.
Friday morning we gathered for breakfast in a banquet room of the hotel. After a surprisingly nice meal of scrambled eggs, sausage, fruit and coffee, we got back on our charter bus for the short drive to Universal Islands of Adventure theme park.
Part of our trip package included a two day pass to the park and a meal voucher to provide one semi-sustaining meal per day. It was decided by the choral director that once inside the park, tickets should be taken from the kids. This was logical for multiple reasons. One, they couldn’t lose their ticket and endanger their entry on the second day, and two, they couldn’t leave the park without our knowledge since they knew they couldn’t get back inside.
After entering the gates and retrieving all of their tickets, the students were informed that they had three hours to roam free (with their required buddy), until our mid-day check-in. Once released, they scattered like roaches when the kitchen light turns on. Connie and I grabbed our cameras and tried to follow, hoping to document the adventure for posterity, but they were too fast for us. They were soon lost in the maze of rollercoaster’s and spring break crowds. I snapped a few pictures of the fast moving Hulk ride and said, “There are probably some of them on that one.”
With my proclivity for motion sickness, I don’t do rides that drop, spin or swoop. That pretty much eliminates all the rides at Islands of Adventure. Fortunately, Connie has lost interest in those rides as well. Marriage, kids and life in general is usually enough of a rollercoaster that we don’t need a manufactured thrill ride. She’d much rather go on a hike.
For those of you who can’t read between the lines, I’ll spell it out: we’re getting old.
Still, I love the look and feel of the Orlando theme parks. Although I hate the crowds (and I can’t emphasis enough how much I hate the crowds), I’m absolutely fascinated by the detail and quality that Universal and Disney put into their parks. I love walking around, overwhelmed by the colors and sounds, intrigued by the shops and tantalized by the aroma of the multiple food vendors. Also, despite the fact that I don’t partake of the thrill rides, I love to watch them.
My girls love the rollercoaster’s, and I’m glad. They don’t have any of my physical issues or mental phobias. They don’t mind getting dizzy; it goes away with giggles and screams. They don’t mind when their stomach is forced into their upper chest, because it always settles back into place. They don’t mind the ridiculous speed as they are launched into a triple loop and tossed toward the sky only to plummet dangerously back toward the concrete below. They have complete faith that everything will be okay. God bless them for that.
Ashlyn had been hoping that the World of Harry Potter section of the park would be open when we got there, but we learned on the way down that it would not open until mid-June. Still, we could see the towering spires and impressive scale of Hogwarts Castle and the torturously teasing snow covered roofs of Hogsmeade. She is already planning a return trip when it is open.
Connie and I made our way through the jungles of Jurassic Park, past the dinosaur adventure ride that I was coerced into riding a few years back. My kids still laugh at the memory of my face grimacing as we dropped 85 feet from the jaws of a T-Rex into the pool of certain death at the bottom. I did it once to prove to my kids that I wasn’t scared. Then I threw up and swore I’d never do it again.
Eventually we found ourselves in the Doctor Seuss area of the park, which proved more my speed. Our first official ride in Islands of Adventure was the “High in the Sky Seuss Trolley,” which was actually not as humiliating as you would think. Of course, the bar of my personal humiliation scale is set pretty high. It helped considerably that there were as many adults on the ride as there were kids (and some of those adults didn’t have kids with them).
At our mid-day check-in meeting, it was decided that we would use our meal vouchers to have dinner together at the Hard Rock Café which sits on the boardwalk outside of Islands of Adventure. Since someone needed to get reservations for our group, Connie and I volunteered to take one for the team.
In truth, we were happy to step outside the park. We were ready for lunch and the Margaritaville restaurant in the CityWalk area had been calling our name. There’s nothing like a “Cheeseburger in Paradise” when you’re in Paradise. With Jimmy Buffett music still drifting through our minds, the rest of the day was a pleasant blur of sun and breeze and the roar of distant coasters.
As we gathered at our meeting place late in the afternoon, the kids slowly returned from their day of long lines and death defying acts. Most of them had not been to Universal before, so I was curious what they thought. I remember my first time at Disney, and my first time at Universal, both as an adult, and how I walked around with my jaw hanging open most of the time. These teens were much more jaded than I. They didn’t seem overly impressed. I overheard one say that it was “a little boring” and I couldn’t believe it. I was a little saddened for them. What would it take to surprise them? What would it take to make them happy?
Then I saw the beaming face of Ashlyn, bouncing like Tigger with a huge smile on her face. She was having a great time and it was obvious. She ran up to me and hugged me like she hadn’t seen me in weeks, not caring a bit that she was surrounded by her peers. I love my girls. All three of them still have the wonder of childhood in their hearts. They see the world with fresh, clear eyes, not through the dark screen of sullenness surrounding most of today’s youth. They give me hope.
On the ride back to the hotel after dinner, the Choir Director reminded us that there would be a rehearsal that evening in preparation for the festival competition the next morning. It took me a moment to remember that there was another purpose for being in Orlando besides the Universal Theme park. Tomorrow the kids would earn their keep.
...to be continued
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Orlando part 2
.
We stopped a few times for bathroom breaks and at a cluster of fast food restaurants somewhere south of Atlanta for lunch. Just before the Florida line James stopped to refuel at an older, run-down TA truck stop and I’d venture to say that it was the first time most of the kids had ever been in a truck stop bathroom. Even some of the boys came out wide-eyed and holding their noses. It takes a lot to make a teenage boy notice a nasty smell (more on that later).
The closer we got to Orlando, the more excited we all got. I was once again stressed over James’ apparent lack of understanding of Toll Booths. He never seemed to know which lane to get in, never had the right change, and once drove through without paying, saying simply “I’ve already paid enough.” I’ll be curious how the charter service feels about that when they get the ticket.
I had noticed that although he was using a GPS, he didn’t seem to understand it well. At one point, after pushing buttons and not finding the answer he wanted, he took it off its cradle and laid it in his lap. Occasionally I could hear the muffled sound of a female voice telling him what lane to be in or where to turn, so I assumed that both it and he knew where we were going.
The GPS informed us that we had reached our destination at the bottom of a ramp in downtown Orlando next to a lovely, landscaped pond with sparkling fountains and a nice walking track around its perimeter. I had been to Orlando enough to know that we were still miles from our hotel, but James kept looking around as if the entrance was going to rise out of the water and a doorman would step out to tell him to park on the grass.
Our choir director and her mother were sitting in the seats across from Connie and me. They too realized that we were apparently lost and made some quick phone calls, getting directions which took us down roads most tourists never see. Disney, it was not.
We arrived at the Florida Mall Hotel and Convention Center around 6:30pm. Oddly, in the way that most things in Florida seem kind of odd and different from the rest of the nation, the Hotel was actually a part of the mall. After dropping our bags off in our perfectly sufficient sleeping rooms, we met in the lobby to go to dinner. The back of the lobby opened up into the expansive mall and we followed our tour guide past department stores, specialty stores and jewelry kiosks through what seemed like two or three Tennessee sized malls, until we reached one of my favorite fun places to eat: Buca di Beppo.
I first visited a Buca in Washington DC, and felt like I’d walked into a Dean Martin movie or one of the lighter episodes of The Sopranos. Their garlic bread is addictive, and the meatballs are the size of baby heads. In fact, I’ve tried to use that as the description enough that I hope to someday change the language of their menu. I can see it now: Spaghetti with a side of a “baby head meatballs.”
Between the atmosphere and the great service, the exhaustion of the long ride drifted away. Laughter and conversation filled the room. The food at Buca is served “family style,” so they kept bringing out bowls of bread, delicious salad, pasta and Chicken Parmesan. For dessert we were served cheesecake, and by then we weren’t sure we could walk back to our rooms.
Curfew was announced as 11pm, which gave the kids about two hours after we returned from dinner. This allowed the kids to mingle, but with certain specific restrictions. No one could go anywhere without a “buddy.” They could not leave the hotel. Kids found outside of their rooms alone would be punished with immediate curfew. Boys were allowed in girl’s rooms and vice versa, but the outer doors must be completely open. Any infraction of this rule would result in immediate curfew for all involved (and possible flogging if my daughter were in the room).
Unlike my usual and frequent stays in hotels, I realized that I could not simply come into my room and relax. I couldn’t kick off my shoes and lounge on the bed. As a chaperone, I had to be available. We had to leave our door open. We had to check the halls and make sure the rules were being adhered to. This was actually like work!
We were very lucky, however, since our trip fell during March Madness. The boys congregated in their rooms, cheering their teams (but not too loudly). A few of the girls ventured in, but the doors stayed open and nothing inappropriate was occurring. Finally, eleven o’clock arrived and we did our final room check. Connie and I were assigned four rooms with four boys in each. They were incredibly respectful, calling us “Mr. Warford” and “Mrs. Warford.” It was very strange, and although I still didn’t trust them with my daughters, I was beginning to like them. A little bit.
Connie and I had taken one look at our room and decided that we would each have our own bed. We have grown spoiled with a larger bed, and these rooms provided only full sized beds. We had basically cuddled all day on the cramped bus, so we were ready for some space to kick around and stretch. As we lay in our separate beds, watching the strangers on the Orlando local news, I felt like Rob and Laura Petrie from The Dick Van Dyke Show.
It struck me too that in each of the four rooms around us, there were two sets of high school boys trying to comfortably sleep in these small beds. I could only imagine how awkward that must have been. God forbid you wake up spooning. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I stretched out and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
…to be continued
We stopped a few times for bathroom breaks and at a cluster of fast food restaurants somewhere south of Atlanta for lunch. Just before the Florida line James stopped to refuel at an older, run-down TA truck stop and I’d venture to say that it was the first time most of the kids had ever been in a truck stop bathroom. Even some of the boys came out wide-eyed and holding their noses. It takes a lot to make a teenage boy notice a nasty smell (more on that later).
The closer we got to Orlando, the more excited we all got. I was once again stressed over James’ apparent lack of understanding of Toll Booths. He never seemed to know which lane to get in, never had the right change, and once drove through without paying, saying simply “I’ve already paid enough.” I’ll be curious how the charter service feels about that when they get the ticket.
I had noticed that although he was using a GPS, he didn’t seem to understand it well. At one point, after pushing buttons and not finding the answer he wanted, he took it off its cradle and laid it in his lap. Occasionally I could hear the muffled sound of a female voice telling him what lane to be in or where to turn, so I assumed that both it and he knew where we were going.
The GPS informed us that we had reached our destination at the bottom of a ramp in downtown Orlando next to a lovely, landscaped pond with sparkling fountains and a nice walking track around its perimeter. I had been to Orlando enough to know that we were still miles from our hotel, but James kept looking around as if the entrance was going to rise out of the water and a doorman would step out to tell him to park on the grass.
Our choir director and her mother were sitting in the seats across from Connie and me. They too realized that we were apparently lost and made some quick phone calls, getting directions which took us down roads most tourists never see. Disney, it was not.
We arrived at the Florida Mall Hotel and Convention Center around 6:30pm. Oddly, in the way that most things in Florida seem kind of odd and different from the rest of the nation, the Hotel was actually a part of the mall. After dropping our bags off in our perfectly sufficient sleeping rooms, we met in the lobby to go to dinner. The back of the lobby opened up into the expansive mall and we followed our tour guide past department stores, specialty stores and jewelry kiosks through what seemed like two or three Tennessee sized malls, until we reached one of my favorite fun places to eat: Buca di Beppo.
I first visited a Buca in Washington DC, and felt like I’d walked into a Dean Martin movie or one of the lighter episodes of The Sopranos. Their garlic bread is addictive, and the meatballs are the size of baby heads. In fact, I’ve tried to use that as the description enough that I hope to someday change the language of their menu. I can see it now: Spaghetti with a side of a “baby head meatballs.”
Between the atmosphere and the great service, the exhaustion of the long ride drifted away. Laughter and conversation filled the room. The food at Buca is served “family style,” so they kept bringing out bowls of bread, delicious salad, pasta and Chicken Parmesan. For dessert we were served cheesecake, and by then we weren’t sure we could walk back to our rooms.
Curfew was announced as 11pm, which gave the kids about two hours after we returned from dinner. This allowed the kids to mingle, but with certain specific restrictions. No one could go anywhere without a “buddy.” They could not leave the hotel. Kids found outside of their rooms alone would be punished with immediate curfew. Boys were allowed in girl’s rooms and vice versa, but the outer doors must be completely open. Any infraction of this rule would result in immediate curfew for all involved (and possible flogging if my daughter were in the room).
Unlike my usual and frequent stays in hotels, I realized that I could not simply come into my room and relax. I couldn’t kick off my shoes and lounge on the bed. As a chaperone, I had to be available. We had to leave our door open. We had to check the halls and make sure the rules were being adhered to. This was actually like work!
We were very lucky, however, since our trip fell during March Madness. The boys congregated in their rooms, cheering their teams (but not too loudly). A few of the girls ventured in, but the doors stayed open and nothing inappropriate was occurring. Finally, eleven o’clock arrived and we did our final room check. Connie and I were assigned four rooms with four boys in each. They were incredibly respectful, calling us “Mr. Warford” and “Mrs. Warford.” It was very strange, and although I still didn’t trust them with my daughters, I was beginning to like them. A little bit.
Connie and I had taken one look at our room and decided that we would each have our own bed. We have grown spoiled with a larger bed, and these rooms provided only full sized beds. We had basically cuddled all day on the cramped bus, so we were ready for some space to kick around and stretch. As we lay in our separate beds, watching the strangers on the Orlando local news, I felt like Rob and Laura Petrie from The Dick Van Dyke Show.
It struck me too that in each of the four rooms around us, there were two sets of high school boys trying to comfortably sleep in these small beds. I could only imagine how awkward that must have been. God forbid you wake up spooning. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I stretched out and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
…to be continued
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Orlando
With the exception of my own kids, I’ve never been good with teenagers. In fact, I’m not always that good with my own. It’s brutally obvious to most teens that I am not “cool.” They don’t get my humor and I get the overwhelming impression that they think I’m a dork. Generally, I try to stay of their way and hope that they stay out of mine.
Connie has a theory (which she loves to share with others) that the reason I don’t relate to teenagers is because I was never a “teenager.” She jokes that I’ve been an adult, using adult logic, since I was ten years old. If that were true, it would explain a lot, but I don’t think I was some freaky Kentucky version of Star Trek’s Spock. At least, I hope not.
This past weekend, Connie and I chaperoned forty-six high school choral students on a trip to Orlando, Florida. I’m not exactly sure why I agreed to do this, other than the fact that my middle daughter Ashlyn was going and Connie planned to go whether I did or not. It was many months ago when I was asked and agreed, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I admit to some apprehension as we neared our Thursday morning departure. I hadn’t been on a bus since High School, and I had never ridden on a charter bus. I didn’t know what to expect. The concept of eleven hours in a confined space with that many teenagers seemed as foreign and uncomfortable to me as spending the night in a cave full of grizzly bears.
I shouldn’t have worried about the kids. We arrived Thursday morning at 6:30am and began loading our bags into the underbelly of the bus. Although there was a current of excitement flowing through the crowd over the prospect of the trip, in general we all still looked half asleep. Once we loaded the bus, pillows and blankets sent the kids into peaceful slumber. For the first several hours of the trip, all I heard was an occasional snore, cough or snort. It should have been a pleasant drive.
I have to stop here for a moment and explain my twisted history with “charter buses.” Although I had never been on one, I had seen a Dateline NBC story about a tragic bus accident in Atlanta in which several college baseball students were killed when they were thrown out of the massive windows of their bus during an accident. I was shocked to learn that seatbelts are not required on buses, and retrofitting them is considered “too expensive.”
The story made a considerable impression on me, and with the knowledge that my kids were soon travelling to the beach for a church youth trip and would be riding in one of these death machines, I vowed to do something. Searching the Internet, I was able to procure two portable seatbelts, capable of slipping over the back of the bus seat and securing the rider in place. Although I was thrilled with my purchase, my kids were not happy…at all.
Using my “parent card” (which I rarely resort to), I told them that they would use them on the trip or they would not be allowed to go on further trips. I also told them I would ask the chaperones to check on them to make sure they were wearing them. Connie tried to reason with me, but I used my “Head of the household card” (which I frankly didn’t know I even had), and she solemnly and begrudgingly took my side.
I didn’t actually ask their youth leaders to check on their seatbelt usage, because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t enforce it anyway. They had a lot of kids to watch out for, and satisfying the psychosis of one over-protective Dad would not be high on their “to-do” list.
That was a few years back, and I still pull out those belts when the kids go on trips. Each and every time they look at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. I don’t know if they actually use them, since I can’t be there to make sure, but I feel better knowing that I’ve tried. I hope that they know why I do it, and maybe they understand that although I don’t want them to look weird around the other kids or be uncomfortable; my top priority is to try to keep them safe. That’s what Dad’s do.
Which brings me back to Thursday morning: I’m sure that Ashlyn thought that I had forgotten, but she didn’t look terribly surprised when I pulled out the belts just before we left the house for the school. Connie, on the other hand, did look surprised when I handed her the second belt. She gave me a look that said, “You don’t expect me to wear this, do you?” I gave her a look that said, “Yes, I certainly do.”
It was brought up that there was not a belt for me, and I told them that if I had a third belt, I would wear it, but since I did not, I would bear the risk and leave the belts to them. I was prepared for a longer argument, and had planned to say that I had been too busy to think about the fact that I would need a belt. If pushed, I could also resort to the ugly implication that if they cared for me as much as I cared for them they would have ordered me one in advance. Fortunately, it did not come to that, and I’m sure that if it had, I would have found myself riding with the luggage under the bus.
We left the Oak Ridge High School parking lot a few minutes before 7am. Connie and I had prime seats, right in front, on the side opposite the driver. I had a clear view of the driver, speedometer, gauges and GPS. Before we reached the Interstate, I realized that this was not a good thing.
Our driver, James, was a very nice, soft-spoken older gentleman with a kind spirit and easy-going manner. He also scared me to death for most of the trip. Several times early in our drive he pulled out a small notebook and pen to make notes, apparently about our timing, gas usage or bird species we were passing along the way. Much as I have an issue of texting, putting on make-up or playing Jenga while driving, I am not crazy about people using both hands to write while they precariously guide the steering wheel with their knees.
After pointing this out to Connie, she became aware of my growing tension and grabbed my arm whenever James pulled out his pad and pen in an effort to keep me from yanking him out of the driver’s seat. Finally, somewhere past Chattanooga, I decided that I should simply let the man do his job and go to sleep. This was the first of many attempts over the next few days to let go of my controlling tendencies and try to relax. Sad to say, few of those attempts actually worked.
…to be continued
Connie has a theory (which she loves to share with others) that the reason I don’t relate to teenagers is because I was never a “teenager.” She jokes that I’ve been an adult, using adult logic, since I was ten years old. If that were true, it would explain a lot, but I don’t think I was some freaky Kentucky version of Star Trek’s Spock. At least, I hope not.
This past weekend, Connie and I chaperoned forty-six high school choral students on a trip to Orlando, Florida. I’m not exactly sure why I agreed to do this, other than the fact that my middle daughter Ashlyn was going and Connie planned to go whether I did or not. It was many months ago when I was asked and agreed, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I admit to some apprehension as we neared our Thursday morning departure. I hadn’t been on a bus since High School, and I had never ridden on a charter bus. I didn’t know what to expect. The concept of eleven hours in a confined space with that many teenagers seemed as foreign and uncomfortable to me as spending the night in a cave full of grizzly bears.
I shouldn’t have worried about the kids. We arrived Thursday morning at 6:30am and began loading our bags into the underbelly of the bus. Although there was a current of excitement flowing through the crowd over the prospect of the trip, in general we all still looked half asleep. Once we loaded the bus, pillows and blankets sent the kids into peaceful slumber. For the first several hours of the trip, all I heard was an occasional snore, cough or snort. It should have been a pleasant drive.
I have to stop here for a moment and explain my twisted history with “charter buses.” Although I had never been on one, I had seen a Dateline NBC story about a tragic bus accident in Atlanta in which several college baseball students were killed when they were thrown out of the massive windows of their bus during an accident. I was shocked to learn that seatbelts are not required on buses, and retrofitting them is considered “too expensive.”
The story made a considerable impression on me, and with the knowledge that my kids were soon travelling to the beach for a church youth trip and would be riding in one of these death machines, I vowed to do something. Searching the Internet, I was able to procure two portable seatbelts, capable of slipping over the back of the bus seat and securing the rider in place. Although I was thrilled with my purchase, my kids were not happy…at all.
Using my “parent card” (which I rarely resort to), I told them that they would use them on the trip or they would not be allowed to go on further trips. I also told them I would ask the chaperones to check on them to make sure they were wearing them. Connie tried to reason with me, but I used my “Head of the household card” (which I frankly didn’t know I even had), and she solemnly and begrudgingly took my side.
I didn’t actually ask their youth leaders to check on their seatbelt usage, because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t enforce it anyway. They had a lot of kids to watch out for, and satisfying the psychosis of one over-protective Dad would not be high on their “to-do” list.
That was a few years back, and I still pull out those belts when the kids go on trips. Each and every time they look at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. I don’t know if they actually use them, since I can’t be there to make sure, but I feel better knowing that I’ve tried. I hope that they know why I do it, and maybe they understand that although I don’t want them to look weird around the other kids or be uncomfortable; my top priority is to try to keep them safe. That’s what Dad’s do.
Which brings me back to Thursday morning: I’m sure that Ashlyn thought that I had forgotten, but she didn’t look terribly surprised when I pulled out the belts just before we left the house for the school. Connie, on the other hand, did look surprised when I handed her the second belt. She gave me a look that said, “You don’t expect me to wear this, do you?” I gave her a look that said, “Yes, I certainly do.”
It was brought up that there was not a belt for me, and I told them that if I had a third belt, I would wear it, but since I did not, I would bear the risk and leave the belts to them. I was prepared for a longer argument, and had planned to say that I had been too busy to think about the fact that I would need a belt. If pushed, I could also resort to the ugly implication that if they cared for me as much as I cared for them they would have ordered me one in advance. Fortunately, it did not come to that, and I’m sure that if it had, I would have found myself riding with the luggage under the bus.
We left the Oak Ridge High School parking lot a few minutes before 7am. Connie and I had prime seats, right in front, on the side opposite the driver. I had a clear view of the driver, speedometer, gauges and GPS. Before we reached the Interstate, I realized that this was not a good thing.
Our driver, James, was a very nice, soft-spoken older gentleman with a kind spirit and easy-going manner. He also scared me to death for most of the trip. Several times early in our drive he pulled out a small notebook and pen to make notes, apparently about our timing, gas usage or bird species we were passing along the way. Much as I have an issue of texting, putting on make-up or playing Jenga while driving, I am not crazy about people using both hands to write while they precariously guide the steering wheel with their knees.
After pointing this out to Connie, she became aware of my growing tension and grabbed my arm whenever James pulled out his pad and pen in an effort to keep me from yanking him out of the driver’s seat. Finally, somewhere past Chattanooga, I decided that I should simply let the man do his job and go to sleep. This was the first of many attempts over the next few days to let go of my controlling tendencies and try to relax. Sad to say, few of those attempts actually worked.
…to be continued
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Birmingham...part two
My Dad could drive for hours and hours and never need to stop for a bathroom break or for a drink or food. I’ve climbed into a truck with him in Shelbyville and not gotten out until we arrived just north of Chicago nearly eight hours later. From years of driving over the road, he was used to it (and I think he must have had an excessively large bladder). A little of that has been passed on to me, but I have also learned that making good time is not as important as having happy passengers and a wife that will speak to me when we reach our destination.
I like breaking up our trip in reasonable places. I am goal oriented, so I like to reward myself with a stop after reaching a certain point in the journey, like achieving the “half-way” point, or at least one hundred miles. Also, I like to drive a little hungry and a little cold. It keeps my edge. Warm and full makes me sleepy.
After many years of marriage, Connie and I have come to an understanding. If I say that we are going to “stop and eat” along the way, she now understands that I don’t mean within twenty miles of leaving home. She also knows that she needs to bring blankets for the car. I keep the air temperature at slightly above sub-artic. The girls have followed suit and they all have their “car blankets” and “car pillows.” Once they get cozy, I can put some miles behind us.
With four women, the need and frequency of bathroom breaks on road trips has been an issue. Connie and Shelby are pretty reasonable. They go when the opportunity presents itself and only request an emergency stop in dire situations (usually after several glasses of iced tea at the Cracker Barrel). Taylor is like a camel. We could drive for six hours without stopping and she would still say that she didn’t need to go. It’s a little scary.
Ashlyn, up until recently, was our problem child on trips. She could use the bathroom before we left the house, then ask to stop before we got to the other side of town (and our town ain’t that big). We quit giving her drinks before trips so we could drive at least thirty minutes without stopping. Worse yet, it was never “when you get the chance, I need to stop,” it was always “you have to stop NOW!” Fortunately, she seems to have outgrown this in the last few years, and we can now travel on a reasonable schedule.
I had told them to eat a snack before we left Oak Ridge and that we would stop near Chattanooga for dinner. This would not be quite half way, but I didn’t think I could push eating much past 9pm. I didn’t want to take the time for a sit down meal, so I told them that it would be fast food and for them to be thinking about where they wanted to go. I knew this was a waste of time, and I don’t know why I ever give a choice anyway.
Shelby likes Arby’s, but Taylor does not. Long John Silver’s, Krystal’s, KFC, etc. are deemed too greasy, could make them queasy. Taylor likes Taco Bell, but I refuse to feed them beans or any variation of Mexican food on a car trip. No one likes Hardees’s. The answer is almost always the same: McDonald’s.
Although there were a few McDonald’s on the north side of Chattanooga, my secret plan was to get to the other side before stopping. I knew that on I-75 there were lots of small towns just below the state line, so I assumed it would be the same on I-59. I was wrong.
I-59 connects interstate 24 out of Chattanooga with Birmingham. As soon as we exited off I-24 and started south, I realized that we had entered a dark, desolate stretch of road with little traffic and even less civilization. My family was not happy.
Connie is typically a warm, cheerful person and a joy to travel with. As we drove further from the lights of Chattanooga, however, I could feel a chill coming from her side of the car that had nothing to do with the cool driving temperature I preferred. She was getting hungry, and I didn’t blame her. It had been a long time since our light lunch at 11:30am and it was now nearing 10pm. My stomach was grumbling like an old tractor and I was really regretting my decision not to stop sooner.
The girls began asking when and where we would eat, how much further, and why had I betrayed them? My eyes searched each passing road sign for any hope of a Big Mac, Chicken McNuggets or Filet of Fish. Fearful of a mutiny, I sadly realized that I would settle for almost anything at that point, even Taco Bell or Beulah’s Big Bountiful Bowl of Beans. My fatherly responsibility was to feed my family, and I was failing miserably.
Finally, about thirty-five miles into Alabama, we reached a town whose road signs promised a McDonald’s. Gleefully, we exited the interstate and made our way the 1.2 miles down the road to the bright yellow arches and the small red and white building. It was an older restaurant, maybe one of the first McDonald’s from the look of it…and quite possibly the only place within an hour’s drive to eat. It was completely packed.
Shelby looked out the car window and with her usual dry tone said, “Let’s keep going. I don’t want to go there.”
I couldn’t believe it. For the last hour I had been in fear for my life, and now the mood had changed to “no big deal.”
I gauged from other comments that while the feeling was not completely mutual amongst the family, it was also just fine to continue searching. I reminded them that I had no idea how much farther we would have to go to reach another eating establishment, but the image of that tiny packed restaurant must have outweighed the hunger at that moment, because they all agreed to keep driving. “On the plus side,” Shelby said, “we’re in the Central Time Zone now, so it’s not as late as you think.” Our stomachs felt much better knowing that.
Forty miles further south we hit a mother-lode of fast food restaurants, and of course, another McDonalds. We stopped, hurried to the bathroom (except for Taylor), and with Combo meals in hand, grabbed a corner table and vacuumed up our food in an embarrassingly record amount of time.
Back on the road, everyone was in a better mood. There seemed to be a new energy in the car just knowing that we were out late on a Friday night, driving toward a city we had never been. Even I felt somewhat better, which could have been the food or maybe because the anti-biotic was finally kicking in. Whatever it was, the next few hours were peaceful and fun; road trip nirvana.
I like breaking up our trip in reasonable places. I am goal oriented, so I like to reward myself with a stop after reaching a certain point in the journey, like achieving the “half-way” point, or at least one hundred miles. Also, I like to drive a little hungry and a little cold. It keeps my edge. Warm and full makes me sleepy.
After many years of marriage, Connie and I have come to an understanding. If I say that we are going to “stop and eat” along the way, she now understands that I don’t mean within twenty miles of leaving home. She also knows that she needs to bring blankets for the car. I keep the air temperature at slightly above sub-artic. The girls have followed suit and they all have their “car blankets” and “car pillows.” Once they get cozy, I can put some miles behind us.
With four women, the need and frequency of bathroom breaks on road trips has been an issue. Connie and Shelby are pretty reasonable. They go when the opportunity presents itself and only request an emergency stop in dire situations (usually after several glasses of iced tea at the Cracker Barrel). Taylor is like a camel. We could drive for six hours without stopping and she would still say that she didn’t need to go. It’s a little scary.
Ashlyn, up until recently, was our problem child on trips. She could use the bathroom before we left the house, then ask to stop before we got to the other side of town (and our town ain’t that big). We quit giving her drinks before trips so we could drive at least thirty minutes without stopping. Worse yet, it was never “when you get the chance, I need to stop,” it was always “you have to stop NOW!” Fortunately, she seems to have outgrown this in the last few years, and we can now travel on a reasonable schedule.
I had told them to eat a snack before we left Oak Ridge and that we would stop near Chattanooga for dinner. This would not be quite half way, but I didn’t think I could push eating much past 9pm. I didn’t want to take the time for a sit down meal, so I told them that it would be fast food and for them to be thinking about where they wanted to go. I knew this was a waste of time, and I don’t know why I ever give a choice anyway.
Shelby likes Arby’s, but Taylor does not. Long John Silver’s, Krystal’s, KFC, etc. are deemed too greasy, could make them queasy. Taylor likes Taco Bell, but I refuse to feed them beans or any variation of Mexican food on a car trip. No one likes Hardees’s. The answer is almost always the same: McDonald’s.
Although there were a few McDonald’s on the north side of Chattanooga, my secret plan was to get to the other side before stopping. I knew that on I-75 there were lots of small towns just below the state line, so I assumed it would be the same on I-59. I was wrong.
I-59 connects interstate 24 out of Chattanooga with Birmingham. As soon as we exited off I-24 and started south, I realized that we had entered a dark, desolate stretch of road with little traffic and even less civilization. My family was not happy.
Connie is typically a warm, cheerful person and a joy to travel with. As we drove further from the lights of Chattanooga, however, I could feel a chill coming from her side of the car that had nothing to do with the cool driving temperature I preferred. She was getting hungry, and I didn’t blame her. It had been a long time since our light lunch at 11:30am and it was now nearing 10pm. My stomach was grumbling like an old tractor and I was really regretting my decision not to stop sooner.
The girls began asking when and where we would eat, how much further, and why had I betrayed them? My eyes searched each passing road sign for any hope of a Big Mac, Chicken McNuggets or Filet of Fish. Fearful of a mutiny, I sadly realized that I would settle for almost anything at that point, even Taco Bell or Beulah’s Big Bountiful Bowl of Beans. My fatherly responsibility was to feed my family, and I was failing miserably.
Finally, about thirty-five miles into Alabama, we reached a town whose road signs promised a McDonald’s. Gleefully, we exited the interstate and made our way the 1.2 miles down the road to the bright yellow arches and the small red and white building. It was an older restaurant, maybe one of the first McDonald’s from the look of it…and quite possibly the only place within an hour’s drive to eat. It was completely packed.
Shelby looked out the car window and with her usual dry tone said, “Let’s keep going. I don’t want to go there.”
I couldn’t believe it. For the last hour I had been in fear for my life, and now the mood had changed to “no big deal.”
I gauged from other comments that while the feeling was not completely mutual amongst the family, it was also just fine to continue searching. I reminded them that I had no idea how much farther we would have to go to reach another eating establishment, but the image of that tiny packed restaurant must have outweighed the hunger at that moment, because they all agreed to keep driving. “On the plus side,” Shelby said, “we’re in the Central Time Zone now, so it’s not as late as you think.” Our stomachs felt much better knowing that.
Forty miles further south we hit a mother-lode of fast food restaurants, and of course, another McDonalds. We stopped, hurried to the bathroom (except for Taylor), and with Combo meals in hand, grabbed a corner table and vacuumed up our food in an embarrassingly record amount of time.
Back on the road, everyone was in a better mood. There seemed to be a new energy in the car just knowing that we were out late on a Friday night, driving toward a city we had never been. Even I felt somewhat better, which could have been the food or maybe because the anti-biotic was finally kicking in. Whatever it was, the next few hours were peaceful and fun; road trip nirvana.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Birmingham...part one
I’ve learned that even though I’m in the vicinity of a conversation at my house, I am not often considered an integral part of it. After numerous polite reminders that I was not expected nor desired to participate, I eventually developed what the girls have now dubbed “Dad hearing.” This is something I no doubt inherited from my father. He was a Ninja master.
The ability to tune out or ignore chunks of or entire conversations is both a blessing and a curse. Although my girls would prefer that I stay out of any discussions involving boys, clothing, shopping, Twilight or homework, when I fail to respond immediately to the utterance of my name, I am thrown to the gallows, where deadbeat, uncaring fathers go to be punished and die.
It’s not really a fair system, and there is no way I can win. Invariably if I speak, it’s at the wrong time…and if I don’t speak, it’s assumed that I don’t care.
I surprised everyone a few weeks ago when Shelby mentioned how a planned weekend trip to Birmingham to visit her best friend Christine was going to be a problem because of her work schedule. The plan, which I was only vaguely aware of, was that Christine’s mom and another friend, Jori, were going to leave early on Friday afternoon. This created a conflict for Shelby since she does not get off work on Friday’s until after seven.
The surprise came when I made the offer, without being prompted, bribed or threatened, to take her to Birmingham myself. I didn’t realize at the time that my offer was so shocking, but apparently (or so I’ve been told since) this was an uncharacteristically generous and spur of the moment proclamation on my part. I had no idea I had such a stodgy reputation.
Time passed, and although I hadn’t forgotten my offer, it wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts. My initial idea was that I would drive her down right after work on Friday night, grab a room to get a little sleep, and then return home early Saturday morning. Easy enough. Shelby could ride back to Knoxville with Christine’s mom. It was a really good plan.
No, it wasn’t.
Last Monday, Connie calls while I am in DC and mentions the upcoming weekend, asking if I had reserved a rental car and gotten a room. I told her that I had not, but I would. Then she said something that made me backtrack over the entire conversation and every conversation we have had since I made the offer. I don’t know what she said exactly, but I suddenly realized that she had planned for all of us to go to Birmingham…and stay the weekend. I needed a new plan.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love a good road trip with my girls. Despite the fact that eighty percent of it is full of arguments over seating arrangements, what music is being listened to, and who has taken off their shoes, the twenty percent when everyone gets along can almost make you forget the rest. The spectacular harmony of them all laughing at the same time is a symphony that Mozart, Chopin and Bach could only dream of.
Let me explain about the rental car. We have three vehicles that run well and get us where we need to go, but like everything else, there are issues. All three have over one hundred thousand miles, and the only one that all five of us can ride in together (our minivan) has over one hundred and sixty. Like I said, it still runs great, but I don’t really trust it for long trips.
Now, I’ve crunched the numbers on getting a new car, but it doesn’t really make sense. On the rare occasion that we have to go on a road trip, it’s cheaper to rent than to take on the additional monthly cost of a car payment and insurance. Also, most of our trips are on weekends, so I use Enterprise and their half off weekend specials. It’s a great bargain…most of the time.
Back to our story, already in progress…
I reserved a car and a hotel room for the two nights we would be in Birmingham, and then I got sick. While still in Washington, I began to feel the familiar pressure and general yuckiness that leads into a sinus infection. Sort of like flu, but not likely to get you any sympathy, a sinus infection starts with a low-grade fever, stuffy nose, sore throat and the aching body of boxer after losing a fight. By the time I flew home on Wednesday, I was fairly miserable.
I was desperately hoping that a winter storm system would sweep through the south and cancel our plans, but our perky local meteorologist assured me that it would be a BEAUTIFUL weekend. Just my luck.
Connie generously offered to let me stay at home, saying she and the girls would go without me. Although I knew that this was a sincere offer, not some kind of test or trick, I couldn’t do that. With all my travel, time with family is rare enough. I couldn’t wimp out over what is perceived by most people to be a minor cold, not the horrifying dance with death that it actually is.
Friday came and I fumbled through my work day, hoping the anti-biotic and Tylenol would perform a miracle. By late afternoon I was a little better, but exhausted, so I threw a few things in a travel bag and took a nap until Shelby got home from work.
It’s funny how people can know they are going to do something, be reminded multiple times that they are going to do something, and even respond that they completely understand that they know they have to do something, yet when that time comes be completely unprepared. Ashlyn and Taylor knew the entire week that they were going to Birmingham. They knew before I knew that they were going to Birmingham. Despite the fact that they should automatically know that a weekend trip would require packing and a slight bit of thought as to what they might want to take, they were still reminded by their mother, and then by me, and then by both of us together. Nevertheless, in that last thirty minutes before we left, there was a mad scramble, arguments, and desperate searches for IPods, chargers, DVD’s and headphones.
The car was finally packed, so as soon as Shelby got home and changed clothes, we piled into our seats and buckled up. It’s a rare trip that I don’t have to go back inside the locked house at least once after we’ve all gotten in the car. There’s always something forgotten or unsure. Some light or appliance that needs to be checked. I don’t even mind anymore. It’s just another piece of the journey. This was one of those rare trips when I didn't go back.
We were fortunate that our rental car was a Kia Borrego, fitted with a third row seat. On the weekend special rentals I never know when I reserve a car what I’ll get. It’s kind of like Russian roulette when I pick it up. Sometimes we get a regular sedan, like an Impala or a Camry, but other times we get a mid-size SUV. Having a third row seat is a big deal when you have three kids. Separation equals peace, or at least more peace than if they are all crammed into one back seat.
At 7:30pm, with 267 miles to go, a low fever and four females who, unbeknownst to me, had synched up their monthly schedules and were all at the beginning of what I call “the cranky,” I pulled out of our driveway in Oak Ridge and headed southwest toward Birmingham, Alabama.
The ability to tune out or ignore chunks of or entire conversations is both a blessing and a curse. Although my girls would prefer that I stay out of any discussions involving boys, clothing, shopping, Twilight or homework, when I fail to respond immediately to the utterance of my name, I am thrown to the gallows, where deadbeat, uncaring fathers go to be punished and die.
It’s not really a fair system, and there is no way I can win. Invariably if I speak, it’s at the wrong time…and if I don’t speak, it’s assumed that I don’t care.
I surprised everyone a few weeks ago when Shelby mentioned how a planned weekend trip to Birmingham to visit her best friend Christine was going to be a problem because of her work schedule. The plan, which I was only vaguely aware of, was that Christine’s mom and another friend, Jori, were going to leave early on Friday afternoon. This created a conflict for Shelby since she does not get off work on Friday’s until after seven.
The surprise came when I made the offer, without being prompted, bribed or threatened, to take her to Birmingham myself. I didn’t realize at the time that my offer was so shocking, but apparently (or so I’ve been told since) this was an uncharacteristically generous and spur of the moment proclamation on my part. I had no idea I had such a stodgy reputation.
Time passed, and although I hadn’t forgotten my offer, it wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts. My initial idea was that I would drive her down right after work on Friday night, grab a room to get a little sleep, and then return home early Saturday morning. Easy enough. Shelby could ride back to Knoxville with Christine’s mom. It was a really good plan.
No, it wasn’t.
Last Monday, Connie calls while I am in DC and mentions the upcoming weekend, asking if I had reserved a rental car and gotten a room. I told her that I had not, but I would. Then she said something that made me backtrack over the entire conversation and every conversation we have had since I made the offer. I don’t know what she said exactly, but I suddenly realized that she had planned for all of us to go to Birmingham…and stay the weekend. I needed a new plan.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love a good road trip with my girls. Despite the fact that eighty percent of it is full of arguments over seating arrangements, what music is being listened to, and who has taken off their shoes, the twenty percent when everyone gets along can almost make you forget the rest. The spectacular harmony of them all laughing at the same time is a symphony that Mozart, Chopin and Bach could only dream of.
Let me explain about the rental car. We have three vehicles that run well and get us where we need to go, but like everything else, there are issues. All three have over one hundred thousand miles, and the only one that all five of us can ride in together (our minivan) has over one hundred and sixty. Like I said, it still runs great, but I don’t really trust it for long trips.
Now, I’ve crunched the numbers on getting a new car, but it doesn’t really make sense. On the rare occasion that we have to go on a road trip, it’s cheaper to rent than to take on the additional monthly cost of a car payment and insurance. Also, most of our trips are on weekends, so I use Enterprise and their half off weekend specials. It’s a great bargain…most of the time.
Back to our story, already in progress…
I reserved a car and a hotel room for the two nights we would be in Birmingham, and then I got sick. While still in Washington, I began to feel the familiar pressure and general yuckiness that leads into a sinus infection. Sort of like flu, but not likely to get you any sympathy, a sinus infection starts with a low-grade fever, stuffy nose, sore throat and the aching body of boxer after losing a fight. By the time I flew home on Wednesday, I was fairly miserable.
I was desperately hoping that a winter storm system would sweep through the south and cancel our plans, but our perky local meteorologist assured me that it would be a BEAUTIFUL weekend. Just my luck.
Connie generously offered to let me stay at home, saying she and the girls would go without me. Although I knew that this was a sincere offer, not some kind of test or trick, I couldn’t do that. With all my travel, time with family is rare enough. I couldn’t wimp out over what is perceived by most people to be a minor cold, not the horrifying dance with death that it actually is.
Friday came and I fumbled through my work day, hoping the anti-biotic and Tylenol would perform a miracle. By late afternoon I was a little better, but exhausted, so I threw a few things in a travel bag and took a nap until Shelby got home from work.
It’s funny how people can know they are going to do something, be reminded multiple times that they are going to do something, and even respond that they completely understand that they know they have to do something, yet when that time comes be completely unprepared. Ashlyn and Taylor knew the entire week that they were going to Birmingham. They knew before I knew that they were going to Birmingham. Despite the fact that they should automatically know that a weekend trip would require packing and a slight bit of thought as to what they might want to take, they were still reminded by their mother, and then by me, and then by both of us together. Nevertheless, in that last thirty minutes before we left, there was a mad scramble, arguments, and desperate searches for IPods, chargers, DVD’s and headphones.
The car was finally packed, so as soon as Shelby got home and changed clothes, we piled into our seats and buckled up. It’s a rare trip that I don’t have to go back inside the locked house at least once after we’ve all gotten in the car. There’s always something forgotten or unsure. Some light or appliance that needs to be checked. I don’t even mind anymore. It’s just another piece of the journey. This was one of those rare trips when I didn't go back.
We were fortunate that our rental car was a Kia Borrego, fitted with a third row seat. On the weekend special rentals I never know when I reserve a car what I’ll get. It’s kind of like Russian roulette when I pick it up. Sometimes we get a regular sedan, like an Impala or a Camry, but other times we get a mid-size SUV. Having a third row seat is a big deal when you have three kids. Separation equals peace, or at least more peace than if they are all crammed into one back seat.
At 7:30pm, with 267 miles to go, a low fever and four females who, unbeknownst to me, had synched up their monthly schedules and were all at the beginning of what I call “the cranky,” I pulled out of our driveway in Oak Ridge and headed southwest toward Birmingham, Alabama.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Weak-end
Although I spend more than half of my year on travel, it’s not too often that I spend the weekend in a hotel. A few times each year, when looking at some tight variance in my schedule, I decide that it’s easier and cheaper to stay put in DC rather than to go home and come back on a short turn-around. These plans are made a month or six weeks prior to that specific trip, and almost always (when I’m actually on that trip) I regret that decision and wish I had planned to go home, if even for part of one day.
This weekend the decision to stay put was easier because my second meeting (starting Sunday) is at one of my favorite hotels. The Courtyard Gaithersburg sits on the edge of a lake and is bordered on one side by an 18 screen movie theater and the other by a row of restaurants, coffee and book shops and a Super-Target (just in case I run out of underwear or socks). It’s a great place to be if I can’t be at home.
I arrived here Friday night after leaving my previous meeting location in Arlington, VA. The taxi driver was none too happy when he picked me up (expecting a quick trip to the nearby airport) and I told him that instead I needed to go twenty miles through heavy rush hour beltway traffic. Still, he was polite and accepted that like most of us, he must take the good with the bad. Since I was the “bad,” I tipped him well when we reached our destination safely and with no typical DC taxi driver NASCAR maneuvers.
My room is nice, with a beautiful view of the frozen lake. I unpacked quickly, making the room into my personal living space for the next five days. That first night I grabbed take-out from the California Pizza Kitchen next door and came back to my room for some HBO and relaxation.
I’ll use the excuse that I have a lot on my mind to explain why I always forget that people who come to hotels on weekends are totally different that the calm, sedate, serious people who are usually in hotels during the week. Business travelers have been in meetings or doing some other work all day long. Many are jet-lagged. We know that the alarm will go off early the next morning and we must spend yet another day doing the exact same thing. We ride the elevators quietly, staring silently at the floor or sometimes giving each other a nod and the shared expression of “yeah, I know.”
As I settled onto the couch and scanned the channels of the television, I heard the first of what would be a steady pattern of noise coming from the room next door and the hallway outside. Laughter…loud, raucous, obnoxious laughter…echoed into my room, mixed with voices raised to the level usually reserved for cheering at a high school football game.
I’ve been on this bus before, and I don’t like where it’s going. I called the front desk.
“Hello, this is Michelle, how can I help you Mr. Warford?”
“Uh, yeah…I was wondering if there were any floors where there aren’t any groups of…uh…do you have a floor where there aren’t any…uh…people?”
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“Well, it’s pretty loud on my floor. It sounds like there’s a party or something. I was wondering if there might be a quieter floor I could move to?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Warford, but we’ve got several groups in house this weekend. A reunion, two wedding parties and a few school groups. I’m not sure there’s a quieter floor, but I can send someone up to ask them to keep it down.”
I’ve played that scenario out in my head before and it never works out well. I’m always afraid that whoever comes up and tells them to be quiet will point at my room and say “that guy said that you need to shut up.” The next day the maids will find my door lock broken and my room is suddenly a crime scene. I thanked her for her offer and hung up the phone.
I listened to the voices. They were all relatively older. That was a good sign. They would probably go to bed early. I was grateful not to be on the floor with the school groups. Depending on the quality of the chaperones, the kids can party pretty late. This group sounded like they were already up past their bedtime, so their body clock and medication should start kicking in soon.
It sounded like there were four women in the room next to me. From the sound of her hacking cough, one appeared close to death. I also believe that all or part of them were hard of hearing, because everything they said was in a yell. I turned up my television to the point that my ears were nearly bleeding and I could still hear them yapping away.
Thankfully, their slumber party crashed at around 10:30pm; their dreams of reliving their youthful “all night gab-fests” falling victim to the ravages of age and wear. I can relate. I enjoyed another hour of relative peacefulness before I crashed myself.
I was hoping to sleep late, but the ladies were early risers. The sick one got up around 6:30am, slamming the door to her bathroom and spending at least fifteen minutes trying to cough the lungs out of her body. I covered my head with a pillow, but I could still hear her. Finally, I was so overwhelmed with both annoyance, concern and a little bit of nausea that I knew I would not go back to sleep.
I turned on the television and made a pot of horrible hotel room coffee. I’ve never had a good cup of in-room hotel coffee. I’m not sure why they even provide it, considering that it’s usually so weak and tasteless that it should really be called “brown water,” but then again, I keep making it, as I assume many others do, so they probably think we can’t get enough. We are our own worst enemies.
I had breakfast downstairs surrounded by who I assume were the reunion and wedding folk. There were not a lot of teenagers, so the school groups must have gone the fast food route. That was a good thing. They would have eaten all of the bacon in the buffet. As it were, the heaviest traffic was at the oatmeal station, so I took that as a sign to have some protein.
I was reminded why I like this hotel so much when I checked the movie schedule and found that there were showings as early as 9:30 in the morning. They don’t show movies in the morning in Tennessee. I think that it’s assumed that you are doing something productive at least until noon.
I sauntered over and settled in for a showing of the Mel Gibson movie, Edge of Darkness. I used to see movies at least once a week, but I’m considerably behind right now. This would be a good time to catch up. After the movie, I strolled around the lake and enjoyed the early afternoon sunshine. It was such a beautiful day that I almost forgot about the annoyance factor of my fellow hotel guests.
I grabbed take-out from California Pizza Kitchen again. After trying and loving their Jambalaya Friday night, I couldn’t resist getting it once more. I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Also, one thing I have learned in my excessive travel…repetition is comforting.
On my way back into the hotel lobby with my bag of Cajun goodness, I ran into a cluster of Stepford teens that I could only guess was part of the school group I had heard about. This clique must have been restricted to slender brunettes with dark eyes, and smiles that were only used for private jokes and insincere taunting.
They were walking just ahead of me in the narrow hall that leads to the elevators. A few glanced over the shoulder in my direction, and then turned back and giggled. I had checked my zipper carefully before I left the room and knew it was not down, so I assumed they were giggling because I was alone and they were in their element.
Like a wolf pack, they felt strong. I was older, but considered weak. Somehow, at such a young age, they had the presumption that they were better than everyone else. I didn’t care. I’ve seen their kind before. I’ve been laughed at before. When I was younger, it bothered me. Now that I’m older, I could care less. I’m also aware of their weak spots.
They reached the elevator just as the door opened and an older couple exited. The girls pushed past them and turned to face me as I approached. They looked at me like I was trying to break into their party, but I had no interest in getting on the elevator with them. I would gladly wait for the next car.
One of the girls, probably the ringleader, gave me a quick once over and said in a sarcastic tone, “Sorry, but I don’t think there’s room for anyone else.” The other girls giggled. One in the back put her hand over her mouth to stop a laugh.
I nodded my head in agreement and smiled. “I think you’re right,” I said. I surprised them by putting my hand out and halting the door when it was trying to close. They stopped giggling. I leaned in a little and looked around. “These things are supposed hold several more people, but it looks like you girls have taken up all the space. You’re probably pushing the weight limit too. I’ll catch the next one.”
I reached over and hit the “door close” button and stepped back. Their confused faces quickly disappeared behind the sliding silver panels. I’m sure they talked about me as they went to their rooms. To them I was just some weird, overweight old guy who didn’t know what he was talking about. But if I planted even one tiny seed of self-doubt in any of their spoiled, overly-entitled little minds, I feel like I did the world a great service.
As soon as they were gone, I grabbed the next elevator back to my floor, where a night of laughing, wheezing and loud talk awaited. I was grateful. They would all be gone soon, leaving me to the quiet hallways more suitable for the weekday, business traveler.
.
This weekend the decision to stay put was easier because my second meeting (starting Sunday) is at one of my favorite hotels. The Courtyard Gaithersburg sits on the edge of a lake and is bordered on one side by an 18 screen movie theater and the other by a row of restaurants, coffee and book shops and a Super-Target (just in case I run out of underwear or socks). It’s a great place to be if I can’t be at home.
I arrived here Friday night after leaving my previous meeting location in Arlington, VA. The taxi driver was none too happy when he picked me up (expecting a quick trip to the nearby airport) and I told him that instead I needed to go twenty miles through heavy rush hour beltway traffic. Still, he was polite and accepted that like most of us, he must take the good with the bad. Since I was the “bad,” I tipped him well when we reached our destination safely and with no typical DC taxi driver NASCAR maneuvers.
My room is nice, with a beautiful view of the frozen lake. I unpacked quickly, making the room into my personal living space for the next five days. That first night I grabbed take-out from the California Pizza Kitchen next door and came back to my room for some HBO and relaxation.
I’ll use the excuse that I have a lot on my mind to explain why I always forget that people who come to hotels on weekends are totally different that the calm, sedate, serious people who are usually in hotels during the week. Business travelers have been in meetings or doing some other work all day long. Many are jet-lagged. We know that the alarm will go off early the next morning and we must spend yet another day doing the exact same thing. We ride the elevators quietly, staring silently at the floor or sometimes giving each other a nod and the shared expression of “yeah, I know.”
As I settled onto the couch and scanned the channels of the television, I heard the first of what would be a steady pattern of noise coming from the room next door and the hallway outside. Laughter…loud, raucous, obnoxious laughter…echoed into my room, mixed with voices raised to the level usually reserved for cheering at a high school football game.
I’ve been on this bus before, and I don’t like where it’s going. I called the front desk.
“Hello, this is Michelle, how can I help you Mr. Warford?”
“Uh, yeah…I was wondering if there were any floors where there aren’t any groups of…uh…do you have a floor where there aren’t any…uh…people?”
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“Well, it’s pretty loud on my floor. It sounds like there’s a party or something. I was wondering if there might be a quieter floor I could move to?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Warford, but we’ve got several groups in house this weekend. A reunion, two wedding parties and a few school groups. I’m not sure there’s a quieter floor, but I can send someone up to ask them to keep it down.”
I’ve played that scenario out in my head before and it never works out well. I’m always afraid that whoever comes up and tells them to be quiet will point at my room and say “that guy said that you need to shut up.” The next day the maids will find my door lock broken and my room is suddenly a crime scene. I thanked her for her offer and hung up the phone.
I listened to the voices. They were all relatively older. That was a good sign. They would probably go to bed early. I was grateful not to be on the floor with the school groups. Depending on the quality of the chaperones, the kids can party pretty late. This group sounded like they were already up past their bedtime, so their body clock and medication should start kicking in soon.
It sounded like there were four women in the room next to me. From the sound of her hacking cough, one appeared close to death. I also believe that all or part of them were hard of hearing, because everything they said was in a yell. I turned up my television to the point that my ears were nearly bleeding and I could still hear them yapping away.
Thankfully, their slumber party crashed at around 10:30pm; their dreams of reliving their youthful “all night gab-fests” falling victim to the ravages of age and wear. I can relate. I enjoyed another hour of relative peacefulness before I crashed myself.
I was hoping to sleep late, but the ladies were early risers. The sick one got up around 6:30am, slamming the door to her bathroom and spending at least fifteen minutes trying to cough the lungs out of her body. I covered my head with a pillow, but I could still hear her. Finally, I was so overwhelmed with both annoyance, concern and a little bit of nausea that I knew I would not go back to sleep.
I turned on the television and made a pot of horrible hotel room coffee. I’ve never had a good cup of in-room hotel coffee. I’m not sure why they even provide it, considering that it’s usually so weak and tasteless that it should really be called “brown water,” but then again, I keep making it, as I assume many others do, so they probably think we can’t get enough. We are our own worst enemies.
I had breakfast downstairs surrounded by who I assume were the reunion and wedding folk. There were not a lot of teenagers, so the school groups must have gone the fast food route. That was a good thing. They would have eaten all of the bacon in the buffet. As it were, the heaviest traffic was at the oatmeal station, so I took that as a sign to have some protein.
I was reminded why I like this hotel so much when I checked the movie schedule and found that there were showings as early as 9:30 in the morning. They don’t show movies in the morning in Tennessee. I think that it’s assumed that you are doing something productive at least until noon.
I sauntered over and settled in for a showing of the Mel Gibson movie, Edge of Darkness. I used to see movies at least once a week, but I’m considerably behind right now. This would be a good time to catch up. After the movie, I strolled around the lake and enjoyed the early afternoon sunshine. It was such a beautiful day that I almost forgot about the annoyance factor of my fellow hotel guests.
I grabbed take-out from California Pizza Kitchen again. After trying and loving their Jambalaya Friday night, I couldn’t resist getting it once more. I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Also, one thing I have learned in my excessive travel…repetition is comforting.
On my way back into the hotel lobby with my bag of Cajun goodness, I ran into a cluster of Stepford teens that I could only guess was part of the school group I had heard about. This clique must have been restricted to slender brunettes with dark eyes, and smiles that were only used for private jokes and insincere taunting.
They were walking just ahead of me in the narrow hall that leads to the elevators. A few glanced over the shoulder in my direction, and then turned back and giggled. I had checked my zipper carefully before I left the room and knew it was not down, so I assumed they were giggling because I was alone and they were in their element.
Like a wolf pack, they felt strong. I was older, but considered weak. Somehow, at such a young age, they had the presumption that they were better than everyone else. I didn’t care. I’ve seen their kind before. I’ve been laughed at before. When I was younger, it bothered me. Now that I’m older, I could care less. I’m also aware of their weak spots.
They reached the elevator just as the door opened and an older couple exited. The girls pushed past them and turned to face me as I approached. They looked at me like I was trying to break into their party, but I had no interest in getting on the elevator with them. I would gladly wait for the next car.
One of the girls, probably the ringleader, gave me a quick once over and said in a sarcastic tone, “Sorry, but I don’t think there’s room for anyone else.” The other girls giggled. One in the back put her hand over her mouth to stop a laugh.
I nodded my head in agreement and smiled. “I think you’re right,” I said. I surprised them by putting my hand out and halting the door when it was trying to close. They stopped giggling. I leaned in a little and looked around. “These things are supposed hold several more people, but it looks like you girls have taken up all the space. You’re probably pushing the weight limit too. I’ll catch the next one.”
I reached over and hit the “door close” button and stepped back. Their confused faces quickly disappeared behind the sliding silver panels. I’m sure they talked about me as they went to their rooms. To them I was just some weird, overweight old guy who didn’t know what he was talking about. But if I planted even one tiny seed of self-doubt in any of their spoiled, overly-entitled little minds, I feel like I did the world a great service.
As soon as they were gone, I grabbed the next elevator back to my floor, where a night of laughing, wheezing and loud talk awaited. I was grateful. They would all be gone soon, leaving me to the quiet hallways more suitable for the weekday, business traveler.
.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Cold Day in Heaven
As I watched the snow pile up outside my hotel room window last week during the back to back blizzards attacking Washington DC, I couldn’t help but wish my kids were there with me. We’ve not had a big snow like that in their lifetime, and the few inches we usually get in Tennessee barely reach the top of the grass. A sled run quickly turns muddy, turning the beauty of the winter landscape into a dirty, sloppy mess.
Almost every day throughout the winter, my youngest daughter Taylor excitedly asks if it is going to snow. I remember that feeling well. I asked the same question of my parents each cold, frosty night from January thru March. I answer her much like my father answered me, with little faith in the magic of the clouds and the power of a thousand kids praying for a snow day. It was the only time I didn’t really believe my Dad was going to be right, and I’m sure Taylor doesn’t believe me either (although she feels that way on many more subjects than I ever did with my parents). I fell asleep with the promise of snow in my dreams, believing that when I awoke the next morning, there would be a blanket of white outside my window.
As far as kids are concerned, snow days are like a surprise late Christmas gift from God. Although they are usually bored and whiny by 11am, the promise of a little extra sleep and a day at home is overpowering. I never understood why parents didn’t get as excited over schools closing for snow as kids did…until I was a parent. That’s when I learned that it’s very rare to get a “snow day” from work (for some reason, if you get paid, they expect you to be there). Also, someone has to deal with the kids for the day.
When the home routine is broken, tension levels rise. Connie is used to having the day all to herself. She gets the kids off to school, me off to work; she sips some coffee, answers some email, watches a little of the Today show. Then she works…at her pace, without interruption.
Snow days ruin her plans. Not that she hates having the kids or me around, but we are kind of annoying. She doesn’t get a lot done on snow days because someone is always yelling. Either they are yelling at each other over some perceived injustice, or they are yelling for Mom to get something, fix something, look at something or answer something that they should already know the answer to.
Connie tries very hard to get them out of the house early and often, but that requires a considerable amount of work. Gathering coats, gloves, boots, sleds, etc., takes a lot of effort, and although the kids can’t wait to get out there and play, they don’t seem to have the skill set to prepare for it without extensive help.
I don’t know about most people, but we don’t think about snow gear until there is snow on the ground and we can’t get our car out of the drive. That means that the boots that fit last year are too tight now, and the waterproof gloves have mysteriously disappeared. All that is left in the “winter clothing drawer” are some mismatched cotton mittens and a toddler snow suit that was outgrown eight years ago.
Sleds are kept in our outside storage, usually covered up by coolers, camping supplies, empty bags of peat moss and a million microscopic cobwebs. Since no one else will venture into the back of our storage building, I somehow find myself crawling awkwardly over my lawnmower, arms outstretched while I get pummeled by falling rakes and shovels. When I finally stagger outside, sleds in tow, the kids know better than to say “what took you so long?”
Throughout the summer months we often complain about our back yard. Too steep for any game play (if you start running at the top, it’s hard to stop running until you hit the fence at the bottom of the hill), we usually go to one of our local parks to play. Those same features, however, make it a pretty great yard for sledding. There are a few trees to dodge if you go off course, but the central strip is just right to build up some decent speed. Although the fence can seem to be approaching pretty fast, we’ve learned exactly when and where to roll off the sled to avoid any ugly accidents.
For all the trouble it takes to get the mass of snow gear together, you’d think that they would stay out most of the day, but that would be far too easy. Usually after no more than an hour, they come back in, muddy and wet, dripping and tracking all over the floor, demanding hot chocolate and food. Soon they are in pajamas, covered up by soft blankets, watching the Disney Channel and wondering if they will have school the next day. It’s barely noon.
It’s great to be a kid.
It takes me back to the winter of 1977. We had snow, then some more snow, topped off by even more snow. I think I was out of school for the entire month of January. It was great...until we had to go to school every Saturday in May and for half of June to make up all the time we missed. You don’t think about those things at the time though. Kid’s minds don’t deal in consequences.
Unlike my current yard, our yard growing up was flat. The alley way behind us however, had a slight slope, and after a few trucks had tamped down the snow, it made for a pretty good run. Dad built a sled for us, welding the rails and cross bars, and topped it off with a piece of plywood. I don’t know how fast we went, but in my mind, it was a rocket.
A friend of Dad’s came with a tractor and scraped our driveway, creating a huge pile of snow in the corner of our yard. With a small shovel and hours of determination, we made a snow cave; big enough for several of us to get inside and contemplate how amazingly cool it was that we had our own snow cave. As I recall, that cave lasted until mid-June.
The timing of that school free month was perfect, at least for me, because I got to stay up late for the eight nights of the television miniseries Roots. It was a turning point for me, as my 13 year old eyes saw something different than reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island. Obviously I was aware of slavery and had studied and been tested in very general terms in Social Studies class, but I did not understand it on a personal level. Roots changed that. I will never forget experiencing the saga of Kunta Kinte, Chicken George, Kizzy and Fiddler. American History changed for me that month.
Another highlight of winter when I was a kid was snow-cream. It was plentiful and cheap, so we ate it until our stomach hurt and our internal body temperature dropped by ten degrees. The next day, we’d do the same thing again. Today, we’re a little afraid of eating snow out of fear of what might be in the atmosphere, particularly where I live. A few bowls of Oak Ridge snow-cream and you might start to glow.
As good as my memories are from my own childhood snow days, and despite my griping over the mud and the gear and the cobweb covered sleds, I have to admit that I just might be enjoying these weather related closings a little bit more. Nothing in my memory is quite as great as the sight of my own children having a good time. Even at their most irritating and selfish (and let’s face it, kids are really good at both of those things), they are my kids. Seeing them happy is the best memory of all.
Almost every day throughout the winter, my youngest daughter Taylor excitedly asks if it is going to snow. I remember that feeling well. I asked the same question of my parents each cold, frosty night from January thru March. I answer her much like my father answered me, with little faith in the magic of the clouds and the power of a thousand kids praying for a snow day. It was the only time I didn’t really believe my Dad was going to be right, and I’m sure Taylor doesn’t believe me either (although she feels that way on many more subjects than I ever did with my parents). I fell asleep with the promise of snow in my dreams, believing that when I awoke the next morning, there would be a blanket of white outside my window.
As far as kids are concerned, snow days are like a surprise late Christmas gift from God. Although they are usually bored and whiny by 11am, the promise of a little extra sleep and a day at home is overpowering. I never understood why parents didn’t get as excited over schools closing for snow as kids did…until I was a parent. That’s when I learned that it’s very rare to get a “snow day” from work (for some reason, if you get paid, they expect you to be there). Also, someone has to deal with the kids for the day.
When the home routine is broken, tension levels rise. Connie is used to having the day all to herself. She gets the kids off to school, me off to work; she sips some coffee, answers some email, watches a little of the Today show. Then she works…at her pace, without interruption.
Snow days ruin her plans. Not that she hates having the kids or me around, but we are kind of annoying. She doesn’t get a lot done on snow days because someone is always yelling. Either they are yelling at each other over some perceived injustice, or they are yelling for Mom to get something, fix something, look at something or answer something that they should already know the answer to.
Connie tries very hard to get them out of the house early and often, but that requires a considerable amount of work. Gathering coats, gloves, boots, sleds, etc., takes a lot of effort, and although the kids can’t wait to get out there and play, they don’t seem to have the skill set to prepare for it without extensive help.
I don’t know about most people, but we don’t think about snow gear until there is snow on the ground and we can’t get our car out of the drive. That means that the boots that fit last year are too tight now, and the waterproof gloves have mysteriously disappeared. All that is left in the “winter clothing drawer” are some mismatched cotton mittens and a toddler snow suit that was outgrown eight years ago.
Sleds are kept in our outside storage, usually covered up by coolers, camping supplies, empty bags of peat moss and a million microscopic cobwebs. Since no one else will venture into the back of our storage building, I somehow find myself crawling awkwardly over my lawnmower, arms outstretched while I get pummeled by falling rakes and shovels. When I finally stagger outside, sleds in tow, the kids know better than to say “what took you so long?”
Throughout the summer months we often complain about our back yard. Too steep for any game play (if you start running at the top, it’s hard to stop running until you hit the fence at the bottom of the hill), we usually go to one of our local parks to play. Those same features, however, make it a pretty great yard for sledding. There are a few trees to dodge if you go off course, but the central strip is just right to build up some decent speed. Although the fence can seem to be approaching pretty fast, we’ve learned exactly when and where to roll off the sled to avoid any ugly accidents.
For all the trouble it takes to get the mass of snow gear together, you’d think that they would stay out most of the day, but that would be far too easy. Usually after no more than an hour, they come back in, muddy and wet, dripping and tracking all over the floor, demanding hot chocolate and food. Soon they are in pajamas, covered up by soft blankets, watching the Disney Channel and wondering if they will have school the next day. It’s barely noon.
It’s great to be a kid.
It takes me back to the winter of 1977. We had snow, then some more snow, topped off by even more snow. I think I was out of school for the entire month of January. It was great...until we had to go to school every Saturday in May and for half of June to make up all the time we missed. You don’t think about those things at the time though. Kid’s minds don’t deal in consequences.
Unlike my current yard, our yard growing up was flat. The alley way behind us however, had a slight slope, and after a few trucks had tamped down the snow, it made for a pretty good run. Dad built a sled for us, welding the rails and cross bars, and topped it off with a piece of plywood. I don’t know how fast we went, but in my mind, it was a rocket.
A friend of Dad’s came with a tractor and scraped our driveway, creating a huge pile of snow in the corner of our yard. With a small shovel and hours of determination, we made a snow cave; big enough for several of us to get inside and contemplate how amazingly cool it was that we had our own snow cave. As I recall, that cave lasted until mid-June.
The timing of that school free month was perfect, at least for me, because I got to stay up late for the eight nights of the television miniseries Roots. It was a turning point for me, as my 13 year old eyes saw something different than reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island. Obviously I was aware of slavery and had studied and been tested in very general terms in Social Studies class, but I did not understand it on a personal level. Roots changed that. I will never forget experiencing the saga of Kunta Kinte, Chicken George, Kizzy and Fiddler. American History changed for me that month.
Another highlight of winter when I was a kid was snow-cream. It was plentiful and cheap, so we ate it until our stomach hurt and our internal body temperature dropped by ten degrees. The next day, we’d do the same thing again. Today, we’re a little afraid of eating snow out of fear of what might be in the atmosphere, particularly where I live. A few bowls of Oak Ridge snow-cream and you might start to glow.
As good as my memories are from my own childhood snow days, and despite my griping over the mud and the gear and the cobweb covered sleds, I have to admit that I just might be enjoying these weather related closings a little bit more. Nothing in my memory is quite as great as the sight of my own children having a good time. Even at their most irritating and selfish (and let’s face it, kids are really good at both of those things), they are my kids. Seeing them happy is the best memory of all.
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