Ready, Set, Go

Once on the other side of security at Terminal A of the Philadelphia International Airport, I found a collection of screens and checked when Allison, my travel companion for the next two weeks, was to arrive from Nashville. According to the board, she was expected on the ground in ten minutes somewhere in Terminal F. I spent a full three minutes pondering a relocation to meet her beforing having a what-if anxiety moment. What if I mess up and have to go through security again? What if her already late arrival is even later than noted and we both end up missing the flight out to Barcelona? What if I get all sweaty and gross while walking between the terminals with my over packed carry-on? I decided to bypass a panic attack and took a seat at a gate for Frankfurt because it provided a good view of the hallway Allison was to come prancing down. My attention bounced between my watch and my cell phone as I awaited her arrival.

With around fifteen minutes to spare, she appeared in the distance and we walked the rest of the way to our gate. We settled in and as the half-full aircraft climbed to 37,000 feet, we started in on the salads I’d retrieved earlier from Wholefoods. Chews of lettuce of were randomly interrupted by giddy commentary about the two weeks that lay ahead of us. There was the Picasso Museum in Barcelona, the beaches of Mallorca, the Prado in Madrid and the Pena Palace in Portugal. There was Paella, Parma and every other ethnic food we had interest in sampling. Seven and half hours later, we landed in Spain and worked our way through immigration and out to the curb. Per guidebook instructions, we hailed one of the black and yellow cabs to ensure we wouldn’t be charged something incorrect. Allison pointed to our Barcelona hotel information that she’d neatly typed up in an itinerary and we were off.

As the diesel Citroen careened down the highway, I soaked in my surroundings. And then I started to have second thoughts. I’m not saying that anyone flying into Newark en route to New York would be met with a lovely first impression of America. There are offensive odors and unsightly towers of fuel. But the roadway leading into Barcelona was reminiscent of the sites I’d seen of Kosovo. Everything was gray. I kept my mouth shut and blamed the pessimism on limited sleep and an overall feeling of travel filth.

“Welcome to Hotel Monte Carlo of Barcelona! Your room isn’t ready but you can stow your bags here and come back later. Check in is at three.”

Allison and I simultaneously looked at our watches and calculated how much time that truly meant. Six hours. Disappointed but accepting of our fate, we gathered our travel books for Spain and headed out the door and down Las Ramblas in the direction of some breakfast spots the hotel suggested. With the exception of the phrase book Allison had grabbed, there really was no point to toting the tour books. None whatsoever. We were tired and there was no way either of use was capable of making a decision about what activity came next. Beyond a plate of eggs, a shower and a nap, nothing seemed relevant.

“Menu?” Allison asked while pantomiming the act of opening one as I searched her phrasebook for the Spanish equivalent.

The waiter who had passed us by at least ten times in the fifteen minutes since we’d arrived finally took note of our presence and five minutes later returned with menus. It had pictures. I never eat at places that identify food with pictures. That’s like the first rule of Foodie-ness. But I kept my mouth shut and ordered a plate of scrambled eggs with a croissant and coffee because I didn’t want to officially make my doubts known.

Maybe the Spanish folks don’t eat breakfast? Maybe the place where we landed didn’t know how to cook breakfast? Either way, when the plates arrived, I was relatively speechless. The eggs were coated in oil, the croissant was stale and my lukewarm coffee had a mountain of hardened whipped crème floating on top like an iceberg. Allison’s plate of morning sustenance looked no better so I opted to put the food before me in my mouth so as to avoid words coming out of it.

“Cuenta por favor,” we asked in a horrible accent after cleaning our plates, the china still glistening from the oil that had been used to cook everything.

“Eer iz zee check. I added zee water on at zee bottom,” the waiter announced as he placed the piece of paper down.

I waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “that little shit speaks English? Like he couldn’t have hinted at it when we struggled to ask for salt?”

We paid the bill, leaving a 2 Euro tip as suggested by one of the books and headed back out to Las Ramblas to kill the next five hours. The street had a large walking path flanked by two narrow lanes of roadway. We strolled down the sidewalk, taking in the scenery. There were tourist shops with t-shirts and fans pouring out of the doorways as enticement to stop in. There were eateries, most of which had photographic summaries of the food they sold. There was a McDonalds with a long line out front as people both Spanish and not Spanish waited for the manager to unlock the door. I was jealous of the meal that awaited them. Over all, it was a curious collection of crap.

Our feet led us down to the Harbor and there we strolled some more before taking a seat on a bench in front of Barcelona’s famous mall, though I’m not quite sure why this random collection of mediocre shops is considered worthwhile. A modern hotel stood before us with a British battleship partially obstructing the building. Other commercial boats beaten up and rusty cluttered the waterway to our left and really unimpressive private boats were in the marina to our right.

“I miss France,” I finally announced.

“Me too,” Allison replied.

“The ‘official’ cab driver fucked us royally, I’m sure of it. No way in hell the meter fare is per person. The streets are dirty and breakfast sucked ass. Speaking of ass, the waiter was a huge one with his holding out on English until the very end. And why the heck is a random mall on a dock considered a site worth seeing?”

“How about that drive in from the airport?”

“Don’t even get me started. The pathway from the airport looked like a scene from a war torn land.”

“We should head back and find a café. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll last as a site seeing gal.”

Up we got and off we went walking back down the planked pathway leading back to Las Ramblas which in turn led back to our hotel where we intended to retrieve some books as entertainment. I took a deep breath and lifted my gaze from the wood beneath my feet. The view before me was a collection of beautiful buildings fronting the water. There was elegant detail found in the masonry and ironwork that dotted the facades. And as the sun crept up higher in the sky, a warm glow reflected off the buildings. A few feet in front of the roadway were palm trees that gently swayed with the movement of the breezes.

“Wow. You know, the distant view Barcelona from the water is actually quite pretty. Sure as heck beats the view from within it.”

Allison agreed, pausing for a moment to take it all in before resuming our pace and disappearing back into the city streets.

I'm Back....

Early afternoon yesterday marked my official return to the states. Around seven hours after wheels up from Lisbon, my feet got reacquainted with American soil. I've done some laundry, eaten some food that wasn't considered a pork product and forced myself to remain awake until midnight as I tried to get a jump start on kicking the jet lag. I crawled between the crisp clean sheets of my bed only to awake a few hours later scared and confused.

Where am I?

Who am I?

Where am I?

Breathe Paige. Breathe.

I think I have to pee.

Oh wait. That's my dresser.

I'm home?

Cool. At least I know where the bathroom is.

Am working on settling in and hope to have something entertaining to share with you sometime tomorrow! Plenty of stories. Just need to make them coherent.

Ciao!

Operation Swimsuit

I hate bathing suit shopping. Correction. I passionately detest bathing suit shopping. While I’ve never actually experienced a root canal, I’m guessing it’d be a lot more fun than standing practically naked under glaring neon lights in front of a crappy three way mirror.

Mid-April marked the start of Operation Swimsuit, a mission to replace my two most favorite bathing suits bought five years ago while vacationing with Allison in the Outer Banks. Horrendous trip, amazing swimsuits. Three months in and I’d already hit Bloomingdales, Neiman Marcus, Lord & Taylor, Nordstrom’s, Sak's, Marshall’s, TJ Maxx, Target, Old Navy, Banana Republic, J Crew, LL Bean, Land’s End and Eddie Bauer. Nothing. With only three days left before departing on my European journey, half of which involves sand and surf, I started to get stressed.

Desperate and depressed, I followed my mother’s suggestion and went over to Shirley & Co., a local shop that sells only swimwear. As I rifled through the racks, an older woman who’d clearly spent too much of her youth worshipping the sun offered assistance. I politely shooed her away and went about my business. If it looked remotely appealing and was my size, I grabbed it. The successful completion of Operation Swimsuit hinged on an open mind.

“Let me start a fitting room for you. Were you looking for a two-piece?”

“Ultimately, yes, but I'm open to a one-piece.”

“Would you wear a skirted bottom?”

“Suuuuuuuuuure,” I tentatively replied. Skirted bottoms make me think of thick Russian women (a la the 1987 Wendy's ad)wading in the Baltic Sea.

“This is fabulous,” she exclaimed while holding up a strapless, skirted, two-piece, old lady swimsuit with a zebra print and gold detailing. The padding on the boobs was so molded, it looked like the top already had someone in it. I delayed a response so I could formulate a non-offensive comment.

“I’m not sure that’s age appropriate,” I replied.

“Let me tell you something. The lady in the fitting room just had this on. She looked so sexy!”

“Just out of curiosity, how old is the lady in the fitting room because I’m thirty-three,” I said while craning my neck until I got a glimpse of a woman who was easily sixty-five.

Before stripping down to my panties, I made a deal with myself. If I liked a swimsuit all around and it cost under $200, I was buying it. The goal was to find something and being picky wasn't going to help. Even with my unusual optimism, I struck out. The saleswoman stopped back as I pulled on the last of my options, the old lady two-piece that screamed sex or on me screamed ain’t having any sex.

“I have some alternatives you might like.”

“Let’s see,” I said while stepping out into the hallway sporting the old lady two-piece.

“What do you think of this one?” she asked while holding out something lacey and tie-dyed.

“Not me.”

“This one?”

“No.”

“This is sexy.”

“Neck’s too high." I’ve seen turtlenecks that are more revealing.

“How about this one?”

“Though it is basic black," I said while literally giving a thumbs up as praise for her listening to one of my requests, "the fuchsia, light pink sparkles and black mesh detailing really isn’t my style.”

“What about the one you have on?”

“I feel like I should be sitting on a beach in Boca knitting a sweater for my grandson while kibitzing with my neighbor Mildred about the next Bridge tournament.”

The saleswoman was not amusd by my reference. Probably because I just described her from November to April. I cracked. I’m sorry but that last bathing suit was just too much for me to handle. I politely thanked her for her efforts and retreated to the fitting room to get back into my preppy and youthful clothing. I left there with my spirits and ego dashed and headed up the street to TJ Maxx. Maybe a new shipment had arrived since my last visit. Or maybe someone had returned the perfect swimsuit. I had to be hopeful because I'd otherwise drive off the road.

Someone up above was looking down on me because there at TJ Maxx, tucked into the bathing suit racks were three tankinis in my size, that I liked and, most importantly, that fit. I bought all of them along with a one-piece. Grand total? Sixty-four dollars. But forget the money side of the issue. I finally had my ego glued back together. Operation Swimsuit? Mission complete.



PS: I depart this evening for my trip – Barcelona, Mallorca, Madrid & Lisbon. For obvious reasons, I’m leaving the laptop home though I am bringing a cute little journal to keep track of my thoughts. Unless internet is easily available when my writing mood strikes, I’ll be taking a vacation from posting. To my loyal readers, all five of you, I’ll miss you dearly and look forward to reuniting when I get back on the 25th. Well, unless of course I'm swept off my feet by a dashing European while sunning on the shores of Mallorca.

Welcome Home

My bag was checked, my carry-on was overflowing with magazines and my ticket was ready to be taken. I staked a place against a pillar and stood there waiting for Zone 4 to be called. Ten minutes passed. Then another ten minutes passed. I checked my watch on a regular basis with the same impatience I might push an elevator button, erroneously assigning a similar thought process that this act just might move things along at a faster pace.

“Wah wah wah wah wah. Wah wah wah Flight 935 wah wah maintenance wah wah wah,” came from the overhead speaker.

I tapped the closest passenger and asked her if she understood the announcement.

“Yeah, the plane that’s here has a maintenance problem. They’re trying to find an alternate while they attempt to fix the one at the gate. Something about being grounded if the alternate plane isn’t the same model because this crew's only trained on a 737.”

“He said all of that? Oh well. There goes my Charlotte connection seeing it’s, um, in thirty minutes.”

“Oh, he said you might want to go two gates over to Special Services if you have a connection.”

“He said that too?”

The woman shrugged and went back to the latest issue of People Magazine. I gathered up my things and headed over to Special Services to finagle a rerouting, swapping my true destination of Sarasota for neighboring Tampa. It meant my parents would have to drive forty minutes north to retrieve me. It meant my luggage was just as likely to end up in Phoenix as it was to end up in Sarasota. Most importantly, it meant I didn’t have to spend an extra 9 hours at the Philly airport for a departure with yet another potentially missed connection. I worked my way off the Tampa standby list and right into a cozy middle seat of aisle thirteen. My eyes were closed and I was asleep well before wheels up.

“Hello from the flight deck. We’re on our final approach to Tampa. It’s a balmy 89 degrees outside and it looks like we’ll have a nice landing. Clear skies the rest of the way. Just perfect. Flight Crew, please prepare the cabin for landing.”

I started to tidy up my space, tucking away magazines and gathering up my trash for the stewardess to retrieve as she strolled the aisle in search of litter. The passengers on either side did the same. The man to my left directed my attention out the window to a dot on the landscape that, according to him, was Busch Gardens. And the woman to my right provided motherly advice and instructions to her three sons sitting on the other side of the aisle.

“It’s your Captain again. I have some somber news to share with you folks this evening. We have a passenger on board and I’m sad to say but he was unable to join us in the main cabin. Our flight is transporting a fallen soldier back home from Iraq. That man in uniform you might have seen on board? He’s Captain Smith and he’s escorting the fallen soldier back to his family. Once at the gate, we ask that you permit Captain Smith to deplane first. Additionally, it is customary that no other cargo be removed from the plane until the casket has been taken off. With that said, please be patient at baggage claim. There will be a delay. Thanks for your understanding.”

A deafening silence fell upon the plane. No one was shuffling or darting for a last minute trip to the bathroom. I bit my lower lip hard before reaching into my bag to retrieve one of the extra napkins I’d snagged earlier at Starbucks. I could feel my eyes start to water and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep it in. For the first time in my life, the true cost of war was within reach and it made me sick. No longer was the death toll of servicemen at a comfortable distance. Now, it was merely a few feet away.

We taxied the runway in silence and pulled up to the gate. People patiently remained seated as Captain Smith departed. The air was stuffy and warm because the engines were turned off so as to avoid disturbing the people waiting plane side on the tarmac. Not a single passenger complained. Strangers spoke to one another in hushed tones in search of comfort as they gathered their things and headed for the jet way. I slowly followed the stream of people at a pace that all but halted in the terminal. I looked around and saw that almost every passenger had decided to linger. They were pressed tightly together in front of the panoramic window looking down at the family and servicemen awaiting the casket. Complete strangers silently stood there packed in and watched an unknown person who died well before he should have be welcomed home.

Slumber Party

“Stay over,” Scrabble suggested.

“It’s a school night,” I countered as I nuzzled tighter into the nook, that sweet spot just under his arm.

“So what?”

“And it’s only our second date.”

“I know you aren’t the type of girl who lives by dating rules,” he said while running his hand over my bare arm to prove a point.

“Why do you want me to stay over so badly?”

“Because it’d be nice to wake up next to you in the morning.”

That did it. And for my male readers, feel free to recycle that line so you too can manipulate all sorts of ladies to join you for a slumber party. I’m thinking it has a 93.25% success rate. Anyway, I put aside my angst about sleeping poorly at a new boy’s house and agreed to the overnighter.

By 11pm, Scrabble was passed out in bed and I was just lying there staring at the ceiling. I slipped out of bed, got dressed and headed down to play on his laptop. An hour and forty-five minutes later I crawled back in between the sheets. I was still wide awake, so I just let my brain run wild with the hopes it’d tucker itself out. Sorta like chasing my nephew outside around the perimeter of the house for no other reason than to simply run him down to empty.



Is that a light blinking?
It is.
Is it green?
I wonder what it is.
Must be a smoke alarm.
But I thought most smoke alarms had red lights.
Red like flames.
I wonder if that’s why they make them red.
To match the color of the danger they warn about.
Damn I’m hungry.
Oh yeah.
Skipped dinner.
Maybe I’ll run over to WaWa.
How many blocks is that?
One, two, three, four, five, six down and one, two, three four...
Wait.
One, two, three four, five, six down and one, two, three over.
Not too bad of a stroll.
God, a Shorti sounds good right about now.
Turkey with honey mustard.
I’ll have to take his keys to get back in.
What if even with the keys I get locked out?
My luck he won’t hear his phone.
WaWa’s out.
I really need to just get back into the habit of keeping a Pria bar in my handbag.
Seriously, what kind of guy stocks only a gallon of hot sauce and a box of Triscuits?
Oh, and Bay Seasoning.
And to think he was going to make us dinner tonight.
Thank God that didn’t come to fruition.
Fuck it.
I’ll just get a bagel in the morning when I head home.
How early can I leave without looking like I’m sprinting to the door?
I’m thinking 5:30 is too early but I ain’t staying here one minute past 6:30.
No way, no how.
I need fooooooooooooooooooooooooood.
I could never be one of those starving kids in Ethiopia.
Are people still starving in Ethiopia?
A toasted onion bagel with lite cream cheese.
Scrap that.
A toasted onion bagel with lox spread.
I had enough physical exercise earlier tonight to warrant bypassing anything low-fat.
I think I’ll go to Fill-a-bagel.
Their bagels always hit the spot.
Maybe I should go straight there and then go home to shower?
Nah.
I’ll be wearing day old clothes.
I haven’t done the walk of shame since college.
Maybe I should just stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and get a bagel there.
Hit their drive-thru.
Those bagels suck, though.
Selling sucky bagels should be illegal.
I pass McDonalds on the way home if I hit Broad Street right.
They have a drive-thru.
Good thing because the neighborhood is as safe as Tikrit.
An Egg McMuffin sounds damn good right about now.
Scratch that.
I think I’ll get a greasy Sausage McMuffin instead.
Haven't had one of those since 2001.
I’ll burp it for days but it tastes so damn good.
If I’m going to splurge on the grease, might as well get some hash browns.
My throat’s been hurting, I’ll order an OJ also.
Ix-nay the OJ.
Tastes like orange tinted water.
Why is it so hard to sell good orange juice?
Is it 6:30 yet?
What does his alarm clock say?
God dammit!
Who gets an alarm clock that doesn’t glow numbers clearly at night?
Scrabble, that’s who.
Does this count as a flaw?
I’m combining the gallon of hot sauce and non-glowing alarm clock into one flaw.
That’s generous of me.
Go Paige.
You’re curbing the judgment a little.
Good for you.
Wait, my Swatch has glowing hands.
Or does it?
Okay, it’s either five fifteen or three twenty.
Either way, I’m fucked ‘cause it ain’t 6:30.
Maybe I’ll go get a Triscuit after all.
No way.
I’ll totally wipe out on that shitty spiral staircase.
That'll be fun to explain when Scrabble awakes to my thunderous tumble.
You're not eating something.
Just close your eyes.
That's it.
Go to sleep, Paige.
Go to sleep, Paige.
Go to sleep, Paige.
For the love of Fucking God, go to sleep, Paige.



“Where are you going?” he asked in a groggy morning voice.

“Time to start my day,” I replied already dressed and darting for the door. I would have been able to slip out unnoticed if I hadn’t accidentally walked head-on into the open, bi-fold, closet door while exiting the bathroom after brushing my teeth with a swoop of toothpaste on my index finger.

“Come back to bed. It’s only 6:30.”

“I really need to head out. Seriously. I have to go home before going to work,” I said while simultaneously calculating how long of a power nap I could sneak in pre-shower to offset the lack of sleep.

“Just get back in here and curl up in front of me so I can wrap my arms around you.”

“Fine. Ten minutes. But I’m counting.”

There goes the power nap.