to the hotel but here I am.

 

Day 2:

 

We start off walking to Café Du Monde.  It is PACKED with black and gold.   We head to a restaurant next door whose only claim to fame seems to be “Next to Café Du Monde and not crowded!”   I need to learn to avoid restaurants with no wait.   Dry eggs benedict.   There is the standard tourist attraction of the silver robot guy.  He’s the worst I’ve ever seen and that’s saying something.   What leads one to this career choice?   Is it an aptitude test that says “You would excel in a career as a forest ranger or silver robot guy?”   Head over to the cathedral and happen to catch Sunday mass.  It’s absolutely stunning inside.   The “paintings” of Camaros and Saints football players outside, not so much.    I got a picture of a priest talking to security on a golf cart that just strikes me as hilarious.

We walk and walk and walk with no real destination.   We found a gallery of photography that was amazing and the guy gave us several good restaurant recommendations.   Went back to Café Du Monde for the mounds of powdered sugar beignets and coffee.   Of course, we had to take the standard picture of cutting powdered sugar into lines with my corporate credit card and send to my boss, because I excel in career advancement.   Walked up to the riverside front which was gorgeous.  The weather is perfect.   Went and saw a  “Hurricane on the Bayou” documentary at the Imax.  It was beautiful, happy, depressing and hokey all at the same time.   After that, a much needed nap and shower .

 

We went to Mandina’s which is a homey Cajun style place.  It’s packed and a great place to people watch.  I LOVE that accent.  Although the Saints lost, there are still loud rousing cheers from drunk people all around.   I love that old ladies knock back cocktails in the south.  There’s a woman beside us with 3 empty gins, happy as a clam.   There’s an old man bothering the hostess about when his table will be ready.   She decides we’re much nicer and patient and puts a heart by our name on the list.  Aw.   Later, that lovely country charm I love about Lousiana shows it’s subtle racism when she comes by our table to tell us that a group of (whispered) “black people” are impatient for their table also.   The waiters and busboys are cute little Cajun boys and we swoon.   The food is ok,  but better than we’ve had.  The bourbon pudding is a sumptious bite of decadence.

 

After that, we head to the Bourbon Pub/Palace which is a gay bar with downstairs showing videos from Abba to Lady Gaga, interspersed with segments of Golden Girls.  I'm in love the gay who put this shit together.   Eventually, I am targeted by the drunkest and sweatiest of the gays who want to dance with me and call me chere, Kevin and Eric.   They say they love my hair.   They will not leave us alone.  We had to retreat to another area of the bar where another drunk sweaty guy pulls me out to dance to Uptown Girl.   Apparently, I look like an uptown girl.    We get the liquid courage to go to the second floor where it’s more of the thumping coke-fueled dancing.   Ed is on a mission to find the DJ and make him play Britney Spears.  Unsuccessful.    In the ladies room, there are no doors and extremely cold stainless steel toilet seats.  And lots of men.  After much carousing, we decide to call it a night.   At least I remember getting home.

 

Day 3:

My face is puffed up from some kind of allergy and my eyes are almost closed shut.   No rest for the wicked.  

Welty Deli for lunch .  Roast beef and cheddar.  It’s good.  Ed’s fruit salad, straight from a lunch snack pack.  Gross.   Cute well-dressed men everywhere in the business district.  We get on the bus for the city tour, headed by Milton.  Friendly older guy and of course, I love his accent.  Ed’s about to fall asleep.   Luckily, nothing too obnoxious on the tour, except a few bad jokes by the guide.  But I let him get away with it because of his accent.  This city really is gorgeous.   And we saw the lower 9^th ward.  Very sobering.   I was surprised to find out how much Brad Pitt’s done for the city.  Good for you Mr Jolie!    We went to a cemetary with the above ground tombs and Milton had lots of detail about how they break up corpses and throw them in a bag to fit multiple family members in one tomb.  Cool.

 

Last night was a dud.  Ed was tired.  Nothing was open, or it was packed.   Went to Café Maspero for more substandard fare.  I refuse to go down like that again.

 

 

Day 4:

Went to Mother’s.  We have finally learned that if there’s a line, there’s a reason there’s a line and you should probably shut up and wait in it.  There are no “hidden gems” left you’re going to discover.   Trust.

Mother’s was great, mostly for atmosphere.   They serve a meat called “debris” and I’m very sorry I didn’t order that.  I don’t know if that’s a pre or post Katrina term.   Got the baked ham and cheese omelette, biscuits and grits.   Yum.  More than anything, the waitresses hollering at each other and calling you babies are the key.   “I’m gonna get you some more butter babies.  Y’all just hush.”   Wish I had ordered 8 more things to try.

 

Off to the Aquarium.  Another long line because this dumbass tourist lost her ticket from the other day.   Found it was ALSO closed on Monday like the rest of the city so I’m glad we didn’t try to come.  It is gorgeous.  I touched a stingray and a shark!   The stingray feels like wet boob.   The shark feels sandy.   Everything was really interesting and some of the kids are cute but dammit if they don’t get in the way of our photo ops.   I want to stick my head inside the aquarium and take a picture!  However, we did manage to get the touristy photo of our faces photoshopped onto muscle bodies.  Hooray!.

 

We saw the museums on the tour yesterday….as in “Oh look, there’s the museum.”    Were thinking of doing it today but we have done a lot of walking and just couldn’t.   Instead I have FINALLY convinced Ed to day drink with me.   My favorite thing.

We have the requisite hurricane at Pat O’Briens on a beautiful afternoon.   Megan recommended Yo Mama across the street.   Dumb name but a damn damn good bloody mary made by adorable bartender Erica.  A guy coming in for lunch who knows her insists he’s on the wagon but has 3 shots of Jager with his hamburger lunch anyway.  We were still too full but the hamburgers looked and smelled amazing.  They have one with sour cream and caviar and another with peanut butter bacon.   Erica, I may see you again tonight.

 

Back to the room for restorative naps and showers and on to dinner.

 

Dinner at Acme Oyster Company.   We’re in line with a perfectly nice Asian woman who happens to be from Austin and won’t stop talking to us.   Perfect food.  Drunk lady and man next to us insisting his driver’s license picture looks “stoned.”   Oyster shucker talking about how the stoned guy looks like Clint Eastwood from Smokey and the Bandit.  Yep.  Back to the Bourbon Bar for videos and drinks.  700 club for more videos and drinks.   Ed finally gets the giant green hand grenade for tourists and he becomes very jolly indeed.

 

Day 5:

Little to no sleep.  Very hung over.     I arrive at 8 looking like Courtney Love.   Why did we save our big night for the night before we left?   Because we are dumb.    My flight from MSY to DFW has extreme turbulence.   I seriously consider holding the hand of the guy next to me or his wife.   Finally home where my liver can rest.  Until New Year’s the next day…

Law and Order

I've never had to deal with the court system, thankfully, but with my divorce, I finally had to meet with a dreaded lawyer.   Damn.   Do they not care that they fit the actual creep stereotype?   I took him because of a recommendation and upon meeting, hated him.   But I wanted to get it done so I "retained" him and there is a certain thrill about saying I have a lawyer on retainer.   I plan to say it frequently.   "What do you mean you're not still serving taquitos?  Do you know that I have a lawyer on retainer?"

Anyway, after an initial meeting where he made me feel about 4 inches tall, I got all my paperwork in order and gave the bastard a giant check.   And didn't hear from him again for 3 weeks.   Finally, after a month of what he assured me (pre-check giving) would take a week, he responded with the docs I needed.

I met him at the courthouse early.   We were going into the uncontested docket or something like that.  I expected the little dinky rooms we're put in for jury duty, but no...this is a full on high ceiling courtroom with stenographers and people and a bailiff!   It was not a wacky one like Night Court though.

The lawyer made me go through the script twice and told me I'd be sworn in.   I started a little freakout about what my response was supposed to be to "Do you solemnly swear" and all that.   I don't feel solemn so is that perjury?   Do I say "yes sir", "yes your honor", "yes your infinite wisdom", "if it pleases the court" or "do what now?"

Also didn't expect other people to be in there, I don't know why.  It's not like I've never watched TV.   The lawyer is whispering to me while we wait about stories of judges and lawyers with suicides, crack, incompetence, etc. and telling me how my judge's son just died.   Great.   I'm afraid we're going to get in trouble for whispering so I stare straight ahead. 

I get called up third, grinning like an idiot.   I'm glad I don't have to actually get in the witness stand.  That would freak me out.   We go through our little song and dance.  About 10 sentences, yes and no answers and that's that.   I think I walked out backwards starting to bow.  Too many Queen Elizabeth movies lately.   He takes me back down to the coffee shop in the courthouse to go over some other docs and to tell me he's going to bill me more.   Thanks.  I was just starting to like you a little.   Glad you're back to full-on creep.

Happy Epiphany Day!

Toof Bleachins

So naturally as an old broad in need of self-esteem boosts where ever I can get them, it's about time to start spending money on overly-expensive, probably not effective, possibly dangerous and painful procedures!    I went and got my teeth whitened today.   Yes, I've spent money on all the strips, trays, toothpastes and rinses money can buy but I'm too lazy or more likely, unable to stop talking, eating, drinking or smoking to keep my mouth shut long enough for them to be effective.   I went instead for the instant gratification procedure promising pearlies in less than 2 hours (as seen on Extreme Makeover™!)  One could argue that I could stop drinking coffee and red wine so persistently but that would be an argument best not made in my presence.  It's been a disappointing month followed by more disappointment of my long planned Mexican vacation in danger of collapsing because of swine flu.   Time for drastic measures.

 

 

This was an office specializing in cosmetic dentistry so big toothy smiles of beautiful people assault from every angle.   Starts innocently enough.  Lay back in the chair and stare at the product placement poster on the ceiling of 5 more toothy grins of ethnically divergent beautiful people.   Yes, soon I will be one of you!  My hair will no doubt also look perfect after this procedure and blemishes will disappear.   The lady (I don't know if she was a dentist, hygienist or Clorox representative) starts with layering lip balm, gauze and then a giant brace thing in my mouth.  Then, of course, asks questions because it's so easy to engage in conversation with a giant mouth speculum pulling the elements of your face apart.  I might've taken a clue that I was a little underinformed about this process when she asked if I'd be going home after.   I told her no, I'd be going back to work.  "Oh.   You might want to get some Tylenol on the way back.  Take it right away."   Great.
So they start swabbing on the goo, position the laser or glow stick or whatever it is, put on your Terminator glasses and leave you for 20 minutes at a time.  No sweat.  I napped.   Next round of another 20 minutes.  Starting to feel a few odd sensations like maybe I might've swallowed my tongue.  Oh well, still breathing.   By the end of the last 20 minute round, there are shooting pains at random intervals.  I guess the laser had reached the roots.   Still, somewhat bearable since that was the very end.  However, if offered, I would've gladly purchased any pre-laser show drugs they had to get comfortably numb.
It worked!   They are much whiter.   I only had to endure an afternoon of continued shooting pains and forget any plans of eating until tomorrow.  Now, I'm not supposed to have coffee, red wine, berries, mustard, ketchup, soy sauce and I'm just guessing, not chew on black tar heroin or anything.
Those Tylenol are wearing off.  Wonder if I have any white wine...

Top Chef Season 5 notes and observations

- I am officially over Colicchio and his sneering condescension.  

- That stupid limey critic is trying to make himself the Simon Cowell of the show.  Fail.

- The last episode's guest judge Eric Ripert seemed genuinely like a nice person, unlike most of the arrogant bastard chefs.  However, I can't decide if he's handsome or looks like a velociraptor.

- I am really warming up to Carla.   She's adorably down to earth.  This is despite my initial reservations about her when she mentioned her spirit animal or some shit and that she kind of looks like a Fraggle. I'm just as God made me....shallow.

-  Wouldn't nailing a writhing eel to your cutting board ruin your cutting board?  Or does one keep a specific board for "eel-skinnin's?"

A + buffet – Grading on a curve?

Sunday, June 01, 2008
Yes, we did it. It took a gang of hungover kids to dare us but we did it.
I am no snob when it comes to a buffet. Granted, I'd rather not be seen or photographed at one but if you want to try a lot of different things, or are just in the mood to be incapacitated by food, they serve their purpose. And there are some good ones , like Bombay Bistro, where the inevitable guilt of the word "buffet" is offset by quality. We had just been to Souper Salads the day before, so obviously we were already in the habit of fine dining. I'm usually against Souper Salads, since it gives off a hospital cafeteria vibe to me, but during the day, it's not as tragic. We supplemented our "soup" and "salad" with a lot of the "er", meaning tuna skroodle and baked potato.

With A+, we're talking about another animal entirely. First off, it has a suspect location and outer appearance from the beginning. Nestled in a strip mall with the Tejano Ranch, Lucky Cleaners, Kim Phung and a shady looking generically named "Game Room", it immediately roused our curiosity the day the sign went up.

They probably could've used some sort of marketing team for all the information on the sign since it looks like the fresh hot pizza is offered for breakfast and that Salad and Desserts are nationalities. I mean, I'm not blind to the fact that this offer of fresh hot pizza and dessert served 24 hours is meant for a particular market. I just chose to walk in the wrong way : Sober.

Sliding glass doors open you to a foyer. Our party is already seated when Steve and I walk in. I should add that I had just received a text from them saying "ABORT! ABORT!" They shake their heads when we walk in, but they do have plates in front of them so they have not given up. It's a very casual environment, judging from the dirty tables, so we take a walk to look around.

The first look at the buffet shows these items:

Watermelon
Oranges
Rice pudding (with a nice layer of curdled skin formed on the top)
A couple of dried up tempura vegetables, like one carrot slice and one green bean
Some kind of sweet and sticky fried thing like sesame chicken
Fried rice (looks very fresh actually)
Hot and sour or wonton or both soup
"Quesadillas" – more on this in a moment
Ziti with no sauce, more like with oil and garlic but looks pretty fresh
Spaghetti - same as above
Various Indian foods, a couple of which have been labeled with post it notes written in marker.
Salad bar – this part actually doesn't look bad, including one prepared salad with cabbage, cucumber and carrot.
Pizza bar – Pepperoni, cheese and sausage. However, they all look like that school cafeteria pizza. Very bready with unnaturally spherical meat. Some people like it though. It is what it is. I personally prefer my cheap pizza in the Totino's variety. I can eat 2 or 3 of those 99 cent bastards. The quesadillas are essentially the top of the pizzas scraped off and fried in a tortilla. Would not be bad at all if you were high.

I get a plate (which I can feel grease on when I pick it up) and for the most part, it's not that bad. It's just nothing that should ever be served from one person to another in exchange for money. We see waitstaff and are told they will get our drinks but alas, that is not to be. So we go get our own from the fountain. All of their shirts say "We deliver!" Just apparently no delivery of drinks internally to tables. No problem, in fact I prefer to get my own drink so I can check out the buffet for any new and exciting items put out that I don't want to miss. Unfortunately, the only new item is a second 8 quart pan of rice pudding even though the first one hasn't been touched.

The manager comes to our table no less than 10 times to ask how the food is. We say it's fine, not making eye contact. He then brings over a preferred customer card to hand out to all of us that guarantees us a buffet price of $7.99, which is ….the price anyway. I don't get it. He seems really flustered, almost panicked that we don't like it. We don't say anything but it's impossible that he genuinely doesn't see any grossness going on.

Again, don't get me wrong. For the most part, I'm not afraid of any food. The week before, I had gone to a place in Singapore where a plate of "viscera" was offered. No lie. And what I got was served on a banana leaf and eaten with my fingers and was good. Maybe I set higher standards in my own country since there's nothing you can attribute to a sense of adventure if it's on Lamar Boulevard.

The card we're given offers over "100 items to eat." The "to eat" part is really intriguing. As opposed to "to throw away" or "to not eat." Also, there's a name on the card, not of the owner or manager but the PRESIDENT of A+ buffet. And lo and behold, just as we read it, the PRESIDENT has come in and started yelling at the staff to get more food out. The manager also comes over to apologize for no one getting our drinks, yet still, no one comes to get our drinks. Randy has the opportunity to meet the president as he goes back to the buffet and it's a proud day for us all. I was unable to get a picture of him shaking his hand.

Also, they have a large party room, in case you're interested. Or, since we had a table of six, you could sit in the small party section. I know this because on the mirror behind us was a sticker that said "small party." I felt we should have been more celebratory to sit in this section. We did not do it justice.

When we leave, the manager again asks how it was. It would be so hard to explain what exactly is wrong when there is no desire to ever come in again. Michaeleanne says "It was interesting" and he really looks crestfallen and I feel bad. The Indian food actually didn't look too bad. They may want to stick to one or two nationalities (like the Seinfeld episode.) They may want to clean up the "office area" that's clearly visible in the dining area with invoices and files and one of those tacky green desk lamps, papers spilling over. They may want to mop every once in a while since we also encountered huge puddles of potential lawsuits everywhere. They may want to take off the "buffet to go by the POUND" option off the delivery menu if they're really trying to project a fine dining atmosphere. Anyway, Mr. President, call me. We'll talk.

In the meantime, my guts are not right. I didn't eat much but perhaps a lil' dab'll do ya. Granted, it could have been the movie popcorn or beers I had later. However, these were just futile attempts to escape the memories and drown the pain. I submit to you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, does this not suggest a larger pattern of abuse by the A+ buffet? Should it be allowed to cast a wide net of terror compromising this innocent young woman's intestinal integrity? ("Objection. This woman could not be considered 'innocent' or 'young' by any society's standards, including those nations listed on the A+ buffet sign")

I leave it to you to take your own chances and draw your own conclusions. After all, I didn't try the breakfast.

Singapore 2: Electric Boogaloo

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Airport. Easy listening punctuated by excessive blues guitar noodling interspersed with Tejano lite. Welcome to Austin.

I'm getting better each time about traveling, packing and the clothes I'll wear for 24 hours straight, but I still feel like a slob. Make a mental note to look for smart lightweight Nepalese cotton travel jacket for professional woman on the go. A look that says I'm comfortable meeting with international business executives across the globe as well as sitting around a campfire with tribal elders for an exotic show of ancient celebration. In other words, not at all what I'll be doing. Instead I'm wearing a look that says "My feet will swell on the plane as I drool on my Target sweater and complimentary blanket while watching a bad romantic comedy. From there, I will sit in stuffy conference rooms with other constipated people from around the globe, and then enjoy a hotel buffet, retiring to my suite for Chinese soap operas." I've got the look!

In LAX, I go to the airline lounge and eavesdrop on two old couples traveling together.

Old lady 1: When I worked at a bar in Chicago, a nice Filipino man used to come in and ask for coffee every day…
Old man 1: I used to have to fly to Hawaii then but I was sitting in the back..
Old lady 2: …but then my nephew said they were sending him to boot camp in Fort Hood but he didn't have to go..
Old man 2: Well it wouldn't be in Fort Hood because they wouldn't send him there for boot camp. When I was in the army, he would've had to go to…
Old lady 2: Well, that's what he SAID so I know it's true
Old man 2 : They don't DO boot camp there.
Old lady 1: ANYWAY, this man used to come in for coffee…
Old man 1: So you always get some damn 400 lb Samoan stepping by you to get to the bathroom..

Should be a fun trip since you're all already sick of each other's shit and stupid stories. Hey, you guys have a great time!

7 movies and 28 hours later, I'm in a cab to the Shangri-La hotel. The cab is not the cleanest cab I've ever been in, it's the cleanest CAR I've ever been in. I would like to apologize to the driver for filling it with airport stank.

Love,
Carmen San Antonio

Dear Kimpton Hotels...

Thursday, April 03, 2008
I joined your preferred guest program as I am a frequent visitor to your hotel through my company business trips. Also, I would like to earn free shit and pretend to be fancy when I’m on vacation and my own dime. I was asked to fill out a profile with my preferences and assured that my stay and my room would be tailored to these preferences.
When I arrived this week, I found my room "tailored" with bottled water, an energy bar, a yoga schedule and assurance that the exercise facility would be open 24-7. Is this a joke? Or are you trying to tell me something? Whatever it is , I don’t appreciate it and I’m not sure how you translated this out of my listed preferences of extra bags of coffee, ashtrays, an unlocked mini bar and when possible, an array of cheeses.

Speaking of the mini-bar, I don’t care for the latest trend of asking if I want the key when I check in, like a dare. Just give it to me and I’ll throw it back if I don’t want it. It’s like the barbecue guy asking if you want lean or "moist" when you order brisket. First off, I’m at a barbecue place and ordering BRISKET. It should be blatantly obvious that I’m not here for my health, but thanks for making me make an announcement that, yes, I would enjoy extra layer of fat.

In conclusion, Kimpton Hotel and Barbecue meat cutter guy, stop trying to save me from myself. In the words of Glenn Frey, I’m already gone.

PS: I’ll need some extra coffee in room 730 when you get a chance. Thanks

Breda Netherlands: Land of tall and weird

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Saturday, I flew from Cork to Amsterdam at 6 AM. I took a train to Breda and the ride is gorgeous. Holland is beautiful green farmland with canals, boats, houseboats, unusually fat cows, horses and sheep, lots of graffiti that somehow doesn't detract from the landscape and yes, windmills. It can be described no other way than CUTE. Oh Holland, you and your cows and little boats are so cute, I want to squeeze your little cheeks! I know your grown-up name is Netherlands but I don't care. You'll always be adorable leetle Holland to me! Bring me some cheese you cute little bunny!

Basically, don't even try to speak Dutch. It seems like the locals don't expect it and when you try, it seems to hurt their ears. I think it takes years of throat-clearing to be able to pronounce their "G." It's funny because you say "Hallo" or "Hi" and that seems to be the same in Dutch so they don't really know you're a stupid American until your next sentence.

The hotel is nice. Small by American standards but plenty of room. All the rooms are non-smoking, which is strange considering you can smoke EVERYWHERE else. The lobby, the breakfast buffet, a church, a hospital, preschool, the cancer society….just not your room. The bath is made for tall skinny Dutch people. I'm 5'8" and I could lay down completely in it but there was a good possibility of being stuck on the sides. (Insert your own "spreading democracy" comment here.)

I wandered out of the hotel and observed:

1. Bicycles everywhere. Like you would find SUV's here. Everyone is biking and it seems they're all dressed up doing it. Men in full suits and women with high heels biking. Seems uncomfortable and not just because I'm lazy. I guess if it's not 100 degrees out, that's not a big deal.
2. Many many very tall people. I recently read that the Dutch have surpassed Americans as the tallest people in the world. Boo!
3. No one is wearing casual clothes. If you see shorts, pants other than weird euro jeans, a suit with no tie or god forbid, flip-flops, you are looking at an American.
4. There is a very high proportion of gorgeous tall women.
5. I am a fat, underdressed, short troll.

My hotel is right next to the Breda museum. The first thing I come across is a huge open square. In this square, there are 20 foot tall Blair Witch looking structures with a flag on top and a bag of water hanging in the middle:

Next, I see women in harlequin masks with winged costumes on STILTS moving through the crowd:

lease note how everyone's standing around like this happens every day. Perhaps it does.

Next is the entertainment (I'm assuming the scary clowns and stick figures were the decoration). The first stage I come across is a huge one with about 100 people playing various drums in sync. They're wearing bright orange shirts and look maniacally happy about what they're doing. It's actually fun to watch. They're like the Shiny Happy People Sunshine Cult production of Stomp.

The next stage I come across is a full orchestra, with a soprano singer, doing an opera-esque version of "Hopelessly Devoted to You." They follow that with an instrumental "Go Greased Lightnin'." I guess Adrian Zmed couldn't make it to sing. (I noticed this last time I was in Cork. Huge fans of the Grease soundtrack. You hear it everywhere.)

The next stage I wander over to is equally surreal. This is a full on rock band with cowboy hats, boots, western shirts and sunglasses playing Johnny Cash and Dick Dale. It's like wandering into the Hole in the Wall. Yay! I get a beer and listen a while.

All evidence of this festival is gone the next day. I can't find any mention of it on the internet so it very well could have been a jetlag-induced dream.

I arrived on a Saturday afternoon, when magically any trace of consumerism closes and doesn't open again until Monday afternoon. At first, this is quaint…until you need something. By Monday morning, I'm raging at this absurdity. "We didn't come over here and save you from the Germans so your lazy asses could not even open a 7-11 for christ's sake." Because the hotel restaurant is also closed on Sunday, I can't even get room service and I'm too scared to go out and not speak Dutch by myself at a restaurant, so I eat licorice mentos and a muesli bar from the vending machine for dinner.

I walked circles around my hotel a lot out of boredom. Sadly, no circus came to town the rest of the time so it was me wandering on the old-timey cobblestones in the fog smoking, like the next Sting solo cover. It was lovely for the first couple of nights, but honestly, once you've seen the same buildings a few times around the block and there's no 20 foot clown to scare the crap out of you, it gets a little lonely.

More observations :
1. These people are exhibitionists. Or I'm a voyeur. Or both. All the shades are up at night so you can see right into people's brightly lit apartments from the street. Not a few stories up…these are full length windows on the ground floor. As you'd expect, the apartments were sparse and well-decorated. Very IKEAn. Klassy-ass Euros.

2. Women favor boots. I do too…however, they seem to like to tuck their pants into them or wear knee length pants. I strongly suggest that this looks retarded.

3. They like the hippety-hop music. In the taxi on the radio, in addition to hearing Nirvana "All Apologies" turned into a dance mix, I would hear things like…."Het lied u enkel was AKON met zijn super klap horde 'SMACK DAT'"

Food? Meh. I ask one of the guys I'm working with to take us for native Dutch food and he assures me that is a bad idea that would involve cheap cuts of meat and heavy gravy. I have Argentinian and Thai while I'm there and I wasn't impressed with either.

Apparently, the government is more and more conservative these days and smoking will be gone within the year. They're also putting some limits on the "coffeeshops" and there's speculation they'll all be gone soon also. But where will American potheads learn about different cultures? Won't anyone think of the children?!

Because my super nice 4 star hotel was fully booked the last 2 nights, I was forced to change to the Bastion hotel. Doesn't that just sound awful? It is. It was like moving from the Four Seasons to the Rodeway Inn off of I-35. I was fairly sure that was where my body would be found. I did have a giant schnitzel there so it wasn't all bad. That's exactly how it read on my bill too. "Giant Schnitzel." I'm hoping I don't get a call from Accounts Payable when they're reviewing my expenses. "Um, company policy is that you're allowed one reasonably-sized piece of meat for dinner. Was there not a small or medium schnitzel available?"

Note : How to kidnap and kill an American tourist : Drive outside hotels where some idiot is standing with a stupid grin trying to say with their face "Please don't kill me. I am stupid". If when you pull up, they say "HI! Are you my taxi?", they will be none the wiser. You can pick them up and take them to the slaughtering location of your choosing. In fact, you can say "I take you to the slaughter barn now, yes?" and they will say "Oh! You speak English. Awesome! Sure, take me wherever!"

Don't get me wrong. I love seeing these places. I love that the men are wearing suits and that everyone is off on Sunday and that work doesn't come first, or even fourth or fifth. But traveling by yourself is lonely. It's not fun to eat in a restaurant by yourself with the other table-for-one business travelers trying not to stare at each other. I was ready to come home and enjoy leaving my house without feeling nervous, throwing on sweat pants and 24 hour capitalist convenience.

10 hour flight from Gatwick to DFW - I mentally divorced my flight husband the minute he showed up late and plunked down next to me, casually tossing his flip flops, sunglasses and iphone in the back of the seat. He was the selfish carousing type, not for me. I prefer a kind, compassionate flight husband. It is over buddy! At least he slept the entire 10 hours, knocking over a full glass of wine while he did. I watched Harry Potter twice and the first season of Weeds. I also spent an hour concentrating hatred on the big haired yapping Dallas blonde in front of me. It passes the time.

I arrived in customs in Dallas which is much better and more efficient than Chicago. Being questioned is downright pleasant and friendly-like. How do I know I'm home? Some redneck gets on his phone the minute he gets in the customs line which everyone knows is a no-no and if you didn't, there are 1000 signs telling you. The customs agent tells him he can't be on the phone so he loudly says "But mah cousin just shot hisself". He doesn't seem all that upset about it….as if this is a frequent occurrence in his family.

Last word on airports across the globe. Please for the love of god, CRANK THE AC.

On a steel horse I ride... Cork Ireland

This is a boring trip. I'm documenting it so I don't get wistful about the past in my old age...

Cork 9-25 – 9-28

This is my 5th flight in a series of 11 in a span of 3 weeks. I just returned from vacation at the Jersey shore with Steve's family which was surprisingly fun. (I know, right? I couldn't believe it either.) Now, 2 weeks in Europe for secret company projects. Shhh!

Business class begins as normal. Since it's almost always chock full of men, I inevitably end up drooling on some poor software programmer out of Austin wearing bad shoes. I'm assigned to my flight husband for the trip. I see the triple seats in the middle next to us are empty so rather than cozy up with this gentleman, I ask if I can take one of those once we get started. I do and feel like I've just served my little flight husband divorce papers. "It's not you, it's me. I need more room for my shit. You'll end up being happier, I promise."

He gets the last laugh when my rickety-ass business class seat doesn't pull all the way up. (Note: On the way back from London, I'm checked through security 3 times, asked a full survey of questions about what I did in my hotel the night before and whether anyone could have possibly broken into my room and packed my luggage for me, ordered my dinner, picked out my clothes, etc. All these precautions and they don't take the time to check that the seats work? I digress…) Anyway, during takeoff and landing because my seat won't go up, I have to slink back in shame to my flight ex. Yes, I'm back in 9B….but it's just for a few minutes until I get my shit together. I'll pick up my bags later. Try not to be here.

In the meantime, my flight attendant who is older, non-blonde and very much jaded comes up to me with a piece of paper where she's scrawled "LUBA" in blue ink and underlined. She shows it to me. I am perplexed. "My name is LUBA if you need anything" (underlines name again). Beside the obvious "My name is Luka" reference, I'm befuddled. Does she think I'm deaf? Why did she feel the need to write her name and underline it? She doesn't do this for any other passengers. It's official. I'm not paranoid about thinking I look like a retard all the time. I really do.

Note to American Airlines: Not the best choice for a plane ride mix list? "I'm Going Down , Down , Down, Down" by Bruce Springsteen. Nice one!

If you've ever flown to Ireland from Heathrow, you may understand some of the hatred for the Brits. One would think Heathrow is a fairly modern terminal and that flights to Ireland are frequent from there. To discourage this apparently, all flights to Aer Lingus generate from Terminal One which is as ominous as the not-yet-made Steven Seagal movie it sounds like it's named after. It's reached by proceeding down a series of tubes, each smaller, hotter and more suffocating than the last. When you finally get to T1, it's boiling and the gate you're boarding is announced approximately 30 seconds before you take off. Oh, and it's full of pissed off , sweaty Irish.

Ah, Olde Liberal Europe, I hardly knew ye. Already, the smoking Nazis have invaded. I blame Americans. I'm pretty sure Americans from Round Rock who will never be in these irish pubs have somehow managed to secure a vote to ban it anyway. Ah well. The hotel is very nice, run by Eastern Europeans it seems and after a long flight, being a little punch drunk (actually, free wine and heat of terminal one sweat drunk), the guy checking me in who sounds remarkably like Bronson Pinchot in Beverly Hills Cop. ("nawh, nawh, eits good. Youaw will laikh it")

Room service the first night of course, with the smallest $20 salad I've ever seen. I manage to refrain from the mini-bar out of exhaustion.

The next night I go out with a native Corkian/Corkite/Corkscrew? We meet at my hotel bar, where we're immediately accosted by Patrick who wants to use her phone. He's shortly joined by his lovely pregnant smoking bride. I'm not one to judge and I would never say a word about that but did note that this woman did this openly, whereas in Austin, she would've been burned at the stake before trial. They immediately pull up a chair and start talking/bickering. Very entertaining if not a little frightening. My friend assures me this does NOT happen all the time in Cork. He tries to put her phone down his pants for some reason. Lovely couple. The wife starts telling us about her other 4 kids.
Then says, "Well girls, it's a lovely day." (pause)
"My oldest daughter's boyfriend died on this day last year. He was a lovely man."

Huh? Did you mean for those two sentences to go together? She tells us all about how he was killed in a car accident. Still not sure how that leads to a lovely day and why she was all smiley and sentimental about it …but I guess we missed something. Some people are enjoy the morbid I guess. I have relatives like that.

We go to the Casanova restaurant. My friend speaks fluent Italian and is friends with the owners so confirms its authenticity. Small but cozy. Her friend tells us he's not smoked for 20 days. They also admonish her for putting parmesan on fish. Hm. Now I know.

Now, I'll mention that the last time I was in Cork, I was called a fat American bitch by a random person on the street. I'd be lying if I said this hasn't affected every thought, word and action while I've been overseas ever since.
My "friend" has taught me the greatest insult of all time in Italian. Basically, it means you are the offspring of a lady whose distinctive talent is putting other people's personal items in her mouth.

So, after half a bottle of wine and much persuasion by my dinner companion, I tell her friend, the owner..."Figlio di una boccinara", as whisperingly as I can. He doesn't hear so she makes me repeat it 3 more times, which has now been overheard by the waiter and a table of Italian girls next to us, who look on with disgust. He finally hears me and then picks up a knife off the table. He threatens her, not me….so I guess it went off without a hitch!

Another waiter, this one from the Czech Republic, comes over and starts talking incessantly about every minutiae of a recent trip to Egypt. You might think that would be interesting. You would be wrong. It's almost like he was given an assignment in his English class. "Describe a recent vacation you've had. Include details. Keep your tone as boring as possible and don't stop, even if your audience appears to nod off. Good Luck!"

Cork continues without incident, which is good enough for me. On to Breda Holland, home of the tall and weird...

Lutterworth Calling : Day 5-7

Sunday, January 14, 2007
Day 5 Friday : Bad Moon Rising
Everyone's tired and trying to get through our work as quickly as possible. The Dutch boys are leaving tonight to go home for the weekend. We go for lunch in Rugby at a place called The Shambles. Ha! Remind me when I get home to open a restaurant called The Crap. Lunch takes forever and is not very good (although the chips were quite "nice".) It's an early day at the office and we duck out at 4:30. No maniacal American work guilt here. I will go along and soak it up while I can. The Irish girls, D & S and the Australian, J , kindly invite me along for a night out.*

*Names omitted in the interest of international relations

The gist of the plan is to get drunk in the local pubs. I admire their direct, no-nonsense approach to the evening.

Pro: Nothing breaks the ice better than a few hundred drinks with coworkers.
Con: If I do something embarrassing, as history dictates I will, I'll have to see them the whole next week for 8 hour days in a brightly lit warehouse.

We drive to Lutterworth and find a hidden basement Italian restaurant called The Vaults. The atmosphere is lovely, and they're playing traditional Italian Barry White over the speaker. We get some wine and "starters". I guess you normally order a starter with most meals which would seem like the equivalent of ordering an appetizer and too much food, but the entrees are much smaller than our Texas-size platters of gluttony. The food is pretty good. Another waitress of course asks if I'm American but follows with a long story of how she loves America and is getting married in New York. Very refreshing.

We head to the Fox Inn local pub. We tell bad jokes all around. We then head back to the hotel bar, my comfort zone for this trip. Many drinks are consumed. We get the word that the bar will be closing so the girls order 3 more drinks apiece. I knew I liked them. It's at this point where I tell them the story about being called a fat American bitch in Ireland. They uncomfortably change the subject as most people do when I tell that one. Maybe I should stop telling it. We go through several rounds of the "Marry, Shag or Kill" game. They've closed the liquor part of the bar but the taps are still open. A couple of guys from the other end of the place pour a couple for themselves. D goes and tries to pour herself one but the tap's out or has wisely been turned off. They turn the lights off in the pub. We stay anyway and drink and smoke in the dark. The 2 guys come and join us and start trying to figure out where everyone's from. Finally I'm forced to speak and do so with a thick Texas accent to give them a little Southfork thrill.

I'm saved from ridicule when the night manager interrupts and says "Em…right then, who's gonna pay for the gentlemen who 'elped themselves to the pints?"
Giggling
"Well what if I do it again then? What you gonna do then?"
"Right. If there's any more of that, I'll 'ave to call the police round."
"Right mate. The Ullesthorpe police. Don't get bothered, put it on room 219."

I've made sure not to say a word during this exchange lest my country is implicated. At this point, we find it wise to leave.

Day 6 Saturday :
Sleep, TV, reading. I finally get the courage to face the lobby (and possibly last night's security guard) for a trip to the supermarket in Lutterworth by taxi to get cigarettes, wine, conditioner and to be asked if I'm American. Can't deny the public! I wish I could walk somewhere but this hotel is so far out, there's not even a safe place to walk to get down to the one tiny shop in Ullesthorpe. I would surely be attacked by a werewolf on the moors if I did anyway. More TV, more sleep.
Speaking of cigarettes, they are £5.80 for a pack of 16, about $11.00. They are all printed with big warning labels such as "SMOKING HARMS YOU AND OTHERS", "SMOKING CAUSES IMPOTENCE", and "PUT THE CIGARETTE DOWN YOU OLD HAG. HAVE YOU LOOKED AT YOUR DAMN FACE LATELY? JESUS CHRIST" Yet even with the prohibitive price and shouty messages, you can smoke anywhere. They need to make up their mind.

Day 7 Sunday:
After some serious flooding, the UK is now bright and beautiful. Meanwhile, Austin suffers an ice storm. It must've been my unbearable hotness transferring between regions. Despite the beautiful weather, I'm still not able to bring myself to get a taxi and wander around by myself. I spend the morning writing emails and sneaking cigarettes out the window of my non-smoking room. The guilt manifests in convincing myself I smell something burning and checking the room obsessively. Luckily, S invites me out to lunch in Lutterworth. A lovely spot of lamb with mint sauce and delicious homemade apple pie. It's luvely that! Speaking of lamb, I didn't mention that on my original train-'round-England trip, that I thought I saw a blue cow. I wrote it off to hallucination caused by exhaustion and elderly Swedes. However, when we're driving back from Lutterworth, I see that several sheep are clearly painted with blue, green and red numbers. Just wanted to mention that so if you're ever in the UK, you won't think you've been drugged.

Next week: Possible strip searches at the warehouse! Pub adventures! More fucking chips!