Rome -- 4/12/11

Voices in the hallway wake me at 2:30 and I can’t get back to sleep. I read for a while then pseudo-nap until about 7:15. My early rising gives me time to think that after yesterday, I’d had more than enough with the happy wanderer crap. Today, there has to be a plan.

I get up, nearly stub my toe on the step up into the bathroom (that is just wrong on so many levels), and get ready for the day. I’m actually not tired considering how little sleep I got. It seems that my body just works differently when I travel. It requires less food, water, and sleep than normal. Makes me think that maybe I was an explorer in a past life; someone used to long voyages, scant supplies, and harsh conditions. Maybe I was someone like Amerigo Vespucci or Vasco De Gama (I’ve always like those names J). Anyway, it’s just a theory.

One of the perks of this hotel is that they have a complimentary breakfast buffet every morning. There’s eggs, cereal, fruit, pastries; a nice selection. I make a small plate and take a seat in the less crowded part of the dining area. A waitress comes out shortly to take my drink order.

Italian coffee is angry. It’s dark and gloppy and more like our version of espresso (I would be truly frightened to see their version of espresso!). I knew this going in though. Back in high school, my Foods teacher had our school’s Italian exchange student come talk to us about her experiences. She said that American coffee was like drinking brown water. Well, when you’re used to sucking directly on coffee beans, I can see how our brew would disappoint. I was very grateful that the Italian waitress recognized me as an American and brought a container of milk to the table. One part coffee to two parts milk and a ton of sugar makes the coffee somewhat less chewy.

One of the pastries I snag turns out to be the Italian equivalent of a Twinkie only not as evil. There’s one to a pack with just a little cream filling and no aftertaste like a Twinkie. Tasty. This time out I’m ready. I make a left out of my hotel instead of a right and then another left onto Via Settembre. Now this is more like it. This is a major street that lets out onto all the big tourist sites. It’s lined with orange trees which I love though you have to be careful not to step on any that have fallen on the sidewalk. I knew from the day before that Roman streets aren’t always as straight as they seem. You’ll be doing fine until the street hits a circle then you have to navigate around the crazy traffic to get back on same street which might have changed names by this point. Oy.

Once again I’m nearly run over, this time while on the sidewalk. A delivery truck is coming right at me looking to park. Clutch heart, navigate around, then keep moving. These signs are everywhere to indicate it’s safe for pedestrian traffic but just know that it is only a suggestion. Just because you are in an area marked for foot traffic doesn’t mean you might not still be clipped by a passing motorcycle or just plain run over. Getting edged off the sidewalk into the side of a bus is also a distinct possibility.

I had learned the day before that it’s best to follow a Roman whenever possible, especially when crossing the street. More than once, I'd be standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change only to see a Roman just walk into the street then look for traffic. Bold, but it seems to work for them. I didn’t see anyone get hit the entire time I was in Rome.

I end up behind this very sure-footed Roman who appears to be on his way to work. Even when the walkway gets very narrow or crowded with parked cycles, the man would wend his way along with me right behind him. I follow his bald head over church steps and past piazzas, past a very pretty park and some of the many guard stations that are near the government buildings. I follow him until a see my turn off and bid him a silent thanks for unknowingly being my guide.

The first place I stumble on is Piazza Navona, a pretty famous meeting area nestled between a bunch of buildings. It has two fountains in it and plenty of sitting areas. I arrive early so it’s not too crowded and a lot of the cafés and vendors are just getting set up. It is another beautiful day in Rome.

I make a brief stop for souvenirs then use the map to try to find my way to the Pantheon which is nearby. In theory. Once again I’m up and down windy streets, end up back in Piazza Navona at least twice and getting frustrated and completely turned around.

I end up crossing a bridge towards a big white museum.

Following the crowd to the left across another street, it slowly dawns on me that I’ve reached Vatican City. The huge crowd in front of me is not actually a crowd but a line to get into the museums. I do want to see the Sistine Chapel but those lines are heinous. I stop to take a rest and consult my guidebook, noticing as I do that the line doesn’t seem to be moving much. That’s all I need to know. It’s back across the bridge for me and back to the original mission of finding the Pantheon.

Where is this place anyway? A huge ancient building and yet it seems to be hiding from me. Logic says I should be able to follow the crowds just like I did to the Vatican but I truly think that most of the people around me are tourists who are just as lost as I am. The few signs there are to guide foot traffic are pretty useless. There will be one sign pointing out the way then once you take that street (or alley in some cases) it dead ends into a circle that leads to two or three other streets. Now which way? Needless to say, even with a map I end up doing a lot of guessing.

Ah. There is it. The Pantheon is the center point of yet another open area with a fountain in the middle and buildings and cafes all around (Piazza D. Rotunda). It’s crowded like most places in Rome but not too bad. I can get in and see the statues and huge domed ceiling. You would never guess that this church is over a thousand years old. It’s in excellent shape. I notice people sitting in the pews and see the dais set up in the front. Could there still be ceremonies performed here? I don’t know.

Back outside I take a look around. This is actually a nice piazza. There are musicians waltzing around (accordion and violin), horse-drawn carriages in front of the ancient church, and plenty of places to sit and watch the goings on. I do have to wonder though as I look up at all the open windows of the apartments surrounding the piazza; how on Earth does anyone live next to the Pantheon? What would it cost and more importantly why would you do it? Sure, your favorite trattoria may be just a few steps away but is it worth it to have to wade through so many loud, smelly bodies to get to it? Plus the horses?

After sitting for a while by the fountain, I’m getting ready to leave when I notice a woman leaning over one of the water fountains trying to get a stain out of her shirt. Remembering the Tide stick I brought with me, I decide to pay it forward from the nice Italian lady who had helped me the day before. I offered her the stick but she was Italian and had no idea what I was talking about. I tried to demonstrate on my hand how you have to press down to get the liquid to come out. She tries but it doesn’t work. Long story short, I end up practically stabbing this poor woman in the chest in the middle of the piazza to no avail. That chocolate gelato was there to stay. So much for doing a good deed.

From the Pantheon, it’s a comparatively easy walk to Trevi Fountain. Located down yet another narrow alley clogged with vendors and tourists, I can see why Trevi is so popular. The fountain is huge and very ornate. I get my shots as quickly as I can though. There are way too many people here for me to even think of getting anywhere near the water. I figure I can always come back to it later if I want.

Whipping the map out yet again, I see that I’m not too far from my original target of the Hard Rock. On the way, I get stopped by some Italians looking for McDonald’s. As surreal as it is for Italians to be asking me for directions, it was even weirder because I actually knew where it was. I had just passed it coming from Trevi. I tried to explain to them but my directions didn’t translate. Oh well. On to the Hard Rock.

The restaurant is located at the very end (of course) of a long windy street loaded with fancy hotels and other high class buildings. Here for a shirt, I decide to stay for lunch (I know. I know. Who flies all the way to Rome to eat in an American burger joint? I was tired, okay, plus I needed to tinkle so don’t judge me). I freshen up, have a lovely meal of grilled salmon and broccoli, then head to the shop. I add a black shirt with sequins to the collection and leave the restaurant.

Since the pack is now getting kind of heavy, I plot a course back to the hotel to unload. I’m walking along, taking pictures as I do. I see a sign for a galleria and take a step inside. Wow. Even the mall looks like the Sistine Chapel.

Back out on the street, I’m trying to fight the crowds, edge around cycles, cut through outdoor patios on the way to the hotel only to run into more than one wrong street. I get back on the main road, snapping pictures along the way, thinking I’m going in the right direction. So why is it that I see this in the distance?

It’s the freaking Colosseum! Just as a point of reference, my hotel is located to the NE of the historic center of Rome, I was currently somewhere in the middle of it, and the Colosseum is located due south. What the &)*O8@! Rome was screwing with me again. Don’t get me wrong, the Colosseum is on my list of sights to see but I hadn’t intended to see it just this second. Fine. Since I’m already on my way …

The road I thought would become Via Settembre was actually Via Del Fori Impeirali. It’s a very busy street with ancient statues and ruins on either side of it. And it is a serious hoof for my already tired feet.

By the time I reach the Colosseum (and the ever-present crowds), all I can think to do is sit for a while. I join other weary travelers sitting on the short wall in front of the Colosseum and just watch the folks go by. There are tour groups of all kinds (even one zipping around on Segueways) and it’s amazing for me to note that for some school kids, this is just another field trip. And I thought my yearly trips to the Smithsonian as a kid were cool.

I haul my butt off the wall and make a full circuit around the building before I get in line to enter. The entry fee is normally 15.5 euros but when I try to give the guy my money, he says its free. I don’t even ask why; just take my ticket I go (found out later that it was Cultural Week in Rome and a lot of the attractions waived their entrance fees).

The pictures speak for themselves. I love the old pock-marked walls and the dark little alleyways full of rubble. You can’t help but feel small knowing that this building has been around for centuries and will be around once you’re dust. Very humbling.

I keep seeing people on the second floor but it takes me a while to figure out how they got there. I had seen an elevator from outside but being inside made it hard to locate. After some searching I reach the steps. Since I figure the elevator would probably be really crowded, I vote to take the stairs. Hey, it’s only one flight and a landing, how bad could it be?

Forget the StairMaster, these steps are brutal! Each one is the size of three normal steps! And I thought climbing the Arc de Triomphe was bad. Despite having more steps, that was a piece of cake compared to this. Note to future self: if I ever return to the Colosseum, don’t try to be a he-woman! Just take the elevator!

Oooh, Lawd. I need a rest after that. Just up the stairs are a series of museum-like displays with ancient relics along with renderings of how the building looked throughout the years. I look at the displays, take a few pictures, then figure it’s time for that looooog walk back to the hotel.

There are taxis gathered in front of the Colosseum as well as horse-drawn buggies. I know from my map that there is a Metro station nearby. But, once again, I chose to walk and save a few bucks. And it was a very long walk back to the hotel. By the time I get back it’s getting dark so the routine from the other night sounds like a good one. I have to get up early so I first pack my purse for the day (to give my shoulders a break from the backpack).

The music adds some well needed atmosphere to the room but the station I find is a little strange. The DJs are Italian but the station ID and call-signs are (American) English. Half of the songs are Italian and the other half are American rap, dance, and top 40. It caught me by surprise to hear a song in Italian followed by an old Madonna song, Italian, then an unedited rap song (I guess if you don’t speak the language, the n-word doesn’t really mean anything to you).

Bath, protein bar, and then a little reading before bed.

Rome -- Intro and Day One

It has been far too long since I’ve taken a real vacation. I did go to Myrtle Beach last year but it wasn’t what I’d hoped for. Fact is, I try every year to go away but it just hasn’t happened in the last few years. Last year I wanted to go to Greece but a whopping car maintenance bill prevented it. 2009 I wanted to hit Ireland but decided to pay off my credit card bill instead. My cat got deathly ill in 2008 – he lived but his hospital stays sucked up all my trip money. So the last real trip I took was Hawaii in 2007.

But as I turn 40 this year, I decided to make my birthday an event. Bills can wait. There's a passport burning a hole in my pocket and there's no way i wasn't getting out of the country this year.

Why Rome? Why not?

I’d never been to Italy, never traveled outside of the country by myself, and I really couldn’t think of a better time to do it. So as soon as I got my tax refund in February I made my plans.

The following is a day by day accounting of my trip with as much detail as I can remember. It’s not in my nature to sugarcoat anything and Rome was full of great and no so great experiences so here goes.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (otherwise known as my 40^th birthday trip to Rome)

4/10/11 – 4/11/11

Way too jazzed to sleep, I get up really early on Sunday. Bags are packed, the cat sitter is already set up to come to the house daily while I’m gone, and I’m antsy to get to the MARTA station. Took the nearly hour-long trip to the airport and arrived so early that I was able to catch an earlier flight. I had really expected the check-in process to take longer. Even though I didn’t check any luggage, I was still going on an international flight. I was directed to one of the check-in machines (no line), swiped my passport, and got my boarding passes. Cool.

This is my first time traveling on US Airways so I’m not sure what to expect. What I quickly came to realize is that they’re not exactly known as the most prompt airline. Every flight throughout my trip is delayed coming in or delayed getting in the air. No biggie this time because of my earlier flight to Charlotte. Even if we get in late I’d still have a decent layover.

I don’t think I’ve ever been to CLT. It’s a nice open airport with lots of shops. I grab some lunch during the layover and do lots of walking. The flight to Rome is overnight but still a long one. I do as much stretching as I can beforehand.

The Rome flight is barely half full. I practically jump for joy that the seat next to me is empty as well as the row in front of me. A very good thing considering that airport seats are simply not designed for really long legs.

After a chicken dinner, I watch The Chronicles of Narnia: Voyage of the Dawn Treader (not bad) but sleep through 27 Dresses. It takes a while to get comfortable but I try to get as much sleep as possible.

The plane arrives in Rome around 9:30 am local time. I make a beeline for the restroom and by the time I get out it's deserted. Not just the restroom but the airport itself is a ghost town. The signs are in English and Italian but I still have no clue where I'm going. I make it to the train area and almost get on the wrong train before hopping on the right one. At the first stop, an airport employee waves me off and points me in the right direction.

Customs is kind of a joke. Stand in line for ten minutes then the mute agent glances at my passport, stamps it, and waves me through. I was all excited to get that Italian stamp but when I looked at it later I noticed that most of it was faded and all you could see was the date. Well that sucks.

I stand in another line for ten minutes until I realize that with no currency to exchange I really need to find an ATM. Find one, get out 150 euros ($215.97 without fees), and make my way to ground transportation. I’d made all my arrangements through Orbitz which included transport from Fiumicino airport to my hotel. But when I looked at the voucher I realized that I should have emailed a confirmation 72 hours in advance of my arrival. Failure to do so would be perceived as a no-show. Great. Now what?

Assuming that the transport wasn’t coming, I make arrangements with another shuttle company. I meet the driver and get my voucher then sit in the overheated airport to wait for other passengers. Then I join an Asian family, a single Asian woman, and a British couple in the small mini-van.

Viewing the city proper for the first time, I’m surprised by how much graffiti there is on the buildings.

The outskirts of Rome are just like any other major city, full of apartment buildings and small shops. You can definitely tell when we reach the older parts of the city as the archways and statuary become more frequent. The driver points out various buildings and structures. Then he points to something on the left. I get my first look at the Colosseum and it really hits me: I’m in Rome! Cool!

There are vey few signs pointing anywhere but please believe that McDonald’s makes sure to make it’s presence known. Every sign we see, the little Asian kid behind me excitedly points them out. Sad, but true.

Passing the Colosseum (at the south end of the historic district) we get into the seriously congested areas. I knew from TV that Roman streets are no joke but to actually be in it? That is a singular experience. There seem to be no boundaries or real lines as everyone is just jockeying to move forward. There are pedestrians everywhere who are often walking between the cars regardless of the Don’t Walk signs. Motorcycles are zipping around cars and pedestrians alike as seemingly no one has the right of way. Cars and trucks are double and triple parked with people trying to get out of them. It is insane.

We foreigners had quite a few sphincter-clenching moments and I fully expected us to get hit or hit something. But no. Everything was fine and the driver was calm as a cucumber. This was just business as usual for him. The British woman next to me commented that they really don’t need to rent a car here. I heartily agree. I know that there’s this romantic notion of renting a scooter and traveling all over Rome but trust me; it takes real skill to navigate these streets. I’m pretty sure your average driver couldn’t handle it. Americans somehow manage to get into fatal car wrecks driving 20 mph down a straight road. Driving on Roman streets would lead to a quick bloody end to your holiday.

I was the second passenger to be dropped off. I paid my 25 euros, said my thanks, and went into the Art Deco hotel. As evidenced by the name, there are a lot of neat retro elements to the hotel by way of the furniture, paintings, and decorated panels. The room is small and narrow with gorgeous hardwood floors and a single (and surprisingly long) bed. There’s a mini-bar, a safe, a flat screen hooked onto the wall and a radio (but no clock) on the nightstand.

My bathroom has a tub (for which I would be so grateful later) and this odd looking vacuum device for shavers. It was kind of scary so I took the picture then left it alone.

It takes me a while to figure out that none of the light switches work. Then I remember that there is a slot just inside of the door for the room card. Slip that puppy in there and the lights come on for the entire room. Weird. The TV and its clock are also on the same circuit. You have about a minute after removing the card before the lights turn off again.

Before I leave the room I make sure to call and confirm my day trip to Capri on Wednesday. This was pricier than the transport and there was no way I was going to screw it up this one. Got that confirmed and hung up when a few minutes later the phone rings. It’s the transport company. They were waiting at the airport and wanted to know what happened to me. Oops. I told them about not confirming and that I made other arrangements because I didn’t think they were coming. Completely my bad. The lady understood and confirmed a pick up time for the return trip to the airport on Friday. One less thing to worry about.

There would be time to explore the rest of the hotel later. I unpack my bag and get on the hoof. One of my main objectives in Rome was to hit the Hard Rock. I’ve collected the t-shirts for years and I was not going to miss out on this one (I’d already somehow missed Paris and Myrtle Beach when I was there). I had it in mind that that would be my first stop but I immediately make a wrong turn out of the hotel. Once I realize this, I decide to just do what I do best; wander aimlessly.

One of the first things I see is a street market. These pop up at various points in the city, rarely the same place twice from one day to the next. There are the usual shoe and purse merchants, fruit booths, and folks selling jewelry. I end up getting hustled by two Indian men when I show interest in a necklace. I bought it and another just like it in a different color for a ‘discount’. Whatever. I figure I can always sell the other online if I want.

Despite already spending way too much money, I’m very happy to be walking the Roman streets. It was a bright sunny afternoon, I’m not in any rush, and I’m enjoying getting my first taste of how Romans live. The personal soundtrack I have running in my head was playing Dog Days are Over by Florence + the Machine (a joyous song about finding happiness after a bad time) and thanks to my run in with the Indian con artists, the other song in my head is Hustlin’ by Rick Ross. ‘Cause believe me, if you venture out of your home in Rome you will be hustlin’ to navigate through the cars and the pedestrians and the uneven cobblestone streets and – uh oh. Look out for that motorcycle coming up behind you on the sidewalk!

From the market I just wander the streets for a while, ending up at one point in the University of Rome area. Lots of official sounding buildings with students milling about. Every few feet or so on the rest of the streets there seems to be a trattoria or a smaller joint that seems to be the Italian equivalent of fast food. The places are small with two doorways on either end and a long glass display in the middle of the room showing the food. Most have a small sitting area inside but they’re really designed for you come in one door, get your food, and head out the other door. I eye the pretty colorful gelato in several stores but the lines are usually out the door so I keep walking. I do make a brief stop in one place to have a slice of pizza before heading out again.

Periodically, I spot one of these funky hydrants spewing water onto the street. I don’t know if they’re supposed to be water for drinking or not but I don’t risk it. I use it for wiping off sweaty hands only and buy my water in one of the shops.

By this time I’m getting a little tired of wandering. I’ve seen plenty of Roman neighborhoods where Romans are walking their dogs, playing in parks with their kids, meeting at cafes, or just going about their daily lives. This would all be more interesting to me if I could actually find my way to any of the historical sites I want to see.

Instead I find myself at the Tiburtina Metro Station. Really exhausted by this time, I think about getting on a train but I’m tried and determined to find my way back on foot (yes, I can be something of an idiot sometimes). I have my guidebook with me which has maps it the back of it but I end up getting another larger map (I only realize later that there are smaller maps in that guidebook that would have been more helpful than the pull-out map that I kept referencing – I should have better studied that book before the trip). With the large Metro station as a starting point, I tried to map out a course back to the hotel. By the way, I was nowhere near all the sites. Tiburtina Station is to the northeast of my hotel and the sites were further to the southwest.

The first route I took dead ended – no more pedestrian traffic. I also figured out that I was somewhere near where the driver brought us into the city. I circled around and hit the surface streets to try to get back on the route I’d chosen. Another dead end – this one right next to a bus stop. Figured out later that the #61 bus would have taken me to the bus stop on Via Palestro which was about 100 feet from my hotel. Did I take that bus? No. Sigh.

Referencing my map every three minutes, I slowly edge my way back to where I was supposed to be. But it was not easy. Already that day I had narrowly avoided being hit by a car, pedestrian traffic was rather heavy (not as bad as the more touristy historic district), and I must have gotten turned around at least a dozen times. Roman street names aren’t posted on signposts as there are here. They are listed on plaques on the sides of buildings but not on all buildings just to keep you guessing. Roads often change names once you cross an intersection to further confuse you. Needless to say it was an exhausting and frustrating journey.

I got near the hotel (I could just feel it) when I once again got out the map to check my bearings. A lovely Italian woman sees my distress and offers to help. With her guidance I finally get back to Via Palestro (from an entirely different direction from where I’d started. It was now getting dark, I was exhausted and, quite frankly, smelly, and all I want to do is get back to my room to chill out. I run some water in the tub, grab my MP3 player and my O magazine and settle down for a nice long soak. Best. Bath. Ever.

I briefly consider going out for some dinner but the mere thought of putting on shoes makes me tired. Instead I grab one of the outrageously overpriced protein bars I scored at CLT and jump in bed to finish reading my magazine. Amazed that I could actually stretch out full length on the bed without my feet dangling off the end, I conk out around 11:00.

Hawaii Day 5/6

Friday, April 20, 2007/Saturday, April 21, 2007

Last day. Bummer.

Fortunately, early rising and a 1: 00 flight allow me some time to say my goodbyes to Oahu. I get up and get all my stuff packed and ready before heading out to breakfast. As this is the end of my trip and my cash has quickly evaporated, I head back to Keo’s for breakfast. Once done, I take a last leisurely stroll back to Queen Kapiolani’s garden to get the shots I missed earlier.

On the way back to the hotel, I walk back along the beach. There are two women entering the water just after their on-shore surfing lesson. The instructor is standing on the beach giving them instruction while they’re busy shivering and shouting that the water is too cold. They must be new on the island.

As I try to capture some water as a souvenir, I realize that this would have been easier yesterday when I was in shorts. The Hawaiian surf catches up to me and before I know it, I’m in cold water up to mid -calf. So much for wearing my Nikes to the airport.

Back at the hotel, I strip off the soaking wet sneaks and socks, pack them away, and don a new pair of shoes. I check out and get the car. This time, I know exactly where I’m going so the trip doesn’t take very long. I return the car, take the shuttle back to the airport, and go through check-in at United’s outdoor counter. The attendant looks a little flummoxed by the giant Hawaiian ganja I seem to be carrying. I tell her that it’s a walking stick that I’ll probably have to check it. She agrees and places it in a big plastic bag, along with my bamboo roll, and begins the arduous task of taping it up.

While she’s busy, another attendant comes over and checks all my boarding passes. “Back to Atlanta, huh?” I grunt a response. “You seem really happy about that.” Another grunt. I’m really not looking forward to that long series of flights. I don’t want to leave Oahu with so much unseen and I’m not particularly looking forward to returning to Atlanta. I’m in a bad way all around.

The trip from Oahu is noticeably quieter than the trip up. No games about reaching the mid-point to the mainland although the entire flight crew is based in Oahu so they still say ‘Aloha’ and ‘Mahalo.’ I don’t even attempt to sleep, just listen to music and read my novel. About an hour before we land, I start to get really antsy. Uh oh. I remember this. I had a similar feeling 3 years ago when I flew from O’Hare to LAX. That time, as my blood pressure dropped into the toilet, I stood up to go to the bathroom and fainted before I ever got there. This time I know better. I stay in my seat, drink some water, and hunch over as much as I can in the cramped area. A few deep breaths and the strange sensation passes. Whew. There is no way I am ever exiting another United flight in a wheelchair. Once was more than enough and I don’t want to get a bad rep with the airline.

Since United, once again, doesn’t serve any food, I get a quick meal at O’Hare before boarding the next flight. I settle into my window seat, quietly hoping that the other seat in the two-seat row will remain empty so I can stretch my legs. No such luck. But … it’s not all bad.

This is Chad. He sat next to me and instead of just nodding or smiling like most people do when seated next to a total stranger on a plane, he introduces himself and we shake hands. I immediately pick up on an accent and ask him if I had heard correctly. Turns out that I had – he’s from the small town of Perth in Australia and this is his first trip to the states (and the Western Hemisphere). He’d just taken a 7 hour flight from Australia to Malaysia and then an 18 hour flight from Kuala Lumpur to LA and yet he’s still quite chipper and polite. And excited. He’s practically bouncing up and down when the plane takes off (he loves anything that goes fast and had brought along a couple of motor-cross magazines). He looks like a cute little Aussie bunny – just like the ones in those hair care commercials. (Okay, technically that animal is a kangaroo but those are just really big bunnies to Australians.)

Yes, ladies, he is young, firm, and fully packed … and, of course, he’s winging his way to his woman who attends Notre Dame. It’s rare that I’m attracted to anyone so it stands to reason that he would be gay, married or ready to wed his girlfriend and bring her back to Australia as soon as she graduates in May. He shows me a picture of a young Panamanian woman frolicking in the surf – pretty, blond, thin, yadda yadda yadda.

We chat for a while before the movie comes on (The Holiday – an okay movie but not exactly the rom-com it claims to be considering that it wasn’t really that funny). I want to ask him some more questions but don’t want to grill an unavailable man, especially after I find out his age. He mentions, as we’re about to land, that the little bottle of Jack Daniels he’d bought had really put him to sleep. He doesn’t want me to tell anyone that he’s not quite 21 yet and this was only the second time he had engaged in underage drinking. Yes, at a mere 20 years of age the boy is 16 years my junior. God, I feel old. It sucks that I’ve become Mrs. Robinson when I never got a chance to be her daughter.

I hesitated before asking for this picture but hell, I’ll never see the kid again and it’s not often that I meet a young Aussie hottie. As you can see, he was more than obliging. He also managed to put a smile on my face for the rest of the morning even as we went our separate ways. Thanks, Chad.

(I know it’s pathetic that this little nothing of an encounter is the most exciting thing to happen between me and a man in, oh, forever. But look at that picture. Can you really blame me for doing a little fantasy cradle-robbing? Sigh.)

The flight to Atlanta is pretty uneventful though I finally get to stretch out a little. There is an empty seat between me and another guy (no chit-chat with this one – he’s busy talking to his boys who all live in Atlanta). Onto MARTA and back to the POS.

I’m glad, as always, to come home and find my house still standing. And I haven’t been robbed. Cool. The cats and my plants survived the week and I have the whole weekend to re-acclimate before the coming work week. The first thing I want to do is load the pictures from the digital into the computer. I open the front pocket on my suitcase … and loudly curse. The batteries have fallen out of the camera. I don’t have a memory card so when the batteries are taken out – you guessed it. All the pictures are lost. I am still mad. How is it that the camera survived the trip to Hawaii, survived me carrying it around for the first two days of my trip and then crap out just when I’m ready to download the pictures? It’s just a good thing I always carry backup cameras or I’d still be cursing.

My second nasty surprise comes when I open the main part of the suitcase. I had noticed that the camera pocket had some lotion in it and I couldn’t understand why. Now I know. I’d put the lotion bottle in the mesh pocket inside the suitcase and the top had come off. There’s Lubriderm here, there, pretty much everywhere. Fortunately, the big towel that I always carry to the beach had been draped over the clothes so at least they were clean. Towel needs to be laundered but that’s the least of my concerns. I clean up what I could then say screw it. I’m more concerned about the two disposable cameras which are also covered in lotion. I dash out to get the pictures developed and am incredibly relieved to find the film intact. So, instead of my whole stash, I’d lost only 40 pictures of rainbows and Chinatown, beach shots and balcony views. No matter. I’ll just have to go back and take some more.

Well, that’s pretty much it. To go along with my tropical tan, my allergies have come back in full force. The itchy eyes and congestion made me realize that even with all the flowers and trees in Hawaii I wasn’t allergic to any of it. After only a week of wearing makeup and being trapped indoors, my chin immediately broke out in zits. Oh yeah. Good to be home again.

It all just makes me want to get back on the road again. A little bit of travel always makes me want more. Before I even left for Hawaii, I had the thought of going to Florida. My friend Craig had sent me a DVD he’d recorded about Hawaiian hotels when I was planning the trip. The DVD also had specials on Cabo and Florida on it. One of the Florida hotels was a Disney owned Animal Kingdom deal where, if you have the right room, you can view wild animals on the property’s man-made Serengeti right from your balcony. It’s pricey -- $289 for a room that faces the animals but I honestly think it would be worth it. For one night, that is. I was thinking of going in August but that depends on a lot of other factors. Like I wrote on the first day of this travel log, change is brewing. I’m not sure where I’ll be in August or if my money will be earmarked for something else -- relocation, perhaps? Time will tell. 2007 has already proven to be a very interesting year.

Hope you’ve enjoyed reading about my latest adventure as much as I’ve enjoyed reliving it. Aloha and mahalo!

Hawaii Day 3

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

I’m trying to do a quick breakfast this morning since Chinatown is on today’s schedule. The guidebook suggested getting out there pretty early to avoid the worst of the crowds and the growing heat. I leave the hotel on foot to find out that once again, it’s raining. I pop into ABC to buy an outrageously expensive umbrella then it’s over to McDonalds.

One of the first things I notice is that there is an Asian choice even on this menu, more fish and rice. They even offer chopsticks. The trashcans, instead of saying Thank You like they do here, say Mahalo. I like that. I don’t particularly like the prices but you have to consider that everything is imported to the islands and that costs money. I grab my meal to go and take it across the street to one of the covered sitting areas that overlook the beach. Everything is still wet so I eat while standing up. The table next to me is full of natives listening to a radio playing island music. They’re singing along and talking when one of them points out to the water. Now there’s something good that came from the rain. A gorgeous rainbow is arcing right over the ocean. I’m grinning like the tourist that I am. That right there is how you do breakfast.

As an added bonus, I realized after I’d finished my biscuit that the bag was still heavy. I looked into it and discovered a plastic container full of pineapple. I didn’t notice the sign at the time but every meal from McDonald’s comes with this very Hawaiian fruit as a treat.

Breakfast finished, I walk back to the hotel and get the car. I’d mapped out the route before hand so I only get slightly turned around before I find my way. Chinatown is spread over several streets that are teaming with tourists and natives alike. There are a lot of food stores, restaurants, and souvenir shops. The array of meats and vegetables sold in the markets is bewildering. I don’t recognize half of the stuff and I’m a little scared of some of the raw forms of the stuff I do recognize. And I’m still not sure why anyone but a vampire would need pig’s blood.

I had two main souvenir goals in coming to Chinatown; a nice pair of chopsticks and a carved walking stick. The chopsticks were easy. One of the first shops I stopped in carried a boxed set of 2 pairs of sticks made out of jade as well as some cheaper wooden ones in nice carrying sacks. The shop, like most in Chinatown, was full to capacity with everything from wooden carvings and teapots to samurai swords and decorative fans. No walking sticks though. The search continues.

There are tours through Chinatown but I prefer to just walk. It’s a bit strange to be head and shoulders taller than everyone on the sidewalk but it does make navigating easier. I wander into a couple of seriously well-stocked bead shops. Again, pearls are cheap and plentiful and I can’t resist buying some. Don’t know what I’ll do with them (I’m not even beading much lately) but at least I’ll have them.

While Chinatown is infinitely interesting, it’s also quite tiring. I’d been walking for a while, realized I couldn’t find the dim sum restaurant I wanted to visit, and I’m getting really tired. I make a lazy loop on the outskirts of Chinatown and find that it borders a finger lake with gorgeous purple flowers growing on the banks. I rest a while then start thinking about heading back.

Dude, where’s my car? I could have sworn it was by a main street but I swear that this doesn’t look familiar. My left foot is starting to hurt. Still I trudge up one street and down another, getting my hopes up any time I spot one of a number of parking lots. But no luck. I look on longingly every time The Bus comes by, knowing that I could just hop one and be back on Waikiki beach in a manner of minutes. I could just tell Dollar to go pick up their own car. I’m sure they know Chinatown a lot better than I do. Ohhhh, I’m starting to get whiney.

Oh look. There’s Legend Seafood, the place where I wanted to have lunch. See? It never fails. When you look for stuff you can’t find it. Get lost and suddenly everything is right in front of you. I cross the street and stop for lunch.

I really need to eat out more. I’ve always wanted to try dim sum and this place is supposed to have the best on the island. This is not a tourist trap. The many tables covered with white tablecloths are mostly filled with Japanese natives. There is a huge sparkly chandelier in the middle of the room and several waitresses pushing carts of covered bowls and plates. The hostess takes me to a seat and sets out some water and tea. Thanks to my visit to England, I’ve developed a taste for tea. This stuff is pretty good even without sugar. A woman comes over and offers stuff from her cart. I have absolutely no idea what’s she’s talking about or what I’m about to eat but I take one item and refuse the rest. She marks my little scorecard and moves onto the next table.

There were no forks on the table and since I wanted the full experience, I decided to take my chances with the chopsticks. I am very proud to say that I didn’t starve to death and I managed not to flip food on myself or others. Pretty cool, huh? (It didn’t hurt that the dumplings were about the size of a small bagel – if I had had rice, I really would have starved.)

I think one of the women from the next table can tell I’m clueless (was it my color that tipped her off?). She points out the menu and tells me to be on the lookout for the carts that have the items I want. I know I don’t want the chicken feet (I’m not that adventurous) but I do have the chicken puff thingies (3 on a plate), the shrimp dumplings (3) and the happy beef something (they look like ground beef rolled up lasagna-style). The chicken thing was good but the shrimp thing was covered in this scary cellophane-like material that felt like clammy skin on my tongue. Ewww. The beef stuff was okay only there was way too much of it.

With only half the food eaten, I’m very stuffed. That’s another thing I noticed while in Hawaii; I didn’t have much of an appetite. Oh, I’d eat to keep from passing out but it wouldn’t take much to fill me up. I sit at the table with a dazed look on my face and sigh at the thought of trying to find the car again.

I finally get up, take my little score card to the cashier, and pay the cheap bill. Back outside, it’s up one street and down the other for at least another half hour. Okay. Now I’m starting to get annoyed. Why didn’t I pay more attention to where I parked? Haven’t I already been down this street? Where is it leading me? Turns out the street I happened upon let out onto the side of Chinatown that faces the docks. I kept following it and sure enough there’s the parking lot. Deep sigh of relief. I’d honestly had thoughts of forever wandering Oahu Chinatown – I’d die of exhaustion and end up as the legendary ghostly traveler, just another story to add color to Chinatown’s history. Did I mention that I was tired? And loopy?

I was never so happy to see a gray Corolla in my life! I paid the outrageously high bill and high-tailed it back to Waikiki. I ditched the car, changed clothes, and headed straight for the beach. After laying out my mat, water and book, I went for a little dip.

There’s a part of the ocean that is blocked off by a retaining wall so that the water remains relatively calm. There are only a few baby waves and it only gets to be about 5 ½ feet deep. Nothing can make the water any warmer though. I wade out for maybe a half hour or so before heading back to the beach to lay out.

This is just what Waikiki encourages you to do: absolutely nothing. Sure, there are plenty of sights to see, lots of shopping and tours to take. But there is nothing to compare with just chilling out on the beach. I lay there reading my book in no hurry to do anything else. When it started to rain, I pulled my towel over me and when it stopped raining I took the towel off. It’s just that easy.

After maybe an hour or two, I decided to get up and take a walk around. I followed the shore in the opposite direction from the main hotels. There is a resort on the water and some kind of preserve. Or maybe that was part of the aquarium. The aquarium itself is a small building that’s almost directly across the street from the Honolulu Zoo. Since Kalakaua in this direction becomes Diamond Head Road, I decided to follow it. It’d be nice if I could get an idea of how far it is to the start of the trail.

(Long story short – I couldn’t)

On the way back, I stop at a gorgeous spot marked as Queen Kapiolani’s Garden. I’m snapping shots when my digital camera decides it is finished. I had no idea how many photos it held but I certainly thought it was more than 40. Oh well. At least I know where the park is so I can go back.

Back at the hotel, I do a little exploring and find the resort’s 2 pools on the 3rd floor. Hoping against hope that the nearly deserted pools are heated, I dip a toe in one. Nope. Just as cold as the ocean. I lay out anyway until I realize that the third floor is just as windy as the twelfth. I go back to the room to change.

When I get back onto Kalakaua, I see that the tiki torches are already lit. Darn. This is supposed to be a big ceremony according to one of my free mags and I missed it. A man dressed in native attire runs down the street with a big torch and lights all the torches along the street. Maybe I can check it out tomorrow.


Waikiki is even busier at night than in the day. On the beach, I can see a crowd of people gathered around a bandstand. There are musicians and dancers entertaining the crowd with Hawaiian music. I catch a bit of the show then keep on walking.

On the other side of the street, I notice a man standing on the sidewalk. He was noticeable because he was dressed in a gold suit with gold paint on his face and hands. A gold top hat was on his head and a gold umbrella was in his hand. Even the cup he’d set out for tips was gold. It reminded me of the blue man I’d spotted in Covent Garden in London. Striking, but it didn’t compel me to give him any money. I shook my head and kept walking.

I wander past hotels that have their own entertainment at night. That’s one thing you really note in Waikiki – there’s always music playing somewhere. Whether above me on the balcony of a hotel or on ground level around the pools, something’s always going on. I had every intention of going out dancing – it’s something I missed out on when I was in Europe. But whether it’s the time difference, the atmosphere or the fact that I’d been walking all day but I have absolutely no energy left to do much but find a meal and sit down. There is a Wolfgang Puck restaurant near my hotel. I order a pizza to go and take it back to the room. I can’t sit on the balcony because of the wind so I just sit by the open balcony door and eat while watching the lights of the city.

Hawaii Day 2

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Not surprisingly, I’m up early today. 5:00 am to be exact. It’s still dark outside so I don’t get up right away. I do some channel-surfing and find that most of the familiar basic cable channels are there. Hawaii, despite being 3 hours behind, seems to be on Cali time as far as national programming (I can tell from the TNT shows). There’s a tourist channel and channel that mirrors it only in Japanese (that was strange at first but I’d find out later that it’s just standard practice in HI). The same Asian hostess is on both channels talking about local restaurants, a big swap-meet on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays and a bunch of other local activities. I showered and dressed, knowing instinctively what my first stop would be. Need you ask?

As I leave the hotel, I take a closer look at the lobby. It is, like most buildings in HI, half open-air. The main desk is right beside the entrance which is just a big open space (there is no door). There’s a restaurant, a couple of tourist info booths in addition to the concierge’s desk, and a gift shop. I look but sail right past these things on the way out the door. Taking a left, I pass an ABC Store. They sell the basic convenience store stuff along with souvenirs. Later. Water’s calling. I cross Kalakaua with other early risers and right in front of me … the lovely Pacific Ocean. How I’ve missed it.

There are statues and fountains along the sidewalk with benches scattered here and there. Nearly parallel with Paokalani is a pedestrian pier that extends into the water. There are a couple of fishers (there are plenty of colorful fish in the water below), more tourists, and even a woman on the beach doing yoga. Sunbathers are few at this hour but there are some people in the water. I can also see stands of surf-boards and a bunch of other hotels that are right on the beach, including the W Hotel which really stands out because it’s painted pink.
Before I allow the lure of the water to suck me in, I decide to get the lay of the land. Waikiki is a big walking city. It’s pretty much designed to make everything easily accessible to the hotels so that tourists don’t have to look far for anything. This is the only way I can explain how every other store is yet another ABC Store. You can literally be walking out of one and see the next one right down the street. I was to learn later that there are 37 in the Waikiki area and each one is a little different in design and the products they carry. Talk about market saturation!

Most of the stores are closed this time of the day but while walking down Kalakaua, which is the main drag, I suddenly feel a strange sense of déjà vu. Now I get it. Champs Elysees from two years ago. The street is lined with high-end fashion and jewelry stores; Fendi, Coach, Tiffany, Bulgari, you name it and it’s here. Waikiki, it turns out, is just Paris with palm trees. But, since I find myself with no more money now than I had then, these stores might as well stay closed all day. They’re not getting any of my grip.

Some of the restaurants along the street also have familiar names: Cheesecake Factory, Burger King, McDonalds. Planet Hollywood (one of the few left standing) has a really cool dolphin fountain in front of it. Some of the buildings are free standing while others are parts of bigger buildings or add-ons to hotels.

Since the higher end hotels are located directly on the beach, there are more than a few limos everywhere. You can even hire them on the street in front of the hotel like taxis. For the rest of us peons there are buses that will take you pretty much anywhere you want to go. The major transit system is simply called The Bus and travels all over the island. The tourist TV channel said that most attractions will arrange transport from any hotel in Waikiki. Very convenient considering that some of the sights are pretty far away and parking at any hotel will cost you (valet at my hotel was $15 a day in advance).

I was sort of looking for Duke’s, a highly recommended restaurant for breakfast. But since I can’t find it, this place called Keo’s will do.
They have a $4.99 breakfast special that sounds right up my alley. I sit on the patio watching the tourists go by while planning my next move. It’s interesting to note that the practice of catering to the Japanese applies to restaurants as well. I’d already noticed that, unlike here where every sign is in English and Spanish, in Hawaii the signs are all in English and Japanese. Keo’s serves an Asian breakfast of rice, miso soup, fish and steamed vegetables. A popular Hawaiian breakfast is a beef patty on top of rice smothered in gravy with an egg on top. Sounds interesting but I’m sticking to the very American eggs, bacon, and pancakes for this trip. Kona coffee is a Hawaiian staple. Every restaurant serves some blend of it.

Heading back towards the hotel on the other side of the street, I stop by the International Market Place. This is an open-air gathering of booths selling souvenirs, clothing and jewelry surrounded by larger stationary shops. Pearls are very big here, hence very cheap, and there’s a stand where you can shuck your own oyster and pick out the pearl. Can’t get any fresher than that now can you? I noted the post office on the second level, bought this pretty floor length red dress with a Hawaiian print on it, and was back on my merry way.

Now that I’d been fortified, it was way past time to take a walk along the beach. I’d purchased one of the bamboo rolls that ABC sells -- it’s easier to get sand off of them than off of a beach towel. Since I didn’t have my suit, I figured it’d just lay out for a while. I took off my shoes, dug my toes in the warm sand and exhaled. Ahhhhh … out with the stale Atlanta air and in with only briny tropical breezes. It’s a beautiful 80 degrees and the sun feels too good on my exposed skin. Yeah. That’s the stuff.



I’m just watching the waves and feeling that total body relaxation come over me when I noticed a group of Japanese teenagers enter the water, a girl and two guys. The girl was in a little bitty bikini making me think she really needed to eat a sandwich (visible ribs are just not attractive; I don’t care what Parisian designers say). She’s cowering in the water while one of the guys splashes water on her and I’m trying to figure out what her problem is. It’s only when I get up to test that water that I find out that Hawaii water in mid-April is freezing cold. Bummer. I started to think twice about the jet-skiing and the swimming with dolphins/sharks that I’d planned to do. Jet-skiing was one of the main things bringing me to the island. I’d even marked down a place in advance in the guidebook. But I have a hard time getting past the thought of that cold spray flying in my face.

I got a taste of that while just lying on the beach. The sky started to cloud up a little bit and it started to spit rain. Well, that was a rude awakening, feeling that cold water on my sun-warmed skin! I hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella for the trip (didn’t think I’d need one). But I couldn’t really be mad. The rain didn’t last long and you know there has to be some moisture in April (how else would the island stay so lush?).

I walk back to the hotel to wash the sand off and get rid of my purchases. I was a little wary of buying that dress because it’s cut kind of small. And sure enough, when I try it on, I quickly discover that while I can get it over my hips, there is no way in hell that it will cover my ample bosoms. And this was a XXL. Thanks. Now I feel fat. Like seeing women in bikinis on the beach wasn’t bad enough. Since the store offered no refunds, only exchanges, someone would be getting a very nice souvenir from the islands.

I go out to sit on one of the two chairs set out on the small balcony and weigh my options for the rest of the day, such as hiking Diamond Head or going to Chinatown. But I’m not ready to get in the car and tussle with maps and road signs just yet. Actually, it’s really nice just to sit outside. The view is killer and being on the twelfth floor means that there are some cool breezes to be had. It is with great effort that I leave my chair and go looking for some lunch.

As recommended by the guidebook, I decide to try the Cheesecake Factory. Seated at a large table by myself and feeling highly conspicuous, I ordered some fish tacos and looked at one of the many free publications that are offered along the street. I noted, as I had at Keo’s earlier, that you have to watch where you step, even while inside. The patio doors are open and it’s very common for birds (mostly pigeons) to fly or walk into the building. No one pays them much attention as they walk around and peck at any stray food on the floor. Just don’t kick out at any strange movement you might see near your feet or the feathers will fly.

There are a couple of women at the table next to me and a single woman on the other side of them. I listen intently as the seasoned Hawaii visitor tells the two women that they must rent a car and head to the North Shore (already on my plan!). She tells them that the difference between there and Waikiki is like night and day. Oahu is the most populated of the Hawaiian Islands with most of the folks and the commercialism centered in Waikiki and Honolulu. The North Shore is just pure nature and raw surf. I can hardly wait!

The tacos were made from fresh albacore, the fish of the day. Very unusual and filling. The meal was interrupted, though, by the fire alarm going off. The waiter was at my table at the time and we both noticed that while everybody looked around, not one of them moved. It’s not like there was any smoke and we were only a few feet away from the patio. The waiter guessed that as long as none of the wait-staff were fleeing the building in terror, everything was still cool. Even a potential fire doesn’t phase the relaxed atmosphere of the islands.

They give you some really huge portions in that restaurant. With leftovers in hand, I figured I'd walk off some of those calories by going even further along Kalakaua. If you stay straight on the road, past all the chi-chi stores, you cross over a bridge with a pretty view of the water on either side. Just beyond that is the Hard Rock Café. And I thought I’d have to drive to get there. Cool. I collect the t-shirts so I stopped in and bought one then continued on my way.

Kalakaua intersects S Beretania which is just the route that I marked out to get to Chinatown. Hey, since I could walk to the Hard Rock, maybe I could walk all the way to Chinatown.

(Long story short – I couldn’t.)

On the way back to the hotel, I caved and stopped by the Fendi store. I’m met immediately by an Asian woman who points out that the purses I’m eyeing are cheaper than they are on the mainland. So, instead of paying $1000 for that F covered bag, I’d only pay $925. Boy. What a bargain for me! I love Fendi bags; I’ve even owned a couple. But I certainly didn’t pay that much for one. Hell, my whole trip to Hawaii was about the price of one fine Italian handbag.

I looked around for a few more minutes while the woman and I chatted. I told her where I was from and when she heard Atlanta she mentioned that her husband was stationed there. That is one hell of a long distance relationship. She agreed saying that the plane trip was the reason her husband hadn’t been back to the island in several months. We had a nice conversation. Sure, she was just tailing me to make sure I didn’t swipe anything (same thing happened in the Paris store), but at least she was friendly about it.

I think I probably logged about ten miles on my feet and now I’m completely wiped as I drag myself back to my room. Even though it’s only around 6, the time difference is making it feel a lot later. If you ever want to really mess with your body clock, do some traveling. Hawaii is six hours behind Atlanta’s EST and just like in Paris, which is five hours ahead, my body is confused as hell. Up by 5 means down by about 8 so I spent the rest of the evening trying to will myself to stay awake and go out for dinner. No such luck. I lay in my darkened room, watching TV in that weird half-awake half-asleep state until I finally gave up the ghost and turned in.

Hawaii Day 1

Spring has always been a good time for me. Not only does it mean that winter is finally over, but my birthday’s in April (which for me has always meant taking some vacation time) and I usually have some money coming in from different places that I can play with.

For starters, my year-end bonus from Cox was twice as much as it usually was. I put half of it towards paying my home owner association fees for the rest of the year. But instead of saving the rest for next year, I decided to finally get a new computer through Cox’s employee purchase deal with Dell. I’ve wanted a new machine for years now. My old one just won’t play nice with any new software or new devices. This new machine has the just launched Windows Vista and already has internet software loaded onto it. Sweet.

Then there’s the tax refund which was also bigger this year than last. I put some of this money away for next year’s HOA fees and bought myself a truly nifty photo printer. But what to do with the remainder of the money? I could put it away for a new car. My car is an ancient POS and does need to be replaced before it explodes. But … no. I could put it towards the mortgages or the credit card. Nah. After some calculating and research, I made my decision. I would give a very charitable contribution to the good people of www.expedia.com and their friends, United Airways and the fine state of Hawaii.

I’ve sorely needed a vacation for quite a while now. I didn’t do any real traveling last year so I knew I had to get out of the state this year. I’d thought about going back to England (I’m really addicted to those stamps in the passport!). But then, during one of my frequent bouts of pretend time on the aforementioned travel website in January, I found that flights to Hawaii were particularly low. Prices are usually around$800-1100 for a round trip ticket. I found a flight for the low price of $513. Oh yeah. I pounced on it.

After some more research, both online and at the bookstore (Oahu Revealed by Andrew Doughty and Harriett Friedman was invaluable – color pictures, frank descriptions, and maps), I found a hotel that offered a special Deal with Wheels rate. $90 a night for a room and a car rental. Technically, you don’t need a car on Oahu but the book recommended it and after being there, I completely understand why.

So, by the end of February my trip was all set. Good thing too because my nerves were getting more frayed with each passing day. I hate Atlanta. The traffic, the sprawl, the ridiculous amount of pollen. Work was nuts, I felt the pressing need for change and I have no idea what to do about it. All of these distractions barely left me time to feel excited about the trip. My co-worker, Kathlene, was kind enough to remind me … and everyone else she happened to talk to. She helped me focus on what I wanted to do when I got there and what I needed to do to prepare. I appreciated that.

April rolled in and the weather, which had been warm for a couple of weeks, suddenly turned cold. My last week before vacation had me shivering and practically pulling my hair out. Fortunately, Friday the 13th was my birthday and I took the day off. I went out to breakfast (I do love the IHOP), did some last minute shopping for the trip, and went to the Dogwood Festival in Piedmont Park. I haven’t been to this annual festival of art, greasy food and dog shows in a couple of years. It’s always a nice way to spend a day in the park and it’s a good thing I did go on Friday. It was the last really nice day before the rainy weekend. I spent the time indoors, packing for the trip and doing some final cleaning.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Monday morning meant show time; up early and off to MARTA. I had made arrangements for a pet sitter to come by twice that week to look after the cats, water the plants, and bring in the mail. I was a little wary about giving my keys to a strange person and letting them know that I would be out of town. Practically like I was telling them to just back a moving van up and steal all my stuff (not that I have that much of value to begin with). But the company I found is fully bonded and the sitter seemed like a nice woman. And, I reminded myself, people hired sitters all the time. Better someone from a legitimate company than a neighbor or kid off the street.

It takes an hour to get to the airport from MARTA. Thanks to my bloodsucking credit card company I had some rewards points stashed up that I decided to cash in. I exchanged a bunch of them for a $100 gift certificate from Circuit City with which I bought one of those new-fangled MP3 players that I’ve been hearing so much about. My love train with technology continues as Creative Zen I bought is wonderful. I listened to it during the trip and tried to get myself into vacation mode.

The lines for security have not gotten much better at the airport. The one I had to enter at 8 am was wrapped around the corner. It moved quickly though and this was one of the rare occasions that I was scheduled to leave from the T Concourse. This meant that I didn’t have to take the train to my gate, saving me a lot of time. I grabbed some breakfast and waited for my 10:03 flight.

I officially hate United. I wasn’t too fond of them when I flew to Cali a few years ago and my opinion has just been lowered. I knew they skimped on legroom but, since that last trip, they seem to have gotten the memo that there are some travelers who are taller than 5’5’’. For the low, low price of $135 you can get bumped to the special business class where your legs won’t get crushed into your chest. The offer was made when I checked in but I was not eager to pay these people any more money. Their method of getting back at me for being cheap was to not feed me. That’s right. Over the course of 3 flights on the same airline, the only thing these cheap bastards would feed me is a lousy bag of pretzels – which I never ate because I hate pretzels. Oh, the people in first class still get fed, but for the sardines in the back they offer a selection of snack boxes for $5 a piece – cash only and correct change please. You must be mad.

The good thing, though, about being on the same airline for all flights is that when you get off one plane, your next gate is not very far away. The bad thing … well … this could actually happen on any airline but I’m still going to blame United. The two hour flight from Atlanta to Chicago went quickly. The Chicago to LAX (4 hours) and LAX to Honolulu (6 hours) flights were different stories. There were screaming kids on each flight, the idiot sky-waiter on the plane to HI practically threw pretzels at me and then tried to crush my legs with the tray table, and I couldn’t get any sleep. Can you tell I still wasn’t quite in the vacation mode?

The interesting thing on the last flight was that the staff started to say ‘Aloha’ and ‘Mahalo’ (thank you) and we played a game to prepare for Hawaii. The attendants passed out little cards and as the captain gave us info on speed, distance and time, the passengers had to guess the time we’d reach the mid-point in the flight down to the second. I was close at 4:47:23 but no cigar. The winner won a gift basket for Hilo Hattie, a very prominent chain store in Hawaii.

About a half hour before we landed in Honolulu, the noisy kid in the next row finally fell asleep. Of course. I trudged off the airplane to a rather unimpressive terminal. It was small and most of it looked to be under construction. It was nice though that between the terminal and the baggage claim, you have to walk through this covered but open-air walkway. You get your first taste of the balmy Hawaiian nights and then you get the official greeting.

I know. It’s not as good as a lei and a kiss from a buff native man but it’s still nice.

I grab my bag and head outside to wait for the shuttle. Boy, am I punchy. It may be 8 pm in Hawaii but my body says it’s 2 am and way past sleepy-nappy time. At the Dollar counter, the woman tells me that since the hotel is paying for the car, all I’d have to do is bring back the voucher they’d give me when I checked out. She also tells me that for $20 more per day I can upgrade to a convertible. The Jeep Wrangler they offer is actually more my speed. I’ve always loved that vehicle. It just seems exciting and adventurous. But … Hawaii is expensive enough with any extra ‘perks’ so I ask her not to tempt me. I instead head off for the 2007 gray Toyota Corolla (which is the sensible car that in my more logical moments I plan on purchasing – except in the non-sensible color of red).

New, unfamiliar car; at night; in a strange city; when I’m half-dead. Oh yeah. This should be fun. Thanks to Kathlene I had mapquested the directions to the hotel from the airport and tried to consult them while I maneuvered my way onto the road. I got on H-1, the major highway and direct route to Waikiki, and realized that despite being thousands of miles away from the mainland, I was still in the US. There were the same green road signs and the same occasional rude driver. Other than the really unfamiliar street names (Kalihi, Nuuanu, Liliha) it was just like home. And there was something else familiar. When I finally figured out how to turn on the radio I found that it was tuned to a hip-hop/R&B station that sounded just like the station I listen to here, even down to the same Beat the Buzzer contest. Granted, instead of fielding calls from people named Lequicha the names leaned more towards Lelani and instead of Maverick, the local DJ, I was listening to someone called ‘Island Boy’. The homogenization of America continues.

Okay, where the hell am I? I managed to make the right exit but I think I missed my turn. No, can’t turn there, that’s a one way street. That sign says Keeaumoku. Boy, that’s a funny name. And it’s also not where I’m supposed to be. Great.

After a few wrong turns I finally got to Kalakaua Street. From there I just had to turn left onto Paoakalani … and there it went. I was a little too busy taking it all in; the pedestrians, the lit tiki torches, the stores, the palm trees, the lights! Now I’m getting excited. It’s all so much!

I circle around and find the hotel. There’s no parking on the street. There are spaces, of course, but they are all taken. After a couple more circles, I spot the entrance for valet parking at the Ocean Resort Hotel Waikiki www.oceanresort.com). Whew. I got here and I didn’t hit anyone or have a head-on collision (there are a lot of one way streets and jay-walking pedestrians). Dropped off the car, checked in, and dragged my body up to the twelfth floor. My room is at the very end of the hall. Opening the door, I immediately see that my balcony door is open and gives me a great view of the lights of Waikiki. There are hotels to either side of me and what appears to be a school across the street. In the distance to the right is Diamond Head, which at this time of night is just a dark hulk.

After acquainting myself with the small bedroom with its twin beds, small fridge and safe, I quickly got ready for bed and settled in. I’d had a really long day and I wanted to be as fresh as I could for my first day in paradise.

London & Paris Day 9

Day 9 -- Wednesday, September 28, 2005

No sleeping pills + noisy hotel = no sleep for Daphne.

Why didn’t I bring more pills? I used up my supply of pharmaceutical bliss the night before and it didn’t even occur to me to buy any more while we were out. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I tossed and turned on the futon from hell for about an hour while the ladies read. Feeling supremely uncomfortable and frustrated, I finally gave up the ghost and got dressed. It was only around 11:00 and we had planned on getting up at 5:30 to get to the airport. It was going to be a looooooong night.

I took my magazine and the room key and headed for the landing between the lobby and the rooms. I sat there for about half an hour before realizing that it was just too cold without my jacket. I trudged up the 4 brutal flights of stairs, tried (unsuccessfully) to get the door open in the dark without disturbing anyone, got my jacket and went back downstairs. I sat some more until my butt was completely numb and prompted me to get up and stretch my legs.

2:00 am. I go down to the cyber café and find the desk clerk, in casual clothes, sitting behind a computer. “Can’t sleep?” he asks. “Nope.” “Want a cappuccino?” Glad for the hospitality but a little confused (a massive infusion of caffeine is supposed to help me sleep?), I say no and cop a squat at a chair on the other side of the room. I’m reading and all is going as well as it can be until the typical Frenchman behind me decides to light up. I’m already tired and cranky. The last thing I need is a case of Parisian emphysema. I get up to find another spot for my insomnia.

Damn this country to hell!

4:00 am. After wandering into the empty dining room attached to the lobby (the TV was still blaring a western even though no one was watching) I find myself back on my bench on the landing. I’ve been nodding off for hours now but every time my head droops too far forward, I wake up again. Nice way to spend my last night in Paris.

5:25 am. I’ve been watching the clock for hours now and the last few minutes have been the hardest. I can’t wait any longer. I drag myself up the stairs and sit outside of the door to our room. I’m trying my best to allow the ladies as much sleep as I can but … I REALLY NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS HOTEL.

“Up and at ‘em, ladies! Time to hustle.” Joy is decidedly not happy to have me turning on lights and urging her up before the alarm goes off. But we do have a couple of planes to catch. While they are trying to adjust to cruel consciousness, I check the room for the last of my things and start hauling my crap back down those hideous stairs. By the time they’re up and moving their suitcases to the lobby, I’m already sitting back on my bench waiting for them. Joy does the checkout thing just as our cab pulls up. After the longest night in recorded history, we are on our way back to Charles De Gaulle ...

... where the waiting continues. We’re at the airport so early because Joy’s flight to India is before ours. We part with Joy and then try to find out which gate we need … which we can’t do because it’s too early. The departure screens haven’t updated with our information yet. Aletha parks herself while I hunt for some grub. We have at least an hour wait near the ticketing booth before we learn our gate number. Now all we have to do is find it.

Easier said than done which leads me back to my tip from way back on day one: NEVER GO TO CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT. See, it had lured us into a false sense of security when we flew in from London but now it was back to its old tricks. Our gate was located down a series of winding halls and confusing signs. When we finally get to the gate, after waiting there for several more hours, the staff don’t quite know how to get us to the plane. We all line up at the ticket booth (the terminal had gotten very crowded by this point) so they can check us in and get us onto (God help us) a bus. But here’s the problem: there are too many people and not enough buses. Now, shouldn’t they have known beforehand how many people were going to get on the plane so they could plan accordingly? Aletha and I just look at each other and roll our eyes.

We miss the first two buses and have to wait for a third. As we worriedly look at the clock, we are told that the plane will not leave without us. This time when we get on the bus, we actually have some breathing space. The trip takes about ten minutes and then we meet the plane on the runway. But Charles De Gaulle is not done with us yet. Several of the passengers are questioned about their carryon luggage. They are asked if they want to check some at the plane before getting on board. Aletha and I ignore them and climb on board.

And now, a suggestion. If you decide to go to Paris (which I highly recommend), do something, anything to avoid this airport. Try something different; try flying into nearby Bordeaux and taking the train into Paris. Doesn’t that sound romantic? You’ll get to watch the French countryside fly by while you’re on your way to the city of lights. Just heed my warning: save yourself the stress and aggravation by staying away from Charles De Gaulle.

Aletha and I part as we get on the plane as she is sitting way in the back. I pass through the amazingly roomy first class and find my seat. Hurrah! I have a window seat in the first row after the partition that separates the sardines from the people who actually have money. This means: no one lying in my lap for the whole flight and a blessed amount of leg room. I am thrilled as I settle my stuff down. After being up all night, I’m ready for several hours of blissful sleep.

Then I find out who will be sitting next to me: a woman and her infant.

“Lord, why you gonna do me like that?” I spend the next few minutes just fussing with God. He knows that I haven’t gotten much rest during my entire stay in Paris. What’d I ever to do Him (other than being a heathen, of course)?

But, to the mother’s credit, the kid wasn’t much trouble. She sat next to me and occasionally touched me but other than that she was really quiet. Thank goodness. I was finally able to get some sleep. It almost made me weep with joy.

A few hours later I was awakened by the food cart. The flight had two meals and drink service so I manage to stay awake for the rest of the flight. The row I sat in, since there were no chairs in front of it, had retractable TVs that came out of the arms. Cool. There was an Angelina Jolie double feature of Mr. And Mrs. Smith (I’d already seen it and didn’t like it the first time) and Lara Croft. I ate my vegetarian pizza snack while half-asleep.

Deplaning back in the good old USA, I proudly told Aletha that I finally got some sleep. She tells me that she didn’t get any, instead staying up to watch movies. We claim our bags and then have to give them up again as we go through customs. Loopy, but okay. We found Aletha’s car, split the parking bill and headed back to Joy’s.

It was strange being behind the wheel of a car after a whole week. Oddly enough, I did not miss driving. I did miss the tube though. That was fun. The whole trip was amazing and as I drove back to fair Woodstock, I still couldn’t believe that it had happened.

I had to pick up my dog and cat from the vet and, once I recovered from the heart attack over seeing that bill, drove home and unpacked all my goodies. I am thrilled to report that the tea set I bought in London survived the plane ride (I still haven’t mounted it to the wall yet but I will eventually get around to it). I dug out the tea, postcards, souvenirs, and my lovely new backpack and just basked in the memories in the few short hours I had before returning to the daily routine.

Thanks to Europe I have picked up a serious tea habit and an overwhelming desire to return. All things I hope you all will get a chance to experience. Hope you enjoyed this overly long account of my adventures.

L&P Day 8

Day 8 -- Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Traveler’s Tip #8: definitely take sleeping pills on any overseas trips. Thanks to those little blue pills I was able to ignore the noises of clicking heels, nicotine-soaked French voices, and garbage trucks and give in to overwhelming fatigue by sleeping it off. Woke up this morning almost refreshed and ready to start the day.

The ladies seemed to sleep better as well since they were still conked out when I woke up. I got dressed and slipped out the door so as not to disturb them. It’s yet another beautiful morning when I go on walkabout. Nothing major, just walking up the streets near our hotel. Few of the stores were open at this hour so I just window-shopped. There was a lot of construction along the streets which I really don’t understand. These streets are already so narrow. To have them cut off by scaffolding and machinery makes the congestion look impossible. I can fully understand why Paris is such a big city for walking. After about a half hour, I figure I’d better get back. I didn’t leave a note and I didn’t want the ladies to wonder where I’d gone.

When I get back, the ladies are negotiating getting dressed in the tiny room and formulating our game plan. Since we’d already hit the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d’Triompe and Notre Dame, we decide to play it by ear; shopping and then a little tour of the Latin Quarter, ending with a visit to a chapel. But first, breakfast. Stopping at yet another little café, Joy, Aletha and I manage to get a smoke-free meal. I had an excellent ham and cheese omelet and some tea. Joy had ordered French fries with her meal which I thought was unusual in that it was breakfast time and because the café actually served it that early. But … they sure were looking good. The serving was enormous so when Joy started to slow down, she let me take over. Let me tell you, I craved that breakfast for weeks afterwards. Nothing says French like a ham and cheese omelet, tea, and French fries :-).

Paris is full of little streets lined with shops. We decided to take a tour of the places we could actually afford. Checked out a bunch of jewelry places that sold both finished pieces and loose stones, then we hit a pashmina place, a book/game store, and some others. One of those stores was the French version of Lecter’s, my dearly departed favorite kitchen supply place. The store had lots of funky decorations and souvenirs for kitchen and bath located on two floors that were filled with tourists and natives alike.

We shopped for our last souvenirs of Paris in the many stores geared for just this purpose. Lots of t-shirts from the cute to the profane, nick knacks like pens and magnets, and the Eiffel Tower in more forms than you could possibly imagine. There was also, I was amused to note, quite a bit of items with naked people on them to be purchased. I got a set of playing cards with some rather happy nekkid mens on them and this interesting little wooden dice for the adventuresome couple to play with. So, okay, I’m not part of a couple but that doesn’t mean I can’t plan ahead. Where better to do this than in the city of love?

Joy leads us into one or two luggage stores as well. She’s in the market for a new purse so Aletha and I get sucked into the fun. Joy bought two bags in one store while I found myself tempted by a neat brown leather-like backpack thingy that will nicely replace my disintegrating bag from Target. Aletha decides she’ll be good and not spend any money.

As we leave one of these souvenir stores, I pass a display filled with weapons of wicked destruction. I’ve always wanted to start a knife and sword collection (not necessarily for their protective qualities but just because they look cool) so I take a good look at some throwing stars. Before I can even figure out how to pack them and take them on the plane, Joy physically moves me out the door. “But I need a throwing star! Ninja! Ninja!” I protest. Joy says something to the effect of friends don’t let friends buy edged weapons and we’re back out on the street.

I still want my Parisian throwing star.

Joy makes a stop at a cyber café while Aletha and I wander around (the café is tiny and way too crowded for us). It has started to drizzle a little bit, our only bad weather in Paris. In trying to avoid the flux of umbrellas bumping into each other to the narrow street, we dodge into more stores. Somehow, Aletha keeps leading us back to the purse stores. She debates a cute, relatively cheap purse and I remind her of the cool Parisian bragging rights she’ll have if anyone asks her where she got it. Still, she decides to keep her money in her pocket. “Okay,” I say, “you’re missing an opportunity but oh well.”

With the rain slackening a bit, we hook up with Joy again and head off to the Latin Quarter. One of the guidebooks suggests a visit to Saint Chapelle to see its stained glass windows. With Aletha once again leading the way, we start walking.



Half an hour later and we’re still walking. Where the hell is this place? We’ve followed the Seine past historic church after church but still haven’t found the one we’re looking for. Insisting that we’re on the right track according to the map, Aletha leads us to what looks like a government complex. The buildings all seem to be set up in a rough circle with some parts closed off for construction. We walk through a small entryway and then back outside before we realize that we are indeed on the right track. There is a line of people waiting to go through security before buying their tickets. We get in line.



Saint Chapelle, oddly enough, is in the middle of this complex. You can barely see it from where we entered but it is a large, ornately carved church with those oh-so-European narrow winding stairs. Inside, there are only a few areas that are opened to tourists. We joined others in gaping at the very detailed windows. These pictures aren’t the best but you get the idea. Each of the windows and the panels in the church tells a story and we spent some time trying to follow them before heading back out.






Now my order of events gets a little fuzzy (that’s what happens when I take so long to write these installments). At some point, we’d passed one too many windows with yummy pastries in them to keep resisting. We bypassed the little carts selling ice cream and crepes with Nutella (hazelnut butter) and slipped into a famous shop with a name I can’t remember. Joy insisted that she must have a chocolate croissant. I also get one as well as a regular croissant and we go upstairs to sit and eat. My intent was to eat one of the treats and save the other for the next morning but it didn’t turn out that way. The bakery more than earned its reputation. We sat and looked out on the crowded streets while we ate.

After more walking, we stopped again so Joy could get a cup of tea. While they sat on a patio, I went across the street to mail some postcards. After waiting in a very long line (it seems post offices are the same all over the world) I was shocked that it cost 90 euros to mail a postcard. But they were going overseas. I finished my errand and rejoined the ladies.

Joy has yet another friend is Paris, a woman who works for her company. We’ve arranged to meet her at a fountain near our hotel. We find Anne, a Frenchwoman, and walk to an Italian place that someone recommended to her. Once again, we use the opportunity to ask a native all about everyday life in the city. Anne says that Paris is pretty expensive to live in but that’s offset by the fact that you don’t need a car. The job market is iffy at best and there are a lot of strikes in different areas of government that can make things hard.

Have I mentioned that the French have a very interesting relationship with eggs? On any menu, at any time, you can order an omelet or an egg with mayo. At this restaurant you can even order a pizza with egg on it. That’s how mine came; a cheese pizza with ground beef and a nearly raw egg right in the middle of it. The heat of the pizza slowly cooks the egg but it was a little too slow for me. I ate around it and tried to avoid the egg white as it ran over the cheese.

Joy returned the phone she’d gotten in London to Anne as we walked her back to the Metro station. We parted ways and walked the 2 short blocks to our hotel. Joy makes arrangements for a cab the next morning, telling us not to worry about the expense as she will be on the company dime. Then we headed upstairs. It was time for Aletha and me to pack up and prepare for that long plane ride back to our own country while Joy braced herself for another trip to India.