The Other Side Of Travel

Little Blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 16:14:00 +0000

I've been derailed. No blogging lately- I had a baby.

But, I'll be back soon.

Baja is Spanish for Coma

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Fri, 10 Nov 2006 04:37:00 +0000

Baja is Spanish for Coma

Every fall and every spring we take the short flight to the tip of Baja. From there we drive eighty kilometers north to a little town called Pescadero nestled between coastal farms and the foothills of the Baja desert. At the second tope (speed bump) we hang a left at the broken brick building and drop down onto a bumpy and dusty farm road that takes us for one mile through rickety fences of palos (sticks) staked into the ground with barbed wire hung between them. Periodically we pass a field of hunched farm workers, a ranch horse tied to a mango tree, a pile of smoldering garbage. Usually in that order.

We hang a left at the barely recognizable Volkswagon Micro bus, circa 1965. The rusted bus peeks out of the soil and grass like a hippo coming up to view of the afternoon activities. We wind around to the left of the center fields and pop out onto the beach lane that leads to our house. No address. We’re the yellow one next to the white one that’s two down from Gary’s rentals and diagonal to the orange place that a few families share. If we had a fire, we’d have to let it burn. GPS can’t help you find a place that doesn’t exist (except on some convoluted Mexican documentation stored on microfiche in a tax office in La Paz that’s only open three days a week during the hours of “whenever we want to” and “later”). Baja is a place where most directions consist of a line sounding something like “Bueno entonces, just keep going until the road gets really rough and then go right at the big cactus.”

There, on our porch in Baja we participate in our favorite Baja pastime. We stare at it. And when I mean “it” I mean whatever it is that you're looking at. The cover of your book you’ve been clutching since breakfast but still haven’t cracked; the humming bird that’s determined to suck the life out of the flowers in front of you; the hammock swaying lightly in the breeze; the whale pods spouting out to sea. Just stare at it, and slowly the Baja coma will drift over you and hold you hostage for the duration of your stay.

I once arrived at our house for a two week stint and didn’t leave the front porch for the first four days of our trip. Didn’t walk to the beach, not even down the driveway. Just sat in a chair and stared at “it”.

When do we do this? When do we give ourselves time to empty? To shrink ourselves instead of expand. When do we give ourselves time to not learn, not push, explore, conquer, compete, clean or acquire experience. Sure, we give ourselves a nap everyday. We may meditate in the morning, or have a nice long run to clear the head. Me time. But, we fight for it. And, it’s sandwiched between two adrenaline-requiring time-crunched events that will take more than our “me time” gives. So we have to empty ourselves on a regular basis. Under stimulate.

This is easy in Baja because it has a special magic that you don’t get anywhere else. Every time we drive from Cabo to Pescadero there’s a certain sweeping view of the desert that pulls me to say: “You know, Baja would be a great place to kill someone and get away with it.” I say it every time. Not because of the lawlessness of it, but because of the sheer lost feeling you get when you gaze at the expansive desert of cactus and low shrubs crawling from the two lane highway to the peaks of the Sierra de la Laguna. Mountains that look like desert. You can do anything threre and it's invisible. It swallows the events that take place there, turning the evedence into dust. The desert makes thoughts that would otherwise be dark and strange seem uneventful and forgettable. Nothing is traumatic in the desert because everything is so still.

If you really search the landscape you can pick out the individual forms of Buzzards perched on cactus with their wings one-quarter expanded, ready to either eat or sun. They too are staring at it in their own Baja coma. They just perch, like cactus fruit, forever. Buzzards pick the carcass clean and leave little trace of its previous form. When I leave Baja I too am little trace of my previous form.

If you relax your eyes, looking at the desert is a lot like looking at the ocean. Smooth and predictable one bank of earth pushes into another like waves moving so slowly that their intervals can only be counted in geologic ages. On a macro scale the vegetation is like kelp or foam sitting passively and waiting for the next current. It never comes.

Still moving north, periodically a family can be seen by the side of the road picnicking in the back of the truck. Taco in hand, they stare at each other, emptying their heads. On the side of the road, they park with no particular view to appreciate. They don’t need a Vista Point as a reason to stop. Just a low growing tree for shade, some snacks and
plastic chairs. I want to stop. Stop and empty my head.

Maybe it’s the fish tacos, maybe it’s the dust, maybe it’s the beer with lime. Or, it’s the gecko’s blowing kissing sounds from their hiding place in the ceiling, combined with the late night dog barks that travel through the arroyos. For now I’ll consider Baja a Bruja (Witch) with the power to cast a spell that feels like a coma; soft like a trance and lingering like a hangover.

I You He She It , We You They

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 18:02:00 +0000

Everybody’s favorite word is I.

On my final flight home after a speedy three weeks on the road I worked my way down the aisle on a Southwest flight. I scanned the rows of seats desperately in need of something at the front of the plane. Last on and first out. Middle seats are fine if they’re in the first few rows. Sqeezing between two strangers is worth the chance to deplane quickly.

Exhausted and frayed from the week, I plopped down into a middle seat. The man in the aisle seat could see right away I was going home. The look of surrender on my face made a perfect audience for what was to be his one-hour-thirteen-minute monologue that started ended and middled with the word I.

His hair was colored a nice tawney brown. He had a mouth full of veneers and a smooth knit shirt with a collar and three buttons down the front. Perfect for detailing the hard earned physique he was proud of. He wasn’t particularly big but big enough to be considered a real man. His hands were warm, I knew because he shook mine. I guessed he was in his fifties. He was eager and ready to engage. He sat with his arms crossed trying to contain himself but the suspense was just too much for him to bear.

“What do you do?” he asked and before I could exhale an answer he volunteered his resume.

“I’m” there’s that I word “retired. Well, I’m recently retired but before that I was in fashion. I loved the business and I did very well. I loved it. I had two offices, one in Hong Kong and one in New York. I just loved it and now I’m retired. Well I’m recently retired. But who knows what I’ll be doing next. I don’t know. I’m not worried about it. I just got married and I have a lovely wife. She’s younger than me and I think she wants a baby. I already have two kids…” and it went on.

My responses were limited to head nodding and unrecognizable noises that functioned as confirmations of what he was saying.

Twenty minutes in and he finally interrupted himself.

“You seem like a spitfire.” I have no idea how he came to that. I had barely shown signs of life. “Let me ask you something.”

Oh goody it’s going to turn into a dialogue. I was in suspense.

“If you had a benefactor, and you had three million dollars tomorrow, what would you do with it?” Great question I thought. This is going to be fun. I pondered for a minute and he crossed his arms trying to be patient. But again the waiting was too much for him to handle.

“…because I don’t know what I would do. Hmmm. Let me think. I know. I’d…”

My eyes dropped to my Heinekin that had recently been delivered by a cheery but distracted flight attendant.

What was I thinking? You might guess that I was thinking the following:

“This guy is killing me. Why won’t he shut up? Egotist. I, I, fricken I. Dude, if you want to monologue get a therapist. Why are you even talking to me? Wouldn’t it be easier to just talk to a mirror? What the F%$# time is it?”

If this was your guess you are partially right. I started like this but ended in a different place. I started with tension in my face, my head pushed to the back of the chair and a grin-and-bear-it attitude. But then I tried something else.

Lately I’ve been experimenting with changing my experience of things by making a decision to change my attitude and my own dialogue, my inner one. It’s worked elegantly and it’s creeping into all parts of my life. In the last year I adhered to one rule: no complaining. It’s been great. No complaining actually made me feel like not complaining. And as a result my husband isn’t as exhausted by me, my job is more fun and my friendships are easier to maintain. So I tried a similar approach to this guy on the plane. But with a little different strategy.

I decided to feel less like an aggravated passenger just muscling my way to the finish line and more like a Chaplain. A listener with an open heart. And my inner dialogue went from “this guy’s killing me” to something much easier on the senses.

I dropped the expectation that I would contribute to the conversation verbally, and I just decided to listen. I listed without discrediting or judging his eagerness to share his life with me. And that’s when things changed. My head relaxed off the seatback, I enjoyed the rest of my beer and I let him rant about whatever he wanted without guiding the conversation at all.

In the end my thought was that he was not an obnoxious egotist but a man who was proud of his work and of his children and a man who was ready to share himself quickly and easily with anyone who’s curious. That he lived honestly and was outwardly loving toward the people who were important to him in his life. And I learned that he was ready for more people to fill his new free retirement schedule. I saw a man who was enthusiastic and willing to talk about the good in anything even in the people who had given him grief in his life. And most importantly, I saw in myself the ability to see the good in someone who minutes earlier could have just been another person tugging on my exhausted ear. I opened my heart and that felt great. And that’s something I am going to try again and again until it’s easy. Be a Chaplain and the most important word becomes you.

I Spoke Too Soon

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 22:38:00 +0000

I’m stuck. Yesterday I spoke with my office and “how do you feel about

Australia

?” was a question that came up early in the conversation. “Great!” My lips were in the routine of accepting all assignments. My lips assumed that the rest of my body would be okay with the possibility of mobilizing to Australia.

My lips are my asset. They’re the one body part that earns me more money and credit than any other part. Some get paid to build with their hands, others get paid to run with their feet and I paid to talk with my lips. I trust my lips, they serve me well, but this time they may have spoken to soon and betrayed me.

After I got off the phone my organs started to take a vote about the possible trip to Australia. Minutes later there was mutiny within and my body spoke up and said “hey lips, but we don’t want to go to Australia. You think you know us? You don’t. Next time ask. I mean, we’ll go to Australia, but we’re not going to like it. But, as your loyal subjects we’ll take one for the team.” And then under their breath I heard “Ya know, Lips is such a fucking Diva. She’d be nowhere without us. But do you think she knows that? No. She just fires off and expects us to fall in line. Whatever.”

I listened to the debate happening inside my body and I was surprised. I don’t want to go to Australia? And, on somebody else’s dime? So I started to go down the list of other places I’d like to go to see if it was just Australia that was being rejected or had this “we don’t want to travel” attitude spread over other geographies? I ran the list: Egypt, Chile, The Grand Canyon, Puerto Rico, Reno etc. All locations gave me no excitement. All my organs just sat quietly like I was reading roll call at the front door of a gas chamber. My lips even sat still. Okay, now this is getting creepy. I’m a traveler who doesn’t feel like traveling. And if that’s true, what else do I do?

Without travel I’m lost. If I’m not recovering from one trip or planning the next my life feels strange. Like a big waiting room. Just waiting. Waiting for anything. And for the first time since I started my traveling job, I actually want to hang out in the waiting room.

Many of my travel and experiences in the past few years have been external. Observations and experiences in other cultures, both domestic and abroad that have resulted in an internal change of some sort. External triggering internal. And, my lips and organs have been perfectly happy earning money and supporting the Lancome dressed Diva.

But now, maybe the internal will trigger the external. Maybe some quiet time at home, with my domestic and genetic tribe will allow my lips and organs to rest so I can have an internal journey that will eventually trigger an external change. And there are lots of external projects that require some internal work. I’d give you a list but I’m sure you can imagine it. Everyone has one, and most of them look pretty similar person to person. You know, re-kindle stuff with spouse, loose some weight, work on my novel, etc…

So next time I get the question “how do you feel about X” I’ll make sure the Diva doesn’t’ speak too soon and first gets a vote from her roady organs. Because without her crew, her show doesn’t look that great. And that could damage her career more than a short sabbatical. I just have to relax and understand that just because I get off the road for a little while (two months or so) that doesn’t mean I can’t get back on. They say that life happens while you’re making plans. But if I’m not making travel plans, what other kind of plans are there? Maybe I’ll try to stay home for a while and find out. I’ll ask lips and organs and see what they think.

Are You a Traveler?

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Thu, 27 Jul 2006 02:41:00 +0000

How far from home do you have to be to consider yourself traveling?

I’ve been home for three weeks. And when I say home I mean no air travel. My work calendar is relatively clear, I have a trip to Los Angeles and some Sacramento work coming up. But no trips that include big miles. So I’ve been looking at my leisure time and thinking of things I’d like to do that would be included in the “travel” category.

In the last two years I’ve worked or vacationed in England, Corfu and Paxos Greece, Mexico City, New York City, Beijing, Shanghai, Taiwan, Penang, Hong Kong, the East and West sides of Baja, Vancouver B.C., Portland, Minneapolis, and Los Angeles. Now, staring at my calendar all I can think of is Reno.

I consider myself a Traveler, and it’s a little embarrassing to confess that out of all the places I’ve been and all the places I could go, Reno Nevada has made the list. It’s a little out of character for me to choose such a place and the question is: Is a funky town just a three-hour road trip away traveling? And, if Reno is traveling, does a weekend in Lakeport count? And, if Lakeport counts as a trip, how about a fifteen minute drive up the freeway to Healdsburg? A trip to the grocery store? A walk around the block? So, how far from home do you have to be to consider yourself traveling?

Let’s look at this simple answer to this simple question:

Question: “What are your hobbies?”
Answer: “Well, I like gardening and cooking and I really love travel.”

When I hear this answer, and it’s a common one, I am clear on gardening; it’s when you put your hands in some dirt and try to grow stuff. I’m clear on the cooking thing: it’s when you chop stuff and mix it together and either put some sort of sauce on it or put in on a source of heat for a specific length of time. For many, it’s a pleasurable pastime. But, travel? That’s a loaded response.

For some, travel means throwing on a rucksack and heading off into the unknown with the hope of becoming brothers with a Sherpa or discovering some new species. “Dude, you haven’t lived until you’ve danced with a shaman at twelve-thousand feet. It’s like…it’s like you become one of them man.”

For others it includes packing a different outfit for each day, complete with a matching hand bag and mesh sarong that was carefully considered and purchased at Overstock.com. Poolside that person or persons, might request a dinner reservation near the table where the Captain eats with the hope of getting a photo with him on “formal night.”

Still, for some travel means a one-dollar taco at mile marker forty-nine in Southern Baja.. “It’s right there in front of the big cactus. Get the pork. My friend turned me onto it and now, nothing else tastes like a taco.”

But for me it means going anywhere I’m not. And, I’m not in Reno. Not right now anyway. From where I live, Reno is an easy four-hour drive. And, that feels like travel to me. But it still doesn’t answer my question. Just because it feels like travel, doesn’t mean it is travel. How about this as a gauge? If it shows up on Travelocity as a destination, it counts. Not. There’s no way I could book a shaman dance ritual at twelve-thousand feet using my American Express. Not on Travelocity. I don’t think they have a deal to sell un-booked huts at base camp two. Not yet anyway.

I know. What if we made a specific distance from your home? How about one hundred fifty miles? That’s far enough to make it hard to go and come back without staying the night somewhere. But that won't work either, because I take day trips to Los Angeles from the Bay Area all the time. I know several people who physically commute distances farther than that. So maybe travel isn’t distance specific. Distances are arbitrary. What’s far to one person, is next door to another. China feels closer every time I go. At first it felt a million miles away, now it feels an appropriate eight thousand seven hundred something. To my Mom, Guerneville to Sacramento is a reason to pack carefully.

Okay. We could go differentiation. The more different the place is the more “travel” valid it becomes. But, that’s flawed too because one, it’s relative and subjective, and two the chances of my feeling totally at home in a foreign place is pretty high. People go on vacation all the time and decide that that’s where they belong. It doesn’t feel exotic or different. It feels right. Sometimes more right than their native zip code.

So, I’m back to travel is anywhere I’m not. And if that’s true that means that Reno counts. Why Reno? Because it piques my interest. My image of it is that it’s crass, cheap entertainment for people who probably shouldn’t be spending their money in casinos. It’s bad architecture and hot weather. It’s a wanna-be Vegas and it’s a little sleazy. People pee in the hotel pools and wait for night to fall so they can do something seedy that involves cash, cowboy boots and plastic seat covers. But, people are moving there in droves.

I want to see if my assumptions are accurate or are they just some accumulation of images from bad movies and gambling billboards on the I80. I’m curious and curiosity doesn’t kill the cat, it causes travel. And when you’re curious you go and find out for yourself what something is like. You open your eyes and see it for the first time. You invest in being impressed or at least of getting an impression. And that is what I think travel really is. It’s an attitude not a destination. So when I hear people say “I really love to travel” I think it really means “I’m a curious person.”

And I’m curious about Reno. So, it’s made it onto my travel destination list and the only way it will come off is if it gets checked off. It may not be noble, or earthy, or first class or eco-aware. I don’t have to cash-in points and I’m not part of the Silverado Player’s Club. I don’t have to make reservations months in advance or save up for years. I don’t need a GPS, or frameless backpack to survive there, or a Sherpa to find my way. I can go without an inflatable travel pillow and I can’t find a Lonely Planet guide on it. But, it’s somewhere I’m not, and I’m curious enough to go there. It counts. It’s not far but it’s travel. And no mile marker, travel guide or Web-log can tell me otherwise. If your record distance is only a tank of gas away from your garage, where they all speak your language and you recognize everything on the menu, consider yourself a traveler. It’s how you see things, not the destination that makes you a true traveler. Welcome to the club.

Let's Get Greasy...My Top Fives

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Sat, 15 Jul 2006 01:32:00 +0000

The friendliest people in Greece are the Austrians.

Earlier this month we spent nearly two weeks in Greece. It was a great trip but it had some frustrations. Greece is a place I liked but the next time I plan to spend two days getting to my destination, I’ll keep moving down my list of places I’d like to visit. Below is a list of the top five downers of my trip.

The feeling of rejection
Body odor that can remove paint- yes it goes just that deep.
Second hand smoke
Gummy sweatiness –it was so hot there even Gandhi would have taken a sabbatical just to sniff some conditioned air
False starts through doorways

Don’t worry, I’ll get to the good stuff but first let me explain the above list. Some of you who have done some traveling in Europe already are harkening back to your adventures in smoke filled French cafes, Italian restaurants or train stations where the environment was a permutation of the above list. For those of you who have blocked those memories out, or have not yet had the privilege of world travel, let me enlighten you so that you might better determine whether Greece is for you.

First- The feeling of rejection. “Oh, you’re going to Greece? Ah, the people are great there. I’ve heard great stories.” This is what we heard from our friends when they learned we were going to Greece. We expected the kind of friendliness a traveler needs just to feel like they’re not going to get run out of town. Our expectations were quickly corrected. Aside from a handful of good hosts, most of our interactions with the Greek people ended in either a dead sense of ambivalence or a twisted version of sniffing-onions-face combined with “don’t even try to thank me in my own language” with a hint of “get the fuck out of my store” whether we bought a pack of gum, a ticket on a ferry or a hundred-Euro dinner. Considering how hot the weather was, the Greeks were a little cold.

I don’t think it was specific to our group because each of us got the same kind of careless treatment no matter where we went and with whom we were shopping. We didn’t feel offended, just curious about what we did to deserve such lackadaisical customer service countrywide. Maybe you’re thinking “Because your American, Ding-Dong.” Not true. Most of the time they thought we were French or Norwegian or English. We often had to confess to being American to which we either got the “Schwarzeneger” cheer or a sly “Koby” with a thumbs up. No Iraq comment, no Bush opinion, only recognition of a body- building Government Celebrity and an acquitted rapist. And, both references with barely a smile.

We didn’t want a cheer-leading squad to punctuate our exits, or a series of double-cheek kisses, or photos with the shop owner. Just a simple “your welcome” that was actually directed at us with some evidence of intention. Instead we felt rejected and unimportant, two major symptoms of poor customer service. If Greece was a Hilton, it would be sold to the Super 8.

Second- Body odor. In Greece there’s a lot of it and it releases itself from lots of different body types that practice many different diets and hygiene habits. The result is a defining stench that I’m sure could be transformed into some sort of power source. By 2012, if they tried hard enough, Athens could be totally off the grid. They could unleash themselves from the tethers of foreign oil and function only on domestic body vapor; which as a bonus, is renewable, sustainable and readily available.

Third- Second hand smoke. Like in Italy, France and China, smoking is a national sport in Greece. They love to smoke. Case in point: We ate Gyros morning, noon and night. At George’s Corner, our favorite walk up Gyro spot, instead of Greek fortune cookies or breath mints, they gave away “George’s Corner” lighters with any purchase of 3 Euro or more. We’re not smokers, or pyros so we collected them in a bowel and then left them in the rental.

Fourth-Gummy Sweatiness. I think I covered this pretty thoroughly in section two. I could just add that the heat was the kind that, in our Corfu non-air conditioned fourth floor stone apartment, would make you wake up at two in the morning and whisper yell “I HATE THIS PLACE!!!!”

Fifth-False starts through doorways. Let’s just say “please, after you” is not a concept that many Greeks or Italians (lots of Italian in Greece) have incorporated into their daily habits. Consequently, getting in and out of say, a ferry boat or a crowded corner grocery store looked like a Chaplain skit. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Push. Stop. Go.

Okay. On to the good stuff:

Gyros
Driving a little boat around the island
Dinner time
Nobody asked for payment up front
The Austrians

First- Gyros. Gyros rock. I’m sure you’re all thinking “yeah, they do rock!” but oh no my friends. In Paxos and Corfu they did something special that I’ve not seen here in the good old US of A. Their Gyro ingredient choice it is very much in the spirit of our cuisine interests. They put fries in their Gyros. Yes people, deep fried chunks of tasty poison. What? Chicken? Pork? Whatever Greek Gyro man…just don’t forget the fries. We double-fisted them daily.

Second- Driving a little boat around the island. Most of our time was spent in Paxos, a small island south of Corfu in the Ionian Sea. The island is probably ten kilometers long and six or eight wide. It was Petite and conquerable by a twenty-five horse engine attached to a shallow piece of fiberglass. And that’s just what we did.

We rented a little boat and, along with our friends, we headed out for a day of aqua-adventure. I’m not going to describe it. I’ll just say that as we pulled out of the harbor, I sat at the bow of the boat and couldn’t help but scream in joy. For minutes I yelped and hollered and screeched over the sound of the motor. It wasn’t worth resisting and it felt great. It’s rare that anything gets me so excited that I have to explode into piercing joy-song. As adults we’re jaded and that moment cut right to my core. It’s nice to know I’m alive. If you go to Greece, rent a boat.

Third-Dinner time. Dinner started around nine-thirty and came to a close around midnight. For two weeks it was our routine to eat dinner way too late, talk for way too long and drink way too much.

These hours spent at various tables around the island were sacred hours where fart jokes and life-talk dominated our intellect. Where sloppy drunk was our goal and eating too much was only a matter of time. We deepened our friendship with the people we traveled with through discussions about which Greek foods bound us up and which ones aided the ever important daily poop we all used to gauge our health. You know, the stuff of life, literally. Because dead people don’t poop.

Fourth-Nobody asks for payment up front. In the US renting a car or a boat requires documentation, credit, skill tests, retinal scans, and a the donation of a few stem cells. In Greece, renting a piece of equipment simply requires finding the shop keeper. They’re illusive. The store hours posted on their office doors mean nothing. Their price lists are nonexistent. And, they won’t take any money up front. “Pay me later. It’s the blue one on the end.”

Keys in hand our husbands would wander over to the boat they assumed was the one assigned to us and then insert the key to start the motor. If the engine turned over, they knew they had the right vessel.

“Pay me later.” Was the phrase we had to get used to. In the beginning we would insist on leaving a deposit, our credit card and presented a series of laminated cards qualifying us as responsible and skilled boaters. The owners didn’t care. In fact they were annoyed. They’re dead faces said “Take the damn keys. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Over and over we failed to notice that we were doing business at a café table in the middle of the morning while the boat-rental proprietor was enjoying his morning cappuccino. No where was there a credit card swipper or imprint machine, a rental agreement or even a pen or pencil to at least jot down our names. So, although it made us squirm “Pay me later. It’s the blue one on the end” became our rental contract. At first it was weird but later it just felt like they trusted us, and that started to feel pretty good. Also, we assumed that they had some sort of collection method that involved cement shoes. We just went with it and made sure we paid them later.

Fifth-The Austrians. For weeks we had been ignored by the Greeks. Straight-faced and to the point the Greeks were formal in their dealings with us. Even the trusting boat rental guy was limited in his discourse seeming totally uninterested in where we were from or whether we were having a good time on his island. No Greeks volunteered insider information on the best restaurant, private beach or tasty local wine. When we asked for such info they just looked at us sternly and waited for us to stop talking so they could ring us up. “Stick to the plan” was their motto.

One night, toward the end of our trip we were having dinner at Bougainvillea, a ten-table restaurant in old Corfu Town. Half way through dinner a man at a six-top next to us put his finger in the air and shouted “American?” We turned to see six heads smiling and peering in our direction. “Yes.” I shouted back, “American.” To which I received a spunky one word response of “Schwartzeneger!” Apparently, this reference was not limited to the Greeks.

After a lul in the conversation at our table the guy shouted again. This time he made a declaration about himself and his table “Austrian!” he said making a swirling motion with his pointer finger, indicating that they were all Austrian.

“Yes. Austrian!” I hollered giving him the thumbs up. I could see him scanning his database for other words I might recognize.

At any other time his volunteering would have been annoying. But we were desperate for some good old surface chit-chat. The kind the Greeks hate but American thrive on. Americans are the friendliest people on earth. Chit-chat with strangers is our specialty. And we were in withdrawal. So, on our way out we stopped at the Austrian table and exchanged a lengthy stilted conversation consisting of unrelated one word sentences and lots of nodding and smiling.

We spanned topics ranging from a tall mountain to a bridge, Schwartzeneger, fast car and a nice place. None of it made a lick of sense and we didn’t care. We just felt relieved to luxuriate in some pointing and smiling, some light weight chit-chat and some small sense that we were important or interesting enough to talk to. As we walked back to the apartment and after a few moments of silent reflection on what had just happened, we all said the same thing: “Wow, they were sweet. I think the friendliest people in Greece are the Austrians.”

Any Chance Of Getting Downgraded?

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Sat, 08 Jul 2006 01:47:00 +0000

Before I write about my trip to Greece, let me talk about my trip to New York a few months ago. And when I say trip, I mean the actual transit. Not the time I spent in New York. Put your tray-tables and your seat-backs in their full upright and locked position and read on...

There's a strange twinge of sweet arrogance and embarrassment in Business class.

My mom and I flew to JFK from SFO a few months ago and, in order to spoil my mom, I spent some airline points and upgraded us to business class. Half way though the flight the purser, the gayest man I'd ever seen, complete with a pair of pin on wings, decided we were his friends.

Early in the flight my mother began her Business Class indulgence. She was like a kid left alone with a tray of cup-cakes. Trying to be polite, a child will only help herself to one cup-cake. But restraint usually proves to be too much to handle and so she'll eat another. And then another. Soon she'll be on the floor covered in chocolate exhausted and sugar-shocked from her rabid and possessed moment alone with the cup-cakes. Panting and red in the eyes the child will eventually require some sort of first-aid or parental intervention.

My mother started her cup-cake whirlwind by simply fidgeting in her barcalounger of a seat hoping that she could get a little of what she was looking at. Wide-eyed she scanned all of the business class goings-on to figure out if she could have Champagne too- or was it just for the other more important people?

Finally a flute with bubbly magic was passed her way.

"Ya know it's my first time in Business Class." My mother would say every time the flight attendant offered her anything to make our flight more "comfortable." Which in airline speak means "more drunk."

Champagne? Hot towel? Juice? Warm nuts? Catheter? My mother's answers were "YES. YES. YES. YES AND YES!" much like the scene in When Harry Met Sally where Sally fakes the big O. Coincidentally, my mother's first name is Sally.

Pretty soon my mom looked like a recovering spine surgery patient, reclined, half stoned, covered with a blanket and surrounded by half eaten treats and plastic cups filled with various business class concoctions. Her seating area was a medicine cabinet filled with soothing substances not yet controlled by the feds.

So the wing-man came over, kneeled down and helped himself to my arm rest. "So I hear this is your first time in business class" Were we that obvious? "I'm Chad, your purser. Ohmigohd, are you just having a blast?" and so the monologue began. We heard about his apartment on the East Side, his house in Florida, the dinner he was going to have with "oh what's-her-name on that cooking show. Anyway she's really popular right now." We heard about his love of water sports and how celebs who fly his rout are "just like normal people."

At first I felt special (my mom was on the moon, she was eating it like wedding cake) but after a few minutes I felt the corners of my mouth get tired. Holding that smile while he monologued was getting exhausting. At the summon of a fellow flight attendant, he finally he left. But not for long. He had, in his mind, adopted my mom and he was going to make the rest of the flight the ride of her life.

He brought us more drinks, played some entertaining tricks on us, made back-handed sarcastic compliments to me while he attempted to elevate my mother's status. He was teasing in a hip urban gay way but it began to get annoying. My mom got extra cookies, a pat on the head when ever he walked by, a wink here and there, and soon I was checking over my shoulder to see what was going on in coach. I found myself longing for the anonymous existence of economy class.

Coach Flight Attendants are mean, wicked air police who pitch peanuts at you like they're warming up for their big league debut. If there were an Olympic event in Eye-Rolling they'd all be medaled. They're counting down the days until they can walk from "this crap job" and into pension heaven. And they're doubly PO'd because, due to airline bankruptcy, union contract changes and cutbacks, that heaven is getting smaller by the minute. They're one step above DMV clerks. They're under-worked, overpaid, impossible to fire, and they're taking it out on us.

And then there's Chad, our purser.

Chad started his airline career when he was seven years old. He got his when the gettin' was good. He was pirky, skinny and made money in the real estate market so his job "is just for fun."His skin was milky white on is boney little hands and just tan enough on his slender little face. He was tall and his eyes were grey-blue and deep in his head. He was like a combo of a male Cher and that guy who hosted the most recent version of America's Funniest Home Videos. His teeth were so white they appeared to be three-times their natural size. His svelt frame made his purser suit look great on him, not awkward and ill-fitting like the rest for the crew. He had better shoes than anyone on the plane and he loved to give you a little slap with a manicured hand and say "noimjusskiddin" after he insulted you with some kind of backward compliment. And then he'd take back his "noimjusskiddin" with an eye-roll leaving you confused at his initial intention of his compliment and curious about the next one. I think he taught the girls in steerage. They just used it to be mean, Chad used it as theatre.

And the show went on. My mother, in a total haze, continued to remain enthralled.

As she became progressively more in love with Chad, her new gay-mate, I became progressively more annoyed. Okay, we get it. You're cute and you've made my mom's day. Now go luxuriate someone else. We've seen all we can handle. The law of diminishing returns is kicking in. Really, we'll be fine without you.

The longer the extra-super-special attention went on the more embarrassed I got. I felt more like an idiot than a first class traveler. Oh Chaddy-Waddy, me need help go peepee too, can take me go potty?

I just wanted back into the anonymous clan of Travelocity patrons. Give me coach, give me dignity, give me salty peanuts and a mini can of un-branded cola. Give me peace.

Get New Ears, Not A New Husband

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Thu, 15 Jun 2006 17:32:00 +0000

I worked in LA last week and I stayed in a Spaceship.

Some hotels are quieter than others and the hotel I stayed in was not one of the quiet ones. I pulled into the hotel garage late at night. I got out of the car and the moment I set foot on the concrete floor of the parking structure, I could feel a low-tone all-consuming swooshy-humm in my bones. It was loud, but it didn’t hurt my ears it just rattled my skeleton. It sounded like a spaceship.

I gathered my bags and moved into the lobby. Once the lobby doors closed behind me the sound didn’t get quieter, it just got muffled and turned into that sound you hear in a Lucas film or in Star Trek movies where some monstrous Spaceship is just hanging there in black space looking haunting and intelligent. No matter the shape, it always looks fierce and like it could talk if it wanted to; but it doesn’t because it needs to keep its crucial mysterious vibe intact. And, the more evil it is, the louder the Spaceship sound.

To me that Spaceship sound is the sound of sucking and blowing at the same time. It’s the vacuous sound of base-like white noise that reverberates in your solarplexes. It’s reminiscent of the sound a 747 makes when it’s climbing off the runway. It’s a lower-tone version of the sound we love when the Blue Angels buzz the crowd at Fleet Week. It’s the sound of patriotism, power and mass fuel consumption that only an industrialized nation such as ours can attain. I love that sound. Need us to burn something? We’ll do it. And we’ll do it faster and hotter than anyone else and we'll top it off with a soundtrack that will become part of our collective consciousness in a matter of weeks. And, it will be on iTunes before you can say “Microsoft Sucks.”

Back to the hotel. In the case of the Marriott Courtyard on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks, that Spaceship sound was manufactured by the convergence of sixteen freeways in a single square block. I know; let’s find the loudest city block in the San Fernando Valley and then, let’s build a hotel there! So what’s the problem you ask? I thought you said you love that sound? Well I do, just not in my bedroom. That sound should be reserved for the movies, runways and Spaceships. Although it sounds like I’m complaining I’m not. Read further.

Every hotel has a sound that is tied to its geography. When you live in that geography, that sound disappears. But when you visit somewhere new, the sound of that new place is all you can hear. New places wake up our senses. The sound of LA is a ten lane freeway system that’s chalk full all hours of the day. Portland is the sound of bus air-breaks. Portlanders are big on public transportation. New York sounds like taxi cabs, garbage trucks and jack-hammers. Penang, Malaysia is muffled beats of night clubs peppered with periodic Muslim prayer.
Scooter-buzz rings Taiwan. Phoenix? constant hum of air conditioners. Milan? scooter-buzz plus horn beeping from the full-throttled European mini-mobiles.

Not Mini-Coopers, miniature cars that look like little suicide boxes on wheels careening down cobblestone streets in a desperate attempt to wedge into that newly available parking spot that doesn’t even exist, legally. Beijing sounds like construction sites and bicycle bells.

Over time, when we live in the same neighborhood, travel the same pathways to work, the gym, the grocery store and our favorite restaurants, we become deaf to the sounds of our geography. We get so accustomed to them that we don’t hear them any more. The sounds become such a part of us that they simply disappear. I don’t want the sounds of my life at home to disappear. If the sounds are disappearing, what else is so seamlessly integrated into my life that it just goes unnoticed?

A few summers ago my husband and I remodeled our house. We installed a small pond and water fall in the back yard, just outside of the kitchen. When we installed it my father, our nearly-naked underwear champion and water-feature guru, said to us “don’t worry kids, the water is loud but you’ll get used to it.”
To me this sentence: “you’ll get used to it” is the kiss of death. It can be applied to anything. Examples:

“I like the new paint color, but now I’m used to it. I barely notice it any more.”
“Yeah, your husband’s hot, but you’ll get used to it.”
“This house is really nice, but you’ll get used to it.”
“My new car is cool, but I’ll get used to it.”
“My sex life is great…”
“My new job is awesome…”

Where does it end?

I don’t want to get used to it! As soon as I’m used to it I’m tempted to get something new. To trade-up. To get my fix of that fresh feeling, that excitement that comes when you’re convinced that once you have that new pair of jeans, that couch or that new (wo)man, your life will be complete. Like that one new thing is the key to making everything else work. Some things in our lives warrant replacing. But most of the time we trade-up just because we’re sick of it. Trust me, you don’t have to get something new to feel renewed. Just go away for a while.

And so, instead of getting a new husband, a new house, a new car, a different lover or a job change, just go away from it as often as possible, wake up your sense and re-enter your same life with new ears. All hail the Spaceship hotel, the bing-bing of the Chinese bicyclist and the early-morning New York garbage trucks. New sounds for a new day that will bring a new perspective and appreciation for all the same crap we’ve become used to. Because your husband is hot, you do have a nice house and a cool car, your sex life isn’t that bad and you don’t always need a new job, you just need new ears. Try it. Book your own Spaceship hotel room and see what it does for you.

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Mon, 12 Jun 2006 22:32:00 +0000

My Dad Loves His Underwear

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Wed, 31 May 2006 23:30:00 +0000

My dad loves his underwear.

I’m getting ready to go to Greece. This trip is different. It’s for pure pleasure. I don’t have to take a suit, or lipstick. My cell phone won’t work there and I won’t have to wear a badge or sign in at the registration desk of the corner café just to order a snack. I’ll be chillin’ on the beach, drinking with friends and writing my butt off.

The preparation for this trip has been intense. I’ve done it all myself and between cashing in airline miles, surfing the web and negotiating with Greek travel agents I’ve put together a pretty nice trip. Although Greece is not Italy, this process has brought back flashes of my trip to Italy in the summer of 2002. These images are not simply pleasant flashes, they’re flash backs. Smatterings of images brought on by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder resulting in the time I spent traveling though Italy with my father. A man who prefers to spend most of his waking hours in nothing more than his tighty-whities; which are neither tight, nor are they white. Being in the family travel trenches was hard, but I believe I’ve come out of it a better woman.

I’d traveled with my father before. Only, it wasn’t just me and Dad. My mom and my brother were there as a buffer and like infantry men, we had each other’s back. Spring after spring we made our way to Mexico for surf trips. We camped a lot and made day trips into San Francisco. The difference lies in the fact that I was a child. Our Italy trip was the first time we’d traveled together since adulthood took hold, and it was just me and dad, father and daughter, and the parent child roles had clearly started to reverse.

We went to Italy in summer. So it was hot. Not good conditions for warding off the instant-underwear move that my father has pioneered. Every time we checked into or returned to our hotel this was the scene:

We’d swerve into our parking spot. Step out of the car and make some low tone comments about what a great day it was. We made our way up the hotel stairs and down the hall that lead to our room. Inevitably I would be doing the pee-pee squeeze because I’d had a big lunch and too much pop. As soon as the door was open I’d push forward into the room, rush into the bathroom and by the time I got out, poof! the clothes my dad had been wearing had exploded off his body and were scattered everywhere. He’d be lying on his bed, face up with is ankles crossed, his face hidden behind a magazine and the only article of clothing remaining on his body were his not-so-tight and not-so-white underwear. I’d roll my eyes expecting the next move. And it would always come: “Shit! Where’s my passport? Louise!” He’d screetch like I’d lost his passport. Then he’d frantically rip through his bag, toiletries, and linens making a huge mess and covering any evidence of organization I had instituted in the beginning of the day.

Moments later he’d be holding his passport in his hand, panting from the adrenaline and smiling, pleased with the notion that he’d just saved us from having to find an American Consulate, wait in line all night just to be asked to come back tomorrow. Good job dad! All this in his loose, flaccid, man panties. No sense of shame, modesty or respect for the witness.

Over and over again this scene played itself through. Day after day. You’d think it was something someone could get used to. Think again. Soon this scene looked like something closer to a tantrum than a hunt for official documents. But, instead of diapers they were Jockeys. And I was expected to be the patient mother who’s there to support the situation.

My dad does whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it. No matter who’s watching or who it will impact. The baby Jesus isn’t even safe. Example: Every city in Italy has a Duomo, a church that’s clearly the spiritual center of the community. You don’t find churches in Italy that are rented steel buildings in the back of a parking lot. There are no modern religious structures. The thought of converting a Wal-Mart into a place of worship is an act of blasphemy. In the US, such redevelopment is considered an act of commercial genius. Anyway, we spent a lot of time in churches in Tuscany and Umbria. These places are quiet, spiritual caverns that give you the sense that God could crush you in an instant if he didn’t like what you were wearing. Or, if you chose to put four Euro in the donation box instead of five. Sinners beware. These places give you the feeling that no sin is too small for the heavens to open up and release an omnipotent smack-down on your feeble ass.

My father didn’t care. While worshipers, tourists, historians and school children endured the audio tour of some of the most ornate religious architecture ever built by man, my father, the moment his feet started to ache, sat down in the middle of the tile floor of the Duomo di Santa Maria di il vino Espiritu Santu Magdaleda. Horrified, I tried to scoop him up by the arm pits. “Get up!” I whisper-yelled. “Dad! If you’re tired, go out side. There are people praying. Get UP!”

“No. My feet hurt.” And he sat there.

I let go. With my head bowed in reverence I scurried away and tried not to look related to him. Minutes later I looked over my shoulder to see him still sitting cross-legged, reading the tour book and periodically leaning to one side or another in his attempt to squeeze one out. When I was ready to go I just passed him and whispered with a coordinated eye-roll “Come on. Let’s go.” I was just glad that he hadn’t stripped down to his underwear and lost his passport.

This behavior has endured throughout the years. And although I am impatient and embarrassed by it, I am also strangely jealous of his lack of inhibition. His ability to do as he pleases without any thought or hesitation has wisdom in it. He does what he likes and the world doesn’t stop. He’s not cast out of his social network. He usually gets what he wants and he has fun while he’s doing it. This is not to say it’s easy being him. It’s not. Nor is it easy being his daughter. But, what I’ve learned from him is invaluable. I’ve learned that you don’t always have to wear clean underwear and that you can sit on the floor of a Duomo and fart while you read and God won’t strike you down. Consider the possibilities.

It's Dinner and a Show (like it or not)

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Tue, 16 May 2006 15:54:00 +0000

I have come to hate eating out.

On the road I eat out a lot. And when I don’t eat out I eat in. It’s either take-out or room service which usually isn’t any better than a Hungry Man or a cold can of pork and beans opened with a knife and wolfed hobo style. “Tonight I eat out” I thought to myself as I headed for the elevator. Still in Minneapolis and staying on the edge of down town I surfed the likely resources for recommendations. Lots of trendy restaurants screamed “eat me” through the glossy ads in the lobby magazines. Concierges and front desk people, frequent Minneapolis travelers and bellmen, like usual, all had an opinion.

“Well, what are you in the mood for?”
“Fish.” I said.
I left the hotel with recommendation in hand.

Walking to the restaurant showed promise for a good solo evening. There was thunder and lightening but no rain. The air was warm and just short of soupy. A loitering black man gave me the once-over and a sincere sing-songy “Well hellooooo glamour girl.” I felt cute.

Things were looking good until I opened the door to the hotel that housed the restaurant I was heading to. I stepped into a cavernous lobby. It reeked of leftover afternoon busyness that had quickly wound down to a low, slightly stale hum much like a school play auditorium a half hour after curtain close. There were a few souls shuffling around and a handful of bellmen playing rock-paper-scissors to see who would go home early.

I made my way up the escalator to the convention level where the “great fish place” was. As I passed through the restaurant's threshold I was hit with sensory overload; low grade shock treatment in the form of entertainment. The place was loud, with jazzy décor and jazzier hostesses wearing jazzed-up hip little fashions. The music was more in the foreground than in the background and, big surprise, it was jazz. The “great fish place” was more like and over produced cirque-du-soleil a-la-pesce con musica fantastica. Viva Minnesota you cool catz. Strangely, I decided to stay.

At the bar I was handed a menu. As I scanned it I was shocked. A seventeen-dollar glass of California chardonnay! What? Thirty-seven bucks for a grilled piece of halibut, no sides. Yeah, isn’t that fish a bottom feeder? I turned my head and watched the people around me with mounds, yes mounds, of food scattered all over their tables. And I knew what it tasted like even before I ordered it. It’s business-people food. Expense account food. It’s all over priced, over sized, over salted, over presented, over merchandised and overwhelming. I wouldn’t be able to taste it over the music and when I was done I’d feel over stuffed. Back in to my hotel room I’d be doubled over but it would be worth it as I’d be getting double United Reward points because I’d bought it with my Double Miles card and I’d be doubly happy that I’d ordered the double-decker crab ravioli with clams. Is my description excessive? Try the desert menu. I went with the mussel appetizer plate. It was fit for a sumo demi-god.

Places like the “great fish place,” (or any other expense-report restaurant) are a lot like Disneyland for adults. But, instead of candy there’s wine, instead of roller coasters there’s sexual tension with your neighboring diners, instead of paying to get in you pay to get out. In the end you just feel tired, ripped off and a little queasy. All I really want is something in earthly portions that doesn’t taste a salt-lick. And, although I hate eating out I’ll continue to do it for the sake of hunger and for the sheer joy of writing stuff like this.

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Wed, 10 May 2006 03:14:00 +0000

Tonight I was reminded that it’s lonely on the road.

I woke up from a nap feeling like I had nowhere to go. I slurped the moisture from my mouth as I became conscious of the TV that was left on when I laid down and hour earlier. I was still in my slacks and blouse, jewelry and lipstick. It was nearly 7:30. Disoriented and tired I sat up and felt a swell of indistinguishable emotion well up in my throat. I’m in Minneapolis. What restaurants do I know of? I’m at the Doubletree. Around the corner there’s Brit’s, an English pub. There’s beer and shepherd’s pie- mediocre food, perfect for a mediocre trip.

I forced my feet to the carpet and pushed down on the floor. The result was the rising of my body to a full standing position. Dragging my feet to my suitcase, I chose a pair of comfy army pants and a super soft long-john T-shirt. It was a deviation from my day time business battle-wear but I changed into it anyway and made it to the elevator, down to the lobby and out onto the street. Just outside the hotel rotating door I turned to my right and started walking.

Three buildings from my hotel tears welled up in the basins of my eyes like allergies coming on strong. I was about to have dinner all by myself, on a gloomy day in Minnesota, at the end of a difficult work day and on my fifth week in a row on the road. I was feeling the middle class homelessness that work travel elicits. Usually, the world feels like my family. I can slip in anywhere and feel like I’m at home. Like I belong to the things I’m watching. Like the hostess, or the bellman, or the taxi driver and I have been friends forever. Tonight I felt like the evening was a grave yard and the people I was passing on the street and sharing a restaurant with were animated head stones; each representing a life but not much more than a name and a date. They didn’t care about me and I didn’t care about them.

Loneliness is what my non-traveling friends never think I feel. “Wow, you’re going where? I don’t know how you do it. Jet setter!” I keep a smile and expect that the next trip will yield some kind of fantastic story about some guy in the airport that did some crazy thing that I’ve never seed before. And that that story will turn into “Dia, tell the story about the guy in the airport…” making me and my stories famous in my small circle of friends and working like a salve on my bruised travel bones.

I sat inside Brit’s and ordered one shepherd’s pie and two Boddingtons nearly back to back. I never write when I drink but tonight was an exception. The indistinguishable emotion stayed with me through my meal and as people filtered into the pub for the drinking hours, I began to realize that the emotion I had was loneliness. A feeling I haven’t had much.

The truth is, no matter where I go I’m always alone. I’m one person, self contained and separate from anyone else. I battle that feeling with club memberships, regular coffee stops and travel routines that make me feel part of something. I have life-talk with lots of the people who take my classes, I visit certain web sites frequently, I talk on the phone more than my wireless plan allows and I have parties at my house as often as I can tolerate. I exercise and call myself lots of titles that make me part of a virtual club. I’m a travel enthusiast, I’m a fun magnet, I’m family oriented, I’m a Hilton loyalist, I’m a hiker, I’m a Manhattan drinker, yeah, I’m a meat eater, non-smoker, German-car driver, beer drinker, big thinker, thin-book reader, wanna-be writer. All of these are tags that make me part of something that can’t be taken away no matter how far from home I am. But tonight they couldn’t save me. So I sat at Brit’s, as the anonymous girl at table 36, who wore a green shirt and army pants. I drank my Boddingtons, cried a little, and was reminded that it’s lonely on the road.

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Fri, 28 Apr 2006 03:13:00 +0000

Who the F@%# is paying for all of this?

That’s the first thing I thought when I came down the stairs tonight. I’m in Phoenix at this rockin’ resort that hosts tons of conventions, corporate travelers and their tag-alongs. I’m here on a corporate rate that’s a quarter of the published rate. Negotiated corporate rates are the only way I’d ever get into a place like this. A chicken breast with polenta is thirty-five bucks. There are pool boys everywhere. The staff says things like “good evening” and “my pleasure” when you walk to your room at the end of your day. The greeting when you call the front desk is three sentences long. Waiting for the cue that it’s your turn to talk is excruciating. “Thank you for calling the front desk at the (insert hotel name here). It’s a beautiful evening here in lovely Phoenix and we hope you’re enjoying your stay. My name is Jason it’s my pleasure to help you Miss (this is where they stumble) J..J...Jack….in…crack…er.” The longer the greeting the more expensive the hotel.

The favorite subject here in the Lobby Bar is what you can put on your expense report. “Well, my new manager is pretty cool so I think that if I have a bar tab here I’d be able to justify it if she asks. After all, I am at a Sales and Marketing conference and what’s Sales and Marketing without a bar tab? Everything else I’ve spent has been totally on track with corporate initiatives- ya know, we’re ‘putting the customer first’ and so I guess another round would be okay. Put it on my room!”

Another observation. People in this Lobby Bar fall into the following categories: Drunk dominant Sales Managers who like to yell periodically, their wing men, timid go-with-the-flow new hires, well dressed wives, homely spinster glass ceiling types, rich grandparents, and annoyed bar staff. Lack of a color-coded polo is the only thing
separating me from being part of the annoyed bar staff club. I could be one of them with a simple costume change. But instead, I sit here blogging my observations with a critical tone and continue to listen to the conversations around me. All while I thank my lucky stars for my expense report. “Put it on my room!”

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Wed, 19 Apr 2006 16:12:00 +0000

So this is what they're all talking about.

My usual travel is work. I don't mean that I'm traveling for work, I mean that it's work to travel. Parking lots, passports, negotiating taxi fares, screeching loud-speakers in airport terminals. Long flights that make my backside flat and tingly numb. Disappointing seat assignments. Hotel air conditioners that whine all night. Farting air passengers. I could go on.

But, this week travel was different. I had the week off. My husband needed to go to a client meeting on the coast of Northern California in a town called Fort Bragg. It's just two hours north of our house. My work has kept me out of town a lot so I thought I'd go with. Twenty minutes of online shopping and I found a mid-week special at a B&B called the The Headlands Inn. No two night minimum. Yes! We booked it over the phone.

Denise, the owner, made my reservation. Her prices, features and location were about the same as everyone else but she gave good phone so I booked with her. I even told her she gave good phone. She didn't get it. She cheerfully listed the details of my stay while I fumbled around for my credit card.

It was a risk. We don't stay in B&Bs much. This is because the last time we did was for our first anniversary and we barely had time to visit with each other. There was a week long "breathing seminar" going on down the street and the old lady and the young former ballerina with the broken soul were determined to convince us that we didn't know how to breath. Breakfast conversation went like this:

The Ballerexic (that's a ballerina whose anorexic) leaned in over breakfast "It's like. Well... We come into this world and what's the first thing that happens?" She didn't give me time to answer "we're spanked and so the first experience of our breath is rooted in fear and abuse so this like totally defines how we relate to our lives, you know, fear and stuff. Oh m'god. You guys should totally come with us tomorrow. We're just going to sit with our fear and breath...for six hours. Once you learn how to really breath, you'll wonder what you've been doing all these years."

It continued.

She left literature for us that the innkeeper later forwarded to our home address. We swore we'd never stay at a B&B again.

But this place is different. It looks like a B&B. It's painted in pastels, it has a great deck that faces the ocean, lots of doilies, birds chirping, a cute couple who run the place. But there's one distinction that makes all the difference. NO COMMUNAL BREAKFAST.

And so, I finally get what everyone's talking about when it comes to B&Bs. Relaxing. Beautiful. Romantic. And, a chance to just sit with my fear and breath.

the temporary community

noreply@blogger.com (Dia Bondi) — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 01:31:00 +0000

We all gotta eat. We all wanna drink. Airport bars are the place where people come together just to split apart again. I sat down tonight at a puck in the Chicago airport and within minutes business travelers of all tax brackets were sharing tips on what to order. We watched each other's stuff while "I step away for a minute" and we lamented about our least favorite airports. The guy in the red athletic wear next to me looked like he was ready for advice, the barely legal frat boy to my right was looking for someone to drink with, the bearded guy just wanted a side salad but it wasn't on the menu.

As I sat at that bar tonight I felt myself agreeing, smiling, sharing my travel secrets of survival and making menu recommendations to the weary souls around me. These guys were my people. Not one a leisure traveler. All weekday warriors. We were a tribe even before we sat together. So, I guess the temporary community isn't temporary at all. Although we aren't sitting at the bar together now, we're connected through greater commonalities. Frequent flyer programs, American Express memberships, and cell phone networks.

When I sit down to eat in an airport it's more than caloric intake. It's breaking bread with people you don't know but are part of your club. We're just one common lay over away from being on a first name basis.