Category: Travel

Ciao, Baby

We flew to Italy out of New York a few days ago. The approximately 135-mile drive from Wilmington, Delaware to NYC took two hours. The last ten miles of New York traffic lasted three.

Half-an-hour worth of NYC traffic was within olfactory range of a truckload of spilled chicken that had obviously been rotting in the street for awhile. As Bryan said, only in New York does a pile of raw meat remain in the road long enough to make you dry heave as you pass.

The rental car, oddly, was infested with spiders. I realize this sounds like a detail from a drug-induced haze, but I have the bites to prove it. What’s more, my attempts to procure drugs in Keller, Virginia were surprisingly fruitless.

We’re in Milan now for the Adaptive Path Workshop. According to my guidebook, Italian men should have leapt at me as I got off the plane and refused to stop grabbing at my ass until I batted at them with rolled newspapers. I dutifully learned the suggested phrases to ward off unwanted advances:

At the cafe, where I’d like to read as I sip my wine, “Mi lasci en pace, per favore.” (Please leave me alone, in peace.)

On the train, where someone is bound to grope me, a loud, “Que schifo!” (How disgusting!)

And the charmingly all-purpose, “Adesso, basta!” (Enough already, buck-o.)

Sadly, I’ve yet to have a single Milanese man make an inappropriate advance. What’s more, all of them dress better than me. Italy is doing nothing for my self-esteem.

Congrats Rachel and Rosecrans!

We just left North Carolina. I’ve never been in the South before. It’s prettier over here, and the barbeque is better.

As you might expect, I’m eating a lot of fried stuff. Also, I don’t know what anything is. The waitress looked confused when I asked her what hush puppies were. The girl at the coffee shop was amazed when I asked what was in a moon pie. The girl at the breakfast place heartily recommended that I have the cheese grits instead of the regular grits. I can’t imagine that the cheese made much of a difference.

We crossed the border into Virginia late last night and spent two hours this morning trying to find a place to get an Internet connection. Finally we found WebCity. I’m currently sitting in a dark room with five guys who’ve been talking about how much ammo they have stored, how much they got paid for not killing that one guy, and so on, for the last hour.

Back

I’ve been in Colorado, where I had my first Awesome Blossom (recipe) at Chili’s. I had no idea what I was getting into. They take a genetically engineered gigantuonic onion, slice it decoratively, deep fry it, and slap it on a plate. The result looks like an enormous sea anemone with ranch dressing garnish. It is roughly the size of a small head of iceberg lettuce. In San Francisco, when you order onion rings, you get about four of them on a plate. In Denver, they give you enough to bring your entire circulatory system to a halt right there at the table.

Anyway, next time I go on vacation, I promise to say, “I’m going on vacation now” so I don’t get worried emails. Still haven’t adjusted to the idea that strangers assume that I’ve died/sunk into a deep depression/fallen into a hole where the well used to be when I stop posting. I was in Colorado eating an onion anemone, happy, above ground. Thanks for the notes.

Denver

I just got back from Colorado, home of The Melting Pot, an all-fondue restaurant. How many times have you thought, “This food just isn’t melted enough. Where can I go for more glutinous culinary options?” Colorado, my friends, land of cheese and honey. And if you’d like a nightcap after a satisfyingly runny meal? Locals head over to Prom Discount Liquors (for all of their underage drinking needs).

Biathalon: Cross-country Ski and Shoot

Context

Him: Don’t we have more guns per capita than any other nation? We are a nation of guns! Why aren’t we taking this event?

Me: Perhaps if the targets bled.

How much for the team?

Him: This would make a great bachelor party

Me: A ski and shoot?

Him: Yeah. They’re all these tight chicks, they’re wearing spandex body suits, and they shoot at shit. That’s way better than some stripper.

Hurry up Helga

The biathalon isn’t exactly a fast-paced sport. They play up-tempo music over the loudspeakers to amp the crowd, but the race is pretty much decided several minutes before it ends. Announcers still have to come up with something to say, and they often don’t speak English as a first language. Highlights:

  • Five minutes before finish: Unless something freaky happens to her on the course, it looks like the German team will take it.
  • Three minutes before finish: If you look at the video board time, then it’s like the Germans are running around with a smile on their lips.
  • One minute before finish (only one competitor is even in sight of the finish line): She’s looking behind her, to see if anyone can beat her. But 33 seconds, it’s too much.

Seven Reasons Why I Like Morons

  • When I was a kid, all the Mormons I knew had trampolines.
  • When I was eleven, mom and I took a road trip and ended up in Salt Lake City. Mom, meticulous driver that she is, turned the wrong way down a one-way street. No one honked, no one screamed obscenities, no one even rolled their eyes. Instead, the three lanes of traffic facing us stopped, and everyone leaned out their windows. Ma’am, you’re going the wrong way. Turn around, you’re going the wrong way. My mom gasped, Oh, shit, and flipped a U. The helpful motorists waved as they sped by.
  • A few days later, a horrible clanking noise seemed to be coming from our engine. Mom rolled into a local mechanic, in an expensive car, figuring we wouldn’t get it back without dropping a few grand. The mechanic got in, rolled a few feet, then got out and tightened a bolt that had been clanging around in our hubcap. My mom swallowed, Oh my God. What do I owe you? He laughed, Nothing! I don’t charge for tightening bolts. Mom gave him a hundred bucks. She had to force him to take it. When we got back in the car she said, Always reward honest people, Margaret.
  • In high school, Jen Keys used to invite all of us to Mormon dances. We wore skirts that barely reached our knees, and then hiked them up once inside. Five or six of us would start a tame mosh pit while the Mormon kids gave us a wide berth and cast uneasy glances at the Elders scattered around the gym. Everyone danced to slow dances with one hand held out, as though they were waltzing.
  • A few days ago, I left my purse at a Salt Lake City bar. In the morning I called the bar in a panic. Someone had turned it in. All the cash was still inside, as were my tickets to two events.
  • Mormons are big into converting people, but they promised to lay off for the Olympics. I was dubious. I had a day to kill in downtown Salt Lake and was approached no less than three times by men who love them the Jesus. My first uninvited visitor sat down next to me at the Coffee House. Baptist. My second friend took a seat with me at the deli despite my most convincing warning look. Baptist. The third one stopped me for directions and segued into whether I had seen his pamphlet, More than Gold. Baptist. Now, most of my family is Baptist, but by the end of the day I was in awe of Mormon restraint. I longed for those bike-helmeted, tie-wearing young men who leave you alone when you ask them to go away.
  • Many, many Mormons are blonde. Because I have always imagined that the Church must hand you a bottle of peroxide upon conversion, I find this amusing.


THREE MORE THINGS

Three favorite New York Signs:

  • Fight back NY, see a show!
  • Above a winter coat: Caring is giving! $129.99
  • Teen People’s “Jingle Ball” Style Slam 2001

5:24 p.m.


FLY AMERICAN

Three disturbing things about U.S. airports:

  • Guys in camouflage toting semi automatics who smile and nod at you while you’re being frisked.
  • Eerily empty terminals when you disembark.
  • Self-flushing toilets.

3:13 p.m.