US Travel

Dispatches from a Grassy Knoll

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ Leave a comment
It’s been a while since you’ve heard from me, and like a coward I will blame my sloth on something entirely beyond my control: The Missoula XC. Yes, another year has come and gone, and with very few exceptions that whole business is wrapped up (if Amanda Carey happens to be reading this, please know that I have not forgotten about your prize money, and that it is on my correspondence to do list filed immediately between “RSVP to Lizzy’s and Alan’s wedding” and “file my 2011 tax return.” Please anticipate its impending arrival).
This blog over the last several posts has taken a turn towards the pensive and introspective (read: boring). While I believe that self-analysis is necessary and therapeutic, I also believe that a blogger can only induce so much eye rolling before his readers decide he’s gone entirely mad and just start waiting for him to become a household name in the police blotter.  So here is a decidedly non-philosophical update on this and that.
I am currently sitting in the shade of a lone ponderosa pine somewhere between Mount Shasta City and Redding, California, wondering how long Darby can keep putting her nose into strange holes in the earth before one will house a badger and she will be treated to a teachable moment. I am grateful to the minds who saw fit to clear-cut this particular swatch of land, as it has given me an unobstructed (except for a spruce tree which holds a number of not-terribly-intimidating No Trespassing signs) view of the Castle Crags and what may or may not be the northernmost fingers of the Sierra Nevada. I have also found here a clear and more or less level place to park Pigasus. On further thought, I sort of wish that they’d just gone all the way and cut that spruce tree down too, because it’s right in the way of my view and them cutting it down before would be less work than me moving my chair now. For me, anyway.
Pigasus. Pigasus Mk. I is my newest travel companion: a 1983 (watercooled) Volkswagen Vanagon. In almost every previous circumstance I have disapproved of naming cars, bikes, and dogs once you’ve got four, and have never done it myself before now.  The change in heart comes from having recently read Travels With Charley. An in depth conversation on why that book suddenly made me feel like it was ok to name this particular vehicle would probably nudge this post to the philosophical, but I will leave you with Steinbeck’s credo that he himself was a sort of pigasus, “earthbound but aspiring…. A lumbering soul but trying to fly…(with)…not enough wingspread but plenty of intention,” and that the ’83 Vanagon bears unmistakable resemblance in both athleticism and silhouette to a sow.
The noble Pigasus, in her natural environs.

— Page Break —

I have resumed writing, far now from the scarred and quiet California landscape and several days later, from the warmth and comfort of my bedroom. The trip has ended and I can say now what superstition and fear kept me from uttering before: somehow, Pigasus made it! Only several days before my intended departure, that porcine minx left me fuming and glum in East Missoula, refusing to start. After dozens of hours of troubleshooting and misdiagnoses and fruitless repairs, and with less than a day to spare, the problem presented itself as a small red wire that had shaken loose and needed only to be reconnected. I suppose that it’s another lesson for life.
P.S.I saw this sign in Oakland. 

Comfortable Enough

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ Leave a comment
Comfortable enough to order a Mai Tai at a bar in Plentywood, MT in January, that is. That really happened. I was in the northeasternmost corner of Our Fair State a few months ago for work and was looking forward to a trip to Hawaii. It was so cold out there that the antifreeze in the generator that was running our test froze. Needless to say that I was brimming with nervous anticipation of spending some time in the tropics with friends (I just checked The Google to see if Hawaii is technically tropical. It is, except for Necker Island. Huh). The Mai Tai has become sort of an emblem of those islands, and Alaska Air even pours you a free (albeit crappy) one on your way there. I was bumming pretty hard because I had maybe just broken an expensive test that might not yield any usable results and even more, might keep me in a hotel room in Plentywood for another two weeks.

The motel where I was staying, The Sherwood Inn, is a Robin Hood themed place that’s next to Fryer Tuck’s Restaurant (which actually has pretty good Mexican food) and the Robin Hood Lounge. In case you’re in the area and you need to unwind a little, there’s also Maid Marrion’s Nail Salon, and Little John’s Tanning Salon. This is real. I understand that during the fall they see a lot of bird hunting traffic, but in January most of the tenants were there as agents of the burgeoning oil and gas interests in the region. On most nights the Robin Hood Lounge was half filled by a mixture rough hewn oilmen and close-knit tables of laughing locals exchanging rounds of Patron.

On one of my later nights there I didn’t feel much like fraternizing and was really looking forward to Hawaii. To get my spirits up I ordered a Mai Tai to go, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: You can’t, by chance, make a cocktail to go, can you?
Bartender: Sure can.
Me: This is the best place ever. Can I have a Mai Tai?
Bartender: I’ve never heard of that. What’s in it?
Me: I’m not really sure. (So I looked it up, and came up with a usable recipe that called for ingredients that these guys stocked. The bartender and I looked it over, and he made it.)
Me: Heck yeah.
Bartender: Say, that looks kind of good. Maybe I should start making those . . . . Sorta looks like a chick drink, though.
Me: Oh, it’s definitely a chick drink.

I took the Mai Tai back to the room and managed to catch a couple episodes of Law & Order: SVU on USA (and also came up with the theory that that show is 98% of their programming). The Plentywood Mai Tai was a satisfying and tantalizing foreshadow of Actual Mai Tais to come, but was entirely too sugary to be actually palatable.

Anyway the test was not a complete failure, I was allowed to return from the Great Northeast, and a couple of weeks later escape for a while to Hawaii. We drank a lot of Mai Tais, and I was thinking recently that we spent some time dialing in the recipe. It’d be a shame for all of that work to go to waste and so I decided memorialize the recipe in The Cloud. So here it goes. This is really just the original Trader Vic’s recipe except with dark and white rum instead of Martinique and Jamaican rum. And with muddled herbs.

– 1 oz dark rum + a splash extra
– 1 oz white rum
– 1 oz fresh lime juice
– 0.5 oz orgeat syrup
– 0.5 oz Grand Marnier
mint or basil

Muddle a pinch of mint or basil in a shaker. Add ice and the rest of the ingredients. Shake and strain over ice. Top with a float of dark rum and garnish with fruit or mint.

That is all.

Photos compliments of Kristine Akland.

Big City

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 5 Comments
Photos by Kevin Horan.
I’m safely back in Antigua now, made it a few days ago. The weather is hot again, and work has slowed slightly but is still consistent. I’ve also been doing a little bit of riding on my own, which will receive more attention in a later post. No, today I’d like to reflect a little bit on my time in Chicago. Not the whole time, mind you, that would be as excruciating to write as it would be to read, and I will spare all of us. Last Friday night I had a rare opportunity to spend a night in theTrump International Hotel & Tower in Chicago. This was an incredible experience, one that I don’t imagine I will repeat any time soon, and I would hate to give the impression that I am in any way ungrateful. That said, I couldn’t help but make a few observations.
The Trump Towers are at once a symbol of the enterprise and success that has accompanied development in the United States since it’s inception, and yet another cobble in the road of excess that will eventually be her downfall. Before I begin, there were a few small, unavoidable things that rubbed me the wrong way. For instance, I don’t like having the door held for me. It makes me feel weird. Certainly, if I’m carrying an armoire or something of the like it’s a welcome courtesy, but if I’m simply coming or going, I would just as soon do it myself. I feel the same way escalators and those moving walkways in the airport. Perhaps they have an application, but for me it’s not right. Aside from a loving and well-bred family and a devoted corps of friends, I don’t really have anything going for me. That is, I’m penniless and virtually unemployed. But I do have my health, and until I join the ranks of the invalid and the dilapidated, I will walk, I will open my own doors, and I will put on and take off my own jacket, thank you very much. I digress, and I apologize. The Trump Towers website describes their rooms as “sumptuous,” and if I tried I could not conceive of a better choice. The room was an intricate mesh of glamour and gluttony, and I’ve done my best here to unweave it for you here:
Glamour This is the view from our room, overlooking the Tribune Building, the Chicago River (in your eye, nature), and Lake Michigan:

Here is the view from the other side of the hotel:

Excess: Here is the bottled water selection in the room:


And here is the pamphlet that describes the options:
It’s slightly difficult to tell from the photo, but the page is entitled “water library” in trendy font and all lower case letters, as if the bourgeois proprietors are above grammar and capitalization. It goes on to detail the selections, which range from $10-25 per bottle. The most expensive option is Bling, with which the bottle comes bedazzled with “genuine Swarovski crystals.”
Glamour: The rooms did come complete with a cocktail shaker and stainless ice bucket, which is, in a word, incredible.

Excess: This final point comes without a photo accompaniment, but can be adequately addressed in text. While perusing the (exquisite) room service book, I came upon a tab entitled, “Pillow Menu.” Being of a romantic and culinary mind, my imagination quickly went to a list of chocolate dipped fruits and aphrodisiac finger food. Incorrect. It was, quite literally, a selection of the different pillow options that are available to hotel guests. The list is . . . comprehensive. Fortunately a copy of this menu managed to find its way into my carry-on, and I’ve seen fit to furnish this post with a selection or two. Check that, I haven’t got a tour until this afternoon, so I will transcribe the entire menu. Presumably, this is the intellectual property of the Trump fortune, but I will justify this to myself as advertisement. Here it goes:
Pillow Menu
Your room is appointed with luxurious pillows comprised of a 50/50 blend of Goose Down and White Goose Feathers. Incased [sic] in a 300 thread count fabric, our pillows are light and lofty for your comfort.
Trump International Hotel & Tower is pleased to offer the following pillows to make you more comfortable while away from home.
AIRWAY PILLOW
This pillow reducing snoring by preventing the airway to the throat from closing, while also minimizing neck and shoulder soreness.
BODY PILLOW
When placed along the contours of th body while sleeping, a body pillow provides upper support for the shoulders. By placing the pillow between your knees, it will help relieve pressure on the hips.
DENSITY PREFERENCE
Feather or synthetic pillows are available in a SOFTER or FIRMER density to match your preference. We would be delighted to deliver either to your guest room.
JUNIOR BODY PILLOW
This is a smaller version of the body pillow, which is next best thing to snuggling with a favorite stuffed animal, for our younger guests.
LEG BOLSTER
Provides relief to the lower back and help promotes [sic] circulation by providing an incline on which to prop up the knees and legs.
SYNTHETIC PILLOW
A “down alternative” and completely non-allergenic, can be delivered immediately to your room.
AROMATIC PILLOWS
Authentically hand picked and handcrafted, these Himalayan herbal blended pillows reflect rich indigenous healing by incorporating Ayurvedic knowledge, Tibetan therapies, and the wisdom of mountain healers. Free of pesticides and fortified with natural, organic fertilizers, our five signature pillows have been created to parallel your choice of a personal intention which can be experience first hand at The Spa at Trump. Silk wrapped, these aromatic pillows are the perfect addition to help enhance your wellbeing throughout your stay.
Calm
“Experience Stillness and Quiet Thoughts”
Hand picked in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains, Camphor, Sage, Safflower and Orange Blossom are blended into this pillow to relax, soothe and prepare your body for a restful evening of deep, peaceful sleep.
Balance
“Integrate harmony, Compassion & Well Being”
Allow the healing properties of Yland Ylang, Geranium, Licorice, Fennel and Nettle to stabilize your mood, activate courage, strengthen and enhance the relaxation process.
Purify
“Cleanse Body & Spirit”
Genuine Himalayan herbs and essential oils such as Juniper, Grapefruit, Sandalwood, Artemesia and Mentha will foster mental clarity, inspiration and enlightenment to enhance awareness, fuel the mind and stimulate peaceful dreams.
Heal
“Relax the Mind & De-Stress”
The Himalayan herbs contained in this pillow help to reduce th symptoms of headaches, minimize mental distress and nervous tension. A combination of refreshing essential oil scents and hers of Chamomile, Bergamot, Lemongrass and Sandalwood deliver the ultimate in relaxation.
Revitalize
“Restore Depleted Energy and Stimulate Creativity”
A mixture of Rosemary, Basil, and Lemongrass has been chosen to aid in clearing the mind, sharpen memory, promote increased energy levels, to reveal an uplifted inner self.
So that was pretty much the gist of my Trump Towers experience. I made it back to Antigua safely (after taking a cab to O’Hare directly from the bar at 0330 to catch a flight at 0530), to be greeted by a curious sight on the soccer field near my apartment. The event was apparently sponsored by Gallo Beer and a beverage called Super Cola. Several large tents were present, as well as plastic chairs for several hundred. Simply based on my impressions as I walked by this was either some sort of regional break-dance competition, set to American Top 40 music, or a really fun wedding. At least it seemed that way before the evening ended abruptly at 9pm with an English language performance of “Silent Night.” Curious.

A Rueful Account of the Indignities of Air Travel in the 21st Century.

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 3 Comments

You will notice that this post will not be accompanied by original photography. More on that later.

I embarked upon my return to my native land last Thursday morning at 0900 when I set foot onto the Chicken Bus and set forth towards Guatemala City. I had been coached on the finer points of bus travel in the City: keep your bag close, pay attention, and don’t sit too close to the driver. With all of these things in mind, I left the comfortable safety of Maribel’s watchful eye and began a one hour bus ride that looked something like this. Without noteworthy incident I was deposited outside of the main shopping center where I hailed a cab, and we engaged in the formalities of discussing the fare. It went something like this:
Me: How much does it cost to go to the airport from here?
Guat Cabbie: Q60.
Me: Clearly, sir, you are debauched. It’s not worth half that.
Guat Cabbie: Ok, ok, Q45.
Me: I apologize for the state of my Spanish, perhaps you did not understand that I refuse to pay more than Q30.
Guat Cabbie. Ok, sorry, Q40.
At this point I began to walk to the next cab, which incited my Guat Cabbie friend to capitulate.
After a brief cab ride to the airport I checked in with relative ease (carry-on only) and proceeded towards the security checkpoint. Upon arriving I was informed that I had not yet paid my security tax and was redirected to the currency exchange where I was relieved of 20 Quetzales so that I may be more effectively degraded and inconvenienced in the name of air safety.
With that out of the way, however, I was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness, quiet, and free WiFi in the GUA terminal, and began to mentally prepare for my reintroduction to American life. Travelling in this 3rd world country had, up to this point, been very hurried and chaotic, but without incident and generally not an unpleasant experience. It wasn’t until I began to fly domestically within the United States that the quality of my travel experience declined.
I should mention now, that I hate flying. Perhaps I should have read Ryan’s account of how to enjoyably fly on a budget before leaving, but I did not. I think that it is degrading, uncomfortable, expensive, and it brings me into intolerably close proximity with a demographic with which I generally decline to embrace, that is, the American public, especially those flying to or from Houston, TX. I have an uncanny knack for sharing a row with the most loquacious and obese customer on the flight; such that the age old “Arm Rest Cold War” is frequently rendered moot by my neighbor’s corpulence crossing that plastic Rubicon into the seat for which I paid. This said, I will continue my epic.
Upon boarding my flight from Huston to Denver my legally sized and carefully packed carry-on was snatched from my hands by a stewardess who informed my that there was no longer any room on the plane for carry-on luggage. I refrained from asking her if this development may have been a direct result of her employer inducing exorbitant checked bag fees and quietly removed my laptop and book from my pack with an acquiescent smile. I asked her if my bag would be available upon disembarking the plane, and she replied that it would be available in baggage claim in Denver. My final destination was Wichita, KS. I related this issue to her and she made the appropriate changes by writing “Wichita” on the tag and sending it below the plane. I decided that I would probably never see that bag again.
My middle seat on this flight was flanked by a very nice old Guatemalan lady, and a young American man living for the time being in Antigua. Neither of them had the slightest respect for the ancient law of “if I’m wearing headphones it means I don’t want to talk to you,” clearly detailed in Hammurabi’s Code. I answered a question to the old lady that I work with a Canadian (not my choice), which induced a 35 minute soliloquy of every story that she could relate having to do with Canadians, Canada, or quizzically, Geoffrey Rush. The young man went so far as to invite me to dine with him in the concourse, and incessantly tapped my foot with his. The affronts to my dignity continued on the next flight when I was wedged between a man large enough to necessitate re-stowing the hold of our 737 and an individual without the wherewithal to appreciate that it is entirely unacceptable for a grown man to play video games in public.
Upon my ultimate arrival in Wichita, I was surprised to find that my mis-checked bag did arrive, and to my chagrin had apparently been run over with a plane. The bag was ravaged, as well as several of it’s contents, appropriately, only the expensive ones. The bag, coat, camera, and cell phone which fell victim to a force powerful enough to crush my toothbrush into six pieces totaled several hundred dollars in damage.
In the end, I was made partially whole by my airline of choice, as they were forthcoming with an admission of fault and check for very nearly the cost of replacement. I will, however, continue to drive whenever feasible, and frequently when it’s not.