The Road Scholars

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Never A Cop Around When You Need One

2010-03-01T18:09:00.008-06:00

There's never a cop around when you need one; but there was last night.

About a year ago I had an opportunity to ride-along with my brother Patrick during one of his graveyard shifts as a police officer at the University of California, Santa Barbara. It was a slow, wintry night in late December and we were lucky to find a car on the road, let alone pull one over. About six months ago he changed police agencies and last night I had an opportunity to ride-along again. It was still a wintry night, but his duties as a Santa Barbara Deputy Sheriff proved a bit more eventful than life at the UC.

A few hours into our shift, we pulled up to a red light. We had just cleared a traffic stop on a vehicle with a burnt-out headlight. The car next to us rolled down the passenger side window and a young woman leaned over to say the car behind us was swerving quite a bit. This beat, like many, is no stranger to the over-reactive complaints of paranoid citizens and motorists, so we accepted her tip rather half-heartedly. Nevertheless, as the light turned green and we drove on, Patrick kept his eye on the rear-view mirror.

Sure enough, the car behind us did appear to be driving a little "funny". As my brother changed lanes to let the vehicle pass us, I turned around to get a look at the driver in question. As we slowed down, so did he. This was starting to look like more than a paranoid motorist's complaint. Patrick brought the squad car nearly to a halt in the middle of the number one traffic lane and the red pickup truck finally passed us on the right. For about a quarter of a mile we watched as the truck drifted from the number two lane to the number one lane to the shoulder and back. This driver was clearly impaired for one reason or another.

Patrick flipped on the red and blue and called in a traffic stop on the radio, "3536 code 9."

The driver continued without any indication of, well, anything. He just kept weaving back and forth across the road, occasionally accelerating but only to overcompensate with the brakes. We continued on for about a half mile or so at this sort of stuttered pace before my brother flipped on full lights and siren. If the solid red and blue light in his rear view mirror didn't get his attention before, the full array of super bright LED strobes and blaring sound surely would. Again, no change.

Now it was starting to get interesting.

Going on a ride-along is a fairly easy endeavor. You simply need to find an agency with a willing officer, an obliging sergeant, and fill out what I like to call the "in case shit" form. This is a straight-forward release of liability form that collects some personal information and a signature from you in case something should happen. It is typically shredded at the end of the ride-along, unless of course something bad happens to you. Along those lines, my brother chose this moment to let me know that "if I get in a pursuit I have to kick you out of the car".

I beg your pardon?

It's 9:30 at night and 50 degrees outside and you're going to just drop me off in the middle of downtown Goleta? Wasn't there another form I could have signed?

So now this was getting really interesting. With full lights and siren this guy still wasn't stopping, but he wasn't exactly fleeing either. We were still ho humming down the road at maybe 45 mph. After another half mile or so, my brother made a shrewd, last ditch effort to keep his passenger in the car. "3536, coming up on failure to yield". Had he said "in pursuit" instead, I was history. About the same time, the red truck made a right turn onto a residential street. It was starting to look like this driver was trying to make it home before succumbing to the law.

Almost immediately after making the turn, the truck stopped in kind of a half-assed attempt to pull over to the side. As my brother jumped out of the car and drew his gun, a second squad car screached to a halt next to him. The second officer ran around to my door, opened it, and with gun drawn and using my door as cover, told me to move to the back of the car. I did not hesitate.

Patrick ordered the driver out of the vehicle. The red truck started to move again. Now I was getting worried. At this point failure to yield was off the table. If my brother and his partner had to get back in their cars, this was a pursuit, and I would be hailing a cab. Fortunately, the truck was moving further towards the curb, and it was now blocked in front by a parked car. Concerned that a low speed collision might be next, Patrick and his partner decided to move in. At gunpoint, they ordered the sole occupant to shut off the ignition of his deadly weapon. The man turned and stared glassy eyed out the open driver's side window. At this point it was clear that he was unarmed and not all there. My brother holstered his weapon, opened the car door, dragged the suspect out of the car, and in almost the same motion, flipped him around and slapped on the handcuffs. Code four, and no cab for Sean.

This guy was so drunk, he couldn't stand up on his own. He was 43, Mexican, and English was optional. What followed was comedic, setting aside the fact that this knucklehead was driving and nearly got shot. Patrick do-si-do'd him to the curb and, in an awkward, unchoregraphed two-step (with a little help from his partner), sat him down. He was too drunk for any field sobriety tests--he could barely tell us his name (which I will omit to protect the dumbass). He was even too drunk to blow into a breathalyser. Legally this posed a bit of a challenge as, up to this point, there was no objective evidence that this idiot was drunk. My brother looked at me and said "what do you think I should do with him?" The answer was obvious, but I appreciated the predicament. Ironically it's a lot easier administratively if you fail sobriety tests rather than be too drunk to even take them.

As we discussed the nuances of the law, and Patrick's partner got the knucklehead to admit to drinking "ten or five" beers, the sergeant rolled up in his SUV. A tall, clean cut, middle-aged man with gray hair, the sarge sounds eerily like John Wayne when he speaks and, like the Duke, he's a little more straight forward about the law. Patrick quickly brought him up to speed, explaining that field sobriety tests were not going to be an option. The sergeant sauntered up to the curb, took one look at the knucklehead and said with John Wayne cadence, "well he's drunk!".

"Hey!" the sergeant addressed the suspect for the first time. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

He replied, in broken English, "I already tell him".

The sergeant came right back with "well I wasn't here yet, so tell me again".

The suspect: "ten or five beers".

Sarge: "Ten or five? Man, I'd be drunk! I don't think I could stand up after ten beers. You want to blow into a machine for me?"

Suspect, smiling: "Oh no no no."

Sarge: "Well then do you want to walk a straight line for me? Stand up, let me see you walk along this line here."

It was clear as my brother helped the knucklehead up, that his coy smile and mild protests were more about his inability to do much of anything and not a desire to be uncooperative. This guy just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. And that's exactly what he did after my brother patted him down and placed him in the back of our squad car. But that wasn't before Sarge asked one more question, just the way The Duke might have asked it: "Hey, so what were you drinking? Don't tell me it was Budweiser".

The knucklehead, smiling, his eyes barely staying open: "Bud Light".

The sergeant shook his head and rolled his eyes in feigned disgust, "oh no, Bud Light?"

We drove to the hospital where they drew the knucklehead's blood and then we dropped him off at the county lockup where, because of his record (guess what lurks in the past on his rap sheet?) his bail was set at $10,000. Of course, the small baggie of cocaine the jailer found hidden in his pocket didn't help his case. Unfortunately, the results of the blood draw will take several days, so I will probably never know officially just how drunk this idiot was. The best guess amongst the officers was somewhere between .15 and .20. The legal "limit" in California to be driving is .08. My brother did comment that this was the drunkest driver he'd ever arrested. I guess that should be some kind of consolation; along with that on this particular night, for that woman at the stoplight, there was a cop around when she needed one.

Olympia

2009-08-30T21:00:00.000-05:00

Throughout my travels, I've had the opportunity to visit several centers of government, both state and national, in our country and others. In Olympia, the capitol of Washington, I found myself comparing everything to the Lone Star State's capitol in Austin. So we're all on the same page, let me first share a few thoughts about Austin.

I've visited the Texas State Capitol many times since living in Texas and have helped myself to both self-guided and guided tours of the building. The grounds sit amidst a bustling college-town metropolis and are beautifully manicured. Around the perimeter sit highly visible Texas State Troopers in patrol cars. They also roam the hallways on foot of the capitol building itself.

Whether playing Frisbee on the massive front lawn amidst state relics or rambling the halls of the building itself, there are always people at the Texas capitol. The building is clean, modern, and functional, housing all of the state's business offices either in the main rotunda or the underground expansion. Tour guides offer free guided tours during the week and are typically political science students at the University of Texas, which is within walking distance of the Capitol grounds.

Olympia, in contrast, is a quiet little city about 5% the size (in population) of Austin. While the Texas state capitol is an imposing edifice visible for miles, the Washington State Capitol is off the beaten path and definitely requires directions (or Vicki) to find. Luca and I made the trek from Renton in about an hour, and once we found it, the place was dead. There was so much available parking, we were a little apprehensive about where to park for fear there was some kind of prohibition about parking on the grounds. Driving right up to a point of interest and parking for free at the front door is not usually how I roll. Paying twenty bucks to park a mile away and be bused in is typically more my speed.

The first thing I immediately noticed (aside from the lack of any other people) was the absence of any police or security: no rent-a-cops, no state troopers, no local police. I guess if a crime is committed and no one is around to notice, it isn't really a crime in Olympia.

The second thing I noticed was the layout of the grounds. Unlike Austin, the Washington capitol grounds are like a compound. The main building sits in the middle of a cloister of other buildings that makes the area feel more like a college campus than a government site. We later found out on the tour that very little business actually takes place inside the main capitol building. In addition to the obligatory rotunda, there are four offices (one for the Governor, Lieutenant Governor, Treasurer, and Secretary of State), a Reception Room, and chambers for the Senate and House. That's it. All the other business takes place in surrounding buildings.

What Olympia may lack in bustle, it makes up for in the quality of the tour. Our guide was excellent. He didn't recite from a memorized script, he simply walked us to the three rooms on the tour and started talking about them. If anyone had a question, he answered it in detail. It was like he was giving us a tour of his own home. Here are the highlights:

State Reception Room
This is where foreign dignitaries are received, constituent groups interact with their representatives, and the post-election ball is held when a new governor is elected. But the crown jewel of the room is the rare 42-star flag hanging in a case on the wall. The flag is rare because there never was an official 42-star U.S. flag in use. Washington became a state in November of 1889. The star is not officially added to the flag until July 4th following a state's admittance to the Union. Flag makers began preparing 42 star flags so they would be ready for July 4th, 1890. On July 3rd of that year, Idaho was admitted to the Union and the 43 star flag became the official U.S. flag the next day.
Bust of George Washington
This brass bust was presented to the state in 1984 by the Mother Joseph Foundation. It is noteworthy because over the years his nose has been worn by students rubbing it for good luck. Hal got in on that action (as did Luca and I)
The Rotunda
The entire rotunda is covered in beautiful Alaskan Tokeen marble, which has a bluish white color. All the light fixtures in the capitol were created by Tiffany and the contract was his last major effort before his death. Hanging from the cupola is the world's largest Tiffany chandelier. It weighs 10,000 pounds.

No excursion in the Pacific Northwest is complete without the f-word, so we left the capitol grounds and let Vicki be our guide. The neighborhood she guided us to looked a little sketchy but we did find our destination. As we drove by the establishment we could see plenty of folks getting head inside, so we decided to give it a go.

When I say sketchy, I mean there were train tracks literally running down the center of the street. This gave way to a slew of puns, as you might imagine, and ultimately we concluded the tracks must be abandoned as the street was about the width of four cars. With parking allowed on both sides of the street, we just couldn't see how the logistics of a train coming down the street would work with vehicle traffic. It turns out we were wrong. As we got our fermentation on (that f-word staple of the Pacific Northwest), we asked our waitress at the Fish Tale Brew Pub about the tracks. She actually had to ask a coworker, but it turns out the tracks are still active and freight trains come down the street daily. This is one place where double parking is definitely out of the question.

The beer at Fish Tale is all organic and overall, not bad, although the pulled-pork sandwich I had was better. The walls are adorned with overpriced for-sale artwork, presumably from a local artist. It's good stuff, but not triple digit good, especially for the size. What did impress us was the rows of shelves along a wall holding people's personal beer mugs. I guess sometimes you wanna' go to the side of the tracks where everyone knows your mug.

Sorry, I just couldn't resist.

Check out all the pictures from my trip by clicking a gallery below:

From Everett

From Eugene

Why The Hell It's Taking So Long To Write About Olympia

2009-08-24T22:00:00.000-05:00

I've been back home in Texas now for over a week. It's always good to be home. Having said that, let me share with you what I've come home to, and why it's taken so long to tell you about my trip to Olympia, which I did finally take. If you'd rather just read about that, wait until the next update and just skip this one. Understand that you'll miss a near-death experience story if you do.

The story begins with me trying to be smart. In favorable traffic conditions, Everett is about an hour away from SEA-TAC airport. My flight home was scheduled to depart at 7:30AM Thursday morning, so to avoid waking up at o'dark hundred, I switched hotels Wednesday night. For those of you that don't travel that often, let me break down the hierarchy of Marriott properties for you.

Up at the top of the Marriott food chain are Marriott-branded properties (places that actually have "Marriott" in their name) and the Ritz-Carlton. Below that are places like the Renaissance where you've dropped the Marriott name, but you're still in luxury vacation mode. The next level down is for the business traveler. Topping that list I'd say is the Residence Inn. Geared for the extended stay traveler, RI's have separate sleeping and working/lounging rooms and full kitchens. Below that is the Springhill Suites brand, a notch below the RI. Then we get to the Towneplace Suites. This is where I stayed in Everett and it's a mini-version of what the RI and SS offer. Unfortunately none of those brands had vacancy near the airport for Wednesday night and I was thus demoted to Courtyard. This is the Motel 6 of the Marriott chain--not that there's anything wrong with that. Marriott just opened a brand spanking new Courtyard here in San Antonio by Sea World where we used to live. It looks like a great place to stay. Unfortunately, the Courtyard Southcenter in Tukwila is in desperate need of renovation (read: avoid this hotel if at all possible). So much for brand loyalty.

I made it to my airplane without incident, except for the minor annoyance of not being able to use the self-serve check in kiosk. I figured the computer just didn't like me that day since, as I boarded the aircraft, the gate agent had to key in my ticket manually. I was flying Alaska Airlines for this leg of my trip and my aircraft was a new 737 featuring Alaska livery from 75 years ago, in celebration of Alaska Airline's 75th anniversary. I thought this was pretty cool and as I settled in for takeoff I took notice of the very creative Alaska Airlines timeline painted on the overhead storage bins and stretching the length of the aircraft. Suddenly I became aware of some activity about ten rows in front of me. A passenger vomited. That's always a nice way to start a flight, puking before you even leave the gate. For the next thirty minutes our departure was delayed while flight attendants took a full medical history from the man right there in the aisle. I thought this was a bit ironic considering I can't get into a private room with a doctor without signing what seems like half a dozen HIPAA forms. The attendants relayed the information to a doctor on the phone and finally removed the man and his wife from the aircraft for further examination.

The delay ended up only costing us about fifteen minutes by the time we arrived in Dallas. I had plenty of time to get to my new gate and wait for my American Airlines departure to San Antonio. I don't usually fly trip segments on multiple airlines, but this is what came up as the "least cost option" to the company that met my "business requirements"--which of course is the guidance we're admonished to follow by the travel accounting gods in corporate America. That's the last time I pay attention to that advice, and now I have the receipts to prove it. When I tried to board the aircraft with my "boarding pass" I was told it wasn't actually a boarding pass. Apparently three weeks prior when I changed my flight from Friday to Thursday, my good friends at the travel company changed my Alaska segment but never completed the change for my American trip from Dallas to San Antonio. I had to fork over an extra two hundred bucks to get them to let me on the plane and now I was "that guy" that you see rushing to his seat after holding up the entire airplane because he didn't have his shit together. For the record, the flight was already boarding late. By the time all was said and done, I could have flown two round trips to Seattle with what I--that is, what the company--spent on airfare.

The damage to my kitchen ceiling was not as severe as I feared and I decided the repair, mostly cosmetic, could wait. Instead, on late Monday afternoon I undertook the task of mowing the now very scraggly lawn. After my first pass with the tractor, I noticed a more pungent than usual odor of gasoline. I usually spill a few drops when refueling, as I'd just done, but this was really strong. As I started the second pass, I looked down and noticed some fluid by my foot. I thought this was odd, so I stopped the mower, left the engine running, and climbed off the seat to see where the liquid was coming from. As I bent down, I noticed a small leak on the very bottom of the fuel tank.

My first thought was environmental: "Great, a fuel spill. This is going to kill my grass."

My second thought was financial: "Crap, I just filled the tank, how am I going to save the rest of the fuel so it doesn't all go to waste?"

My third thought was more practical, and it overcame the first three: "Holy shit, that's dripping down onto the hot, running engine! EVERYONE PANIC, WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

I shut off the engine and ran like a madman to get the hose. My wife was across the street talking to the neighbor. I must have looked pretty funny because now I had their attention and they shouted at me to find out what was wrong.

"No problem, just a small fuel leak!" I shouted back as I ran back with the hose to wash down the tractor.

To think, I could have been killed! At least the beer break came early that night.

So while it's always good to be home, it's not always great to come home.

Post Script: This update would have gone out yesterday, August 23rd, but as I was preparing to publish, my wife called from the parking lot of Barnes & Noble to tell me the car wouldn't start--dead battery.

Touring Seattle: Chittenden Locks and Pike Place Market

2009-08-07T23:31:00.007-05:00

Well, I didn't quite make it to Olympia to visit the capital last weekend. Due to a...let's call it a timing issue...the trip was postponed until tomorrow (as the weekend has arrived once again!). In true TRS fashion though, the diversion was overcome and a plan B quickly concocted. After a long lunch with fellow Road Scholar Luca and his girlfriend Tabi, we drove to Ballard, a suburban Seattle neighborhood north of downtown near the Sound. Ballard is home to the Hiram M. Chittenden Locks and the Carl S. English, Jr. Botanical Gardens.

Unlike many parks and beaches with tourist appeal, the locks and gardens are run not by Parks and Recreation but by the Army Corps of Engineers. They offer free, guided public tours of the locks and gardens. The tour was fantastic. Free is always good and our guide was friendly, knowledgeable, and sensitive to what visitors are typically interested in knowing. It was a busy weekend with great weather, so there was a lot of activity at the locks which we got to observe while the tour guide gave her spiel and answered questions. I won't do the tour justice, but here are a few highlights about the history and current operation of the locks.

Hiram Chittenden was an engineer with the Army Corps of Engineers at the turn of the century (the 1900s not the 2000s). As you might imagine, around that time the logging industry, the railroads, and the discovery of gold in California and the Klondike all contributed to an increase of population and industry in the Pacific Northwest. Due to geography and nascent railroad development, transporting goods such as logs from inland Washington to Seattle was a lengthy and tedious process. Chittenden decided there must be a better way and developed plans for a system of locks and a dam to connect Puget Sound with Lake Washington and allow for better flood control of a region saturated with rivers.

The result was a ship canal still in use today that allows vessels from kayaks to cruise ships to pass from Puget Sound, a saltwater body of water, to the fresh waters of Lake Washington approximately ten feet above the sound. The construction of the locks and dam changed the natural drainage route for freshwater out of Lake Washington, blocking the spawning runs of pacific salmon. To preserve the salmon runs, a fish ladder was also constructed to allow the salmon a series of 21 "steps" on their swim upstream to lay their eggs. The ladder provides the fish a means to swim up shore without the dangers of lock travel, such as boat propellers and birds of prey. There is a viewing area at the 18th step that allows visitors to see the salmon making their way up the ladder. Luca captured a brief video on his iPhone:

The locks are gravity fed, meaning no power is required to move water from one section to another.

Ships moving from Lake Washington to Puget Sound enter the lock from the lake. The gate and freshwater release valve is closed, sealing off water flow from Lake Washington into the lock.
A lower release valve is opened allowing water to flow out of the lock into the Sound, lowering the ships to sea level. When the water level is equalized, the lower gate is opened.
Once the ships clear out of the lock, ships traveling into Lake Washington enter the lock and the lower gate and release valve is closed behind them.
The release valve at the other end of the lock opens, allowing fresh water from Lake Washington into the lock, raising the water level--and the ships--to the level of the lake.
The gates are opened and the process repeats.

Wikipedia has some great descriptions and graphics showing the operation of the locks and the fish ladder:Click Here

Today I left work early and joined the LMC for lunch downtown at Pike Place Market. In all the trips I've made to Seattle, I've never actually been to Pike Street...until today. In true Seattle form, it took us the better part of an hour to get from Everett to the Convention Center, seven blocks from Pike Street Market.

Once there, we made the obligatory trek to the original Starbucks, took the photo and were on our way. I'm sure the marketplace has a fascinating history, but today was not about exploring it. We snapped our photo, scarfed down a bratwurst, and walked through the marketplace as it stands today. It's mostly home to runaway consumerism with touristy trinkets of all shapes and sizes; everything from flowers and fresh fruit to paintings, keychains, and T-shirts. There are a couple fish markets and I'm told they still famously toss fish off of trucks and over counters, but we didn't witness that on this lunch excursion. The place was packed to the gills--pardon the pun--with people of ALL kinds. This place is San Francisco on steroids as far as diversity, and I mean diversity of every kind. Like the guy with no teeth on the corner of Pike and Second holding up a sign advertising "Kissing Lessons".

Seriously.

I would have taken a picture, but there was no way I was putting myself in a position to have to give that guy a tip. Interpret that however you want.

Tomorrow, it's off to Olympia and a visit to the Washington State Capitol. No really, I mean it this time.

Week Two In Everett: A Heat Wave and Designing Inside Your Airplane

2009-07-31T19:20:00.012-05:00

As my first full work week in Everett comes to a close, I'd like to share a few thoughts with you about the past two weeks.

Is It Really Hot In Here or Are You Just A Pansy?

To my great pleasure and amazement, the weather while I've been here has been phenomenal. I know from past experience the Pacific Northwest is a gorgeous place when the sun is shining, but that same experience has shown me those days are few and far between. It's only rained one day since I've been here, and that was brief at best. There have been some days that started out overcast and dreary, but every one has ended with the sun shining and barely a cloud in the sky.

Since I have been basking in the glory of the recent weather, I've been highly amused at how the locals have responded to it. South Texas this year has been unseasonably warm. We normally get only a handful of days with triple digit temperatures and they typically occur in late summer. This year we started pretty close to Memorial Day and have already tied our record for the most triple digit days in a year. Factor in the humidity and it's been damn hot. I was thus highly amused during my first week here when, on the evening news, a live news van was beaming pictures of people at a park diving into fountains, dousing themselves with hoses, and ranting about how it was finally cool enough to come outside and escape the oppressive 80 degree temperatures.

Seriously people? My thermostat at home is set at 80 degrees.

I know most people here do not have air conditioning, and that's why I was sympathetic last week when Seattle did register a record-setting triple digit temperature. At work, we had to relocate a going away party for a coworker from a brewery with no air conditioning to a restaurant with air conditioning. Really? You can't even brave the heat to drink a cold beer? Pacific Northwest, I don't know if we can be friends anymore.

The Boeing Dreamliner Gallery

Wednesday, before the air-conditioned going away party, I had an opportunity to visit the Dreamliner Gallery. This is the place airline customers go to configure their new airplane once they've made the decision to purchase a shiny new 787. If you've ever bought a newly constructed house, the process is very much like going to the builder's design center.

The building is located a couple miles away from the main factory in Everett. From the outside, you can't really tell what's inside. The building is in the midst of a business complex and has a very sleek, modern look with the Boeing logo displayed on the front. Once inside, you walk into a spacious lobby with a round desk below a flat screen television looping footage of recently-accomplished milestones on the production line. Just inside the door and to the left is a beautiful, six foot tall model of the new airplane with working lights. On the opposite side of the door is a giant touch screen monitor displaying facts and statistics about the new aircraft, current customers, and comparisons with other aircraft in its class. The place wreaks of modern sophistication.

Although we were all Boeing employees on the tour, we had to be escorted by a gallery employee who walked us through the modern facility as if we were customers. The first stop was the home suite. On either side of the giant lobby are single doors protected by electronic card key locks like what you might find in a hotel. Outside each door is an illuminated sign about a feet wide with a house on it. All of the signage within the gallery is iconic and color coded; there are no written words anywhere. This is obviously to accommodate the dozens of cultural and language differences of our customers. One of the home suite doors was closed, the house sign next to it illuminated red. Our guide led us through the door on the opposite side which was open and featured a house illuminated greeen.

The door leads down a short narrow hallway that opens up to a spacious common area. The room looks like the living room of a luxury model home. A large flat screen television is mounted on the wall and surrounded by couches and comfy chairs. The scene is reminiscent of what you might find at an airline's own first class lounge. Of course there is audio-visual equipment galore and Wi-Fi throughout the building. There are two doorways at either end of the room. One leads to a small executive office with a desk and chair, in case an airline executive accompanies the design team and needs to work. The other doorway leads to a large, fully-equipped conference room. This is where customers can come to consult with their sales representative or each other about design decisions, prices, etc. I immediately wanted to buy an airplane just so I could come and experience this room.

From the home suite, the gallery is designed in the shape of a horseshoe. Walking back out into the lobby, we proceeded down the hall and began our trip around the shoe. The first thing we pass is a self-service kitchen with a fleet of coffee and cappuccino machines. Again a flat screen television hangs on the wall as well as various framed news articles bragging about 787 features and milestones. Here customers can come to take a break and relax while decisions are mulled over or information is brought from subject matter experts at the factory a few minutes away. Continuing down the hall, we arrived at a door with a picture of a movie screen illuminated green next to it--the universal sign that this room is available. Inside the theater, we watched a brief film about the features of the 787 and the types of customization decisions we were about to make. The room is also equipped with a rounded projection screen where 3D models of the airplane can be viewed as well as "fly-throughs" of a particular interior configuration. It's the type of thing you would expect to see at NASA or in a Star Trek movie.

Proceeding around the horseshoe, we were taken to rooms where we would select our seats and in flight entertainment options, sit in a mock up of the cockpit, choose fabrics and color patterns, and even climb into the three configuration options for crew rest compartments. Every room is configured and designed to allow the customer to experience hands-on the spatial relationships and true look, touch, and feel of the interior design of their airplane. The element of surprise is clearly not an option when purchasing a $150 million airplane.

The two largest rooms are where seats and galleys are selected. Perhaps the most impressive of these for me was the latter. Here customers can view galley cabinets galore and decide whether they want spaces for two coffee makers or one microwave; one trash compactor, or three beverage carts. I had no idea there were so many options in configuring a galley--and the 787 is a "standard configuration" airplane compared to other models like a 747 or 777. The are about two dozen different options for galley equipment, and all are on display. They are also functional, and each piece of equipment can be taken to a working galley area where customers can cook food from their catering vendor to see how it will taste in a particular piece of equipment.

Throughout the entire Dreamliner Gallery experience, I get the impression that over ninety years of lessons learned while helping customers design the inside of their airplane has been incorporated into this one modern, streamlined facility. I have obviously never bought an airplane, so I really have nothing to compare the Gallery to in terms of airplane manufacturers. I have bought a house and a few cars though, and this was like going to a luxury dealership where customer comfort and convenience are the highest priority.

At work, people often see me scratch my head in confusion and utter the phrase "we've been making [insert our product here] for how many years?" in response to some things we do that don't always seem to make sense. I think this is one thing we definitely got right. Check it out for yourself by clicking here or searching Google for "Dreamliner Gallery".

Breweries, Wineries, Sailing, Oh My!

2009-07-28T23:15:00.006-05:00

For the first fifteen or so years of my life, I lived in relatively close proximity to most of my extended family. Considering I have eight aunts and uncles and sixteen cousins, I think that's a pretty considerable statistic. Most of the family still lives within a couple hundred miles of Southern California. While some of them have tried other places at various points in time, the most notable current exception to the Southern California rule is me. Prior to that, my dad's youngest brother and his family of six held the record with their move to Oregon fourteen years ago. I figured after fourteen years it was probably time to pay them a visit. Plus, I wanted to make sure my four cousins know there's more to cousin Sean than weddings and funerals.

Before I began my trek to Eugene, Oregon, I finally got an opportunity to visit the main assembly building where 787 final assembly is taking place. It was great to finally see the airplane in person and up close. As a lean practitioner and Industrial Engineer, I saw a lot. Unfortunately I can't share any of it with you, but I did manage to snap a few photos from across the street of one of the airplanes sitting on the flight line as well as the Large Cargo Freighter, or Dreamlifter. The Dreamlifter is a modified 747 built specifically for the 787. It is used to ferry oversized pieces of the new aircraft from our partners around the world to the final assembly line here in Everett. Airbus has a similar aircraft dubbed the "Beluga".

After my somewhat eventful morning I departed for a fun-filled Oregonian weekend. The drive mapped out to about 300 miles and Vicki was estimating five hours. Puget Sound is notorious in my experience for perpetual traffic, so I left the factory about 12:30 PM hoping to keep the drive in the five to six hour range and be in Eugene in time for dinner. 7:30 PM I arrived. SEVEN THIRTY. Have I got a few things to say about that.

First, NEVER EVER rent a Dodge Avenger, or as I call it, a Dodge POS. Last time I was up here I rented a Dodge Magnum. Argue if you will over its aesthetic value, it had a Hemi, and it was cool. My red Avenger is not that car. I have more zip in my lawn tractor and I've never heard a car with only 4,000 miles on it ping so much. As for comfort, I'd rather be in a center airline seat. The car sucks.

Second, I found out what happened to all those 55 and 60 MPH speed limit signs when the rest of the country raised their highway speeds to 65+. They are strategically located along Interstate 5 in the Pacific Northwest to cause the most traffic congestion possible.

Third, and speaking of traffic, I hit some. On the bright side, it was only for the first 200 miles of the trip. Had I used "7 hours in an uncomfortable Dodge POS" for my cost benefit analysis of airline flights from Seattle to Eugene, I probably would have flown and settled for a middle seat--or just let my cousins think I'm a professional funeral crasher.

Once I finally arrived in Eugene, the trip was fabulous. The family prepared an Italian delicacy for me I haven't had in years. The geography of the area reminds me a lot of California's Central Coast, complete with its own wine country. In fact, Eugene features all kinds of fermented fun. I visited three breweries (Ninkasi, Steelhead, and Hop Valley) and the King Estates Winery. Some bevvies were better than others, but all were accompanied by good times and good company. I also met a second cousin from Northern California who has been living in Eugene and went sailing with my uncle on his yacht. My uncle Brian, his son Nicholas (my first cousin), and Matthew (my second cousin) have actually become quite the sailing team. After I left them Sunday afternoon, they embarked on a road trip adventure of their own to compete with the pro's in San Diego this weekend. Hopefully their Dodge is more comfortable than mine for the 20 hour drive.

In a twist of irony, this same group of cousins (minus Nicholas and Matthew) will be visiting us next month while on a trip to San Antonio. They actually arrive a week before I do. I hope we can show them at least half the good time they showed me. As for the rest of my trip, I made it back to Everett in an expeditious six hours, shaving nearly ten whole miles per hour off my average speed. It's a wonder I didn't get hauled off for speeding. This weekend I hope to visit Olympia and tour the State Capitol, which I passed from a distance on my way to Eugene. It's only about 90 miles away, so I'm afraid the cost benefit has me back in the uncomfortable, underpowered lawn mower. At least it has satellite radio.

Everett: Why I'm Here

2009-07-20T21:53:00.005-05:00

Whenever a new commercial airplane is built, before it can be certified by the FAA to carry passengers, it must complete a series of flight tests. During flight test, passenger seats and overhead luggage bins are replaced with sensors and computer racks. Once flight test is complete, the airplanes used for testing must be refurbished for delivery to the customer. As results from the flight tests are collected and airplanes continue to be assembled in the factory, changes to the original airplane design are required. Because the assembly line continues to operate during this time, some of the airplanes already in flow are too far along in the build process to receive the identified changes. In these cases, the changes must be incorporated after final assembly of the aircraft is complete.

The production schedule for the 787 is so tight here in Everett that program leaders decided to outsource the refurbishment of the flight test airplanes and the incorporation of certain changes into the airplanes that need them. Boeing San Antonio won the contract for this work. Depending on how the flight test program proceeds, 787's should begin arriving in San Antonio early next year, hopefully sometime in the first quarter.

With partners and suppliers all over the world, technology plays a huge role in allowing us to communicate requirements and status. There is no true substitute however for hands on experience. So for the next four weeks, I am here in Everett to meet our teammates stationed here, get first hand experience with the various systems I will be using in San Antonio, and hopefully to actually see and touch the airplane.

I will keep you posted if anything exciting happens with respect to my work here with the airplane (don't hold your breath). You can also track progress with the first flight and flight test program on Randy's Journal, a blog written by Randy Tinseth, Vice President of Marketing for Boeing Commercial Airplanes (BCA).

On The Road Again

2009-07-19T22:33:00.000-05:00

In the spring of 1999 I got the travel bug, an unawakened passion for visiting new places and experiencing life "on the road". Before that first trip with Medinet, I had never even flown on an airplane. Now, ten year later, I have frequent flyer accounts with nearly every domestic airline in the United States. As I sit here preparing to share the itinerary for my latest adventure, I realize that in ten years, almost without fail, I have been "on the road" every summer. That's something I never expected or even realized until now. In case you missed it, here's a quick recap:

1999 - Technically by the time summer rolled around I was done with my trips, but from March until June I was busy testing biomedical equipment nationwide for compatibility with the year 2000.

2000 - Certainly the official start of my annual summer travels, and the trip that launched The Road Scholars as we know and love it today, the Year 2000 Road Trip Extravaganza. Maybe I'll be able to afford a reunion tour in 2020.

2001 - I stayed local that summer, but my experience working as an intern at The Disneyland Resort provided experience and memories on par with any trip I've taken.

2002 - A bit late to be considered a summer trip, but I did visit Chicago, and more than just the airport.

2003 - College graduation followed by Sean's European Excursion, finally realizing my dream of visiting Europe.

2004 - I suppose this was the exception to the rule. I started work full time in March and although I was supposed to travel to New Mexico in early Fall, the trip was postponed until February.

2005 - Perhaps the most significant (in terms of life impact) trip of all so far, my relocation to San Antonio.

2006 - Honeymoon in the Mediterranean...

2007 - We'll always have England, and because of it my wife has vowed never to go back.

2008 - Ireland...enough said (because that's all I can remember).

No wonder I have 23 GB of photos on my computer.

That brings us to 2009. It's weird to think how TRS has changed over the years. When I first started, before I even knew what TRS was, there was a short list of email addresses belonging to people who asked me to "keep them informed" of my internship experience. I got in the habit of sending regular email updates to my parents and blind copied these people. The Internet was still relatively new to me and most of the world. The web was just beginning to evolve and I think my ISP was CompuServe. I remember after the first couple of weeks "on the road", we had to settle up our extra expenses with our hotel in New Jersey. WiFi hadn't been invented yet and high speed Internet was a 56k modem. I had about $100 in unexpected local toll charges because the "local" number I picked was not so local. Now I get online almost anywhere I go, and I turn my nose up if I'm asked to pay.

In the beginning the updates were private, at least to the extent they were sent directly to specific people. TRS remained a fairly private email-only list up until a few years ago when I finally gave in to the blogosphere before my trip to England. Now almost all the old updates are "online" and future updates can be read by anyone in the world via email, web, Facebook, Twitter, and RSS. Half of you reading this don't even know what most of those are. The times they are a changin'.

Up until my business trip to New Mexico in 2005, TRS was based on my own personal adventures. I wasn't going to offend anyone with my witty, matter-of-fact musings on life. When I started traveling for business that changed a little. I was no longer a for-hire college student beholden to nobody. I still don't think of my Road Scholars persona as being "beholden", but I do find myself tempering my life musings more than I used to. Par for the course I suppose.

And now there's Kaitlyn, and that introduces an entirely new element into life on the road. The last time I took a trip worthy of being considered a Road Scholars excursion was a year ago when my family reunited in Ireland for my grandmother's funeral. At that time, Kaitlyn's age was still being measured in weeks and I hadn't ventured away overnight from Kaitlyn or Jen since my return from England in the fall. Now, here we are almost exactly a year later and I'm preparing to leave for an entire month. It's amazing how different a year can make you feel; this is going to be hard.

I don't think it's any secret by now that for the past five years I have been employed by The Boeing Company. I am currently assigned to the refurbishment and change incorporation program for the 787 and tomorrow I depart on a four week trip to Everett for training and exposure to the new airplane. I'll explain more of that project in the next few weeks. For now, I'm trying to get a handle on how I'm going to spend an entire four weeks away from the Fuzzy Headed Oracle and not go completely mad. There are a lot of things I would not have expected ten years ago on that first TRS trip to New Jersey. Missing a 17 month old child was certainly one of them.

So as I get ready to finish packing, let me acquaint you with a few things to make sure you are up to speed on the 2009 version of TRS.

First, if you are not aware, there is an entire blog devoted to the adventures of raising our precious princess (and her sibling arriving in January). http://genoveseparents.blogspot.com

Second, for those of you reading this via email, you can now receive TRS updates via RSS if you are so inclined. If you don't know what RSS is, I'll try to write about that on my new, personal blog soon.

Third, I now have a new, personal blog. This is where I'm free to write about things that might not fall into The Road Scholars theme.

Finally, I am now on Facebook and Twitter and have made my Tweets available on the main Road Scholars homepage at http://www.theroadscholars.com. I will update the blog (and this mailing list) as often as I can, but in the meantime you can visit the main TRS page anytime you want to see my most recent two cents in 140 characters or less.

As always, thanks for traveling with me and I'll see you on the road.

State Mug Collection

2009-07-19T17:48:00.002-05:00

One day I will post the entire collection (there are international pieces as well) and maybe if I get bored I'll even take a photo of each mug. For now, this will do.

The rules for my State Mug Collection are simple:

I must personally visit the state.
The mug must display the state's name.

There are currently 29 in the collection, although I am entitled to 30. I once spent 30 minutes on an airplane in Boise but didn't have enough time to buy a mug. Also, among the 30 is Washington, D.C., so my collection will be complete when I acquire 51.

New From Expedia!

2009-04-02T12:24:00.000-05:00

Ghanian Culture 101

2009-01-15T21:49:00.003-06:00

From Road Scholar Meghan

Just Good Manners

The people in general are very friendly. You say Good Morning/Good Evening/Hello first and let them respond to your greeting.
If offered water from the tap (which there was no way in hell we were drinking), take the glass, pour a bit out of the glass onto the floor/dirt, and at the end of the meeting, give the glass back. None of us could get over how pouring the water out of the glass wasn't an insult, but we were told it is not. Rejecting the water would be an insult.
Do not use your left hand for anything. Handing money to a cashier, taking money from a cashier, dispensing meds, taking a pulse, waving, shaking hands, etc. It is deemed improper. Not a total insult, but viewed as not the norm.

For Medicinal Purposes Only

Try not to drink bottled water in front of the locals, they don't have any.
Try to remember they do medical procedures differently than us and the U.S. way is not the only way.
Their version of pain is different than our version of pain, they state it differently, they hide it and tend never to complain about pain. So if you ask them if their pain is a little or a lot, and they respond a little, it's probably a lot. If they say no pain, there is probably a little. That's completely different from the hypochondriacs we get in the States.
Despite the cramped conditions in the hospital, men and women would be examined differently and could never room together, even with a curtain separating them. That would prove to be difficult when we took a tour of the hospital a few days later.

Air Conditioning and Beer...We're Good Here So Far

2009-01-15T21:30:00.001-06:00

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to

Ghana

. It appears here edited for content and length.

Luckily, we had an air conditioned bus on the 4 hour drive to Cape Coast. I still couldn't get over the landscapes. Amazing trees, shrubbery, and ant hills. Yup, ant hills almost 5 ft high…you don't screw with the ants over here.

The villages in between the rolling hills were a huge eye opener. Primitive was the first word that came to mind. Billy goats galore, hens, chickens roaming all over the place. Shacks, wooden and no more than 12x12 ft large, mostly with small porches and sometimes painted. As far as I could tell, no electricity or running water. Wooden fires with cauldrons for cooking, and pumps for running water. The shacks were stacked one next to the other for miles. They were mostly businesses on the side of the road, most with titles such as "In God We Trust Hair Salon", "The Lord Is My Shepherd Plumbing Supply" or "Believe In God Womens Boutique". For having very little, the Ghanaian people have huge faith.

We arrived to Cape Coast and the harbor area and my jaw dropped as I looked out at the harbor. I felt like I was instantly taken back to the Crusades. Wooden gondolas, hand painted with no particular flag hung at the end of the boat. Hundreds of boats. The dirt roads, the billy goats, the roosters, the women carrying baskets on their heads and their babies wrapped behind them in cloth. Never seen anything like it. Still the people would come up to the window asking you to buy products. Children would glance in the window, see the Abrunees and smile and wave. You would smile and wave back at them.

Shortly thereafter we were driving along the coast to the hotel. Away from the gondolas, you'd think I was in California without any sort of development. The beaches were beautiful with palm trees galore and waves like Huntington Beach. If I didn't close my jaw soon, a mosquito would fly in so I tried to compose myself but I couldn't get over where I was--Africa or California?? Then I'd look over at the other side of the road where the land was and quickly be brought back to reality. Mud huts were the local architecture, with thatch roofs made of palm trees and shrubbery.

We checked into the hotel and into our rooms. Rooms were fine, had a/c so I was OK with whatever else they didn't have. Even had a small fridge so we weren't exactly roughing it..yet. Mattresses, I would soon find out, were made of something similar to plywood. Hard as stone but no bugs on the sheets so we were good. By this time it was 5pm…just enough time for Barbara and I to head out into the water for a quick dip into the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. If I closed my eyes, I was totally back in CALI. Awesome.

Dinner consisted of local cuisine. Appetizers were plantains, bananas fried with a sweet flavoring. Groundnut soup is a fave and I could see why. It was melted peanut butter with Thai spices and ch

icken bits, pour it over rice and you have dinner. Beer in Ghana is fantastic! Four or five different types, I tried something called Star Amber Ale, served in a 20 oz bottle, for 1 Cedi (dollar) 50 pesos (cents). The exchange rate was almost equal so I realized I was going to be quite the cheap date in Ghana. Moreover, a 20 oz bottled water…2 cedi's (dollars). Beer, again, is cheaper than water in the countries I visit. Tell me I don't have my priorities straight. Good food, great conversation, another Star beer and bed.

Our first day in Cape Coast was a tour of Kakum

National Park. A small rainforest (it couldn't have been that big, we heard sirens in the background at one point) but the way you walk though it was completely unique. It was called the Canopy walk. You were not on the ground but walking on an 8 inch wide wooden platform, with rope woven on either side about 5 feet tall, hoisted almost 300 feet above ground and only connected in random spots by a large tree. While the animals were not to be seen at all, the views were absolutely incredible!!! While others were crapping their pants because they realized how civil engineering was so not involved in the design of the walk, I was living it up with my camera. I figured if hundreds of people before hadn't fallen, why would I? We ended the Canopy walk, had fresh coconut juice from a coconut a local chopped open for us and left. I bought a t-shirt in their gift shop. I had to. I had no other clothes.

Our last day was spent at Elimina Castle, a slave castle from way back when. People from all over Africa were brought here to be sold and traded for slavery. It was one of the largest ports for slave trading. Women were brought here to please the Governor and then bought and sold for slavery. Horrible dreary place with the stench of slavery still embedded in the walls. Not only did it make you nauseous, it made you realize how much the people have gone through in their history. This was our introduction to the "culture" part of the trip. I had a feeling this place would be brought up in our "de-briefing" later that night, and we were going to talk about how we felt. Not without a Star beer in hand though.

Lunch was at the harbor area and I ordered another local favorite, pavlava: Spicy sauce with onions and cabbage, poured over rice. (Side note, the group is trying to put together a cookbook of local Ghanaian dishes...highly recommend buying one, they have some great cuisine.) Then Janet, one of the other RN's introduced me to Castle, a local fave beer. It's Guinness but lighter and not as filling with a sweet side. I found my new addiction. Thank you, Janet. I also ended up ordering a coffee, and when the waitress repeated the word I jokingly said, "Yes please, large coffee, hahaha."

Well, she took that very seriously and ten minutes later handed me a large Thermos full of hot water and two instant packets of coffee. OK. Won't make that joke again. The table was in hysterics already knowing what a huge fan I am of coffee, Starbucks in particular, and I had pretty much had no coffee for a few days. Coffee in Ghana consists of instant Nestle Café. Period. However, I realized that one of the other team members brought his own Mr. Coffee coffeemaker and--get this--5 pounds of Dunkin Dounuts roast. Nope. Still not drinking it. I'll stay with the instant stuff thanks.

After lunch it was back to the hotel to start our official planning details, orientation to Ghanaian culture, and of course, the "de-briefing". Without the beer, I was still able to wing it and talk about how I felt, without rolling my eyes. I knew the beer was going to follow shortly anyway as dinner was approaching. Dinner followed the orientation, with local cuisine galore and Castle beer to be had. Good conversation, and good night.

Crazy American Arrives In Ghana

2008-11-30T22:23:00.003-06:00

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana. It appears here edited for content and length.

I met Barbara, the other RN from Boston Medical, at the ER on the 30^th of October to head off to Logan…at 10:30am. Our flight wasn't until 2:30pm but we had a huge autoclave that we needed to be rid of ASAP via check-in luggage and the awesome crew at EasCare ambulance arranged to drive us to Logan. So, once again, I got a ride in an ambulance without being sick. Nice.

We checked in, had breakfast, and tooled around a bit. When I arrived at the gate to board the plane, the flight attendant said, "I'm sorry, but you will have to gate-check that bag. It's too large."

This bag had all--and I mean all--my personal belongings in it, including medication for the communities, all my scrubs, all my personal clothing…you get the picture. And we had a very quick layover in JFK before going to Accra, Ghana.

I replied, "No, it's not too big. I really can't gate check this. It will fit."

"Miss, it is a very full flight. Your bag will follow you to your final destination, but you need to check it."

Like hell it will. I'm going to Ghana, not Georgia.

I was already putting together a rough draft of a nasty letter I was going to publish to Delta when my bag did not make it to Ghana. But I figured, "whatever", and dropped the bag at the gate. I turned to Barbara as we were boarding the plane and said "that bag is so not making it to Ghana." She smiled, probably knowing I was right, and we buckled our seats and set off.

With a quick layover at JFK and an immediate boarding to Accra, we were off. I noticed a few people on the flight from the orientation the month prior, but I was tired and figured I had two weeks to get to know them and passed out for the majority of the flight. When the captain announced our landing in 20 minutes, I opened up the window and glanced outside for a peek.

Wow. Beautiful, rolling, green hills with tall trees all around. A light haze covered the area but it wasn't anything close to smog, it was probably the result of the humidity. At the bottom of the hills, small villages with dirt roads and small concrete houses no more than a single story high. Only the main roads were paved, most of the roads were dirt (as I would soon find out, with major potholes). No skyscrapers, nothing modern that stood out; but beautiful.

We got off the plane to a bright sun and it all started right there. The heat, the humidity, the "oh my God I need a shower" feeling. The airport was not air conditioned...anywhere. We went to immigration and met Emma, one of the other RN's, who is some kind of big shot in Accra (and with airport security conviently). We breezed through customs, all medical supplies and medications in hand. At baggage claim the two large red suitcases I checked in arrived, all filled with medical supplies and extra scrubs. I saw a cute little Mickey Mouse bag go around and smiled. Then I saw it again, and again, and again. Curiously, I didn't see my gate-checked bag going around. Ever.

I was shocked, obviously. Several of the team members told me, "let's just wait a bit, it might show up." I then told them I gate-checked it and they quickly got the point. Off to lost and found. I informed the desk that I would not have access to a car and they would need to deliver my bag to my address in Swedru. They took down the info and miscellaneous phone numbers and we were all off to Cape Coast for an orientation before starting work in Swedru.

We stopped briefly in the city center for money exchanging and lunch. If you thought taxi drivers were nuts in Boston and NYC, you haven't been to Ghana. I would love to see what the driving test is like over there, if they even have one. Overcrowded streets, congestion and confusion like you can't imagine and in the 8 inch space between cars, people trying to sell you random products and tourist stuff. They knock on the window with baskets on the head filled with products, produce, water, candy, cell phone cards--everything. And they're stubborn little things too. They'll stare you down, hoping to break you and you'll buy something. They were not mean in any way, just extremely pushy. Then you get out of the car and it doubles.

You'll be totally surprised to find this out but in Africa, we sort of stood out...just a tad. People were yelling "Abrunee! Sista! Here! Come here! Free to look at my things! Take a look!"

Abrunee, I quickly learned, is what I was: a white person, not in a derogatory sense, just a title. Sista, meaning sister, is somewhat a term of affection.

I had men coming up to me saying "Hello. How are you. What is your name?"

They held their hands out to shake and I accepted. "Meghan, you?" I asked.

They would give me their name, I would respond with a nice to meet you and they would then ask me to look at their products.

"No, medassi" ( meaning, thank you).

They would ask again. I would smile and say no. They would say OK, see you later.

Right. Bye.

Yet sure enough the people I gave my name to, I would see again. As we headed back to the van that stood out amongst everything else, they would have a product for me...with my name on it. Dammit, tricky little bastards.

"Here, I made this for you! Free, no charge, you are my new American friend. What is your email address.?"

Oh hell no. So, just like I did in college, I gave them a fake email address, smiled and said goodbye. The suckers of the group wouldn't have a chance in hell and would cave in and buy. Me, not so much. I threw them off by asking if they sold underwear since I didn't have any. And they would give me a funny look and walk away.

Crazy American.

One Last Night In Dublin

2008-11-21T16:00:00.000-06:00

After our afternoon stroll along the pier at Dun Laughaire, we journeyed back to the Temple Bar district for dinner and drinks followed by a pub crawl back to the hotel. And since our last night in Dublin just wouldn't be complete without the city's trademark beverage, I had a shitload of Guinness. In keeping with tradition, we didn't leave the last pub until it shut down.

The next morning we all went out to breakfast, including my grandmother's sister, Bernadette, and her husband, Jim, who were also staying at our hotel. Ever since we arrived in country, Gary was itching for a traditional Irish breakfast, and Bernadette and Jim found a place that would deliver, Gallagher's Boxty House, a short walk from our hotel. After breakfast, the plan was to head back to the hotel, pack up, load the two cars (Bernadette and Jim would be riding with Gary and Josh) and caravan to Cork, where Harry's brother and sister in law, John and Phil were anxiously awaiting our arrival.

Dublin had not panned out the way I expected at all. Although I could have thrown a stone and hit Trinity College from our hotel, we never actually set foot on campus or even took any pictures from the outside. We didn't see St. Stephen's Green or visit the President's house, as my brother did on his previous visit. We took in the city with a local, as locals (drunks) might, which is the way I prefer to travel, as you know. But as a tourist, I felt a little, well, like a failure. I travelled all this way, there was one thing I was not going to miss for all the beer in Ireland: a visit to the Guinness Storehouse. I could ramble on all about the tour, the factory, the brewing process, etc., but I have a feeling you'd much rather hear about a valuable lesson I learned and how I nearly shit my pants.

The Storehouse is about a mile away from Gallagher's. It was just me, my brother, and Harry the Guard for the tour, so we decided to walk. It was a brisk Monday morning, August 4th. The date is significant because August 4th, 2008 was a bank holiday in Ireland. This fact became a sobering reality about halfway into our walk, which seemed for me to last an eternity. About halfway through breakfast, I started feeling rumblings in my tummy. I figured it was too much strong coffee and not enough food so early in the morning (even though it was almost 10AM). I finished my breakfast and gulped down some water, hoping to dilute what seemed like a chemistry experiment taking place in my gut. Sometimes these sorts of experiments can be controlled. About a quarter mile into our hike, two things were clear to me: the experiment raged on and it was out of control. I needed a bathroom, fast.

There's an interesting relationship between discretion and desperation. Let's say you suffer from claustrophobia. You're at work and you get into an empty elevator. At the next floor up the conveyance stops to pick up a few more passengers. You were the first passenger on, so now you're in the back. It's starting to get a little crowded, you still have a long way to go, and you're beginning to feel the onset of a claustrophobic panic attack. You stay cool, but you develop an exit strategy. You discreetly work your way to the front of the box so you can pretend like the next floor is your stop and then you can walk the rest of the way up the spacious wide open staircase.

At the next floor, a throng of people is waiting, and they squash you back. Now you're at the rear of the coffin. The doors close, you can barely breath. The smell of women's perfume is making you nauseous and the heat from all the bodies pressing against you is making you light-headed. Sweat beads up on your forehead. The doors open at the next floor and desperation kicks in. "For the love of God let me out of this free falling orgy of death!" you shout as you nearly climb over people to get to the door.

That's the relationship I explored on our trek to the

Guinness Storehouse.

I discreetly asked my brother how much farther. "We're almost there," he replied. We were walking along at a pretty good clip, but the volcano of roasted hops in my colon was starting to affect my ability to keep up. On the edge of discretion, I threw this out:

"I could use a bathroom if you see one".

But that's right, this is a bank holiday. We passed business after business with locked doors and dark windows. Unbelievable. I started fantasizing about every dingy port-a-potty I have ever cursed having to use. How I longed for them now. Despite the chilly morning air, sweat was building up on my forehead.

The last time I can remember a gastro-intestinal emergency of these proportions I was in elementary school and ate some bad cheese pizza from the cafeteria at lunch. I rode my bike home but didn't have my key, so I knocked on the neighbor's door, tried desperately to maintain discretion while practically running through her house and vaulting the fence separating our yards. I broke into my house, ran to the bathroom, vomited along the way and then slipped on it trying to get to the toilet. I ended up on my ass in pool of my own puke. This was heading in that direction, only from the other end.

Finally, a sign for the Storehouse. I felt a little relieved then quickly realized this was NO TIME FOR RELIEF! We crossed the street only to be met with another sign. We still had a football field to go. "For the love of God!" I heard myself exclaim. I expected to walk up to the gates of Guinness and see rivers of flowing beer that I could just dip my mug into and take a drink. All I could see was a sign that said "toilets". Discretion was in the shitter.

I broke into a walking sprint, leaving my brother and Harry at the entrance. I ran into the men's room, found a stall and fumbled to hastily lock the door. Then I realized I was wearing three layers of clothing.

"SWEET JESUS!"

As I removed my overcoat and jacket in the 3' x 2' stall with the chemistry experiment raging on, the rest of my copilot's phrases started popping into my head. Before I left the men's room, I think I even added a few more.

With the crisis averted, we took the self-guided tour, culminating in the lounge at the top of the building with free pints of Guinness. I decided to pass, and instead just enjoyed the 360 degree view of Dublin. It's like a sin I know, at the fountain of youth and passing on immortality. They say when you drink Guinness in Ireland it's different because it's local. I don't know if my experience is what people mean when they say that, but one thing is for sure: I had a shitload of Guinness on my one last night in Dublin. Trust me on this one.

Four Days To Go

2008-11-21T15:23:00.000-06:00

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to

Ghana

. It was originally sent by Meghan on October 26th and appears here edited for content and length.

Let the countdown begin! It's four days left and I'm headed to West Africa. Got all my shots, picked up my Malaria and Cipro prescriptions, and sort-of started packing.

Though I have, with time, gotten much better at pre-packing and arrival times at airports, if you know anything about me, I don't plan ahead very well. In fact, those of you that have traveled with me know I tend to pack ten minutes before I'm headed to the airport, only to get to the airport 20 minutes before the flight leaves (I think I have only missed one flight ever because I was late, thank you very much).

The only reason I'm mostly packed four days before departure is because I have to give a list to one of our directors as to what is in the suitcases for customs purposes. For the last week or so, my living room has looked like one of those underground plastic surgery clinics in South America, minus the meds and needles. The local ambulance companies and individuals in the medical field have been quite generous with giving us miscellaneous medical stuff, so we've divided all the supplies into each of our suitcases. Now all of the supplies are packed in a big, ugly, cheap red suitcase I bought at an outlet store and am giving to the people of Ghana once we leave. Now all I have left to pack are personal items which I might not have gotten around to buying yet...like towels, bedding for the hotels, sunscreen, bug spray, meds for God knows what I might contract over there.

I bought mosquito repellent clothing. That was different. They smell a tad funny, but I'm not going over there to pick up a date so whatever keeps the bugs away I'm fine with. I'm making a trip to Walmart on Monday, so I should be all set. I also went to the grocery store to stock up on Vitamin water, protein bars and pre-packed tuna cans. I'm still counting on getting the travelers bug so I can lose a few pounds.

All in all, everything is going smoothly so far. The one issue I've had is with the "travel agency" we are signed up with. Long story short, it's been a lot of "who's on first" action going on. I have gotten a phone call from one agent, who speaks very broken English, asking me for the credit card number for my flight, only to have her call me five minutes later asking for the number again, not remembering she called prior. The agency said they found us a deal on a flight, but I and another nurse found the same flight, same airline, etc. cheaper on another website. Oops.

They forgot to email me my itinerary. That was another three phone calls. Then there were multiple calls about my passport and Visa fees. I drank a lot of wine the night I had to mail out my passport to these people. But I have just heard that our director has our passports in hand safely and ready to go. Good. Good riddens "travel agency".

I received an email from one of the directors yesterday, telling us where our lodging is going to be. Sounds like we won't exactly be roughing it. The first hotel is located in Cape Coast, near the beach, complete with air conditioning, small fridges, and even Internet access. Most likely I'll try to shoot out an update from there.

We'll spend two days in Cape Coast getting training on what we will be doing and information on the general Ghanaian culture and proper etiquette, if there is any. From there it's off to Angona Swerdu to the government hospital and the clinics where we will be working. Sounds like the setup for lodging there is a suite layout with bedrooms and a common room. They have air conditioning as well. The last two days will be spent in Accra, the capital. It's wind-down time before heading back to the states. I believe there is a business center at that hotel so that's when another update will probably be sent. Then it's back to the States.

Though they mostly speak English, I should probably start looking at that page of language translations I got over a month ago at our meeting and start learning how to say the important phrases, like "Do you take credit cards?", "Where is the bathroom?", and my personal favorite phrase, which I have learned in over 10 different languages:

"Two beers please."

Cheers

2008-11-20T22:11:00.000-06:00

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana. It has been edited for content and length.

My first thought was "No bloody way!?! THEY ACCEPTED ME?!?! AWESOME!!!"

My second thought was..."What the hell am I doing??"

And of course the third thought was "How the hell am I going to pitch this one to the parents without someone having a breakdown??" A few weeks back, after I had already applied, and NOT told the parents, I met them in Washington D.C. for a mini family reunion/vacation. At dinner, with an alcoholic beverage in all of our hands, I spilled the beans. The conversation went like this:

Meghan: "So, I might have applied for a trip to do some medical volunteer work abroad."

Mom and Dad's eyes get big..the ears perk up and the hands start clasping together. They're bracing for the news. My sister's Eileen and Katie hold back a laugh, knowing that the next ten minutes are going to be a great show to sit back and watch.

Mom: "Where?"

Pause...wait for it.....

Meghan: "Slightly south of London....."

Mom: "Meghan...get it over with...where??!"

Meghan: (big chug of beer, then...) "Ghana?"

Mom takes a big sigh, with the "of course you are!" look on her face. Dad pops in immediately..

Dad: "I don't like it, it can't be safe. Is it safe?"

I spend the next ten minutes pleading my case that yes, it is safe, there is no war going on in the country, they have electricity, indoor plumbing and even two universities. I will have the proper immunizations and everything will be just fine.

Dad still isn't too convinced. And like the typical father, asks that other imminent question...

Dad: "How much is this going to cost?"

Meghan: "I'm paying for it all. Promise. We'll be doing fundraisers, raffles to raise money. It will be fine."

Dad: "I still don't totally like the idea of you going to a third world country."

I decide to shoot back with what I thought was a foolproof, win-win, comment.

Meghan: "You know Dad, Mother Teresa did all this charity work and you never disapproved of her doing it!"

And without so much as a breath in between...

Dad: "Mother Teresa didn't owe me money."

I almost choke on my beer. The table goes into hysterical laughter.

Touche.

Dad, 1. Meghan, 0.

As far as I was concerned, the hardest part of the trip was now over with. The parents knew. And I switched on the planning gears and started, well, planning.

We had our first team meeting in New York City two weeks ago. The group consists of about 19 people: six doctors, seven nurses, a photographer, a writer, a sculpturer, and a social worker. If you haven't looked at the Unified for Global Healing website, it's not just a medical team. They combine medicine with art to teach the population about healthcare. To get messages across about malaria, AIDS, diseases in general, they use art, since most of the under-served communitiescan't read and write. It's unique to say the least.

Though they all seem like a great group, I wouldn't be surprised if I catch myself burning incense and doing yoga on this trip. Obviously, there's nothing wrong with that, but anyone who knows me knows I'm not the yoga type. At all. But at our meeting I learned there's a cocktail hour every night, so everyone wins. Cheers.

I've gotten all of my shots...six of them. Fun times. Paul, the nurse that gave them all to me, said I was very good and didn't cry. But for two days after my arms were in complete pain. That Hep A shot will kick you. I got a prescription for Malarone, the pill for Malaria and will take that right before I leave and while I'm there. I also got a prescription for Ciprofloxacin in case the food and travel takes a number on my system. Let's just say while I won't be drinking the water (only bottled), rumor has it I will be visiting the porcelin god a few times the first few days and losing a few pounds. I think that's a total upside; who needs the Atkins diet, just go to Ghana!

I'm still determined to make it for that cocktail hour every night.

Ghana Or Bust!

2008-11-17T21:56:00.004-06:00

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan. It is the first in a series of posts about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana. It has been edited for content and length.

For the last few years I have worked at Boston Medical Center in Boston, MA in the Emergency Room as a nursing assistant, ED tech, whatever p.c. term they use nowadays. I love it. Lots of trauma, fast pace, lots of teaching, lots of experience, lots of amusing stories to tell my friends when they're felling sad (really, they call and ask me to "tell me one of your ER stories, I need a laugh"). The hospital serves mostly lower income families in the city, the homeless and the immigrant communities. The staff, on their own, is very committed to serving this population and, as a result, have joined or formed some outside, non-profit organizations. One of which, Unified for Global Healing, was co-founded by one of our ER Doctors, Thea James. For the last several years, she, along with other people, have traveled to underserved populations and given free medical care to those communities. Well, this year the trip is to Ghana.

I had (FINALLY) passed my nursing boards back in March/April and the state of MA gave me my official license to practice nursing. Shortly thereafter, I was looking for nursing jobs all over the place. I was still working at Boston Medical as a nursing assistant because I hadn't really found a nursing job yet. It's a common practice for nursing students who have finished school and even taken the board exam to stay at their current place of employment, as a nursing assistant, for a bit before going out to get a real nursing job. I was in the lounge one day having lunch and I saw a poster with the tagline: "Want to go to Ghana?"

I looked at the nurse sitting next to me and said "Sure! I'd love to go to Ghana!", paused for a bit, then said "Where's Ghana?"

So I "Wkikpedia'd" GHANA and this is what came up..enjoy.

Anyone that knows me realizes I don't take travel lightly. I'm all in if I say yes. Anna, a friend of mine from college, told me one day she was traveling to London for the weekend and, very lightly, asked me if I wanted to go with her. Much to her surprise, I said "Sure!", and bought the ticket. She barely knew my last name at that point, so it made for an interesting conversation. A few years later, she asked me if I wanted to take care of a bunch of kids at an American Boarding School in Switzerland....Yup! Love to! I've had Boston neighbors casually get to know me and at a girls night out, very lightly, ask me over a few drinks if I wanted to go to West Palm Beach in Florida for a few days....Just tell me when! You get the point. And I have the pics to prove it all.

Needless to say, when I said yes to Ghana, I wasn't taking it lightly either. But this trip was going to be somewhat different than any other one before it. I was going to be working, as a nurse, in a foreign country. Granted in Switzerland, my title was nurse, but I was supervised by an actual licensed RN and took care of privileged 6 to 10 year olds whose biggest complaint (minus my one Japanese hemophiliac who I rushed to the local hospital one night) was that their sunscreen smelled funny. Ghana children are going to have slightly different complaints, like "I have malaria". Just a smidge different. But from the moment I chose nursing as a career, I wanted to do international work. When I found out the trip was a short two weeks, it was enough to convince me it would be a great "stepping stone" or foot in the door to international healthcare.

I turned in my application. Knowing there were only a few slots available and lots of people applying, I was pretty sure I wouldn't get accepted but figured at least I'd be on their board when I applied next year. After an hour long telephone interview and two weeks, I got the email.

"Congratulations! We welcome you as part of the 2008 medical team to Ghana!"

Do You Have A Ticket?

2008-10-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

It was about noon when I finally succumbed to the pesky daylight streaming into our room. Amazed that on a Sunday morning I hadn't yet heard from my parents, I picked up the phone and dialed their room. I woke them up. No mass today, this would be a Godless heathen Sunday.

Our hotel was nice in many respects, but the rooms lacked proper ventilation. As with many hotels in Europe--even in the warm countries--there was no air conditioning. Normally I can live with that, but in this hotel the windows were latched and only opened about an inch. With three drunkards sweating beer in the room, the air was stale and warm. It was time to get up and find that guy driving the truck that spent the morning running over us, although, considering all the drinking we did, I didn't really feel hungover. I was extremely dehydrated, but that was probably due as much to the air travel as the bar hopping. I think Harry turned us on to the ultimate cure for jet lag: just keep drinking.

From the time I made that initial "good morning" phone call, it took us over three hours to get to a restaraunt for "breakfast". This brings us to the number two source of friction on a Genovese Family Vacation (GFV). Survey says: my brother.

Experience has taught me that the larger the object, the slower it responds to change. My brother is a speed boat: he jets from point to point doing 360's in the water, accelerates from zero to sixty in about three seconds, brakes on a dime, and changes direction at will. Our family--especially when travelling--is like a cruise ship: routes and destinations must be well planned, acceleration is sluggish, and changes in direction must be minor or else the ship will capsize.

This drives my brother crazy. Once he's ready to go, everyone else should be too, which prompts him to start with the nagging comments: "you guys take forever", "for God's sake let's just go", and my personal favorite, "are you fucking kidding me right now?".

This in turn drives my mother crazy prompting her comments like "Patrick knock it off", "chill out already", and again I have a favorite, "Raymond, smack him!".

This in turn drives the rest of crazy. So we drink. Heavily. And now you understand the GFV infinity circle. Thank God for Harry.

Once fed and watered, Harry led us to the DART station to catch a train to Dun Laughaire. By this time there were eight of us. I mention that because we weren't all up to getting out of bed as early as noon and Josh did not accompany us to "breakfast". At the DART station, we were faced with the daunting task of purchasing train tickets at the automated kiosk. Normally that kind of thing is right up my alley, but there were a few...distractions.

Distraction #1

When Harry met us at the "Judge Roy Bean" pub, he brought us an Irish cell phone to use during our visit so we could keep in touch while travelling the countryside. The gesture was a blessing and a curse. As soon as we shared the number with Uncle Father Seamus, who was in Lurgan finishing preparations for the funeral, he didn't stop calling to find out where we were, what we were doing, and offer us unsolicited advice on what we should see and do next. All of this earned him the title of "Cruise Director".

Distraction #2

You may remember when the girls came to visit me in England and I got chewed out by the man in the train office for using a ticket kiosk. Ever since that experience, I've been a little off my game when it comes to ticket kiosks. I kept going through the process of selecting our destination, quantity of tickets, and type of trip, but then couldn't get the machine to take the money. It turns out I wasn't pressing the right payment key.

Distraction #3

Even though there were eight in our party, we only needed seven tickets. Remember when I told you Harry doesn't make arrests but he does use his badge?

Distraction #4

The worst copilot ever is also the worst mathematician ever. Initially he forgot to count Josh since he wasn't at lunch with us. Then he kept forgetting to count himself but he did count Harry, who kept saying "I don't need a ticket", which caused my dad to subtract one from the count (which was already wrong since it didn't include him). At least he's consistent.

So what should have been a single transaction for seven tickets turned out to be three transactions consisting of:

A call for more coins to get the exact change
My dad asking everyone "do you have a ticket?"
The cruise director calling to find out what was going on
My dad saying "dammit" when, after the transaction, someone didn't have a ticket
My brother halfway up the stairs to the platform muttering "are you fucking kidding me right now? You guys take forever for God's sake let's just go"

I think that's like a GFV infinity circle trifecta.

I Think I'm A Pumpkin

2008-09-15T12:00:00.001-05:00

For those of you that have spent any amount of time in downtown San Luis Obispo, the Porterhouse, formerly known as the Judge Roy Bean pub, is a little like Mother's--but about four times larger. It has a very nice, very large mirrored bar just inside the entrance and it seems to go on forever. The drinking age in Ireland is only eighteen and, with a university across the street, our clan easily raised the average age of clientele by at least ten years. By the time Harry arrived around 9:45, the place was packed and the music--an eclectic mix of American and English technopop--was loud. I didn't think this outting would last too much longer and sure enough, shortly after Harry arrived, Gary headed back to the hotel. My sister figured the rest of us old fuddy duddies were not far behind so she and Josh took off to go find the next party. My mother, who two hours and a bottle of wine earlier was adamantly opposed to going anywhere except bed, asked for a change of venue. I guess she wasn't worried anymore about turning into a pumpkin.

Harry took us down a few more blocks to Dawson's Pub, quite probably the smallest pub in the world. This is where the theme for the rest of the trip would be set because the Porterhouse was the first and only pub we would leave voluntarily from here on out. Dawson's was, well, small, and it was packed. Harry bought the first round. As my glass emptied I thought for sure we were in the home stretch. By now even I was beginning to hear the Sandman calling. As if reading my thoughts, Harry ordered another round. Alright fine, one more. But the eleventh pint of the day--twelfth if you count the beer the day before in Chicago--was going down a lot slower. This would be it, no way I could drink anymore tonight. It's not that I was drunk (although I obviously had to be by now) I was getting full! The bar started to clear out a bit. I was halfway through my Carlsberg when I noticed another one sitting on the bar in front of me. That rat bastard Harry had ordered another round. Not only was he getting us shitfaced, he was paying for all the damn drinks. This guy was tricky.

In Ireland when they serve wine by the glass, they actually give you a 187mL mini bottle. At this point in the evening my mom had them lined up along the bar. She started putting them in her purse because she couldn't drink them fast enough. It seems we had met our match, Harry was hard core. It was about 2AM when we finally got thrown out of Dawson's Pub. We walked back to the hotel with Harry and when we got to the door of the lobby he asked "do they have a bar in there?" Hell yeah they do, come on in! The five of us bellied up one more time.

This time we were ready. My dad and I had our money out before we even walked into the hotel. We picked up this round. Shortly after, he and my mom disappeared, six hours after they insisted we couldn't wait until 9:30 to meet up with Harry. Surely the night was finally coming to an end for all of us. Last call. I still had half a pint and was happy to sit this one out. I think Harry must belong to some Irish religous sect that does not believe in allowing last call to go unanswered, no matter what. The bartender served us one last round, but asked us to leave the bar area so they could lock up. Amen. We shut down our second bar of the night and stumbled into the lounge.

We were down to just me, Harry, and Patrick, and two other occupied talbes in the lounge area where we sat down. One was a French couple on the other side of the room. They were minding their own business and I wouldn't have noticed them except for the two guys sitting at a table between us. The guys were from Sweden and had started poking fun at the French couple by shouting "voulez-vous coucher avec moi" at them. The couple did not appreciate this and exchanged some words--in English--with the Swede before getting up and storming off. My brother, ever the drunken International diplomat, applauded, a move that earned him favor and a seat next to the Swede.

For about an hour we argued with this guy about--of all things--whether the Irish were friendly or not. Apparently he doesn't have a cousin named Harry. We'd probably still be sitting there if it weren't for the guy's pregnant girlfriend who came to collect him. At that point even Harry admitted the night was over. We walked him out to the lobby, pledged to see him later in the day, and greeted our sister who was stumbling into the hotel at the same time and whom I'm pretty sure was astonished to find that her "old" brothers were still up and about. With Harry off, our sister accounted for, and no bars open within walking distance, it was time to call it a day/night/next day/next night.

To recap: I woke up Friday morning about 8AM in San Antonio and I went to bed around 4AM Dublin time...on Sunday morning. In those 38 hours of consciousness, I flew across an ocean, drank over two gallons of beer, discovered the worst copilot ever, met the worst guard ever, patronized three Irish pubs, got thrown out of two, and set a new personal record for most hours awake without going to bed.

And that was day one.

The Worst Guard Ever

2008-09-14T12:00:00.002-05:00

Back in January, my brother accompanied my uncle to Ireland to begin making arrangments for what would turn out to be a second funeral for my grandmother. Patrick couldn't say enough about how great the trip was and how much he was looking forward to his return trip in August. In addition to drinking lots of beer, he was able to meet the scores of family members scattered throughout the country and experience their good natured hospitality. One of those relatives was Harry, a kindred spirit for Patrick, although perhaps in title only.

Harry is a "garda", an Irish policeman. They call them guards. As in England, Irish police officers do not carry guns. Harry has a badge, and uses it occassionaly, but not in the way you might think. He's never made an arrest. He's never issued a citation. For a cop he pays almost no attention to detail. While showing my brother around Dublin in January, he often got lost, prompting my brother to call him "the worst guard ever". Harry just laughed it off with his deep from-the-gut guffaw. That's Harry.

Harry works on communications equipment. In the states we have "sworn police officers" that carry badges, guns, drive around in police cars and enforce laws. We also have non sworn support personnel that keep the computers running, the cars washed, and the paperwork flowing. In Ireland everyone who works for the guard is "sworn". So even though Harry's job has little to do with fighting crime, he's still considered a police officer in Ireland.

Although Patrick was the only one who had ever met Harry, we all met his brother and sister-in-law, John and Phil, in November when they flew out for the original funeral in Oakland, California. John and Phil live in Cork, the next destination on our itinerary. We'd be seeing them in a few days but, in the meantime, John insisted that we look Harry up while in Dublin as Harry was anxious to show us around. Punctuating that anxiety was the fact that Harry hadn't stopped calling us since we checked into the hotel.

Once everyone got settled at the hotel, the seven of us went out to a pub called Q Bar for dinner a few blocks away. Patrick rang Harry up to see where we could meet him. They made arrangements to meet at the Judge Roy Bean pub at half nine. That announcement nearly caused a riot. My parents flatly refused to go. It was coming up on 8PM and they did not want to wait around for over an hour. "I need to go to bed" my mom said. A few minutes later they reluctantly agreed. After all, it was only a little more than an hour, we'd have one drink and then everyone could go to bed. We left the Q Bar in search of Judge Roy Bean.

View Larger Map

Daniel was not aware of any pubs by that name and Harry had given my brother the general area the pub was in but no address. To give you an idea of where we were, our hotel was situated literally across the street from the north wall of Trinity College. Temple Bar, a district in Dublin just west of Trinity College, is where all the nightlife takes place. The area reminded me of Las Ramblas in Barcelona. We knew the Judge Roy Bean was next to Trinity College right at the beginning of Temple Bar so we walked the six blocks from the Q Bar and started looking. We asked a bunch of students who were lingering at the entrance to Trinity College and none of them had ever heard of Judge Roy Bean. We walked to the south side of Trinity College...plenty of pubs, but none bearing the name Roy Bean.

My brother and I walked across the street. There were a couple of bouncers standing in front of a trendy looking club called the Porterhouse. I sent Patrick to ask them if they knew where Judge Roy Bean was while I consulted Danny Boy one more time. Patrick came back a moment later and declared "that's it."

What? That clearly was not the place, the sign said Porterhouse.

"I asked them if they knew where the Judge Roy Bean pub was and they said that's what this place used to be called". We looked at each other, shook our heads, agreed that Harry is the worst guard ever and motioned for our party to join us.

The Worst Copilot EVER

2008-09-06T22:45:00.001-05:00

A good copilot is an essential part of any road trip. The duties of the copilot are simple but important: remove obstacles for the driver. Whether it be reading a map and providing navigational assistance, helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, or providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along a dreary road, a good copilot is not a necessity, but it sure makes things a heck of a lot smoother.

I remember during the Y2KRTE, somewhere around Day 21, we were trying desperately to get out of Texas. This was before units like Vicki were available to most consumers, so we had Microsoft Streets loaded onto our laptop with an external GPS receiver plugged into a serial port. The GPS receiver simply showed a little car on the map that represented our current position. If you went off route, it showed your little car on the map no longer along your intended route. It was the copilot's job to provide navigational support to the driver to make sure the little car stayed on the route.

On day 21 we were on a two lane highway in the middle of nowhere. I was driving and my copilot had been doing a good job of providing engaging conversation to keep his driver alert and engaged. After about half an hour, Chris asks me what highway we’re on. I paused for a moment to think about it, and then I looked at him and asked, “Don’t you know? You’ve got the damn computer!” “Well here’s where we’re supposed to be” Chris told me, pointing to the highlighted green highway on the screen, “and here’s the car”, pointing to our actual location on a diverging highway a few miles away. I remember thinking "you're the worst copilot EVER". I may have even told him as much. I was wrong.

On day two of Ireland 2008, my family and I loaded our luggage into our rental car and got on the road to the Trinity Capital Hotel in downtown Dublin. Thanks to Danny Boy, navigational support is not something my copilots have to deal with too much anymore. That leaves helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, and providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along dreary roads. Nowhere in the list of copilot duties does it include pestering, heckling, tormenting, or aggravating. So let's go over the seating arrangement in the car.

I am in the driver's seat on the right hand side of the car. Behind me in the back seat is my mom, an appropriate place for her considering her nickname, Miss Daisy. Next to Miss Daisy, in the middle seat, is my sister and next to her rounding out the back seat is my brother. In the front passenger seat, in the esteemed copilot position, my dad, my Number One, my left hand man.

Our vehicle was a Ford Edge and, like most of the cars in Ireland, it had a manual transmission. The last time I drove a car with a manual transmission was five years ago in Lugano

Switzerland

. Most of the time I was navigating the narrow, hilly roads of Lugano in a ten passenger van filled with children aged six to ten. That was easier than the short trip I was about to take to our hotel.

I'm not here to make excuses, but I did have a few things on my mind, like keeping to the proper side of the road, yielding appropriately at roundabouts, following Danny's instructions, and maintaining a good balance of gas and clutch. I was not always successful at the latter and on several occassions we stalled. No problem. Stay calm, depress the clutch, start the car, back in gear, here we go. It's just like riding a bike...at the top of the Empire State Building...on the ledge...with someone pointing a gun at your head telling you not to fall! Here's where my copilot comes in.

The first time I stalled, my copilot's helfpul conversation consisted of: "SWEET JESUS!"

The next time I stalled, as I tried to take the car out of gear start the car depress the clutch put the car back in gear and start driving before the cars behind me starting getting upset and honking, my copilot could have rolled down his window and given that International wave that says "we're not spacing out trying to get you to miss this light, we're just morons and stalled". What he actually did was shake his head in disgust and shout: "SACRED HEART!" That was much more helpful.

I must have stalled at least three more times because I remember going through "JESUS MARY AND ST. JOSEPH!", "MOTHER OF GOD!", and my personal favorite “LORD HAVE MERCY ON THE POOR SOULS!”. It was no different than if I'd put Miss Daisy in the copilot's chair, gripping the oh shit handles with white knuckles and trying to put her foot through the floor in a vain attempt to get her brake pedal to work.

As tumultuos as our ride was, we made the eight mile drive to the hotel in less than half an hour. It took us another half hour and about five trips around the block to find the car park for the hotel, which was three blocks away and hidden behind a nondescript rollup door. Of course, even after all that our room wasn't ready, we were about two hours too early. We propped ourselves up at the bar, ordered some lunch, and of course, a round of pints.

Meanwhile, Gary and Josh, who left the airport before us, still had not made it to the hotel. In their case, driving was not the issue; anyone who's ever ridden in a car with Uncle Gary knows that braking, not acceleration is his challenge. Without a GPS or a good map, navigation was their undoing and tensions were running high in their vehicle now too. Finally, in a fit of exasperation, Gary pulled over, got out of the car, hailed a cab, and waved for a bewildered Josh to follow in their rental car. So much for easing into UK driving. It turns out they were only a few blocks away. Lucky for them I was now an expert on the car park, saving them at least a little bit of added aggravation.

We finished our pints and finally got into our rooms to freshen up from 18 hours of travelling. By this time most of us had been up for 24 hours. The day was barely half over.

Let's Play Family Feud!

2008-09-01T23:30:00.001-05:00

I wouldn't consider my recent trip to Ireland a "vacation". I would say that it was a good "trip", but not a vacation. Between the circumstances that brought us there to all the things we tried to accomplish (600 miles in 11 days), there were just too many "to-do's" on our travel list to really consider it a vacation. As I mentioned before I left, it was a historic opportunity for my siblings and parents to travel together...outside the United States...for a really long time. Along those lines, we asked 100 people on the street to name the #1 source of friction on a Genovese family vacation. The number one answer will be revealed shortly.

To clear up any confusion, my wife and daughter did not join me on this trip. Back in December when the trip was being planned, Jen was six months pregnant and, as you remember, quite miserable. We had no idea how Kaitlyn's arrival would impact our lives, or what complications might arise that could put the kibosh on a trip of this magnitude. Due to the importance of the event, we decided I needed to go, but with so many unknowns, Jen would stay home with the baby and recruit her mother to help out with the child.

That left just the five of us—my mom, dad, brother, and sister—to plan the pilgrimage to Nana’s country of birth. Sometime after the New Year, we began having four-way conference calls to hammer out the logistics of the trip. Ireland may be a small country, but there is plenty to see and emotions ran high in the group about how best to spend our eleven days in country: seeing the sights or visiting with family. Plus, if there is one thing I've learned over the years traveling, always have a backup plan, because shit does happen. This was especially important with respect to getting to Ireland since my parents and brother would be flying from Los Angeles, my sister and I would rendezvous in Chicago from our respective home cities, and we were all hoping for a happy reunion at the airport in Dublin. We all know what can happen with air travel these days. We prepared a very detailed plan of arrival and rendezvous "in case shit". Thankfully we didn't need it. (That's not to say shit didn't happen, it just happened a few days later after too many pints of Guinness. Lesson learned.)

Shannon and I were the first to arrive in Dublin. We went through customs, gathered our luggage, and bumped into Uncle Father Seamus (my dad's oldest brother), Uncle Gary (my grandmother's youngest brother), and Gary's partner Josh in baggage claim. With two hours before the arrival of the Los Angeles contingent, we headed straight to the bar for a pint of Guinness. It was 10AM. This was certainly the vacation portion of the trip if there was one.

My grandmother's funeral and burial were scheduled for August 11th, nine months to the day after her death. We thus decided to divide our trip into two parts: the first five days would be the tourist part of the trip--the "vacation", if you will; the remaining week would be spent in Lurgan where my grandmother grew up, and where the main event would take place. As soon as the Los Angeles contingent arrived, we all hit the airport ATM to get some local currency and then picked up our rental car to head to our hotel in Dublin where we would kick off this fun old-fashioned family vacation for two nights. Gary and Josh were staying at the same hotel, but they had their own car and decided to go on ahead and meet us at the hotel. I guess they didn’t want to wait for us to load five people, seven bags, and a bear into our Ford Edge, despite the fact that we had the satellite navigation. We split up, a decision that would prove costly for one of us.

So the number one source of friction on a Genovese vacation abroad? Survey says: driving the car.

Here's To The Irish

2008-07-31T20:32:00.000-05:00

Sometime in late 2006, just before the holidays, my paternal grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Many of you have met "Nana" over the years and know that under no circumstances did she wish to be called "grandma". She was much too young for that. It wasn't just the name though, it was a state of mind because at 79 she really was still a very young woman. So although the cancer was beyond its initial stages, it wasn't necessarily a death sentence. Faced with the option to "let it go" or "fight", Nana decided to fight. Several months later, in March of 2007, we celebrated her 80th birthday with a bash that had been in the works long before the diagnosis. As is usually the case with the Irish portion of the family, a good time was had by all. One of the great things about the Irish--they party hardest in the face of adversity.

After her birthday, the cancer battle unfortunately went uphill. Upon my return from England in October, I had the pleasure of visiting the Bay Area and spending a few days with Nana before collecting my pregnant wife and returning home to Texas. Her condition deteriorated very rapidly after that and so it came as a blessing to the family when the Lord finally brought her home in November. Her postmortem wishes were clear: she wanted to be cremated and her ashes buried next to her sister in Ireland.

Tomorrow I depart on a 13 day trip to Ireland. The primary purpose of the trip is to bury my grandmother as she requested. The event will take place on Monday, August 11th, nine months after her death. As I've mentioned though, the Irish celebrate best when the circumstances are not, so we are also taking the opportunity to tour the country Nana once called home. This will be the first time my entire immediate family has vacationed together for more than a weekend trip to the lake. I'm sure it will be an experience worth writing about.

This is also the first time in nearly ten years that I will not be traveling with a computer. So that means no TRS updates until after my return later next month. And, just to kick things up an extra notch, as I wrote the last sentence, my wife dropped a pint glass on her foot, lacerating her toe. When the date for this trip was chosen late last year, it was a tough decision for us. Do we take the baby with us? Do we leave her with Grandma? It was finally decided I would go alone and Jen's mom would fly out to help her with Kaitlyn. At the time it was a decision I was not terribly pleased with. Now that my wife is about to get four stitches in her toe and can barely walk, I'm rather relieved she's not going (although it certainly adds to the stress of me leaving her home).

In fact, now that I ponder our relationship, this seems to be a recurring theme:

2003: Two days before my departure to Switzerland for the summer, Jen breaks her foot at my parent's house.

2006: One week prior to our wedding and subsequent honeymoon in Europe, I put a gash in my forehead requiring three stitches.

2007: The day before our departure to England for the summer, Jen announces she's pregnant.

2008: The day before my departure to Ireland for two weeks, Jen cuts open her toe, requiring three stitches.

Every time I leave for an International trip, something dramatic happens. I'm 25% Irish, so I'll handle this the way the Irish do; I'll be in the kitchen with a bottle of Jameson.

Here's a map of the places we're going to visit before arriving in Lurgan for the burial/memorial. I'll have a cell phone and I'll try to text message a few bits directly to the blog over the next two weeks. If you'd like, sign up for the RSS feed here.

Slainte.

View Larger Map

It's About Time Already

2007-06-05T21:02:00.001-05:00

I know I know…it’s been far too long since the last Road Scholars update. I think we last left off with The Car Alarm in San Antonio. Since then it’s been rather busy, but I know that’s no excuse. Let’s see, there was the wedding, the honeymoon, the new house…where to begin? I’ve got it…Venice. In the spirit of Quentin Tarantino we’ll begin in Venice and we’ll work backwards. So to end…or begin the story…”I’m done talking to them!” Let’s go back…

We watched from the bow as our cruise ship, The Grand Princess, navigated the grand canal of Venice to dock in our final stop on a 12 day Mediterranean Cruise. After cocktails on their balcony, we dined that night with our friends the Parents. After dinner we spent our last hours on the cruise ship getting jiggy in Skywalker’s Nightclub: yes, 180 feet above sea level. The next morning the party was over, it was time to disembark. As in Rome, our travel agent had arranged for transportation from the ship to our hotel on Venice Lido. What we weren’t sure of was the mode of transportation. Having visited Venice once before, I was familiar with the preponderance of waterways in lieu of roadways. It turned out there was another “Genovese” sign waiting for us. The sign gained us access to the front of a very long line of our fellow cruise passengers as they waited for their own unreserved water taxis.

It was about a 30 minute ride to our hotel. The Venice Lido is actually not on what you might consider Venice Proper but across the grand canal on it’s own stretch of land bordering the beach—in Italian, lido. The hotel looks fabulous from the outside. In back is it’s own private dock providing water taxi access to the grand canal. In front is a private beach along the Adriatic sea. As impressive as the hotel looks from the outside, the rooms were rather dated. The walls were covered with fabric which gave it kind of a stale smell that even the champagne and strawberries couldn’t get rid of. We decided it was time to visit mainland Venice.

Anyone who has seen the movie “Just Married” has experienced all one needs to experience in Venice…pigeons, people, and high-priced souvenirs. Our first trek on the free water shuttle and about 60 minutes was all Jen could stand. A gondola ride was going to cost as much as a nice dinner..and that was the negotiated price. Add to that some heat, cigarette smoke, narrow streets, and rude people and Jen was at her limit. We had to negotiate for our oil painting in Venice, and we still violated our general guidelines. We intended to meet up with Chris and Carol, but no one seemed to know that it existed let alone where it was. We found a little Italian restaurant, had a quick dinner and it was off to bed.

The next morning we treated ourselves to another fabulous breakfast at a four star hotel, only this time we overlooked the Adriatic ocean. Somewhere out there was our ship, but we no longer cared. It was time to begin the trip home, and we were ready. Much to Jen’s approval, our travel agent had arranged for a water-taxi to pick us up four hours before our scheduled flight. We arrived at Marco Polo airport nearly three hours early for our flight. That, it turns out, was not for the best.

European airports have limitations when it comes to checking in for flights. You can’t do it more than two hours ahead of time. Our first 45 minutes at Marco Polo airport were thus spent twiddling our thumbs waiting for our flight to appear on the board telling us what desk to go to in order to check in for our flight. Finally we were on the board. Jen and I made our way—with our six bags—to the appropriate desk. I provided our passports to the agent and she began typing away at her computer. We waited…more typing…more waiting…finally a “hmmmm”. “May I have your tickets” she asked. My reply was some form of “huh?” I haven’t traveled on a commercial airline with a ticket since—never. I explained to the agent at the desk that I did not have “tickets”. I showed her my itinerary. She assured me that she could see me—and my new bride—listed as passengers on their glorious airline but that we were not listed as e-ticket passengers and without a ticket she could not let us on the airplane. We would need to speak to the lovely ladies at the ticket counter behind us. Hmmm….ok, fine.

I parked Jen at some chairs with our luggage and got in line to speak to the ladies at the ticket counter. I would like to point out at this time that our flight was scheduled for departure at 2:15PM local time. We arrived at the airport around 11AM, sat on our asses for two hours and now it was approaching 1PM. Finally it’s my turn. I explain my situation and after fifteen minutes or so of polite tapping on the keyboard I’m told there’s nothing she can do. Since we booked our trip through United and there is no United representative at Marco Polo airport, she refers me to the Lufthansa counter next door since Lufthansa is a star alliance partner. Luckily there’s no line. That was where the luck ran out. I’m told I need to contact United customer service. She gives me a phone number. I ask her if it’s a local or toll-free number. It isn’t. Great. At this point it’s worth noting that I have no cell phone, no phone card, and very little patience left as it’s now after 1PM and my flight is scheduled to depart in less than an hour.

I waste 15 minutes and about $30 trying to get the pay phone to work with my credit card before asking someone at the customer service counter how the hell to make a call on the pay phones. She tells me I need to get a phone card at the newsstand. I run to the newsstand, passing Jen on the way. I wave. The newsstand is out of long distance phone cards, I have to go downstairs. I sprinted, rudely barking my request to the gal behind the counter. I run back upstairs and make the call. It takes me almost ten minutes to explain the ordeal thus far to the person in India who pretends to be interested in my dilemma. He assures me he’s working on it and puts me on hold…for 20 minutes. I bought a 30 minute phone card. About five minutes before my phone card runs out Mr. Pakistani comes back on the phone and assures me he will have the problem fixed shortly. I emphasize to him the fact that my phone card will run out of money soon. He reassures me.

I get disconnected. Anger, depression, and hopelessness set in simultaneously. I wave again to Jen as I run past her to go downstairs to buy another phone card. This time I was even more rude as I requested my phone card. I didn’t bother running back upstairs this time. I grabbed the closest phone I could find, dialed, and wasted ten minutes explaining the situation to another guy in India who was supposed to pretend like he cared about my situation. He didn’t. Now it was 2PM and this guy was explaining to me how it was too late to board the flight, there was nothing I could do but wait until the following morning for the first flight to Vienna. I explained to this rat bastard that I was not spending the night in Venice, I was going to Vienna and he needed to figure out how to make that happen. Then I asked for his supervisor and wasted another five minutes on hold.

For those of you that skim, here’s where the story gets good. The supervisor informs me, after researching my reservation, that there’s no reason why the agents should not be letting me and my blushing bride on the plane. “OK”, I told him, “and what should I do when I go back to the counter and they tell me otherwise?” He told me to call back. Aggravated and desperate, I said OK and hung up. I ran back upstairs. Naturally there is nobody left at the Austrian Air desk. I ask the woman at the desk next door if she can help me. It’s now 2:15 and I explain to her how I’m supposed to be on the flight to Vienna leaving right now. She asks me why I’m just now checking in. I nearly climb over the counter but instead use every ounce of self control to explain, through clenched teeth, that I’ve been at the airport for over three hours. She refers me to the lovely ladies at the ticket counter behind us. Apparently I raised my voice when I responded, “I don’t want to talk to them anymore!”. She picked up the phone.

From poor Jen’s perspective, she’s been sitting with the luggage for nearly two hours, not knowing much about what’s going on and having desperately to pee. She’s seen me run back and forth several times and talk to several people in the airport without any real update as to what’s going on. The only thing she’s sure of is that we’re not getting on our scheduled flight and I appear to be quite upset. Now I’m talking to an agent at another airline counter and the only thing she hears from me in two hours is “I don’t want to talk to them anymore!” followed by the agent picking up the phone. Concerned that I’m about to go to jail, she abandons our luggage and runs to my side. Thankfully for both of us, there must have been some element of my desperation that appealed to the gal I was now yelling at. When she picked up the phone she was calling an Austrian Air agent back to the counter, not la policia.

Relieved with the situation, Jen pointed me to the luggage and went to relieve herself. Whatever Mr. Pakistani managed to do down in India apparently was the right thing, because the Austrian agent pulled up our reservation and without any trouble booked us on the next flight to Vienna…still in Business class. We didn’t get to see much of Vienna except our hotel and the airport. We’re told our hotel was adjacent to the Danube…I think I heard the faint babbling of a river, but it’s hard to say. At least we didn’t spend the night with Marco Polo.