Tag Archives: Travel

List: THINGS That Make Me Happy When I Travel

26 May

I’m reading (and loving) “No Impact Man” right now. Between this book and my recent viewing of The History of Stuff, I’m becoming horrifyingly aware of my consumption of THINGS – and the resources that go into making them. So it is with a certain degree of guilt that I write this list of THINGS That Make Me Happy When I Travel.

• My iPhone: How did I ever fully explore a place before I could take a walk with my iPod playlist, switch over to find out what dining options were close to me, check the hours of the museums and take a picture of the best-smelling flower garden I’ve ever walked through?

• Alarm Clocks with iPod Docks: Yes, I seem to be Steve Jobs’ pimp tonight. It’s true that I Apple. But on this one, I’m just saying: there are three things that I know that make a hotel room feel like home and one of them is your own music pumping out a speaker. The second thing is…

• A Travel Candle: Nothing worse than a hotel room that smells like disinfectant (unless it’s a room that smells like it NEEDS disinfectant). And the third thing is…

• My Slippers: Without them, I pace my hotel in flipflops or walk on tip-toe like a ballerina, scared I’ll contract some disease from carpet that may or may not have a certain stickiness to it.

• My Fuzzy Socks: For in-flight comfort. There is nothing that makes people more envious than shucking off my shoes and peeling on my plush, striped “Where’s Waldo” socks. Not only do they keep my otherwise cold feet warm, they just make the plane feel more homey. And let’s face it – no one is going to ask me to handle their soda or peanuts after they see me slide my fingers between my toes.

• A Bag of Candy: Can’t help it. A trip doesn’t feel like a trip if I don’t have some variety of sugar to toss back by the handful. (And I can be polite and offer candy to strangers, but I’ve never had one accept. Wonder why?)

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Haiku: Where’s Waldo?

20 May

Airplanes are drafty.
Business shoes are not comfy.
I must pack my socks.

Fuzzy with red stripes,
they make people think, “Waldo.”
Jealous stares ensue.

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Does this plaid make my johnson look fat?

8 May

My friend Holly was in Chicago this week for work too, so we decided to meet up on Friday, spend an extra night and explore the city together on Saturday before flying back to DC.

The highlight of our exploration today was Chicago’s Celtic Fest, which was held at Millenium Park. I’ll say it again: Chicago really takes advantage of its outside venues.

Aside from unseasonably cool weather (a high of 50 combined with winds of 15-25 mph made it feel like winter), the event was great. There were bands of bagpipers and drummers marching around making music in kilts, a tent filled with girls performing Irish dance, and a solid booking of entertainment on the main stage. (We managed to catch the performance of Vishten, which – in addition to being a great performance – reminded me that I actually own one of their albums and have somehow lost it in the shuffle of my iPod.)

By far, we found the most amusement in the dance tent. For starters, I just get a kick out of watching people do Irish dance. I find it totally odd that the upper half of someone’s body can remain rigid while their legs are shooting out in every direction.

Second, I think it’s totally bizarre that all these little girls have fake curly hair pinned to their heads. When did that become part of the outfit? And why don’t they try to at least match their natural hair color a bit better?

Finally, did you know that the dresses they wear are made overseas and generally cost between $2,500 – $3,500? WHAT? I know, right? My first thought was, “Good thing I’m not a parent. I’d rather have two new sofas than spring for a sequined dress for my kid.”

Earlier, when the smallest girls danced, we had noticed that one girl on stage was remarkably plain when compared to her dance-mates. She didn’t sport the fake curls, wasn’t wearing a tiara of any sort, and her dress appeared to be a simple cotton dress with a bit of embroidery on it. I had leaned over to Holly and said, “That girl is totally hating life right now. That would’ve been me when I was her age.”

After learning that her friends’ costumes were the approximate blue book value of my last car, I wanted to find her parents and give them a high five for not buying into the madness.

Around this time, Holly grabbed my elbow and said, “You HAVE to look over there. At your six o’clock. Do it right now.”

I suck at translating times into directions, so I swung around blindly and just started looking. “What am I looking at?” I asked her.

“That man over there. The one sitting down. In a kilt,” she whispered, even though her voice was drowned out by the clogging.

And all of a sudden, I knew EXACTLY who she was pointing out. Because it’s kind of hard to miss a fat sixty year old man in a kilt, sitting with his legs spread wide, getting some air. I wasn’t able to snap a photo (not because I wasn’t bold, but because the lighting was dim) so this photo (pilfered from http://www.travelpeach.com) provides a frighteningly accurate substitute:

I know. The first rule of kilt fashion is that you must go commando under it. But I would like to submit a second rule of kilt fashion: Don’t let your balls show if you’re in a tent filled with pre-pubescent girls. Or grown ones, for that matter. Wait – let’s make this simple: just don’t show your balls at all. Period.

Slainte.

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Overheard: And I thought MY job was challenging…

5 May

This morning at National Airport, I stood in line at Fuddrucker’s to order breakfast for my flight to Chicago. Behind me, three flight attendants waited to do the same. They were talking shop and one of them said in a dramatically hushed voice, “Did you hear what we found on the plane yesterday?”

Another one said, “No – what?”

And the first girl mouthed something at her, with eyebrows raised.

The other one said, “Huh?”

And the first girl repeated her mouthing, only more dramatically this time.

The other one said, “I must be dense because I don’t understand you. Why don’t you just say it?”

And the first girl snapped, “Because I don’t want the whole public to know! I’ll tell you later!”

While I found this exchange funny, it was only once I boarded my plane and saw the same three flight attendants standing in the rear galley organizing sodas that I began to appreciate the irony of the woman’s attempted discretion. As they stood there sorting Sprite, they loudly shared work-related stories that might not have needed an audience.

Among the snippets…

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Michigan: Just needs a little CPR and a set of earplugs.

3 Apr

Talk to the hand.

I’ve been in Michigan this week for work. For some reason, people always apologize when they hear I’m here. The conversation usually goes something like:

FRIEND: Where are you this week?
ME: Michigan.
FRIEND: I’m sorry.

Poor Michigan gets an undeserved bad rap. Aside from Detroit (and the flat southeastern corner where I happen to hail from), the state is actually quite pretty. Last time I checked, it was the only state bordered by fresh water on three sides. What’s not to like about that? And the people here are ridiculously nice. Strangers actually say hi when you pass them on the sidewalk, or wave if they’re in a car. Definitely NOT something that happens in DC.

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