An American in Paris

It's been a long while since I've posted. I'm not sure any of my throng of 5 readers are still around. If so, I hope you enjoy. If not, I'll have this for my posterity and travelogue. It's about my first trip to Europe.

Thursday June 4, 2009

Thursday evening, boarding the plane, “Priority passengers may board first”. Im in fucking business/first class!! We ain’t in academia any more Toto. All I could think, while drinking my first glass of champagne as the ‘coach’ passengers trudged by me was, “OMG, the Seinfeld episode was SO not parody. It’s so true!” The champagne was flowing, warmed nuts, appetizers. Then the menus were handed out, with choices of real food—not a five day old ham and cheese on stale bagel, but poached salmon, beef tenderloin. And we, moved from the champagne to the wine with dinner. Dessert, then after dinner drinks or coffee. The flight attendants had to wake many of us up to serve us the omlettes for breakfast. Coach class sucks. How can I ever return?

I arrive at hotel around 9:30 AM. , Friday. I’m staying at the Millenium Opera Hotel, in the Opera District. It's a 4 star, at a great rate. Thanks, Priceline! I’m able to check in that early. Cool! I pseudo unpack, brush my teeth, take a hot bath, then up and off to my first Parisian adventure. First stop: Le Centre de Georges Pompidou. I see two great special exhibits—Alexander Calder and Kandinksy.

I decide to have dinner, from a recommendation from one of the books I’d bought. I was given directions from the front desk and can’t find it. After 45 minutes give up and walk down a side street and find a bistro that looks interesting. Terre du Truffes. Everything on the menu had truffles in it of some sort. I ask Raphael, who speaks little English for recommendations.

Ecritez-vous le menu por moi, s'il vous plait? I asked Raphael to write my menu down for me, in my pigeon Franglais. He writes in both French and English. I would have liked to wrap him up and take him home with me. The decadence of the night was vanilla ice cream with a truffled caramel sauce. OMFG! Every bite of that meal (and nearly every meal in France), was an orgasm for my taste buds.

Saturday, June 6

It’s raining outside today. As Barbra sings, “Nobody’s gonna rain on my parade.” I get the umbrella, find get my directions from the front desk, and begin my walking trek to Musee D’Orsay. I pass through the Louvre, and cross the Seine by a footbridge. They have a good collection of Van Gogh's, including "La Nuit etoile"--Starry Night. I'm going to see it in person!!! I finally get to the Van Gogh room, tour it. Move on. Then I realize, I missed "La Nuit etoile". I go back, tour the room two more times. I finally see an empty space and see a little notice. It's on loan/tour. It's at the Met in New York. Fuck me hard! That's just my luck! I wander more and see more artists' works. I spend most of the day there.

After two days of walking. I decide to take the subway back to my hotel. I have to switch not only trains, but from the suburban line to the Paris City line. As I’m uncertain of whether these connect at the same place, I ask a young man. He speaks little English, but between my Pigeon Franglais and his limited English, he walks me to the other platform up a flight or two of stairs/escalators and a few turns, to get me to the right place.

Being a bit beat on my feet, I ask for a dinner recommendation from the front desk. He suggests a place around the corner just a few blocks away. This time, when I ask the waiter, “Ecritez-vous le menu por moi?” He tells me “Here’, keep the full menu.” Most of the remainder of my dinners in France, the waiters let me have one of the full menus. How cool, for a self-avowed foodie!

Lyon

I have never felt so un-like the boy from Bumblefuck in all my life. I’m in Lyon, France, at a meeting with international heavy hitters. I’m their peer. OMFG. Opening night reception /Dinner was in this hospital built in the 1200s. We specifically were in the nun’s rectory or rectortoire. It’s the huge old fortress of a building by the Rhone River that I had to walk around three times and ask for direction in my [pigeon Franglais , to realize there is no front door. Only the original carriage gate/now car entry to get to the inner courtyard to access the building.

Paris is great, but there is something extraordinarily special about Lyon. More so that Paris, I felt like I had gone back in time. Old Lyon is like a time warp, somewhere between the World Wars. The bistros. The cobblestone streets and alleys. The place oozes old world charm. A Lyonaise man could have easily swept me off my feet.

The conference is very good. I’m making some good international contacts for work. I am asked to serve on a committee, with this organization, which is something I’ve been working on. I’m with some heavy hitters in my profession. This is something that would not have happened with me in academia, even though I was working on the groundwork. The University would not have sent me to this conference this year. I’m feeling good.

Monday night, the attendees at the conference are treated to a private tour of “L’hotel de Ville”, or Village Hall. This was built in the 12^th Century. The building is amazing. We have personal guided tours, which ends with a reception of Kir and Hors d’ouvres.

My co-worker K, who is at the meeting and I go to dinner with two guys that she knows from other organizations in the US. One of them spends a good deal of time in France, so he was our translator for the evening. I can speak some French, but have trouble understanding it when spoken back to me. My brain doesn’t think in French. I think my dyslexic mind manifests itself with this. It’s frustrating. I want to be able to ‘hear’ in French without trying to translate to English.

The Conference ends on Tuesday afternoon. C and I decide to meet and wander (and wonder) around Old Lyon, which is where her hotel is. I ended up in New Lyon—not as charming. She wanted to go to this big cathedral on a hill. So we do that, and then just begin moseying and wandering the cobblestone streets starting to scope out a potential place to eat. My only caveat was that we eat someplace where we would be outside on the sidewalk/cobblestone alley, not indoors After a good deal of walking and wandering, we settle on one of the first places we’d spotted. She wanted s a good steak. The meal was great. This time I had to write down the menu as, it was just posted on black boards. K is astounded to realize that I am a foodie who is keeping a food diary. Even more astounded than when I showed up for our walk in my bright purple suede Rebock air pump tennis shoes. "Uh, so, Randy, YOU really DO like purple don't you?!

Wednesday June 10

Back to Paris. I now wish I’d had planned to stay one day on my own in Lyon to explore after the conference. But, I’m back in Paris for one more day. I’m staying in a cheap hotel in the Marais (the Gay District) that was recommended for being cheap in the Marais, in one of the books I bought, The Central Marais. It fit the bill. It was above a bar in one of those really old buildings on a side street, with tall windows and shutters. It was not the 4* Millenium Opera, but it wasn’t picked from Priceline (which got me really great hotels, btw). This was for one night, and it was the one night for which I had not originally made plans. It was while I was in Paris that I made these reservations. I did want one night in the heart of homo Gay Paree. It’s raining again. I was museumed out. It was early afternoon by the time I got back to Paris, so I decided that I just wanted to walk around the Marais, find some of the gay bars for later that night, and just wander the streets, getting lost, and finding my way back. I did some shopping, mostly window . On the way back l stumbled along a little designer boutique of men’s clothes. Actually, these little boutiques were peppered all over the Marais. There were lots of shades of purple. There was also a really hot Italian man trying on a purple leather jacket when I wandered in to get out of the rain for a bit. I walked out with a new shirt and a cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches (both were purples.) Given the rain, and my desire to try and not get too terribly lost this evening, I went down to the bar for pre-dinner glass of wine. I ask one of the bartenders for a dinner recommendation. He directs me around the corner about 3 blocks to Le Gai Moulin. On the menu is “Kangarou Steak”. OK, I’ve got to try it. It’s not every day you get the opportunity to try “Kangarou” with Béarnaise sauce. It was like a tough cut of a good beef steak. It was my least favorite meal in France, which means it was only a 4 star, instead of a 5+ star meal. Still incredibly amazing—just mildly orgasmic for my taste buds. There are two guys at the table next to my right, (and the tables are so close, it’s almost like eating family style. They have to pull the table away from the wall because you can’t squeeze your ass between the table to get to the banquette seat). A few tables to my left, a man in a cowboy hat steps over ands, says, “I heard you guys speaking English, I’m from Vancouver, where are you guys from?” The state, London. And, I offer that I’m American, from Chicago. We have a nice conversation, he goes back to his seat. I tell the Londoners that I’m headed for London the next day. They offer recommendations of what to do, where to go. It was roughly after 8:00 pm when I was eating my dinners in Europe. In most places, it, wasn’t until after 9:00 -9:30 that the dinner crowd started picking up. Even such, I love that, among the things the French know about food, is the fact that they know how to savor and enjoy a meal. There’s no rushing you, trying to ‘turn the table’. If you want to stay till they close, they’re not going to kick you out. You nearly have to tackle the waiter to get your check or “l’addition” when you’re ready to leave. I had this conversation with my American compatriots at the conference, “How is it that the French as a population are not an incredibly obese people, with the bread, cheeses, rich foods, patisseries?” We determined, it’s because they cook REAL food, not loaded with artifice and chemicals and hydrogenated poly saturated dog turds. And they walk. They eat good, rich food, but they eat appropriate proportions. They don’t “supersize” their meals. It’s a lifestyle, I could become accustomed to. Je t’aime France. I’ll post about London and the last half of my European adventure.

I'm going to try and get back into a rhytm with my writing and posting again.

Travel Logue, in Reverse Part 1

Travel log in Reverse, Part 1
I’m way behind. I’ve been back a week now from MD, and still don’t have my travels from Vancouver and MD done. I’m going to write my travel tales in reverse since I have almost two weeks worth to report, and since my blog posts the most recent item first, when all is said and done, it will read chronologically. I started this first entry when, well start reading…

I’m on the train home from downstate (Bumblefuck), back to Chicago. Just after we got in the SUV to go the train station-- (and I use that term loosely, as the depot has no staffed station any longer. It now houses a tanning spa {again, using THAT term loosely}, there is a makeshift ‘shelter’ to apparently protect one from the elements, when waiting for your delayed train, there’s no building or station in which to wait—I had to walk out into the street, and cross the tracks, to enter the car I was to board—the freaking engineer apparently cannot bring the designated car to the actual boarding area—but I digress. We were in the car to the train ‘station’, and my phone rings. It’s an 800 number, and I hesitate answering, but I do. It’s AMTRAK,
“Mr. gayCMEguy, I’m glad I got you, this is Barbara from Amtrak, have you received an update on your 11:27 train from town near BF to Chicago?”
ME: With a hint of reservation in my voice--NO, I’m on my way to the station now.
AMTRAK: There are technical difficulties with your train, it’s still running, but there is no air conditioning on the train. The train is only running a few minutes late. We are also providing bus service and are offering you the option of train or bus w/ A/C. The bus will be running on time. You don’t have to tell me or decide now. Since there’s no station with personnel, you just board whichever. you decide.
I immediately regret, changing out of my shorts and into my jeans.
ME: What’s the arrival time difference?
AMTRAK: They’re on the same schedule, making all the same stops.
I decide that I’ll take whichever arrives first, presuming it will be the bus. At about 11:25, the lights flash and the gates go down on the street crossing. Wow, the train is on time! The train does NOT slow down, does NOT stop, and zooms by. When I arrived, there was what appeared to be a bum sitting/slumping in the shelter. I avoided him. When the train zoomed by, he got on his cell phone, had it on speaker. He was contacting AMTRAK about his train. He was southbound while I’m northbound. He makes small conversation about AMTRAK with me and my Dad. He has one front top snaggle-tooth, with the others appearing to be gnawed down to the gums. It was very distracting.
The Maryland trip:
I ran the gamut of emotions and realizations on this trip. Each time I’ve seen my Dad this year (3 x since Christmas), he is appearing more feeble. This year, for the first time, my parents seem old—seemed to have aged greatly. That’s a hard reality to witness. Now, I realize that I’m fortunate in still having my parents here in which to witness such events. But, it’s still hard. Another realization was that my parents have no business driving long distances. I don’t even want them driving to Chicago to see me. My Dad has always driven like an old man farmer. But his driving scared me. I ended up driving the majority of the trip (15 hours one way). The two short stints that Mom drove, was disconcerting in different ways.
Another emotion that ran high was anger. Since I learned to drive, has always been a terrible back seat driver. The last big driving trip I took with them was when I was college age. We went east to DC, and Gettysburg. This was 25 +/- years ago. I vowed then, I’d never take a trip with my parents again. I had thought that years and time might have mellowed Dad in this aspect. I was mistaken in this thought. I wanted to slap the shit out of him. At one point, gritting my teeth, I literally bit my tongue. I have the ulcered reminder still.

I waffled between, sadness for acknowledging the aging processes, to being extremely pissed off at him. My parents wake up before the ass-crack of dawn. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a morning person. Dad took the opening shift of driving. I’d take over when we stopped for breakfast. Sunday evening, after an extremely long and arduous day, filled with ample amounts of backseat driving, we were in Ohio. I was one raw nerve, and my eyes were starting to go batty, so I turned the keys over to Mom. We got through Columbus. I figure were going to stop soon, and I wanted to be able to search for hotels on the GPS (btw Garmin is a piece of shit—it was only good for locating hotels and restaurants, for directions, it sucks, I’m glad I did Mapquest, otherwise we’d still be circling Indianapolis). WE stop again at a rest area and Dad takes the keys from Mom. FUCK. We’re about 15 miles away from Springfield, roughly 60 from Dayton. Dad says, ‘we’ll just go on to Dayton.” I snapped. I said, “NO, we’re not! I’m done for the day. We are stopping in Springfield. I begin searching on Garmin. Because of my job, I discounted rates off the rack rate for lodging at all the major chains. So, I plan to call different ones to see who will give me the best government rate. I see a Marriott Courtyard. I think good, if the rate’s decent, it will be better than the fleabags we’ve been in the past 3 nights. I call. They have availability, and the state rate is $80. , cheaper than the MD Econolodge, and the same as the divey Red Roof Inn we were in the first night. Dad screeching to me, “HOW MUCH is it?! WHAT’s the AARP rate? I ask. My discount is better. I book the room, get directions, as I don’t trust Garmin to get us there. I hang up. Dad, asking me what hotel it is. I tell him it Courtyard, a Marriott discount franchise. “Well no wonder it’s so expensive!”
OH, NO HE DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT. This may have been when I actually bit my tongue. I simply said in a firm, but not angry voice, “This is NOT an expensive rate. It’s less than we’ve paid anywhere else.” I’ve never told my Dad to fuck off, but I came pretty damn close at that moment. My Dad was insistent that he was paying the expenses for the trip. Because of this, we all slept in one room, w/ 2 double beds. When I went up to the desk to check in, I took out my wallet and gave the man cash. Dad kept trying to put his credit card out. I told him I was taking care of it. (If you’re going to bitch about the choice, I’m not holding you responsible.) For the record, it was the nicest, and cleanest of any of the places we stayed. We check in, go to eat (at Bob Evans for the 5th time in 4 days, and 2nd time that day.) Fortunately, the Courtyard had a small gym and a pool. I definitely needed to work out some aggression, as well as needed some serious down time alone. Even though I was exhausted, and really could have gone to sleep, I knew I could not go back and stay in the room with them and keep that last raw nerve from unraveling. I hit the treadmill, did a few reps on the weight machine, and then went and sat in the whirlpool for a while until I got too shrivel. At this point I went back to the room, showered, grabbed the laptop and went down to the lobby bar to have a beer and check email, blogs, etc. The bar was closed, but I stayed down there for over an hour until my eyes could no longer focus, and I knew they’d be asleep.
I was pissed at him. I was pissed at myself for letting him get to me. I’m pissed that we so quickly fell back into the old patterns. I thought all these years later it would not be history repeating itself. FUCK! It was like I was 17 years old all over again. He pushed the buttons. Hell, he installed a good deal of them. The more he needled, the more obstinate I became in my resistance. As if this in and of itself wasn’t a living version of hell, six meals in 4 days were at Bob Evans. This was the payback for my refusing to eat at Cracker Barrel for their homophobic anti-gay hiring policies. OK, end of rant.

The Reception
The reception itself was a lot of fun. Meagan and Adam live out in the country in BF Maryland, by his parents’ on a plot of their land. They are not farmers, but it was farmland country. It was outdoors. They had a covered building, (as many farms do). The weather was unbearably hot and humid—pushing 100 degrees F. Adam (who trained to be a chef) did pretty much all of the cooking, prepping of the food. Meagan had it decorated in a very simple understated elegant manner for an outdoor reception. In what will go down as one of my favorite memories of my life, toward the end of the evening, the DJ puts on Dancing Queen by ABBA. Meagan had been up dancing with various people throughout the night. I hadn’t. When this came on, I looked at her, she at me. I gave her the “do you want to dance” signal. “Uncle Randy, YOU are my dancing queen!” We cut quite a rug (or slab of cement floor). Some of her girlfriends all came up and joined in with us. (Side note, WHY is it that I can attract a bevy of hot girls/women, but not the hot gay men?) This reminded me of another wedding reception years ago, for my friend Janet. She is the last woman I dated before finally coming out of the closet. At her reception, the DJ started playing “Someday My Prince Will Come”. Janet was clear across the room talking to other guests, and came running to me, and said, “There’s only one person I can dance with to this song!” And, we danced, creating a great life memory. This dance with Meagan takes a special place in the memory bank as well.
Adam knows that Tommy (my brother, Meagan’s Dad) like single malt scotch, so he order a bottle of Glenlivet for us. The two of us polished it off by the end of the night. I was pacing myself with the drinking, as I didn’t want to be driving all day hungover. I started with beer, and as hot and humid as it was, I was sweating it out almost as fast as I was drinking. Dustin (my nephew, Meagan’s older brother) was there with one of his best friends. They verbally arm twisted me into doing shots with them a couple of times.
An additional bonus was that I got to see Lisa, their Mom, my former sister-in-law, whom I adore. I hadn’t seen her for over 15 years. When I first came out, she was the one member of the family who was completely nonplussed by it, and accepted it (and me) without question. It was great fun seeing her (and members of her family) again.
…to be continued.

On the Road Again

From the far Northwest to the far (sorta) Southeast. It’s Thursday night and I’m en route to Maryland (via automobile) with my parents. Nearly 12 hours on the road today. Hopefully, less than 5 hours tomorrow in the car. I did most of the driving. We hit 6 states today: starting in Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, W VA (again) and Maryland. The purpose of the trip is to attend my niece’s marriage reception. The Wedding was in December. I wrote about her here http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/01/it-is-pretty-great.html.

(Apologies to Gdad--I'm too tired to play with and figure out the link naming thinging, you graciously explained to me.)

I just got back Tuesday from Vancouver, BC CANADA and haven’t even written about that trip yet, and here I am off to the complete opposite end of the continent. VC, BC was GR8, btw! I will write, hopefully this weekend.
My body’s internal clock is so whacked it doesn’t know what time zone I’m in, and whether I should be sleeping, eating or pooping.
One quick tidbit b4 I turn out the lights. After we, stopped, and got in to the motel--This ain't the like Hyatt in VC, BC) I went out to walk around, because I could not immediately go back to sitting. I wander up a road, up a hill, and find a mall. (How incredibly gay of me, I know.) There are no signs of cultural activities such as theatre, music, etc (unless you count Bravo network on the cable TV.) So, I'm wandering JC Penney's, just window shopping. I see a rack of cargo shorts, $40.00, marked down to $14.99, marked down further to $11.99. I can use another pair of shorts (30W), so I figure, I'll bite the bullet. I go to the register. The girl rings it up and says, "$2.11". I say, "WHAT?!", scrunching up my eyebrows. "Yeah, for any purchase over $10.00, you get a $10.00 discount. If you go back and find more, I'll can ring them up separately. I try to help out my customers." There were no more 30W on the rack. But, damn! This was better than a gay garage sale! These are brand new, tags still on, right off the rack. Oh, and the shorts includes a belt! For once a good WASTHTR!

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

Although, as per the John Denver song, my bags are NOT packed, I'm NOT ready to go... yet.

I’m off to the great North East. I’m going to Vancouver, BC, Canada for a conference for work. I’m even presenting at the conference, which, to quote Little Red Riding Hood from Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods, “I’m excited AND scared”. Well, OK, maybe scared is a bit too strong. But extremely nervous is not. The dreams will probably start tonight or tomorrow night. You know the ones, where everything than can go wrong does. You DO have those dreams don’t you? My worst ones were back when I had my florist business. I would dream that I somehow forgot Mother’s Day, and didn’t have enough flowers to sell—or that I missed a wedding by a week, or delivered the flowers to the wrong church. (That one actually happened with a florist I once worked for—(not my fault, for the record). Yet, given my penchant for WASTHTR*, there is empirical evidence to support my paranoia.
I’m most excited about going to VC. I’ve never been, and I’ve heard all of these wonderful things about the city. IF anyone has recommendations, of what to see, do, where to eat, please send them to me. I’ll be there through the weekend, and will have all of Sunday to myself to explore, sightsee.


*Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy

The Lone Ranger Flight Geek

Flying out to Orlando for this conference, it occurred to me for the first time that I am the flying equivalent of the pocket protector, medical taped horn rimmed glasses engineer. Last year when I attended this conference in Phoenix, I came home and proceeded to get the worst bronchial infection I’ve ever had to date. I’m certain that I got this infection from the plane trip home, with the recirculating air. I missed over 2 weeks of work; was borderline pneumonia; and almost put in the hospital. IT was the beginning of my year long on again-off again rounds of antibiotics. Not wishing to repeat this episode in 2008, I acquired some surgical masks from one of my docs, to wear. So, upon arriving at the airport, I masked up.
Additionally, the pressurization really screws with my ears. So, for a long time, I’ve purchased ‘ear planes’, which look like IUDs for the ear. It’s as I’m sitting, the plane is moving from the tarmack to runway for take off that I start to insert the aural devices, that it hits me, what a total geek I must look like. Now, on the plus side, people tend to ignore/avoid you. Since for reasons unbeknownst to me, I seem to be a freak magnet, this kept them at bay.
Once we landed and deplaned, I went to the bathroom in the airport (no Larry Craig antics), took off the mask and went down to collect the luggage. So far, so good. I’m tired, but because of the change in routine and the different pace one has at meetings/events like this. I’ll be masking up again for the trip home.

The trip home:

Well, so much for warding off the freaks. The shuttle that took me to the airport picked me up at 9:00 am. My flight wasn’t until 12:45pm. I arrive at the airport, mask up, get through TSA security and go to the gate. The gate area is crowded. I find an end seat next to some man, I would guess to be in my age co-hort, somewhere in his 40s. I open my backpack to get out my book to read.
“Have you ever read the Bible?”, says the man I just sat beside.
“Yes, I have.”, I respond as non-committally as possible, without looking at him, not wanting to encourage the continuance this conversation.
“It’s fortunate that you sat next to me. I’m just reading here in Acts about God’s healing powers. Are you a believer? Is Jesus Christ your personal lord and savior.?”
“No, I’m not and no he isn’t. I’m not going to have this conversation with you.”
“Jesus loves you and wants to heal you.”
“SIR, I’M NOT GOING TO HAVE THIS CONVERSATION WITH YOU.”
He continued for a bit longer, without me taking the bait.
Had I not been tired, and had I felt like a good sparring match, I would have said,
“The reason I’m no longer a believer is because of people like you, who think it’s fully appropriate to approach a total stranger, wearing a face mask/barrier, make assumptions about what disease I may or may not have and think it’s your right to come and start proselytizing to me. And because I don’t believe exactly what you believe, I am somehow inferior. I have no use for that type of theology or god.” Had I really wanted to get his ire up, I would have introduced myself as a Sodomite fag.
Instead, I turned my back to him, and pretended to read my book. After a few minutes, he selected a new victim on the other side of him, who was more receptive (or perhaps, less direct) than I in rejecting him.
The mask, my fool-proof anti-polarity method of repelling the freaks has failed me! What does it take to keep me from being the freak magnet?! Tonto, I need your help.

The 1st WASTHTR* of the Year ©wtr/rle

This falls under the category of “Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy”*.
Alternate titles could be: “Channeling David Letterman” or “Call Me a Rock Star in a Hotel”.
I arrive in Orlando, late afternoon Friday, for the Conference I’m attending, We’re at the JW Marriott, which is the “high end” of the Marriott franchise. As always, when I first enter a hotel room, I turn on the TV, find a channel, and start to unpack. My first thought is, “This JW hasn’t been updated. The one in DC had flat panel HDTV. This is the old tube model, in the armoire/credenza/cabinet, on the ‘pull out’ shelf.
Clothing all unpacked, I unpack the laptop, I have checked out from the IT dept.
As I can’t see the TV well from the desk table, I go to pull out the TV and rotate it toward me. As I start to pull out, the shelf and TV come tumbling out the front and fall to the floor. “Shit, shit, damn fuck me with a crowbar! I can’t believe this just happened to me!” The cable has ripped from the back of the TV. TV is still connected to the electricity, still on, green screen of snow. My AMX limit won’t handle this. I’m going to get kicked out before the conference starts! I call the front desk. “Hello, this is Mr. E, in room 24xxx. My TV and shelf just fell out of the cabinet. I need some help.”
~Five minutes later—‘knock, knock. This is engineering.” I open the door, to greet a small Latina woman. “Oh, MY GOD!”, as she enters the room, seeing the TV on its side, green snow glowing. She begins to turn off and disconnect. A minute or so later—“Knock, knock, engineering.” I open to the door to two gentlemen, of foreign origins. “Oh, MY GOD!”. I begin to see a theme developing. “Sir, are you OK? We’re you hurt?” “No, I’m fine. It didn’t land on me.” The other man is immediately calling the front desk. “We have to move him to another room.”
“Tell them that he’s not hurt. That’s important.”
Sir, is golf course view OK?”
“I’m not so concerned about the view, I prefer a higher level floor.”
“He wants to be on one of the higher floors. Sir, we’re going to move you down the hall to 24xxx. A bellman will bring up new key cards. IF you like, we would like to offer to buy you dinner or breakfast at the best restaurant in the hotel.”
“I’ve not had dinner yet. Dinner would be very nice, thank you.”
Go down, tell them your name, and that Engineering sent you. You’ll be taken care of.”
I go down to the host station. “Hi, I’m WTF, Engineering told me to tell you that.”
“Oh, yes sir. We’ll take good care of you!”
I’m seated by a handsome Turkish man, who tells me Manita will be my server. Manita arrives, tells me that her husband was one of the men who helped me with the TV and she apologizes profusely. She asks me if I’d like a glass of wine while I look at the menu. “Do you like reds?”’
“Yes.”
“Will you allow me to select a nice red for you? You like Cabernet Sauvignon?”
I was treated like royalty! Manita comes to take my plate, ask if I’d like dessert, and apologizes that it was so busy, and that she wasn’t able to come and talk to me more. Before my meal is over, her husband, from Engineering, comes, shakes my hand, apologizes again, and asks me if his wife has taken good care of me. “I told her you were my special guest and to treat you extra nice. We are from former Yugoslavia.” I’m not quite sure why he wanted me to know that.
By the time dinner was over, and a glass of wine was gone, I was able to laugh about the occurrence. But, when that TV first fell, I nearly pissed myself.
©wtr/rle