Touring Tiger

School Supplies

2011-09-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

I was on my way to run a few errands when I passed our localelementary school. It was crowded aroundthe front door with a group of 20 to 25 young, nervous, soon-to-be students. There index fingers were extended scrollingdown a list of names trying to find where they stood. It was the day I dreaded every summer, therealization that the fun times of the last three months couldn’t last and theconquest of knowledge was important to your future. It was day the school “randomly selected” whoyour teacher was going to be. Some ofthe children were jumping up and down in excitement, some, not so much. In one gripping minute of fate your next 9months were exposed. Did you get matchedup with the Wicked Witch of the West, destined to do endless amounts of book reports;or, where you fortunate enough to have the newly hired, young, cool teacherthat let you learn through videos and games?

The beginning of school does allow for one every excitingtask, the acquisition of new supplies. Somehow, new folders, pens, and pencils mark a new beginning ofsorts. You cast away those organizationaltools that are torn and battered and you accept that these newly mintedmaterials can somehow increase your knowledge in math or science. It’s almost like a basketball player gettinga new pair of shoes and anticipating the ability to jump higher, exceptsomehow, the pencil/pen affects your brain function. It’s a good feeling, and an opportunity toaccept the new responsibility associated with the reception of such goods.

In my 17 years of schooling my favorite organizationalsupply was a folder I had during my elementary career. The front cover was filled with a photographof David Robinson, a basketball player for the San Antonio Spurs. The picture was of him dunking the basketballwith force over another player who looked scarred and frighten of hisability. When I first received thisfolder I decided to use it for a very difficult math class, which for me wasalways the toughest subject. Myassumption was that David and his folder would give me special intellectualabilities. In fact, after the firstmonth of doing little homework, failing one test, and not taking a couplequizzes I was convinced he would step it up and get me to a passing grade. I continued to pack the papers in the twoinner slots hoping the knowledge the folder received would transverse into myhead and through osmosis I would have all the necessary information I needed topass the class. Ultimately, I learnednot to trust a folder, and if you want to learn something you have to do ityourself.

In my household theconversation over needing new supplies was always the same. I would start with, “Mom and Dad I NEEEEDDDnew pens and pencils.” To which myparents would say, “You don’t NEEEEDD anything, you would like them.” To which I would counter, “OK, I don’t needthem, but I am entering the 4^th grade and we are getting into somecomplex mathematical formulas and difficult scientific hypothesis, to which anew pen and pencil could boost my brain capacity.” That last sentence was often met withlaughter and when composer was found my parents would respond with, “Well, ifwe buy you these supplies, there will be an expectation that your report cardwill be filled with more A’s than B’s and C’s.” I thought about this statement for some time, wondering if I reallyneeded the extra stress that came with the requisition of a $2.50 pen orpencil, could I really concentrate with all the regular anxiety of school andthe addition a new writing utensil would bring.

After my years of schooling, I entered the workforce and Icontinued to look at the attainment of new supplies as whipping the slate cleanand starting fresh. If I had aparticularly rough day at work and needed to hit the reset button, I would headover to Staples and purchase a new writing utensil or some new post-itnotes. It became my outlet of puttingwhatever behind me and starting clean. With one caveat, I wouldn’t throw the old supplies away, hoping that inthe future the mojo that was once with these items might come back and then Iwould be filled with these over performing supplies, all of which were helpingme succeed. I equated it to somethinglike the compact of compound interest on my saving account.

Generally, I took some time to think about my parentscounter proposal. What if I selectedsupplies that I ultimately didn’t like? I would be stuck with all this added pressure and get no boost in brainpower that new items certainly brought. It was all way too much for a future 4^th grader to handle, soI often consulted the one independent source of information that knew theanswer to all of life’s most difficult questions, the Magic 8 ball. Thebeautiful thing about the black ball of answers was if you didn’t like itsoriginal response you could re-shake it and get a completely differentretort. It was the ultimate source forthe responses you wanted.

Once the 8 ball was consulted and my mind had wrapped itselfaround the new expectations I would re-consult my parents, “Mom, Dad I’vedecided I want those new school supplies.” To which they would say, “Ok, and you understand what this means to yourscholastic achievement?” After a pause Iwould say, “Yes, I am required to do my best.” They would smile and say, “And that is all we can expect, yourbest. Let’s go get you some newstuff.” And just like that I would be inthe car headed to the store, with my mind wondering what amazing new inventionsthe office supply industry had created to help struggling fourth graders passbasic algebra.

A Four Letter Fiat

2011-08-27T21:21:00.003-05:00

I awoke in Albany to rain, which was fitting considering how the previous day unfolded. I was anxious and nervous that I would be stuck for another day in a city I had no intention of being in. I quickly hurried back to the airport where I waited for the rental car counters to open. In an act of desperation I walked over to the information booth, checking to see if there was a bus up to Canada, just in case my supposed car reservation wasn't made. The volunteer at the information desk gave me a schedule of an off branded bus that went up to Montreal twice a day which gave me an alternative if nothing else worked out. I was still questioning the events of the previous night. What motivation did the rental car customer service representative have to actually following through with my request? I was a jerk, he knew I was a jerk, and he wanted to do everything thing he could to get me off the phone. So why not make up a false reservation, tell me everything was honky dory and get me off the phone? He could laugh about it with his co-workers later knowing I would be stranded in Albany another day and he would be sleeping quite comfortable in his own bed.

The minute the car rental counter opened I rushed to the front of the line and explained my situation. No, I didn’t have a reservation number. Yes, that is my driver’s license. And NO, I never personally call your company. The lady pushed some digits on their keyboard, sorted through some notes on the counter and came across a scrap piece of paper with hand marked notes and a drawing of a horse. I was in luck; a car was mine, the last car in Albany for weeks. After a long conversation I learned that just north of the city was Saratoga Race Track and this was a huge week for races so the entire city was sold out. Apparently, horses demand cars and drawings.

I signed all the appropriate documents with the exception of the rate information. What the customer service representative failed to inform me was the rental would be 100 dollars more, per day, than my last one. If you spread that over 4 days I was basically paying for the car. I kindly pointed this out to the new lady help me by stating, “Ma’am is this rate for the car?” She responded with, “Yes, buy you will be happy to know you getting something.” To which I replied, “Well, it better be a Cadillac.” I didn't have any alternatives and they knew it so I grabbed the keys, walked out to the parking lot and bit my lip the whole way remembering to smile hoping a little positive energy would pay off the rest of the week.

I didn't ask what type of car it was, frankly I didn't really care, but when I saw the vehicle I would be driving my mouth dropped. It was a brand new, candy apple red Fiat 500. For those of you not up on your Italian made cars, it looks like a hamster that ran directly into the side of a wall and flattened its noise. It is an embarrassment to all other vehicles, and worse off has absolutely no storage. This made the act of fitting my carry-on suitcase into the trunk a task only Houdini could do. One backpack and one small roller board barely fit into the car and my presence in the front seat made for quite the cramped ride. I don't think another human, regardless of size, shape or age would fit. I felt like I was a clown and the entire week I would be leading the circus in humor.

Regardless of model, shape or size there was business to be done, so I strapped myself in, put the car into drive and pressed on the gas heading in the direction of Montreal. The drive was actually quite beautiful. Highway I-87 goes through the Adirondack Mountains, and are filled with many lush wonderful tree's. The road winds along the Finger Lakes and as I passed the exit for Lake Placid all I could think of was Al Micheals and his call of the winning goal for TEAM USA Hockey in the 1980 Winter Olympics. Regardless of everything that had happened over the last 12 hours the views from the front seat of my Fiat made it all worth it.

I crossed the border into Canada with relative ease and started to see the vast difference between upstate New York and lower Quebec. Instantly, upon entering the Maple leaf country, all the radio stations switched to French. They were still playing American, English Songs, but the disc jockeys were tapping it out in a very different romantic language. The street signs were also unfamiliar; the sign for icy road had a temperature gauge and a 0 degree's C symbol, which at first made no sense to me. The traffic lights, instead of green, yellow and red had four horizontal lights with two red and two green and the progression made no sense. There was no long green short yellow long red, but rather blinking and flashing and switching. Which, I still don't understand.

The differences go beyond language and signs, and I recognized this upon my check in at the hotel. Everything was smaller; the rooms were smaller, the hotel lobby wasn’t as grandiose, and the breakfast buffet was more one option treat than full pig outs. It felt like I was in Europe, only I drove there, and no one was playing soccer. My hotel was on the outer banks of the city and from my window I had a gorgeous view of the surrounding mountains. The city itself is set in a perfect place; highlands to the north, a river to the south, and the middle lush with beautiful trees. It’s easy to see why the French loved this place so much.

My first meeting of the trip was just after lunch and as I pulled into the parking lot the worse of my fears were met. The company was indulging in a summer picnic and what had to be 50 people were staring at my small ugly car as I pulled into the only visitor spot. It was a scene directly out of the movies when an extremely famous person enters a room, everyone stopped and starred. My face must have been as red as the car, as I exited the side door and started to walk up to the front door. There was chatting among the picnic goers and small amounts of laughter, which I know where directed at the atrocity of a vehicle I was driving.

Naturally, the visitor’s door was locked and the constant starring intensified. One of the gentleman, who was eating by himself came up to me and started speaking some random string of words in French, until I stopped him and mentioned that I only converse in English, to which he replied, "Ze office is clozed fo one houra." I had twenty minutes of ridicule and starring while all these people gorged out on wonderfully looking food. I walked back to my car with my head down, hoping that somehow I could put a cap of invisibility over my rental car.

Not two minutes after I sat back in the front seat there was a tap, tap on my window. I rolled down the glass and mouthed to my questioning friend, "Yes, how can I help you?" He looked at me and said, "I very much like your car, can you please tell me how many miles per gallon it gets." To which I said, "Dude, I don't know, it’s a rental." He started to laugh and bleated the following, "You are a lucky man this is a fine automobile." I couldn't tell if he was serious or mocking me with great sarcasm, but either way I was extremely embarrassed. It’s hard to pick up subtle non-verbal communication when you don't speak the same language. But what I did understand where the 10 to 15 people laughing and pointing at the smooched front of my car.

My pride was restored when I went back up to the visitor’s entrance, walked into my appointment and left with a purchase order in hand. The victory of a nice sale can overcome any and all deficiencies that exist in the outside world. I left the parking lot, did a double take on the building and smiled as I knew no matter how much embarrassment I had to endure it was all worth it.

The rest of my trip flowed with a certain inevitability. I had come to terms with the fine piece of machinery that I was driving, no matter how awful the car was it was mine, and with that came a little pride. When a car would be passing me, I’d look over smile and mouth the words, “Yeah, it’s mine and I know you love it” to the passing driver. It was like having an ugly dog, no matter how hideous the thing was all you wanted to do was parade it in front of other people. When time comes for my next car, chances are I won’t be buying a Fiat, but at least I’ll know how it drives.

Abandoned in Albany

2011-08-19T14:39:00.003-05:00

To tell the story of how I got stuck in Albany, New York I must first start with the fact that I was originally suppose to be in Montreal, Canada; which makes the idea that I was abandoned in the middle of New York State even more perplexing. But, nonetheless I was officially constrained to the four walls of my hotel room with no means of transportation and no concrete plan of how I was going to make it to my business meetings 300 miles to the north. These situations reinforce my official stance on travel, "No matter how much planning you do, sh*t gets messed up."

Two months ago I started the preparation for my visit to Montreal. My first order of business was to book airfare, and since it is only about a 2 hour flight from Chicago, I thought that I would be able to snag something for about 300 dollars. When the search engines produced results that mirrored a house payment I knew that wasn't going to happen. The cheapest flight in-and-out of French speaking Canada was $800 dollars, and my creative travel wheels started spinning.

I checked Ottawa, Quebec, Toronto all flights to our friends to the north were outrageous. I pulled out my map of the northeast USA and started looking for cities somewhat close to Montreal. My idea was to fly in, rent a car, and drive across the border. I stated with Syracuse, which is a 3 hour drive and the flights were much more reasonable around 300 dollars and I knew I was on to something. After a rather extensive search I settled on Albany, NY which had a decent airfare and less than 3 hour drive. I thought I had outsmarted the system, a creative solution to a difficult travel quandary, plus I had saved the company money....which any boss would want to hear.

On the day of my trip I arrived at O'Hare International Airport just outside Chicago under the threat of thunderstorms. In all my years of travel I have learned to take the weather forecasts with a grain of salt, very rarely does any impending weather relate at all to if a flight will actually take off or not. I pulled my bag through the front door and peered down at my watch I had given myself the customary 2 hours for check-in, getting through security, and finding the correct loading gate. I was right on schedule and nothing makes a business traveler feel comforted than being on schedule. Even the big digital board showing all the flights was on my side flashing the best words of all, "ON TIME."

I grabbed some quick take-out dinner, found my gate, and waited for boarding to occur. I was finished eating with about 1 hour before we started to board so I decided to partake in one of my favorite airport activities, flight watching. When I have some extra time I like to sit in front of the flight board and watch all the other flights. In a big airport like Chicago It’s fascinating to see where and when everyone is going. There are flights to exotic cities like Bora Bora which makes me think of the beach, and less exciting locales like Cleveland, which makes me think of the time there river caught on fire. On this occasion what caught my eye wasn't necessarily the locations but the red. Little by little flights were being delayed, and while I was still safe my happy feelings were quickly becoming diminished.

It wasn't too much longer till my fears were realized, except it wasn't a delay it was a gate change. My departure gate had moved all the way to the other side of the airport, which if you know anything about the Chicago Airport meant a 45 minute walk. I had just enough time to get to my new gate and board so I started to hustle, semi-running, trying to get there just to make sure I was in the right spot. I was half way through the airport when I noticed the marker move again, this time it was a delay, 1 hour 35 minutes, my run quickly turned into a walk.

10 minutes later the board changed again this time to the ominous 3 hour delay, which in the travel world is almost a guarantee for cancelation. When I got to the new gate I was surrounded my other weary passengers. The hallway was filled, people were sitting and laying on the ground and the only space I could find was a tiny corner next to the waste basket, which is an awful place to be. Sitting next to the waste basket at an airport is like being in a land fill, people come by and throw everything and anything into the small upper opening, and since I am in Chicago, everyone thinks there Michael Jordan trying their best jump shot. 9 times out of 10 when a shot goes up, it’s normally way off course which meant I either got hit directly with the refuge or sprayed from the splatter of the miss. It was disgusting and the only thing keeping me here was the power outlet where I could charge my electrical gadgets.

Time moved slowly and I thought for sure there was no way I was getting out, until they started to call our boarding, which brought a pleasant smile to my face. This delay did put a little cramp in my smart travel plans, when I arrived in Albany I still had a 3+ hour drive up to Montreal which wouldn't have been a big deal if everything was on time, but with the delay I was looking at arriving in the maple leaf country around 1:30 in the morning. I took my seat, opened a magazine and waited for us to hit the sky's hoping we might be able to make up some time in the air.

It was a bumpy, uncomfortable, scary, make-you-never-fly-again type of flight. The captain indicated that the storm pattern had stretched across most of our flight plan and movement would be restricted. This meant that I didn't get to enjoy the one pleasure of flying.....the drink service. We bounced around like a 4 year on a trampoline but somehow made it to our destination only 3 hours 15 minutes late. My anxiety levels where already high but that was nothing compared to when I reached the rental car corner.

I chose to rent from a major company that guaranteed an economy car at a cheap price for 4 days they also allowed travel up into Canada so I felt comfortable with the entire situation. That was of course until I picked up the phone from the baggage claim and pronounced my arrival. In soft words I said, "Hello, this is Mr. Kovacic I have a reservation with you tonight." I thought I was being diplomatic, and the rental agent responded, "Yes, Mr. Kovacic I see your reservation. Unfortunately you are over two hours late, and according to your rental agreement we have given your car to another guest." To which I replied, "Ok, well I guess I'll need another car." Which sparked the following response, "Yes, another car. Well here's the thing, we don't have any other cars."

At that point my blood pressure started to rise," No other cars, ummm, I'll need one tomorrow then." To which he responded, "Yeah, tomorrow is no good either, since your reservation is for today we won't be able to accommodate you for the rest of the rest of the week. You will need to go online and make another reservation, but I'm sure you will find that we do not have any other cars for the rest of the month." My response was simple, "Ok, so basically you don't care about me. You took my reservation, guaranteed a service, and are leaving me high and dry." I then hung up. Like a coyote looking for his last meal I frantically raced over to the other rental counters searching all the possible companies for anything with four wheels and an engine. Nothing, they were all sold out, for the rest of the week. Which officially made me stuck in Albany, with no means of transportation, no hotel reservation, no nothing.

After realizing that I wasn't going anywhere I got on the phone with the hotel chain I normally book through and found a room for the night. It was comforting knowing that I was at least going to have a place to sleep. Once I got checked in I called the rental company again and lost totally lost my cool. I yelled, screamed, hollered and overwhelming gave the customer service representative a piece of my half fried mind. After much back and forth, they claimed to have found me a rental car with another company, which I could pick up the next morning. They didn't give a confirmation number, or any sort of confidence that an actual reservation was made, and the minute I got off the phone I questioned the entire thing, thinking that the guy just wanted to get me off the phone.

I went to bed that night feeling awful. I wasn't going to make my meeting tomorrow, I wasn't in the city I was supposed to be, and I wasn't this smart, amazing, thrifty traveler. Instead I was stuck and I let all my frustration out on the poor customer service rep. at the rental car company. I almost never become so overwhelmed with emotion that I yell, but all my pent up aggression flowed when I was on the phone and I transformed into this ugly, mean nasty person; something and someone that legitimately scared me. I have read that these times of turmoil are suppose to reveal your true colors and I hope they don't because I didn't like the person I was. In fact, I don't think anyone would, and as I shut my eyes I made a pact to myself to never lose it like that again....no matter how frustrating the circumstances become.

The Red Leaves of Summer

2011-08-13T13:33:00.002-05:00

It is late July in my Suburban Chicago home and the summer heat has created a permanent sweat ring around my brow. The middle months are in full force and the most heavily participated activity is finding a good locale with ice cold air conditioning. Even though it's blazing outside it seems all seasons in the Midwest seem to function around the axis of winter. We are either deep in the white stuff or thinking about how much time we have until were shoveling out again. This summer is no different, we are unseasonably warm, but most people are accepting it as a viable option to the chill that is right around the corner. I received my first sign of the inevitable change, and it reminded me just how fast life travels.

My house is lined with an assortment of flowers, trees and plants. When I tell people this they often ramble off the scientific name of three or four different vegetative species in hopes of having some common plant bond, but to be honest I have no idea what any of them are called. The previous owner was a "garden-guy" and my wife and I are the recipients of his hard work and passion. Over the last few months I have grown a greater appreciation for his green thumb, and enjoyed watching the transformation from spring time bud to summer foliage. It is a transition any fan of summer welcomes.

The summer downpours have allowed the growing process to be relatively fast and easy, with needed supplemental water only when temperatures hit the 90’s. Every day as I leave for work I take mental notes of where each plant is, and by the time I return at night it seems each has performed their own mid-day workout completely changing body shape. My evening visits to the garden always induce a smile as the newly formed flowers, leaves and branches fit together perfectly.

Just outside my front door is one particular tree that has caught my attention. Its leaves are green and have the shape of a smooth looking bar of soap. It isn't particularly high, though its upper branches reach our roof line. When compared to the surrounding foliage it looks something like an oversized muffin surrounded by scones, as the top fanes out surrounding the trunk. It is the dominate figure in our front landscaping and sets the tone for the rest of the garden.

A week or two ago I noticed a small grouping of three leaves that had settled into a lower lying branch segment. They are the only leaves that this bud created and they stick out like a lone blue M&M in a palm filled with red ones. While the size and shape of the leaves are similar to the others it was the color that drew my attention. In defiance to the green of the rest of the tree, these leaves had already begun changing into their fall wardrobe, with the rigid, ragged tips bursting with red color. It was my first sign that fall was approaching and my internal temperature dropped 20 degree's.

Over the next couple weeks little by little green gave way to red until a complete transformation was finished. They were ready for the cool weather of fall. Oddly enough, while the leaves were changing the temperatures were rising and the idea of winter felt good. At first it was odd to see red leaves in July, and the idea of accepting our newly minted summer as quickly ending was quite a tough revelation. It had seemed all the hard work of winter led to merely two weeks of a fully green garden.

The very brink of autumn is a subtle signal that summer can’t last forever and the changing of the seasons is evitable. No matter how bad you want the 80 degree weather to stay, unless you live in San Diego, old man-winter is right behind you. Constant change is a part of life, and the rhythm and timing of the seasons is our cyclic reminder. Life moves way to fast, just when you think you can stop and enjoy the summer heat nature finds a way to let you know its temporary. The first sign of fall, no matter how unwarranted it is was my hint to not become too comfortable in my summer sandals and accept the fact that soon, my daily wear, will be filled with sweaters and pants.

Sun Bathing Turtle Style

2011-08-06T10:47:00.002-05:00

I have spent the better part of my adult life moving from one location to another. If I count up all the address change forms I had to fill out in the last 10 years, including college, I would be pushing double digits. Most of the transitions were for legitimate reasons; work, school, family. And in all this shuffling I always wondered if this was the place I was supposed to be, and I’d asked myself, “Will this place become my home?” A question I’m sure most of you have asked yourself. The feeling of comfort and satisfaction is not something you find just around the corner. In fact, most of us spend 60 years working somewhere just for the opportunity to get the hell out. In all my moves, I have learned that it’s not just the physical place that makes a dwelling a home, but rather whom you share it with. These familiar feelings of warmth and ease can virtually be found anywhere, like on the top of two wooden planks at the end of a dock.

During the summer months my wife and I travel the three hours from Chicago to Battle Creek, Michigan in search of sun, family, and fun. My in-laws live on a small lake just north of town and have all the accommodations one would need for quality time on the water. We spend our days swimming, reading and socializing. It is the perfect place to spend two days away from the busy city.

At the beginning of the boating year I noticed that from time-to-time the ski boat lift was being used by one friendly turtle as his personal tanning booth. In the middle of the day when the sun and the temperature where at their highest the small reptile would pop up from under the water and plop himself onto the long wooden planks normally reserved for the ski-boat. He would then spend the rest of the afternoon warming his body and relaxing like a Hollywood star on an island vacation.

A couple weekends later the family was returning from a quick tour around the lake and I noticed the one turtle had turned into three. Apparently, you can’t keep a good thing hidden forever. The green hard shells were aligned head to tail down the entire wooden plank. I have no idea what a happy turtle looks like, but I do know that they didn’t move from there perch till our boat was docked and the impending doom of a gas gurgling pontoon startled them. I equate this lack of action directly to their level of satisfaction, which could only mean they were one step away from heaven.

Over the next couple weeks I noticed that the regular sun-bathing crew kept growing. There were four, then five, soon every inch of both planks were filled with green skinned testudines. It became the turtle version of Hawaii. Word of mouth amongst turtles must travel fast because eventually there was a waiting list like a Saturday night at the Cheesecake Factory. The waters surrounding the planks were filled with weary looking stressed out turtles looking for any space on one of the planks to sit, space out and enjoy a sunny afternoon.

Last weekend my wife and I stayed at our suburban home outside of Chicago instead of going back to the lake in Michigan, and while I love our house, it is not situated on water, doesn’t have an amazing view of sunsets, and isn’t abundant with natural beauty. Something was missing, and as the few days away from worked passed I started thinking about the turtles and there mid-afternoon lounge. They found their spot, a place they could unwind and settle in, which is a rarity among humans. Often, in our lives we stumble upon these environments that bring a feeling of tranquility, but seldom do we frequent on a regular basis. I would like to think that the turtle that first discovered the wooden planks loved it so much he couldn’t wait to share it with his friends. Spots like these don’t come around very often and paradise isn’t a place left for one’s own heart. If you think about the best days, places, and events you’ve been to almost never were you cheering, enjoying or experiencing by yourself.

A future like Mike Tyson?

2011-07-03T11:28:00.003-05:00

The most testosterone inducing memory for any adult male is the recollection of their first fight. It is the moment in your young life when you establish your worth, and discover whether your future is filled with events that are more like Mike Tyson or Michael J Fox. Over time most of us mature out of this need to express ourselves through fist-a-cuffs, mostly in fear that it will end in ice bags and aspirin. Yet, any time two adult males first meet, eventually there will be a conversation about the first time they got in a fight. If you’re any man at all you have crafted the exact details of your first fist filled knockdown. Generally, these stories paint the teller as some type of Greek God ready to attack at any given moment, regardless of their protruding bellies and shortness of breath.

My first fight came on the mean streets of White Pine Drive, where the four families that lived on our block presented an image more like church congregation than a crime mob. My family had just moved across town and I had exactly zero neighborhood friends, which meant I had to go door-to-door like a Tupperware salesman looking for anyone who could come out and play. The house across the street was home to the Knowlton Family housing two children of our age. One was a girl, and as you know at age 9 they don’t exist. The other was a boy, a year younger than I but a prime target to become my next best friend.

Our relationship got off to a rocky start and not even the bonds of a geographic connection were enough to keep us from bantering back and forth. I couldn’t even pass his house without some type of childish remark being said about my huge ears, nor could he walk by my dwelling without a comment about his protruding front teeth. In just a few short weeks we had gone from newly minted friends to sworn mortal enemies. The only saving grace was the addition of new houses in our subdivision allowing us to strike up different friendships with other kids.

Everything created some type of argument. Kickball ended with us yelling at each other over whether or not someone was out. Baseball always created some stir over balls and strikes. Foursquare was a disaster when we had to figure out whether a hit was in or out. But the ultimate non-compromising game was hide-n-seek. Regardless of how good you are at hiding, you eventually want the other person to find you thus resulting in a run off to the safe zone. When Terry and I played Hide-n-Seek we played a version that resulted in the game ending without resolution……meaning the hider would run inside their house and play video game while the seeker searched the neighborhood for endless hours.

It all reached a boiling point on a hot summer day when the exact details of how we entered the argument are wildly disputed. Nonetheless, we had entered into a binding contract through a double dog dare to throw down and beat the living snot out of each other. It was equivalent to Ali-Fraser, Tyson-Holyfield, or Kovacic-Knowlton. I imagined Michael Buffer announcing to the neighborhood our height, weight and ending with a bellowing “LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!!!” We were finally going to put our long feud behind us and settle the score with a knockdown, drag out fist-a-cuffs.

The location of the brawl was between my house and the neighbors. Our subdivision was still under construction and most of the houses had little grass, so we choose a dirt patch were we could get proper footing and when one of us fell it resulted in scabs and scars. All the neighborhood kids gathered around and formed a circle chanting and yelling our names. My head was in a daze as I thought about the few fights I had seen on TV. My mind drifted into a haze wondering what my signature pose would be after I knocked him out. Would I stand over his bleeding body, right hand high, mocking his attempt at self defense? Maybe I would recite an Edgar Allen Poe Poem giving my victory a sophisticated flair. As my mind wondered the crowd got bigger as the neighborhood kids were out seeking the site of blood.

Finally, the match began as someone yelled “FIGHT!” I lifted my curled hands high in the air and felt my heart beat faster than a wild cheetah after its pry. Terry charged after me like a rabid wildebeest and I started to drift backward in fear. The circle of neighborhood kids kept me from running off, but in the moment of battle I had no idea what to do. My pose must have mimicked any of the great statues in Washington D.C. as I couldn’t move a muscle in my body. With one fell swoop Terry landed, with stretched out fingers, the mother of all scratches directly across my right cheek. All I could muster was, “Dude, did you just scratch me?” From the top of my cheek bone down to my jaw line was a deep red bubbling blood gash. My porcelain clean baby face had been tarnished.

I called the fight off; people actually get hurt in these things. I ran into my house, made a b-line to the bathroom and admired the trophy of my first fighting interaction. The scratch itself didn’t hurt, but I became enraged at the idea of fighting like girls. I ran back outside and at the top of my lungs expressed the following statement to Terry and the neighborhood, “TERRY, I’M GOING TO SUE YOU!!” Laughter rang; everyone was on ground turning in amusement. Apparently, no one took me as a lawyer. I of course was still fuming and I started to contemplate my legal recourse wondering what the best way to get Terry thrown in jail for giving me the world’s worst looking scratch would be.

Composure eventually came across the crowd, and slowly everyone left after the realization that there weren’t any real punches that were going to be thrown. My first and last fight ended without any nose, cheeks or bones being broke. Which, looking back was a good thing because I have no business challenging anyone to a duel. Terry and I found a way to co-exist on White Pine Drive, in fact today were pretty good friends. As it turns out, I had no real legal rights to sue, and the case was dropped as soon as my Mom found out what had happen. Apparently, 9 year old have a hard time obtaining a lawyer.

Speak in French you Crazy American!

2011-02-21T16:52:00.001-06:00

My time in Paris has been much like that of Milan; full of hotels, the logistics of getting to and from, and the feeling that I don’t belong anywhere. I elected to stay at a hotel near the airport, which is good because it provides easy in and easy out access, but it does very little for my cultural well being. Like most large, international cities, the airport in Paris is a ways outside the actually city center (about 40 minutes train ride) and the area around where I am staying can be described as industrial. Industrial meaning, it sucks for anything other than the hotel. I took a walk last night and passed three other hotels, a distribution warehouse, and what I believe to be a message parlor, but judging by the way the gentleman entered the back door my guess is not everyone wants to be seen here.

The one wonderful thing about being in France is the baked items. The croissants, the desserts, and the general availability of beautifully baked pastries is remarkable. I suffer from a desire that many would call a “sweet tooth” so my attention to these details does not get passed. The best part of these temping treats is that they are available at all times of the day, not just breakfast. So if you just had a long business meeting and you’re looking for something to boost your moral all you have to do is take a quick peek over your shoulder and there is something delicious calling your name.

I grabbed three croissants the morning I went to Strasbourg, which is a small French city on the border with Germany. I knew it was going to be a long day, full of different twist and turns and hoped the sugar would get me through it. The total transit time from my hotel to the place of my meeting was about 4 hours one way, so I did everything I could to keep my spirits high.

The main train ride was actually quite nice. It followed the city throughout the western suburbs and finally broke through the city exposing the wonderful countryside. This part of France reminds me a lot of Southern Illinois. It is relativity flat, mostly agricultural and full of gigantic churches. The scale of these places of worship is amazing, considering the supporting communities are no more than 10 to 15 houses. They are incredibly beautiful, with spires that reach high into the sky and bells that chime with soft and peaceful tones. The small remote villages provide a completely different version of life than the hustle and bustle of downtown Paris, and let me know that rural ambitions can still be met.

My experience coming home was something quite different. I left the main train station in Strasbourg at 4:15 pm. Or should I say, I was supposed to leave at 4:15 pm. The one thing you learn quite quickly in France is that the French people are in LOVE with their own language and rarely do you get anything in English unless you are in a tourist location or at the airport. At 4:20, I sat on the train surrounded by other travelers as the conductor came over the loud speaker and announced something in French. I had no idea what in the world he was saying. The harder I concentrated on the words he was saying the more I didn’t understand. The reaction of the other riders gave me all the information I needed. This was going to be awhile.

At 4:45 we finally started down the tracks. But, what was supposed to be the fast train quickly became the train to nowhere, we crept along and as I looked out the windows I could see cows, who were feeding in pastures, fly by us. The conductor gave a verbal update almost every half hour, but I had no clue what he was saying. The only thing I had were the visual reactions from the other passengers, which told me that nothing positive was going on.

I started to get nervous when one of the other passengers started to study a map of the Paris subway system. My mind started to wonder if we were still going to the same location. I had detailed the exact steps on how to get back to the hotel, and if for some reason the train dropped us off at a different location I would be lost. I watched as the nervous passenger asked what seemed to be random questions to 3 or 4 other riders and my overall frustration rose to a boiling point. She was pointing at various stations and saying things that indicated maybe we were going to some other location, but I had no idea what they were saying….it was all in French. I decided my best course of action would be to study the Paris mass transit system, just in case. Unfortunately, studying the subway map without a clear starting point, is much like prepping for the SAT’s, where do you start?

I figured we had to be coming into one of the major stations, I mean we were on an ultra-fast Euro-star which to my knowledge of trains was like the B747-400 of locomotives, and there were only so many stations that could handle us. I tired mapping out a plan for how I would get to my hotel from each of these locations, highlighting transfer points, issue area’s and key stops I couldn’t miss. I felt like Indiana Jones looking for the Holy Grail, nothing was going to say in my way of getting back; until the conductor came on again for a 20 min diatribe which ended with the train completely stopping. When you’re by yourself surrounded by people whom don’t speak your native language, in a situation that makes no sense, and you cannot communicate with anyone your mind has a way of wondering.

The French countryside is a lonely place when you’re stuck on an in-mobile train with a whole bunch of people, non-of which speak English and you can’t figure out anything that is going on. I started to race through the number of possible reasons for the delay. Maybe it was the weather? Maybe it was a hunting party crossing the tracks? Maybe it was something more serious, like an explosion on the tracks in France? Maybe there were mass protests on the streets of Paris (everywhere else this is going on)? My brain went crazy….and my heart beat just as fast.

30 minutes later we started to move again, the commander came on the intercom again and talked for a period of 10 minutes, I know because I timed it. When he finished, I leaned over my seat and asked the people behind me, in English, “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” My hope was that they might have known English, but their reaction was a mix of “I have no idea what you’re saying,” and “SPEAK IN FRENCH, you crazy American.” The longer the train missed its scheduled arrival time, the longer my mind wondered.

We ended up arriving 3 long, tiring, suspense filled hours late. The entire ride was only suppose to last that long. We did arrive at the correct station which shot my short education I the Paris subway system right out the window. As I rode the subway back to the hotel, I thought about how wild my worries had gotten. I could probably trace each crazy scenario I had back to one of the last movies I saw, which made me come to the realization that I need to stick to Comedies. I would have made for a way funnier and enjoyable experience.

Take it All in Stride

2011-02-20T14:24:00.002-06:00

The last three days I have been in Milan, but I could have been anywhere. I literately spent a total of 30 minutes outside of my hotel. All of my business meetings were conducted in either the restaurant of the hotel, the lobby, or a small meeting room. I ate all my meals at the hotels variety of different eating options, and I worked out in the decent gym located on the basement level. I can see how someone can become a hermit if they wanted too. If you tracked my movements on a map all you would see is a big red dot over the hotel for entire three days. My life has become one long revolving hotel bill.

It hasn’t been all that bad, the weather outside is nasty, rainy and cold. The window in my hotel room looks out over a small park, and I have watched a few people venture out to walk their dogs. Within minutes they have an umbrella up; their arms tucked underneath their armpits and are begging for the little guy to do his business so they can get back inside. The other two or three people were on casual walks, and wore coats that puffed out like a blow fish after sighting a barracuda. They topped there Serbian look off with a hat that would make even the Russians envious.

The food has been splendid and I have made quiet the relationship with the serving staff. They don’t speak English and I don’t speak Italian, but we have a way of communicating that involves televised sporting events and food that is on the menu. The first day I asked the waiter for something that was “typically Italian” and he returned with a Hamburger, Fries and a Coke. I had a good laugh, and he thought there was something wrong with the sandwich so he returned to the table with some extra ketchup. Apparently, American’s can’t live without Heinz.

There is a nice bar in the lobby, and while I normally do not participate in overconsumption on a business trip I did frequent it a couple times. The road can get a little lonely and some human interaction is always nice. There were a few other American’s there so I could speak and listen to some unbroken English which is linguistic relief. I even heard a couple creative American curse words when the New York Knicks score from the night before was shown on the TV. Incredibly, a few choice four letter words can be rather comforting.

To get to Milan I took a high speed train from Rome. It took about three hours to travel 369 miles, and I covered a majority of the left side of the boot. Before my arrival in Italy I had always pictured it as a nice, warm, relatively flat country. I don’t know why exactly I had this image; I guess I must have seen a TV program that showed images of Italy in the summer without hills. As I learned during my ride, the country is actually quite rounded. The north, where Milan is located, sits at the base of the Alps, and the mid-country is flowing with mid-sized hills throughout. If it were Chicago, we would try to make ski resorts out of smallest of these indentations.

It wasn’t easy getting to the main terminal station in Rome. From my hotel, in order, I had to take a bus, to the subway, transfer to a different subway line, walk ¾ or a mile to the terminal, find the correct platform, and pray I was getting on the correct train. This kind of coordination doesn’t just happen, you need to be thinking and on your feet at all times. Mostly because one wrong turn, one missed subway stop, or one half mile walk in the wrong direction and you will be hours away from anywhere recognizable. The logistics of travel in a country that doesn’t speak your native language is difficult, sometimes stressful, and bottom line confusing. I spend a lot of my time looking at letters on a map and trying to piece together where on earth I am going.

My general approach to international travel is quite simple….take it in stride, don’t look too far ahead, and always know where home is (or your hotel.) If today you’re traveling from Rome to Milan and tomorrow you’re flying to Paris, don’t be consumed with how you’re going to figure out the Milan airport, focus on getting there first. If your consumed with tomorrow troubles, you won’t be able to handle today’s. Over the last couple years I have realized that these are pretty good lessons in life not just travel. Take it all in stride, don’t look to far ahead, and remember where you came from. Those that can laugh about the small missteps, be present in what’s happening how, and humble enough to remember how it all began seem to be more centered, more complete, and generally happier.

In many ways these travel experiences have provided an interesting test to my life. They obviously provide the platform for whether or not I can find my way through a difficult situation, but they also provide a glimpse into who I current am. Am I the type of person that quits and takes a taxi back to the hotel when I can’t figure it out? Do I constantly need someone showing me the right direction? Can I keep my cool and work through things when I’ve made a wrong turn or deviated from the plan? Interestingly enough, I have learned that not always is it the answer I am looking for, sometimes I do come up a little short, but I often look at these scenarios as the one’s I’ve learned the most from.

The Trust Chest

2011-02-17T14:59:00.001-06:00

Trust and Travel are generally two words not associated with each other. Those of us that spend time on the road realize that everything is tentative. Flights are delayed, bags don’t show up, cars reserved are not really reserved, and basic human principals are thrown out the window. Often the only thing you can trust is yourself, except those instances when the alarm clock doesn’t go off and you wake up 20 minutes late for a 7:30 appointment. Most often I tend to have the feeling of trust when I am surrounded in my own house, with my own things; which is why my best friend, at every hotel, is the safe.

These small trust cubes tend to be in one of two locations, either in the closet tucked away in the bottom left/right corner or in the cabinet under the television. I believe that the hotels pick these locations because someone feels there is an aura of secrecy. Truth be told, it’s not the location that’s keeping other peoples paws off your things. If they wanted to be tricky, they would bolt it to the floor under your bed, or secretly place it in the heating/cooling register on the side of the wall (those things are so big you could fit a chair in them.)

The safe has changed over time. They use to be a key locked, and when you checked in the key were placed in the lock and you shut the door, removed the key, and your belongings were safe from the world. Until everyone and his brother learned how to pick a lock, then they weren’t so safe anymore. Gradually, technology improved, electronics made their way into mainstream life and we now have the electronic locks. To get these guys to work, you generally have a reset button which clears the safe from any pervious tenant’s codes. Once the unit is cleared you shut the door, enter in a 4-digit code, and hit close. The unit remembers for password and presto, it’s as good as an ATM.

I have found over the years a couple of things inherently wrong with this system. The biggest problem is you have to remember your passcode, and let’s be honest, after being on an airplane for countless hours, finding your way to the hotel room, unpacking, and trying to get settled the last you need is to remember some passcode. For this very reason I always write it on a piece of paper. Writing it down though leads to another major worry. What if someone finds your piece of paper? Let’s be honest, first someone would have to find it, second they would have to know what it is, third they would have to know where your hotel is, fourth they would have to know which room is yours, and fifth they would have to know where the safe is…..all very easy for a good criminal.

A couple years ago, I adapted a policy of using the same password for everything. This seemed like a great idea, until my brother and sister-n-law, living in Germany, were able to hack into my newly created Slingbox account (internet TV), the day I set it up, without consulting me. Not that it was my bank account or anything, but it makes you think. So, I changed my approach and I now pick a four digit date of significance that is related to some obscure sports fact….that pretty much only I would know. From time to time I suffer from password overload, and stick with one date for an extended period of time. This is always trumped by some news story of a billion bank accounts being hacked into, and I switch again.

The other major problem with an electronic safe is that they are electronic, and from time to time they don’t open, even when you’re entering the correct password. They work on technology that is about as old as that original Nintendo you have in the basement, think how well that works, and sometimes it just doesn’t want to comply with your request. I have only had this happen to me once, and I must have entered every single passcode I have ever created, thinking that it was my fault. Eventually I had to get the front desk to help me out, and this is where I learned that they have a master override code to open every safe in the entire building. Which then made me wonder how safe these things really are?

The funniest thing I have ever encountered was at a hotel in a city to which I will not name. The chest itself was resting in the closet on top of a series of cabinets. It was not bolted to the woodwork, and I realized after I lock all my belonging up for a couple days, that if someone really wanted my stuff all they had to do is pick the safe up and walk out the door. What good is a safe if you can walk out the door with it?

This all may seem ridiculous to you, but when you’re on the road left to ponder life’s little details, these are the things you think about. How safe is a safe? The answer is, it’s the best thing you got, so use it. Unless of course you’re like me and carry everything of value with you, and leave the safe for that late night candy bar you can’t wait to eat! Let’s hope it’s there when you get home.

The Colosseo

2011-02-15T11:13:00.003-06:00

Two stops south of the main subway terminal in Rome lies the Colosseo. You may better know this as the Coliseum, and it was the second stop on my tour through Rome. I was overwhelmed with excitement as I stepped off the train knowing that I was going to be able to see this building. For some reason I have a fascination with sporting venues. One of my goals in life is to visit every baseball stadium, and while the only bat they might have picked up in the Roman Coliseum is to smash something other than a baseball, I find it quite thrilling to be at what many consider the first arena for sport. Now, I am fully aware the type of games that were conducted here were nothing to cheer about; it was still interesting to see where it all started.

According to historians construction on the Colisuem started somewhere around 72 AD, which would basically be the definition of ancient. Next time your Grandmother tells you she’s old, fire back with a quick, “Not as old as the Colisuem.” It took about 8 years to complete, which isn’t bad considering the size, the lack of any power tools and the fact it was constantly under attack by stone-robbers (yes, people whom wanted the stone.) Capacity was an alarming 50,000 people, which is just unthinkable, considering the fact there were no luxury sky boxes, no plush comfortable chairs, and you were sitting on cold hard stone steps.

Immediately outside the station doors lies the Coliseum, and as I exited under my breath you could hear the words, “WHOA!” The stadium is angled in a way that you are looking at the side that is most photographed, with the high double-sided wall, and the curled top rung. Each level has rounded entries, which allows you to get a good glimpse in. I walked over to one of the stations and placed my hand on the side of the concrete thinking to myself that someone 1,939 years ago did the same thing, and probably had the same reaction, “I can’t believe they actually built this thing.” Outside the walls there were peddlers trying to push anything from Italian looking sun glasses, to neon glow-in-the-dark plastic Coliseums’. I could imagine the same type of activity took place here, during some games, except instead of cheap, Chinese made toys; they were probably selling goats or chestnuts.

I started to walk around the building trying to find a way in. From time to time I stopped and peered in getting a glimpse at what lied inside. In some ways, it was the same type of activity I do when I pass a new stadium for the first time. The mystery of what lies inside is almost as exciting as when you actually get in to see it. I passed an area that looked to be some type of holding tank for the soon-to-be Gladiators. I tried to imagine 10 to 15 people cramped together awaiting their faith on the Coliseum floor.

I finally got to the main entryway and learned that on Saturday’s they close at 3:00 pm, which made me 5 minutes late. I peered through the main opening hoping that the ticket takers would allow a guy, from a 1,000 miles away, who was 5 minutes late the opportunity to see the interior. Unfortunately all they did was scream some certain to be Italian profanities at me as I almost jumped the rotating entrance. I had to settle for a stroll around the outside and looking in at every possible opportunity. In a few spots the rumble had pushed away and you could get a good clear view of the interior, which provided the interesting discovery that the main level actually has grass.

After I had made a circle around the building I walked around the area. Scattered up and down the main street were ancient relics of a massive civilization. There were some rubble piles that captions told me were the Ludus Magnus, which was a training school for the gladiators. In the same area there were various houses that held armory and the Sanitarium which held and treated the wounded. To me it looked like large pieces of stone broken and roped off, but I tried to use my imagination to visualize what it all looked like. But, later in the day I came to the realization that my mind is cluttered and spoiled by the scenes we have in our modern day cities. It’s impossible to fully grasp just how big the Coliseum is or just how enormous the city was because we unconsciously compare it to modern day New York or Chicago.

I finished my tour by looping back around and getting a good look at The Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II or The National Monument of Victor Emmanuel II. Victor Emmuel was the first King of a unified Italy, and based the government in Rome. The monument is quite stunning, and if anyone wants to one day build a tribute to my life, they can get a good look at this thing. It is made of pure white marble from two small towns in the way north of Italy and features a couple of cool looking staircases, multiple fountains, a gigantic statue of him riding a horse, some tall Corinthian columns, and two planking statutes of the Goddess Victoria riding a horse drawn carriage. Not a bad way to show you did something pretty significant.

I left, happy that the Roman people were able to preserve the site. I wonder if our modern day American Coliseums will be around for 2,000 years? Judging by the way we have treated building like Old Tiger Stadium I would think that eventually they will be torn down and replaced with a parking lot, or a casino. We lose so much of our history by replacing the old with the new, and while I understand that change is good and necessary, there is also a place for guardianship and history. Something we’re still working on.

A Building of Significance

2011-02-13T15:14:00.003-06:00

Being in a city like Rome makes you realize just how young of a country America is. Our historic sites are only a couple hundred years old, and the main defining points of our heritage seem to be always changing. The idea of a world history book doesn’t start with Christopher Columbus finding the new world, but rather with the rise of the Roman Empire. This is where the idea of a civilization began, before here we all lived in caves and tired to outrun huge meat eating animals. It provides quite the perspective on life, and it’s something you can’t get by hanging out in Times Square or the top of the Sears Tower.

My journey through the beginning of humanity started at the place every young Irish-Catholic should go, Vatican City. The hotel provided a convenient shuttle service that dropped me off in front of the main outer wall of the city-state. Vatican City by itself is a completely autonomous state. It has its own government, its own set of laws, and acts completely independent from the main Italian society, even though it lies completely surrounded by Rome.

Since I didn’t know what to do first, I decided the best course of action was to follow the flow of people and see where that led me. I ended up in a line, to what I really didn’t know, and when I tried to inquiry what we were waiting for no one in my immediate area spoke English. I figured whatever we were waiting for must be worth it, because it seemed that half the city was in front of me. I patiently stood looking for any sign to indicate where I was and what I was waiting for. Occasionally, there would be a street peddler who offered to help me cut the line for a small fee, but I figured that in almost any city I have ever been to these type of characters are nothing but shady so I continued to wait acting as though I didn’t understand the fifteen different languages they attempted to communicate with me in. I figured this was one of those situations that could either turn out great or poorly, but either way I would have a story.

Eventually, the twisting and turning line gave way to the entrance of the Museum of the Vatican, which made me quite excited, even if I had waited for 45 minutes. Inside was not only some of the most important and interesting facts on the Vatican itself, but also the Sistine Chapel. Truth be told, I had no idea this is where the actual Chapel resided. I knew it was in Rome, I figured it was in a building of some significance, but I kinda got lucky to stumble upon it first thing.

When you enter the Museum the first thing you do is go through metal detectors, then a visual inspection by guards, and then check in any bags in a cloak room. It was tighter security than getting on any airplane and I felt pretty secure that the only thing someone might get through was a half melted Twix candy bar. The first room of the Museum is filled with Ancient Roman Sculptures, each looking like they must have been used in the filming of the movie Gladiator. They were beautiful and ornate but after the first couple they all looked the same, a dude standing naked, with a spear or a scroll.

Gradually you move from the room of Roman marble Sculptures into a series of rooms with wonderfully painted images of significant religious events. I was able to understand a few of their messages remembering some rather old memories of CCD (Catholic youth education) classes. The rooms started to blend together and from time to time I would find myself looking out the windows that overlooked a central courtyard. There was a part of me that thought I might get lucky and find the Pope on an afternoon stroll contemplating some important religious position, but instead all I got were some tree’s swaying in the Mid-Afternoon wind.

The rooms with the paintings gave way to more rooms featuring tapestries, which were followed by more rooms with paintings. They were all quite wonderful and I took my time trying to make sense of the small English footnotes provided in front of certain images. What made this different than any other art museum was that most of the art work was done directly onto the walls and ceilings. The building itself had become the masterpiece, and I was amazed at the shear amount.

After almost two hours of winding through rooms, my heart beat raced as I realized we stood just outside the Sistine Chapel. Rarely do these largely significant historical sites make me feel anxious, but for some reason I became sensitive to what I was about to see. This was one of the most significant sites anywhere in the world, and I was about to see it with my own eyes. Before I could catch my breath a large herd of people came up behind me and kind of corralled me through the door, before I knew it I was standing in the middle of the Sistine Chapel. In front of me stood multiple burley, big chested security guards armed with huge machine guns and scowls that could ruin anyone’s day.

Directly above me was the iconic image of The Creation of Adam, in which God the Father is breathing life into Adam, whom is the first man. I stood in awe, for what seemed like an hour trying to make sense of it all. My eyes then rotated to the alter wall of the room which holds the famous fresco The Last Judgment. It’s hard to explain the emotions that you go through when you realize exactly where you are, but at that moment I began to understand just how fortunate I am. To me the Sistine Chapel wasn’t necessarily about the wonderful images that Michelangelo painted, it was about the realization that I had been there and that for the rest of my life this place wouldn’t be just another footnote in a history book. It would be the mental images that I saved deep in my emotional memory bank.

The Proper Way to Use a Fork

2011-02-12T15:17:00.002-06:00

The sun rose over the Eternal City casting light on the tip of St. Peter’s Basilica. From the balcony of my hotel room I have a clear view of Vatican City. I arrived the previous night, late, and all I could see where soft images of dimly lit buildings, everything looked black with a tad swirl of orange. My hotel is located on the northwest side of Rome in an area called Central Park, but I wouldn’t draw any comparisons to the one in New York. It really isn’t a park per say, but more of a preserve. There is low ground level foliage, a few scattered trees’ and a lot of random natural growth. There are no little league baseball stadiums, fountains of grand glory, or ducks frolicking in the sun rays; it really just seems like an area of undeveloped land in the middle of an ancient city.

I didn’t have much time to stare in awe at the Vatican, or wonder what the Pope was doing on a Friday morning, because I had an early business meeting. The highlight of our business exchange was lunch, and since you can’t go to Italy without talking about the food; spare me a few moments as I explain one of the most wondrous afternoon meals I have ever had. It was a small quaint location, at first I thought we were entering into someone’s house. We crept into the basement were there was 5-10 tables nicely appointed with yellow table clothes and chairs that must have been used for decades. The side walls were filled with wine cabinets and above the entryway was the most dynamic countryside painting I had ever seen.

Waiting to greet us was and elderly gentleman with graying hair and glasses as big and thick as the walls. He shuffled his feet as be brought us a basket of bread. The outer crust of the loaf rigidly ripped apart providing a nice texture to the soft supple center. It was one of the first times I ever ate a piece of bread and didn’t ask for any butter. Our first course was a salad from the sea, filled with shrimp, calamari, and some other ocean creature that I couldn’t identify. It was tossed in a simple olive oil that made my taste buds sing the second it hit my lips. I asked my business partner what made this olive oil so much better than the bottles we get in the States, and he indicated it was the color. According to him, the darker more rich the olive oil looks the less diluted it is. He said that most US olive oils are watered down draining the true flavor, and according to my tingling taste buds I would have to agree.

The second course was pasta, homemade of course, with mushrooms and the same olive oil drizzled on top. Immediately I knew I had never had real pasta before. The noodles were soft and lit, and there was no crunch to them. It was like being introduced to Italian food for the first time without even knowing it. The main course was veal, which to tell you the truth was the first time I had ever had it. It was prepared with a lemon sauce and I found it quite delightful.

The meal ended with a coffee, but not just any coffee, Italian espresso. It came in a cup not much bigger than a thimble and the liquid was dark brown. I knew right away to be careful of this stuff, because any beverage that I have ever had serve with that little amount equaled some type of disaster. I took my first quick sip and was hit with a sudden jolt of energy, my senses were alive and my heart jumped an entire beat. I finished the glass with one more shot and left more awake than I have ever been. It was like liquid nicotine and I could feel myself wanting more.

The highlight of the meal had to be the pasta. I had always used my fork to cut sections of pasta into manageable bites and then pick it straight up, but my business college taught me the correct way to eat. It starts with a spin, your index finger and thumb press squarely against the top of the fork not to firm, but not sloppy. You then rotate the fork in a clockwise manner, slow and steady till the fork is full of noodles. I have seen many people do this is restaurants, but it always look clunky, the Italians do it with style and grace making it look more like artwork than eating.

The rest of the day I was content. It was like I had ate my first meal all over again and food all the sudden wasn’t just something that gave you fuel. The whole experience lasted about 2 hours and I learned that eating to the Italians wasn’t just some half hour, get-it-over-with-please-make-my-belly-stop-rumbling experience. It meant something to sit down, have a nice conversation, and share what was on your mind. It also didn’t hurt that the food was amazing!

Untranslatable English Conversation

2011-02-11T15:02:00.003-06:00

Today, I am venturing to a small village north of London called Corby. My journey is full of different trains, subways, and walking routes allowing me to get a good view of what rural life on the "Little Continent" is like. The congestion of Central London is good for a cultural experience akin to New York, but the countryside is where the true natural beauty of England is displayed. The English landscape is dotted with towns of the utmost familiarity. If you pick up and US State map you would notice the same city names like, Birmingham, Manchester, and Hampshire. It is a good reminder that everything and everyone comes from somewhere.

The main train north is on a rail line called the East Midlands, and the first section of travel is full of housing complexes, industrial buildings and other support businesses used to uphold the commercial sector of Central London. It looks like a suburb of any city anywhere in the world, expect for the graffiti, which was amazingly helpful. Instead of seeing nasty words and gang symbols, the brick walls of the surrounding buildings were tagged with considerate words for the train conductor like, "STOP," or "There is a Squirrel on the tracks ahead." It all seemed rather tame, and in a way I wondered if the dysfunctional youth of America could learn a few things from the adolescence of England.

Once you break through the concrete scenery the land turns green and the beauty of provincial life presents itself. The rolling meadows of lush grass and picketed white fences frame the images of true British homesteads. The hustle and bustle of downtown are deserted to a slower more methodical way of life. My station car zoomed past crumbling old churches, century old castles, and more sheep than a loom can spin wool. It felt very homey, and in a way I wanted to hang out in every one of these small villages. There just seemed to be a substance and history that most American towns lack.

My adventure in Corby was lacking any real excitement. I had a meeting; it went well, and in an hour and half I was back on the train. My co-riders had the same basic personality as you would expect in America. Their faces were down starring at a newspaper, a book, or some small hand-held electronic device. There was little to no conversation, except for the family who was debating the finer points of train riding etiquette, which included rule #1, "NO TALKING!" I was hoping it would be more like the Harry Potter movies where the trains were filled with friends, everyone had a wand, and there was general commotion going on around you, but it wasn't bad to have a nice relaxing ride through the English Countryside.

Upon my return to the hotel I promptly received my third paper cut of the trip. I was sticking my hand into my backpack to remove that day’s notes when the side of my index finger sliced through the standard wide rule margins leaving quite a display of blood all over the nice and white paper. This wouldn't have been a problem, but I had run out of band-aids and didn't realize what a prized possession they could be. The front desk and bell staff only had a small emergency kit, which included one bandage that would be used if you cut your arm off, but it was overkill for my small paper cut.

My second attempt was the convenience store next to the hotel, but the best they could do was gauze. The owner must be either a gauze manufacturer or know someone in the gauze import/export business because half a shelf was filled with different sizes, and shapes but nothing to secure it down. Finally, I headed into the only store that cares for the health of its customers....A liquor store. Next to an 80 dollar bottle of Irish whiskey was a box of bandages labeled plasters. I have no idea what in the world a plaster is, but in my book it looks like a classic rubber and foam, Johnson and Johnson, band-aid. Three stores, 5 Kleenex’s of finger blood, and endless amount of untranslatable English conversation later I found my delightful band-aids. Until I put them on....and they didn't stick, there was no adhesive. Cheers to the English language, I'm glad we can all agree what a band-aid is.

Not Far from the Truth

2011-02-09T15:51:00.003-06:00

My hotel is located in the London suburb of Twickenham, which happens to be the home of English rugby. The rooms, generous lobby and two restaurants are attached on the north side of Twickenham Stadium, where the national team plays all their games. I know very little about rugby, and the small amount I do know I learned from watching the movie "Tommy Boy" where Chris Farley's character played the sport at Marquette University. The movie showed absolutely no scenes depicting anything to do with the actual sport, except the one instance where the team was partying, drinking, and acting like hooligans. Hence, my understanding of the game starts and ends with a pint of Guinness.

I have been able to pick up a few things about the game and its relation to English culture. It’s about the fifth most popular sport behind, Football (soccer), Cricket, horse racing (if you would call it a sport), and fox hunting (though I don't think they are actually allowed to shot foxes anymore.) It appeals more to the working class, I believe this is because the participants usually receive multiple scars, broken bones, and head injuries during the course of every match. The game is played with nearly zero padded protection, and the contestants wear the shortest shorts in any professional game worldwide. They remind me of the old NBA shorts, with the thick elastic bands hugging to the side of their hairy thighs. I'm positive that in any given game there is at least one of two views of the English Crown Jewels.

I asked one of the ladies at the front desk of my hotel if this stadium is going to be used for the 2012 summer Olympics and the answer I received was a diatribe about the ill effects of bringing the games to London. She was excited about the showcase they could produce, but wondered if it all was worth it. Apparently, things are not going smoothly, and the cost to the general public has skyrocketed. Even with that being said there is a feeling of anticipation, and by the end of our conversation three of four other front desk attendants had added there two cents to the conversation. It seems they all are excited about specific sports like basketball, and track and don't care for others, like sailing and kayaking (maybe it's a thing against boats.) Regardless, you can feel the pride as they talked about the big event.

Next to the hotel is a workout facility, called Virgin Active. It is owned my mega mogul Richard Branson (or should I call him sir, he is knighted), whom seems to own everything in London. Very rarely can you walk down a street and not see something with the Virgin name on it. He owns an airline, a TV station, music label, gym, a mail order business, a magazine (you get the picture.) I do have to give him a little credit, the gym is very nice. It has a wide range of treadmills, elliptical machines, and pools. I decided to go for a nice run and was surrounded by lots of local workout enthusiasts. Most of the time, when I am staying at an international hotel the gym is full of expats, and you don't get a real feel for how another country gets its exercise, but this time I was the outsider.

My main observation was that the British wear weird socks when they run. Green with yellow stripes, Purple with Orange strips, checkered black and white squares. At first I thought it was a few eccentric folks, but with each person who walked by the variations got crazier and crazier. Maybe it was a way to hide their stark white legs, or highlight the fact they haven't seen the sun in nearly three months. Slowly, I began to realize it wasn't just the socks. Every article of clothing was a bit off. Some wore Jeans, others sported long wrist bands, but the funniest combination I found was the guy who was dressed like Russell Simmons....headband and all (there must be something with the males and short shorts.)

Above the treadmill I was on were three televisions, all with different American shows. At that moment I realized the biggest export in American culture is our television programming. The far left screen showed the latest WWE, (wrestling) action. I asked one of the staff about the fascination with American wrestling and it seems they like the drama, which makes since if you’ve ever picked up a British tabloid. I personally can't stand wrestling, it's fake, the winner is predetermined and half the time they are rolling around on the ground trying to catch their breath.

The second TV screen showed music videos of some of the most famous US acts; with the Super Bowl just ending they seemed to be doing a post-game wrap up and showed Christina Aguilera, and The Black-Eyed Pea's. The running message board at the bottom was poking fun at the fact Christina couldn't remember the National Anthem and read something to the effect of, "We might have lost the war, but at least we didn't lose the words." The last monitor was running a re-run episode of "Judge Judy," which almost made me embarrassed. I kept thinking, "Do Foreigners think all we do is sit around, argue with each other, and confess our petty little sins on national TV?" Then I remembered.....that’s not far from the truth.

Cheers!

2011-02-08T17:47:00.004-06:00

The captain came on the intercom with an announcement about the weather in London, "Mid-50's, scattered clouds, and good visibility." He prefaced his statement by stating the weather report was according to English terms, which I found a little confusing, till we started our descent. Scattered clouds meant a thick layer of white puffy accumulation, followed by a dark grey hovering over the ground. It made me depressed, instantly, till I walked off the plane and realized that Mid-50's really meant Mid-50's, which felt like a heat wave compared to the ice chest I left back in Chicago. I was depressed, but warm as I entered London hoping its bridges weren’t falling down.

The first step of entering any country is going through immigration. At most checkpoints the officers are sternly serious, reserve with comment, and looking for any reason to deny you entry. The entire process is enough to scare the crap out of anyone. The few times I have been to London it was no different, serious folks with serious jobs. Yet, on my arrival this time I must have hit the immigration officer lottery. My officer had a little bit of Larry The Cable Guy in him, but spoke with a thick British ascent and was Indian. He joked about now thick my passport was, and wondered where in the world I haven't been. He ended our exchange by stamping my passport, and wishing me well with a jolly, "Cheers."

Speaking of the word "Cheers;" I have decided the English people use it more than young American's say the word, "Dude." Literally, ten minutes off the plane I had been wished, "Cheers" about thirty times, and in some instances I had no idea how they were using it. Apparently, it seems to be the universal substitute expression. It is used so freely I have found it nearly impossible to assign any definition. The most common use is when your leaving, instead of saying "Goodbye," you say "Cheers." But, it seems the phrase has morphed and now used any time there is a break in the conversation. For example at my first business meeting, I excused myself to use the bathroom and my business partner Cheers’ me, and I wondered if he was wishing me a good pee, or ending our current conversation. Maybe he was doing both, all with one magical word.

My first order of business whenever I get to a new country is exchanging money, and I hate the process. First of all, you have to know the exchange rate, or better yet, know how far your money will stretch. When I go to Mexico $100 dollars will get me a long way, In fact most of the time that's all I ever exchange. If I'm traveling to Japan I better change $200-300 bucks, because the dollar doesn't get you as far. In London things tend to me more like Japan, but this time I had a hard time figuring it out. My initial conversion of $100 dollars only allotted me 56 pounds, which didn't seem enough, so I went to the ATM and took another 50 pounds out. Which was fine, till I realized my billfold was chalked full with bills and my appearance was that of a walking ATM machine.

I hate carrying large amounts of money; it makes me feel like a tourist target. Even though no one can see my wallet and the small increased bulge in my backside is only millimeters bigger, my psyche tells me everyone knows, to the exact penny, how much I have. So I do what every good traveler should do, I split it up, stuffing cash in my various bags, pockets, and socks. At the time this seemed like the most intelligent of solutions till I forgot where I put it all, and scrambled through all my processions trying to locate misplaced bills.

The first time I had to use my British pounds is when I took a taxi from the airport to the hotel. I was hoping to get one of those quintessential British experiences, with the red box like cars and the proper older gentleman behind the steering wheel. I entered the cab, and to my delight the GPS on the upper left dash was programmed with an American ascent, which made me laugh. I have been known, from time to time, to reprogram my GPS with the British ascent and just assumed that all the English would want this feature. What really made it funny wasn't the fact that it was an American ascent, but that it talked like a New Yorker.....which I found was an awesome twist. When we arrived at the hotel the GPS spurted out my total sounding as though he had worked at Yankee stadium for 30 years.

The minute I hit my hotel room I set my computer up and surfed the web for the latest on the Super-Bowl. I wanted to know who won, if the game was EPIC, and most importantly who was going to Disneyland over the weekend. I also switched on my TV and found the UK equivalent to ESPN, SKY Sports, was replaying the game with side comments by a crew of British analysts. In a few quick clicks I learned Green Bay had won, that it was a good game, and that Aaron Rogers was going to hang out with Mickey Mouse, which made the visuals only a side session to getting unpacked and ready for the week. I almost tuned out the entire television till the announcers started to talk about the "cheese heads."

In an antiquated, hilarious, and almost disturbing manner the one announcer was trying to describe for the audience what a "Cheese Head" was. I stopped and listened as the words; milk, Wisconsin, and fanatical came out. The other announcer was talking about crazy famers with pitch forks, and the last guy was talking about overalls. If I was imagining it correctly I would have thought they were describing the Groundskeeper from the television show the Simpsons, Willie. At the end of the conversation they showed 7 fans with the yellow cheese wedges on their heads, each with a singular letter painted on their chest. Combined they formed the word "P-A-C-K-E-R-S," and a small part of me wondered if this was the impression we should be setting for the rest of the world. Of course, if the Lions ever made the Super Bowl I would be happy to don the "L."

Somewhere over Canada

2011-02-07T15:02:00.002-06:00

Currently, according to the flight map on channel 1, we are somewhere over Northern Canada. The time to Destination is 5:15, and the outside air temperature is -66 F. If you stare at the map for any period of the time you realize that either one of two things are true; 1. The plane is extremely large, or 2. It is an inexact measurement. Our location is marked with an icon in the shape of a plane....how convenient, but it’s enormous, approximately the size of Pennsylvania. The map screen is on a rotation showing you first; your location in comparison to the world, then in relation to your current continent and finally an up close view of your current location. I guess if you where flying across states it would be helpful, but over Canada it just looks like a whole bunch of green.

I am sitting in Economy, which means the 8 hour flight will feel like 10 and my attempts to sleep will be unsuccessful. I find it impossible to sleep sitting up unless I have either taken a whole bunch of Nyquil, or I just finished watching a Lifetime movie marathon staring the same actors just in different roles. It is Super Bowl Sunday, and we took off just prior to the beginning of the 4th quarter. The surrounding passengers are decked out in late 90's Brett Farve paraphernalia, and I wanted to mention that he was no longer on the team, but decided I would hold comment until I found out who won.

For Christmas my wife got me a pair of Bose QC15 ultra comfy, super hi-tech, and snug to your ear headphones. They have a remarkable way of draining out all noise around you. I slide the outer earphones on and the world around evaporates in a low quiet drone. They are remarkable, except when you want to hear what’s going on around you….which would have been helpful 10 minutes ago as I missed the beverage cart lady and the possibility of getting some much needed liquid nourishment. It’s really quite amazing considering I have an aisle seat, and the first 45 minutes of the flight I locked eyes on the flight attendant waiting for my opportunity to get a cold glass of water.

On international flights, like the one I am on, the airlines try to give you a mix crew of flight attendants. This is an attempt to get you in the atmosphere of the destination city. They book a few crew members with as thick of an accent they can find, along with a few that are as American as Apple Pie. I always found this a little comforting and a good way to transition into international life, but on my current flight I think they went a little too far. My aisle is manned with a woman whom I cannot understand. I know she is speaking English, but I cannot understand her. Normally, I would say that this is my problem, but I’m not the only one who has no idea what she is saying. The guy next to me asked for a water with no-ice a couple minutes ago, and she gave some response, to which he just said yes to (how many questions can there be about water without ice). She returned with one cup of water, one cup of ice, a bag of peanuts, and a vomit bag.

There is a feeling of anticipation for this trip. I am visiting a couple countries I have never been to, Italy, Denmark and Sweden, and while these are not exotic destinations there is something intriguing about them. I am wondering if the food in Italy is as good as the food in Little Italy downtown New York. I am curious about the Coliseum, which seems like a fitting destination for a sports fan who cherishes the venues of current sporting teams. I really don't know what to expect in Denmark and Sweden, other than its going to be cold, really cold. But, I guess the right time to visit Scandinavia is in the middle of the winter….who wants it warm, and without snow?

Dan

2011-01-24T20:44:00.006-06:00

The gym I work out at has a good mix of people. The tennis courts and swimming pools are filled with young people participating in athletic events. They are there having fun, and have no concept of losing weight or getting into shape. The treadmills and elliptical machines are filled with the middle aged, who are looking for the fountain of youth. Then there are the old, whom are trying to stave off the inevitable aging process. They seem to have a unique way of doing both, spending time in the racquet ball court, swimming pool, and Elliptical machines. This diversity is a good reminder of who I was, who I am, and who I eventually will become.

The most frequent exercise I do at the gym is running on the indoor track. It is a round 1/8 of a mile surface that extends around the exterior of the tennis courts. The sides are blanketed with thick curtains making sure any errant shot from a tennis player doesn’t knock out a passerby. It feels almost like an enclosed wind-tunnel and every time I step on the rubber surface I feel like Usan Bolt before an Olympic Event. The track does attract attention and on the weekend there can up to 15 to 20 runners putting in their laps. Most of the time the congestion makes me a little aggravated. Some people are running/walking slow, some people are running fast, and either way it becomes a real cluster which makes working out, a work out.

It seems that on the days where the track is the busiest I run into Dan. Dan, is an older gentleman, if I had to guess I would put my money on mid-70’s. He has chalk white hair, a small perturbing potbelly, and the skinniest legs any man his age should have. He has a particular running style that reminds me more of a tortoise than a marathoner. His legs shift back and forth in a running posture, but instead of picking up his toes he kind of shuffles his feet back and forth. In his left hand he always holds two tennis balls, and squeezes them together, flattening the edges, in a move I like to refer to as the Incredible Hulk. I often find myself smiling as I pass Dan, not because of his odd characteristics, but in hopes that I will still be running at his age.

I have never personally had a conversation with Dan; we seem to have more of an observer type of relationship. I nod my head when we happen to meet in the locker room, and he acknowledges with a slight response. I ran into him as I was exiting the gym one day and had to take a double take of his legs just to make sure it was the same guy. I guess it’s one of those things that is better left on the track, and shared by our mutual interest of keeping in shape. Yet, the lack of any real interaction hasn’t stopped me from knowing who Dan is. I gathered all I really need to know from the back of his shirt.

Every time Dan is on the track he wears the same standard issued, Fruit-Of-The-Loom, Chicago Cub Blue, 100% cotton, T-Shirt. It’s one of those T-shirts that is perfect for working out in. It breathes well, is light and airy, and to most people they wouldn’t realize it was on at all. While the material it is made out of is impeccable, the reason the shirt reveals so much of his personality are the words written across the back. In block style capital letters his shirt reads.

“IT”S A GREAT

DAY TO BE A

DAN”

Obviously the shirt is a monogram, and Dan can be replaced with any name, but every time I run by it I can’t help but thinking that Dan loves his life. And for some reason it gives me hope. Hope that as I age I won’t lose track of who I am, Hope that today will be a great day, and Hope that tomorrow will be just as great today.

I have never personally met Dan. We share no kind of intimate relationship, and to be perfectly honest he might hate his life. But, I do know that every time I see that shirt I mutter under my breath, “IT’S A GREAT DAY TO BE A NICK,” and I feel better. We waste so much of our lives worrying about things we can’t control and being angry that the things that happen that we forget how wonderful it is to be us. I don’t know if Dan is a teacher outside the walls of the Wheaton Sports Center, but I do know that every time he is on the track he teaches me a lesson in living.

Snow in the South

2011-01-18T21:39:00.003-06:00

I woke up to the news of our impending doom. The local telecast was ablaze with radar images, emergency instructions, and cancellations of events throughout town. The broadcasters held stern looks of concern and urged everyone to stock enough food and water to get through the next 36 hours. The weatherman predicted a whopping 1-3 inches of snow and begged people to hunker down at home and watch the Seinfeld marathon that started directly after the local news. They showed live camera shots of cities to the west covered in a thick winter substance, and aired video of cars spinning out of control and crashing into each other. This is my first business trip of the New Year and I thought I was avoiding the cold wintery weather of Chicago, by depositing myself in the Carolina’s for a week, but as I soon learned even the threat of any winter precipitation, in the south, was enough to shut an entire state down.

According to the prognosticators the snow was slated to start falling at 8:00 am, and as I opened my curtains at 7:45 the bright rays of the morning sun must have increased the temperature of my morning coffee by at least 10 degrees. There was barely a cloud in the sky, and yet, from my window I could see that the busiest highway in Raleigh was barren from any traffic. In something of an adult, “snow day,” employers had called off work, recommending everyone to stay home and protect their families. It seemed as though no one had even heard of snow or ice and the idea of winter itself was foreign. It was January 10^th, the coldest time of the year, and everyone was wondering what snow looked like.

I prepared for my day of sales calls as though nothing was happening, because let’s be honest, nothing was happening. I arrived at my first appointment, bright with the morning, looking for an opportunity to sell some product. As I asked the receptionist for the gentleman I was meeting with I took a glance over at a plastic placard that was conveniently placed right next to the sign-in book. It warned of the upcoming storm and took note of an emergency help number, just in case you got stuck in snow. It also reminded the employee’s of the company’s winter weather policy….any wet, white substance equaled, STAY AT HOME. I began to wonder why, those of us who lived in the North, didn’t have this special snow number to get us out of trouble; this seemed like such an amazing idea. All I have to do is call my employer and they’ll get me out of a ditch? Sign me up!

The day progressed and the clouds did start to move in, but it all seemed more like a typical grey day than the beginning of some massive winter blizzard. Yet, that did stop people from driving as though the powdery white stuff had already started to fall. The highway was filled with people driving 10 to 15 miles an hour slower than the speed limit and I had to do everything I could not to hit them. At one point I started to feel like I was in a NASCAR race passing Toyotas at an alarming rate. At every bend in the road people were tapping on their brakes, just to make sure they still worked.

I stopped for lunch at a local restaurant and was intrigued by the older customers sharing stories of some of the worst weather events in the Raleigh/Durham area. One old timer talked of the whopper in ’83 that dropped at least 8 inches, the other talked of the time in ’65 when the snow was piled so high he was stuck inside for days. Each was convinced that this was going to top them all, in fact one of the old men commented on how he had gone to Home Depot earlier in the day and they were fresh out of generators. I left the diner and in the parking lot found one of the cooks throwing Ice Melt all over the ground. Hoping that no one was going to fall and break their back.

The day progressed and the anxiety seemed to increase. The radio station hosts kept commenting at the outdoor conditions and the digital billboards blinked in red, suggesting that any minute the snow was going to fall. By the time all my sales calls were complete I didn’t see one snow flake. In fact, the sun made a later appearance, warming the temperature by at least 5 degree’s. I caulked the entire experience up to over exuberant weatherman wanting some type of natural disaster to boost them into the next Anderson Cooper. As I feel asleep not one drop of anything white or wet had fallen from the sky, and I laughed that these people had no idea how rough, “REAL,” winter could be.

Tuesday morning came, much like Monday, with the proclamation that life was on pause. I flung open my curtains with the same fervor as before assuming to see the bright round sun and the green gentle grass, but was surprised when everything was covered in a thick smooth ice. Apparently, overnight, buckets of water fell from the sky and froze, on contact, to everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. The light post, the roads, cigarette butts lying on the ground, everything looked like it was placed in a deep freezer for 10 months. Suddenly my sarcasm from the day before was replaced with deep fear…..how was I going to drive around today, better yet, how was going to get out of the hotel parking lot?

At first glance my car looked more like a frozen candy bar than an automobile. The trunk was frozen shut, the door handles were covered in a quarter inch thick of rock solid ice, and the windows were blurred from water stopping and freezing all the way down. I was frozen out, and had no idea how I was going to get in. I looked around the parking lot and saw one guy chopping at the ice with hands, another whacking the door handles with a stick, and another using her credit cards to chip away at the ice on her windshield. My elbow hurt just thinking about using it as an impromptu hammer, but it was my best idea and I gave my handle five whacks till finally I formed a dent big enough crack the remaining ice off.

I immediately turned the car on and flipped the switch all the way over hoping the car would act as some kind of incubator warming the vehicle from the inside out. I looked around for something I could use to attack the ice on the trunk. The only thing I could even remotely find was a yellow sharpie brand highlighter. The first fifteen slams of the highlighter on the trunk resulted in huge chucks of ice cracking off……till I broke the cap, which made the entire process tough because I didn’t want to get yellow highlights all over my skin. I turned it over and continued to slam the trunk till the bottom split open and yellowish ink exploded everywhere covering the ground, the surrounding ice, and the small section of the car I had already cleared.

Eventually the car warmed up, the ice slowly melted and 10 to 20 minutes later I was able to pull out of the driveway. I had forgotten that the hotel sat at the top of enormous hill, which I now had to manipulate my vehicle down. The brakes were little help and slowly the car just slid down, gaining speed till I found the one barren area, where I was able to get a little traction and stop the car. I was pretty lucky, because waiting for me at the bottom of the hill was a stop sign, another accident and the few cars that seemed to be out on the streets. I put the car in park and looked up at the hotel, down at the street, and wondered, “What the Hell do I do know?” There was another hotel half way down the road that I was able to pull into, barely, which provided a little reprieve and a chance to turn around and head back up to the hotel parking lot. Somehow I made it back up the hill, but the car tires had to have gone bald from spinning on the ice. The lady behind the desk of the hotel, suggested that we take the back way out of the hotel, which allowed for an easier decent and within a few minutes we were off and running.

The roads were testy, and no one was even remotely around, which made me feel kind of like Dukes of Hazard when a slip off did occur. I maneuvered around the city for the next couple days with the familiar feeling of a Chicago winter weather advisory. My initial contempt with how the South handles winter weather was replaced with a certain level of respect. Though they didn’t have to deal with inches upon inches of snow, they still had a level of ice I had never seen before. It was winter, just at a different level, and while I find it hard to believe that they had to cancel local schools for the next four day, we only had freezing rain only one day, I now understand the argument that Southern States just don’t have the equipment to handle such adverse weather effects. To which, I would just like to say, we will gladly let you borrow ours in exchange for some mid-60’s weather in February.

You Been Farming Long?

2011-01-12T18:06:00.002-06:00

In my basement next to the door that leads out to the backyard I have hanging a picture that was given to me by my parents. The photo itself is not a world-renowned masterpiece; in fact the author didn’t even take the time to scribble his signature anywhere on the image. It’s one of those pictures that by itself hold’s no deep inner meaning. It is simple in premise and purpose, but every time my eyes grace over the shinny canvas I am brought back to my grandparent’s house. The same image covered a small section of their basement wall, and it represented the first time I remember thinking, “Old people can have a sense of humor too!”

The photo shows two young toddlers in overalls. They both have their hands securely deposited deep in there pant pockets, and their heads are covered with baseball style hats. There are patches stitched across the front donned with logos of the local railroad company. One of the young boys is staring down at the dirt in a sign of respect to his neighbor, and the other is looking over barely making contact in a way that old men might causally meet on the street.

The background is that of a rural setting. The soles of their redwing boots are pressed firmly on the top layer of the rusted grain dirt road, and strewn through the land are small strands of hay. In the background you can see blurry images of wooden fence posts and the coiled spiked edges of aged barbed wire. Way off in the distance there are tall green trees, lush with the rays of the summer. The photo could have been taken in any farming community throughout Middle-America, but I would like to think it depicts a scene from the city that graces the front of their overalls “Osh-Kosh.”

The photo is intended to make you smile. The kids are cute and situated in a way to represent aging elderly men meeting at the end of their street. If you were left to imagine there conversation you might think they were sharing stories about the local weather or jabbering about the effects of their 50 year old marriage. But what makes this picture entertaining is the caption that coats the middle….”You been Farming Long?”

When new people come to my house I often look to see their reaction, and over the years I have come to the conclusion that there are two types of people; those who grew up around rural life and those that didn’t. I personally didn’t grow up on a farm, but the vast majority of my family has some connection to agriculture, and when they see this print there is an immediate reaction of laughter. Something about the young kids, the caption, and the background creates and instant connection. When people who have no association with farm life see the photo their reaction is, “Oh how adorable”, but no real laughter.

It still amazes me that this picture hung on my grandparent’s wall. Mostly because I didn’t associate anything funny with them, and the idea that they had any sense of humor shocked me. They were wise, smart and seasoned, but in no way were they funny. Through the years I began to realize that the picture itself represented a slice of who they had become. They were, “Farming Long” and the idea of these young toddlers swapping a morning hello at such a young age was a microcosm of the life they ended up of living.

When my grandparents passed, and the family was left with the enviable task of dividing up their possessions my brothers and I each wanted that photo. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know why I really wanted it except for the fact it was funny and allowed me to associate their existence with a nice image. My Dad shocked us by proclaiming he wanted the picture, and for a while it sat nicely on a wall at their house. I had almost forgot about the print until the following Christmas when under the tree, with tags labeled from Santa, rested wrapped copies of the very image we had all wanted.

My Dad knew he was giving each of us our own piece of the farm to take back to the urban lives we were now living, and slowly it has become a symbol of my heritage. It not only represents my grandparents, but in a way reminds me what they stood for, who they were and what they wanted for me. And while it is still hard to imagine my grandparents getting a kick out of a photo, I often look over at it hanging on my wall and smile, knowing somewhere my grandpa is asking his neighbor how long he has been farming.

My Best Brian Boitano

2011-01-07T19:51:00.002-06:00

Looking out from the ledge of my in-laws living room bay window the weather can only be described as bone-crushing. The branches of the barren trees are hanging low with the formation of icicles, and the surrounding house chimneys are exhuming white plumes of thick visual smoke. Inside, it is nice and toasty. The fire is raging, the furnace is working overtime and the various bottles of liquor lining the countertop are keeping our blood nice and thin. It is Christmas day, and the presents have been opened, compared, and played with. The beginning commotion of the day as drowned down to a gentle silence and the family is lying around sharing stories and playing card games. This is my favorite part of any holiday, after all the “events” of the day are done and you’re relaxing with the people who matter most. There is a feeling of satisfaction being amongst people you’ve known for years.

A few days before the fat man dropped through the chimney, my father-in law cleared a small section of their backyard lake forming a circular skating path. In my earlier years I had been known to lace up a pair of skates and take to the ice, but my recent skating career has been limited by a certain lack of skill and desire to be outside in near frozen conditions. I would much rather be walking, where I actually know how to use my legs, and to a certain extent can be controlled by my own motor skills. In fact, I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually went ice skating, and when my brother-in law expressed his urge to perform his best Kristi Yamaguchi impression the only thing I could think of was the Siberian-like conditions and whether or not my body would respond the way my brain wanted it to.

Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. My toes were covered by a big-thick blanket, I had a cocktail in my hand, and the TV was tuned to a certain Christmas themed movie starring a beautifully sculpted leg-lamp. I had no motivation to move, let alone attempt to skate. I was perfectly happy sitting around doing nothing. My plan was to ride out the rest of the holiday in a low-hanging alcoholic haze. Which to me seemed quite fitting, but when everyone started to grab there enormously padded jackets I knew I couldn’t miss this experience.

I headed downstairs to pick out my pair of skates, and when I found the only ones that would fit were those probably worn by Brain Boitano in the 1988 Winter Olympics; I began to second guess my decision. Figure skates?!? I’m secure in my masculinity but there’s something about lacing up a pair of sleek and shinny Figure skates made me question who I really was. The only redeeming quality they held as a small imprinted image of a Red Canadian maple leaf on the left side. It gave me a sudden feeling that if the Canadians, those that invented the sport of ice skating, could wear these puppies then they would serve their purpose for a late-night Christmas Day skate.

In my preparation for this trip, I didn’t think much about being outside in near freezing conditions with only a steel blade on the bottom of my feet, hence the only clothes I brought were those more suited for relaxation than sport. I dove into my bag looking for something to keep my legs warm and pulled out a pair of sweatpants, thinking, that at least I’ll be able to move around. I couldn’t find my winter hat, so I borrowed my wives brand new, Christmas present. This hat was classically in her style. It was multi-colored, had a fuzzy ball on the top and two tassels that hung down to chest level. It was vintage, and when I pulled it on, I was happy the sun had gone down so the only light left were the tinted rays of the moon.

Fully clothed, I stepped out the backdoor and headed down to the ice. The tips of my fingers tingled in that pre-numbed feelings letting my body know that any sudden warm up was not going to happen. I sat down in the snow and begun tightening up my laces. I looped, swooped, and pulled till the blood heading down my ankles was constricted. If you could see through the black leather of the top of my skate my toes would have looked like swollen blueberries. They were tight, but from everything I remembered about ice skating, the tighter they are the better you skate; or maybe the tighter the skates are the less you fall; or is it the tighter your skates are the easier it is to take a slap shot? Whatever it is, I laced those suckers up to an uncomfortable level and began the short walk from the snow to the ice.

I wish someone would have reminded me just how hard it is to walk in ice skates. I struggled, and when I say I struggled I mean that I crawled on my hands and knees. I attempted the walking thing, but it didn’t really work. My brain couldn’t figure out the fact there was only a small-thin slice of metal instead of a somewhat sturdy flat foot, and the result was me on the ground. What took everyone else a couple seconds took me a couple minutes, and when I hit the ice I was already sore.

I found a way to pull myself up, and just stood for a couple seconds trying to process my memory bank for the correct leveler to pull to go forward. The only thing I could think of was my experience rollerblading and began my first circle pushing off much like I do with my blades. It proved to move me forward, but my legs wobbled, my ankles turned-in, and my heartbeat quicken with the impending doom of a fall. Yet, somehow I made it around, standing. It wasn’t graceful, but it was effective.

Slowly, over the next half hour I started to remember how to do this and I began to actually skate. I was not, nor will ever be called “good.” I fell once, and that was in a test of skill, trying to stop hockey style, which ended with me flying across the ice and hitting the top of my knee squarely on the surface of the ice. My general posture was that of a running chicken, arms flapping, neck extended and screeching the entire time. I probably would have made a good mascot for a minor league hockey team, and might be my next career move as the entertainment level for all those watching was quite high.

I ventured out into un-cleared territory a couple times, sliding over snowed covered ice. It felt like I was breaking the law, and as I headed further and further away from our small clearing the dark surrounding eerily brought back mental images of a scary horror film. My mind flashed to a scene in which two rouge skates broke away from the pack and got eaten by a green dinosaur-like creature that punctured the thick ice and gobbled down both bodies in one large bite. The graphic recollection was enough to turn my skates around and head directly back to paved ground.

We ended the late night free-skate and plopped back down in the snow tired and cold but grateful. If we had listened to our inner comfortable selves, we would have been lying on the couch watching movies, eating fruit cake, and sipping on alcohol-spiked drinks. Instead, we ventured out into the great outdoors, black leather figure skates and all. It’s one of those events that will create an annual tradition, and one of those traditions that will get pasted down, and will continue till four generations from now my great-great-great-grandson heads out to the ice on Christmas Day wearing a women’s winter hat and skates in a small circle till his hands turn blue.

Getting Caught with my Fly Down

2010-09-18T11:47:00.005-05:00

Parks Fly Shop is a small rustic building at the end of downtown Gardiner, which sits just outside the North entrance of Yellowstone National Park. We have entered the outer limits of the park in search of help catching the elusive rainbow trout. Judging by our pervious day’s experience we could have just waited by a stream till an enormous bear came by looking for his lunch and casted a pole near his favorite spot, but something told us that plan had flaws. So, we decided to contract the services of a couple fly fishing guides who are suppose to know these waters like the back of there hand. If, by some modern day miracle, I am able to hook one of these beasts of the river, then I’ll know my payment was worth it, but I have regulated myself to the fact that I should make the adventure more about the environment, and the beautiful surroundings, than my lack of skill at catching anything in hopes that I will not be disappointed.

Our first order of business before dropping a line in the water was to get fitted for waiters and boots. I was told nobody looked cool in fly-fishing garb, but the oversized overalls and fat green boots made me look like a tan blueberry. The way I looked was nothing compared to the struggle I had putting the outfit on. I must have fallen over five or six times before actually getting a foot into one side of the waiter; it was an act of comedy that Steve Martin would have been proud of. Further to the point, I couldn’t get out of it. It was stuck like glue against my body, and I desperately tried to remove my getup in order to use the bathroom prior to actually leaving, something I thought was never going to happen. I guess the waiters were good at keeping the water out and in.

The family was split up in two teams; my group consisted of my Mother-in-law (Cindy), and my Brother-in-law (Brian) all of which had absolutely zero experience fly-fishing. When we got to our fishing spot our guide decided we better take a few minutes and discuss the finer points of how we were actually going to catch these suckers. In my mind, I thought I might be able to sing them a sweet melody, something by Barbara Streisand, and they would come flocking in my direction. But, as it turns out, the more conventional method is with a hook, some line, and a whole lot of elbow grease.

Matt, our guide, showed us the proper method of casting a fly, and we all practiced for about 1-minute apiece. Which, judging by my math, would make us experts and in some states qualify us for a PHD in art of casting a fly rod. But, as it turned out Fly-fishing is tough stuff. I don’t think any of my practice casts went further than 2 feet, and at this point I reevaluated exactly what I wanted out of this afternoon, which, I decided, was to act like I knew what I was doing and not lose my rented fishing pole.

We spread out into different sections of the river. I was at the high point, up stream, which I thought meant I had first crack at the fish. Matt got me started and pointed at two areas I should “try” to cast my fly into while he got the other two members of my group set-up. I was excited for my first real cast, and as my mind was racing with his instructions, pole position: 10 and 2, don’t break your wrist, be calm, I had suddenly caught my first thing….before anything entered the water. On my back cast my fly got snagged up on a tree limb, and made one heck of a hornets nest out of my line. This was becoming embarrassing.

15 minutes later, I somehow, untangled my line and like an insurance pledge got me back to zero. I had lost a little confidence so my first “actual” cast went maybe 1 foot in front of me, but it did hit water and I watched as the fly moved downstream catching nothing, but it floated amazingly well. I threw more line out as I gain more confidence, and at one point actually it the area Matt had suggested I toss it to. I was becoming an actual fisherman, or something that resembled a fisherman. I envisioned someone driving by and taking a long glance down the Yellowstone river and there in the middle of the stream is me, pole-in-hand flopping my fly in the gentle moving waters. They would think I knew what I was doing, heck, they may even believe I caught some fish!

Time was flying by and while I wasn’t catching anything I was surrounded by unspeakable natural beauty. In the distance I could see the snow capped mountains of northern Wyoming complete with a morning descent of white fluffy flakes; the water was so clear, I could see the reflection of my recent facial hair growth, and the air smelled so clean that it made you question the existence of cigarettes. I was surrounded by peace, and my thoughts seemed so clear it was as though every worry I had melted off my shoulders and the only thing that mattered was the stream and my pole. I was beginning to see how people got addicted to fly-fishing.

Of course it’s hard to tell someone you went fishing if you don’t actually catch something. Which is why, when the tip of my pole bent over for the first time my excitement level went through the roof! I tugged straight up, stripped the line as fast as possible, and began to look for my great catch…..until the line stopped moving, and I realized my fly was caught on a huge grey rock. I had officially caught park of Yellowstone National Park, except it wasn’t an animal, and it wasn’t moving. It took the better part of 30 minutes to remove my fly from the huge boulder, and I realized that in the end the rocks always win…..I lost my fly.

As it is with these expeditions, you get your time with the guide, and as Matt made his way over his first comments were, “How’s it going? I see you got the casting thing down.” I did my best not to laugh and muttered a simple, “Uh, yeah….down.” He spent the next ten minutes with me, showing the exact areas the fish would be in. It was like a sixth sense, he knew the fish and somehow the fish knew him. In those 10 minutes I got 8 bites, somewhere within those 8, I pulled in my first real fish, a 12-inch rainbow trout. It was quite the fight, but in the end I won, mostly because I had a hook in his mouth. It was a beautiful creature and unlike lake fish, his skin was smooth, colorful, and bright. We immediately released him back into the water and watched as he shuffled down the stream in search of his next meal.

Matt moved on to help the other members of my group, and my conquests dropped to zero. Apparently, I don’t have that sixth sense. But, I did get better casting my fly, and better at missing the rocks, which seemed to be the hardest thing to avoid. Over the course of the next couple hours we moved to different areas of the river, I didn’t have success at any of them, but enjoyed thinking about the one victory I had.

Marie, my wife, caught the biggest fish an 18-inch Brown Trout. I contend that they had better stream placement, just like in real estate its location, location, location. We must have been a great group to be with, because the guides went over our allotted timed by 2 hours, just to make sure we all caught at least one fish, which was easier for some than others (Brian). The triumph of catching the beast was exhilarating, but it was nothing compared with being in the stream, surrounded by the beauty of the mountains. It was as if life stopped and allowed us a couple hours of unbothered allurement.

At the end of the day we got back together and shared stories of our victories and defeats. Everyone was laughing, smiling, and enjoying the experience. Somehow, I was able to strip off the waiters and boots, and commented that next time it would be nice if the water temperature could be in the mid-80’s so we didn’t have to wear these things. I grabbed a brochure of the agency from the back of our guides car, and noticed the saying, “A bad day on the river is better than a good day in the office,” something I have heard about many recreational activities, yet on this day, in this river, with my family it made perfect sense.

The Lone Buffalo

2010-09-11T17:10:00.004-05:00

We awoke on the second day to a thick layer of clouds, and forecasted run-ins with the rain. We ate a huge breakfast and took a quick tour around our cabin. Lining our back deck is a stream that is so close you can actually touch it from the house. The water is fairly fast flowing and the center is filled with a bed of rocks. In the distance we have two mountains that seem to be placed perfectly in conjunction with the back deck. I have nicknamed one of them crackle-top mountain as the top ridge seems to have been cracked off in an interesting and eye catching pattern. The second mountain is tall and in your face with the edges lined with a thick covering of trees. The setting looks exactly like the movie “A-River-Runs-Through-It,” and I think at any moment Brad Pitt could walk around the corner.

This day is dedicated to the main attraction of Yellowstone, Old Faithful. Upon our entrance into the Northeast corner of the Park the Ranger advised us that the drive would be over 3 hours. We were prepared, but the biggest question we had was, “Are the Bears out?” Two weeks prior to our trip, Yellowstone made national headlines when a hungry Grizzly Bear attacked and killed some campers on the outskirts of the park in a small city called Cooke. Our cabin is about 1 mile away from the campsite, and as we drove past it we were amazed at how docile and tranquil it seemed. They have actually close the site since, but the threat of such continuing action from the wildlife was enough for us to pick up a $42 dollar of Bear spray, just in case.

The Park Ranger assured us that all the Bear’s had gone up into the mountains, because of the warm temperatures over the last couple weeks and not to worry. Yet, this was hard to believe as the thermostat on our dashboard read 40 degrees. We couldn’t have been on the road for more than 5 minutes when we encountered the first of many impending pull-offs. It was a mountain, but not just any mountain. The sides seemed to be painted with a red line, streaking across from side to side. There was a thin break in the clouds forming something of a window. It seemed as though we were watching TV, and the mountain was the only channel you could get. It was an impressive display of beauty, and we had only been in the car for 5 minutes.

We continued our drive pulling off at long lush valleys, deep flowing rivers, and breaking when anyone “thought” they saw wildlife. Our first encounter with the creatures of Yellowstone came in the Lamar Valley, which is a 20-mile stretch of land where the most animals in Yellowstone are said to reside. The break lights in front of us were a sign of something ahead and as we slowed down we caught a glimpse of a massive brown beast….A true American Bison. In something of a wilderness parade the Buffalo slowly crossed the street at a nice and casual pace, meaning they stopped dead on the yellow line and starred directly back at the cars. I had seen these images on a National Geographic special I had watched just before leaving, but I never actually thought we would drive through a herd of Buffalo. They are big, hairy, and remind me a little bit of a European style car.

Over the course of our drive we saw more Bison then we saw people. They were all over the place, and soon they became old news, it was like seeing a squirrel, or an ant, or a Starbucks coffee shop, they roamed as if we weren’t even there. On many occasions they would be walking down the side of the road like a jogger on the streets of Chicago. I had always thought of them as herd animals, and while we did see a couple herds a few of them seemed to have been outcasts, trudging around the backcountry without any friends. Later we asked a park guide about lone buffalo and it turns out these are the old males that had lost their place in the herd to a younger, stronger more dominant juvenile. Once they get shunned from the herd they are left to roam the wild alone the rest of their lives. All the more reason to have a bunch of buffalo friends!

We were in amazement of the Bison as we continued across the Lamar Valley, and our conversation turned to how unfortunate we were that there wasn’t going to be any Bear sightings. Then we crossed over a small bridge and a Big, Black, Massively Butted Bear rumbled across the road, directly in front of us. It was utterly impressive, and for once in my life I was happy to be in Chrysler Mini-Van. I was scared just to look at the thing, hoping that it didn’t take offense to my weird nose, or uncombed hair. At one point, for a split second, the Bear’s head turned directly back at us and motioned with its mouth, “What the Hell are you doing in my Park!” I found it odd that the Bear spoke English, but as a tear dropped down my cheek, I was overcome more by fear than by reality.

No words can explain the sight of a Bear in the wild surrounded by mountains, and a quick moving stream. We had been in the park for less than 3 hours and we had been graced with the images of Bears and Bison. The cool, damp weather were making the wildlife active and over the course of the next couple miles we had multiple sightings of distant creatures. It was being in a large uncaged zoo, but instead of the animals lying around looking depressed they were active, hungry, and ready to impress. We must have pulled-off a dozen times making the 20 mile drive through the valley in two hours.

Once we pasted through the valley our drive was filled with waterfalls, thermal activity and small geysers erupting within eyesight of the road. We pulled off at one destination that looked like the surface of another planet. The Park service had constructed a boardwalk path that passed next to pools of bubbling water and around white covered stone. In the distance you could plumes of white smoke in a scene that reminded me of a missile attack. Yellowstone sits on a large active volcano and with each burst of white air I thought the crust of the earth was going to blow up. The air smelled thick with sulfur, and the desolate distance made me thankful this was only a temporary turnoff.

What originally was suppose to take 3 hours turned into a 6 hour joy ride through some of the most beautiful country in the world. We arrived at “Old Faithful” in the mid-afternoon to a parking lot full of other people. The geyser erupts every 90 minutes and we had just missed the last eruption. This area is called the Upper Basin Region and it is the most commercialized of the entire park. Gift shops, small restaurants, visitor centers, and the Old Faithful Inn dominate the landscape making it feel more like a tourist town then a National Park. It is in stark contrast to most of the other parts of the park, and a reminder that you indeed have to share the beauty with your fellow tourist.

As the time of eruption approached we walked out to the benches that surrounded the geyser. Hundreds of our closest friends also gathered and the anticipation of the event grew. We looked at our watches almost every minute until the water started to cascade up and out of the earth. Slowly the pressure mounted until, in a matter of seconds, the water shot straight up in the air in a sight reminiscence of a water tail on the back of a speedboat. It was definitely something to see, but I wouldn’t consider it the most impressive natural wonder in the park. With all the anticipation I was expecting it to dance, or sing, or maybe bake me a cake but it was a one-minute water show that, in the end, was nothing more than an interesting natural water fountain.

After the eruption of Old-Faithful we took a 3 mile hike around the Upper Basin Region viewing the thermal pools and looking at the other geysers. It was a scene straight out of Star Wars, and on a couple of occasion I thought some of the other tourist were George Lucas. The most impressive of all the pools was called “Morning Glory.” It was a deep, dark blue body of water with its edges marked in a yellowish-orangeish hue. It reminded me of some crazy Kool-Aid flavor and if I didn’t know the water was over 200 degree’s I would have been temped to take a drink in hopes it tasted like Blue Raspberry.

We ended a long day by driving back to our cabin in the pitch-black darkness that surrounds the park. It is amazing how scary a drive can be when you know Bear, Buffalo, and Wolf’s are all over the place. We averaged, at tops, 30 mph as we slowly moved back home. Our eyes were peeled for darting objects, falling rock, and what looked like walking trees. I would not advise driving in Yellowstone at night, unless you are some type of trill seeker who gets a kick out of dodging immovable animals. It was a day of beauty, animals, and a long car ride but the images of the landscape and the passing beasts will stay with us for the rest of our lives.

Taking a Bite out of the Beartooth Highway

2010-09-09T17:58:00.003-05:00

My journey to the Last Frontier started on Frontier Airlines. I am spending the next week in an area of the United States that I have never seen, Yellowstone National Park. My adventure includes members of my wife’s family, in something that resembles the Griswold Family Vacation. To save money and time we chose a flight that left the greater Chicago area at 6:00 am in the morning, which my all accounts, is way too early to be on an airplane. To create an outdoors feel the airline apply applies images of animals on the tails of its aircrafts. We were lucky enough to have a raccoon curl around the back of our plane, which made our flight look like a flying advertisement for a bad hair care product at 38,000 feet. With wild creatures in tow our adventure took off and we were off to explore our inner campers.

After a short layover in Denver, we boarded a vessel with exposed wheels, rotating propellers, and at tops 20 people....we were definitely going to a place few ventured. Upon landing in Billings, MT our first order of business was of course, Wal-Mart, which seemed oddly commercialized, even in a state with less than a million people. You will be happy to know that there are crazy people shopping at Wal-Mart in Montana just like there is in the Mid-West. Yet, it was us that everyone was starring at, as we filled our rental van will Styrofoam coolers and boxes of Marconi-and-Cheese. All our preplanning told us to stock up on the essentials prior to arriving at our cabin, so we bought any and all edibles we could think of.

To get to our cabin we had to drive a stretch of Highway that at one time was deemed impossible to pass, The Beartooth Highway. They only open this segment of road a couple months a year because of the large amount of snow it receives. Judging by the snow poles that mark the side of the roads they must get something in the neighborhood of 10 feet at any given time. The drive is as intimating as it sounds with crazy switchbacks, over 13,000 feet of elevation, and beautiful scenery none of us soon will forget. We took our time, as you should when you’re on vacation, never really exceeding 25 miles-per-hour, and stopped at every possible lookout. It was like a postcard with mountain peaks rigged and steep, valley’s deep and cut out with rivers passing over ancient rock, and huge lush trees greener than the crayon made by crayola. It was amazingly beautiful and well worth the 4 hours it took on a plane to get there.

At one of the lookout’s we encountered our first taste of the wildlife, domesticated chipmunks. At 12,000 feet elevation, these chipmunks have learned to gobble down the goodies foreign tourists have left. My sister-n-law, Krissy, believed this was the opportune time to make a friend by extending her left palm filled with soft, creamy, sugary candy. Apparently, chipmunks would rather have cheese nips, because after their first taste of the candy they jetted over to the young boy with a box of the square orange crackers. Off in the distance, away from the chipmunks and down a rock-lined trail was the crest of our journey, the edge of the highest point on the Beertooth pass. We spent a few minutes watching the clouds roll over the tip of the surrounding mountains, and listened in amazement as the wind flowed through the valley and whipped the tree’s from side to side. Off in the distance a small grey cloud gently dropped its collected rain on a small portion of the distant forest. It was as if nature knew we were coming and shared a piece of all it had to offer.

Our amazement didn’t stop at trails end, but continued as we ventured to the other side. Our vehicle cascaded around a corner and off in the distance we saw something we were generally accustom to in December and January, but not August….snow. It wasn’t deep, nor was it really white, but it was cold. We couldn’t pass up the opportunity of touching the snow, so we hiked up and had a short-lived snowball fight. You learn quickly that elevation can create havoc on your breathing, because all of us were gasping for oxygen. It seemed as if none of us were in shape, and even the slightest of inclines seemed like a nearly impossible upward climbs.

It took the better part of 3 hours to drive 60 miles but it was well worth it. When we made it to our cabin the sun was setting over the mountain ranges in a display one might have seen on the Nature Channel, though I have a feeling that sights like this are waiting for us around every turn. As we gathered our belonging inside, and whipped up a meal of hamburgers, it stuck me that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. Which is fine with me, because its not every day you can see mountains, drive nearly impassable roads, and spend hours in the car with family members talking about the wonders God has left for us.

Summer Vacation

2010-08-23T18:02:00.003-05:00

The sun is bright, the crickets are creaking and my skin is a darker shade of white….it is summer. To be more precise we have entered into the “Dog days of summer,” August. To a lot of people August marks the end of school break, and most families take the opportunity to go on one last great vacation prior to shifting back into fall mode. Around my office everyone is talking about what days they have off, where they are going and what exciting things they will be doing. It is a time when those youthful memories are created, and our opinions of how family bonding occurs are formed. My childhood was filled with these Family Adventures, many occurred on our boat, where a short 30 feet of fiberglass some how held in the intensity of adolescence. Yet, it was in Cincinnati, of all places, where one of my most meaningful summer trips occurred.

During my childhood, on occasion, Dad would be summons on a business trip for a large conference or a business meeting. He would leave the family unit for a couple days to some exotic sounding place like Hot Springs, Arkansas or San Francisco, California. The best part of these trips, from my standpoint, was the gifts he would bring back. I couldn’t wait to rip open the bag he brought back and find a hat, or a T-Shirt from the city he visited. It was like Christmas morning, except he usually returned at night, and the trips were generally in the spring. If he came back on a Friday, I would wear my new procession on Monday to school and pawn off on my friends that I had took a quick trip to said city over the weekend and it was just as glamorous as it sounded. Since my one true skill in life is story telling, I could come up with one heck of a tale. On more then one occasion I might have recanted a James Bond movie mixed with a Jennifer Anniston love story. Nobody ever believed me, but it did make lunchtime go by much faster.

One year my father’s meeting took him to the great state of Tennessee and since it was scheduled for the summer months my Dad decided that it was perfect timing for a grand family road trip down south. He had planned stops along the way at truly auspicious places like Kings Island theme park, which was extremely entertaining for us siblings but couldn’t have been delightful for the adults. One of the stops we made was in the Queen City of Cincinnati, and while I don’t remember everything we did during our stay there, but one event still captures my memories.

Growing up in a family of three boys it was nearly impossible to get any alone time with the parents; almost everything was done together. The one thing that my Dad and I shared, and still do, is an intense love of sports. I grew up loving all sports, but took a particular liking to baseball. My Dad was more into football and hockey, but would do his best to stick through five or six innings. Before we rolled into Cincinnati I had done some research, via the newspaper, on the local baseball team, The Cincinnati Reds. As it turned out, and to my pleasure, the home team was in town during our visit and game time was nicely set at 7:00 o’clock. My brothers hated baseball, so no matter how much I hinted, or suggested, or bribed it seemed like a near impossibility we were going to see that game…. because we did everything as a family.

On the day of the game we had toured the city, to be truthful I have no idea what we actually did, but we arrived back at our hotel room around 6:30 pm. I remember thinking to myself; we still had enough time to catch the game. My Mom, and brothers jumped onto their respective beds and began to catch up on some much needed sleep. My father mentioned that he was going to go out for a few minutes and wondered if I would be willing to join him. In the back of my mind I had hoped he was going to whisk me off to the stadium, but since that kind of thing rarely happened in our family I thought we might just be going to the local gas stadium to pick up some Coke. I hopped in the car and my dad began to drive…. we were headed downtown.

We ended up parking the car in some vacant parking lot, in a part of the city that I was glad he was there. I asked him what we were doing and he just said, follow me. We made our way through a few back streets till we turned a corner and the rounded edges of Riverfront Stadium appeared. We both smiled, as I knew we were now headed to the game. I had never been to any stadium other then our hometown Detroit Tigers, and the idea of seeing a game anywhere else made me extremely excited. My youthful heart must have been beating a hundred miles a minute and I remember extending my hand till it firmly fit into the palm of my fathers.

By the time we made it to the stadium it must have been 8:45 and the game was well underway. My dad did not have tickets, and we walked up to the gate looking for someway in. Our first approach was to talk to the entrance gate attendant. I remember my father saying to the man something to the extent of, “Were from Michigan, I have my son with me, he loves baseball, can you find it in your heart,” but he wasn’t compromising. At the same time my Dad was negotiating with the ticket attendant, an older couple was leaving the park and handed my father their ticket stubs. By this time the game was well into the 6^th inning, and I could see a crack in the attendants amour. Against her better judgment she allowed us to enter, using the ticket stubs, but sternly instructed that we sit at the top row.

It was an exhilarating feeling walking into the stadium, my dad and I, together at a foreign ballpark, breaking into the stadium and now watching live, real baseball. At that time Riverfront stadium donned a thick layer of Astroturf, which was basically a softer form of concrete, instead of grass. It was the first time I had ever seen the surface and my eyes couldn’t stop from staring. As I was transfixed on the game, my Dad scurried over to the vendor booth and bought us some hotdogs, peanuts and a giant Coke. It was my own personal heaven; hotdogs, my dad and baseball.

It was short lived as we got there in the 7^th, but on the way out my Dad and I made one more purchase; a nice and crisp, brand new, red-as-the-day Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. It instantly became my most prized possession. We walked out of the stadium, making sure to cast pleasantries onto the gate attendant, and headed back to our car. By this time it was night, and truth be told I don’t even remember anything specific about the game, other then the fact the Reds were playing the Phillies.

We got back to the hotel room and the rest of my family was past out in there respective beds. I nuzzled up in my bed and started to drift away in a pleasant dream about baseball, and my personal quest to play shortstop for the Detroit Tigers. Until the junk food my Dad feed me bit back…..my stomach began to turn, and I knew it was only a matter of time till all the deliciousness of ballpark food made its way out. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the bathroom and pieces of hotdog partials landed everywhere. When my vomiting routine ended I walked out the bathroom and saw the demise of my nightfall over indulgence, my brand new, nice and crisp, red-as-the-day Cincinnati Reds hat, it was covered in my own nastiness.

We try cleaning, and scrubbing but nothing seemed to work. It smelled bad and had stains, which are both bad for a family road trip to Tennessee. We ended up throwing the hat away, but in retrospect its probably better…..because I am a Detroit Tiger fan and it’s the only Major League baseball hat I will wear. I don’t really remember anything else about the trip. We must have made it to and fro without any other fantastic experiences, or at least one’s that lived up to the baseball game. Eventually summer ended, and I went back to school without a token from my trip, and while I told the story it didn’t have the same validity as the stories from my fathers other trips in which he brought back T-shirts and hats. I guess props can make even the most skeptical a believer.

I Wasn’t Wearing Any Pajamas

2010-08-17T20:39:00.004-05:00

I have spent the better half of the last two weeks inspecting the parking lots of the Western Chicago Suburbs looking for a reliable means of transportation. To my demise the process has been more troubling then rewarding and in many ways has made me question my ability to purchase….anything, ever again. If I had to compare it to something, I would say, it has felt a lot like extensive dental work, necessary, but also extremely painful. The reason that buying a car is so difficult can be attributed to trust, or lack there of any. Since you can’t believe in anyone you have no confidence in anything they are selling. Which, as it turns out, leads to massive indecision. Indecision that ultimately leads to agony….and agony is a very bad thing.

My car shopping experience started when my current vehicle went into the shop. I was told it would take only a day, but like all good mechanics it took two. This put a series dent into my plans as my wife and I share our one, and only, vehicle. We had been talking about getting a second car for some time and this only accentuated the fact that it is nearly impossible for two grown working adults to share one halfway operating car. Especially when those two grown working adults have two completely different work schedules, and when one of them has a deep seeded passion for a certain baseball team whose games start at, or around, the exact same time the other is suppose to be picked up. As you can see, it is nearly impossible.

As the mechanics time frame got pushed back my wife and I went into post-High-School-track-practice mode looking and bumming rides from anyone who would help. It was quite embarrassing, and enough to push the timeline of the new purchase up to, immediately. Talking about making a purchase like this is one thing; actually doing it is completely different. I soon learned that no matter what payment I thought I would be comfortable with, if the value of the thing I was purchasing dropped in half the minute I drove it, I would suddenly lose that nice and toasty vibe. Which is exactly what happened.

When we finally got our old car back from the shop we started by going to our local domestically made, car dealership. This had been the first time I have been “on the market” for a new car since my first vehicle purchase….which happens to be our current automobile. I had made this purchase about 6 years prior and it was really my first big splurge. My job, at that time, demanded a vehicle that could go about 1,000 miles a week and more importantly start every time I turned the key. I searched for a while going from car to car looking for the perfect ride, until the day I drove up and found her sitting there all shinny and new.

My wife and I had just finished a workout at our local gym and she had indicated a desire, as we drove past the dealership, to just pop in and check out the cars. The minute we got into the lot my eyes were fixated on a black Pontiac G6 with sunroof and XM radio. It was everything I wanted, and at a price I could afford. Within minutes the sales rep. came out of hibernation and started circling his pry. We test drove it, and talked, and test drove, and talked….and then negotiated….all in the comforts of my blue with white striped pajamas.

I ended up purchasing that car, that day, wearing my pajamas. Truthfully, I think it gave me an upper hand in the negotiations because the sales rep. wanted to be able to tell all his buddies he was good enough to sell a guy, wearing pajamas, a brand new car. I got it for a few thousand dollars cheaper, and he got one hell of a story. It was really a painless process, I knew what I wanted and got it. Which is why when we started shopping again I didn’t think it would be that difficult.

The biggest difference this time was I wasn’t just shopping for myself, I am now married, and the car is a joint purchase. Which means, you have to agree to a style, a model, a brand, a color, leather or cloth, Satellite or regular radio, and the most important two or four drink holders; you have to make more compromises than two humans should ever have to make. Eventually, there will be a disagreement over one or more of the options, and no matter what you thought the agreed upon price was, it will change…at least twice.

The main problem, in any married relationship, when it comes to purchasing a new automobile is we (men and women) want completely different things. Women want a cute, nice, practical car to get them from point A to point B. Men, want it all; big, fast, gas guzzling tanks that can drive over mountains. It is nearly impossible to find any middle ground in which to agree to. There is no cute, practical gas guzzling behemoths out there. It all ends up causing endless hours of debate, and numerous meaningless visits to different dealerships.

We eventually agreed upon a nice, sensible SUV, and while this was enough to get us started it wasn’t enough to actually make a purchase. We just couldn’t find the right one, and none of them said, “buy me.” We must have test drove every single imaginable SUV, and we started running out of models. Which is ludicrous considering every brand makes five different types. Every test drive went the exact same way; how do the seats feel, comfortable? How does it handle, Safe and Secure? Can you turn? How about the brakes? Is it big enough? Small enough?

We wanted way to many things, and each car had some fault. There was a squeak in the brakes, or crack in the windshield, or a flat tire. Something seemed to always be wrong, which included our delightful experience with the used car sales force. For full disclosure I should mention that I do sales for a living, and probably am hyper critical of my profession, but please guys…have a little dignity. At one point one of the gentleman even said the most cliché of all used car clichés, “What can I do to get you inside this vehicle today?” It was all quite disgraceful, to the point that we actually purchased our car from the one, and only, guy we actually like.

After what seemed to be months, we ended on a specific model and were treated to a wonderful exhibit of how-much-can-we-tact-on. Of course, I am referring to the process of acquiring additional insurances. You can buy insurance not only on specific sections of your car, but for specific sections of your loan. Think about how crazy it sounds, “I know you don’t have the cash to buy the entire care right now, so we are going to lend it to you. Since you’re a bad driver we want you to get insurance on our money, and since the car is a piece of junk you have to get insurance on the fact it will decrease in value the minute you drive it away so your loan will actually be higher then the value of the vehicle.” What’s worse than sitting through this exhibition is choosing against one of the packages, in which the finance guy berates you for ten minutes about what a dumb a$$ you are.

So we searched, and searched, and searched till we came to the realization we were never going to make a decision. So we bought a car. I know it’s not exactly the same thing that we originally were looking for, but its nice, and black, and shinny. It even spoke to us in the parking lot, saying, “Get this process over with!” Which is exactly what we did the only difference between this time and the last was….I wasn’t wearing my pajamas.

A Roadside Werther's Original

2010-08-06T18:07:00.001-05:00

The stretch of highway between Chicago and Michigan is filled with an overabundance of dirty-minded billboards, firework shops and trucker gas stations. It is a transportation thoroughfare ruled by long distance haulers and orange construction cones. I am neither, but I spend more then my fare share commuting back and forth from workplace to birthplace. It is enviable that somewhere along this paved extension my petroleum indicator will find its way to the letter “E,” and I will need to make a pit stop for some refueling. During these stops I take the opportunity to do a little research on the latest creations in the sugary confections industry. In the name of science I walk down the endless aisles browsing at the packaging, pouring over the ingredients and thinking about what unhealthy snack will taste the best. Only because I want to be the best darn scientist I can be, I, on occasion, make a few purchases. It is by far the best part of the two-hour trip, and it can even become enlightening.

Last week my empty gas tank took me to one of those colossally big pumping stations that you can see from the prior state. I started my scientific hypothesis with the shelves nearest to the bathroom; because they had an interesting new Little Debbie, which I had to check out. Frosted cakes always have a way of grabbing my attention. I passed a couple other areas of concentration till I came across the classics, an area I always pause at. Snickers, Reece’s, Milky Ways, Gummy Bears, and all the originals. I love this area, mostly because it evokes a certain tap into my memory bank and I suddenly think about all the good times I have had with candy. My eyes poured over the choices till I landed on a bag of goodies with the name, “Werther’s Original” nicely stenciled across the front…it instantly brought a smile.

I grabbed the bag, headed to the check out line, and took my place behind 10 burly, plumped belly, truckers all adjusting either there hat or there belt. I took a closer look at the bag and fell into a vision from my youth. The first image I saw was that of my Grandma Robb. She was a sweet old lady, who loved her family, her farm, and her sweets. More specifically, she loved the deep carmelly taste of a Werthers Original…. of which she liked to share.

My Grandparents lived in an old farmhouse outside a small community in Southeastern Michigan. Like a lot of other farmhouses of that era, the design surrounded the most important space in the house, the kitchen. As a young child my favorite part of their enormous kitchen was a small golden jar that lied on the edge of the china cabinet. The jar had an ornate design with lots of bumps, swirls, and craved edges. The top section pulled off revealing a jagged separation from the bottom. It looked like it must have been 100 years old, and the outside donned the fingerprints of multiple grandchildren.

I can only remember two types of candy ever making there way into the jar. The first and most prevalent being the aforementioned Werther’s Original, the second was the sweet and tart tasting lemon drops. My favorite thing to do with the lemon drops was to keep three of four of them in the palm of my hand for a couple minutes till they melted together forming the worlds largest lemon drop. The sour intensity of the jumbo drop was enough to make even a sweet tooth child cry.

There was never a limit to the amount of candy Grandma would let you have, as long as she didn’t catch you grabbing more than one. I remember having to go on retrieval missions, trying to get my hand in for just one more piece. My cousins and I would do everything we could in order to satisfy our need for more sugar. My Grandma used candy as a bridge to the earlier generations. She would share a piece, sit in the kitchen, and listen to the events of our youth. Her gesture of having a full candy jar was an attempt to reach out and relate. Her tool of the trade was sugar, and it worked to perfection.

My Grandma and her candy jar no longer reside at the farmhouse in Southeastern Michigan, but my memory of the time we shared peeling the golden wrapper off a Werther’s Original are still with me to this day. And while I will never be a kid again, and my Grandma will never offer me another piece of her candy, I will smile each time I see those words written across a bag of treats in a gas station ……anywhere in the world.

The Ringing Pile of Garbage

2010-07-23T19:27:00.004-05:00

The most unexpected things happen when you least expect them. I was sitting on the stool in the kitchen of my in-laws house, munching on few deliciously ripe cherries, as I tried to awake from my mid-morning slumber. My plans of an early morning run raced through my mind, but I wasn’t about to hit the pavement without some morning nourishment. We arrived late the night before, traffic is always horrendous on Friday Nights, but our only plans for the weekend involved a boat and a whole lot of beer. I peered my head toward the large picture window in the back of the house displaying a day full of crisp golden sunrays, and beautifully calm blue water. My weekend was set up perfectly…until I became homeless.

It stated with a door opening, the one from the garage. We had been expecting my Mother-in-law’s return from work; Houses don’t sell themselves, and the anticipation of a legendry weekend VanAsperen breakfast. Like a trained pet, my stomach hit overdrive in anticipation of the platefuls of food that would soon be in front of me. I secretly wondered if it was going to be Waffles or Pancakes as sausage links and bacon strips danced in my head. I took my eyes off the wonderful weather developing outside to welcome my mother-in-law, Cindy, home. She looked a bit stressed, a tad anxious, and a smidge traumatized. “Well, I dropped my phone in the dumpster,” and with those words my life has never been the same.

I listened intently as she began her tale, but I already knew now the story was going to end…. someone was going to have to get it out. Apparently, she was doing a little car clean –up in the parking lot of her real estate office, throwing away a few cups, bags, and other things that had collected in her vehicle. Unbeknownst to her the cleanliness went a little to far. In the course of tossing some Styrofoam cups into the dumpster she forgot her phone was still in her hand. She watched as the stark white objects fly into the green dumpster and picked out the flying, ringing, candy apple red mobile device as it hit the top of the garbage pile. The incoming calls would have to wait.

Her story continued with a valiant effort of recovery, one that involved poking and prodding with various objects from the outside of the receptacle, but to no avail, it had firmly found a home atop a used carton of Frosted Flakes. In fact, she indicated, that her heroic efforts only pushed the device further down, beneath the mounds of tossed away rubbage. After a considerable amount of time she decided to leave, in hopes that additional tools would aid in her repossession. Her instrument of choice…a fish net.

Her arrival at home didn’t mark the end of the story, but merely a mid-way point, of which I interject my skills of acquisition. I have no pervious dumpster driving experience nor have I ever mistakenly dropped my cell phone into a trash bin, but I did know that there was no way my Mother-in-law was ever going to get inside that garbage can to recovery her phone. After searching in the basement for a few minutes and finding the appropriate bass-scented fish net, she marched upstairs ready to claim back her missing possession. Out of nowhere my wife, bless her heart, commented that maybe we should accompany her on the reclamation quest. The key word here is “We.”’

I am all for helping the family out, and if there was anyone I would do anything for, my mother-in-law would be at the top of the list. But the minute my wife mouthed the words, “we should go with you” I knew that meant, “Nick, is more then happy to jump into a smelly dumpster for you.” I didn’t fight it; in fact, I kind of wanted to watch her fish around the garbage can with the net.

The ride over to her office was quiet, like I would imagine a locker room would be before a big game. I asked a couple times for her to describe the location of the phone, trying to get myself mentally ready, but all I could imagine was mounds of dirty trash on top on the cellular device. Yet, her description was always the same, “It’s right on top.” I held out hope that maybe, someway, it would be nested on top like a sprinkle dotting the top of birthday cake, and all I would have to do is help her pluck it off.

We arrived at the scene of the crime, and I got a look at our dreaded green beast. It was an average size dumpster, not that I have studied trashcan sizes but it looked fairly normal. I peered my head in and found it to be more then half full. It looked like someone had tossed away their basement possessions, because there were some old vinyl records, musty magazines and an empty bottle of hair care product. To be honest, it could have been worse, like filled with food or used medical supplies but it was still a dumpster and still smelled like…. well, trash.

My Mother-in-law pointed in the general direction of where she thought it was at. Which was a small opening between two heaping bags. There was no way the fish net was going to be any help. At which point I realized my premonition was truth, someone had to get it. Instead of just accepting fate, I decided to turn on my sales skills, and asked how much she needed her phone. The average person would have forgot about it, left it for the dump, and raced over to the local wireless store in search of something new. But I knew it contained all her important business phone number and no matter how hard I pressed this possession was precious. It needed to be recovered.

I took a few deep breathes and came to terms with the fact I was going to have to jump into this thing, but didn’t want to do it without some protection. I asked for a pair of gloves, thinking that if I were going in I would have to move stuff around. We searched the car and found no gloves, but we did find a pair of old socks. My Father-in-law must have worn them during a round of golf because they were lodged inside his shoes. At this point, I wasn’t picky, and slide those sweaty smelly socks over my hands to avoid something even more disgusting.

With the socks firmly tucked over my hands I jumped into the dumpster, feet first. The whole thing was a blur, I was in and out in less than a minute but I distinctly remember thinking to myself that there is no way I could be homeless. I couldn’t do this daily looking for food. It smelled, bugs were crawling around and nasty indescribable liquid poured out of bags. I can’t imagine a scenario where I would climb into one of these things looking for my daily nourishment. Trust me, if you jump into one dumpster, you will work 10 times harder at your job. (Which gives me an idea for my employees.)

I found the phone in no time flat, and was out of the green bin of disease without much fuss. I did almost throw up, three times upon exit. In fact I would have if it weren’t for a nice steady breeze. It was utterly disguising and not as bad as I thought all at the same time. The moment I came to gripes with my new reality I wanted only one thing…. a shower.

I handed the phone over to the rightful owner, and commented that I should receive 1% of all transactions completed with this mobile device. A joke I think she took in stride. The ride home seemed long, and included a quick stop to make a random purchase. The entire time in the store I felt like the kid in the Charlie Brown movies with the green fuzzy surrounding him. I knew I smelled, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

We eventually made it back to the house, and I ran directly into the shower, where I spent the better half of an hour. I must have reapplied my Old Spice body wash five times, and when I finally thought I was clean, I walked out of the tub and got directly back in, allowing myself to become completely cleansed.

My reappearance back into the world was meet with the appropriate amount of praise. My mother-in-law was thankful she didn’t have to get into the dumpster, and I was thankful for having helped her out. I once again peered out the big window in the back of the house realized that the water was blue and sun still bright.

Bug-B-Gone

2010-06-23T23:10:00.002-05:00

I have a bug problem. Well, not me personally. Last time I checked my temperature was at a balmy 98.6 degree’s, but my house is flooded with creepy, crawling insects. For the most part they have taken up residence on the outside, scavenging on the flowers, bushes and trees around my yard. They range in size and shape, with the biggest being a beetle that must have weighed close to 20 lbs. All these arachnids have wrecked havoc on my wife’s comfort level, and soon enough the ultimatum came down that it was time to rid ourselves of these unwanted guests. Five trips to Home Depot later I found the perfect home protection spray. The only problem…you have to apply it yourself.

Now, truth be told, I do not own a handyman license. In fact, if it wasn’t for watching “This Old House,” on PBS with my grandparents as a little kid, and a few lessons from my apply trained father, I might not know how to hammer a nail. The idea of doing anything even remotely close to home improvement elevates my heart rate. The only thing I can think of is somehow burning, destroying, or otherwise breaking my newly purchased home. You may say, “This is only bug spray,” but what if you get it on the wood exterior of the house and it turns a funky kind of green? What if it kills every sound piece of vegetation in the front of house? What if, by applying this chemical onto the ground surrounding my house, it seeps into my water supply and in a couple days all my wife’s hair falls out. The possibilities of destruction are endless…. and the reward is only the obscene of a few of Gods simple creatures. I beginning to think I might invite them over for a nice Sunday meal. I’ll cook the pasta.

The first order of business, in any beginner project, is to read some sort of directions. In this case the bottle had a four-page book of steps taped to the outside. I carefully removed the sheets and slowly began reading my way through. There were little pictures, five simple looking steps and 2 endlessly long pages of warnings. The directions themselves did not make me nervous. I figured that if I went to college for four years, graduated, and have been a good standing member of society ever since I should be able to hook this bottle up to my hose, aim, and spray. What got me anxious was the long list of warnings.

I am neurotic about warning. Any label inciting death, poisoning, eye irritation and/or the possibility of your skin burning off will make me not only unable to perform simple functions, but also cry. Basic household chemicals somehow transform into anthrax. As I read through each painfully damaging warning I realized that this wasn’t meant to kill insects….it was intended to kill me. I could read the headline, “Homeowner dies trying to protect wife from giant killer beetles.” Not exactly what you want on your tombstone.

My anxiety levels were overly elevated, so I took a deep breath, and re-enforced my manhood with some positive affirmations, “You can do this,” “Don’t let this bother you,” “Your very handsome.” I then grabbed our green garden hose with the intention of causing some unwanted home pests a very long night. I decided I would limit my exposure by just spraying the front of the house and headed to the planted area by our door.

I attached the bottle to the hose, then the hose to the water connection, and finally turned the water on. Soon the combination of chemical and water was washing onto the ground, house, and, well, pretty much everywhere. I was going to kill any insect that came close to my home….suddenly I was overcome with a rush of emotions that can only be described as the Terminator. I was the master of my own domain, I was in charge and I was going to fix this simple, easy, no problem household issue. That was until a splash of the liquid touched my arm.

I didn’t know what to do. I froze. Liquid continued to spew out all over the ground, but I didn’t know what to do. My response, spitting. I don’t know why, but all the sudden I starting spitting, and I couldn’t stop. I must have cleared my throat, mouth, and lungs 35 times. At one point I couldn’t tell what was spit and what was the bug killing liquid. I lost all sense of reasoning, but never lost focus of getting our house dosed in chemical.

When the front of the house was sufficiently covered, I turned the water off and made a B-line for the basement sink. I washed, cleaned, re-washed, soaped, cleansed and re-soaped/cleansed four times before I thought maybe I got all liquid off my body. Of course it was impossible to tell, these bug killing liquids are all clear, which I now believe they do on purpose just to freak people like me out when they accidently get some on them. It is all a big conspiracy between the bug community and the bug killing chemical companies.

Even though I had taken a layer of skin off my body in the basement sink, it wasn’t enough. I still had the urge to spit. So, I took a shower….mine you nothing even came close to my mouth, the original spot of inflection was my arm, which I was now convinced was going to need to be amputated. The longer I looked at the spot of incursion the more I thought it had swallowed. In my head there was a bump on my arm the size of Mt. Everest. This stuff, if nothing else….made me crazy.

The longer I stood in the shower, the faster my sanity reappeared. The hot water flowing over my head, brought a rush of smart blood to my head. This stuff wasn’t anything that was going to kill me, my arm was fine, and I could stop spitting! I walked out of the bathroom, and realized that I had accomplished my set goal. I had killed the bugs! My house, my wife, my hardwood floors were all safe from the creepy crawling insects of the outside world. The only price for this protection…..A newly found fear of basic household chemicals.

The Near Accidents

2010-06-21T22:45:00.005-05:00

There are moments in our lives that are defined more by what doesn’t happen then what does. These occurrences generally end in some form of expression characterized as relief, and while they may not happen daily there impact is felt. In these brief periods of time life finds a way of speeding up, leaving us with a rapidly beating heart and a sudden shortness of breath. Some people say that there future flashes in front of them, revealing a life quite different than the one that ultimately is unfolded. It is these fleeting instants that our lives transform…..without ever really knowing.

My latest “near” catastrophe happened on a side road in the city of Atlanta. I was in a small rental car on my way to a baseball game. Anytime you try to cram 20,000+ people in a 1 mile radius the probability for traffic exists, and the possibility that you will become frustrated is a certain. I was traveling from my hotel, and following the city signs for the baseball field. In what seemed to be fifteen left hand turns I ended up arriving at a road blocked off by a police officer. I could see the designated parking lot that lied just on the other side of the police barricade, and didn’t have the slightest idea why they would block the entrance. I was not alone though as in front of me were a good ten cars, all of which were wondering the same thing….how the hell am I going to get in there?

Car after car stopped and asked the police officer for directions, and from about 5 cars back I could see he was directing people to turn around and enter through the other gate. It was like one big clown circus as some people got what was going on, and some people obviously didn’t. The tension was heightened by an overabundance of car horns. It seemed that some people decided the lack of depression on the foot pedal must result in an over depression on the steering wheel.

What irritates me more than anything, in these traffic disturbances, are the people that think the police officer is going to make an expectation for. They try to plow through the group, pushing their way up to the edge without consideration for anyone else. When they finally get to the front they ask the same exact question as everyone else, and get the exact same answer….”I’m sorry, you’re going to have to turn around.” But, that’s not good enough for them and they press, and press, and press till they tick off the police officer and become uncontrollably ridiculous. It all ends in a rage of anger.

I was in the middle of making a perfectly executed three-point turn when the aforementioned crazy person decided that my, red Chevy Cobalt wasn’t good enough to be there. He jammed on the gas and flew up right next to me at the exact instant I was spinning the wheel in the opposite direction. I pressed my foot on the gas and tilted my head around to find the car stopped directly in front of me. He had halted his vehicle to yell more superlatives at the cop and paid no attention to what I was doing.

In a matter of milliseconds I slammed on the brake, stopping literally inches from his bumper. The adrenaline flowed through my body, and my fingers dug into the steering wheel. The already enraged man flung additional commentary my direction as I tried to come to grips with what just transpired. I looked over at the cop who couldn’t stop laughing. Apparently, he found the entire thing to be humorous.

My first instinct was to make sure all my body parts were still attached. I didn’t touch the other car, but it all happen so fast I couldn’t help but run a system check on the fact I was still alive. Legs…..Check. Arms…..Check. Head….Check. Heart Attack…..Check! When I finally came to, I gently put my car in reverse and proceeded to get the heck out of there. I didn’t need any more action for my quick commute to the baseball game, and slowly I proceeded to exit the area trying to avoid making contact with the car I almost hit.

Eventually, I made it to the lot and nuzzled the car to the white line marking the front of the parking spot. I took a couple deep breaths and thought about what could have happened. What if I would have allowed the frustration of the situation to get to me and I rammed on the gas projecting my car into the back of the other car? Would I still be alive? Would my car be destroyed? Did I get the rental car insurance? It surely would have changed the outcome of my night, and the rest of my trip.

I was lucky, fortunate, and thankful that God was looking out for me. But, during those breathes after I stopped my car I realized that these types of events happen to all of us on a regular basis. They might not all be as powerful as a near missed accident, but we avoid disaster way more then disasters occur. Even on those days were nothing seems to be going right, way less has happen wrong it just not as easy to remember the things that didn’t happen to us as it is the things that did.

As I was walking to the game thoughts of my avoidance raced though my mind, and it occurred to me that I would soon forget this entire incident. I mean nothing truly happened, there is no real story to tell. And yet, I think there is something in the nothingness….we are blessed on a regular basis with minor miracles, we just don’t take the time to acknowledge their existence. It’s easier to forget and move forward. What we miss is an opportunity to reflect on the fact we are opportunistic and even the unluckiest person has been granted the opportunity to live.

The Concrete Shelf

2010-06-01T22:07:00.005-05:00

Outside my house there is a small shelf. It is about 1 foot long and about a half inch deep. It is made of concrete, but seems to find a way to blend into the brick walls of the exterior. I’m sure that the original proprietor of the home imaged this to be an excellent spot to place some lovely annuals, because from the street it is more visible then the front door. When we toured the house prior to purchasing it the weather was cold and snowy, and to be frank, I didn’t even recognize the fact that it was there. I guess it is a common thing to overlook considering all the other features we were consumed with, I mean it is……a concrete shelf.

The first time I realized that this attribute of the house existed, was during our move in. Boxes were going in, people were coming out and someone brought up our newly acquired shelf, except they referred to it in a different way, “Did you know that you have a bird nest right outside your door?” I walked outside to find a nice and neat, circular design, twig and branch, bird nest stocked with baby eggs. Apparently, we were the new noisy neighbors.

Over the course of the next day or two, as things started to settle down, the bird made a couple appearances. It was an Oriole, or maybe a Robin, to tell you the truth all I really know is that it was orange and black and had long wings….it could have been a hawk for all I know. As far as birds go, I would considered this one to be on the heavier side, if it were a chicken I would describe her as plump and great for a Sunday Dinner. It had a long slender beak, which was perfect for picking up supplies for its house. But the most interesting feature were her feet, small and razor thin skinny, I wondered how she could support all her weight.

She was a good roommate, as far as birds go. I never heard her chirp, or beep, not even a friendly hello in passing. In fact, you could walk right under the nest without even noticing that a large female bird was sitting on top of her eggs literally right next to your head. Her movements were quick and unprovoked, and acted as though it was no big deal we were new in town. If she could bake I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if a nicely prepared plate of cookies were placed on our front porch with a little note signed, “Do Not Disturb My Nest…..The Robin, or Oriole, or Hawk. P.S. Welcome to the neighborhood. Don't mess with my nest. ”

I can’t remember who it was exactly, maybe one of our neighbors that told us that the bird made its annual home on our shelf. Almost like its cabin up north, nestled between the garage and the front door with the perfect lookout of the neighborhood. I can image the bird conversations that it must have in the cold season down in Boca Rotan about the nice concrete shelf, with the beautiful view of the neighborhood, the perfect spot to start raising a family. She would describe the location in such detail that the other birds would become jealous, but of course she wouldn’t offer too much information about the geography because she wanted to keep it a secret. Bird gossip must be tremendous.

Some time had passed when I realized that one of the eggs had dropped out of the nest and cracked on the driveway. The tiny shell pieces had fallen into the cracks and the yolk had bubbled on the concrete under the mid-day sun. The bright and sunny location of the bird nest now seemed somber and desolate. Since that day I have not seen our long winged friend back. It seems this spring wasn’t as kind to her and she must have headed back south, to Boca, to be with her wintering friends. I enjoyed the brief time we shared our homes. It was nice to know something else loved were we live.

I am hopeful next year she heads back up north, ready to give the parenting thing another shot. My understanding of nature is limited but I do know that from time to time these things happen, Eggs drop out of nests, and life has a way of picking the ones grateful enough to experience the journey……..I just hope, the ones fortunate enough, can find their own concrete shelves with the beautiful neighborhood views.

Sock Hysteria

2010-05-26T20:23:00.001-05:00

Every couple of years I go through a period of sock hysteria. The elastic on the top stretches out, holes develop in the heals and the stark white color begins to take on a grayish tone. The agitation generally starts when I can’t find a matching pair and I end up randomly putting two separate socks together. At the time of matching I don’t think anything of it, but when I am getting ready to go to the gym and all I can find is a crew sock matched with a knee-high, I begin to come unglued. When my socks struggle to find a partner I take this as a clue that it is time to go out and purchase some new foot covers. The problem is, the process of acquisition isn’t that easy.

For the first 20 years of my life, Christmas was the occasion when I received my yearly allowance of socks, t-shirts and boxers. It was an easy gift for my Grandmother. She didn’t have to think about whether or not we would like it, because well, we needed it. I never got exactly excited when I opened my perfectly wrapped socks, but I always thought it was extremely practical. Which makes me wonder why we don’t give everyone socks as a gift? The limit of its practicality doesn’t necessarily have to end with Christmas either; why not stuff some candy in a sock for Easter, or a little birthday cake on top of a 4 pack of white crew lengths…. the opportunities are endless. And as long as you chose the right size you know the other person will use them.

One of the worse things about buying new socks is throwing the old ones away. I know some people use them as rags but I seem to have a mental connection with my feet protectors and the idea of swapping up some nasty liquid with something that has been on my feet that many times makes me sad. So, what tends to happen is my sock draw builds up, and up and up. The old socks take their place at the bottom and the new socks get free reign on top. The only time I can bring myself to throw them away is when the hole in the big toe has grown so large that my entire foot is sticking out…even someone who is attached has to have a limit.

Now that I am responsible for purchasing my own pair I find the process extremely difficult. In the past I almost always went with the cheapest option, figuring I could get more for my money. Quantity was very important to me, because lets be honest, is there a better feeling then a brand new pair of socks? For what seemed to be weeks I would get a new pair every day. Trouble is, the cheapest are never the best. The seams dig into your toes and when you put on your shoes the pain becomes almost unlivable. It’s not just the seams that make cheap socks cut rate, it’s the feeling after the first wash when they become stale, stiff and lose that soft cottony texture.

There was a time that I switched from cheap and went expensive. $10 a pair socks make you feel like Tom Cruise. The first time you slide them on your feet melt into there own bed and each step is reminiscent of a cloud. Everything about them shouts luxury, expect for the fact that you can only afford one pair. That one pair gets worn, and worn, and worn until it has missed multiple washing cycles. You start to make special clothing rules for your $10 socks, like suspending your “grown-up” rule of not wearing the same clothes three days in a row. This of course leads to a bigger issue, foot smell. The odor is so bad that your wife begins to question whether or not you showered which is nothing compared to the ugly color of green your toenails turn. Quality is good, only if you can afford multiple pairs.

It is the age-old question for any consumer, value-for-money, the biggest bang for your buck and I desperately need something to snap me out of my cotton-less haze. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands and went to the store in search of that perfect pair of socks. As I entered the front doors I had a checklist of all the criteria I was looking for:

1. Color – Have to be white
2. Size – I wear size 9, and I prefer knee high
3. Softness – They have to be ultra soft, almost like a marshmallow
4. Seams – Pardon the pun, must remain seamless
5. Fit – In the perfect world, they would contour to my high arches, but I will settle for a little rise in the bottom.

At first glance of the shelves I could tell they were brand name heavy. Hanes, Fruit of the Loom, Adidas, Nike all the big players in the sock industry but I didn’t want to fall into the trap of picking a pair solely based on the manufacturer. I started to study the different options and slowly started to narrow it down until there were two different 6 packs.

The best way to know if a sock will work for you is to try it on, but, for some reason, stores don’t have a sock fitting room. So, I bought both packs of socks with the idea that I will return the package that doesn’t totally fit my needs. It wasn’t until I got into the car that I thought about the moralistic angle of returning a pair of socks that were once on my feet. I quickly dismissed those thoughts with the reasoning that it is the stores responsibility to give me, the consumer, the right to try them on first. “Power to the Sock Purchasers!”

Once I got home I opened each bag, and gently lowered my feet into the cotton filled bath that is new pair of socks. They both were amazing, they both had exquisite craftsmanship, and they both seemed perfect. So I have made the executive decision to keep both 6 packs, and throw away all my old socks. Look, every now and again you have to spoil yourself…especially when we are talking about new socks!

Do you Like Airplanes?

2010-05-24T20:39:00.001-05:00

Do you like airplanes? A question I normally try to avoid. I suffer from a slight fear of flying, and by slight, I mean, if the plane experiences even the slightest amount of turbulence I go crazy. My seat partner was a young boy, and he posed the question as I became comfortable with my surroundings. We were on a flight to Washington D.C. and judging by his trembling legs I was going to have to be the more “adult-like” figure. I fudged my response in a way only someone with social seasoning would have understood, “Ummm…there alright.” He obviously had been schooled in the ways of adult subtlety because he totally called my bluff. “Yeah, I don’t like them much either.” I realized that this was going to be a situation in which my skills in comforting were going to be tested. I swallowed my anxiety, took a deep breath and began to think of a way to help my flying friend from not freaking out. The only thing that came to mind was the one that calms me down…….word search puzzles.

I have a ragged, torn and tatted book of easy to find word search puzzles that I pull out on most flights. The searches are meant to be easy, come to think of it, they are meant for children. I accidently purchased it at a book store without looking at the fine print which said, “Perfect for ages 7-10.” It works as an amazing distraction from the apprehension I feel for flying. Sometimes, I think it works better then Prozac, not that I have ever ingested pharmaceutical assistance to get through a flight, but if I did I’m sure that “Circle-A-Word: Children’s Addition,” would be just as good. Amazingly they are not as easy as you may think. In fact there have been a couple times that I was doing a puzzle and got stumped finding a couple words and thought to myself, “Dude, this is made for 10 year olds!”

As I started in on a search titled, “Pasta’s best friend” I saw my neighbor’s attention gravitate toward the pages. I watched as his eyes followed my pen over a couple easy finds like noodles and sauce. I waited to see if he would join in without me asking for assistance, I thought we had built a little rapport during our initial conversation and that would translate to puzzle time. Within minutes he shouted that he had found spaghetti and exclaimed that I wasn’t every good at solving the puzzles. I laughed a few times and let the kid solve the rest of the puzzle till I could tell he had calmed down a bit. All was fine till moments before take off when he said, “Do you watch National Geographic?”

My response was measured, not knowing where this conversation was going, “Yeah, on occasion when there isn’t any sports on, I’ll flip over.” He looked up from the puzzle and said, “Well, I was watching the other day and they were showing this program. It was about the worse ways you can die.” I knew at that moment the conversation was headed in the wrong direction, but as our plane took off I held onto the armrest, praying for both a safe flight and the end of this topic, hoping he was telling me some kind of cruel 10 year old joke that would end with a guy dying from his own farts.

“Well, I was watching the other day and the show had a woman on a plane. The plane was going over the ocean when it cracked in half. The lady got sucked out through the crack and pulled into the engine.” My face about dropped….how do you respond to a story like that? This kid couldn’t have been more than 10 years old…..this is the exact reason my parents didn’t let me watch Children of the Corn when I was young, they wanted me to still be able to eat vegetables. The only thing I could think of was, “Well, I ride on a lot of planes and have never seen one crack in half, let alone a woman getting sucked into the engine. Besides, it was on TV…Do you believe everything you see on TV?” That wasn’t the right response because my newly minted friend decided to get defensive, “What, you calling me a liar? I’m telling you the truth the lady got sucked out like a vacuum cleaner on a dirty floor.”

At the beginning of this whole conversation I thought that my cross word puzzle would calm him down, but as soon as the young boy started to talk about planes cracking in half I had to do it for my own sanity….and for some reason I couldn’t find the word “Italian spices.” Sensing my nervousness my seat mate bantered into another story, “It’s not just the National Geographic network that makes me hate flying, when my Dad was stationed in Germany, and I lived on the military base, all they showed was this program on airplane terrorism.” We have now been airborne for about 20 minutes and if you measured the placement of my eyeballs they may technically be considered “popping-out.” The odd thing was that by telling me these stories, he was calming himself down….to a point that he was almost falling asleep! It had to be some Freudian moment because in the middle of describing the part where the bad guys took over the plane he was out, resting his head on my shoulder. For the next hour and a half, while my young friend slept, I warded out a personal melt down by watching an episode of The Office, sad thing was, Steve Carroll couldn’t even make me laugh.

We eventually landed in Washington, and no the plane didn’t crack in half. It occurred to me, as I walked off the tarmac, that the more information we collect the more unbalanced we become. Maybe it’s the movies we watch, or the news stories that get hyped, or maybe it’s our fear of the improbable. Whatever it is, we lose our ability relax and rationalize. While my young friend was able to sleep I was up frantically trying to find random words in a children’s word search puzzle. It’s amazing how the line between being a kid and acting like one is only a few short stories.

The Honorable Mr. Ernie Harwell

2010-05-18T20:07:00.003-05:00

My childhood, like most, was defined by an excessive love for sports. I played, watched and was part of endless number of games. Growing up in Michigan my professional allegiances were defined by our most populous city, Detroit. In the fall I wore my #20 Hawaiian blue and silver Barry Sanders Jersey, we were never blessed with a winning team, but there was always something special about watching the Lions on Thanksgiving Day. In the winter our state collectively switched gears to a franchise that kept us winners and gave us Stanley Cup hopes, the Red Wings. They were champions, and everyone loves to cheer for a winner. At times I was a Piston fan, especially during the Bad Boy era, though I always seemed to flock more toward my collegiate interest to get my basketball fix. Above all I was and still am a baseball fan, more appropriately I am a Detroit Tiger baseball fan and my passion runs deep.

My affection toward baseball started in the early eighties. I was drawn in by the deliberate pace of the game, the fact that you could carry on a conversation while not missing any of the action, the build-up of drama over 9 innings, the baseball cards with the bubble gum, the fact that everyone was associated with a number (whether it was ERA, or Avg.), but mostly I loved the fact that the games lasted forever. I know that’s the reason most people don’t like baseball. Yet, as a young kid, my hero’s stood between the white lines, and I never wanted the games to end. I wished they would keep playing, keep pitching, and keep hitting. I wanted them to play till my Mom turned off the lights and kissed me goodnight.

The Tigers were more than my favorite team, they were my passion, and as much as Alan Trammell, Lou Whittaker and Chet Lemon were my favorite players the team was defined by its voice…..Ernie Harwell. His words and descriptions of the games melted together in a poetic ensemble of baseball glory. Even when the team was losing, which they often did, Ernie scripted together a story of how these ballplayers were trying to win for the pride of our state. He found a way to make the games personal.

I don’t have any stories of hiding a small transistor radio under my pillow and listening to his calls of the games under the feathers, but I vividly remember riding in my parents Chevy Astro Van hoping against odds for a strong 7 from our starting pitcher and maybe one or two long flies from Cecil Fielder. That’s what made Ernie different, it was never about him, it was always about the game. It was about the 9 guys who put on the old English D every day, and it was all delivered in a way that made you feel like you were in the upper deck on the corners of Michigan and Trumbull.

Of all the phrases, catch-lines and attributes Ernie brought to the game, my favorite was when a foul ball was hit into the stands. After he would describe the location of the fly, the sound of the bat, and the pitch that was hit, he would tell you what City in Michigan the fan was from. I was always amazed how he knew the home towns of every single person attending the game. His line would go something like this, “And that foul ball was caught by a man from the fine city of Kalamazoo.” I always listened intently for the day he said my city, and would get excited when he shouted out a neighboring town. Ernie got the fact that we were proud to be from Michigan, and that this team represented who we were.

When I was in college, Mr. Harwell wrote a book about his time in the booth, and went on a mini book tour throughout the state. One of his stops was in East Lansing on the campus of Michigan State where I was attending school. On a whim my Dad and I decided to go to his book signing. It was in a small room in the law library and before he signed any books he gave a little speech. In a way only Ernie could have, he recited a short poem about baseball. Even in business he gave you a little bit extra.

Sadly, last week Ernie past away at the age of 92, and while I had only briefly met him one time it felt like I had lost a close relative. While I am not part of his immediate family I find the need to say goodbye and thank you. Thank you, Ernie, for being there for the better part of my youthful summers as I hoped you would end your broadcasts in exclamation over a Tiger victory. Thank you for teaching me to have pride in the old English D, and that there is something special about being a Tiger. Thank you for teaching me the right way to be a fan, and finally thank you for sharing with me your creative and artistic explanations of baseball. I will always be listening for the next LOOOOONNNNNGGGGG GOOONNNNNEEEE!

Home Ownership

2010-05-14T13:24:00.004-05:00

My lack of posts over the last few weeks can be directly attributed to a fairly large purchase. I bought a house, well not just me, but my wife and I made the decision to move to the suburbs and establish residency. The overwhelming drive for this purchase was definitely our four legged companion, Sparty, whom for the last three years has constantly complained about the elevator, lack of yard space and inability to make new friends (apparently all the local dogs downtown have rabies!) What’s the real reason? Well, it was just time, and while I adjust to change fairly well this move is less about altering my life and more about making fine tuned adjustments. It is a certain transition in our lives that will ultimately result in a better pace for our everyday lives. Like all changes, there were certain events that made you question the sanity of humanity, let alone your own. These episodes not only brought pause, but also reflection during our moving process.

Being a male I have learned over the years that I cannot purchase anything without doing the proper research. This means any purchase over a certain dollar amount I have to think about, and think about, and think about. Yet, at the same time I can be extremely impulsive, of course these abrupt acquisitions generally surround the four main manly categories; sports, electronics, food and toys. Since, this investment was defiantly over that certain dollar value we started our analysis 8 months ago. I know what you’re thinking, eight months, are you kidding me? I know some of you reading this think that, at times, I have exaggerated the truth on a few minor points in my stories, but this is no exaggeration. Our quest started with finding the right suburb in November of 2009.

We didn’t start the real house hunting till January, at which point we had really narrowed our focus down to three or four suburbs. After watching countless hours of HGTV, and a show called “First Time Home Buyers” we thought we knew the basic does and don’ts of purchasing a home. Of course the television wasn’t our only source of information; we had pervious ownership when we lived in Michigan, but for some reason this time the process seemed so much different. Maybe, it was the housing market and the tightening of the lending process, or maybe it was the fact that the value of the homes we were looking at was more, or maybe it was just the fact that we were more mature and realized the significance of our decision…..probably a bit of all three. There was real pause, constant deliberation, and endless conversations about exactly what it was we wanted. The first time we just bought….little discussion, almost like picking up a new pair of gym shoes at the mall. We tried a couple different styles on and walked out the door a couple minutes later with new white laces and decent sized receipt. Yet, this time we couldn’t find the right pair.

We literally looked at every single house within our price range. House, after house, after house we couldn't find “the one.” Nothing stuck out, or shouted BUY ME! Everything had something, an old and out dated floor plan, or a car dealership in the back yard, or even a slanted back yard. Nothing seemed “perfect.” The weeks past and what started as a fairly exciting and anticipatory attitude turned a little frustrated. Our internal communications switched and contention rose as we quickly moved closer to the ending date of our lease, till we decided to increase our buying price.

Why is that everything you really want in life, costs more? The nice jacket you want for winter with the iPod holder and the inner liner for warmth, $75 dollar more then you wanted to spend, the car with the sunroof and satellite radio preprogrammed with every single Detroit Tiger sporting event, $5,000 more than your budget, and the house with the exact number of bedrooms perfect floor plan and huge backyard for your endlessly rambunctious dog….well, definitely outside your budget.

So there it was our “ah-ha” moment, after seeing at least 35 houses we found the house of our dreams at at a price we could only dream about. We did decide to put in an offer, at what we consider “fair market value”, to which the sellers proceeded to tell us no. Yet, we continued to negotiate, though I do remember learning in college that a negotiation takes two sides, this was more of us conceding money over to them. The price kept creeping up, but we had our drop dead point, to which we came to increasingly fast. To our credit we stopped and walked away, thinking there was no way our offers were going to be accepted.

The thought of starting all over again brought dread, fear, and questions about whether we were ready for all this homeownership. Which lasted for a total of two days, at which time our real estate agent called and told us that we were now the proud owners of the house we really wanted. Good news can come through cellular communication. It was contentious, but we stuck to our guns and came out happy. The funny thing is that when we signed on the dotted line all those questions evaporated and the only thing I could think about is moving in…..which was a month and a half away.

The time between agreeing upon the purchase price and taking ownership seemed like forever, and all the little things we hated about our current apartment magnified. The drive home from work became a crawl. The door to the bathroom that hadn’t been fixed for three years seemed like an unlivable feature. The noisy neighbor below our apartment that rocked techno music till midnight on a nightly basis became even more annoying. It was time to get out and we knew it.

The day finally came and we loaded our belonging up. It is amazing the amount of stuff you acquire in the normal course of life. We had a complete closet worth of things packed in boxes that we hadn’t open since we moved in……granted most of them were my youthful collection of baseball cards, but regardless things we hadn’t even looked at in three years! We threw out, donated, and disposed of enough “things” that we probably could have outfitted another whole house….or at least it seemed that way. At one point our entry way was so clogged with garbage bags waiting to go down to the trash that we couldn’t even open the door. Needless to say, it was time to wish some of our older possessions good bye.

The move went well, and we are now settled into our new living quarters. The nights are much quieter and our puppy has the run of the house. In some ways in feels like we have been living there for years, I guess that means we made the right decision. I think about the stress, and anxiety that went into the entire process and laugh at how “caught up” we were in the moment. Sometimes I just wish you knew now what you learn later.

To view all pictures of my home go to www.gallery.me.com/msukovacic

The Unofficial 51st State

2010-03-05T22:32:00.002-06:00

Welcome to Puerto Rico, the unofficial 51^st state. Technically speaking it is a self-governing unincorporated territory of the United States, I know, it’s a mouthful. I am in San Juan, the capital, for the next week and am amazed at the weather. The second I got off the plane I was blasted by a rush of warm air, and quickly I remembered that there are parts of the world that do not suffer during the winter months. The first revolution that I had, after maybe 10 seconds of Puerto Rican time, was I don’t know why everybody doesn’t live here for the months of January and February. Honestly, I think everyone north of Nashville, should get on a plane and fly down to San Juan; the weather is amazing, the beaches are sandy, and the water is warm. What more could you ask for when your mail box is covered under 3 feet of snow?

With Puerto Rico being a US territory there is no need for a passport during customs entry, but that didn’t stop me from bringing mine. I guess I was worried that somehow the law would change, mid-flight, and I would be asked to produce the document the minute I got off the flight. The scenario would run something like this: I walk off the plane and a huge dude carrying a semi-automatic weapon pulls me off to the side into a small dark room with bright lights. His first question is, “Let me see your passport.” To which I reply, “I was told that this is technically part of America and no passport was required.” With a steer look he would peer into my soul and say, “Didn’t you know the law has changed?” And I, now quivering would say, “No, when did this happen?” He would quickly become annoyed with my returned questions and end the conversation by saying, “You are now stuck forever on our tiny little island. Good luck having a normal life.” My worst, worst case scenario!

Of course, when I landed there was no immigration process; in fact it’s like landing in any other US city, except its warm and still the beginning of March. While everything felt very America a few major exceptions stuck out. For dinner on the first night I asked the front desk attendant where a good place for seafood is. For some reason I always associate islands with having good seafood, when in fact I have no idea what type of fish swim around there waters. For all I know they could be inhabited with a bunch of catfish. But, in this case I was told some of the freshest catches come from their local waters. His suggestion was a little place called Metropole.

It turned out to be a decent enough restaurant, but when he was giving directions I knew I wasn’t in the continental 48. They went something like this, “Drive down Isle Verde Boulevard till you get to the Ritz Carlton. Then take a left, and the restaurant will be next to the animal stadium.” I didn’t really make much of it, thinking that his English was a little rusty, or that something got lost in translation, till I actually was making the left hand turn and realized what type of stadium he was referring to. To the shock of my eyes our evening dinning was next to a Cock Fighting stadium. Which, for a Thursday night was busting at the rim. I know it’s a little bit different but all I could think about was Michael Vick, whom we recently locked away for 2 years for dog fighting, which isn’t cocks, but close enough, and here we are in a US territory eating a nice meal next to a celebration of some fighting cocks. This definitely isn’t the real United States.

There are other subtle differences, like how none of the roads make since. Though the more I think about it, they are set up a lot like many of the east coast cities. You get lost, because roads suddenly end or make abrupt turns without any signs. The entire parking experience also makes absolutely no sense. I still can’t figure out where to pay or how to insert the stupid ticket…..and no it doesn’t make it any better that the attendants yells at you in high pitched Spanish…..I DON’T UNDERSTAND! Jeans are common work place attire, and drinking rum is a part of life….No matter the time of day. The biggest difference is the lifestyle; everyone is relaxed, which fits me quite nicely.

The biggest difference between Puerto Rico and my current living condition is the view. At home I look out over a busy pedestrian street with views of condo’s and Ronny’s all-night-crazy-people bar; here I look out over the ocean, which I’m not going to lie, is a major step up. The rolling waves and swaying palm trees is a perfect back drop when you have 8-10 hours of business to conduct. While at times all the scenery can be distracting, it is the perfect stress relief when business tensions rise. There is just something attracting about the open blue water that makes your jaw drop and stare aimlessly for endless periods of time.

I Need Disney!

2010-03-04T22:21:00.004-06:00

I boarded my plane to Houston, a transfer flight on my way to Puerto Rico, behind 10-20 young men who couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. They were dressed like it was the middle of the summer, even though the snow is very much still a part of the Chicago landscape. Conveniently, they were all sitting directly behind me and after they got settled, and prior to our take off, I heard one of the guys say the greatest of all phrases for a college student, “Dude, we are going on spring break!” At that very instant I had two very different emotions. The first, was absolute jealously that for the next week there future included three extremely enticing things; liquor, the sun, and a warm beach. The second thought that raced through my head, I actually whispered under my breath, “Dude, you’re getting old.”

The group spent the next couple minutes cracking jokes about each other and talking about the correct etiquette of lifting ones feet for a keg stand. I resisted the impulse to turn around and motion the proper leg movements, thinking they would take me as a crazy old guy who had no friends and was flying alone. But, I would be a liar if I didn’t tell you I practiced the precise movement in my seat. A smile came over my face as I thought about some of my great spring break adventures. It was always a time when school was getting old, the weather wasn’t quite warming, and life was beginning to drag. Then suddenly, you were graced with this week off. All responsibilities were gone, and you headed to a place where, you hope, that after 7 days you could leave, and no one would remember what happened. And that the only markings that where left of the good time were those of the dark crisp sun tan that raged over your body.

The Spring Breakers definitely were not seasoned travelers. In fact I heard one guy whisper, “Man, this is my first time on an airplane.” It is always an interesting experience when a “newbie” experiences some good in-flight turbulence. Who am I kidding; turbulence still scares the living hell out of me. The oldest looking of the group rolled through the aisle with a bag that was big enough to pack my entire wardrobe in, which I picked out right away wasn’t going to fit in the over head compartment. Not only did it not fit, but he could barely pick it up. After 10 minutes of cramming, he rolled back up to the front flight attendant and asked to check his bag. They disappeared off the plane for a good fifteen minutes, before one of his buddy’s said, “Do you think Jason is coming back?” The reply from another member of the clan was, “I don’t know, but I aint going to let it ruin my spring break!” To which another in the group announced, “Who invited him anyway?”

Just before take-off Jason reappeared and the group; laughed, pointed, and announced “Man, I didn’t think you were coming back.” Jason replied, “I thought at least one of you would come looking for me.” To which another said, “Dude, I’m more concerned about drinking than I am about your bag.” Suddenly it hit me; I’ve matured a lot since college. I’ve known for a long time that I can’t keep up like I used to, that my life priorities have changed, that deep down the idea of staying up all night and drinking seems painful..…but it wasn’t till know that I realized, I’m getting old.

I covered my face with my hands, and started to think about what age my High School teachers informed us we needed to start getting a prostate exam. Instead of concentrating on their conversation I drifted into their music, which was some type of synthesized rap. It was being played, in my opinion, way too loud. One of the guys got up to go to the bathroom and all I could focus on was his huge ear ring, which, if he wore to work would almost immediately get him sent home. I got a quick glance at the side of one of another guy’s arms which was covered with tattoos, and I wondered how he covered it up on a daily basis. My life was spinning out of control; I was aging more and more with each minute. I needed something to make me feel youthful. I needed Disney!

I decided the best course of action was to immerse myself in something else. The plane was playing a movie called, “The Blind Side.” It is a wonderful Disney movie and can make anyone feel good. While it is not a cartoon, it does portray a young high school aged kid, to which I couldn’t relate to, but definitely felt compassionate about. It was the perfect catapult back into my youth. These are the things I can still confide in, even though they are a little cheesy. Disney finds a way for everyone, no matter the age, to have a place in being young.

2 hours later we landed in Houston, and I walked off the plane thinking that even though my Spring Break days are behind me it’s probably a good thing. While I enjoyed those times, and loved them when they happened, I’m on to bigger and better things. Life has a way of evolving and the people that don’t roll with it always think the best has already happened. And while you sometimes have to find a way to alter the definition of the word “fun”, every segment of your life has something to offer. Even if it doesn’t include; drinking, the sun, and a nice warm beach.

Hotel Room Entry

2010-02-24T23:02:00.004-06:00

When you check into a hotel the front desk normally gives you two pieces of invaluable information. The first is a room key, of which it grants access into the actual room you are staying. And the second is the room number, so that you can easily and quickly identify the precise location of the room to which you are staying. Without either it makes entry a near impossibility. The ironic thing about hotel room entry is that both keeping the key and remembering your room number seem to be difficult things, especially when you actually want to get into your room.

I am in Los Angeles this week and the moment I checked into my hotel I knew I was going to have problems remembering the room number. I always hope for triple digit room numbers like 444, or 222, or if those are unavailable, room numbers that somehow I can associate with my life, like the first three digits of my phone number 312 or my street address 2064. Yet, on this particular trip I was given room 644, which you would think would be easy for me to remember, but these are the worse types of numbers because I always flip them around 466, or 664, or some other weird combination. The worse room numbers are the hotels with digits and letters like 304B, or 60A. It leaves me with little hope of ever remembering where my stuff is.

To combat my number flipping and lack of remembrance I try to take the small piece of paper that they write your room number on around with me. That way it doesn’t matter if my memory takes a break, I have something objective to key my thoughts in the right location. Of course, the main problem with this strategy is that you have to take the piece of paper with you, which amazingly seems to be just as difficult of a task. On occasion I have been known to physically write on my hand the room number, but this only leads to questions during work related meetings about the number written on my hand. To which I then have to explain my lack of memory.

Yesterday night I arrived back at my hotel after a long day of business meetings wanting nothing more than to flop on my bed and vegetate for endless hours flipping through TV channels and spacing out. I got into the elevator and knew that I was located on the sixth floor. When I stepped out of the opened elevator doors my mind went blank. Was I 600-645 to the left, or 646-680 to the right? For some reason the number 664 was stuck in my head, so I walked cautiously down to my supposed room and inserted my key, to which the door lit up the red light of denial. I tried three more times, till I came to the conclusion that I was at the wrong spot. I moved down to 666, then 668, and next 670 all red lights. As I moved down the line the only thing I could think of was,"Tonight, I am going to be sleeping in the hallway, and this carpet is disgusting."

When I got to room 672, someone from one of the earlier rooms I tried to enter opened there door in search of what all the commotion was in the hallway. He looked directly at me and said, in a non-faltering way, “Dude, are you drunk?” I looked at my watch and noticing that it was only 7:00 pm looked back and said, “No, its only 7 o’clock.” To which, I now know was code word for, “Yes, I am a drunk but at this present time I am haven’t consumed enough liquor to be considered wasted” because he went directly back into his room and called the front desk. I know this because I pressed my ear against his door making sure he wasn’t calling 911.

I decided to swallow my pride and instead of waiting for the security to come up, I went to the front desk and asked what room I was in….but since I’m crazy, neurotic and possibly a bit mental I decided to make up a story that wouldn’t make me look as absentminded. Basically, the white lie went like this, I put my hotel key too close to my cell phone which deactivated the key and I would need another. I was thinking they would just give me the entire package again writing my room number on the little piece of paper, to which I would now have two pieces of paper and double the opportunity of remembering the next morning. It was, I thought, a fairly well thought out tale, except for the fact that the first question the women working at the front desk asked me was, “What’s your room number?” I just started to laugh; I mean what was I going to say? All I could do is tell the truth, “I have no idea. In fact I have been trying to figure that out for the last half-n-hour.” The women looked at me and said, “Are you drunk?”

The next 20 minutes I had to produce about 10 different documents proving that I was, in fact, Nicholas Kovacic. It seems that if you forget your room number, the proper thing is to not try and protect your pride but rather just admit that you have no retention of anything hotel room related. On my ascent back up to my room I happen to ride in the elevator with the gentleman who called the front desk on me. As the elevator went up my face turned redder then a tomato and I could feel my heart pound inside my chest, I was filled with embarrassment. But, being a nice guy he looked at me and said, “Dude, I’ve had nights like that…..take a couple aspirin and call it a night.” Humility seems to only be a forgotten hotel room away.

In need of Healing

2010-02-17T22:47:00.003-06:00

It is the winter; dead of winter, a time that even the most optimistic begin to look at the glass as teetering on half empty. The Chicago sky is covered in a thick blanket of clouds, and the outside color can only be described as grey…..with the people becoming increasingly pale. The nostalgia of the first snow has completely evaporated and the only winter activity you are looking forward to is putting the snow shovel deep in the closet. Walking outside is a task left to those with a strong pair of lungs….and a huge coat. Amazingly the wool sweater you pulled out of the closet a few months ago is losing its itch and becoming a daily over garment. For me, this part of winter marks a significant change that revolves around one word…..dryness.

I spend outrageous amounts of time scratching my hands, arms, back and feet. Little patches of white, bumpy skin pop up in the craziest of places. I generally know my body is undergoing a certain metamorphous when red bumps, not zits, appear on my forehead. It looks like I was attacked by a killer crop of misquotes. Next a small section of skin just below my knuckles will drive me absolutely nuts while I am typing. I will scrap the tops of my hands pulling layer, after layer of my epidermis off almost to the point of bleeding.

There is only one real cure for this dryness…..body lotion. As a male I have come to the conclusion that there is no body lotion you can purchase and keep your dignity. It just isn’t a product that lends itself to male purchases. This conclusion came to me after exhaustive research at my local Walgreens. There is just something inherently funny about a large burly man purchasing vanilla scented Dove body lotion. Even the most metra-sexual of males look comical when they place a pump bottle of the newest fruit scent lotion on the checkout counter.

This year my dry skin reached an all time high and I was unwilling to live with it, so I made my own quest to the convenience store in search of a lotion that wouldn’t eliminate all of my self-esteem. When I walked in the front door there was a display shelf filled with 5 newly branded bottles, all with either tropical scents or pink colored labels. They all scream on femininity, so I kept walking down the aisle looking for something discrete, unwarranted, something that looked like toothpaste. Does Colgate make body lotion?

I searched for a good ten minutes looking at all the bottles and comparing their appearances, asking myself the ultimate question, “If Angelina Jolie was to walk through the door of this Walgreens and see that I was purchasing this particular bottle of body lotion, would she laugh or would she come rushing over?” None of them quite answered that question, so I went the completely other route and choose a bottle of Johnson’s baby lotion figuring I could always explain my purchase by describing the need of a young child suffering from the winter elements….and besides, it was on sale.

Applying lotion to dry skin is equivalent to drinking a large glass of water on a hot summer day….it is quenching. In a certain way it is also addicting and soon I was applying it over and over again. It became like a hobby; I put a little on when a commercial came on the television, right before I went to bed, the minute I woke up, after eating and while typing this long blog post. My body craved the subtle smoothness that came from rubbing the silky lotion on my rough and bumpy skin, and soon a surprisingly large 15 fl oz bottle of Johnson’s baby lotion was gone…..leaving me, once again, without any remedy to my scratchy skin.

I had been to Walgreens way too many times to have a return voyage, my excuse about the young baby was beginning to become unbelievable, so I decided on the next best course of action……raid my wives stash. Now, I normally would not advise on barrowing the lotion of a female but desperate times call for desperate measures. Her choices, if applied, might get me sent to man jail for my entire life…..but what was I going to do? My skin needed healing! So I decided my determining factor wasn’t going to be bottle appearance, these things were already in my house who cares how they got there, and I was going to decide based on smell.

I was ultimately picking between two lotions from a store that all men know, mostly because it is the ultimate “I have no idea what to get you so I am going to buy you lotions and creams” store…..Bath and Body Works. The first lotion was scented like pineapples, which was appealing but made me think of Pina colada’s, and truth be told the last thing I need is to be tempted to drink body lotion. The second crème is the mastermind of a marketing genius, named gloriously……Japanese Cherry blossom. It smells like spring, and freshly bloomed flowers. Its floral undertones are marked with a sudden ending of fresh dew lying on the top of the petals and the second it hit my nostrils I was rubbing it all over arms and legs. I smelled like a giant garden of flourishing flowers. It may be the most unmanly thing I have every applied, but hey, it smelled good.

Shall I Reroute?

2010-02-16T21:20:00.003-06:00

It was one of those typical “character building” drives home from work. The expressways were anything but express, the side roads should have been called parking lots and the parking lots, well, they still looked like parking lots. Through my years of living in Chicago I have grown accustomed to these types of days, and while they are unbelievably stressful I have found a way to cope with it…..XM radio. Recently, I decided to invest in a GPS to help me in these situations. The newer versions have what is known as traffic avoidance, or fastest route possible. Theoretically, if you type in a desired address the machine will calculate, taking into consideration traffic, the fastest way. I thought for sure all the little traffic secrets of Chicago would be exposed and suddenly I would be home in like 10 minutes…..regardless of the fact my office is something like 25 miles away from my apartment. This device was going to make life so much better, and above all give me freedom….until I actually started to use it.

The first time I used the gloried traffic avoidance was on the Kennedy expressway. For those of you that know the Chicago Transit system, it should be classified as the commuter’s hell. Gridlock is a convenient way to describe what the traffic is like at 5 am, let alone during peak hours. I pulled out my shinny new device, hooked it up to the cigarette liter and powered on the hopeful disappearance of all things traffic. My first instruction was to exit right away, which I found interesting considering I just got on the highway. I did as instructed, pulling off into the exit lane and was able to step on the gas pedal which was a welcomed feeling. My next instruction…….get back on the expressway. The traffic solution according to my GPS was to enter and exit the freeway. I did this for the next three intersections till I realized the quickest way, according to almightily GPS (whom I have now renamed Gertrude) was to continue to exit and enter all the way to work…..how convenient.

I had lost a little faith in the whole idea that there was a “faster” way till later that week, when on a return trip home from work it perfectly routed me on several back roads saving me at least 15 minutes. Redemption! It’s amazing how eager we are for these new devices to work that we are willing to forget their faults for their perceived benefits. But, truth be told it did save me 15 minutes and I learned to not exit every time it suggested. Like all technology you need to discriminate when to use it and when common sense is better.

More recently I learned of a new feature on Gertrude (my GPS)….the rerouting feature. Even though it is optimized to give you the best, quickest, most efficient route to your destination you still have the luxury to change course and reroute. This is a great feature, if say, all the sudden there is a massive accident and you want to get off the expressway, or if the city decides to repave entire sections of a road without telling anyone. But, it can also be quite the temptress. Stuck in a little traffic, Reroute! Sick of driving by the same boring billboards, Reroute! Worried some crazy dude is following you, Reroute! Pretty soon, you’re rerouting every journey you’re on making easy 5 minute drives turn into 20 minute Sunday cruises.

I have buckled under the pressures of the reroute button way to many times. It is too easy to tab the button and get a whole new set of directions. The most memorable rerouting moment came when I diverted off one major city road because of horrific traffic, only to be rerouted to another huge city artery that was also crammed with cars. My solution, reroute…..and Gertrude took me right back to the other road! I did this three times, back and forth, back and forth. I was in reroute purgatory…..to be honest I was actually only about 5 minutes from my house and could have walk home faster!

In many ways I have learned a valuable lesson from my GPS Gertrude. You can’t always look for the easiest solutions, sometimes the best course of action is the toughest thing to swallow…even when faced with an hour’s worth of traffic. Rerouting is one of those functions we should only use when everything else fails; otherwise our path in life just becomes a bunch of backward dead-end streets with lots of dark ally’s connecting us to yet another turn in the unpredictable. There is no good way to avoid traffic at 5 pm on a Tuesday, not even a small investment in modern technology can get you around that. The best, fastest, most consistent way is suck it up and head straight and in many ways I am thankful for this. It lets me know there are still things money can’t buy. Unless, of course you can purchase a helicopter!

The Paranormal Elevator

2010-02-15T18:05:00.005-06:00

I love the bookstore. The smell of newly bound books, the infinite opportunities to read and learn new things and the endless amounts of useless information make it one of my favorite places. On a recent visit to the bookstore I found myself randomly searching, which normally means I got lost and instead of looking for help finding the book I actually wanted, I aimlessly drift between sections. Some would consider this time wasted, but I look at it as an opportunity to see what lies in the store sections I rarely go into, and on this particular day I found myself in the paranormal/horror/generally scary stuff section. I despise these types of books…..mainly because they freak me out, but also because I would like to believe that this kind of stuff doesn’t exist. It’s my blind’s eye to the situation. My motto for book picking is straightforward, “Give me a comedy, let me laugh and don’t get to serious.” But as I rummaged through these books I stumbled upon a selection outlining a creepily familiar tale, one that invoked an instant spine-chilling fear, one so close to home that it actually is within my home. The subject matter discussed in this book was not aliens, nor abductions, or even crazy hockey helmet men with chain saws, but rather…….haunted elevators.

I live on the 4^th floor of a 16 unit apartment complex in downtown Chicago. Truth be told, it is practically a brand new building. The unit in which my wife and I live has had only one other tenant, so the idea that somehow our dwelling is old enough to house a distant ghost seems ridiculous, even to me. But, I am convinced that one resides in our elevator. The evidence is rather overwhelming and while the idea of ghosts can be rather frightening, I believe ours has a rather unique personality and definitely a good sense of humor.

My first interaction with the specter came when we first moved in. I was out taking the dog for a walk and entered back into the building. I went to hit the button on the wall indicating a return journey up to the 4^th floor when the door opened unprovoked. I never hit the button and the door slide open as though it was waiting for me. At first I thought it was just some weird conscience, maybe it was just a short in the electrical wiring, but when it happened again a couple days later I started wonder.

Eventually things returned to normal, the elevator was working fine and my belief in some ethereal being controlling the elevator dissipated….till it went absolutely unexplainable. This time I had just arrived home from work and hit the button to take me up to the floor. The elevator door opened, as it should, but as I put my first foot in, the door suddenly shut….quite quickly. I tried to push the door open, to allow myself in, but the door was insistent on being shut. I stepped out, re-hit the button, and waited for the door to re-open, when it reacted by not opening at all. I stared at the front stainless steel for a good five minutes when a neighbor who lived on the second floor came through hit the button and the elevator opened without question. I snuck on, hiding my face, in hopes of getting to my apartment.

The unexplainable went to crazy when it started to make noises. Now, most machinery makes a certain creepy sound that can invoke a wonder if the thing is alive, but rarely do I actually wonder if they are talking to me….until my elevator screeched. It wasn’t, “I’m in need of help” screech, but more of a “what the heck are you doing” screech. It happen three times in a week, each at different times, making me feel like the stairs where a better option. In fact, for a good week, I took the stairs whenever possible. I only took the elevator when my wife was with me, because, well let’s be honest…..she would have thought I was crazy.

Let me remind you, this is a newer elevator only about 4 years old….and when the lights started doing an interesting disco theme, I began to worry. Every ascent was an adventure, the lights going crazy or a weird noise, or some unexplainable event that lead me to believe the elevator was haunted. One day I went to my car located on the 1^st floor for my sunglass and everything was fine….literary two minutes later a ceiling title was mysteriously missing. Absolutely no sign of it!

The final straw came a few weeks ago, when I entered the elevator, hit button four, and waited to go up. I generally stare at the numbers, hoping that my visual concentration will create some force causing the elevator to go faster….I know it’s all very Star Wars, but you never know what kind of superpowers you might just receive. We arrived on floor 4, but the digitals indicated that we were in fact on floor 7….floor 7, we don’t even have 7 floors…..it must be haunted.

As I skimmed through the rest of the book my thoughts of our paranormal were confirmed by the tales of other elevator guests, until I got to the section where a gentleman talked about flying through space while in his elevator...and then it dawned on me I was in the comedy section. My embarrassment lead me to continue searching other sections for some reference or periodical to validate my ghostly conclusion….nothing….not one other book on elevator haunting. I left feeling dishearten and a little crazy. But, to tell you the truth it wasn’t the first time I thought I had lost my mind.

At the Top

2010-01-28T08:55:00.003-06:00

The week prior to my arrival into Dubai the city opened the largest building in the world, the Burj Dubai/Khalifa. I watched the opening ceremony on CNN and was memorized as the fireworks zoomed out of the sides of the building and the massive crowds that surrounded held their hands up in the air. In a city that is known for massively excessive landmarks, this is the defining statue, the absolute symbol that they are a city that should be known by all. The timing couldn’t have been better because it isn’t every day that the largest building in the world gets opened, and you happen to be traveling to that far away land. So, as I arrived into Dubai it was my one touristic goal to get to the top….and see the sands of the dessert that surrounded the city.

The day I arrived into Dubai the newspapers were filled with images of two men from the Emirates Aviation Society. Apparently, the “in” thing was to BASE jump from the building, and by BASE jump I mean fall from the top of the building with a parachute on…..yes, it is as crazy as it sounds. But these two guys set the world record for highest BASE jump when they leapt off the 160^th floor some 2,200 ft in the air. Now, I am all in favor of roller coasters, and amusements designed around making one feel in peril, but there is a line….and for me it is somewhere between the tea cups at Disney World and descending at speeds of over 140 mph, when I know I have a short window of like 2 seconds to pull my parachute or well, I’m going to slam into the ground and lose valuable years of my life.

Reading about the BASE Jumpers continued to increase my excitement about my own voyage to the top. My business partners had arranged a time for me to go up a few days after I arrived and the excitement was overflowing, as well as the nervousness. ….mostly because I have an extreme fear of heights, as well as tall vertical elevators….and basically everything to do with being in large buildings. But, I couldn’t let this anxiety rule my experience….I had to go up.

Coupled with the opening of the building the city of Dubai was rocked by the story of financial instability, which I guess makes sense seeing as the total amount spent on the project was estimated at a whopping $1.5 billion US dollars…..which can set a few countries back. According to various news reports the city owed in the neighborhood of $18 billion dollars in debt. As my trip got closer the deadline for repaying the debt also approached and there was fear that the city wouldn’t be able to meet there monetary commitments. But, just before the deadline Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan of the neighboring city of Abu Dhabi and the President of the United Arab Emirates stepped in and covered all IOU’s. His reward for this kind act of barrowing…..getting the largest building in the world renamed after him…..it must have been the most expensive naming rights deal in the world.

The day arrived for my ascent…and inconspicuously I tried to keep my knees from knocking into each other. I mean, really how long could they have tested the elevators? Could they have really performed all necessary tests to make sure the building wasn’t going to fall over? Maybe going so soon after the opening wasn’t a great idea, maybe I should have waited till the next year, when all the kinks would have been worked out and the staff would have everything under control….maybe I should have waited.

We pulled up to the parking garage, which I learned was connected to the Dubai Mall…which coincidently is the largest mall in the world. Yes, the largest Mall in the world is attached to the largest building in the world. Not to deviate off course to much, but there is both a full sized ice rink and Aquarium with Under Water Zoo within the Mall. It has more than 12 million square ft of internal floor area and houses more than 600 retailers….basically anything you want you can get.

Parking was a challenge….not finding a space, but remembering where exactly we parked. There are more than 14,000 parking spaces and we were warned prior to our arrival that assistance would not be provided if we forgot where we parked. Organizing this type of parking is an incredible feat, not something merely done by the Dewy Decimal System, and when we finally found the perfect spot we were in the northwest garage, level 6, row 14, space 4. All of which I carefully noted onto a piece of paper, just in case we forget….which we did.

Once in the mall we found the entrance to the observation deck and entered an area called the “holding zone” were a group of 15 people waited to take the elevator up to the 124^th floor. After waiting a few minutes we were sent through a metal detector and then through a narrow walkway to the main elevators that reached the top levels of the building. The elevators themselves are amazing. They are, naturally, the fastest in the world reaching speeds of over 40 mph. As I entered, my first impression was that they were small, very small. At most one elevator could hold only 10 people….which only heightened my fears. The ceiling was filled with LED lights that twinkled like stars, and as we went higher the stars shined brighter as though we were getting closer and closer to them…..it was a nice touch, but they didn’t have a meter that told you what floor you were on. I found this very alarming…..what if we were falling at a rapid pace?

Thankfully, the doors opened and I walked off….literally at the top of the constructed world. The views were amazing. On the north side you could see the clear blue waters of the Arabian Gulf. On the south side you could see the gentle flowing sand of the Arabian Desert. It is amazing to be in between these two complete opposites, the life nutrients of the water and the deadly nothingness of the dessert. The sun was setting and I found, maybe, the only lone quiet spot in the entire observation deck. I watched as the bright yellow beams of the sun bounced off the top of the ocean. It was incredible and in many ways a reminder that even though the best scenery is naturally constructed, man does have the ability to give us something amazing to look at.

My experience ended as I stepped off the elevators and back into the mall. Officially, I have been to or seen 9 of the 10 tallest buildings in the world, which makes me feel incredibly grateful. Of them all the Burj Khalifa/Dubai is defiantly the most orate, massive, and exciting. Maybe it’s the fact that no other building around it comes even close to its size, but it does make you appreciate the engineering that was involved in constructing it. As we left the complex I stared out the window in the car at the top of the building noticing that my neck hurt from bending it backward…..yes, it really is that tall.

Pepto Please

2010-01-25T21:46:00.004-06:00

As a business traveler there are lot things to fear, everything from getting lost in a foreign land, to being unable to communicate can leave one worrying and wondering what the day ahead will bring. But, of all the major concerns one of the biggest fears comes from that of food…..and the affect a bad meal can have on your body. It drives even the best of travelers to brush their teeth with bottled water, not eat major food groups like fruits and vegetables, and refuse to eat anything that could be purchased by a street vendor….even though it may look amazingly delicious. If you travel enough you know that getting some form of food poisoning is not a matter of “if” but rather “when,” and while I have experienced my far share of upset stomachs and one cycle disposing, I have never had that one experience that can alter the way I travel…….until I met an Indian dish in Dubai that I will never forget.

The restaurant was actually quite nice, and located conveniently in the convention center where my conference was being held. My business partners are of Indian descent and wanted to take me to an authentic meal filled with food and service from their country. Normally, in this type of eating situation I refer all ordering over to those who know more about the actual cuisine. Generally, this is a slam dunk approach because they know what taste good, compared to me picking something entirely based on name and a quick description…..that is if I can even read the language on the menu. The only downfall in this type of eating strategy is that you always get mounds of food. Lunch suddenly turns into a five course meal, filled with course after course of filling dishes.

The first course came out, a nice simple salad, to which I was very thankful. I had eaten Indian food prior to this and every time it has left my mouth with a sudden burning feeling that resulted in multiple glasses of milk being drunk. My impression of Indian cuisine has always been associated with laughter, pointed directly at myself. I think this has something to do with my tendency to sweat copious amounts when exposed to, in my opinion, spicy cuisine. But as we continued into the second dish, a nicely grilled piece of chicken, I was pleasantly surprised…..I was actually enjoying my food, and keeping all my bodily fluids internal!

The third dish came out, creamed goat with rice…..it didn’t look as appetizing, and if I had to put my finger on the one thing I ate that caused me issues the rest of the evening I would stop here. It tasted, well; it tasted like creamed goat….I wouldn’t recommend it, rather chunky. At this point in the meal I was more concerned with my business partners and not offending them by not enjoying their national cuisine that I powered though and ate every bit of the goat….and the mounds of rice. We ended the meal with a delightful dessert, my belly was full, and my body was tired. Digestion had yet to begin.

The rest of the afternoon I spent at the trade show feeling somewhere between disgustingly full and comatose…..it’s really a fine line. Once the day was finished we headed out for our nightly activities when my stomach reversed course. In the matter of seconds my belly turned over like one of those X-game athletes flipping over a cavernous jump. I tried my best to “gut” it out, but my gut wasn’t having anything to do with it….in fact the opposite effect was about to take place.

Our nightly activity was a boat ride through the Dubai River, something I dearly wanted to do….except that it was a 4 hour ride, and I knew that if I got on that boat it would not end well. So, I asked my business partner to take me back to my hotel, which he graciously obliged.

The next 12 hours are a , except I can remember time passing like a turtle crossing a street. It had to be the longest amount of time that I have ever spent with my head fully submerged into the toilet. Temporary relief only came from the cool tiles that pressed against my face against the ground. It was one of those experiences that makes you think of the movie Forrest Gump, when Jenny is in the corn field and her and Forrest are prying, ”That God would make them a bird, to fly, fly away.” It felt somewhere between a knife being stuck directly into my midsection, to what I would assume your stomach would feel like it if you ate a pound of garbage.

If this would have occurred at home, I would have drank as much Pepto-Bismol as possible, but it didn’t, and Walgreen’s has yet to expand into the United Arab Emirate market...which is amazing considering that from my apartment I can see three of them! So my only antidote was a bottle of sparkling water….in hopes that I would burp my way to feeling better. I will say, that if you ever find yourself in Dubai, suffering from food poisoning and the only thing you have is sparkling water…..drink it fast….really fast, the carbonation only works when taken in large quick amounts.

Eventually, I curled up on the couch, draped a blanket over my body and found a way to sleep for three whole hours. The entire episode was huge reminder into why good health is important, and knowing the limits of your stomach…..even if it does taste good. While this won’t rank up in some of my best traveling memories, it may be the most memorable.