Tag Archives: travel

Two New Things

Posted on by
Reply

Well, if yesterday was two lovely things, today is two new ones. I flew back from Cushendall in NI to Edinburgh in prep for heading back to the States tomorrow, and had two new experiences. Apparently they travel in pairs these days.

As the plane took off, I felt water drip on me. The man next to me put up his hand and wiped away a drip above him. We looked at each other.

“Bottle of something musta come out of someone’s bag,” he said in a thick Irish accent.

I took the laminated safety cards out of our respective seat pockets and we used them as shields during takeoff. The instant the plane leveled, I pressed the call button.

The flight attendants appeared a couple of minutes later (when the sleeve of my sweater was soaked) bearing paper towels. They explained it was condensation, not a spilled bottle, and it wasn’t hurting any luggage. They stuffed the towels into the crevices and gave me some to clean up with.

My companion in the next seat decided we had bonded. “Had yersel’ a nice Irish holiday?” he asked.

One of my resolutions for this winter is to be more outgoing, talk to strangers, etc. I sighed and shut my book.

He was, in a word, inebriated, and eager to explain the details of his fascinating life. These mostly involved women in pretty dresses at dances, and the fact that he was having a 60th birthday party on Sunday coming with a couple hundred of his closest friends and family. He told me about living in Italy, where he was doing contract work, visiting family in Belfast, where he was born, and traveling to Kirkcaldy (in Fife, Scotland) where he lived when he wasn’t away.

He also told me about traveling north with his ex-girlfriend for a few days before the party, getting some nice hotel rooms. He said ex-girlfriend several times, but always in conjunction with a hotel. Then he moved on to the dance he’d been at the night before we found ourselves getting dripped on aboard this plane.

“Great dance in Belfast, lotsa old friends there, including a friend from Poland I used to go out with, just got married, pregnant out to here, but we got in a dance.” His hands indicated her size. “I made her promise not to do any twirls, like.” He hauled out his phone.

“And my other good friend was there, too. I don’t date her anymore, but she looked lovely in that dress.” Evidence was proffered by photo and yes, she did. It was a hot pink draped number, elegant yet sexy.

Switching gears abruptly, he started talking about a visit to Germany. Apparently the connection was he’d made it with the “other good friend” in the pink number.

“Saw a motorcycle by the side of this lake, and went to take a look, and there were some clothes, and then the rushes shook and out the two came, buck naked. They look at me without shame and say ‘morgen.’ I say ‘morgen’ back. That kinda thing happens there all the time.”

It was only a thirty-minute flight, I told myself. And indeed the plane landed mid-story of his next trip, with an old flame, someplace around Orkney.

But then the pilot came on: our spot was taken by a malfunctioning plane. Only 30 minutes to fly between cities, but it took 45 to deplane. Never mind, my new best friend had more stories…..

At the end of his story, he asked me if I needed a ride anyplace, he was picking up a car.

And that’s all you’ll be picking up, buddy, I did not say aloud, and assured him I was all set. He had the grace to look vaguely disappointed.

So now I’ve sat next to a drunk man on a plane, and honestly, if it must happen, the wee hopper between Belfast and Edinburgh was the right time. And I’ve been condesensationed by a plane – which is not quite the same thing as being condescended to, so that’s all right, isn’t it?

What silly adventures the world holds, eh? Sorry, no photos because, you know, who takes photos of drunk men on planes?

That Margarita, Though

Posted on by
1

Bad days that follow good times feel somehow worse, as though reality wishes to remind you that you’re not on holiday anymore, you have responsibilities and the occasional wild card, so here’s one to remember that with.

I left my last aunt’s house at 6:30 am on Sunday. Four days of visiting relatives, attending conferences, making strategy, and running around with childhood friends from my old neighborhood would culminate in getting to my parents’ house in time to see my sister, who was there helping them get their wills finalized.

This was a big deal, the moment when “what happens if” became a certain plan involving who had what decisions to make and who would come live with them and inherit the house, all the things. My sister and I had agreed an amiable plan, and we really wanted to celebrate it with Sunday fun before they went to the lawyer’s office Monday.

My tire blew at 9:30. There was a rest area right there and off I wobbled–knowing what that smell, that sound, and that pull to the right meant. But hey, I had Triple A, hurray hurray!

Yeah, right.

Four hours later the tow truck took me five miles on their dime and another three on mine. Every time I called to check progress, they told me the tow truck would be there within 45 minutes. A nice truck driver offered to help me, but the Prius had no spare. A couple of people asked if they could do anything, but the tire store open on Sunday was behind us, northbound, and everyone at the rest area was going south. So Triple A got a scathing review, and I got a new tire at 3:30 pm.

Which meant the day with my sister was lost. I should have been there at 1, but still had three hours of driving. After a few phone calls (hands-free, of course) we agreed I would shop up Monday after the wills and we’d all grab lunch before I had to conduct business in Knoxville for my day job.

So I drove another couple of hours until the emotional and physical exhaustion of a packed week of extroverting coupled with the anger of realizing Triple A was a scam and I’d been took suggested now would be a good time to pull over.

I pulled off in some little town called London, Kentucky, and found a hotel with a pool. By then I was starving, and 600 feet straight down the road was this little shack of a restaurant labeled “Mexican Grille”

Whatever. I stashed my stuff in the room and walked to the place, decorated like every other Mexican foodery in America. I ordered a veggie quesadilla and the house margarita.

A minute later the waitress brought me a party in a swimming pool. I’ve seen hotel bathtubs smaller than that thing. I stared at the sparkler, which seemed to be singing something to the effect of “THE SUN’LL COME OUUUUUUT TOMORRRRROWWWW” while simultaneously promising immediate delights.

It had five pieces of fruit, three pieces of candy, and a rubber duck hanging off its rim in addition to the sparkler. Forget salted rim; there was no rim showing beneath that stuff.

The waitress openly laughed at my face, and then she patted me on the shoulder and left.

I don’t think I’ll ever know if she read my face and added a few things, or if that’s the way the margarita sparkles in London, Kentucky, in this tiny little shack of a restaurant by the side of the road in this deserted small Appalachian town.

It was the next day, talking to Jack (hands-free!) as I drove down to Knoxville that he pointed out where I had been: THAT London, where the guy had shot up the highway before disappearing. Well, maybe that explained why the place was so empty and the hotel and the restaurant were so friendly and kind. They were recovering from a very bad week as well.

The sparkler told the truth: in all the hard times and strange circumstances, we still have Light to guide us, some fun to have, a few delightful surprises to lift our spirits in bad times, and always, the friends and family who undergird our lives. Thank God for London, for sweet waitresses who makes amazing margaritas, and for sparklers.