The Italian Tour '08

It wasn't a tour at all, actually. I visited exactly three places, all of which I've been to several times before: Domodossola, Gallarate, and Milan. But this trip wasn't about seeing Italy, it was about reconnecting with family, most of all, my grandmother, who recently spent two months in the hospital, where she nearly died. She turned 83 last Monday, and I was able to share a birthday with her for the first time in my life. Seeing her was bittersweet, as she's now forced to attach herself to this large canister which pumps oxygen through a long tube that she clips into her nose. Apparently, she's not getting enough oxygen into her blood cells, so she needs this contraption to survive. She even has to sleep with the stupid thing connected. The tube is long enough to reach her bedroom and the bathroom. The only time she took it out was to eat. This woman has survived two World Wars, the early death of my grandfather at 55, and the loss of a son, my uncle, who was only 48 when he died of a heart attack eleven years ago. She's 83 but she looks more like she's 95.

It was a stark change. I remember visiting her as a kid when she cooked dinner for the entire family, did our laundry every day, and spent every other available minute cleaning her apartment like a maniac. Getting old sucks, if you didn't know that already. Your body has a shelf life, and every day that passes brings you closer to its expiration date. It's never clearer to me than when I visit my relatives over there every few years and see how everyone has changed with age. When you see people every day, you don't really notice how time takes its toll. When you see them every few years, it's cold water in the face.

But I had fun. I spent a lot of time watching bad Italian television with my grandmother, which is about all she can manage, since she's not supposed to exert herself. You'll be happy to know that every piece of shit programming we have here has replicated and manifested itself over there like a nasty virus. They have their own version of Big Brother, their own version of American Idol called La Corrida, which was actually quite entertaining. I witnessed the worst impersonation of Madonna singing La Isla Bonita since, well, Madonna. (Of all her songs, why pick that piece of melodramatic crapola to sing?) I also watched various and sundry Oprah-style shows, including one where they set up these young, attractive men and women on dates and then report back on how they went. But that's not all. Along with accompanying video, a la The Real World, they pick out more attractive men and women from the audience to criticize the daters they're watching. Perhaps the man was too cold and unreceptive to the obvious interest of the young lady. Perhaps he had another girlfriend on the side and was only pretending to be single. Perhaps the girl went to visit said girlfriend and confront her. Maybe the man got angry because she doubted him when he told her they were just friends. Maybe after the girl left, the man took a suitcase out of the trunk of the show's Mercedes limo, buzzed his "friend" at her apartment and spent the night there. Don't be silly, nothing happened. The audience had a field day with him.

After a couple of days with my grandmother, aunt, and cousins down in Gallarate, I ventured up to Domodossola, which is a small city in the Italian Alps, on the border with Switzerland. Most of my relatives live there, and it's the place I remember most from past visits. The city -- it's more like a town, really -- is incredibly picturesque. I'm thinking about retiring there someday, maybe living there for 6 months and here for 6 months. I'll write more about it when I post my pictures. Anyhoo, every time I go there, I feel like I'm dreaming, it's so beautiful. Unfortunately, on this visit, virtually every minute was occupied with visiting cousins, second cousins, great aunts, and the cemetary where my grandfather, uncle, and great-grandmother are buried. I felt like a human pinball -- they were gratifying reunions, but totally exhausting at the same time.

I spent my last night visiting my cousin and his extremely sexy girlfriend in Milan. (This is inappropriate, but fuck it. She has these olive eyes that look right through you when she's talking to you, a cute singsong voice, and this simple, genuine sweetness about her that amplifies her attractiveness. It's all quite dizzying.) They live in a New York-type studio loft apartment in the middle of the city, which is occupied by themselves and these two yappy, and extremely possessive Chihuahuas, who are cute as hell and pee a lot (wherever they feel like it). Unfortunately, by that time, I was a virtual zombie from all the traveling, being bummed out about possibly not seeing my grandmother again, and all the Sudafed I was taking for a cold I'd acquired somewhere in my travels. I really like Milan though, it's so much like New York and it has all the best of Italy there: great clothes, great food, beautiful women, and an up-all-night vibe. I'll have to spend more time there the next time I go. Before I knew it, my cousin's girlfriend was accompanying my preoccupied ass to Linate and my vacation was over.

Now I'm back at work. Total. Buzzkill.

Liveblog - Orlando, FL

T. here, liveblogging from Orlando, Florida, where I will be attending a securities industry conference for the next four days. A few observations from my first 24 hours:

Florida is fucking flat as hell. I've been here several times before, and for some reason, every time I visit, I can't believe how flat this state is. Driving in and looking out my hotel room window last night, all I could see was a straight green line on the horizon, interrupted by the occasional resort hotel. There's no skyline to speak of and barely any trees. New Hampshire doesn't have much of a skyline either, but at least we gots us some ta-rees! I guess if I want trees, I'll have to hit the Everglades.

Kids are noisy and my tolerance for kid noise is right above a brick to the kneecap. Squealing, crying, yelling, whooping, hooting, hollering, screaming, whining, moaning. And that's just the parents! (Rim shot) I just can't deal. When I travel, heck, even when I don't travel, I don't want to hear any of that bullshit. I want to sit by the pool, book in hand, and burn myself to a lobster red in silence. Silencio!! I got here late yesterday, so I had to take what I could find when it came to getting a seat by the pool. Unfortunately, the only seat available was near Kid Central in the "lazy river pool." Another thing I hate at these hotels is "lazy river pools" -- they're like neon bug zappers to children. They get in their inner tubes, float there all day, hootin' all the while, and they never f'n leave. So I sat there with my iPod on until the sun began to go down and most of the rugrats left. They're like reverse vampires. Once the sun sets, they have to get back inside or they'll buuurrrrn. As soon as they were gone, this black dude in ankle length "shorts" and dreads down to his shoulders sat down two seats from me and began talking into his cell phone like he was in one of those Wazzzzupppp!! commercials. Ten minutes later, I waved the white flag and surrendered to my hotel room.

To be fair though, I'm in Orlando, Florida, home of Disney Land, Universal Studios, Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, and all their wascally friends. I'm on kids turf. I get it. So while I'm ranting a bit, I fully understand that it is I who is the interloper here, not they. We'll just have to have a detente over the next few days, as we both try to accomplish our respective professional and personal goals here in Orlando.

I've encountered several adults as well, who are simply clueless. Two examples:

1. Two pot-bellied, middle-aged dudes with tattoos and earrings who, notwithstanding the availability of about 30 empty pool chairs to my immediate right at 10:30 this morning, decided to plant themselves right next to me, on the left. Fucking tools. I had them pegged for gay -- which is fine, just cruise somewhere else -- until one of them called his wife on his cell phone. He called her "Honey Bunny" (gag) and took 10 minutes to tell her where she could find her missing phone charger. The other one left for awhile, mercifully, then returned two hours later with an enormous cigar. When he saw that nobody was getting annoyed at the smell -- cigar smokers love to be noticed and particularly love it when people get offended at the stink, probably the only two reasons they smoke cigars in the first place -- he left, probably to find a place with more people to annoy.

I don't know. Maybe I'm putting out the wrong vibe with my bathing suit, which is pink and decorated with large blue strawberries. Maybe I should have brought my blue one with shipwheels. On the upside, some cute ladies in bikinis sat across from me and stuck around all afternoon, so the annoyance factor was effectively a wash. Fortunately for me, I brought along my ginormous, reflective Blue Blocker sunglasses, so I was able to "read my magazines" all afternoon.

2. A loudmouth horseface who engaged in an extended public conversation across the aisle of pool chairs with an equally loudmouthed woman in a one-piece. No idea that maybe the people around them could give a rat's ass about the fight he almost got into 30 years ago, or the rules of volleyball.

But I've learned you have to be nice to everybody at these conferences because you never know if the person who is annoying the hell out of you is a potential client or worse, already a client. Or the wife of a client. Or the kid of the wife of a client (and the client). So naturally, I keep my intolerant and hypersensitive thoughts to myself. Good thing no one can read minds.

Last night I was so lame. I got here a day early so I could relax a bit before the conference started. After I returned to my hotel room from the pool, I was so tired that I didn't even feel like getting up to get dinner. I did a little reading, watched UNC nearly get upset by Louisville, then put on the HBO and watched this Chris Rock movie that was surprisingly okay; it was called I Think I Love My Wife, or something. Then I switched to the History Channel, which had on a show about The Big Bang and the origin of the universe -- I love that stuff -- and before I knew it, I was out. I hardly ever fall asleep in front of the television. I'll bet 67 year olds have more exciting Saturday nights.

Well, I am sure I will make up for it tonight. Our first cocktail hour starts at six and plenty of work colleagues are here to keep me awake. Ta for now.

Nice Beemer!

SCENE: New Year's Eve, December 31, 2007. Somewhere on Route 89, approximately, 3:30 p.m.

I'm sitting in the driver's seat of my 3 week-old, brand-spankin' new, 2008 BMW 335 xi coupe (monaco blue, saddle brown seats, manual, 300 hp), cruising down Route 89 in Vermont, on my way to Burlington for New Year's Eve. To my right sits R., a/k/a the Highlander, a/k/a a loyal reader of this blog, who is visiting from Scotland.

BACKSTORY: The day before, in an effort to do something different for New Year's Eve and avoid amateur night in NYC, I had the brilliant idea to drive to Burlington for the day. I figured that a three hour drive up north would be a nice way to start the new year. After purchasing a non-refundable hotel reservation, I Googled the directions to Burlington and discovered, to my chagrin, that Burlington is in fact 400 miles away from New York. That's a six (6)-hour drive, each way, not three. Upon learning this disturbing factoid, I donned the Nick Cage Honeymoon in Vegas face:


I didn't take it well. But the following morning, we got on the road early, around 8:30 a.m., and as we flew through Connecticut and Massachusetts, my mood improved. The ride up was quicker than I thought it would be, and the scenery along Route 91 was a veritable winter wonderland: evergreen trees covered in snow, their thick branches intermittently cast in orange from the sunlight breaking through the clouds. Red farmhouses, miles of open fields, iced-over ponds. It felt like we were driving in that old Dream Academy video, Life In A Northern Town. Just beautiful.

RETURN TO PRESENT: Around 3:30, we reach Route 89 -- the homestretch -- and it begins to snow. (Another thing I forgot to do before embarking on this little adventure was check the weather report.) The white stuff falls gradually at first, but by 4:30, it's a full-on snowstorm. If a blizzard is a Category 5, then this was a Category 3 or so. Not wholly debilitating, but not a trifle either. By this time, we'd been on the road for nearly eight hours. I'm tired and eager to get my ass to Burlington so I can relax and enjoy some celebratin' on the last night of the year.

Soon the two-lane highway is blanketed in snow and ice. I notice that the car isn't gripping the road as well as before, and I don't like it. Even though I've got all-wheel drive, I don't have snow tires, and the car just isn't built for driving through the tundra. Complicating matters, our two lanes have been reduced to one, and the traffic is building.

"When we get to Burlington, we should find a wine store," says R.

"Yeah, let's figure that out when we get there," I answer, with too much bite.

Less than a minute later, the beige minivan in front of me hits the brakes hard, stopping suddenly on a dime. I'm less than ten yards behind him, in 4th gear, going too fast. "Fffuck!"

Now, I grew up in New Hampshire, so driving in the snow isn't completely foreign to me. Indeed, one time back in my youth, when I was still a romantic, I was on Christmas break and really missing my college girlfriend, who'd returned home to New Jersey when school let out. I couldn't stand being apart from her for too long (boy, how much has changed in that department), so a couple of days after Christmas, I climbed into my mother's old Ford Escort, and, ignoring her warning, drove seven hours in a blinding snowstorm to see my girlfriend. The conditions were so bad that when I started my journey from the Shire, the only cars on the road were me and a very large snowplow. I went very slow and arrived in New Jersey in one piece.

But that was 18 years ago. Since I've been in New York, I haven't owned a car, and the few times I've rented one, I've never driven in a blizzard. So you could say I'm a little out of practice.

Which is why, when I see the minivan's red brake lights come on like two devil eyes, I commit an amateur mistake: I hit the brakes. The predictable result of my faux pas is that my new Beemer doesn't slow down like I want it to, but rather, skids quickly and decisively towards the ass of the minivan, which, no doubt, is carrying a kid or two. (Who else drives minivans but people with kids?)

Time slows down for a second and then speeds up again.

R. gasps loudly; I yelp out another "Fffuck!," only one, as that's all I have time for. The minivan gets closer. I hit the brake again. Beemer responds by dovetailing its rear wheels to the left. I turn the wheel in the direction of the skid (that much I remember to do), but we're still headed for the minivan's ass, which is now right in front of me. I have a decision to make: hit the minivan from behind at X miles per hour, or steer the car to the left, where there's nothing but an open gully of land separating the north and southbound lanes of Route 89. It's not a hard choice.

With my right foot still stupidly on the brake, I turn the wheel to the left and into the gully we go, bouncing up and down like two surprised bullriders. "Wwwhhoooaaa!!!" (It's funny the stupid shit that come out of your mouth at moments like this.) The snow rumples under the car as we surf for what seems like forever. A huge white wave flies up, blanketing my window. In the middle of it all, I remember looking out the window and thinking "Wow, that really looks like an ocean wave. How strange." I keep waiting for the car to hit something, but it doesn't. Finally, mercifully, we come to a stop. R. and I sit there for a second, stunned at what just happened. She stares out the windshield with a catatonic/WTF-am-I-doing-here look on her face.

The whole thing took less than ten seconds.

After getting our bearings and confirming that we both still have our health, I open the door, which hits the packed snow with a crunch, and jump out of the car. My adrenaline's pumping, and I want to get the fuck out of there fast. It's getting dark, and it won't be long before the snow freezes under the wheel wall. If that happens, we're looking at a long night. I'm also pissed because we were so close to Burlington before this happened, less than 20 miles. And I'm pissed at myself for not looking at a map before making these overzealous plans.

I look behind the car and see two, deep trenches that mark a clear path back to the highway, fifteen yards away. I tramp through the snow to the front of the car, put my hands on the grill, which is half-buried, and try to push. Not happening. With an admittedly uh, "insistent" tone, I direct R. to get behind the wheel and reverse the car while I push. She opens the passenger door, trudges through the snow to the driver's side, and gets in. Alas, we don't succeed. I'm too impatient, and she's not familiar with the car. A decidedly bad combo, given the circumstances.

We both get back in the car, wet and pissed off. Within a minute or two, a gap-toothed truck driver stops in the southbound lane. Since we're in a gully and he's in a raised flatbed, when he starts talking to me, it's from a few feet above my head. I roll down my window, and he tells me with a wry smile that the same thing happened to six other cars up the road, and a bunch of tow trucks are pulling them out, one at a time. We're going to have to wait our turn; it could take an hour or so. I thank him for the info, but stubbornly keep trying to back the car up. All I end up doing is spinning the front tires deeper into the snow. A couple minutes later, Gap-Tooth stops by again, this time in the northbound lane and tells me to stop spinning the wheels because I'm not going anywhere, and it's only going to make the tow truck guy's job harder. I listen to Gap-Tooth, and just sit there, waiting for Godot.

Twenty minutes later, a yellow tow truck shows up. A guy who appears half my age jumps out and comes over to the car. He looks like someone I might've gone to high school with, a decent, hard-working local kid. He tells me that he's going to do some digging and then try to tow us out. He says not to worry about the noise under the wheel, that he's going to try to be careful, but he needs to get rid of the snow. I tell him not to worry about it, since it was my fucking driving that put me in this predicament.

While we sit in the car like two aristocrats, the guy digs the snow out from my front tires with a shovel and his hands. After a few minutes, he asks us out of the car. R. and I walk to the edge of the highway, where, behind us, cautious drivers are rolling by at a snail's pace. The snow starts coming down harder, or maybe it only feels that way because we're standing outside. The snowflakes feel like little knives cutting my face. I'm freezing my ass off, and I lament my poor choice of a jacket, this brown knee-length number that's better suited for fall. I could really use the winter vest that goes with it, which is hanging in my closet. Good place for it. Then again, I didn't plan on spending my New Year's Eve standing on a highway in a blizzard, watching my new car get pulled out of a snowbank. By this time, I thought I'd be sitting in a toasty pub next to Lake Champlain, downing clam chowder and sipping a hot cider as I contemplated my new year's resolutions. But like Mr. Lennon said: Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.

R.'s looking cold and annoyed. Can't blame her too much, as I was a bit sharp with her when we tried to start the car. She walks over to a Vermont state trooper nearby and asks him if she can wait in the back of his car. The asshole looks at his empty backseat and tells her that there's no room. He has the kind of dishonest, smarmy face you see on bad cops in movies like Internal Affairs, the ones who take bribes and pull attractive women over so they can hit on them. Total doucheface. Having been denied sanctuary, R. walks back to stand near me, her favorite person of the hour.

Behind us on the highway, a long line of cars is still snaking by. I catch a few sympathetic glances from the drivers, most of which say Boy, I'm glad I'm not them! It's the same look I've given to countless stranded drivers I've seen on the highway over the years. This time, it's my turn. I look back towards my car, so I don't have to watch people watching me. I hate being a spectacle.

Then, while I'm watching the tow truck guy rope my front wheels with his cable, some dude behind us yells: NICE BEEMER!!! This tasty quip -- which I chuckle at later on -- doesn't immediately register, though I see R. stifle a laugh. The traffic behind us is moving slowly enough that I have time to turn around and see the sarcastic MoFo and the car he's driving: a rusted out, maroon shitbox -- it looks like a Camry or Corolla, circa 1994. I yell back a lame retort about his sweet ride. R. and I briefly discuss how nice it is that some people get off on the misfortune of others.

Then I think, hmmmm, I guess when people see a new Beemer buried in the snow like that, they assume that the driver is a yuppie prick with a nice car who ventured too far from home and who doesn't know a thing about driving in the snow. Perhaps it's natural that they would point this out to the yuppie prick when given the opportunity. Then I thought, wait a second, when did I become a yuppie prick with a nice car? When did I become one of them? Time was, I drove a rusted-out AMC Gremlin that dad tried to patch up with Bond-o. I used to be just like Shitbox Guy, driving what the old man gave me and happy about it. What happened? What, indeed. Then I think, awww fuck it. It's not like I'm driving a Mercedes, for goodness sakes! And it's only a 3 Series! Shitbox Guy should save his vitriol for Porsche drivers. Or better yet, Lexus drivers, who don't even feel the road when they drive. At least I felt the snow under my ass when we carsurfed into the gully. Eat THAT, you Lexus pansies!

Anyway, a few minutes and $150 later (a relative towing bargain compared to New York), we get back on the road and arrive in Burlington by 5:30. All in all, it could have been much worse.

I'm happy to report that the rest of my New Year's Eve went better. Burlington is a pretty city, especially when it's completely covered in snow. R. and I eventually made our way to a small club called Nectar's near Church Street, which had this kick ass band playing groovy funk all night long. We shared the night with a nice, friendly crowd, and there was plenty of room to get my dance on, though you'll be happy to know that I left the Running Man at home. After a long and difficult day, R. and I got good n' ripped. Which was nice, because unbeknownst to us, a worse ordeal portended for New Year's Day, when we tried to drive back to New York in a Category 5 blizzard. In the worst conditions I've ever driven in -- much worse than the day before -- we saw at least ten cars stuck in the snow off of Route 89, including an SUV that had rolled onto its roof. We saw another car directly in front of us fly off the road and do a 360 before somehow climbing back on the highway.

Me? I learned my lesson from the day before. I drove like an 80 year-old man. I downshifted to slow down and didn't touch the brakes. When the sun set, we'd only driven 100 miles and were still in Vermont. That's when we decided to stop in Brattleboro for the night, rather than continue on. The first wise decision I'd made in days.

Fool me once....

C.A.C.A. Strikes Again

Oh, you thought C.A.C.A. was done with me. You thought I'd be home by now, newly-showered, smiling, strutting the humid streets of New York, back in the Cit-ay. So did I. But no. I dutifully showed up at Honolulu International Airport EARLY for my flight home last night, having timed my 6 pm flight back from Maui perfectly with my 9 pm flight back to New York. Got to the check-in line 2 hours before my flight. Everything was going smashingly. Until I tried to check in. The machine wouldn't recognize my name. So I spoke with a C.A.C.A. representative.

And. It. Was. Like. Deja-Vu. All. Over. Again.

Is it possible to get the Nick Cage face twice in one week? Yes, it is. Bottom line: when you miss your outbound flight, as I did from Newark last week, you apparently become a "no show" for the return flight back. And since I apparently went home to Brooklyn after missing my initial flight, instead of doing what most people do: book another flight to Hawaii, I was dropped out of the system. I disappeared. I no longer existed. And then they sold my return ticket to someone else. So, when I showed up at C.A.C.A. check-in last night, all tired, sunburned, and happy to be back in my own bed in 9.5 hours, C.A.C.A. told me that the system was saying that I had "No Value." (That's not a joke, I made them show me the computer screen). I think that's a perfect metaphor for how C.A.C.A. treats people. Like they have No Value.

After another hour wait at the check-in counter, with ample arguing and indignation on my part, I was told that the flight I was supposed to be on was full, and I couldn't get on. My options, after this second broomstick-with-no-vaseline treatment from C.A.C.A., were the following:

1. Buy a full-fare business class ticket on the same 9 pm flight the next night for a mere $1600.00.

2. Buy a full-fare coach ticket on the same flight on standby for a mere $1200.00. Standby means I might not even make that flight if everyone showed up.

3. Buy a full-fare coach ticket on an 8:30 p.m. flight to SF the next night for a mere $1200.00, connecting to Newark, NJ after a 6 hour layover.

4. Commit hari-kari with the C.A.C.A. employee's pen.

None of these options were palatable, for obvious reasons. But they had me by the short and curlies. I just wanted to get home, and they were basically telling me that I was going to have to pay a full fare, no matter what, the fuckers. Needless to say, I wasn't going to give C.A.C.A. any more of my money. So I called my best buddy, online booking expert, and erst-while travel agent, K.B., to help me out of this mess. Mind you, it was 2:30 a.m. in New York. But I somehow knew she'd still be awake.

With a soothing tone that reduced my pissed off tirade from a Tazmanian Devil/apopleptic, to a Yosemite Sam/fucking pissed but able to be reasoned with, K.B. booked me on a Northwest flight that leaves at 5 pm today, connecting at Minneapolis and arriving at LaGuardia (no Newark, which is a plus) at 10:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. I've never been to Minnesota, so I'm really excited about seeing it from the airport. As if that were not enough, she also booked me a hotel room in Honolulu, which is where I am as I write this. I'm quite grateful to K.B. for bailing me out, and I think I may now owe her dinner at her favorite Denny's.

To the rest of you, do me a favor. Boycott fucking C.A.C.A.

Hola From Maui

Thought I'd send a little update on how the vacation's going. That last entry was kind of a downer. I'm happy to report that things have vastly improved. My college friend P.'s wedding -- the real purpose of this trip for me -- was fun and I got to spend some time with friends whom I don't see that often, including another college friend, C., who now lives in California with his wife and two kids, the latter of whom I met for the first time. They're totally hilarious and turned out to be big fans of mine. It's always nice to have a cheering section, even if they're only comprised of children under the age of six. Now that I'm finally in Maui, I'm going to do some serious nothing for the next (last) two days.

A few highlights and lowlights of the trip so far:

Giving a toast to P. Sure, I was one of five people that he asked to speak (about him). I think he was trying to cover every year of his life, the friggin' narcissist. But still, it's not something I get to do every day, and I'm proud that I exercised some restraint and didn't embarrass myself or him. Sometimes when you get a mic in your hand, it's easy to slip up. But I faced temptation down and escaped unscathed. I also got nowhere near the garter belt when they tossed it. None of us wanted it. She threw it, gave it a solid toss, and it flew in the air and hit one of the bachelors right in the chest. He didn't even pick up his arms. That goes to show you.

When the hell did Waikiki become Fort Lauderdale? I could write for an hour about this, but I'm too tired at the moment. Suffice it to say that during my stay in Waikiki the past 4 days, I shared my hotel with a pack of young kids who were either high school graduates or college graduates, or both. It's a sad state of affairs that I've gotten so old that I can't recognize the difference. My confusion lies in the fact that these kids acted like grade schoolers but had the bodies of college age kids. I think I even saw a pair of fake boobs or four. Where do girls that age get fake boobs? And more importantly, why?

Bottom line: they treated the hotel like a friggin' dorm room. I'd be walking down the hallways, and I'd see some girl ranting on the cell phone to some friend of hers about how someone on the trip was "a loser," or how she was "totally fed up" with her boyfriend 'cuz he was flirting with some bitch. They were hanging out in the halls, shooting the shit, drinking, carousing, loitering, and just generally acting like they owned the place. It wasn't completely Animal House and they did tone it down after a couple of nights. But it was like being back in a dorm again, seriously. Oh and on the first day, I went to the beach and within 10 minutes was surrounded by six of these girls (the guys showed up later), who proceeded to have the most vapid, superficial, and mindnumbing conversations for the next four hours.

Here's a sample:

"Madison, you look soooooo tan."

"Aw, thank you!"

"God, it was like, hella-loud last night."

"Oh my God, I know. Some bitch got so wasted she tripped and hit her head on the nightstand."

"Oh my God, no way."

"Yeah. They took her to the hospital."

"Oh my God, no way."

"Did you hear that Kayla got in a fight last night?"

"Oh my God, no way."

"Yeah, it was with this girl Emma, do you know her?"

"Like, I have no idea who she is."

"She's like, a hella-bitch. Kayla's pissed at her about something."

"I like, sooooo want to go on a booze cruise."

"Oh my God, me too."

"We should totally set that up. Hey, you guys! Dyouwannagoonaboozcrooz?!"

"Campbell, you look sooooooo tan."

"Aw, thank you!"

"Fuck, I'm hella-tired."

"Oh my God, we should totally do a booze cruise."

"Where are the guys at?"

"They were hella-bored so they all went for a ride on their mopeds. I think they're going to eat somewhere too."

"Oh my God, I am hella-hungry. Dyouwannagetsomefood?"

"I'm not hungry, but I'm hella-thirsty. Where's the bar dude at?"

"Hey, where are Grace, Haylie, Chloe, Sophie, Kylie, Jenna, and Riley?"

"I think they're all shopping."

"Taylor, you look sooooooo tan."

"Aw, thank you!"

That's a taste of hell, just enough to wet your beak. It was funny as a social experiment for about 20 minutes. After that, I felt like slitting my wrists with the business end of a broken seashell.

The beauty of this place. Ever visit someplace so beautiful, so relaxing, so sunny and optimistic that you can't even believe you're there? That's what Hawaii has been like for me. It's beyond beautiful. I've been traveling around, checking out the scenery, the forested valleys, the huge mountains, the stunning beaches and volcanic rock formations, and it's like a dream. Literally. I feel like I'm dreaming this whole vacation. None of it seems real to me. It's like I'm sleepwalking through it. And now that it's almost over, I just know I'm going to get back to the summer swelter that is New York City and it'll be like I never went anywhere. That's going to really piss me off.

Hitting the reset button in my head. I've been to Hawaii before, so I haven't felt pressured to do things like I did the last time I was here. It's been more leisure and relaxation, though I have been driving my ass off. So I've been able to clear my mind a bit and get refocused on the things in my life that I like, or which need to change. So, that's been good.

Driving cliffside in Maui. Some of the toughest driving I've ever done has been in Hawaii, and specifically, Maui. The last time I visited here, I did the Road to Hana, which involved some difficult, winding two-lane roads that were actually one lane roads, so you had to keep pulling over to let people pass. Then, breaking my rental car agreement, I went past Hana and down around the island, where the roads were one lane and unpaved. It took awhile and by the time the sun was setting, it got a little freaky. But the scenery was fantastic. (Now the road is closed, due to a recent earthquake, so I won't be able to do it this time, which sucks, since Charles Lindbergh's grave is down there, and I wanted to see it again.) The Road to Hana and around was hard, but today's drive was all that and worse. Nothing I've done before compares to the driving I did today.

In blatant violation of my rental car agreement, I took my rented Mustang convertible on a forbidden road that goes from the Maui airport to where I'm staying in Lahaina. I read in one of my travel books that the 20-mile road is incredibly scenic, but a tough drive in spots. The book didn't really specify why, so I decided to bite the bullet and take the road less traveled for a change. I wanted to do this the last time I was here, but didn't get to.

The road -- Route 340 on the map above -- is pretty damn hard to drive. First of all, it runs on the side of a cliff. If you've never driven on mountains or cliff-edged roads, let me tell you, it's fucking scary at times. You look to your right and it's all ocean and a steep drop. Most of the road had no shoulder or guardrail at all, so if you screw up, or get too jittery at the wrong time, you're going over, buddy. It's over. Large chunks of the road were one lane that had cars coming from both directions. A Mustang is a deceptively wide car too, and not exactly the most agile performer. As I took blind hairpin turn after blind hairpin turn, I was wishing to the car gods that they'd spontaneously turn my Mustang into a MiniCooper, but they totally ignored me. The fact that I was driving in flippies didn't make it any easier.

I was seriously sweating it a good part of the drive. I saw a goat, people. A goat. When you're seeing goats, you're pretty high up. And do you have any idea how long 20 miles can be when you're driving mountain roads? Loooong. There were a few times when I felt fear crawl up my throat and take my breath away. I'd see how narrow the road was, the blind turn coming up, and the fact that there was no shoulder or rail, and I'd say to myself "How the hell am I going to do this?" That's a lousy feeling. And if this wasn't bad enough, there were warning signs everywhere for falling rocks. I saw a bunch of small and medium sized rocks lying on the road at different spots, so the signs weren't bullshit. Then I thought, I'm in a convertible. I have no roof. If one of those rocks, or perhaps a boulder, decides to come a'tumblin' down from that steep incline, there's nothing to stop it from hitting me on the Noggin. I'm completely unprotected. Nice. But I made it. So, now we can laugh together... ha ha ha.

Well, I'm crashing.... I'll check for typos and nonsensical sentences later. If I don't get another entry in before I leave, I'll see you back on the Mainland. That'll be hella-cool. Peace out.

I. Love. C.A.C.A.

This just in: my vacation is off to a scintillating start. I arrived in time for my 1:30 flight to Honolulu, but not in time for my pre-flight checking of baggage, which, I was duly informed by the Colossal Assholes of Continental Airlines, or C.A.C.A., must take place at least 30 minutes before the flight leaves. Now, I did get a late start, I'll admit, but I was at Penn Station by 11:40, at Newark Airport by 12:30, and at the terminal by 12:40. My folly? I was first delayed by a C.A.C.A. fucktard who thought that Honolulu was in a foreign country and who initially directed me to the International check-in line before I informed her that Hawaii is in fact an American State. Precious seconds were lost during this senseless colloquy. But where I really fucked up was in deciding to wait in the stupid domestic line and not asking them to move me up. (Had I been fully aware of the aforementioned 30-minute rule and its dire consequences, I would have.)

So by the time I got to the check-in counter, it was 12:57 p.m. I tried to check in at the kiosk and they told me to see a representative. By then it was 12:58 p.m. I then waited the last two minutes while C.A.C.A. Douchebag A flirted with C.A.C.A. Douchebag B, oblivious to my situation. By the time they decided to pay attention, it was too late. They told me that I could not check my bag and could not get on the flight even though it wasn't leaving for another 29 minutes. It was an Are-You-Fucking-Kidding-Me moment, and for literally 10 seconds, I was wearing Nick Cage's face in Honeymoon In Vegas, when he finds out that he just lost a shitload of money to James Caan in a poker game. This made no sense to me whatsoever, since I can't count how many times they've allowed people to check baggage at the gate if it's too big, or won't fit in an overhead.

Can't I just take the flight and pick my bag up tomorrow on another flight? No, you have to fly with your bag, C.A.C.A. Douchebag A informed me. What I should have said is that C.A.C.A. and other incompetent airlines like USAir have no problem allowing your bag to fly by itself when they happen lose it. Then, it's perfectly okay. That's happened to me twice. When C.A.C.A. Douchebag A told me that there were no more flights today and I'd have to leave tomorrow "on standby," that's when I got a little pissed and tried the "is there someone else I can talk to" line. The C.A.C.A. Douchebags practically laughed in my face as they directed me to C.A.C.A. Douchebag C, their barrel-bodied "manager," who confirmed for me with attitude that I was the one who was late, and it was my own fault. Thanks for working with me C.A.C.A. Manager. C.A.C.A. Douchebag A then tried to "help" me get another flight, and he claimed there was only one, a flight to San Francisco the next day, which would take me to Hawaii. I didn't trust him, because he'd been such a snappy prick earlier, so I tried calling my secretary, who always manages to be away from her desk when I need her the most. I tried two others and hit paydirt on the third one. She connected me to my firm's travel agency, who got me on a flight on C.A., which leaves at 8:40 p.m. tonight. After getting the ticket, I was subsequently assisted by the only non-C.A.C.A. employee I encountered today, a petite cutie bearing the initials A.R. Elapsed time standing at the check-in desk: 1.5 hours. So, looks like I'll be going to Vega$ -- Vega$ Baby, Vega$!!! -- then on to Honolulu, arriving at the ass crack of dawn, at 5:45 a.m. Ooooooh, this is going to be great!

You may be asking, T., why the fuck are you flying out of Newark Airport in the first place? You live a stone's through from J.F.K. and LaGuardia. That is a legitimate question. I'm flying out of Newark because, once upon a time last summer, H. and I were supposed to go to Mexico together on vacation. When those plans er, fell through, H. was gracious enough to give me the ticket to use as I please. The catch? It had to be on Continental. On the next to last day before the ticket expired, I booked my trip to Hawaii and decided to use it. "Hey, I'm saving money, this is great." Alas, Continental only flies direct to Honolulu from Newark Airport. So here we are. Now, unless C.A.C.A. reimburses me for the lost ticket, I'm going to take a bath on this. Thank you, C.A.C.A., may I have another?

The upside, I'm getting some writing in and learning another life lesson about patience, which is really my Achille's Heel. Oh, and by this time tomorrow, assuming I can stay awake and nothing else fucked up happens, my hairy ass will be in a beach chair on Waikiki sipping a Stella or something equally satisfying.

So eat THAT, C.A.C.A. (Say that 20 times fast)

Scotsman Say What?

Wha will tae Cupar maun tae Cupar
A aye, better gang than be ta’en.
(Or, sae gang tae Cupar an’ be damned!)

-- Old Scottish Proverb (I think)

It's a global village, it truly is. With modern technology blazing forward at lightning speed, it has never been easier to reach out and touch someone a world away. Indeed, every time I get into a cab here in New York, it's not three seconds before the cabbie's jabbering in foreign tongue to someone in Calcutta, Karachi, or Kiev (how's that for alliteration?). Telephone fees have fallen so much that talking to friends and family overseas now costs a mere pittance. Those Verizon and T-Mobile stores in Queens must be making a killing on Bluetooth earpieces and cell phone cards.

Anywho, about a week ago, I had the pleasure of engaging in my very own transatlantic pow-wow with R., a friend who happens to reside in Scotland, of all places. Scotland's a kick-ass country. My interest therein began as a child with that old documentary show In Search Of, hosted by Leonard Nimoy. You remember -- the one where they searched for mysterious things like Noah's Ark, the Giant Squid, and Bigfoot? I was fascinated by the search for the Loch Ness Monster and the foreboding pictures of Loch Ness where he/she/it supposedly hid. In 1995, just before I started working as a lawyer, I traveled to Scotland and absolutely loved it. If you've never been there, you should definitely check it out. Castles, haggis, the lochs, open spaces, not too crowded, and very scenic. Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities I've seen. The Scots also have an independent streak that is to be admired. If you've seen "Braveheart" or "Rob Roy," you know what I mean. How do you say: Hard. Core.

The only problem with Scotland? The people are often impossibly difficult to understand. Even though I spoke the same language, I may as well have been in Namibia. Example: we got lost once going south from Inverness and pulled over to ask directions from a kind-looking old guy who was walking by the side of the road with a cane and two or three sheep. He looked like he'd been living in the neighborhood for awhile. No matter. I swear, he gave us the same directions 4 times -- in English, no less -- and we still left the scene not knowing what the fuck the poor man said. Nice guy though.

Another problem is the local fare. Specifically, McEwan's Scotch Ale. You see, when I travel, I like to partake of the food eaten by locals, get a little flavor of the place, so to speak. I'm pretty adventurous in this regard, within reason. That's why, against the advice of many, I tried haggis, a traditional Scottish dish consisting of the following: sheep's heart, liver and lungs, minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock. This wonderful melange is traditionally boiled in a sheep's stomach for about an hour, and then served piping hot. Mmmm, mmmm, good! I actually liked it -- it tastes like beef hash.

McEwan's Ale, however, was terrible, and almost made me reconsider my "adventure" policy. Background: I'm a beer drinker. I like beer. You fancy-pants Yuppies can have your wine -- your Bourdeaux, your Pinot Noir, and your Chardonnay. My father weened me on Lowenbrau and Pabst Blue Ribbon. I like beer. Thus, when I was in Scotland, I was eager to try a local beer. So, at one point during our travels, we ventured into a pub, and some wise ass bartender suggested, again, in indecipherable English, that I try a McEwan's Ale. With great enthusiasm, I obliged.

Sporting a mischievous smile, he popped open a bottle of McEwan's and slid it my way. Unaware of what was coming, I took a deep, long, first swig. As the Ale swirled around my tongue, my gag reflex immediately kicked in, and I almost puked right there on the bar. That shit was nasty. While I've mostly banished the lousy experience from my memory, as I recall, the taste was a warm combination of alcohol, caramel, malt, butterscotch, and goat piss. I couldn't finish it, though I gamely swigged a couple more gulps, so as not to offend my hosts, and because I wanted to be sure that I had tasted it correctly the first time. I had. Even the word "ale" gets me nauseous now.

Anyway, back to my conversation with R. About a week ago, she sent me a text message to let me know that two of the best soccer club teams in the world -- AC Milan v. Celtic Glasgow -- were in the playoffs for the European Cup. It so happens that I'm an AC Milan fan, the result of a summer spent in Italy when I was 6. Two of my Italian cousins, Claudio and Massimo, lobbied for my loyalty to one of their respective teams, AC Milan or Inter Milan. Back then, I couldn't have cared less about soccer; I was in love with football and baseball. But in Italy, soccer is Everything, and my cousins forced me to choose one Milan team or the other. (A pretty limited choice, when you think about it, given that there are plenty of other teams who play in the Italian League.)

It ended up being a pretty easy choice. AC Milan's jerseys were red and black; Inter Milan's were blue and black. Red was my favorite color at the time, so I chose AC Milan. Claudio was thrilled, Massimo, not so much. I haven't really followed club soccer that avidly since then. My enthusiasm was substantially dampened when I learned that supporting AC Milan was a bit like supporting Microsoft, or the New York Yankees. They always won because they had a shitload of money and always bought the best players. As a Red Sox fan, I wasn't too happy when I learned this. Thankfully, teams like Juventus, Real Madrid, and Manchester United have now made things more competitive.

Even though I don't follow European soccer as closely as the American sports, once in awhile, if there's a big game, I will check in to see how Milan are doing. So last week, when R. let me know that her team, Celtic, were playing my team, AC Milan, my interest was piqued. At my suggestion, we placed a little wager on the game, whose terms shall remain undisclosed. She proceeded to watch the game on her t.v. at home in Scotland, while I was forced to follow it on ESPN Gamecast at work, the equivalent of watching a virtual NFL football game on one of those electric, vibrating metal game tables from the '70s.

For the next two hours, we traded intermittent, transcontinental trash talk. I told her that the Italians are the ones who really know how to play soccer, and that if she wanted to follow a real team, a WINNING team, perhaps it was time for her to start following AC Milan. She in turn called me a "Yankee Motherfucker." Actually she didn't do that at all, she's far too polite, but it makes my story slightly more interesting, doesn't it? In truth, she held her own, suggesting that one of the referees -- a Sicilian -- was paid off, perhaps by the Mafia. Bah, as if that would ever happen in Italy.

Things got awfully quiet on her end though, after Milan scored in overtime, making it 1-0. Shortly after Milan won the game, R. gave me a call, and I again raised the prospect of her switching teams. It's not hard to do. See here. True to her heritage, she declined my cynical offer, like that die-hard William Wallace. Then I made an embarrassing mistake. I mispronounced her team's name, calling it "Kel-tic." What a maroon. That's like a tourist coming to New York and calling Houston Street "Hew-stun Street," like the city in Texas.

"It's SSSeltic, not Kel-tic," dear R. corrected me.

"Ah, like the Boston Celtics, okay," said I, pretending that I really knew better.

Fortunately, R.'s accent is more decipherable than the aforementioned gentleman by the side of the road, but I do sometimes need her to repeat herself, so I can understand what she's asayin'. It's charming, confusing, and funny all at the same time.

All this reminds me that I really must get my Self back to Scotland soon. Only this time I'll be sure to bring a dictionary and one of them computerized pronunciation jobbies, so I can get by with minimal confusion. Oh and one more thing. Hold the McEwan's, please.

Back to Reality

It's official. I like traveling much more than I like working. The freedom of the open road (or air in my case) v. the drudgery of the fluorescent office tan. It's not a tough choice. Unfortunately, because I do not have the pleasure of being independently wealthy, I can't have one without the other. So work I must, in order to afford that next trip.

For me at least, returning from a long trip like this inevitably leads to a bit of existential angst. This is on top of my regular, day-to-day existential angst, of course, which I always carry with me, as manifested by the following questions I am perpetually asking myself:

"Am I leading the life I want?"

"Am I living to work, or working to live?"

"What is happiness? Am I truly happy? What makes people happy? What makes me happy?"

"Is this it? All there is?"

"Is it time to buy a Porsche? A Corvette?"

It would be easy to write these thoughts off as evidence of a midlife crisis, but I don't think that's what is going on here. I've always been someone who asks these kinds of questions, and they have seemed particularly relevant the past couple of years as most of my friends have married off and settled quietly into the stasis of family life. The road more traveled. Maybe people with kids don't have the time or energy to expend on these kinds of thoughts or concerns. Maybe the internal motivation inside of them that craved a purpose in life, which we all have, was fulfilled through marriage and a family. Caring for their children and raising a family has become their purpose. But when that choice isn't immediately appealing, or when you haven't encountered someone who makes you completely want to make that choice (assuming such a person even exists), you tend to wonder exactly what kind of life path you're on.

For me, returning from a trip to a foreign country, particularly one as foreign as Japan, only adds to the questioning and internal speculation. There is an incredibly big world out there to see, and I want to see more of it. I feel very fortunate that I have the freedom and financial means to be able to travel as much as I have. I'm a little wary of screwing with either life factor, notwithstanding the other things in life that I think I want for myself.

The other day I read an interesting quote that resonated with me: "The world is a book. When you don't travel, you only read one page."

I feel this is true. While I am not someone who wants or needs to travel every month or two -- I like my own bed and tend to miss my life here if I'm gone too long -- I enjoy visiting and experiencing new places. For me, it's not only educational, it's a spiritual renewal. I always come back from a trip like this feeling more alive, spiritually refreshed, centered, and wanting more out of my life. I can't understand people who never go anywhere, who aren't curious about the world and cultures outside of their own country, and who couldn't care less if they ever left their own hometown. Too many Americans with the means to travel seem so xenophobic or arrogant that they think they have nothing to learn from anyone outside this country, and they have zero interest in going anywhere except Disneyland. It appears that they prefer to expend their energy trying to keep people OUT of the United States rather than REACHING out to explore a foreign culture and maybe learn a different point of view about the world and possibly something about themselves in the process. I feel I learn a lot about myself when I travel.

I understand that not everyone can afford to travel overseas, but most people can afford to pay for a tank of gas (or two) and drive to a neighboring town or state for a weekend. A lot of Americans don't even do that with any regularity. Maybe I should not have been surprised when I heard that before he became President, President Bush hadn't ever traveled outside the United States except to Mexico (and maybe Canada -- I need to check my facts). How is that even possible when his father was a diplomat for so many years? Is it any wonder that our foreign policy is so fucked up, given Bush's clearly-demonstrated disinterest and lack of intellectual curiosity about the world before his Presidency?

Alright, enough introspection for today. As an example of how strange, curious, and interesting foreign travel can be, here is the story I promised about THE DOLLHOUSE AND THE THREE LITTLE MAIDS, one of the more bizarre highlights of my trip:

Before I left for Hiroshima, Naoko took me to Akihabara, which is the electronics/gadget district of Tokyo. I have been a bit of a gadget hound since I was a kid, so I wanted to see if there were any new electronic toys out in Japan that weren't yet available here. I was also looking to see if I could find a Playstation 3 for sale, since I want one and at least four of my friends asked me to look for one in Japan and bring one home for them. Unfortunately, the Playstation 3s are as sold out in Japan as they are here.

Anywho, after visiting a couple of stores and getting an incredible foot massage from a $400 Sharper Image-esque foot massage machine in one of the department stores (I'm telling you, it was incredible, I might have to buy one for my own self), I was getting tired, so I asked Naoko if we could find a coffee shop and take a little break. We took a short walk and then entered this small department chain store called "Don Quixote," which sells clothes, electronics, toys, souvenirs, toiletries, everything. As we took an interminably long escalator up six cramped flights to the top floor of the store, I was wondering where we were going and if Naoko had misunderstood me.

At the top floor, we got off the escalator and stepped up in front of this small, pink and white entrance to what looked to be a mock dollhouse. It was called "@Home Cafe." I guessed that this was the coffee shop we were looking for. Immediately inside, standing behind a little counter, was a young girl, who looked about 15 or 16, dressed in a black and white french maid's costume. She wore black stockings and shoes, and a little maid's hat, along with two coats of glossy, bright red lipstick. She also had this white, geisha-like makeup on her face. "Mmmm-kay," I thought to myself. "This is a bit odd, but I'm going to go with the flow here and try to stay out of trouble."

For reasons that would soon become apparent, a big, white sign in front of the entrance to the dollhouse had a picture of a camera on it, covered by a big, red "X." No pictures allowed. "As if I would want a picture of myself seen in this place," I thought.

After a short wait on two stools sitting in front of the entrance, we were invited in by one of the Little Maids, who promptly seated us in one of the rooms in the back, which unfortunately, turned out to be the smoking section. Rather than switch rooms, which would have required a longer wait, we decided to stay. The back room was painted a light, optimistic yellow and was decorated like a dollhouse bedroom. There was a small bed in the back of the room, what looked to be a jute rug, and small, circular coffee tables in front of the bed and along the sides of the room, each of which had two metallic chairs underneath. For some reason, every time one of the Little Maids had to walk across the small rug in front of the bed to deliver something to one of the tables, she removed her shoes. "Must be a Japanese thing," I thought.

There were also several pictures on the walls, though I can no longer remember what was on them. I do remember that they were distinctly feminine and dollhouse-oriented, and I was a bit amused by them.

We were seated at a table on the left wall, closest to the door. To my far right, across the room, there was a small, elevated stage, with a flat screen t.v. on the wall. Both stood out starkly in the otherwise soft, girlie room. "I wonder what they need a stage and t.v. for -- that's weird," I wondered.

When our personal Little Maid, I mean "waitress," came to deliver my coffee and Naoko's Coke, she kneeled down next to me, all smiles, and slowly poured my coffee from a little blue pot. I felt like I was at a little girl's tea party. Our Little Maid then started to jabber something sweetly to me in Japanese, grinning at me expectantly.

I nodded. "Uhhh, what is she saying?" I nervously asked Naoko. I was starting to chafe a little under my heavy black sweater, which I stupidly had chosen to wear on a fairly balmy day. This all felt too weird.

"She wants to know if you would like sugar in your coffee."

"Ohhh, ha ha, sure, sure I would like some," said I, relieved at the simple request, but still wondering why this little girl was smiling so much and acting so... subservient. It was making me uncomfortable.

Naoko translated for me. "One sugar or two?"

"Two would be fine, thank you."

Then our Little Maid, still kneeling down in front of me, smiled sweetly and proceeded to utter some kind of girly, candycoated mantra in Japanese as she daintily placed two sugars in my waiting cup of coffee and stirred it very, very slowly.

"Milk?" asked Naoko.

"Um, yes please," I said.

Then, before she poured the milk, our Little Maid looked at my coffee and started chanting something sweet again, in a girlish pitch, none of which I understood. This coffee experience was starting to feel oddly cultish. With both of her hands, she formed the shape of a heart, pointing her thumbs down and together, and curling her rounded fingers together at the top. In one motion, she began pushing her little hand-heart towards my coffee cup. She stopped and looked at me, as if she were waiting for something.

"Uhhh, what in the world is she doing now?"

"She said that she is putting her love into preparing your coffee, and she wants you to also put your whole heart into it along with hers," said Naoko.

"What the f---, this is so bizarre," I responded, laughing. But yes, I put my two hands together, shaped them like a little heart, just as our Little Maid had done, and, as she chanted something incomprehensible, I motioned my hands towards my coffee cup along with hers, our two hand-hearts filling my coffee with love.

I felt like a complete and utter idiot. Naoko was laughing her ass off.

After I had finished two cups of coffee (both filled with love), I was ready to pay the lady and get the hell out of Dodge. All of a sudden, three of the Little Maids came highstepping into the back room, singing and dancing in unison like three castoffs from American Idol. Five of their doppelgangers appeared on the television screen behind the stage, which suddenly came on without warning. The Lead Maid held a large microphone. "Shit," I muttered to myself, "now youz can't leave."

After a couple of minutes of singing, the Three Little Maids began to say something to the audience in Japanese, as if they were making an announcement. Naoko translated that we were going to play a little game. As they sang, we were supposed to follow their hand motions, like little children. So... they clapped, we clapped. They put their hands out in front of their bodies and moved them up and down like little animal paws, and so did we. They moved their hands to the top of their heads, and wagged them like little dog ears, we did the same. Since I was a little slow on the uptake due to the language barrier, I was a small step behind everyone else.

We weren't done. This little game was immediately followed by a another announcement from the Lead Maid. According to Naoko, the whole room was now going to play "Rock, Paper, Scissors." I didn't even know they played this in Japan. As the Lead Maid called out "one, two, three, Rock!" everyone in the room threw down one of the three items with their hands. I played along like a good tourist. Naoko threw down "Rock." I beat the Little Maids (and Naoko) with "Paper."

Then the Lead Maid with the microphone yelled out a question to the audience that I didn't understand. A young Japanese guy -- about 17 or 18 years old raised his hand from the other side of the room.

"What do they want -- why is he raising his hand?" I asked Naoko.

"They want the winners who had 'Paper' to raise their hand," she said.

"Oh." I kept my hand down, obviously not wanting to call attention to myself. Naoko, however, had no such concerns and promptly sold me out. She pointed directly at me, like that girl from "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," and called out to the Little Maids, telling them that I had had won with "paper." Casting her the mal'occhio, I slowly, reluctantly, raised my hand.

The Three Little Maids were exuberant! They excitedly chattered something to each other in Japanese, and then the Japanese dude who had raised his hand suddenly got up and walked toward the stage. The Three Little Maids turned and pointed at me and motioned me forward.

"Wha-, what the hell is going on? Why is he going up there? What do they want with me?" Sweating now, I implored Naoko to explain to me what the fuck was happening.

Laughing, she said, "You have to go up on stage now, you won."

"WHHHATTT??" I should mention here that Naoko had this little habit of only telling me half the story before we went anywhere or did anything. It was the don't ask/don't tell approach to sightseeing, and I was on a "need to know" basis only. This was fucking great. Either I go up on stage and embarrass the hell out of myself, or I end up looking like a poor sport American asshole to all the people in the room. Quite the pickle.

Deciding to do my part for international relations (the Japanese are some of our only friends left in the world -- we really can't afford to piss them off), I got up VERY reluctantly and walked towards the stage, resigned to my fate. The Three Little Maids cheered, laughed and applauded, as did the people in the audience. I felt beads of sweat as big as raindrops on my forehead as I climbed up the stage steps. "Bad day for a heavy sweater, isn't it, you idiot," I chastised myself as I strode to my doom.

Once I got up on stage in front of the Three Little Maids, the Lead Maid started saying something to me in very animated tones, via the microphone. She was speaking very loudly, very quickly, and in a remarkably high pitched girlish squeal. My head started to spin. I'm telling you, I don't speak a word of Japanese, and I couldn't understand a fucking thing she was saying. I didn't know what the hell I was expected to do up there, and the lights in the room suddenly seemed very bright. Too bright. I felt like a circus animal. Or more accurately, Bill Murray on that ridiculous Japanese talk show in "Lost In Translation."

The Three Little Maids started singing and clapping in unison again, and then everyone began another round of the silly game of animal mockery (clapping, paws, ears). I was forced to perform this humiliation on stage in front of everyone, along with the Japanese kid who was on stage with me. Unlike me, however, he looked like he was having the time of his life. Confused at first, I saved myself by mimicking the motions of the girl sitting at the table right in front of the stage. So far, so good.

Then the Lead Maid started chattering something into the microphone that I couldn't understand. "Can't they stay on one topic for longer than 30 seconds, Jesus," I thought to myself. She looked directly at me and the Japanese kid and thrust the microphone in front of my face. Now what does she want? I panicked. "Uhhh, I don't understand Japanese," I said into the microphone -- in English -- like a damn moron. The entire room was laughing again. "Ha ha, fucking gaijin, can't live with them, can't live with them."

Finally, I motioned to Naoko for some damn help. "YOU GOT ME INTO THIS MESS, COME UP HERE AND HELP ME!" Laughing and smiling all the way, she stood up and bounded towards the stage.

"What the hell are they saying??"

"They want to know how you feel up here," she said.

"How do I feel? I FEEL EMBARRASSED!"

She translated this in Japanese for the audience, speaking clearly into the microphone held by the Lead Maid. More, louder laughing now. Good times.

Naoko explained to me: "Okay, now you are in the second round of 'Rock, Paper, Scissors.'"

"What? I am??!"

"Yes, you are playing against the other winner, the guy next to you. Okay?"

"Oh, okay," I said, relieved that I finally understood what the fuck I was doing up there. Naoko skipped happily off the stage and back into her chair.

Directed by the Lead Little Maid, I turned to face my young, Japanese adversary. The playoff round began with a chant of "one, two, three!" (I think). We both threw down. At the last second, I went with "paper" again, going with what brung me to the Big Dance. Happily, my opponent went with "scissors." I lost. I have never been so happy to lose anything in my life. As the Three Little Maids thrust my opponent's hand into the air, I nearly ran back to my chair.

When I sat down, Naoko was redfaced from laughing so much. My face was flushed for a different reason -- utter mortification. I'm not sure that my description of these events can fully convey how embarrassing and foolish the combination of the unexpected, not understanding the language, and the strange and absurd atmosphere of the place made me feel as I was standing up there in front of everyone.

We ended our visit to this strange place with a gift from our gracious young hostesses: a Polaroid picture of Naoko and I, together with the Little Maid of my choice, in front of the entrance to the dollhouse/coffee shop. We were forced to choose a fun piece of headgear to wear from a little basket. As you can see from the picture below (a best efforts reproduction of the picture they took), I went with the dog ears, Naoko with a little bonnet.


Cute, no?

I hope you enjoyed the story of THE DOLLHOUSE AND THE THREE LITTLE MAIDS. Let us never speak of it again.

You Can't Keep a Good Gaijin Down

I'm happy to report that my last full day in Tokyo was a very good one. With all bodily functions under relative (and I do mean "relative") control, I was able to enjoy a bright sunny day visiting Odaiba, which is on Tokyo Bay and a fantastic lunch at a very nice hotel, courtesy of Naoko's uncle and aunt. Since P. was pretty much out of commission the entire day, Naoko was kind enough to serve as my sightseeing guide again. Nope, I did not complain.

Call me a masochist (or just stupid), but the significant distress of the last two days did not stop me from eating the following items during a very long lunch today: some kind of dumpling appetizer that I didn't recognize, miso soup with shitake mushrooms, a tasty Japanese salad, Japanese steak, cooked medium (the middle was still pink), fried rice and egg, and last but not least, six cooked oysters on the half shell (which were amazing). Followed by a lovely guava sherbet and tea. I admit, I was a little concerned that I was taking all of this on so soon after the Sushi Debacle, but I'm a stubborn bastard, and I wasn't going to miss a nice meal on my next to last day in Tokyo. Honestly, apart from my little fiasco in Kyoto, which was caused by my own lack of common sense, the food in Japan has been fantastic. There are some countries you visit where the main fare is totally bland (England and Ireland), or you have to hold your nose and swallow hard (Germany). This sure isn't one of them. I can't think of any country I have visited where the food was better. How ironic.

After lunch, we headed over to Odaiba, which is a newly-created neighborhood located on an island on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, away from downtown Tokyo. We took the monorail, which had incredible views of the city and Tokyo Bay. As we were going over the Rainbow Bridge, I was reminded of going over the Williamsburg Bridge on the J/M/Z, except of course the monorail was 1000 times cleaner, nicer, and didn't smell. Still, there was something about crossing east, away from the city, with the sun in kind of the same place, that gave me this intense feeling of deja vu. Totally weird. Odaiba itself reminded me a little of Battery Park City if it were located across the river in Brooklyn. But again, Odaiba is much nicer, more developed, and much more commercial. (Can you sense a theme here?) There was this very nice, very clean boardwalk along the water, which included a manmade beach, restaurants, cafes, and piers for sightseeing boats.

And I almost forgot, Odaiba also has its own Statue of Liberty, a gift from France in 1999. Talk about deja vu -- I couldn't believe it. It looks just like ours, but it's obviously much smaller. You will love the pictures once I can post them.

The entire time I was in Odaiba, I was thinking to myself "Why the hell can't New York get its shit together and build something like this on the Brooklyn waterfront (minus the extra Statue of Liberty of course)?" It was so nice and it would be totally cool to have something like that to go to. But in the U.S., you have to deal with bureaucratic bullshit and lawsuits before you can get anything done. Every stupid asshole with an opinion has to have a say before someone can even put public bathrooms on New York streets. Which is another pet peeve I'm bringing home as a souvenir. In Tokyo, Kyoto, and Hiroshima, there are public bathrooms EVERYWHERE. You don't have to sneak into a Starbuck's. You don't have to hold it for 7 hours. You don't have to make a pitstop at your office on a Saturday or Sunday. Every time I had to go, there was a bathroom within striking distance. And most of the bathrooms were clean enough that they even made me consider waiving my policy against doing No. 2 in public bathrooms. But I didn't take it that far -- I have my limits. Just knowing they were around when you needed them was nice though. Why can't New York do this? And stop using homeless people as an excuse, this isn't rocket science.

Anyway, with that rant out of the way, the highlight of today was the boatride Naoko and I took up Tokyo Bay as the sun was setting. It was incredibly scenic, and I got some great pictures of the Rainbow Bridge and a couple of other bridges we passed under. It was hard to take a bad picture from where we were. I kept thinking how evolved, clean, and efficient Tokyo is as compared to New York. Maybe the comparison isn't fair -- in fact, I'm sure it isn't because New York is a far more complicated place in my view, with many more variables to deal with -- but I couldn't help comparing the two cities because they are similar in many ways. And still, there are things New York should be able to do better notwithstanding its innumerable burdens.

To cap the day off, Naoko's uncle comped us massages at this Taiwanese massage place in Roppongi. I know, Naoko and her family went completely out of their way for me --it was way over the top. Even my Italian relatives don't treat me this nicely anymore when I go there. I fully intend to reciprocate when they visit New York, where their daughter is in school.

The massage was very good. This 5'2" woman -- she may have been from Taiwan, I have no idea -- beat the living crap out of me for an hour. It's the type of massage that hurts like hell when it's happening but feels fantastic later. That's what I kept telling myself every time she buried her elbow full force into the triangular area just above my shoulder blades, and up and down my back. She also gave me a scalp massage, which I envisioned as this soft, gentle, relaxing experience. Butterfly wings flitting across my face and sympathetic hands rubbing my scalp and temples. Instead, Little Miss Powerful treated my head like a meatball, pushing her fingers so deep into my scalp that I thought she was going to lobotomize me. When she did my neck, thoughts of potential paralysis flew through my mind. Can you sue a Taiwanese massage parlor all the way from New York? How would you get personal jurisdiction? What would Naoko's uncle think? No joke, all of this ran through my head as Little Miss Powerful was manhandling my neck in ways that didn't seem entirely safe.

Fortunately, she knew what she was doing, and I felt fantastic afterwards. I even told her she was very strong and did a great job, and she started laughing. At least part of me is ready for my flight tomorrow.

All in all, it's been a great week. Japan is an interesting, amazing place, and I feel very fortunate that I got to experience the life and people here, even for a very short time. When the pictures are ready to share, I will bore any and all readers with a few more ancedotes about this trip. For now, I'm leaving Japan satisfied that I squeezed a lot into the limited time I had. I'm fairly exhausted because of it, but it's a good kind of tired. Still, I don't think I'm in the proper condition to start working again this week. The thought that I have to be at work in a mere two days is quite unpleasant.

Hmmmm.... I think I need a vacation.

See you stateside.

Greetings From Tokyo

Greetings, pee-pull. Just a quick entry with a few highlights from my first couple of days here. First, it is very strange to be blogging from across the world. I'm sure I will look back on this and think I dreamt the whole thing. And that's one of the weird things about traveling so far -- the jet lag and newness of the experience make the trip feel very dreamlike. At least the pictures I am taking will serve as evidence that I was actually here, just in case I start believing this whole trip was just a bad case of too much Fruity Pebbles after midnight.

So... I landed here Saturday afternoon, around 3:20 p.m., after a long, 12.5 hour fight from JFK. Since I had plenty to read, the time passed relatively quickly, but damn, that is a long time to be on a plane. I didn't sleep very well either and must have gone to the bathroom five times. Fortunately, I had an aisle seat.

It took me a few minutes to get oriented at Narita Airport, but it was a quick out through customs and then I had to figure out how to validate my Japan Railpass and rent a cellphone, which took another hour. I was surprised to see how much is in English here. There is English translation on a lot of the signs, and many people here speak English. So quit your bitching about how we have dual Spanish translations of English words on signs, etc. in the U.S. At least we have a reason for it since there are so many immigrants and homegrown Spanish speakers in our country. Having English translations here is completely gratuitous because if you're Japanese, there really is no reason for it other than to help people, which is kind of nice. It's totally saving my ass in helping me get around, I can tell you that.

Then I took the Narita Express to Tokyo Station, a direct link that makes a mockery of the clusterfuck we have in New York when it comes to taking mass transit to JFK or LaGuardia. In fact, I'm finding that a lot of things here are done much better. The train and metro system is amazingly good. Clean, efficient, padded seats, and even signs that tell you when the next train is coming. Oh and because the Japanese are a somewhat diminutive people, the handles that lower from the ceiling on the trains are actually the perfect height for someone short like me. It's nirvana.

Another thing I have noticed is that when people here are sick, they wear these white masks on their faces, which look like surgical masks, so that they don't spread their germs to other people. How fucking nice is that? It was a little disconcerting when I first saw it on the plane, because I thought there was some kind of outbreak, but when I learned the reason, it made total sense. I don't think it would work in New York though because you would have literally 10 of the 13 million people in the five boroughs walking around with masks on their faces every day. That would be a little creepy.

Also, the Japanese dress immaculately. It's fucking embarrassing. The men are all dressed in suits and ties, even on Sundays. Incredibly stylish. Even the younger generation dresses very well. The women in particular are dressed to the nines, even if they are just going to the corner store. Yesterday it was raining cats and dogs, and all of these women looked like they just stepped off a catwalk. They wear these high boots with jeans or (preferably) a skirt, sometimes quite short, where you see nothing but bare leg between their boots and the bottom of their skirt. It's a very nice look, if I do say so myself. : )

Seriously, it is unbelievable how nicely dressed people are here. I'm walking around in a red hoodie and a jacket and jeans, and these people are making me feel like I'm a slob, sitting in on my living room sofa in sweatpants eating potato chips. There is just a respect for presentation here that is sorely lacking in the U.S. I felt a little better when I went to Shibuya and saw a few kids dressed like rappers. And I have yet to see a really fat person, other than the sumo wrestlers I watched on t.v. last night. It's amazing.

The young girls -- I can't figure out what is up with them. There is this bizarre obsession with schoolgirl outfits here and schoolgirls generally, that I don't quite understand. I'm going to try to take some pictures to show what I mean, without getting arrested. They walk around in these thigh-highs, and it just looks like a little too much. I don't want to be insulting, but I don't think it's appropriate. Until they're 20 or so. Then it's fine. Ha ha.... (It's the jet lag, let me blame it on that).

Speaking of dangerous opinions, it took exactly one hour of being here for me to get approached by the police at Narita Airport so they could check my papers and ask me a few questions. This was after I had already gone through customs and been asked the requisite "who are you and what are you doing here" questions. This little dandy in a blue uniform, who looked like he was about half my age, approaches me when I'm waiting for the train to Tokyo and asks to see my papers. In English. No "Hello, how are you." No "Welcome to Japan, I just need to talk to you for a second." Nope. It was "Can I see your papers please?" I was like... "Moi? Uh... what about my civil rights, buddy? Do I need to show you my ACLU Card?" Then I remembered that I was in Japan, not the United States, and I had no civil rights. So out came my papers, and our conversation went as follows:

"Are you here for business or travel?"

"Travel -- I am visiting a friend in Tokyo."

"How long will you be here?"

"A week. Eight days actually."

"What job do you have in the United States?" This was a new one on me. I have never been asked this before, so I almost started laughing. There are so many fun places I could have gone with my response, but I had been in the country an hour, and I didn't really feel like pissing off the police right away.

"I am an attorney." Quizzical look from him -- his English was not that good. "I'm an attorney, a LAWYER. I don't know how to say this in Japanese."

He probably thought I said "baker" or "candlestick maker," but he nodded like he knew what I meant. I looked up the Japanese word for "lawyer" after I got on the train just in case this happens again. It's "bengoshi."

"Where are you staying when you are in Tokyo?"

"With a friend. Here is his address." I pulled out one of my business cards that thankfully had P.'s address on the back. I am very happy I wrote it down before I got on the plane, or we could have had an international incident.

With that, he seemed satisfied and left me alone. I don't know what it is, but I must fit the terrorist profile: 30s, single, black hair, brown eyes, olive drab cargo pants, travels the world alone like a drifter, doesn't like authority, and has unpopular opinions about world politics. What can you do?

Once I got to Tokyo, I was a bit jet lagged, but it was Saturday night, and I was feelin' alright, so after I had showered and rested a bit, P. took me to a local place for dinner, where we met his friend Naoko, who was very sweet and very cute. I have to confess, I've got a little crush going. After dinner, we went to Roppongi, which is kind of a party area with a lot of gaijin (foreigner) bars. It reminded me a bit of the Upper East Side in New York, but with a lot more selection. We ended up at a bar whose name I can't remember, which was full of all kinds of people from different countries. It was very big inside, a bit divey, like an Irish bar in New York, but with a DJ who played such well-known hits as "Jump" by Van Halen, "September" by Earth, Wind, and Fire, "Hung Up" by Madonna, and that oldie but goodie "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. Yes, I think now you have a flavor.

Then... out came the sake. I haven't liked any sake I have ever tried before, but let me tell you, the sake we had that night was smoooooth and went down like water. Very dangerous. And damn expensive. Fortunately, Naoko was feeding me waters (wasn't that thoughtful?) to prevent me from waking up with a hangover. So we sang and danced, danced and sang until about 3 a.m., whereupon we went to the next place, a karaoke bar next door. It was there, my friends, that one of my fantasies came true. The bar was pretty small and the karaoke was set up so that the words appeared on this big wall behind the bar and there was a portable microphone that they handed you so you could sing at your table. After listening to a few people sing, I decided it was time to break my karaoke cherry, so I consulted the Book of Songs, a massive tome, to find a song to sing.

And lo and behold.... there was "Heat of the Moment" by Asia. The sheer irony of singing an Asia song on my first night ever in Asia was too much to overcome. I was handed the mic and sing I did. I quickly learned that trying to sing a song after four shots of sake and four beers is not easy, even if you know the words. It's even harder when a six foot tall bartender keeps standing up in front of the screen with the words you're supposed to sing and blocking your view. So, I wasn't too pleased with my performance. But I made up for it on my next song, "Mr. Roboto," by Styx. OH NO YOU DIDN'T. Oh yes. I did. Friend P. was all pissy when I picked the song because he thought the choice was insulting. He got me so nervous that I actually tried to cancel it, but it came on anyway. So I had no choice but to sing. Like I have never sung before. P.'s paranoia was proven wrong when, after my scintillating performance, the only Japanese guy in the bar, a 50-ish gentleman who was sitting in front of me (and had sung 3 songs himself) congratulated me on a good job. He even sang the words "I'm Kil-roy. Kil-roy," with me at the end of the song. So screw, P.

Naoko and I ended the evening with a very soulful rendition of "Endless Love," by Lionel Ritchie and Diana Ross. (Hey, at least it wasn't "Dancin' on the Ceiling"). We didn't get home until 5:30 a.m. -- I don't know how I stayed awake. Not bad for my first night in Japan.

Well, it's 1:30 a.m. here now, and I have a 9:30 train to Hiroshima tomorrow, so I need to get to sleep. Unfortunately, I'm wide awake. I will save my story about the bizarre dollhouse coffee shop with the teenage girls dressed as little maids for later. Sayonara!

By the Time I Get to Arizona

By the time I get to Arizona, it will be time to come home again.

I am sitting in Tucson International Airport typing this entry in Microsoft Word because I can’t get an Internet connection here. I spent most of last week and this weekend attending a meeting of the plaintiffs' bar at a nice resort in Tucson, Arizizzle. The plaintiffs' attorneys in my primary area of practice meet at a fancy hotel every year to discuss creative ways to bring (mostly) frivolous lawsuits and extort more settlement money from my clients. The meeting is open to the public, although certain sessions are closed for members only. It’s in those private sessions that they discuss strategies to attack specific defendant firms and for obvious reasons, they don’t want the world to know about their plans. Still, the open sessions are a treasure trove of information and it dawned on someone at my firm that it might be a good idea to send someone to have a little gander at what the piranha are talking about this year.

I don’t completely know why, but I was approached to take on this “special assignment” and I readily agreed. Right up my alley and a break from the monotony of everyday work. Who wouldn’t like a pre-winter trip to a nice resort in Arizona? Besides, spying is wholesome fun.

I registered as an attendee of the conference at the last minute so that my name wouldn’t be included on the attendee list. I also left my firm name off the application, though I later found out that omitting the name of your firm is a dead giveaway that you are on the "dark side" and trying to hide it. If someone asked me who I was, I told them, but I was definitely using the don't ask/don't tell policy. On the whole, I had an interesting time, though I did not exactly feel welcome. Most of the attorneys failed to notice my presence and paid no mind as I listened to their low-voiced conversations at the bar, by the pool, and in the restroom between speaker sessions. I think spying may have been my true calling.

The funniest incident happened during one of the seminars on the last day. I was taking copious notes of speaker remarks, as I had been doing for the entire conference, when one of the more vocal lawyers from the plaintiffs' bar sat right next to me. He didn’t recognize me, so when one of the speakers said something he didn’t completely agree with, he would whisper an occasional critical comment to me under his breath, like “Yeah, but sometimes X happens and you have to do Y.” In response, I nodded appreciatively, as if to say “You’re totally right, man.”

After an hour or so, he asked me what I was going to do with all the notes I was furiously jotting down. The true answer to his question was that upon my return to New York, I am going to type them up in as much detail as possible and circulate them to all the interested attorneys at my firm, as well as my clients, i.e., the very same companies he and his buddies had spent the better part of the conference ripping a new one. If I wanted to be even more honest, I could have told him that I was hoping that all of the helpful tidbits I had been gathering from all of his friends would help us make their lives miserable in future cases. But no, I didn’t say any of this. Instead, I simply extended my two hands and made a little typing motion with my fingers. That was NOT a lie.

“Ah… going to have your secretary type them up,” he said. “Yes,” I replied. Okay, maybe that was misleading – my secretary isn’t going to understand what I wrote or how it should be organized, so I’ll probably type them up myself. The identity of the actual transcriber of my notes isn’t material though, so I didn’t feel bad.

Then he goes, “You know, once they're done being typed up, you should post them on the [PLAINTIFFS' BAR] website.” I almost laughed out loud. How fucking funny. I felt like saying “Sure, I would love to but I can’t log onto your website because I’m defendants’ counsel and not a member – care to make me one?” Instead, I just nodded again.

At the next break, one of the moderators from the previous day suddenly walked up to him and began talking to him very quietly. Both of them had their backs to me. Something was up. After about 30 seconds, I saw out of the corner of my eye that my new friend had turned around and was trying to steal a look at the laminated i.d. card I had around my neck, which had my name on it. (We had to wear these i.d.’s all weekend for security purposes.) He had a surprised look on his face. Then the conversation ended and my friend sat down next to me again. He uttered nary a word to me for the rest of the session. At one point though, he got up to pose a question to the Panel about how to deal with an abusive objection practice that he kept encountering from opposing attorneys in his cases, and he specifically mentioned my law firm by name. I guess this was the little bitch’s way of getting back at me for making a fool of himself earlier. I thought his mention of my firm’s name was hilarious though – a badge of honor. If he wanted to know who I was, all he had to do was ask and I would have told him. Pity the fool who takes my identity for granted!

Apart from all of the strategic things I learned at the conference, my general impression is that my colleagues on the other side have a colossal chip on their shoulder and are completely deluded about their role in the world. From their self-masturbatory grandstanding and relentless whining to the few regulators who were in attendance, you would think that these money grubbers were doing God’s work on behalf of innocent lambs who were slaughtered by my satanic clients. No, no, no, they’re NOT doing this work to make a buck. They’re fighting a legal jihad to help the poor huddled masses recover just compensation for their pain and suffering. For a sizeable retainer. And 40% of the winnings. Please. It makes me want to puke. Most of the people these a-holes represent make more money than I do. After listening to this horseshit for three days, it was all I could do not to walk up to the microphone and give these tools a reality check.

But enough talking shop. Unfortunately, ethical obligations preclude me from being too specific about these things and the self-censorship really castrates the fun of writing what I want to write. So I will leave it there.

What I really want to talk about is Arizona and how great it was to be out here in the desert. I think I may have been destined to live out west. Or maybe I did in a past life. Every time I come out to the Southwest, whether it’s Arizona, New Mexico, or Utah, I just feel this sense of peace and relaxation that is nowhere to be found in New York. Or even New England. There is just something about the beauty and vastness of the open desert and the clear sky, particularly at night, that I find incredibly compelling. I don’t know what it is. I remember having this same feeling when I visited the Grand Canyon and Utah fifteen years ago. (Shit, has it been that long?) It’s like a giant exhale for me. A powerful sigh, where all my stress just dissipates and floats away. Seriously, the second I got my rental car on the highway and started driving, I could feel my blood pressure go down. The Southwest is the only place that really tempts me to leave New York one day. Maybe I will retire there.

Speaking of rental cars, it’s funny to me how strange it is to drive a rental car in a place I have never been when I don’t know where the hell I’m going. I get this adrenalized feeling of adventure every time I rent a car in a new place and hit the highway. I get in the car, pull out of the airport parking lot and start driving with this little shit Avis map that I’m hoping is going to get me almost close to where I think I need to be going. And all of a sudden, there I am, on the road with all of these other drivers from Arizona or Florida or Texas, all of whom, unlike me, know the roads and where they need to go.

I look around and note to myself how strange it is to be in this new place, a place I had never seen until yesterday and would never see unless someone sent me there. I look around and suddenly I realize that all of these people in the cars I see on the road or walking on the sidewalks, or working in the restaurants and hotels, all of these people LIVE here. They have lives here. Their lives existed before I came, and they will exist after I leave. People are born in Tucson, or Flagstaff, or Santa Fe. They grow up there. Go to school there. Raise families there. Work there. Die there. And the entire time, as I am immersed in my own life in New York, I have no clue at all about the lives these people are leading. In fact, their lives were vague and meaningless to me until I landed in this far-flung place and saw them for myself. I have this sensation every time I travel to a new place.

As I was driving around downtown Tucson tonight, before I came to the airport where I now sit waiting for my red-eye flight to New York, I thought to myself that it’s places like the Southwest that are uniquely American and which really capture the real history and beauty of this country. I feel happy that I got to see it again, and I can’t wait to go back.