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Shuck ’em if you got ’em!

9 Nov

This is just a random photo of someone in an oyster costume, not in Urbanna. Which means there are MULTIPLE people in the world dressing as oysters. Wouldn't have seen that coming.

When we originally decided to take vacation in November, Alan and I had our sights set on Argentina.

Then I looked at a map. 

For someone who is a pretty good (and relatively seasoned) traveler, I have a horrific grasp of geography for places I’ve never visited. Hence why I expected Argentina to be a) Due South of Washington DC, and b) About a five hour flight from DC. When I realized the time commitment needed to arrive in Buenos Aires, it made me shudder.

I’ve traveled a lot for work this year – Boston, Chicago, LA, New York, London, Sydney and Melbourne – so the idea of flying somewhere didn’t actually sound like vacation to me. Fortunately, Alan’s easy going, so we agreed to scrap a longer haul and explore by car within a three hour radius of DC.

Which is how we found ourselves rolling out of bed at 5am Saturday to hit the road and aim for Urbanna, where the annual Oyster Festival was underway. (And where, apparently, the roads into town close at 9am on festival day, necessitating our ass-early departure.)

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Whole new meaning to the expression “Feeling Stabby.”

28 Oct

I’m in Chicago for work this week, training a crop of new hires. We’re booked at a hotel I’ve stayed at half a dozen times before, a short walk from the office.

Only this time, after checking in, when I told someone where I was staying, they said, “Oh.”

You know, the sagging, “Oh” that leaves you wondering what the rest of the story is?

Turns out, someone was stabbed to death in my hotel two weeks ago. AWESOME.

I checked the BedBug Registry, but didn’t think to look at police reports. The good news? It doesn’t appear to be a random attack – of the variety in which some creeper is hiding under your bed. But that hasn’t stopped me from checking the shower every time I come in – just to be on the safe side.

It’s gotten me thinking about what happens in my hotel room before it becomes mine. While someone dying in my room is a pretty long shot (I hope), there are other situations that probably have occurred. A prostitute turning a trick? High school kids throwing a party? A drug deal going down? A marriage ending? A child conceived?

I’ve gotten you thinking now, haven’t I? It’s kind of hard to stop once you imagine other people in your hotel room.

I could try to be all deep and extrapolate some moral from this situation, like how interwoven our lives are or something… but instead I think I’ll just leave a juicy tip for housekeeping. Thanks to them, I can pretend I’m the only person who has ever used this room.

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Review: In this case, I wouldn’t call the owner The King.

27 Sep

When a restaurant receives polarizing Yelp reviews (all 5 Stars or 1 Star), it’s bound to be an experience. At least, that was my rationale when I struck out for dinner last night. I’d consulted my phone for a recommendation, and found myself seated at Trattoria Casa Di Isacco – a dimly lit Italian place in Hells Kitchen.

The Yelp Review that ultimately led me to try it? “Weird, fun, creepy, but pretty good food. Definitely has character in a Spanish Elvis cooks Italian food in a restaurant decorated for Christmas yet in a February kind of way.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I wanted to know.

First off – the owner is Spanish and loves him some Elvis. I say this not only because his hair was clearly modeled after that famous pompadour, but also because every inch of wall space was occupied by photos and paintings of The King (including more than one black velvet model).

Oh, and also? The television showed Mediterranean Elvis impersonators dancing along to the soundtrack of Spanish/Italian songs. Yep, it was an experience.

The owner – whom other Yelp reviewers loved – irritated me. At least, I assume he was the owner, based on the way he strode around the place as if he owned it. When he approached my table and spouted off the specials, I found myself struggling to decipher the day’s specials because his accent was a bit challenging.

He left me to contemplate my choices, and when he returned, I asked him for a recommendation. “I’ve whittled it down to either the Gnocci Pesto, the Lasagna, or the Veal Marsala. Of those, which do you think is best?”

I’m not sure if that question offended him, or if he’s just generally a prick, but his answer – “I can’t make up your mind for you. They are all good but very different. You decide” – wasn’t exactly the tip I was looking for .

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the Veal Piccata,” I told him, mentally high-fiving myself for not saying please. And mentally calling him a CornHole.

When the food arrived, it obliterated the owner’s surly behavior. The veal piccata had been pounded to within an inch of its life and was swimming in a lemon caper sauce that was equally good on bread. I may have just been hungry, but it was easy to clean my plate.

Apparently the owner decided he didn’t like me either, because after he took my order, another guy had taken over the dinner service. He returned to clear my plate, crumb the table, and bring me a complimentary glass of sweet dessert wine.

I could see why the place had received such spotty reviews. I suspect the stars match the mood of the owner on any particular night. Unfortunately, I caught him on a one-star night.

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When applause means more than, “You didn’t kill us!”

20 Sep

It was kind of like this. But in a bigger plane.

I flew to LA yesterday for work, and I’m about to say something that (I’m sure) will jinx me: I. Had. The. Best. Flight. Ever.

Seriously? I hate flying. Really hate it. I’m pretty sure I’d feel that way just on the basis of how often I do it, but it doesn’t help that in a past walk of life, I was spoiled with First Class tickets and lear jets. Once you’ve seen what’s on the other side of the curtain, it’s kind of hard to go back. Especially when going back means being wedged between a screaming baby and an Arm Rest Hog.

When I fly coach, I’m usually just looking for a safe flight. As a control freak, I spend a fair amount of time concerned that the pilot is either tired or drunk, and that the mechanic was either rushed or frustrated with his employer when he gave our ride the once-over. Every bump of turbulence sends me speculating about how we’ll meet our fiery death. (Will I pass out from a lack of oxygen, or still be conscious when each organ bursts?)

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I would consider owning a television, mate.

18 Sep

Even the weather is entertaining because of the town names.

I’ve now been back from Australia for almost a month, so this is a bit, um, untimely. Whatever. I just stumbled across some notes I took while watching television my last night in Sydney. Since I don’t have a television at home, it hadn’t occurred to me to reach for the remote before then, and it’s one of my only regrets. Australian telly is entertaining.

On a cooking show:

Describing herring: “It’s knobbish.”

Instructions for crushing garlic: “Smash it. Just wail on it, mate.”

On an entertainment show, interviewing a celebrity about his stay in rehab:

“I wasn’t downstairs in the drug and alcohol unit. I was upstairs in the mood unit.”

Mood unit? That sounds like a gaping hole in the American health system.

They have a show that is like “The Bachelor” in the US. Except the Australian version is called, “The Farmer Wants a Wife.” Seriously. And it features six farmers who – you guessed it – want wives.

On Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, the contestant passed on this question:

Fill in this song: “I want to wake up in the city that never…”

When given multiple choices, she couldn’t decide between “ceases” and “sleeps.”

Even better, the host mispronounced ceases as CREASES.

And the contestant still got it wrong.

Also on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire:

When trying to select “Capuchin Monkey” as the animal in Hangover II, the contestant instead called it a, “Cappuccino Monkey.” Not sure why this tickled me so much.

Last reference from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire:

The contestant had to determine which charity was the beneficiary of a large fundraiser earlier that year. He ruled out “Save the Children” right out of the gate, but it was his rationale that made me laugh. “Why would they need fundraiser? Everyone already wants to save children.”

On the news:

A woman’s death (which had previously been ruled a suicide) was re-examined in light of new evidence. The evidence? A spear-throwing reinactment showing that the woman could not have jumped to her death, but could only have arrived in that position if thrown by a master spear-thrower. Because that’s a common skill.

Other Observations

This is where my notes get a bit fuzzy because I’d had a sleeping pill so I’d be well rested for my flight home. I won’t even TRY to make sense of them. Here’s the stream of consciousness: 

All the websites mentioned on commercials in with .com.au. How much would that suck to have to clarify your country after .com?

Apple commercials use American voiceover talent, not Aussies. I wonder if that makes Apple products seem more modern, or if people find it insulting to get technology lectures from Americans.

Even their channels have cool names: 7 Mate.

Awesome Australian words: Brekkie. Nibbles.

Carbon Tax in Australia. Why didn’t we think of that? Oh, because we are too busy trying to pretend we aren’t causing Global Warming. No wonder other countries can’t stand us.

I could become addicted to “Bondi Rescue” – it’s like “Cops” but about the lifeguards at Bondi Beach. And they’re constantly pulling people out who are caught in rips or have their heads split open by surf boards.

Finally, eyes heavy under the weight of pharmaceuticals, I managed to click the “off” button. I slumbered and awoke to a city that never creases.

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