I’d like to preface this post with a few shorts words. First of all, apologies for taking so long to get it up. The DC trip was almost a month ago, but between work and Mexico and boys, it has been quite a month. Secondly, my camera battery died the second day of my trip to DC so this blog is lacking somewhat in the illustration department (thank you Janine for the ones provided). It won’t happen again. I promise. Thirdly, this post is very long and I am pretty sure insufferably boring. That being said, the story needed to be told and my ability to do any serious editing at midnight on this Sunday night is escaping me. I am hoping to get back into posting regular and compelling posts. That being said, away we go.

The Sunday morning of any weekend you are out of town is depressing. While the drive up is filled with an excitement that can rise through your belly and stay stapled to your face for days, the drive back is long, late, and nothing awaits you at the other end but some good TV on HBO and whatever miserable job that requires your presence in the early hours of Monday morning. As the hours roll by each and every Sunday I fall into a state of despair, fighting to make the weekend last as long as it can. This usually results in me staying up drinking wine until one or two in the morning, making Monday morning that much worse, but at least I’m not letting them steal any more of my time. I don’t mind being hungover and unproductive on their watch. This Sunday morning was no different and Janine and I awakened early to get started drinking and complete the one mission we had failed to accomplish: the queue. Right now you are probably wondering what is this queue you speak of, and what exactly does the queue mission entail? Well, the queue is a concept that has been around a while, and one which Janine articulated quite well on urbandictionary.com. Click here to read the official definition (#2). Basically, as a single girl it is imperative that you have at least a few different boys lined up at all times, much like your Netflix queue. Maybe you keep one movie for a month and watch it over and over again, maybe you just want to indulge in a romantic comedy for a one night, maybe you’re only watching the movie for a few hours of entertainment even though you know you won’t like it, and maybe, as Janine says, some of the movies never even make it into your “mailbox.” Regardless, it is always a good idea to have several different potentials lined up for whatever mood may strike you. Our mission that weekend was to restock both of our queues, as they had been slowly dwindling. I did add Highway Jacob on my way up on Friday, and had been entertaining a drummer from Nashville for the last week or so, but you can never have too many, and Janine’s queue was looking dismal at best. Seeing as how Friday night we were too drunk to function, and Saturday Janine slept through our queue opportunity, Sunday was our last shot.

We left the house early heading into the already impenetrable heat and made the long, but pleasant walk to Red Rocks, our favorite bottomless mimosa brunch spot.

Mmm...breakfast pizza

Coffee - a necessity

On four hours of sleep and barely recovered from the pool party, much less from the hours of rooftop hipster drinking, I, once again, struggled through the first few mimosas. I had felt strangely quiet all weekend, observing the world around me, somehow detached from everything. In this state, the conversation between us lulled and lifted in the easy rhythms of friendship and before we knew it we had finished brunch and were debating what we should do until it was time to go meet my mom at four and get on the long road back to Charlotte. The decision sat between going to see some photography exhibit or going to celebrate the fifth anniversary of Wonderland, one of Janine’s favorite local bars. As we were walking home we just so happened to pass by that very bar. You can guess what we chose to do.

We sat down in Wonderland and ordered two 007s, a special the bar was offering for its birthday celebration. It is basically a pint of Grey Goose Mandarin, and a splash of orange juice and soda. Absolutely delicious, and they were only five bucks a pop.

007 and J9's silly putty giraffe

Silly Putty Sex

j9 and cockblockin' bobby

About thirty minutes later a very young, very blonde, very clean cut police officer knocked on the door: Officer Brian. He rolled through the standard questions with a glint in his voice suggesting my drunk ass had simply forgotten where it was parked. Sure Janine and I were taking shots right in front of him, and sure we had just come from a bar, but that doesn’t make me an idiot! OK, well maybe I do idiotic things relatively frequently, OKOK, I do them all the time, but this was NOT one of them! As we went over the details, license plate, VIN number, Janine poured a round of shots of the Croatian rubbing alcohol known as šljivovica. Despite Janine’s numerous protests, Officer Brian declined politely and suggested we scan the neighborhood in his cruiser. The three of us got into his car and slowly made our way through the streets of Columbia Heights. After pointing out a heroin den that they hadn’t yet been able to bust and a few cars he expected had been stolen, we returned to Janine’s empty handed. Overwhelmed by the amount of shit that had been accumulating in my life, I called my mom, told her I would be unable to meet her and Janine and I headed back to the bar in the late afternoon. As cool as Officer Brian appeared to be, he refused to give us a lift. Lame.

Regaling the bartender and the few straggling patrons with tales of my lost car and our weekend, Janine and I settled in for a long day of consumption. I honestly wish I could provide you with more detail of the afternoon and evening following the thievery of my vehicle, however, for obvious reasons, I cannot. Though it would have been completely possible for me to catch a flight back to Charlotte that day and be back for work on Monday morning, I executively decided that getting my car stolen was as good a reason as any to miss work, and settled on flying out the next day. Or so I thought. As such, Janine and I got completely obliterated at Wonderland that night. We later discovered that her narcolepsy had led to her passing out on the bar and I was texting both Highway Jacob and Nashville Drummer simulataneously while the bar sprayed champagne sticky over the faces in the crowd in celebration of their fifth birthday. I am also relatively positive I was dancing like a maniac (the best kind of dancing). From what I remember, it was a great night.

Motorboating Janine's cross-dressing friend Brian on his last day of work

As I swiped my card into the ever-so-convenient kiosk nothing came up. I tried once more. Still nothing. Slightly frustrated I turned to the stern-looking blonde woman that looked as though she had been born a bigger cunt than the one she came out of, and asked for assistance. She obnoxiously typed (yes, you can type obnoxiously and you know what I am talking about) into her terminal and still nothing came up. I pulled the confirmation number from my blackberry and with an annoyed, smug, and tight little smile on her face told me that my ticket had been booked for two weeks from today. “What? Fuck. Seriously? Is there anything you can do?” I pleaded. “I am so so so sorry, my car was stolen and I am supposed to be at work and I bought the ticket as I ran out the door on my way here, please, is there any way you can help me? Any other flight today you can put me on?” The woman looked at me disapprovingly and informed me that the 1:55 PM flight today (the one I believed for which I had purchased a ticket) had only first class seats available. I did not even bother asking the price. She proceeded to inform me that the next flight would be about $600 and tomorrow about $350. Fuck me. Like I have $350. My fucking car just got stolen, and it’s not like I had full coverage on that bitch, I mean it was g-o-n-e gone. When I asked the woman at the counter one more time if there was any way she could squeeze me onto a flight today and waive the charge she replied cooler than a knife and without an apology, “No.” Amtrak it is.

Laughing to stop from crying I called Iva and asked her to come back to BWI to pick me up. I shook my head in disbelief at my own absurd stupidity, slumped down onto my suitcase, and smoked a much-needed cigarette. It was Monday afternoon at about noon and already having missed one day of work only two weeks after missing two due to the debacle that was my Chicago trip, I needed to get back immediately. I called Amtrak and frustratingly navigated my way through the familiar sterility of their voice command program. From my frequent travels to DC I already knew there were only two trains out to Charlotte each day, the last one leaving around seven. What do you know? It was sold out. Of COURSE it was fucking sold out. The train actually having one seat that I might get back to Charlotte and manage somehow to not lose my job would be much too easy. Well, it is what it is. I reluctantly emailed my boss explaining what a fucking idiot I am, and found a bit of joy in the fact that I got to spend one more day with my closest friends. If I was going to be stuck in a city missing work, this was a damn fine place in which to do it.

Two of the guys who had thrown the party the night before, Jesse and Cole, were in a band called Exactly. Having never heard their music before, they invited Iva and Barbara out to dinner that night with the idea that if they listened to their album for the first time on a full stomach, it was less likely they would be disappointed. Keep in mind that this is a band that wears tighty whities and covers themselves in fake blood at their shows. Or so I have heard. Based on that we weren’t quite sure what to expect. Trapped in DC for one more night I was lucky enough to be included in this little experiment. We headed into the city and met the boys at their house in Columbia Heights, smoking a cigarette on the front stoop in the night air, thick and mosquito-filled as a Louisiana swamp. After a few minutes the five of us piled into Jesse’s car and headed downtown for a delicious dinner at Marvin’s, known for its famous fried chicken and waffles. Covered in syrup and served with a side of collard greens, I savored every bite of the unexpectedly complimentary dish. After the delectable dinner, for which the boys chivalrously paid, we headed back to their house and prepared to listen to the now much-hyped band. They played two songs. The first, a studio cut, sounded a lot like the synth pop band Phoenix, and the second, completely different, very raw, somewhat dark, but also intriguing. I am not exactly I have words to describe nor a similar band to which to compare that second track, but I will say that their plan worked. On a few beers and a full stomach the positive reviews were unanimous.

On the Rooftop

Les Deux Alpes – France – 16th to the 20th February

Well, a mid term break and someone came up with the bright idea to go snowboarding in the French Alps. With a little last minute flight booking and a quick bag pack I go to Joey’s sleep there and wake up at some ungodly hour to get to Gatwick Airport for a flight to Grenoble. I pick up some headphones on the way and then we get our seats at the back of the plane. We get into Grenoble at about 10am, get a stamp on the passport before getting to Grenoble at about 11ish and picking up the hire car to drive to Les Deux. The drive in is pretty scenic. Something amazing and spectacular about seeing 4000m high mountains covered in snow. And dreaming of the possibilities that are about to come up.

We get to the town in the arvo at about 1ish or so, Joey and I go to get some hire gear before we go and trudge up the mountain as we’re tight arses and are not paying 25 euros for a half day pass. Its my first time, but it doesnt take too long before I have the hang of it. But still stack it plenty of times. It doesn’t take myself long before I am starting to do little jumps and carving ok.

The Apres Ski parties are definitely great. First night was hectic. As we say in London “Shit has escalated”. And it escalated massively that night. We polished off a bottle of bundy rum, and move onto another. As well as a case of beer, served chilled straight from the snow. We head out to the bars and clubs. It ends up being a fairly massive night. And the effects are in full effect the next morning. Especially Owen, who struggles up the mountain – nearly spewing in the gondala up the mountain. Then being unable to board down, so he walks down and spews the majority of the way. He spends the rest of the day in bed. Joey and myself get off a little better and are able to hit the slopes for the majority of the day. The night sessions seem to continue all the time. Its a hard life, but its definitely not as expensive as I once thought.

We have a pretty rad time and its definitely got myself hooked on the snow. I aim to get back before I jet off back to Australia at the end of the year.

We have another shit escalates moment. Mainly due to terrible french motorways. I was asleep for most of the trip and Joey was navigating. We see the turn off and didn’t actually realise that was it til just after. And had to wait 30 minutes down the road, to actually get off so we could do a U turn. We end up at the airport about 5 minutes too late to get the flight. And we have to make our way to Lyon to actually get back to London. That makes everyone 100 pounds lighter in the wallet. But I guess thats a part of traveling. If thats the worst of it, then there isn’t much to worry about. Definitely a story to tell.

I arrived at the Silversmith around four in the morning and instantly collapsed into the mattress. With barely any sleep the night before, and a day full of walking and drinking, I was not prepared to get up before noon. Unfortunately, check-out time was at noon and there was a lot I wanted to do before my 7 PM flight departed from O’Hare. Struggling against everything my body was telling me, I pulled myself out of bed around 9:30 and went straight for the room service menu. The first time Scott and I went to Las Vegas, we started a tradition of ordering the most extravagant breakfast at any and every hotel. From New York to Austin to Charleston, we lounged in luxurious robes and made our way through bagels, muffins, eggs, fruit, toast, bacon, sausage, coffee, and, of course, mimosas. I think those uncomplicated mornings, reading the Times in bed, indulging our epicurean sensibilities, were the best times we spent together. Despite the flash of maudlin sentimentality, I was ravenous and hungover enough to need to continue drinking immediately. I placed my order for the feast, took a shower, and relaxed into my robe letting the white terry engulf me.

It was another brilliant Chicago summer day and after polishing off most of my lavish spread, and all of the champagne, I checked out, checked my bag at the front desk, and headed out to the Art Institute. Still in the midst of the month-long trance I fall into whenever I find a new album to love, I threw on a little Vampire Weekend to brighten my steps. Walking past Millenium Park, I can’t help but to stop at Anish Kapoor’s steel jelly bean one last time. Children laid on the ground, giggling at their distorted reflections, and adults looked up in wonder at what could have been a portal to another dimension. Or maybe I was the only one pretending that, but whatever. You gotta have some imagination. Knowing the minutes I had left in Chicago were limited, I made my way through the Art Institute’s garden and up the stairs to the imposing façade.

Interdimensional portal? Or giant jelly bean?

Music in the Garden

Ahh...Monet

Temporary installation in the contemporary wing - I snuck a photo

Boring Orgy?

Van Gogh Drunkards!

didgeridoo!

Sunset on the River

After an hour or so of napping and crying my phone began to vibrate. Mike was ready to meet me for the cruise. I was not. I didn’t have the balls to tell him why I couldn’t go, so I ignored the message, and slept as long as I could in hopes that I might awaken somewhere else. Needless to say, I did not, and the realizations, both that I would likely never see Scott again and that I probably wouldn’t make my flight, struck me simultaneously. I got my shit together and sat down to write my final goodbyes. I know, melodrama is my forte. As I wrote the words, sobs heaved from my chest, unable to reconcile what I wanted with the reality that was facing me. Tears hit the tiny hotel notepad like some bullshit Lifetime movie cliché and I signed the letter and left.

As I exited the hotel, rain began to drown the city and people scrambled to catch cabs or find shelter. I was already behind on time and I grabbed a taxi to zip me back to the hotel and on to the airport. When we arrived at the Silversmith so I could pick up my suitcase, the cabbie informed me that a ride to the airport in the rain at 5 P.M. on a weekday could easily take longer than the subway. I conceded against my strong desire to spend the next hour in the quiet comfort of the backseat of his taxi and headed out in to the rain to catch the blue line. Still hungover and starved for a lack of food since my decadent breakfast, I made my way through the turnstile and on to the train. I had $3 left in my pocket after buying a lunchable and collapsed in the corner seat as the train pulled itself down the track towards O’Hare.

We arrived some forty-five minutes later, and confused I looked around trying to figure out the right way to go. After conspicuously taking off in the opposite direction of the rest of the passengers, I stopped mid-stride, made an about-face and sunk into the flow of the masses. My flight was departing in fifty minutes and I walked as fast as I could, my bag awkwardly bumping against me until I finally reached the Northwest counter. Dutifully swiping my credit card for identification, I was informed that my flight had already departed. Utterly confused, I checked my blackberry which confirmed my 7:05 P.M. departure. Unfortunately, what I did not realize, and what the attendant at the counter would shortly point out, is that my assistant had entered the flight into my calendar in Eastern Time, for some inexplicable reason. She then proceeded to inform me that the next flight back to Charlotte would not be departing until tomorrow morning at seven, but that she was kindly going to wave the $150 change fee. So, stranded in Chicago with no hotel and no money, I called the only person I knew in Chicago: Scott.

I will spare you the arduous details, but after more than an hour of travel back downtown I made it back to the Park Hyatt, freshened up in the lobby bathroom and headed back up to the bar to wait for Scott to get out of his conference. Somewhere close to three hours had passed, and five or six Hendrick’s and tonics deep, I had struck a rapport with about half of the bartending staff. There was the perky and garrulous Ashley, the pedantic Pollock, Robert, as well as several other patrons who were convinced I had been stood up, and were treating me to pity cocktails. By the time Scott arrived, I was hammered, he was in a shitty mood, and in typical fashion, we quickly turned to pejorative snapping. We brought our bitter comments up to the room and attempted to sleep, but seeing the man I loved, who once held me each night and each morning, awkwardly perched on the inadequate windowsill cushion, I knew I couldn’t stay there. In a predictable fit of tears, I left the hotel, and Scott, for good.

Back at the airport and sobering up, I decided to make use of the bottle of wine I had been lugging around all day. O’Hare was basically deserted, save for a friendly redneck with a gut that stretched from his hips to his chest in a landscape of long-forgotten beers, and a young Spanish-speaking couple trying to find rest in a row of five steel chairs. The redneck, Dave, and I headed outside to smoke a cigarette and bitched about airports and traveling and whatever other thing two random people with nothing in common but nicotine might chat about in an empty airport at one in the morning. At the moment I was about to give in and attempt sleep in the fluorescent terminal, I got a text from random Mike: “at a bar 20 minutes down the blue line. free beer. come out.” Sold. I dragged my ass back on the train and headed out with the firm intentions of drinking till four and making it back in plenty of time to catch my flight at seven. Of course, in the shitstorm that is my life, nothing ever goes to plan. Twenty-five years of this and I have learned to take it in stride. Mike and his roommate and I went out, took shots, played shuffleboard and danced until I don’t remember when. What I do remember is groggily lifting my head and opening my eyes from a couch in a random apartment of a random dude I met in a random city not twenty-four hours ago. And I had already missed my flight. Good decision making, Taylor. In a mess of muttering expletives I got my bags together, found my shoes, and headed back for my last ride on the blue line. It was almost ten when I got to the airport and the next eight hours were nothing but a blur of late flights, running for connections, and sleeping in any and everything that had a seat. At six that evening, I opened the door to my apartment and collapsed on the couch, only to be up and at the bar by eleven that night. Such is the story of my life.

Travel etiquette is very important to us.  We believe in consideration for fellow travelers – and that there are certain things you do and don’t do when you travel.  However, there is another facet to travel etiquette that we adore but which we cannot place under the jurisdiction of travel etiquette.  We’d like to call it “cultural misunderstandings.”  The jury will always be out on who is right and who is wrong on these.

One of the most beautiful benefits of all the modern marvels that engineers keep affording us, is the ability to hop from one place to the next.  An offset of this is that it puts you in a coach seat (in my case) probably elbow to elbow with someone who speaks none of your language (or you, theirs) and is from a totally different corner of the world.  This means many things for today’s society, not least of which is that what is accepted for you, may not be for someone else.  This situation breeds cultural misunderstandings.  It also makes for hilarity – albeit after the fact and among friends.

It only takes one boarding experience in a non-US country to learn that Americans are comparably…..obedient.  They wait for their section to be called, they file towards the gate attendant collecting tickets, and they are surprised when they are body slammed out of the way by a woman no more than five feet tall carrying no less than six bags. On board.

These encounters make travel fantastic.  We share them with each other and now we would like to share them with you.  We intend to revisit the issues of travel etiquette and cultural misunderstandings as needed.  We realize that Wanderlusters are sophisticated travelers so we invite you to share your own experiences in the comments section.  We have all faced the occasional “are they serious?” moment.  We’d love to hear yours.

The following is a case of a serious lapse in travel etiquette.  I arrived at LaGuardia for a flight to the West Coast with a connection in Houston (clearly, I was flying Continental).  As I mentioned in a previous post, my original flight was delayed two hours – dooming my chances at making my connection, and the gate attendant graciously made sure that I was on an earlier flight before it’s doors were closed.  Because she had checked my bag all the way through to my final destination, all I had was a shoulder purse on my person.  Somehow she had gotten me a seat behind the bulkhead and while I was in the middle seat, I was quite pleased.

I arrived at my row which was occupied by two men.  The one in the aisle was clearly one of those business traveler types (who are disgruntled that their firm did not buy them a first class ticket and that they did not get upgraded by the grace of whomever).  Let’s call them “BTT’s” as they are a constant presence.  The man in the window seat greeted me with an accented “Hello.”  Later learned he was Scottish.  As I got myself organized (read: sat down), I noticed that this particular plane’s bulkhead only went down to the bottom of the seats.  Meaning, there was actually space beneath the seats in front of us.  I thought to myself, “Oh good, I don’t have to hide my purse behind my legs and underneath my coat for takeoff and landing.”  I’m such a rebel, I know.  Well, next thing I noticed was a large black briefcase beneath the seat in front of me.  Clearly, it was BTT’s.  After a few moment’s too long, he finally put in an dramatic effort to remove the briefcase from MY storage area and said to me in an exasperated voice, “I am going to try to find a place for this.”  My thoughts?  You’re damned right you are.  My actual response?  “…..okay.”  He gets up and I get into a conversation with my new friend, the Scot.  After what seems like a few minutes but was really probably no more than 30 seconds, he returns with the briefcase, mumbles something about “not worth the trouble” and slides it right back under the seat in front of me.  He then removes his shoes (another don’t for another day) and places them in the seat in front of him, stretches out his legs and closes his eyes.  I am left having a non-verbal conversation with the Scot (we were fast friends after this) about the unmitigated gall this man just exhibited.

Now you’re probably wondering what I did in response.  Let me first tell you, that when I told J. Justine of this encounter, she was quite shocked (I am the confrontational type of the two).  It may have been the fact that I had just gotten off of a 9 hour flight so this 4 hour one seemed like small stuff in comparison, or it may have been a moment of pity for the BTT’s of the world and their wrinkled suit jackets…and egos.  Whatever it was, I said nothing to him.  I didn’t really think much about it for the rest of the flight.  However subconciously I think I was pissed because I did repeatedly bump his arm off of our shared armrest as he slept.  People in the middle seats get both armrests if they want them.  That is something I will not go without.

When you are dealing with plane etiquette, sometimes you have to pick and choose your battles.  You have no idea the type of day your seatmates have had and while it is good form to always obey the rules regardless, sometimes that just doesnt happen.  In this situation, I decided that the battle I wanted to pick was over the armrest (or maybe that was passive aggression….yet not passive).  I feel for this man, and whatever made him so rude, but I decided that he was not going to cloud my day – after all, karma was on my side for the sheer fact that I made that flight.

Then, after I got off the plane, I decided he was an asshole.

Over and out,

J. Claire

Praise God! ISFIT Stories 1

3:20pm, 19th Feb ‘

19th February, 11:30 am Vaernes Airport, Trondheim, Norway. That’s where I should be at this very moment. But..

W ell… I knew something wouldn’t go according to my plan somewhere. But didn’t expect this one. After a quick 4 hour wait at the Bangalore Airport International Limited(BIAL), I got the plane to Delhi, from where I had to catch a flight to Amsterdam. Transit time – 2:15 hrs. I reach Delhi at 11:30pm

So I reach Delhi, collect my baggage, take a leak and wal to the International Terminal. Oh! I found out that you had to take a bus ride to that terminal.

After 10 minutes of waiting, A bus comes, which leaves after 25 minutes.  I overheard a foreigner saying that the ride was 40 minutes. I slept off.  It took close to 45 minutes to get there. Which other airport in the world would have the Domestic and International Terminals so far apart? As we were closing in on the airport, I somehow woke up to the fact that it was ten to 1 am. Can I come so late? May be since it’s an international flight and a transit passenger they might just let. When people got off the bus, I sensed a hurry. I ran.

Ten thousand counters for baggage checking!   An airport staff told me KLM flight was on wing G. Ran to G to find that it’s Qatar Airways. Nowthe airlines do not have a specific desk. Whatever is said on the three flat screen TV’s on top of the counters is where the Check-in would be done.  The Qatar Airways guys tell me that KLM counters wasclosed.

CLOSED? What do you mean closed.

As per their direction I run to the Help desk where a young girl tells me “Sorry Sir, their Security check in is over and they have closed the counters. I can’t let you in. ”

WHAT DO YOU MEAN! I’m a passenger on transit and I need to catch a connecting flight from Amsterdam to Trondheim!

Sorry sir we can’t do anything. I’ll tell the staff and find out. Please be seated.

SEATED?

I was losing my cool. They can’t do this to me. It’ s not my fault. Or was it, that I took a leak at the previous airport?

Well…  I didn’t panic. This is another one of God’s games. All I was praying was I know you’re in this, but please, I  want to attend this Students’ Festival. God’s intervened in my life many times beore and it was hard not to believe that HE would intervene. Still I had a cold feeling in my heart. I’ll wait and see. By the time more passengers came asking for the KLM flight and the pressure on her was more. She made phone calls to the KLM staff, who sometimes picked the phone and some who said they’d come later as they were boarding the flight. I have taken detours, unexpected ones, beore, and they have given me experiences which I wouldn’t have otherwise had.

I didn’t have money to pay for anymore tickets. You’ll be rebooked on the next flight, said a Scottish sounding person  to me. What about the connecting flight?

If it’s KLM , then they’ll take care of it.

I wasn’t giving up. I was telling the lady to call up again. I’m not going back to Bangalore. At least not right now. I was also quite excited what God had planned.

There were around 10 passengers by then. All who missed the time because their flights had come late.

Had to wait till that KLM flight left and their staff came took our number s and sent us to the KLM office.

Finally when the staff turned up there , they rebooked me as I was on transit and had missed it due to airport difficulties. What more, they told me that the flight further from there was also rebooked. They asked me to go to the JEt Liet (The airline on which I’d come to Delhi). I reached the office to see the friendly scottish sounding man sitting there.

Together we waited for 3 hours after a hotel was arranged for us. He was annoyed that they initially made us wait because the staff hadn’t come back from flight duties to help us out and also because even after they came, they were chatting with each other. He was  gentleman, with glasses and reminded me of Postman Pat, though his hair wasn’t like his.

What a detour! Unexpected. He turned out to be a steel Mill buyer fro Sheffield and seemed quite amused that I was doing psychology.

We reached Hotel Shanti Palace, where we got awesome rooms. I’m not kidding. Didn’t know that God had this in mind. They said breakfast lunch and dinner was free for us. (After lunch , it so turned out that upto 450 rupees would be paid by the Airline company.)

There’s only one flight which does this Amsterdam thing for KLM from Delhi. That’s why I have to wait for 24 hours.

Those of you booking tickets with a transit in Delhi, make sure that you next flight is atleast 3 hours apart. You’ll never know. Just to be on the safer side.

Talking about the room now, it’s a plush room and I’ll put up a video a of it. Too cool.

I had a bubble bath today and have been relaxing in the morning. I’d slept at half past 5 and after getting up went and had a sumptuous breakfast.

Kinda regret that I can’t meet my old friends from Norway as planned for the first evening. The good part is that I didn’t have to spend in Norwegian Kroners, or hardly any money at all.

God knew that I have had a very busy run up to this travel with the research completion, submission and all that. He knew that I was tired carrying the l;aptop and walng, catching the bus and walking anagain and repating the routine in the vening. He knew that I don’t have much money to be lavish. So He’s given me a 4 star treatment all for free!

Catching a taxi this evening to the aiport which is also hopefully arranged by the airline, so that I can get to the KLM office at 8 to collect my boarding pass.

God. I knew it. I’ll go by your plans. Your time Zone isn’t my time zone. IT’s difficult to operate on a different one. But I’d rather go by Yours. Thanks.

You’ve proven yourself again.

By the way, for a short living battery, I got to charge my phone at a free place in the B’lore airpot and these hotel guys gave me one too. My charger is a 3 pin one, which can’t be used in Norway, so there comes the stuff!

Yehovah-Yire.

A day’s wait to ISFiT. I’m refreshed.

(Here’s some misuse of the camera)

Click To Play

An incontrovertible truth of Bryan Rivard is that he does not handle traveling well.  The process of collecting everything that is needed, organizing it, and getting it to where it needs to be proves too much for some people, with me among the ranks.

Most of the reason for my angst is the lack of sleep.  Even for my usual sleep-deprived cycle, I am lacking; up until 1 am packing and then getting up to catch a 7am taxi does not a good attitude make.  As though it were needed, and to make matters worse, I got a call from Becky at 6:05am asking if I could leave in 10 minutes.

What? I ask incredulously.

“I can’t get through to the cab company again, there are no cabs in the area, and there just happens to be one 10 minutes away.  It’s this one or nothing.  Can you be ready in 10?”

GodDAMMIT.  Fine, I say, I’ll be ready.

In 10 minutes I crunch out into the cold in hiking boots and all other clothing items too large to fit in my bag, load into a cab with Andy and Becky, and nod to the driver.  We churn through the sloshy snow on our way to the onramp, which is blocked by even deeper snow.  Once through, the highway moves slowly, but is at least clear.

Pulling up to the gate I have completed some disturbing math.  A cross-country flight is trying enough, but due to questionable addition skills, I have opted to arrive at the airport 4.5 hours early.  At least I can expect a festival of efficiency from the airport that had suspended operations for the two days prior, I think.  I’m sure things will be as smooth as silk.

At the gate the fleecing begins immediately.  I had heard stories of the nickel-and-dime bullshit the airports had been pulling in the oil shortage, and apparently there was no indication that there would be a letup during the economic crisis.

“How many bags?”

One.

“Place it on the scale.  Ok, your total comes to $15 even.”

Pardon?

“Total for the check in is $15 even.”

Oh no, I’m sorry, I say, I’ve already paid for my ticket.

I know what she means.  I know that it’s $15 for the first bag and $25 for the second.  I saw the signs and I’m fully aware.  But I’m cranky, and feel like starting a fight.

So you’re telling me, I say, that I have to pay an additional fee to check baggage on a flight I’ve already paid $600 for?

“Yes, sir.  It’s policy.”

To fleece me at the gate?

“It’s an expense issue sir.  Cash or credit?”

I see, I say, handing her a $20 bill.  Is it so uncommon to check a bag that it warrants a fee?  Is American Airlines under the impression that most people fly across the country for 10 days with nothing but a carry-on?

“One, two, three, four, five dollars is your change,” she ignores me “…and have a nice flight.”

I want to ask her how much the complimentary peanuts will cost me, but decide to run to the security line and get started there instead.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

Conceptualization gets skewed by size.  The brain recognizes objects based on things it has seen before—and my brain is stumped as I walk into the security area.  What should be a line is a weaving, switch-backing mess that more resembles a braided river than the entrance to a checkpoint entrusted with the safety of large airborne objects.  The line is so long that I’m not sure where it ends, and upon stepping in at the very back I am told that I’m actually at one of the line breaks, and I will need to double my distance from the clunking plastic bins and x-ray machines.

The line, snaking back and forth 3-4 times with the last line limping across to yet another bundle of switchbacks, moves surprisingly quickly.  On the other end of the rubber-gloved security guards is a sight that I have never had the pleasure of seeing before; an airport Christmas.  All of my Christmas travels fall into two categories: by car, or not at all.  An airport on Christmas, I has assumed, would be like any other day.

As I am passed by an 8’ pear-shaped, paper-mache cat and dog pair, it becomes obvious that this is not so.  After a series of amplified barks and meows, the strangely tall, distorted figures scuttle down the concourse and out of sight, spreading Christmas cheer all the way.  Shuffling over to a set of seats to redress after the security shakedown I take care to give a suspiciously large rocking box a wide berth.  A family with two small children does not think to do this, and as just as the kids get within scare-the-shit-out-of-you range, the top explodes open and out pops a short man who shrieks “Merry Christmas!” in a loud, elfish voice.  The children are horrified and hide behind their parents’ legs.  The parents are horrified and obviously think about the therapy bills this Christmas cheer has just incurred.  To his credit, however, the little man draws the children out, and before long he has them laughing.  With a stunt that would have caused me to give him a 6-year-old middle finger, he has actually spread some Christmas joy.  I am awestruck.

I sit and I watch the little man for a while as I wait for Becky and Andy. He has a routine of popping out, scooting and rotating the box out in the middle of the walkway (it is clearly on wheels), and then settling back down much the way an ambush predator would select his attack point.  Like a good soldier, I sit and watch unsuspecting children walk past and trigger the little man’s well-wishes.  I console myself over my inaction with the fact that teaching a child not to walk up to a brightly colored moving box in an airport is a life lesson.  If nothing else, the psychiatric visits will stimulate the economy.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

After getting breakfast, playing some cards, and saying goodbye to Becky and Andy at their gate, I meander back to my gate and after some time, begin to board.  Before long I am on the plane with an aisle seat, which is the lesser of two evils.  I send the majority of my time reading, napping, and ignoring the obvious flatulence of my neighboring passenger.  I recall now why I do not like to fly; as long as I don’t realize how trapped I am I don’t freak out.

On the ground in Dallas I again realize that I have many, many hours to wait before my connection flight arrives.  To occupy some time I decide to check out Stephen’s flight arrival time and learn that not only am I early, but I am so early that said information isn’t even available on the board yet.  I go about pestering a flight attendant.

“Do you have the passenger’s name, sir?”

Stephen.

“Last name?”

Same as mine, I say, pointing to the spot on the ticket she is holding.

“Oh look at that—it was supposed to get in at 7:30, but it gets in at 7:20.  Ahead of schedule!”

Good deal, I think.  Less time alone.

“Oh, but he’s not on it.”

Pardon?

“Your brother—he missed the flight.”

Somehow in his infinite wisdom, I learn, Stephen had managed to miss his flight out of LAX and caught the one after it.  This, I was told, put him in at 8:30.  Making the news far less fantastic was the fact that our flight would begin boarding 15 minutes prior to his landing, and the door would likely be sealed 10 minutes after he plane unloaded.  And the gate was three concourses away.

Thanking the flight attendant I opt to map out our route and do a test run for time.  After arranging myself at the starting gate, I shot across concourse A and caught the inter-concourse shuttle, all the while wondering what I should do.  Should I leave him here and make my flight?  Should I go home and maximize my time there?  But wasn’t this an opportunity to hang out with little bro?  And he was just going to spend the night in the airport alone if I left him…

The train stops and we get out.  I jog down the escalator, bang a hard right, and haul ass to the gate, which I reach in a total time of 10:30.  This is just enough time, and close enough to have me freaking out for the rest of my layover.  Had it taken 20 minutes, I would be in the clear since it would land in the category of no-fucking-way.  But it was JUST enough time assuming he was at the front of the plane, arrived on time, got out fast, and was ready to haul ass.  10:30.  Shit.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

I am pacing at the gate.  Back and forth and back and forth because his plane has come in and ours leaves in 15 minutes.  People come off, and then no one comes off….more people come off…then no one.  What is he missed this one?  What if he got there a different way?  Did they shuttle him to his plane across the tarmac?  Would I be the one alone?  I bet he was being held up by those jackass people who, when it’s their turn, stand up, get in the middle of the aisle, and START collecting their belongings.  If I see one of those people I’m going hurt them.

No, there he is.  He sees me and looks confused.  I start whirling my arm in the air and start mouthing “WE’VE GOT TO FUCKING GO!!”  He shakes his head.

Oh no, I mouth, it’s true!  We’ve got to fucking GO!

After a hug and a few lightly jogged steps, he tells me the awful truth—he will have to recheck his bags—there is no way we are going to make this flight, and as we sit at the baggage exchange, I call the flight rescheduling number.

Waiting by the baggage claim I get some bad news from the woman on the phone.  “We can’t reschedule your flight” she tells me.

“What?”

“Your brother we can, but you just didn’t get on.  We can’t refund you for that.”

“Your agent at the counter recommended that I do that, so figure it out.”

Now I’m getting pissed off and hostile.  The woman is unable to help me and I decide instead to run to the counter before she inputs anything into the system.  Hanging up I run to the nearest service counter, slap on my panic face, and make sure to spill my story in detail, careful not to mention that my ‘little brother’ is not a minor.  My flight gets booked for the next day.

Steven and I are given a voucher for a hotel while we wait for our 7am flight.  As soon as we get settled, we get restless, and given that we really only have 6 hours to sleep ANYway, we might as well go get some food.  Somehow, of that  could have transpired this evening, I hadn’t imagined that I’d find myself walking down George W. Bush Highway in Texas at 1 am to a Denny’s with my little brother recently back from NZ.  But there you go.

My posts tend to be more like little stories rather then a conversational tone like some blogs that I read.  I just don’t feel like I’m entertaining you enough by just telling you what I ate for breakfast yesterday.  I feel like I have to tell you a story.  But there comes a time when I feel like I need to tell you every little thing about myself and what happened recently in my life.  If you don’t care then stop reading, it won’t hurt my feelings.  I may revert back to cutting, but my feelings will be fine. 

So…here’s a random list of some stuff (wow, that sounds really interesting!!):

• T’s Momma and Sister visited us this weekend.
  • We went out to eat for almost every meal. 
  • We went to Galveston and walked on the beach for a bit.
    • I also got a sunburn on my shoulders and back.
    • I’ll probably get skin cancer soon.
      • Yes, Mom I promise to use sunscreen from now on!
    • A dead fish touched T’s sisters leg when she was walking in the ocean.
    • T’s Mom collected some seashells to take back to MI to make everyone there jealous.
  • We visited the Beer Can House in Houston.  That may require a post in and of itself.
  • We went to the Armadillo.  It’s a imported goods mall with booths full of purses, sunglasses, jewelry, furniture, etc.  And I don’t mean like fine imported goods from Italy, I mean cheap-child labor goods from Mexico. 
  • We drove around. A lot. 
  • T’s Momma puked up her expensive lunch.  What a waste.
  • We made T’s Momma and Sister go to the dog park.
    • I know they really didn’t want to go, but they did go.  And with a smile on their face.
    • There was a crazy lady there who made a screeching noise when her dogs tried to play with Hurley.  It was just an awkward (did that really happen) type moment.  I’m guesssing she wen’t home and made out with her dogs while watching Golden Girls.
  • We did some other stuff I can’t remember, but I think they had a good time.  It was nice to see them. 
  • T’s Momma and Sister missed their flight on Monday morning.  T ran into a little traffic jam.  T, of all people made them late!!!!  It was OK though, they didn’t have to wait too long for another flight.
  • I might post some pics from the weekend at a later date.
• T found out that his air matress has a leak in it.  He woke up with his butt on the floor.  We kept it.  I think I might try to make something cool out of the plastic.  Don’t ask me what though.
• Hurley decided to urinate in the cat’s litter box.  I’m not even kidding on this one.  The cat was making a fuss so I went to investigate.  Hurley had his head sticking out of the litter box.  I threw him out and saw that there was fresh pee in there!  He is making me insane.  Although I have to say, if he’s going to pee in the house-I’m glad it was in the litter box.
• I found out that two of our friends are going to a wine tasting event.  My tiny little brain makes me think that it’s a sign that me and T and our group of friends are getting old.  I’m pretty sure we are going to start getting gray hairs and talking about how our nations youth are out of control. 
• I suddenly have about 10 magazines that I need to read.
• Our really nice neighbor stopped by today to bring us some mail of ours that they had received and Hurley bolted out the door.  Another neighbor was walking by with her two dogs.  Her dogs starting screeching and barking and freaking out.  Hurley of course wouldn’t come to me.  The girl was also freaking out.  Our nice neighbor caught Hurley for us.  I then worked on training Hurley to sit when the door is open-not run outside like a moron.  Hurley just wanted to play with the two dogs, but they wanted to attack him.  When the girl is out walking her dogs and sees me and Hurley-she will immediately walk the other way.  She may need Cesar Millan.  I may also need CM.  Damn dog.
• I’m watching this Alaska Wilderness show where couples go out in the Alaskan wilderness.  I would love LOVE to do this with T.  He would probably feed me to the grizzly bears though. 
• I got two new pairs of glasses!  I think the prescription for one may be too strong because it made my head hurt.  I’m going to get them checked again this Thursday.  Here’s a few pics:

Here is pair number one.  They are by Tommy Bahama, not that that really matters.  Here they are up close:

They are like a blue-grey on the outside with a tan on the inside.  They are a little school teacher-ish, but I like them

Here’s pair numero dos:

These are pretty similar to the glasses that I just replaced.  I really like this style of glasses (with the frame that doesn’t go on the bottom?).  I’m sure there’s a name for that style, but I have no clue.  I also don’t know what brand these are. 

Here’s a close up:

I think I like these.  They are kinda funky, but not too out there. 

I’m pretty proud of myself for picking out new glasses on my own.  My Mom has always helped me before.  I would normally need her opinion for such major purchases, but I have no choice.  And lord knows that T would be absolutely no help at all.  So…Mom, do you approve? 

Ok..back to more boring things.

• Grey’s Anatomy and LOST are going to be on this week!  Thank God they are coming back on.  If you don’t watch these two shows I don’t know how you live your life. 
• My diet definitely suffered over the weekend and that carried on into Monday and Tuesday.  I’m back at it as of right now though.   
• I’m still thinking about looking for another job.  If you know of one-let me know.  I need to make some more moolah.

Thanks for listening to my ramblings.  Well-you didn’t really listen…  Thanks for reading.  I hope you have a wonderful week.  Please tell a friend or a foe about my blog.  I’m on a quest to be the most popular person on the Internet Earth.  And it’s going to take more then 50 views a day to do that! 

J

My wife and I moved our family to Thailand this week.  Or maybe I should say my wife moved the family to Thailand….the closest I got them was the Bangkok airport on Sunday.  I had a flight to catch.  (I know…bad husband!  But I felt that I had a non-negotiable waiting for me in Singapore, and my wife is a wonderfully resilient person – and I hope, forgiving.)

So, here I sit in Singapore, having just finished facilitating a three-day conference for our Asia leadership team.  I’m flat.  Like a soda with no fizz left.  But that’s not surprising, because God’s been shaking me up for the past few months.  Here are the short bullets to summarize the long story of our activities over the past two weeks:

• Got final immunizations
• Held multiple garage sales to reduce our stuff-load
• Offered all remaining stuff free on Craigslist
• Held first/last meeting with realtor
• Met with carpet person to measure house for new carpet
• Met with people who wanted our stuff and helped them get it home
• Cleaned parts of the house
• Packed 600+ lbs of luggage
• Prepared to lead a three-day seminar in Singapore
• Made flight arrangements
• Took four psychological exams to see if we were mentally ready to live outside the U.S. 
• Met with counselors to get approval to go (two days before our flights)
• Met with boss to go over counselor recommendations
• Purchased books that counselors recommended to help us adjust
• Conducted an in-home sleep study
• Met with a doctor to interpret the sleep study
• Met with a vendor to get fitted for a sleep apnea machine
• Boxed up all our stuff that needed to be shipped
• Bagged other stuff to give to the DAV 
• Arranged with two shipping companies to work together to get our stuff to Bangkok
• Left the titles for both our cars with our friends so that they could give them away
• Attended several going away parties
• Struggled through tearful group meetings and one-on-ones with our best friends
• Hosted a belated birthday party for our daughter 
• Provided shoulders for our daughter to cry on
• Shuttled our oldest son and his best friend on a boys’-day-out to the mall
• Sent kids every which way for sleep-overs with their friends
• Put my laptop in with IT for a three-day overhaul
• Met with HR Director to talk about compensation changes when we move
• Registered for international medical benefits
• Paid estimated state and federal taxes for four quarter
• Paid monthly bills
• Deposited $400 in coins we have been saving
• Renewed prescriptions that we didn’t have time to pick up before we left
• Cancelled utilities, trash pickup, car insurance, cable, phone, and internet service
• Picked up a nine month supply of CPAP replacement parts
• Weighed luggage to make sure it was compliant with airline requirements
• Stopped automatic withdrawals from bank accounts
• Cleaned out desk at work
• Applied for long-term visas to Bangladesh and India
• Attend training on new security sign-on system for my work computer
• Met with staff member at work to discuss international visit
• Found homes for all our dogs
• Took family to boss’ house for dinner
• Did all the laundry in the house
Resent our visa applications after they were rejected the first time
Made a special trip to work to pick up approved visas and passports the morning of our trip 

That’s not everything – just what I can remember right now.  Fast forward to the day we are supposed to leave the country.  Of course we weren’t ready; we don’t do ready.  We do last minute.  And we like it.  While my wife frantically tried to pack up everything we had left with the help of our neighbors, I ran errands to work, the sleep apnea doctor, my friend’s house, the bank and the typist.  I made it back home about twenty minutes before it was time to leave.

Since we were out of time, we threw everything we could into some bags and left the rest on the floor for our dear friends to pack up later.  Twenty minutes later, we unloaded at the airport, got checked in and went through security…only to end up waiting for over three hours for our flight after finding out it was delayed. 

The flight agent moved us up to the front of the plane so that we could run to our next flight, but in the end, it didn’t matter.  After we landed in L.A., we had to quick-walk twenty minutes to make it to the Thai Airlines desk.  No one was there, because the flight was already closed.  We waited for fifteen minutes for someone to come not help us, and then we made the twenty minute walk again back to the United desk so that they could not help us there, too.

While he made us wait for over a half hour while he did something in the back room, the United agent did get us two nights at the Motel 6, where my children got to see naked women on HBO as they flipped through the channels looking for something to watch.  The next day, we went to the airport four hours before our flight and waited in lines for hours to turn our standby status into real tickets.

It’s been a hard few weeks, but here’s what I learned.  People pay more attention to you when you are getting the shake-up…..especially if they know you are a Christian.  They want to see what happens when a Christian is under pressure.  How will he or she react?  Will she dissolve?  Will he lose it?  Will they act the way that we suspect that they act when no one is looking?

When God allows our contents to come under pressure, it’s a tool and a test.  A tool, because it makes us more like Him.  A test, because it reveals our character and our level of spiritual maturity.  If we handle the situation correctly, it becomes a testimony.  Everyone who sees will wonder how we kept it together, and when that happens, God gets the glory.

The shake-up is a gift.  It’s an opportunity to point others twowards Christ.  It’s also God’s invitation to join Him at a higher level of spiritual maturity.  Thank God for these opportunities to give Him the glory.