Yesterday my manuscript went out on submission.
Yesterday was also Mardi Gras.
There is a connection somewhere here. I just know it.
Since I'm not supposed to talk about going on submission, I will talk about something else.
How bout Mardi Gras?
I went there once. Actually, we arrived the weekend before Mardi Gras. Since I'm not Catholic and vaguely follow the weirdness that is the Lenten calendar, I didn't know that was the big weekend.
Although once I saw the hotel prices I figured it out pretty quick.
It was February 2005. Pre-hurricane Katrina.
So it was a while ago and my memory is hazy, but I can tell that I did LOVE New Orleans. We stayed in the french quarter and even though our hotel was a dump (our room was so small the bed barely fit in it), it was totally worth it.
Here are some things I learned during Mardi Gras.
1. Buying a fake Gucci purse for twenty dollars is not really a good deal. Because it looks like a fake Gucci purse.
2. Buying a $5 Voodoo doll is a good deal. That shit is for real!
3. You don't have to flash your boobies to get necklaces. But it does help.
4. To get necklaces just stand behind a drunk girl with a huge rack and no-inhibitions whatsoever and catch all the necklaces that are thrown down from the balconies at her. She's drunk. She can't catch the damn necklaces!
5. Walking down Bourbon Street with your cup o'booze really IS as fun as it sounds.
6. The beignets at Cafe du Monde really are that good. Drink the chicory coffee with them.
7. If you try to inhale your beignets too fast you probably will choke on the powdered sugar.
8. If you pet one of the mules while eating a beignet, the mule will try to bite it right out of your hand.
9. Mules are assholes.
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Staycations suck
So we are grinding our way through January, and even though we've had a crazy warm winter so far, it is still winter in Minnesota, and therefore way too long.
Unfortunately there is no trip to Mexico or the Caribbean this year.
So instead you can look at this picture I took years ago. I found it yesterday when going through some photos.
If you stare at it long enough you will start to think you're there.
It helps if sit in a steam-filled bathroom in your swimsuit, then drink about five or six rum daiquiris, then fall over onto the tile floor (use your beach towel for cushioning) and then stare into the ceiling lights until you can actually hear the sound of waves crashing. Either that or someone else just flushed the toilet.
See? It's EXACTLY like a Mexican vacation.
Without the diarrhea.
Unfortunately there is no trip to Mexico or the Caribbean this year.
So instead you can look at this picture I took years ago. I found it yesterday when going through some photos.
 |
| Good Lord! I'm artistic! |
If you stare at it long enough you will start to think you're there.
It helps if sit in a steam-filled bathroom in your swimsuit, then drink about five or six rum daiquiris, then fall over onto the tile floor (use your beach towel for cushioning) and then stare into the ceiling lights until you can actually hear the sound of waves crashing. Either that or someone else just flushed the toilet.
See? It's EXACTLY like a Mexican vacation.
Without the diarrhea.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Thanksgiving, cornhole, and useful mantras.
Actual Thanksgiving vacation dinner conversations:
Going around the table saying what we are thankful for, in no particular order.
"I'm thankful I have a job."
"I'm thankful we made it here."
"I'm thankful I have all my limbs and they still work."
"I'm thankful 2/3 of my family is here."
"I'm thankful I learned how to play cornhole."
"I'm thankful you went out and bought that toilet plunger."
We are nothing if not thorough.
About cornhole (it's a real game, perverts!) which is similar to bean bag toss, except the bags are filled with corn. I don't know. It's Texas. And when I say it's a similar game, I mean it's the exact same thing.
I found out I stunk at cornhole. Because it requires hand/eye coordination. Everything I was throwing was bouncing off the board, and forget about hitting the cornhole, that was not happening. My own mother was beating me at this game. My mom was beating me at a sport! A physical contest! Needless to say, I died a little inside.
Then I recouped.
I drank a glass of wine. Then another.
Then it was rematch time.
I still sucked.
Until I found my mantra.
And my mantra, not surprisingly, was one word.
And that word was stupid.
I'm sure none of you are surprised.
I launched my corn beanbag into the air and hissed, "This is so stuuuuuuuupid!"
Bullseye. Cornhole.
I tried again. "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid!"
Cornhole.
I was on fire.
Every once in a while I would whisper, "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid."
We destroyed them. 21-2.
Everyone needs a mantra.
Even if it's stupid.
Going around the table saying what we are thankful for, in no particular order.
"I'm thankful I have a job."
"I'm thankful we made it here."
"I'm thankful I have all my limbs and they still work."
"I'm thankful 2/3 of my family is here."
"I'm thankful I learned how to play cornhole."
"I'm thankful you went out and bought that toilet plunger."
We are nothing if not thorough.
About cornhole (it's a real game, perverts!) which is similar to bean bag toss, except the bags are filled with corn. I don't know. It's Texas. And when I say it's a similar game, I mean it's the exact same thing.
I found out I stunk at cornhole. Because it requires hand/eye coordination. Everything I was throwing was bouncing off the board, and forget about hitting the cornhole, that was not happening. My own mother was beating me at this game. My mom was beating me at a sport! A physical contest! Needless to say, I died a little inside.
Then I recouped.
I drank a glass of wine. Then another.
Then it was rematch time.
I still sucked.
Until I found my mantra.
And my mantra, not surprisingly, was one word.
And that word was stupid.
I'm sure none of you are surprised.
I launched my corn beanbag into the air and hissed, "This is so stuuuuuuuupid!"
Bullseye. Cornhole.
I tried again. "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid!"
Cornhole.
I was on fire.
Every once in a while I would whisper, "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid."
We destroyed them. 21-2.
Everyone needs a mantra.
Even if it's stupid.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Everything's bigger in Texas
Well, we survived our Thanksgiving trip down to Forth Worth, TX. First time on a plane with a toddler, and man, I was dreading it. That's the best part about having an overactive, morbid imagination. Things are almost never that bad, and, if they are, they make medication for that. It's called vodka.
Anyway, even though we were up before dawn and on the first plane out of Minneapolis, Sena did really well. Minimal screaming and wiggling, and was easily amused by the in-flight catalog of completely useless crap that no one ever buys, to the barf bags, and vaguely calm and orderly drawings of what to do when your plane crashes. I don't think the artist was using their imagination when they were commissioned to do the project.
Who really is calm when the oxygen masks fall out of the overhead bin?
Does anyone ever know how to use their seat as a flotation device?
Honestly, have you ever tried to climb through a smoke-filled fuselage with your gigantic flotation device while other people are screaming and clawing their way over seat backs and aisles that are narrow enough to trap small rodents?
No? Me, either.
But I don't think the drawings I would make would look like that.
I believe in truth in advertising. But no airline would ever publish and laminate my artwork to be perused by a half-drunk acrophobe while the plane is taxiing down the runway.
I tell this to Matt, but he pretend to ignore me.
I ask him, "Quick, don't look, but tell me how many rows we are from the emergency exit?"
Matt thinks. "Umm... Six?"
"Wrong. Four. You're dead."
"Why?"
"You think you can see in a crash? Dude, you have to count the seat backs with your hand so you know how far away you are from the door."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Everything."
We are quiet for a while.
Then: "Do you know you can fart really loud in your seat and no one will hear it?"
"Yeah, but they might smell it."
"That's what the baby is for. You can always blame a baby."
"What happens once she doesn't wear a diaper anymore?"
"Then I just go back to blaming you."
I promise the next post will be about our actual trip to Texas. Sort of.
Anyway, even though we were up before dawn and on the first plane out of Minneapolis, Sena did really well. Minimal screaming and wiggling, and was easily amused by the in-flight catalog of completely useless crap that no one ever buys, to the barf bags, and vaguely calm and orderly drawings of what to do when your plane crashes. I don't think the artist was using their imagination when they were commissioned to do the project.
Who really is calm when the oxygen masks fall out of the overhead bin?
Does anyone ever know how to use their seat as a flotation device?
Honestly, have you ever tried to climb through a smoke-filled fuselage with your gigantic flotation device while other people are screaming and clawing their way over seat backs and aisles that are narrow enough to trap small rodents?
No? Me, either.
But I don't think the drawings I would make would look like that.
I believe in truth in advertising. But no airline would ever publish and laminate my artwork to be perused by a half-drunk acrophobe while the plane is taxiing down the runway.
I tell this to Matt, but he pretend to ignore me.
I ask him, "Quick, don't look, but tell me how many rows we are from the emergency exit?"
Matt thinks. "Umm... Six?"
"Wrong. Four. You're dead."
"Why?"
"You think you can see in a crash? Dude, you have to count the seat backs with your hand so you know how far away you are from the door."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Everything."
We are quiet for a while.
Then: "Do you know you can fart really loud in your seat and no one will hear it?"
"Yeah, but they might smell it."
"That's what the baby is for. You can always blame a baby."
"What happens once she doesn't wear a diaper anymore?"
"Then I just go back to blaming you."
I promise the next post will be about our actual trip to Texas. Sort of.
Monday, September 19, 2011
I am a horrible wretched excuse for a human being, but that snotty waiter deserved it. Maybe.
Okay, I'm not really sure why this story popped into my head today. Maybe because I'm hungry. Maybe because the very first posts on this blog were about my trip to Italy. Maybe because sometimes I remember some horrible things I've done and am filled with self loathing.
This post includes all three.
There was a story I left off my original Italian travel postings.
Mainly because I was afraid they'd find me.
You remember the mall parking lot scene from Back to the Future where Doc tells Marty with disbelief, "Oh my God, they found me. They actually found me!"
Doc was talking about Libyan terrorists or something.
I'm talking about a waiter. In Rome. A Roman waiter. Perhaps they are as savage as gladiators. Or the mafia. They never forget.
Anyway, maybe enough time has gone by to tell the story.
The story is called: The First and Last Time I did a Dine and Dash in Rome Because that Waiter was a Ginormous Ass and Totally Deserved it!
It was one of our last nights in Rome and I had read a good review of a restaurant. I don't really remember where, the north part of the city, in one the hills overlooking the Colosseum. After much trodding up and down cobblestone streets we found the restaurant.
It was dusk. It was chilly. We looked at the menu. It was a little more expensive than most of the restaurants we had gone to, but I figured it would be good. I looked in through the windows and it was a lovely Osteria style restaurant and about half full. With locals. Which is a good sign.
The outside of the restaurant had a front terrace with a low wall, so you had to walk through the patio area to the front door. There was a host at the front door and we said in our best bad Italian, "Good evening!" Blah blah blah. And implied we wanted a table for two.
The host nods and disappears into the restaurant. Eventually he comes back with two menus. We think we are going inside. It is warm and lovely and candles and wine and people laughing and eating.
But no.
He puts us on one of the patio table outside, the furthest from the restaurant, in the corner, in the dark.
I am not exaggerating.
We are both sitting there going, "What just happened?"
I say to Matt, "Umm...what is going on?"
Matt says, "I don't know."
I narrow my eyes. "Yes, you do. They are assholes. They don't like us."
"Oh?"
"Because we're Americans."
Now, I obviously can't PROVE this, but it's one of those things that you can't necessarily describe but you know it when it happens to you. It's like sexual harassment for women. A look. An intonation. A turn of the head. Just a manner of speaking. It is sometimes incredible subtle, but it's there. You can smell it like a fart, hanging in the air, staining everything.
Matt is giving him the benefit of the doubt. "You think so?"
"I know so." Now I'm pissed. "He doesn't even KNOW us! That dick!"
After a very long time, even by Italian standards, a waiter takes our order.
Other people come and are seated inside. We are left alone on a dark patio for the entire dinner.
I drink a few glasses of wine and am slightly tipsy. I'm waiting for the check. And waiting. And waiting.
Matt gets up and walks to the sidewalk to light his cigarette. He smokes and stares into the restaurant. After a moment he speaks. "You know, we could just run off right now."
He said the right thing to the wrong person.
"Yeah, ha! Let's do it!"
He may have thought I was joking, but I'm fueled by a dangerous combination of vino and righteous indignation. I practically knock the chair to the ground and leap over the wall to the sidewalk. "Hahaha! Assholes!" I run past Matt up the hill and I'm twenty feet down the road before he realizes what his batass crazy wife just did.
He flings his cigarette into the street and starts running after me. I'm laughing like a loon.
Then a problem happens. Have you ever tried to sprint a mile, uphill, on wet cobblestones, after eating an entire plate of pesto gnocchi and three glasses of wine? No? Well, I don't recommend it.
A hot stabbing pain enters my chest. Perhaps I'm having a heart attack. Perhaps the Roman waiter has shot me with a Taser. Perhaps the Lord himself has reached down to smite me.
I feel like my chest and stomach are going to explode. "Uuunngghh!" I bend over and press my fingers into my side, but I'm still scared enough to look back because I hear someone running after me.
It's Matt. He's wheezing and laughing. "Hurry!" I scream. "Let's go this way."
I ignore the pain and go down a side street.
It turns out to be a dead end. We ran up the one road that has no outlet. We are like those idiot people you see on episodes of Cops.
"Shit!"
"Oh my God, we have to go back!"
"They'll see us!" I really feel like puking now.
Long story short, we walk back and look at the restaurant. They still haven't come out to bring our check. We walk quickly past and to another side street that takes us down the hill into a main thoroughfare. I still want to run and keep looking behind me. I take of my jacket and Matt says, "Yeah, that was interesting."
"He deserved it. Jerk."
"I bet he really loves Americans now."
We both start laughing.
A while later Matt says, "You know, we only made one mistake."
"Running up the hill?"
"No, we should have ordered the EXPENSIVE bottle of wine."
This post includes all three.
There was a story I left off my original Italian travel postings.
Mainly because I was afraid they'd find me.
You remember the mall parking lot scene from Back to the Future where Doc tells Marty with disbelief, "Oh my God, they found me. They actually found me!"
Doc was talking about Libyan terrorists or something.
I'm talking about a waiter. In Rome. A Roman waiter. Perhaps they are as savage as gladiators. Or the mafia. They never forget.
Anyway, maybe enough time has gone by to tell the story.
The story is called: The First and Last Time I did a Dine and Dash in Rome Because that Waiter was a Ginormous Ass and Totally Deserved it!
It was one of our last nights in Rome and I had read a good review of a restaurant. I don't really remember where, the north part of the city, in one the hills overlooking the Colosseum. After much trodding up and down cobblestone streets we found the restaurant.
It was dusk. It was chilly. We looked at the menu. It was a little more expensive than most of the restaurants we had gone to, but I figured it would be good. I looked in through the windows and it was a lovely Osteria style restaurant and about half full. With locals. Which is a good sign.
The outside of the restaurant had a front terrace with a low wall, so you had to walk through the patio area to the front door. There was a host at the front door and we said in our best bad Italian, "Good evening!" Blah blah blah. And implied we wanted a table for two.
The host nods and disappears into the restaurant. Eventually he comes back with two menus. We think we are going inside. It is warm and lovely and candles and wine and people laughing and eating.
But no.
He puts us on one of the patio table outside, the furthest from the restaurant, in the corner, in the dark.
I am not exaggerating.
We are both sitting there going, "What just happened?"
I say to Matt, "Umm...what is going on?"
Matt says, "I don't know."
I narrow my eyes. "Yes, you do. They are assholes. They don't like us."
"Oh?"
"Because we're Americans."
Now, I obviously can't PROVE this, but it's one of those things that you can't necessarily describe but you know it when it happens to you. It's like sexual harassment for women. A look. An intonation. A turn of the head. Just a manner of speaking. It is sometimes incredible subtle, but it's there. You can smell it like a fart, hanging in the air, staining everything.
Matt is giving him the benefit of the doubt. "You think so?"
"I know so." Now I'm pissed. "He doesn't even KNOW us! That dick!"
After a very long time, even by Italian standards, a waiter takes our order.
Other people come and are seated inside. We are left alone on a dark patio for the entire dinner.
I drink a few glasses of wine and am slightly tipsy. I'm waiting for the check. And waiting. And waiting.
Matt gets up and walks to the sidewalk to light his cigarette. He smokes and stares into the restaurant. After a moment he speaks. "You know, we could just run off right now."
He said the right thing to the wrong person.
"Yeah, ha! Let's do it!"
He may have thought I was joking, but I'm fueled by a dangerous combination of vino and righteous indignation. I practically knock the chair to the ground and leap over the wall to the sidewalk. "Hahaha! Assholes!" I run past Matt up the hill and I'm twenty feet down the road before he realizes what his batass crazy wife just did.
He flings his cigarette into the street and starts running after me. I'm laughing like a loon.
Then a problem happens. Have you ever tried to sprint a mile, uphill, on wet cobblestones, after eating an entire plate of pesto gnocchi and three glasses of wine? No? Well, I don't recommend it.
A hot stabbing pain enters my chest. Perhaps I'm having a heart attack. Perhaps the Roman waiter has shot me with a Taser. Perhaps the Lord himself has reached down to smite me.
I feel like my chest and stomach are going to explode. "Uuunngghh!" I bend over and press my fingers into my side, but I'm still scared enough to look back because I hear someone running after me.
It's Matt. He's wheezing and laughing. "Hurry!" I scream. "Let's go this way."
I ignore the pain and go down a side street.
It turns out to be a dead end. We ran up the one road that has no outlet. We are like those idiot people you see on episodes of Cops.
"Shit!"
"Oh my God, we have to go back!"
"They'll see us!" I really feel like puking now.
Long story short, we walk back and look at the restaurant. They still haven't come out to bring our check. We walk quickly past and to another side street that takes us down the hill into a main thoroughfare. I still want to run and keep looking behind me. I take of my jacket and Matt says, "Yeah, that was interesting."
"He deserved it. Jerk."
"I bet he really loves Americans now."
We both start laughing.
A while later Matt says, "You know, we only made one mistake."
"Running up the hill?"
"No, we should have ordered the EXPENSIVE bottle of wine."
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Northern Exposure
A few weeks ago Matt and I went to visit my brother and his wife up in Bayfield, Wisconsin. My brother actually lives on Little Sand Bay, which is the furthermost northern point of the state of Wisconsin, and the gateway to the Apostle Islands. Needless to say, it is incredibly beautiful.
Here are a few pictures, including my first attempt to paddle a real kayak; they are much tippier than canoes so I was glad the water was completely calm. Despite that, it was also the first time in my life I second guessed myself whether or not I should go out on Lake Superior. I realized it's not just about what I want anymore - I had Baby Moo to think about it.
So I thought about it.
And then I went. But stayed within 150 yards of the shore, in case I happened to tip over and had to swim for shore. I knew it would be difficult if not impossible for me to get back in the kayak if I tipped out. And in that water it only takes about 20 minutes for hypothermia to set in.
But I had to decide then how I was going to live the rest of my life. I've never been too afraid to try things that many people would think as dangerous, and it made me wonder what kind of parent I wanted/needed to be. I don't want to be the type of person to be afraid of everything, even though there are a lot of things to be afraid of. It's hard to know where to draw the line. If baby girl wants to go skydiving when she's older I have decided I will take her myself. On her eighteenth birthday, of course.
So many things to think about. And this is a pretty good place to think those deep thoughts.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Innocent Voyage: Part 6 - Tortola and Haiti
Sorry to all the 12 people who read this blog, as it has been awhile since I posted anything.
But I'm back now. I know, I know, your life is complete!
I guess I'll finish up with the trip, or what I remember of it. Don't worry, I just make stuff up when I can't remember.
So, the next stop on our trip was Tortola, an island part of the British Virgin Islands. However, as soon as we got off the ship we were herded to a bus, which took us to another pier and another ferry boat. We were going to another island, Virgin Gorda (Fat Virgin) to take an excursion to the Baths. The weather was drizzly but I sat up on deck with a couple other people and sat with a towel wrapped around me as the boat passed in and out of rain. By the time we arrived to the island the sky had cleared up.
The Baths were neat, they are these giant boulders sticking out of the sand and you can crawl through the caves and the tidal pools. The only problem was there was a lot of people because that is the main attraction in that area. We were lucky that we arrived in the morning because as we were climbing back up (there is one small trail that you have to walk in single file) there were gobs of tourists up at the top of the cliff waiting to go down. So if you ever go, go EARLY.
The last stop was Labadee, Haiti. Which isn't REALLY Haiti. When I think of Haiti I think of crushing poverty and voodoo dolls. Yeah, an interesting combination. What Labadee is though is a private beach owned by the Royal Caribbean Corporation, so there are chairs and hammocks and bathrooms and little stores that they built there. For all the people that go to shore they even provide a buffet lunch at noon so you don't have to go back to the boat. It was really nice but it made me feel a little weird. Across the bay was Haiti and its crushing poverty and here we were frolicking on the beach, there but not really there, removed from the reality of the country and put on this Disney like fantasy place with waiters to bring you pina coladas.
I just felt weird. And maybe a little ashamed. So I spent most of my time walking on the beach and looking for shells.
We spent the last day at sea, farting around on the boat. And I drank A LOT of pina coladas. Matt won $400 dollars playing blackjack...
Then he lost it playing Texas Hold'em.
"When you ever gonna listen to Kenny?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"You gotta know when to walk away. And when to run."
Run! Dammit, Run!
But I'm back now. I know, I know, your life is complete!
I guess I'll finish up with the trip, or what I remember of it. Don't worry, I just make stuff up when I can't remember.
So, the next stop on our trip was Tortola, an island part of the British Virgin Islands. However, as soon as we got off the ship we were herded to a bus, which took us to another pier and another ferry boat. We were going to another island, Virgin Gorda (Fat Virgin) to take an excursion to the Baths. The weather was drizzly but I sat up on deck with a couple other people and sat with a towel wrapped around me as the boat passed in and out of rain. By the time we arrived to the island the sky had cleared up.
The Baths were neat, they are these giant boulders sticking out of the sand and you can crawl through the caves and the tidal pools. The only problem was there was a lot of people because that is the main attraction in that area. We were lucky that we arrived in the morning because as we were climbing back up (there is one small trail that you have to walk in single file) there were gobs of tourists up at the top of the cliff waiting to go down. So if you ever go, go EARLY.
The last stop was Labadee, Haiti. Which isn't REALLY Haiti. When I think of Haiti I think of crushing poverty and voodoo dolls. Yeah, an interesting combination. What Labadee is though is a private beach owned by the Royal Caribbean Corporation, so there are chairs and hammocks and bathrooms and little stores that they built there. For all the people that go to shore they even provide a buffet lunch at noon so you don't have to go back to the boat. It was really nice but it made me feel a little weird. Across the bay was Haiti and its crushing poverty and here we were frolicking on the beach, there but not really there, removed from the reality of the country and put on this Disney like fantasy place with waiters to bring you pina coladas.
I just felt weird. And maybe a little ashamed. So I spent most of my time walking on the beach and looking for shells.
We spent the last day at sea, farting around on the boat. And I drank A LOT of pina coladas. Matt won $400 dollars playing blackjack...
Then he lost it playing Texas Hold'em.
"When you ever gonna listen to Kenny?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"You gotta know when to walk away. And when to run."
Run! Dammit, Run!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Innocent Voyage -Part 5: St. Maarten, or I love to sit in Caribbean taxis
We arrive early to St. Maarten/St. Martin on Wednesday. Along with three other cruise ships, which means about 10,000 people have just bombarded the island. A tacky tourist invasion, if you will. Because we had been to St. Maarten once before (the Dutch side) we decided to take a shuttle over to Marigot, the capital city on the French side (St. Martin). This is the smallest land mass in the world to be governed by two different countries.
So we pile into a van with 8 other people who are going to Marigot. It really isn't far, but there is only one main road that winds up and through the hills. And with 10,000 infiltrators and two stoplights, there is a slight traffic jam.
We sit in the van for an hour and a half.
At least it is air conditioned.
Eventually we arrive in Marigot and wander around. I'm looking for the beach. We find a large marina and keep walking. Then we see a tourist office and go in. A nice French lady informs us that the beaches are several miles away. We instead walk back into town and browse the vendors. Everything is priced in Euros and it isn't cheap. I'm tired; I wanted to go to the beach. Actually, what I REALLY wanted to do was sail on a regatta ship. That was one of the tours, but Matt didn't sound interested in that. It was one where you actually learn how to sail a ship, which could come in handy someday. You NEVER know...
So I'm getting crabby. We get a taxi back to Phillipsburg, thinking that by now the traffic jam has subsided. Wrong. As soon as the driver gets out of the main downtown and back on the road, it is clear that it is just as bad if not worse. So we spend another hour and a half sitting in the back seat. I watch goats eating the grass on the side of the road, and I am mad because I could be on a big sailing ship right now learning what a 'boom' and a 'jib' are. Instead, I'm sitting here.
Then I think it could be worse. I could be stuck in the back seat of a cab and have an attack of explosive diarrhea.
That would be worse.
Eventually we get back to Phillipsburg and get lunch at a restaurant. Then we sit at the beach for awhile before browsing all the jewelry shops, which I find boring. Matt has no idea how lucky he is; I couldn't care less about diamond bracelets. Here's what I actually did get on my trip. Sand and shells. I try to collect some sand from every beach I've ever been on. The only time I didn't was when I went to Thailand. I was afraid I would get in trouble if I tried to smuggle out their sand. You really don't want to end up in a Thai prison, you know.
So I bring back sand, pebbles, and shells. Then I put them in little glass bottles and label them. Total bargain.
So we pile into a van with 8 other people who are going to Marigot. It really isn't far, but there is only one main road that winds up and through the hills. And with 10,000 infiltrators and two stoplights, there is a slight traffic jam.
We sit in the van for an hour and a half.
At least it is air conditioned.
Eventually we arrive in Marigot and wander around. I'm looking for the beach. We find a large marina and keep walking. Then we see a tourist office and go in. A nice French lady informs us that the beaches are several miles away. We instead walk back into town and browse the vendors. Everything is priced in Euros and it isn't cheap. I'm tired; I wanted to go to the beach. Actually, what I REALLY wanted to do was sail on a regatta ship. That was one of the tours, but Matt didn't sound interested in that. It was one where you actually learn how to sail a ship, which could come in handy someday. You NEVER know...
So I'm getting crabby. We get a taxi back to Phillipsburg, thinking that by now the traffic jam has subsided. Wrong. As soon as the driver gets out of the main downtown and back on the road, it is clear that it is just as bad if not worse. So we spend another hour and a half sitting in the back seat. I watch goats eating the grass on the side of the road, and I am mad because I could be on a big sailing ship right now learning what a 'boom' and a 'jib' are. Instead, I'm sitting here.
Then I think it could be worse. I could be stuck in the back seat of a cab and have an attack of explosive diarrhea.
That would be worse.
Eventually we get back to Phillipsburg and get lunch at a restaurant. Then we sit at the beach for awhile before browsing all the jewelry shops, which I find boring. Matt has no idea how lucky he is; I couldn't care less about diamond bracelets. Here's what I actually did get on my trip. Sand and shells. I try to collect some sand from every beach I've ever been on. The only time I didn't was when I went to Thailand. I was afraid I would get in trouble if I tried to smuggle out their sand. You really don't want to end up in a Thai prison, you know.
So I bring back sand, pebbles, and shells. Then I put them in little glass bottles and label them. Total bargain.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Innocent Voyage: Part 4 - Pirates of the Caribbean, Johnny Depp, and rum
So our first day on the ship is spent at sea. So what do you do all day long? Well, the ship gives you a daily schedule of things to do. Everything from bingo, basketball and bocce ball (they had a lawn on the roof) to wine tastings, computer classes, photography classes, and learning how to make crepes. They also had a glass blowing show. Yes, seriously.
Or you can do like the majority of the shipmates and park your butt on a lounge chair by the pool. And drink pina coladas. And read gossip magazines. I TOTALLY think Rhianna can do WAY better than Chris Brown.
So Matt wanders off to go get beaten at Bridge by the blue-hairs and I go to a class. Yes, I'm a nerd. It was a class taught by a professor and the subject was the ocean. I learned about waves and tsunamis and gulf streams and hot and cold currents. It was pretty cool.
Then I spent the rest of the day sitting by the pool drinking pina coladas. Since the ship also has a library I found a book to read. Hoot, by Carl Haissen. It's a Young Adult novel and just wonderful. I highly recommend it. I also read another book, Lethally Blonde, which was not wonderful. It sucked. I also think it was a NYTime's bestseller, too. Whatever.
But Hoot was great. Very funny and well written.
So the next afternoon we arrive in San Juan, Puerto Rico. We have a tour scheduled. First we go to the Bacardi Rum plant, which was interesting. Bacardi is still a private, family owned company, an incredibly rich one, and we learned about how rum was transformed from a low-brow swill drink into the most popular liquor in the world. One of the Barcardis developed a way to super distill the rum and make it so light that it would "mix" with anything, which is what led to its popularity.
We watch a little movie and take a little tour and end up at a bar where the bartender shows us how to make a mojito and a Cuba libre (rum and coke). The we drink mojitos and rum and cokes.
On our way back to the ship we stop at Fort San Cristobal. There are a bunch of black cars and security blocking part of the fort. Our guide tells us that is because Walt Disney is filming a movie there. And they are waiting for Johnny Depp to arrive.
Something that sounds like pig squealing erupts from the back seat. Apparently, the 60 year-old ladies love Johnny Depp. One exclaims, "Gosh! Do you think we can meet him and get his autograph?"
Um, no. Probably not. Anyway, the fort was kind of cool. They actually used it during WWII.
After that we went back to the ship and got ready for dinner. Our one disappointment was that we weren't seated with anyone else for dinner. That meant Matt and I had to talk to each other. Boring! Dumb! I guess they didn't think we fit in well with the geriatric set. My God, but there were a lot of OLD people on this boat. I've never seen so many motorized scooters in my life...
There were some people our age, but mostly with larger families. There were a ton of British people on the ship. Probably because they're the only ones whose money is still worth anything. It must be great to be from England because everywhere you go it must seem like a bargain.
"Nigel! Good heavens! These Yanks are practically giving it away!"
"Oh Fiona, you do go on, you scallywag! Pass the salt, love."
What do you mean they don't talk like that? They do, too!
Or you can do like the majority of the shipmates and park your butt on a lounge chair by the pool. And drink pina coladas. And read gossip magazines. I TOTALLY think Rhianna can do WAY better than Chris Brown.
So Matt wanders off to go get beaten at Bridge by the blue-hairs and I go to a class. Yes, I'm a nerd. It was a class taught by a professor and the subject was the ocean. I learned about waves and tsunamis and gulf streams and hot and cold currents. It was pretty cool.
Then I spent the rest of the day sitting by the pool drinking pina coladas. Since the ship also has a library I found a book to read. Hoot, by Carl Haissen. It's a Young Adult novel and just wonderful. I highly recommend it. I also read another book, Lethally Blonde, which was not wonderful. It sucked. I also think it was a NYTime's bestseller, too. Whatever.
But Hoot was great. Very funny and well written.
So the next afternoon we arrive in San Juan, Puerto Rico. We have a tour scheduled. First we go to the Bacardi Rum plant, which was interesting. Bacardi is still a private, family owned company, an incredibly rich one, and we learned about how rum was transformed from a low-brow swill drink into the most popular liquor in the world. One of the Barcardis developed a way to super distill the rum and make it so light that it would "mix" with anything, which is what led to its popularity.
We watch a little movie and take a little tour and end up at a bar where the bartender shows us how to make a mojito and a Cuba libre (rum and coke). The we drink mojitos and rum and cokes.
On our way back to the ship we stop at Fort San Cristobal. There are a bunch of black cars and security blocking part of the fort. Our guide tells us that is because Walt Disney is filming a movie there. And they are waiting for Johnny Depp to arrive.
Something that sounds like pig squealing erupts from the back seat. Apparently, the 60 year-old ladies love Johnny Depp. One exclaims, "Gosh! Do you think we can meet him and get his autograph?"
Um, no. Probably not. Anyway, the fort was kind of cool. They actually used it during WWII.
After that we went back to the ship and got ready for dinner. Our one disappointment was that we weren't seated with anyone else for dinner. That meant Matt and I had to talk to each other. Boring! Dumb! I guess they didn't think we fit in well with the geriatric set. My God, but there were a lot of OLD people on this boat. I've never seen so many motorized scooters in my life...
There were some people our age, but mostly with larger families. There were a ton of British people on the ship. Probably because they're the only ones whose money is still worth anything. It must be great to be from England because everywhere you go it must seem like a bargain.
"Nigel! Good heavens! These Yanks are practically giving it away!"
"Oh Fiona, you do go on, you scallywag! Pass the salt, love."
What do you mean they don't talk like that? They do, too!
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Innocent Voyage - the slideshow
Here is a collection of pictures and video clips I took of the trip, which will be explained in more detail in later posts. Especially the baby alligator...Who doesn't love baby alligators. Mmmmm.... taste like chicken.
Music by The Arcade Fire
The Innocent Voyage from Melinda Braun on Vimeo.
Music by The Arcade Fire
The Innocent Voyage from Melinda Braun on Vimeo.
Friday, March 13, 2009
The Innocent Voyage - Part 3: We're gonna need a bigger boat
We wake up early on Sunday morning and get ready to check out and grab the shuttle back to the airport. From there the plan was to take the train or another shuttle to Port Everglades. We wanted to arrive by 11 a.m. to check in because that is the earliest the cruise line queue opens.
As I walk out the front door to the lobby of the hotel I see a man asleep in a lounge chair. It appears he's been there all night.
Several other people are waiting for the shuttle back and then someone from the hotel comes out and says the shuttle driver isn't coming. He doesn't give a reason. He says that maybe he'll arrive at 10 a.m. Maybe...
This does not happen where we are from, but it seems par for the course in a place were anything goes. Since there are many cabs Matt flags one down. I think we are going back to the airport, but Matt tells the driver to take us all the way to Port Everglades.
"How much is that?" I ask Matt.
"Sixty."
I don't really argue because I don't really want to deal with it. Sometimes the simplest way to solve a problem is to throw some money at it. If my mother is reading this right now she is probably having a stroke. Or some kind of conniption fit. BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T RAISE ME THAT WAY. Which way is that, you ask? The way that results in the type of person willing to pay sixty bucks for a cab ride because they are too lazy to figure out the least inexpensive way of doing things.
I decide in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter if I paid sixty bucks or I paid twenty.
We are riding along and I tell Matt I'm hungry. I'm a breakfast eater. I'm one of those people who needs to eat when I get up in the morning. I'm worried there won't be anything to eat at the pier but Matt assures me that there will be "something there".
He is utterly wrong.
Port Everglades is a city unto itself. It is like entering a no-man's zone. Or Tijuana. There is a large checkpoint and gates and beyond that it appears to be a city made of shipping containers and warehouses. It's mildly weird and creepy.
We arrive at Pier 18, where our ship is going out. It's freakishly early and I'm starving. There is nothing to eat. Not even vending machines. Actually, there is one vending machine that sells water.
Matt sheepishly buys a water and I look at him while I drink it. "Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me?" I ask the sky.
No one answers.
We still have two hours to wait to get on the ship, so I turn to Matt. "I'm gonna EAT you!"
Eventually the queue line opens. Here I have to say something about security: It is easier to get on a plane that it is to board a cruise ship. Not only do they do the same scanning as the airport, with all the dectectors, there are a series of checks. At least five. They check you when you enter Port Everglades. They check you when you check in. They check you when they issue your ship card. They herd you into another corral and check you again. Then you go up an escalator where they, you got it, check you again. Then they take your picture. AND CHECK YOU AGAIN.
Then you can board the gangplank and walk on.
We got on the ship at noon. It was huge. It was sparkling. It was so damn clean I would feel comfortable eating spaghetti off the public bathroom floor. Without out plate. That's how spotless it was. They give you champagne when you walk on, exactly how I imagine it must be like when you die and go to heaven. Boom! You walk through the gates and everyone gets a glass of champagne.
Up next, a rundown of the ship...
As I walk out the front door to the lobby of the hotel I see a man asleep in a lounge chair. It appears he's been there all night.
Several other people are waiting for the shuttle back and then someone from the hotel comes out and says the shuttle driver isn't coming. He doesn't give a reason. He says that maybe he'll arrive at 10 a.m. Maybe...
This does not happen where we are from, but it seems par for the course in a place were anything goes. Since there are many cabs Matt flags one down. I think we are going back to the airport, but Matt tells the driver to take us all the way to Port Everglades.
"How much is that?" I ask Matt.
"Sixty."
I don't really argue because I don't really want to deal with it. Sometimes the simplest way to solve a problem is to throw some money at it. If my mother is reading this right now she is probably having a stroke. Or some kind of conniption fit. BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T RAISE ME THAT WAY. Which way is that, you ask? The way that results in the type of person willing to pay sixty bucks for a cab ride because they are too lazy to figure out the least inexpensive way of doing things.
I decide in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter if I paid sixty bucks or I paid twenty.
We are riding along and I tell Matt I'm hungry. I'm a breakfast eater. I'm one of those people who needs to eat when I get up in the morning. I'm worried there won't be anything to eat at the pier but Matt assures me that there will be "something there".
He is utterly wrong.
Port Everglades is a city unto itself. It is like entering a no-man's zone. Or Tijuana. There is a large checkpoint and gates and beyond that it appears to be a city made of shipping containers and warehouses. It's mildly weird and creepy.
We arrive at Pier 18, where our ship is going out. It's freakishly early and I'm starving. There is nothing to eat. Not even vending machines. Actually, there is one vending machine that sells water.
Matt sheepishly buys a water and I look at him while I drink it. "Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me?" I ask the sky.
No one answers.
We still have two hours to wait to get on the ship, so I turn to Matt. "I'm gonna EAT you!"
Eventually the queue line opens. Here I have to say something about security: It is easier to get on a plane that it is to board a cruise ship. Not only do they do the same scanning as the airport, with all the dectectors, there are a series of checks. At least five. They check you when you enter Port Everglades. They check you when you check in. They check you when they issue your ship card. They herd you into another corral and check you again. Then you go up an escalator where they, you got it, check you again. Then they take your picture. AND CHECK YOU AGAIN.
Then you can board the gangplank and walk on.
We got on the ship at noon. It was huge. It was sparkling. It was so damn clean I would feel comfortable eating spaghetti off the public bathroom floor. Without out plate. That's how spotless it was. They give you champagne when you walk on, exactly how I imagine it must be like when you die and go to heaven. Boom! You walk through the gates and everyone gets a glass of champagne.
Up next, a rundown of the ship...
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Innocent Voyage - Part 2: South Beach
So we arrive at our hotel after a 40 minute drive from the airport to South Beach. South Beach is really the southern tip of Miami Beach, which is an island. Downtown Miami is on the other side of Biscayne Bay and there are a series of bridges that connect the two pieces of land.
It only took about 15 minutes to get to South Beach, but the mile long drive down Collins Avenue took the other 25 minutes. Seriously, it is one long slow moving parade of cars and people, everyone trying to be seen. Since it was a Saturday afternoon it was probably more crowded than normal; I'm assuming 80% of the people were tourists.
Collins Avenue is a main drag, along with Ocean Drive. This is where the majority of the old art deco hotels are. It's amazing how they fixed it all up; back in the 70s South Beach was a total dump, a blighted ghetto of abandoned buildings. So I've been told (more on the history of Miami later). There are still a few places that are being gutted and remodeled but the over all feel of South Beach now seems like a mix between Las Vegas, Disney land, and Hugh Hefner's playboy mansion.
Yeah, it really is like that.
People stroll around shirtless or in bikinis and are drinking alcohol on the street. A lot of tight clothes, high heels, hot pink and blue, perfectly made up models with oversized sunglasses and jewelry carrying around tiny doggies with similarly jeweled collars. The one thing I did notice and like about Miami is how people LOVE their dogs. Dogs everywhere! Bulldogs, Pugs, Italian greyhounds, Pomeranians, tiny Poodles, and tons of little Chihuahuas. We walked along Lincoln Road one afternoon (pedestrian shopping mall) and I even saw several people take their dogs inside the stores. Even the Apple store. And some hotels have Sunday brunch where you can bring your dog and they get a special "doggie brunch". I loved it.
We were staying at the Chesterfield Hotel on Collins Avenue, right in the heart of the Art Deco district. I was a little nervous because I read both good and bad reviews of the hotel.
We arrived and the receptionist was nice; not rude like some people had said. The lobby was cool. A mixture of Ernest Hemingway's Africa and Donatella Versace, if you can picture that. There is a bar in the corner because this hotel uses the lobby as a club in the evenings.
Since our room isn't ready we leave our bags and head in the direction of the beach, which is only one block east on Ocean Drive. We walk down Ocean Drive, the entire strip is made up of hotels, stores and restaurants that spill out onto the sidewalk, and as you walk past the hostess tries to get you to take a table. We stop at the Fox Cafe and order mojitos. Everything is half price in the afternoon, which is good because the drink is normally $28. The reason it is that price is because it is about 36 oz. of booze in a giant margarita glass. At $14 it is a total bargain because by the time I finish it I'm practically cross-eyed. Even Matt exclaims, "Oh my God, I'm so drunk!"
Now is time for the street theater. We are sitting next to the curb so we can get an eyeful of the parade of cars going down Ocean Drive. Miami is a car lover's paradise. I have seen Lamborghini's and Ferrari's before, but never people actually DRIVING them. I saw a Bentley and even a Maserati (my favorite). There were also tons of Mustangs and Corvettes of every make, model, and color.
There is also the sidewalk theater. On our way back to the hotel we see a very drunk gay man is dancing down the street wearing a Dallas Cowboy's cheerleading outfit that appears to be three sizes too small. It's not attractive. He does some cheer routines and collects a few tips.
I briefly wonder how drunk I would have to be to attempt that stunt and then quickly decide there isn't enough booze in the world for that to happen.
We check into our room, and then end up giving us a suite. It's huge and has two beds and a giant bathroom. The room is painted a garish color of palm tree green on half the walls and grape purple on the other half. All the bed linens and pillows are white and there is a big chandelier hanging over the bed. I can't decide if it looks cool or is totally hideous. It's clean though, so that's what counts.
We change and get ready to walk around and find dinner. I read about a great Cuban place called Puerto Sagua that is supposedly right down the street. It is. We find it and it is packed. With locals. Another good sign. I have the Cuban pork sandwich and Matt has the Ropa Vieja. It is cheap and it is good. I recommend this restaurant if you are ever in South Beach.
Now it's time for the night life, but I'm exhausted. The bar lobby is already swinging with people eager to party. We have a few free drinks at the bar because the hotel does a free happy hour from 7-8 pm.
Then Matt asks if we are going clubbing and laughs. We are both exhausted and have to get up early tomorrow to get to Port Everglades and board our ship.
I fall asleep as soon as I lay down on the bed.
It only took about 15 minutes to get to South Beach, but the mile long drive down Collins Avenue took the other 25 minutes. Seriously, it is one long slow moving parade of cars and people, everyone trying to be seen. Since it was a Saturday afternoon it was probably more crowded than normal; I'm assuming 80% of the people were tourists.
Collins Avenue is a main drag, along with Ocean Drive. This is where the majority of the old art deco hotels are. It's amazing how they fixed it all up; back in the 70s South Beach was a total dump, a blighted ghetto of abandoned buildings. So I've been told (more on the history of Miami later). There are still a few places that are being gutted and remodeled but the over all feel of South Beach now seems like a mix between Las Vegas, Disney land, and Hugh Hefner's playboy mansion.
Yeah, it really is like that.
People stroll around shirtless or in bikinis and are drinking alcohol on the street. A lot of tight clothes, high heels, hot pink and blue, perfectly made up models with oversized sunglasses and jewelry carrying around tiny doggies with similarly jeweled collars. The one thing I did notice and like about Miami is how people LOVE their dogs. Dogs everywhere! Bulldogs, Pugs, Italian greyhounds, Pomeranians, tiny Poodles, and tons of little Chihuahuas. We walked along Lincoln Road one afternoon (pedestrian shopping mall) and I even saw several people take their dogs inside the stores. Even the Apple store. And some hotels have Sunday brunch where you can bring your dog and they get a special "doggie brunch". I loved it.
We were staying at the Chesterfield Hotel on Collins Avenue, right in the heart of the Art Deco district. I was a little nervous because I read both good and bad reviews of the hotel.
We arrived and the receptionist was nice; not rude like some people had said. The lobby was cool. A mixture of Ernest Hemingway's Africa and Donatella Versace, if you can picture that. There is a bar in the corner because this hotel uses the lobby as a club in the evenings.
Since our room isn't ready we leave our bags and head in the direction of the beach, which is only one block east on Ocean Drive. We walk down Ocean Drive, the entire strip is made up of hotels, stores and restaurants that spill out onto the sidewalk, and as you walk past the hostess tries to get you to take a table. We stop at the Fox Cafe and order mojitos. Everything is half price in the afternoon, which is good because the drink is normally $28. The reason it is that price is because it is about 36 oz. of booze in a giant margarita glass. At $14 it is a total bargain because by the time I finish it I'm practically cross-eyed. Even Matt exclaims, "Oh my God, I'm so drunk!"
Now is time for the street theater. We are sitting next to the curb so we can get an eyeful of the parade of cars going down Ocean Drive. Miami is a car lover's paradise. I have seen Lamborghini's and Ferrari's before, but never people actually DRIVING them. I saw a Bentley and even a Maserati (my favorite). There were also tons of Mustangs and Corvettes of every make, model, and color.
There is also the sidewalk theater. On our way back to the hotel we see a very drunk gay man is dancing down the street wearing a Dallas Cowboy's cheerleading outfit that appears to be three sizes too small. It's not attractive. He does some cheer routines and collects a few tips.
I briefly wonder how drunk I would have to be to attempt that stunt and then quickly decide there isn't enough booze in the world for that to happen.
We check into our room, and then end up giving us a suite. It's huge and has two beds and a giant bathroom. The room is painted a garish color of palm tree green on half the walls and grape purple on the other half. All the bed linens and pillows are white and there is a big chandelier hanging over the bed. I can't decide if it looks cool or is totally hideous. It's clean though, so that's what counts.
We change and get ready to walk around and find dinner. I read about a great Cuban place called Puerto Sagua that is supposedly right down the street. It is. We find it and it is packed. With locals. Another good sign. I have the Cuban pork sandwich and Matt has the Ropa Vieja. It is cheap and it is good. I recommend this restaurant if you are ever in South Beach.
Now it's time for the night life, but I'm exhausted. The bar lobby is already swinging with people eager to party. We have a few free drinks at the bar because the hotel does a free happy hour from 7-8 pm.
Then Matt asks if we are going clubbing and laughs. We are both exhausted and have to get up early tomorrow to get to Port Everglades and board our ship.
I fall asleep as soon as I lay down on the bed.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Innocent Voyage - Part 1: Moon over Miami
So Matt and I decide to take a cruise and we both survived (neither of us fell overboard). More about interesting and morbid cruise ship statistics later. Now we are back in Minnesota and loving our 2 degree weather. Loving it, I tell you. It's difficult to believe it will be officially spring in 9 days.
But anyway, the trip review. I will try to be as disturbingly specific as possible, in case anyone reading has ever wondered if they would like to go on a cruise. Here's a hint: If you like to eat, drink, and be waited upon as if you had a harem of slaves at your disposal, then yes, you'll probably like it.
But first we had to fly to Miami.
Our flight down was uneventful; I had to sit in the middle, between Matt and another guy I'll call Crosby because he reminded me of the guy from Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Minus the Young. If you have no idea who Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young are, then you get an F minus on the subject of classic rock.
After 15 minutes into the flight, I'm bored. I'm waiting for my Ginger ale, the ONLY soda I drink on airplanes. So I start doodling in my notebook. I write a few pages from the chapter I'm working on, and then I start trying to remember the formula for the speed of sound. The speed of sound has to do with the coefficient of stiffness and the density. I had to look it up: it's 767 miles per hour. Chuck Yeager is the pilot who first broke the sound barrier. The reason I had to look it up was that it was important for something I was writing, and I also needed to know about lightning and how much power it could produce and all that jazz. So I'm explaining this to Matt; he had to listen to me because he's trapped between me and the window. We start talking about lightning.
Matt: Why do some people die when they get hit by lightning and others don't?
Me: I don't know... Hey, maybe the people who live get special powers.
Matt: Like magic powers...I wondered that too. Maybe they have a secret group.
Me: Because I'm sure it does SOMETHING to you. It's not like you would be normal after.
Matt: I wonder what it feels like?
Me: Yeah, I heard that you can tell it's going to hit you, a few seconds before. All the hairs on your body stand straight up. You can smell the crackle coming...
At this, Crosby perks up.
Crosby: Yeah, that happened to me!
Me: Really? You got hit by lightning?
Crosby: No, almost. I was out on a golf course with some friends and there was a storm. Every hair on me stood straight up!
Me: Wow. Then what?
Crosby: Then I fell to the ground and put my hands over my head.
Then we have a long discussion about volts and amperage, and Crosby assures me that lightning has high volts but low amperage which is the thing that is dangerous. Who knew? Crosby turns out to be a good seat mate and pretty soon we arrive in sunny Florida.
Here's what happens next. We have a free shuttle to take us to our South Beach hotel. We have an hour to wait so we sit outside and watch the people come and go. I'm sitting and enjoying the warm air when a group of 5 dudes stroll out. They are dressed like rappers. The littlest guy is wearing a faux diamond encrusted belt, which is situated around his thighs because he didn't get the memo that a belt is meant to be worn around your WAIST to HOLD UP your PANTS. He also has a passel of chains and bling-bling around his neck. He is difficult not to notice because he sounds like a wind chime when he walks. I notice he has Louis Vuitton luggage and I try to figure out what rapper he is while I sit and eat a chicken sandwich and try not to choke because I'm laughing.
It's quite possible that he is just a poser. We are in Miami, after all. Soon, a big black Escalade pulls up (how cliche) and a driver comes out and loads the luggage. Suddenly a group of girls appear and are hanging and mooning around, and the little rapper autographs a copy of some CD. The girls look really happy and I'm tempted to ask one of them who it is, but I chicken out. They might roll their eyes at me and tell me how stoopid I am...
Oh yeah? I bet they don't know who Crosby, Stills, and Nash are!
Simultaneously, not 20 feet away, two Miami police officers are trying to wake up a hobo who's sleeping on a bench. Wake up, hobo! You're missing the poser show!
Eventually they leave and I ask Matt how we will know which shuttle bus is ours. Then it pulls up. It's bright red with a lady painted on the outside. It says South Beach and the door opens and Cyndy Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun is blaring on the radio.
"That's our ride!"
Welcome to Miami...
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
All I want for Christmas...
....is my own monkey.
Picture it: You come home from a long day at work and your monkey is in the kitchen fixing you a Brandy Manhattan with extra olives.
When we went to Thailand a few years ago, we stopped at a monkey school on the island of Koh Samui, which a large island in the Gulf of Thailand. We had gone kayaking to Dragon Island where they filmed the movie, The Beach, and we went to go ride elephants and also see the monkeys. They trained these macaques to climb up the coconut trees, spin the nuts until they popped off the branch and fell down. Because the trees are so tall, this is the most efficient way of harvesting them.
Leave it to the Japanese to take it a step further.
I bet they saw these Thai monkeys picking coconuts and thought, "Screw Coconuts! What we need is a monkey to serve beers!"
"Heck, yeah!"
Picture it: You come home from a long day at work and your monkey is in the kitchen fixing you a Brandy Manhattan with extra olives.
When we went to Thailand a few years ago, we stopped at a monkey school on the island of Koh Samui, which a large island in the Gulf of Thailand. We had gone kayaking to Dragon Island where they filmed the movie, The Beach, and we went to go ride elephants and also see the monkeys. They trained these macaques to climb up the coconut trees, spin the nuts until they popped off the branch and fell down. Because the trees are so tall, this is the most efficient way of harvesting them.
Leave it to the Japanese to take it a step further.
I bet they saw these Thai monkeys picking coconuts and thought, "Screw Coconuts! What we need is a monkey to serve beers!"
"Heck, yeah!"
Monday, August 11, 2008
Deliverance
Last weekend, me and Matt went to visit my parents in Onalaska. My parents had arranged for us to all go canoeing on Saturday on the Black River. The last time I had taken this canoe trip was when I was ten and we had just moved to the area. That was the canoe trip from hell. Me and my brother didn't even have a canoe; my parents borrowed an inflatable raft from the neighbors so they would only have to rent one canoe. The raft was attached to my parent's canoe by a 30-foot rope - which was a good thing because, well, have you ever tried to paddle in an inflatable raft?
My brother and I knelt, squatted, and sat in this glorified inner tube trying to paddle our way down this very shallow, sandy, slow moving river. Eventually our parents ended up pulling us the entire way. My sister Kelly was probably the only one who had a peaceful trip. She sat in the middle of my parent's canoe and watched the scenery.
The only funny part was getting stuck on the sandbar, my dad pushing the canoe and my mom pulling and then falling backwards into the river, and the rest of us screaming with laughter.
We arrived at our destination about 5 hours after we started, exhausted, sore, sun burnt and mosquito-bitten, looking like, well, like we just got off the boat. Bewildered and shell-shocked. I think I heard more than one person say, "I'm NEVER doing that again." I think I was one of them.
This time was not bad. We made it down the river in three hours, even catching up to a group of boy scouts who'd started an hour before us. After we passed them, we had lunch on a sandbar. Matt decided to wade out into the middle of the river and eventually the screeching tweens arrived.
Word to uninformed: Sound travels EXTREMELY well over water. You can hear some talking in a normal voice about 100 yards away. One of the kids didn't understand this little fact when he said to his fellow paddler,"Ten bucks to hit the guy in the river. Fifteen to knock him over."
My mother was surprised. "What did HE say?"
I yelled to Matt, "They threw down the gauntlet! They're coming for you! Get ready."
Matt just stood there like Charon and smiled at them as they floated past. I thought he should have tipped them over.
You gotta watch out for those boy scouts.
Thankfully, we finished a few minutes ahead of them and got the first van back. You could hear them hollering all the way down the river. Towards the end I said to Matt, "Hurry! Paddle! They're gaining on us." My imagination has a habit of getting away with me and I was having all sorts of "Lord of the Flies" thoughts. I felt a little like Burt Reynolds in that movie. You know, THAT movie. Now there was a canoe trip from hell.
My brother and I knelt, squatted, and sat in this glorified inner tube trying to paddle our way down this very shallow, sandy, slow moving river. Eventually our parents ended up pulling us the entire way. My sister Kelly was probably the only one who had a peaceful trip. She sat in the middle of my parent's canoe and watched the scenery.
The only funny part was getting stuck on the sandbar, my dad pushing the canoe and my mom pulling and then falling backwards into the river, and the rest of us screaming with laughter.
We arrived at our destination about 5 hours after we started, exhausted, sore, sun burnt and mosquito-bitten, looking like, well, like we just got off the boat. Bewildered and shell-shocked. I think I heard more than one person say, "I'm NEVER doing that again." I think I was one of them.
This time was not bad. We made it down the river in three hours, even catching up to a group of boy scouts who'd started an hour before us. After we passed them, we had lunch on a sandbar. Matt decided to wade out into the middle of the river and eventually the screeching tweens arrived.
Word to uninformed: Sound travels EXTREMELY well over water. You can hear some talking in a normal voice about 100 yards away. One of the kids didn't understand this little fact when he said to his fellow paddler,"Ten bucks to hit the guy in the river. Fifteen to knock him over."
My mother was surprised. "What did HE say?"
I yelled to Matt, "They threw down the gauntlet! They're coming for you! Get ready."
Matt just stood there like Charon and smiled at them as they floated past. I thought he should have tipped them over.
You gotta watch out for those boy scouts.
Thankfully, we finished a few minutes ahead of them and got the first van back. You could hear them hollering all the way down the river. Towards the end I said to Matt, "Hurry! Paddle! They're gaining on us." My imagination has a habit of getting away with me and I was having all sorts of "Lord of the Flies" thoughts. I felt a little like Burt Reynolds in that movie. You know, THAT movie. Now there was a canoe trip from hell.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Minnesota
Here's the video I shot up at the cabin. I wish I got a better shot of the loons. They got extremely close to the boat; I never realized that they are such large birds, and absolutely stunning up close.
I also think I drank about a case of beer. And I don't drink beer. That's the thing about being up at the cabin. You drink beer. All day. Usually starting before noon. One morning I practically I poured them on my Cheerios.
Hope you enjoy.
The music is by the Push Stars.
I also think I drank about a case of beer. And I don't drink beer. That's the thing about being up at the cabin. You drink beer. All day. Usually starting before noon. One morning I practically I poured them on my Cheerios.
Hope you enjoy.
The music is by the Push Stars.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Milwaukee or bust
Matt disappeared this weekend to the land of beer and brats (Milwaukee) to see the Twinkies play the Brewers. Apparently, this is a road trip many Twin Citians make every summer, as a chance to go see baseball as it was meant to be seen --at an outdoor ballpark.
Also, despite the fact that the entire world knew (even the BBC reported it) that the Lake Delton dam had busted and flooded the area and parts of the interstate were closed, none of the five knew what was going on until they hit the back up at I-94. I wish I had heard the conversation, but I will try to imagine it:
"What the hell is this?"
"Accident?"
"Damn Wisconsin drivers."
"Maybe it won't take long."
"Maybe someone hit a deer."
"Maybe a beer truck tipped over."
"Hey those people are driving up the exit ramp."
"What is this shit?"
"God, look at this moron. What's HE doing?"
"Jesus, get OFF the highway!"
"Shut up, stop telling me how to drive."
"These jerkoffs are driving up the ON RAMP!"
"Well, we ARE in Wisconsin."
"Bunch of dummies."
"Cheeseheads."
"Cow tippers."
"You can't really tip over a cow."
"I have."
"No you haven't; it goes against the law of physics."
"Well, I heard you could."
"Hey...are we getting close to the Dells."
"Yeah? So?"
"Ummm... didn't something happen there?"
"Like what? Did somebody bomb the water parks?"
"Why would terrorists bomb Noah's Ark."
"Because it's Christian."
"What?"
"Noah? His Ark? Get it? It's in the bible."
"You're a frickin' idiot."
"Christians like water slides and wave pools, too, you know."
Okay, I think I'll stop here.
Matt brought back two Brewers shirts. No. 8 for Ryan Braun. I've always wanted a shirt that has my last name on the back, so I guess I will have to pick one up. We gave one shirt to his dad and a teeny toddler shirt to Jack, much to his father's chagrin. Firstly, it is a Brewer's shirt, and secondly Jack's last name is not Braun. Peter pretended to be amused.
"Don't worry," I told him. "There's no way there'll ever be a Goepfrich playing major league baseball."
I don't think he appreciated that. He crossed his arms and said, "He's NEVER wearing that shirt to a Twins game. Hmmpf!"
Also, despite the fact that the entire world knew (even the BBC reported it) that the Lake Delton dam had busted and flooded the area and parts of the interstate were closed, none of the five knew what was going on until they hit the back up at I-94. I wish I had heard the conversation, but I will try to imagine it:
"What the hell is this?"
"Accident?"
"Damn Wisconsin drivers."
"Maybe it won't take long."
"Maybe someone hit a deer."
"Maybe a beer truck tipped over."
"Hey those people are driving up the exit ramp."
"What is this shit?"
"God, look at this moron. What's HE doing?"
"Jesus, get OFF the highway!"
"Shut up, stop telling me how to drive."
"These jerkoffs are driving up the ON RAMP!"
"Well, we ARE in Wisconsin."
"Bunch of dummies."
"Cheeseheads."
"Cow tippers."
"You can't really tip over a cow."
"I have."
"No you haven't; it goes against the law of physics."
"Well, I heard you could."
"Hey...are we getting close to the Dells."
"Yeah? So?"
"Ummm... didn't something happen there?"
"Like what? Did somebody bomb the water parks?"
"Why would terrorists bomb Noah's Ark."
"Because it's Christian."
"What?"
"Noah? His Ark? Get it? It's in the bible."
"You're a frickin' idiot."
"Christians like water slides and wave pools, too, you know."
Okay, I think I'll stop here.
Matt brought back two Brewers shirts. No. 8 for Ryan Braun. I've always wanted a shirt that has my last name on the back, so I guess I will have to pick one up. We gave one shirt to his dad and a teeny toddler shirt to Jack, much to his father's chagrin. Firstly, it is a Brewer's shirt, and secondly Jack's last name is not Braun. Peter pretended to be amused.
"Don't worry," I told him. "There's no way there'll ever be a Goepfrich playing major league baseball."
I don't think he appreciated that. He crossed his arms and said, "He's NEVER wearing that shirt to a Twins game. Hmmpf!"
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Holy crap! I don't want to say how long it took me to figure out how to post these videos. Had to split them into two because they were too long for youtube. I'm a total technotard... so if I can figure it out.. with help from google, I guess anyone can. It only took about 2 hours and a bottle of Chardonnay. Yippee! Anyway, hope you enjoy. First one is before we got lost, lost... still in a good mood. Don't know why I had so much Queen music. Seemed to fit. Technotard... that's my new word. Not sure if anyone else said it first. Otherwise...it's mine. Oh yeah, discovered new great pizza. Thai chicken pizza from Uptown Pizza in Mpls. It's hot and spicy; has pineapple and coconut.
Eat it!
Eat it!
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