Planes and trains

Not so much anything interesting with automobiles, although the Smelmooo and I did have a fancy rental car in Florida. And, by "fancy," I mean crappy sub-compact car with pen marks on the seats, a "Change Oil" light illuminated, and manual cranks to roll down the windows. But it got us from the airport to the resort and back, and that's all we really needed.

But anyway, part of my lack of blogging recently is a result of a bunch of travel and just general busyness (I think that's a real word, unlike "happyness" in the new Will Smith movie, which I have limited interest in seeing).

As I mentioned, the Smelmooo and I were in Florida, just for a long weekend getaway for no particular reason than we thought it'd be nice to have some time together in warmish weather before the holidays. So we headed down on a Friday evening, and returned that Monday, and had a fine time eating well, drinking girly drinks by the pool, swimming a bit, enjoying a couple's massage, renting bikes, and playing tennis and ping-pong.

But first, the plane ride. Which was a bit delayed, but nothing too awful, and I got bumped up to first class, which was enjoyable if a little lonely (if I had checked us in, I actually would not have put myself on the first-class standby list, but the Smelmooo signed me up because I'm losing my Elite status come the end of February, so he thought I should enjoy it while I can), and it's startling to me how much people drink in first class. Two Baileys before take-off, plus three glasses of wine with dinner, for the guy next to me, which seemed pretty consistent with everyone else up there except for me, with my Diet Sprite and Diet Coke.

The Smelmooo had a fairly awful experience with the person who ended up in my original coach seat next to him, but I'm sure he'll want to tell that story himself. Suffice it to say, it was not a pleasant few hours, and probably rivaled being frisked in the Frankfurt airport in terms of him feeling violated.

So we arrived at the Tampa airport; I waited for our one checked bag (we'd carried one on, but had to check another because of the new safety measures around bringing gels and liquids onboard) while the Smelmooo got the rental car. And I waited, and waited, like Gaylord Focker, watching the carousel go round and round, with no bag of ours to be seen. And although I had no baby spitting up on me, I had a total, "Take the little sticks out of your head, clean out your ears, and LISTEN to what I'm SAYING to you!" experiences in the lost luggage line. I was polite but persistent, and our lost bag arrived at our resort at 7:30 the next morning. So all was well, and we were able to move quickly into relaxation mode, which I think would not have been the case if the Smelmooo had been without a change of clothes any longer.

The plane ride home was less eventful; I got bumped up again, but this flight was less crowded, and the Smelmooo was next to an empty seat, and our bag showed up in Newark, thankfully, so no drama there.

The "trains" piece of my travel of late has primarily been to and from D.C., for day trips, which always tend to kick my ass. I think I'm still new enough in my job that I get super-anxious about meetings on the Hill, and I get all worked up on the trip down, and then I'm just exhausted by the time I make it back home. I've had two of these trips in the last two weeks, and I think I'm started to learn the ropes -- where to park at the train station in NJ; where to get good nachos at Union Station in D.C. before my ride home; the best door to use to board the train. Where I'm still falling short is in my selection of a seat on the actual train itself. I know who to pick as a seatmate on a crowded train, and a guy I met who commutes daily on the Amtrak from Baltimore to D.C. confirmed it: a woman (because she's likely smaller than a man, and also respects personal space -- none of that knees-splayed-open-at-a-150-degree-angle business), not talking on a cell phone as I board, no obvious tics.

But last week, I sat behind two priests who had spent an afternoon at the White House, and who spent The. Entire. Train Ride. reliving it with each other and anyone they could reach on their cell phones.

"We met Barney, the First Dog!"
"We didn't get to meet the President, but he gave us cufflinks. Cufflinks! They're gorgeous. Gorgeous!"
"We were in the West Wing, steps from the Oval Office!"
"The First Lady's chief of staff had lunch with us!"
"We go to see the First Lady's personal Christmas tree!"
"Barney got loose outside, and we hoped the President would run after him, but the Secret Service rounded him up in the end."

I don't mean to sound jaded, and the only time I've ever been to the White House was in utero, and my parents have certainly told the story of the visit a million times (mostly the part about my older sister getting sick, and her opening up some restricted door in her search for an appropriate place to vomit), and it was clearly an exciting visit for these men, but come on! Really, aren't you boring yourselves, telling the same story 15 times in a row? Because, honestly, if I heard about the First Dog one more time, I might have vomited, or at least wrestled the cell phone away, because enough is enough.

I was reminded, though, of a journal assignment my 10th grade English teacher gave us, to transcribe a conversation we overheard. I took the train to my high school, and even without cell phones there were lots of opportunities to listen to strangers' conversations, so I chose to transcribe a discussion between two guys about interior decorating. It was, I fear, an insanely stereotypical account of a discussion between two gay men, but my teacher did not take advantage of a teachable moment, and was much more intrigued by my classmate's transcription of her little brother's phone conversation with his girlfriend.

Anyway, I took a walk to the cafe car for a break from the priests, and was delighted to encounter a normal cashier who just sold me my pretzels and soda and wished me a good evening. The previous week, on my early morning train down to D.C., I ordered a bagel and a soda. The cashier tossed a packet of cream cheese onto my little cardboard tray, and I handed it back to him, saying, "I won't use this, so you can save it for someone else." And he refused it.

"But....I'm not going to use it."
"Well, then, there's the trash can."
"But...it's all sealed up. Can't you just save it and give it to somebody else?"
"Nope. It comes as a package. Bagel and cream cheese; it's on the menu together."
"But...I don't want it. I'm not going to eat it. Doesn't anyone ever want extra cream cheese? Can't you just save it?"
"Nope. You'll have to take it, or throw it in the trash."

Finally, I asked the woman behind me if she was getting a bagel and wanted the cream cheese, and she happily accepted. But then, she ordered only a drink, and she had no bagel or any kind of food at her seat. So I have no idea what that was all about -- I don't think cream cheese really keeps if you're just carrying it around in your purse all day, but I guess that's not my problem; better to give it to a crazy lady than to throw it in the trash, right?

Do you see why I find these trips exhausting? I'm thinking that the best Christmas present I'm getting this year is staying put for almost three whole weeks until I have to hop on public transportation again.