Tag Archives: Travel

A little story about irony.

19 May

Something interesting happened while I was in London: my credit card was declined. I was trying to buy a watch for Alan for his birthday and the cashier held up the transaction slip for me to review: DECLINED.

What? I knew I wasn’t over my credit limit, so I asked him to run it again. Again, declined. I had just purchased rail tickets with it successfully the day before and – oh wait – I realized the problem: my card had been flagged since I used it overseas without alerting my bank.

It’s odd – I’ve been overseas dozens of times and never had my card put on hold. I’ve been with OTHER people when their cards have been put on hold, but mine has always been fine. And I’ve always defied conventional wisdom and never alerted my bank. This, however, was a new card, supported by a new bank. With apparently stricter security protocols.

I growled for a moment when I realized what happened, thankful that I had another card with me that was tried and true. Had I just been limited to the one card, I would’ve been pissed.

Fast forward to when I returned to the US. I was sifting through my mail, processing bills, when I remembered I needed to call to get the hold lifted from Card #1. I grabbed both my credit card statements and something from Card #2 caught my eye: an $11 transaction fee. Huh?

It may seem ridiculous to get distracted by an $11 fee, but this is a card that I always pay off, in full, ahead of deadline. There shouldn’t be a fee on it.

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The people around these parts sure are friendly…

9 May

Alan and I found the UK’s version of Atlantic City yesterday: Brighton.

Well, that’s not an entirely fair comparison. The carnival-like atmosphere surrounding Brighton Pier isn’t indicative of the entire town’s vibe. But when you’re down by the beach, let’s just say: you will not be lacking for opportunities to a) win a stuffed animal, b) have your weight guessed, or c) tour a haunted house.

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OK, OK. So that is largely limited to the shenanigans you find on Brighton Pier and the surrounding boardwalk area. Elsewhere, Brighton has a lot to offer to people who AREN’T interested in having their weight guessed by a man with a moustache: there is the North Laine (the old part of town bursting with twisting alleys of restaurants and shops), the Royal Pavilion (a vacation home built for the king in a style of architecture uniquely middle eastern) and the Victorian Gardens (self explanatory).

So all of that explains why Alan and I ventured to Brighton yesterday for a little “beach” exploration while we’re on vacation. What that *doesn’t* explain is our first interaction in the town of Brighton, which took place at a pub called the Camelford Arms.

It was a sweet pub with a friendly bartender, but it wasn’t terribly busy when we arrived. In fact, other than one gentleman who say reading a paper by the fireplace, we had it to ourselves. Braced with a couple pints, we sat at a table off to the side to create a loose plan for the day.

One of our objectives was to find the Brighton Festival, an arts festival running the entire month of May, but we couldn’t find it on our map. “Maybe I should just ask the bartender,” Alan suggested.

As he said that, I glanced up at the bartender. And realized that the place had gotten somewhat busier while we were downing our pints. “I mean, he was exceptionally friendly,” Alan continued.

A lightbulb went off in my mind. “Alan,” I interrupted. “I think this place is Brighton’s equivalent of Stetsons.” I looked at him meaningfully, hoping he would connect the dots leading back to the gay bar on my block back in DC.

“Stetsons?” he asked, clearly NOT getting my subtle reference.

“Stetsons,” I reiterated. Then, becoming a bit impatient, said, “Have you noticed that I am the only woman in here?”

Ahhhh. I could see him processing what I had said, then the dawning realization as all the signs started to blink at him… the uber-friendly bartender, the all-male clientele, the prevalence of man purses, the first semblance of decent fashion we had seen in Brighton.

After we left, he asked what had tipped me off. “Probably the guy whose entire crotch was ripped out of his jeans. I just couldn’t see a straight man getting away with that look.”

Leave it to me… I travel 3,700 miles and manage to land in a neighborhood just like home.

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Marriott: Is it a coincidence that your name includes “riot?”

16 Apr

Last week I was on a whirlwind tour of New York and Connecticut, visiting four major clients in three days. I’m not sure what jackass drafted that meeting schedule (oh wait – that would be me!) but I had three 12-hour days without so much as a pee break unscheduled.

Suffice it to say, on Tuesday, following a sleepless night, a long day of work and a rainy commute that doubled my travel time, I was THRILLED to see my hotel.

After checking in, I strapped myself down with bags like a pack mule so I’d only have to take one trip to my room, where I had plans to eat dinner in bed before crashing for the night. Or so I thought.

When I got to my room, however, as soon as I had the door cracked, I was bowled over by a heat wave. Then, as I opened the door, I was greeted by a bag of trash… and two wildly unmade beds. It occurred to me that there might actually be people in this room, so I cautiously backed out and beat a quick path to the front desk.

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Wait Wait! I’m going to tell you…

27 Feb

Full disclosure: I’m an NPR junkie. My idea of a perfect weekend involves bottomless chai, my recliner and a steady flow of NPR programming. One of my favorite programs is Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me.

If you’re not familiar with WWDTM, it’s an hour-long quiz show hosted by Peter Sagal and Carl Kasell, featuring three comedian panelists answering questions about current events. I recognize that this format might just qualify its fan base as ranking in the 99th percentile of nerdiness. So what.

Each week Peter Sagal notes that the show is recorded live in front of a studio audience from the Chase Auditorium in downtown Chicago. At some point in the last six months, this prompted a light to go off in my little nerd brain: DID HE SAY CHICAGO?

Hell, I’m out there twice a month for work. Why haven’t I made a pilgrimage to the seat of my personal religion?

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Tip: Until you’ve mastered the language, try a thesaurus.

11 Jan

I’m as guilty as the next girl of cursing like a sailor. But I’d like to think I generally maintain awareness of my surroundings and tailor my language to my audience. (My parents might disagree.)

This morning in National Airport I had the joy of sitting next to two women in their early 30s who clearly thought they were hot shit (despite wearing sweatpants in public) and wanted to broadcast their badness to the world at large.

It was odd because – aside from their poor fashion – they seemed like reasonably intelligent, articulate women. Until they fired up the profanity.

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