Hanging in a hotel bar

Have you ever been on a business trip alone? What do you do with yourself at night? Hide in your room where it's safe and order room service. All guilty raise your hands. Hey it's OK, mine is raised too. I hate eating alone. I always feel like a total loser. If I do it I usually dine in the hotel restaurant where I feel less conspicuous among the other single diners. Once in a while to push the envelope, I go to the hotel bar to people watch. I usually bring a book or my laptop to pretend that I do not care that I am alone at night in a strange city. The wait staff always is very attentive if pitying.

On this business trip, I was sitting tucked into a corner of the cave-like lobby bar sipping my Mojito and munching on super-chic whole-wheat tortillas with fancy homemade salsa that at home with would have come from a jar labeled Tostito. I looked up as the bubble of conversation burst at the bar. There was a flurry of activity with a curly haired young man and his apparent girlfriend. Another couple walked over and started talking, pictures were being taken then the curly-haired man and his girl left and the other couple sat back down at the bar. Curious, I surreptitiously watched them. An older couple at a table close to the bar engaged the barflies. Eavesdropping, I heard them query what was going on. Well, surprise, surprise, it was a Spanish celebrity. And, apparently, there had been a basketball star in earlier. I am so utterly hopeless with celebrity recognition. I worked in Manhattan for 11 years for heaven's sake and only saw a celebrity once. I am sure they walked past me regularly but I am unusually oblivious.

Most other people in the bar were completely in the dark literally and figuratively; leaning close caught up in each other, intent on their smart phones texting their friends or pretending to read their messages, chatting in the jewel-toned glow of the lights from the back bar or systematically from getting plastered.

I really need to hang out in bars more often; it is better than TV.

Feline Reception

When I walked in the house the kitties were all waiting in the basement; they know the sound of the garage door opening. I could hardly wheel the luggage without running over furry feet. I abandoned the luggage and hustled up the stairs to have a petting session. (There are 4 cats, so this requires the sofa.) Winkie jumped on my lap immediately, Tonka threw himself at my feet and Oscar nudged my hand with his head. The only one who remained aloof was Bourka. She sat politely and watched. When I finally got up to pet her, the kitties milled about my feet tripping me as I walked; following me from room to room, herding me to the kitchen for treats. It is good to be home.

As much as I travel, a good pet-sitter is critical. I have been using the same service for 8 years. They come in twice a day when I am gone, alternate lights, bring in the mail and in a pinch have watered the tomatoes. I do not worry about the cats. Should there be an emergency, Sandra is a vet-tech at the local animal hospital. The only problem is sometimes, my travel schedule conflicts with their vacation. I know they need vacation like the rest of us, but there is no back-up, which is hard. The neighbors are not cat people and none of my friends live on the mountain. I do have good friends that are willing to drive for 20 minutes to feed them but that is asking a lot.

I am glad to see their furry little welcoming faces, even if they insist on herding me to do their bidding.

California bound

I leaving today for a 10-day 2-conference business trip to California. I'll post some bits of it when I'm there. Stay tuned.

If I lived in New Orleans, I would be big as a house

Café du Monde starts serving people at 8am. The take-out line for coffee and beignets stretched out the door. I was 7 minutes early. While I waited for a table a street musician played the theme from Beverly Hillbillies on his guitar. He saw me smiling and rifted through it again. When the staff started taking the chairs off the tables, I chose one close to the street. I ordered world-famous coffee and beignets. (a single serving has 3) Waiting for my order ($7 with tip) I watched a worker across the street hose down the sidewalk. The artists were setting up on Jackson Square. The tourists trickled in. The guitarist started to play Hey Jude. Munching my beignets I joked with a table full of men next to me about the fried dough thing. Ever culture has them. “These taste exactly like zeppoles,” one guy said. “The only thing different is the shape.” I nodded, it was true. On my way out of the restaurant, the guitarist looked up and winked, “Is your name Beverly?” he asked. I tossed some coins in his spittoon.

New Orleans is known for its colorful characters and its food. Some of the most famous chefs have restaurants here. In addition to Cajun fare and traditional Louisiana cuisine, the city also has fabulous ethnic food. An article in a local magazine touts Asian food particularly Vietnamese. While I love all ethnic food, in New Orleans I want Cajun food...Crawfish Etoufee, Jambalaya, Catfish blazingly hot from the giant bottle of Tabasco on the table, gulf shrimp in any form, broiled oysters. And for dessert…bananas foster.

The other interesting quirk about the French Quarter is the go-cup. You can stop at any open air bar and order a drink to go. I cannot tell you the number of people strolling the streets with sweating cups of mango daiquiris, beers or Hurricanes in hand. Not that I would do that, of course…. ;)

Alas, I have not had the opportunity to eat out much. Food has been offered at the conference and I have been working. But I hope to get out for dinner tonight. It is my last night in town

The Big Easy

From an easy flight to the easy and cheap ($15.00) shuttle ride to the hotel, New Orleans has indeed been easy. When I remarked to the hotel staff on check-in how remarkably easy everything has been so far, her face lit up with a big smile and she said, “Welcome to the Big Easy.” I had forgotten that the city is called that.

As soon as I hustled my bags to my room, I dashed out into the warm embrace of the afternoon to re-discover the city. From prior visits I had a general idea where the French Quarter was relative to the hotel. I strolled past the tawdry sex shops and the bars on Bourbon Street peeking into the side streets. I turned onto one where the balconies were invitingly loaded with flowers. Walking generally toward the levee, I poked into shops, watched street performers, read enticing dinner menus posted outside restaurants and got my bearings for the next 3 days. The city is beautiful just like I remembered it. I see no damage from the storm but let’s remember it did not affect the French Quarter. The one thing I did perceive lacking were the tourists or at least the streets were remarkably un-crowded. I would even say people are few and far between, where I remember the streets being full of shoppers and drunks. It’s a shame really. But it was mid-afternoon.

It is also easy to get around in New Orleans. I took the Canal line streetcar to the end of the line--City Park-- to do some birding. The streetcars are wooden open air gems. Everyone takes them from kids going to school, to tourists, to everyday folks. At only $1.25 it is a bargain. Although “Desire” has been retired since right after Tennessee Williams made it famous, I confess to thinking about it as we clattered along. After walking around the park for a couple hours and seeing lots of waterbirds: egrets, nightherons, ibises, terns, swans, ducks, and a few passarines; I got back on the streetcar and came back to the hotel. It was not all play time, I was in New Orleans to work.

Solo Travel

“Excuse me, do you speak English?”

I looked up from my book to see an older gentleman and his wife looking bewildered in the milling crowd around the security checkpoint. I closed my book with my finger marking the page and got up. “Can I help?” The relief flooded his face. He turned to his wife, “See honey, I told you we would find someone.” He turned to me, “We don’t know where to go.”

After I checked the monitor for their flight and pointed them in the right direction, I sat back down to read. I still had an hour for my flight.

“Excuse me.” I looked up again and over at the woman sitting next to me. “Have they started boarding this flight?” I looked around. “No, that was a flight to Paris.” She smiled, “Oh, I thought they called us. Will you let us know when to go?” “Of course.”

A woman leaned around the man sitting next to me, “Do you travel a lot?” I smiled and nodded. “I do.” She leaned back, “I thought so, you are so confident.”

I looked around, perplexed. How did I become info central? The other people waiting were nervously jiggling their feet, glued to their chairs, clutching their bags, checking and re-checking their tickets, or getting up and down at every announcement. While it was a little more chaotic than any US airport I have been in, it was not frightening or unusual.

Once through immigration and security the airport in Rio was not difficult to manage. The waiting area at the gates was small but with all available seats taken; many people were standing around. It looked more confusing than it was. The announcements for boarding and gate changes came and went in Portuguese. Then with a few minutes delay were repeated in English.

Airports around the world are basically the same. Most of them have signs in English as well as the local language. Once you have negotiated a few, it becomes easier. The departure and arrival procedures are similar. All baggage claim areas and ground transportation are on a lower level.

Taxis will try to rip you off no matter where you are. Take a deep breath. It’s OK.

Traveling alone has good points and bad points, but do not stay at home because you have no one with whom to travel. I have met wonderful people traveling around the world, many of whom I would not have if I had had a companion.

South American summer

A stiff breeze blew off the Rio de la Plata riffling the silty water. The river was the milky brown color of a perfect latte, including the foam. Sailboats ran before the wind and fishing boats motored through the harbor. I sat on the Promenade deck watching the other passengers lap the deck and the birds twisting in the wind. It felt good to be in the warm embrace of summer.

I arrived in Buenos Aires a full day late because of the snowstorm. But the flight was uneventful and I was able to share a remis (car service or shuttle) from the airport with a Swiss doctor. I got to the dock and onto the ship without a problem. Knowing Spanish was certainly helpful.

I would say the average age of my shipmates is about 75-- most are retired. They are vibrant well-traveled people. From many deck chairs I can hear drifts of conversation about their past travels. The whole lot of them seem to have been to Antarctica. I am going to have to push that higher on my list. While I am getting off in Rio many of my fellow passengers are going with the ship to Lisbon. The Marco Polo has been sold to a German company and the passengers and crew are feeling the bittersweet last moments and memories of glorious voyages past.

Fast forward,

We have just weighed anchor and are leaving Uruguay. Tomorrow will be a full day at sea on our way to Brazil. I will have time to tell you more then. TTFN!

See ya on the flip side

Bummer

“Hey, aren’t you suppose to be in Argentina?” my neighbor called across the street as I stood in the blanketing snow leaning on my shovel.

“Yup. I had to re-schedule my flight.”

“Yikes,” she said, Will it be OK? “

“Hope so.”

Instead of slipping my freshly painted red toes into cute leather sandals and standing on the deck of a ship with the warm summer breezes lifting my hair; I pulled over them knee-high rubber-bottomed snow boots and I went out to shovel 6 inches of snow.

I am so colossally disappointed that all I can do is pace around my house. Instead of flying out today, I am forced to fly tomorrow. I called and had my flight re-scheduled and the cruise line notified that I would be late arriving. It is all I can do but it is cutting it too close for my comfort. I will worry until I am on board.

To make matters worse, I will not be able to see anything in Buenos Aires, birdlife or otherwise.

Why, oh why, did it need to snow on the one day when I needed to be elsewhere? We have had a lot of ice but it has not snowed much on the mountain this year. Normally I would slide off the mountain and go about my business. It rarely snows further south. Today the entire state got hammered.

Women and their shoes

Maybe I should say me and my shoes. I had no idea I was one of those women that felt strongly about wearing the right shoe with the right outfit. I normally have no issue packing. I travel for business all the time.

But when traveling abroad I cannot tell you the times that someone guessed my nationality because of the shoes I was wearing. (Apparently we are notoriously bad dressers.) I am determined not to embarrass myself this time.

So when I started to pack for my South American cruise, I packed the appropriate shoe to go with the outfit I would wear if I were home. But there is the rub. I will not be home and I do not want to have one piece of luggage just for my shoes. That is plain silly.

So I unpacked the red sandals, the high-heeled pointy-toed brown pump, the black short-heeled pointy-toed pump, the medium brown sandal, the taupe sling backs, the black leather flip-flop with adorable black bow, and my sneakers. (I had already decided against the hiking boots; after all, I would only be in the jungle 2 days.) This did not include the cutest black and white buckle-toed plaid shoes I was planning on wearing on the plane. Egad it was like a different shoe for every day.

I am starting over--re-thinking my clothing options, which of course, drives the shoe choices. I need the sneakers, and a sandal and something dressy. Sigh. I will have to build my wardrobe around the shoes not the other way around.

I'm Gonna Go Where it's Warm

I slid down the mountain this morning, riding the brake the whole way. The ABS shuddered more than once when I hit a patch of ice, black and scary. I clutched the wheel and grimly steered through the skid.

I am so over this winter thing now. I have been a snow-weenie and proud for years. Last May I went to Alaska and vowed to embrace the cold, the snow, the dreaded wintry mix. In Anchorage I bought some extremely cool gloves and hats and some leopard print silk long johns; ready to be stylin’ this year. I even bought a thick luxurious coat in Chicago in early December. All, to no avail. It didn’t happen. I am well turned out, but still hate winter.

And February is always the worst for me. Hints of spring are everywhere. The birds are surprised to hear a tentative spring song come out of their throats. The air occasionally has a hint of warmth to it. The weak sun melts the last of the mounds of snow. But it is all a tease--a joke from old man winter and the groundhog.

Well, I’ve had enough! I am going where it’s warm. I leave next week for South America. Where, may I add, it is summer. I’ll be in Argentina, Uruguay and Brazil. My arrangements are made. My bag is half packed. I have my visa.

Now, if only the snow would only hold off until I fly….

The one that got away

Azer’s arm ached from steadying the crate on the roof of the car through the open window. He wished he were anywhere but driving down the streets of the city on a hot Sunday afternoon delivering tomatoes with his father. He let go of the steering wheel and reached over to turn down the Mughum music that was blaring from the radio. It was loud and embarrassingly old-fashioned.

Without saying a word, Azer’s father snaked out a gnarled hand and turned the music back to ear-splitting decibels. Azer closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He wished he had not agreed to do this favor for his father.

As the car crawled up the steep street past the Symphony Hall and the Museum, Azer noticed a blonde woman strolling down the sidewalk toward them. She had on blue-tinted sunglasses that flashed in the sun and wore loose white trousers and a pale blue tunic that fell to her knees. On her feet were brown open-toed sandals.

The car veered toward her as Azer stared. His father’s shout startled him and he spun the wheel hard to the left. Azer let go of the crate and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands to regain control. Looking into the side mirror past the old man’s arm; he was mortified to see the woman waving her hands.

He slammed on the brakes. He looked in the side mirror again to see the crates that had been tied to the roof scattered on the pavement and tomatoes rolling down the street. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and groaned.

His father flung open the door with a curse, surveyed the damage and started to scream about money lost. Oblivious to his father’s snarls, Azer bent over and started to retrieve the tomatoes.

Some of them were smashed but many of them were only bruised. He scuttled down the hill picking up the fallen fruit. As he approached the last few stray pieces, a pair of brown leather sandals with painted red toes came toward him. Above the sandals white trousers billowed in the hot breeze from the Caspian Sea.

“You missed one.”

A hand held a beautiful red ripe tomato, unblemished during the accident. Too embarrassed to even look up, he took it.

“Tesekkür ederim,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The feet turned and walked away.

Azer finally looked up as the blonde woman turned the corner and slipped into the cool shade of the park. He stumbled back to the car with his arms full. He kept glancing back at the park as he helped his father refill the crates and tie the load again. Finally with the crates secure, he got behind the wheel.

Azer looked in the mirror as they drove away hoping for another glimpse. As they rounded the corner, there it was: just a flash of blue, white and blonde.

People on the Wall

“Hmmmm, funny.”

I looked up, “What’s funny?”

“All of your art has people in it.”

“Get out, does not.”

“All except for 3 pieces. And they are all women.”

I walked over to stand beside my friend in front of a big piece of Peruvian art called the Tres Hilanderas. We both looked at the painting.



“It's sorta primitive yet modern. I really like this piece. ”

“Yeah, me too.”

"My art is not are not all women though."

"OK, you have the male nudes in the bathrooms."

"Well, where else would you put them? The one in the guest bath is an antique student sketch!"

We walked from room to room looking at the art. You know, she is right. I never occurred to me. I have populated my house with people from all over the world.

I love original art and beautiful fabric. I scout out galleries in my travels and almost always buy a piece of art whenever I am abroad. I have paintings, handicrafts, sculptures, fabric, and fiber art. This eclectic mix speaks of my life’s journey. If you want to know me, look at my art. What do you have on your walls?

What did you bring me?

In the land of pink houses, pink beaches and pink shorts shopping is de rigueur. I wandered aimlessly though up-scale jewelry stores, high-end clothiers, perfumeries, and liquors shops searching for something to take home. Nothing seemed right.

As I went in and out of the stores, I pondered. Why are we compelled to buy souvenirs? What is the perfect souvenir? What would remind me of this place? Is the souvenir something for me or do I want the guests in my home to comment on it? Is there an expectation from folks at home that they will receive something? Is it about the experience or culture of the place?

I gave up buying and gifting T-shirts years ago. I don’t like little bric-a-brac with the name of the locale on it (dust collectors, as my mother would say.) I usually look for something that has a cultural component. Music. Specialty food. Art.

In this, I found Bermuda disappointing. I heard no local music-the radio played top pop US hits. The food catered to the US palate-nuf said. I did go to some galleries; there is art on the island, but none of it (with one exception, a print) spoke to me.

So, I came home with 2 small rum cakes (1 for the office and 1 for the freezer), a long-sleeved shirt from Dolphin Quest and a five-dollar Bermudian bill.

I have traveled a lot around the world. Maybe I am jaded. When I leave the country I would rather have a “foreign” experience and not feel like I have never let the US. Must we export our culture to other places? Sigh.

Out and About

When people find out that I travel for my job, most of them say, “How cool is that?” And while I love my job and I love to travel, sometimes it can be exhausting. I have just returned from 3 business trips back-to-back—Chicago and 2 trips to Florida. I have been gone most of July. I am bone tired. So forgive me for abandoning you. My time was not my own.

Going forward, I will, from time-to-time, be having a guest blogger. She is from the flatland and will bring a different perspective to bear. She is also very funny. I am sure you will enjoy her ramblings.