The Joy of Airport Bathrooms

Random vent alert:

Why in God's name do the bathroom doors at airports swing inside?

When you're trying to get in there, you struggle to get the door, and your ever-growing hips, inside the toilet stall, without accidentally touching the nasty public toilet?

And the stupid door doesn't open wide, to let you in freely.

Nope. It opens inward. Where there is already a severe lack of square footage.

And of course there is your suitcase. The one that is on wheels, yet still behaves as if it has a mind and an engine all to its own?

(We'll go ahead and let go of the fact that then you have to squat, sway and huddle over the public toilet in the not-so-rare event that the magic "fresh seat cover" doesn't appear despite the African anteater dance you just performed in front of the sensor. And the fact that while you're in there performing Olympic-qualifying squats, the automatic flusher feels the need to flush EVERY THREE SECONDS just because you flinched, or shifted your weight, or breathed out through your nose. While soaking the back of your work pants with sprays of who-knows-what-liquids-and-free-germs while you genuflect ever-so-gracefully in front of its automatic-sensor-from-hell.)**

It is enough to make a grown (classy, sortof) woman cuss out loud.

Seriously. I am just glad no one has yet figured out how to post online the security videos of airport restrooms.

I'm pretty sure the *stuff* that comes out of my mouth is worse than what's left there by some classy person who can't quite grasp that whole flushing escapade.

Sorry. I hope you were finished with your breakfast.

**I'll save the whole "automatic faucet water dispensing" diatribe for a whole 'nother vent. Seinfeld already covered that little piece of American technology quite well. Check out the whole thing, but if you're late for your flight, skip ahead to 1:26. You won't be disappointed. At least not until you get to O'Hare.

Oddly Enough

As a blogger, I have taken to noticing strange human behavior a little more regularly than I used to. It makes for good fodder and I cannot help but share the little tidbits that I see along the way.

And, spending so much time in the airports lately has given me plenty of time for some good quality people watching. In fact, I think it is the best place to witness the strange melding of cultures, ages and demographics that comprise this great country of ours.

I will say, however, that there are quite a few oddballs out there.

Case in point:

I was sitting at Newark Liberty International Airport, my second home these days, waiting patiently for a seriously delayed flight. I saw a well-dressed 30-something man with a backpack walk over to the bank of pay phones that were flanking the wall behind my seat. At first my thought was, 'Huh. I didn't know people still used pay phones anymore.' And then I watched him. He slowly, but deliberately, put his finger and thumb inside each change slot and felt around for a spare quarter, dime or other un-retrieved coin. One by one, he checked the change return of each phone. Finding nothing, he just walked away and sat down to await his flight. Three men and I were all watching him, and we all exchanged glances and made faces of 'Okaaay. That was strange.' while we pondered his rationale. Then the man nearest to me, who was likely 60+ in a neatly tailored business suit, said aloud, "Now that's going on my Facebook page." I wasn't sure whether to laugh, or nod in agreement. This is one strange and amusing world.

And yet another example:

While wandering around in SoHo last Wednesday, enjoying the fact that I had a day of no meetings, only one conference call (that I conducted while sipping a cold drink seated on a park bench bask in in the shade of a large tree) and no travel companions or clients to entertain, I explored an area of NYC that I'd never seen before. I traipsed up and down side streets, got intentionally lost only to consult my pocket map unabashedly playing the role of tourist, I window shopped at the fancy stores and actually shopped at the affordable boutiques, and I luxuriated in a long lunch inside a cafe with the garage-door-style front wall wide open, sipping chilled white wine and loving the taste of a ladylike lunch by myself. As I stopped at a Starbucks to use their restroom (I bought a drink out of sheer and unnecessary guilt), I waited patiently in the line for the use of one of the unisex bathrooms. A scruffy and unwashed man in many layers of dirty clothing was in line in front of me. Having a full-blown conversation with himself. As I eavesdropped, I could tell that at least one of his personalities was not happy with the other. There seemed to be a fight on the verge of breaking out. I stepped back, cautiously, in the event that words became blows. Lucky for me, the restroom door opened, and the man entered the one-seater restroom and locked the door, revealing the 'Occupied' sign above the door handle. Silently thinking (and feeling a bit ashamed for feeling it), I looked longingly at the other door in clear hopes that the door would open before the one with our fighting man inside. No such luck - the door of the stall with the man inside opened wide, and in a loud voice, he announced to me that I should beware that the man before him must have "peed all over the walls in there" and that I "shouldn't touch anything or sit down." Now I'm all in favor of a friendly stranger's heads up, and would certainly heed his advice. I gingerly opened the door (I was desperate, and couldn't stand to wait for the other room to become available) and saw that nothing seemed out of place. The walls, fortunately, were not dripping, and the floors were scrubbed clean and dry. Since I know better than to ever sit on a public restroom seat, I took normal precautions, finished up and washed and dried my hands. Exiting the restroom, my 'restroom advisor' was standing outside the room waiting for me. He loudly berated me for not listening to him and for using the restroom despite his advice. I scurried past him, hoping to avoid a confrontation. The Starbucks employees watched me leave in a hurry, only to have my "friend" shout across the entire coffee shop - which was full - "I hope you get a VD for not listening to me!" Yep. That's what he said. I didn't look back - I can only imagine what the other patrons must have thought. Shaking from anger and shame, I stepped out into the sunshine and continued my trek through the unfamiliar neighborhood. Without a VD to speak of, mind you.

So, if nothing else, being a frequent business traveler has reminded me of one truth in life:

There are a lot of really strange people out there. Some act funny. Some talk to themselves. Some yell at you. Some don't shower. Some have quirky habits. Some give you unsolicited advice.

And, some cute young gentlemen will sit next to you in first class, while you're gloating about the surprise upgrade into the larger seat with free wine, and will offer you a pen with which to embark on your crossword. And, he will celebrate with you when you solve the tough clues. He will smell manly and good seated elbow to elbow with you, and his eyes will sparkle in the dim overhead lighting as he smiles at you, and he will remind you (without saying a word) that you are attractive, and will find other men attractive again. He will not, however, encourage you to work up the nerve to ask him his name, or where he's from, or where he's going.

I guess that makes me the oddball here.

Next time.

The Garbage State

So, I know that I've renamed this blog AWAY from strictly commuting stories, but seriously, with all the travel I've been doing lately, I am going to have to have to regress for a moment.

Indulge me, wouldja?

Tuesday night, after a very hectic and long day at work, I raced in a cab, in the pouring rain, to O'Hare to catch a flight to Newark. My second one in two weeks.

I was optimistic that this one would be on time. We boarded on time. We pushed away from the gate on time.

Things were looking up.

That's when the airplane decided to do a driving tour of the airfield surrounding O'Hare international airport. We visited, driving slowly and stopping ever so often (photo op?), at not one, or two, or three, but FOUR runways. The pilot even chuckled a bit when he announced the fourth change.

Even he wasn't optimistic anymore.

We landed in Newark, eventually, and it was after 11 pm again. I'd been up a long time, and had miles to go before I slept.

Next stop? Hertz. I trot out to the parking lot, thankful my new #1 Club Gold status had finally kicked in. This was going to be fun!

Again with the unbridled optimism. You'd think I'd learn already.

I see my car. Or was it a toaster?

It was a Prius. I'm sure these things do great things for good old Mother Earth and all, but they sure do nothing for me. I got in, read the instructions on how to turn it on (a la a Toaster) and got it into gear, finally.

Then I pulled out of the space. With the noise it was making, I was just sure I was dragging a dead grandma around under the car. It was horrendous. I had to re-read the instructions to make sure I'd not accidentally turned on the Hovercraft feature of the automobile. Nope. Just put it into Drive.

I promptly put it into Reverse and backed it right into the parking spot. The old me, from high school, would have been far too shy to go back and admit I didn't want that car, and ask for a new one.

Not the new me. I walked in, confessed my fear and loathing for the Prius, and got a new car.

Aha! A Subaru! Fantastic. At least it didn't have instructions. That will be a key ingredient as the following story unfolds.

Confident in my new wheels, I leave the Hertz lot, clutching my directions and heading for the first stop light of many. I quickly notice, however, that the car is not shifting into the higher gears. It sounds, instead, like it is going to explode. Or lift off into space. One or the other.

I realize that it is an automatic, with a fancy little shifter for manual gear changes. Uhm, hello? I don't drive a stick shift! I never learned how to "listen to the car" and "shift when it is ready!"

Good grief, this was not going well.

I notice that the gear shift has a little + and a - on it. I push it towards the +. It shifts. Great. Noise abated.

For now.

Then I accelerate onto the highway entrance, still clutching my directions, and hit the + again. Aha! I can do this!

Then I notice that I'm not shifting fast, or often, enough for little Subaru to keep up. I can barely hear myself panic over the dreadful noises it was making. Poor little Suby...don't die on me now!

Oh. Crap.

I just missed the exit towards Elizabeth that leads me to 95 South which leads me to the NJ Turnpike (aka the Freeway from Hell).

Grrrrreat.

Now I'm shifting, freaking out, panicking, shifting, looking for an exit, and Oh. Crap.

Now I'm on another highway. No exits in sight. I have no idea what highway I'm on, or where I'm headed. All I know is that it is now 11:45 pm and I'm exhausted and (shift) freaking out and lost. In Newark.

Oh. Crap.

I'm headed (shift) towards the Holland Tunnel Bridge. Into New York Freaking City.

The last place on earth that you'd ever want to be driving a car you don't know how to drive.

Am I sweating? Why is it so hot? How do you (shift) turn this heater down (shift) already?

I see an exit. I exit. Shift. Sweat. I figure out how to turn down the heat. I slowly stop sweating, as I rip the scarf off from around my neck, practically blinding myself in the process.

Now I'm in downtown Newark, I think, which I've heard isn't a "lovely neighborhood." And, it is midnight and I'm alone. Shift.

I do a ridiculously bad U-turn, and make it back onto the highway and follow the signs back to Newark Airport.

I exit, shift and guide myself back to Hertz.

Square One.

I realize, while at a stop in the Hertz parking lot, that the shifter has two choices. You can be in automatic automatic, or the sneaky little manual automatic. Gratefully, I change over to the trusty auto auto choice.

I pull back out of the lot, follow my directions, and MAKE the exit towards Elizabeth.

Success would be fleeting.

I somehow miss/overlook/ignore the sign that says which way Princeton is on US-1. (It is South, by the way). I go North, and realize that NOTHING looks familiar from last week's visit. Oh. Crap.

Now I'm heading the wrong way again. I stop and flag down two guys in a gas station parking lot, only opening my window an inch or so, and find out that yes, Princeton is the other way.

For anyone that has ever driven in New Jersey, you know that the roads have these strange and awkward rules about U-turns. They are like real turns, and then they circle through a neighborhood before dumping you back onto the street from which you came, going the other way.

After all of that, I finally head the right way, and begin to recognize things again. I practically sang the Hallelujah Chorus when I saw a movie theater that I recognized.

That song would have been in lieu of the Hispanic songs that were playing non-stop on what felt like every channel with decent reception. What is it about New Jersey? I grew up in Atlanta, with a huge Latino population, and we only had one or two Hispanic radio stations. Here I am, right outside New York City, and I can't get a decent (depends on your definition) pop song to save my life?!

I pulled into the hotel parking lot about 25 minutes later at about 12:35 am, and parked near the back. I make it to the front lobby of the Westin where the guy at the registration desk says to me, in all polite seriousness, "Good morning."

Yes, I suppose it is morning. It was hardly good though, buddy.

Bridges, Tunnels and Taxicabs

I would love to write a blog post today about something other than painful commuting/travel experiences. However, fresh off another 15-hour day consisting of two metropolitan cities, two flights, two flights delayed, four cabs and three meals at the airport, I just don't have it in me.

Yesterday's second trek to New York City for a meeting was nothing short of eventful. Rather than to repeat Friday's post about dreadful experiences in lengthy detail, I decided I'd treat you all to a highlight reel. Making it real for you.

Away we go.

• On the way to O'Hare at 7:30 yesterday morning, my cab driver was doing just fine until we got onto the expressway. As we neared O'Hare on the Kennedy, I could see his eyes getting droopy in the rearview mirror. I noticed he wasn't moving very much, if at all. We were in stop and go traffic, and I heard him start to "mouth snore." I leaned forward and said, loudly, "Sir, are you falling asleep??!?" and he snapped awake and said no. Then it started again, and he was slowly drifting off toward the left heading at the center median. I was freaking out, trying to figure out what to do. I was on the highway for crying out loud! Miles away from the airport! The radio was playing NPR softly, so I asked him to turn it up and turn on some music, and to open his window. I mean, come on! I'm paying you NOT TO DIE. We finally made it but I was NOT happy to have to pay him for that ride. And, yes, this is NOT the first time that I've had a cab driver fall asleep while driving me around. Am I really that boring?


• Arriving at O'Hare early, as is my usual, I soon find out that my plane is missing a part and the flight that was supposed to take off at 10 am will not leave now until noon. I tried to get the travel agent we use to change us to another airline, to no avail. I had to call the prospect, with whom we were meeting in New York that day, and ask him to push back the meeting to accommodate this delay. Luckily, he was available.


• Never one to miss a meal, I grabbed a sandwich and a bag of chips at O'Hare before boarding—since I knew we'd land in just enough time to make it to the meeting. I realized quickly that even if it says "Wolfgang Puck" on the label, it is still a a deli sandwich wrapped in plastic, and it just isn't going to be good. Traveling is not good for the diet.


• When we landed at Laguardia, I de-plane and turn to stand and wait for my colleague. I notice two little people in the line to board our plane after it emptied. Then I realized they were THE little people from Little People, Big World on TLC! The mom and the dad! People left them alone, but a few nodded and smiled in their direction. Seeing them in person proved to me that I am blessed—life would just be so much harder that way. They seemed happy and relaxed, however, so good for them. Probably because no cameras were following them!


• The cabs in NYC now accept credit cards through a handy little swiper machine installed in the backseat. It felt like being at a 7-Eleven. Smelled about the same, too. Thanks to Nilsa for alerting me to this new convenience! Now if only Chicago would get these installed.


• Nothing like leaving a meeting at New York's rush hour, which happens to be just after the infamous (and secret?) cab shift change. We stood forever waiting, on Madison Avenue, for a cab. Then we cruised to Park Avenue to wait there. Finally, the new shift of cabbies must have been on the loose, so we hailed one and made it to Laguardia. Interestingly, in the two visits to NY in the past five business days, to the exact same address from the exact same airport, the cabbies have gone three different ways. I've now been over the Triborough Bridge, in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and over the Queensboro bridge. I feel so cultured. I'm still not claiming to be a B&T person just yet.


• The very nice gate agent at United in Laguardia that hooked up all four of us last week on an earlier flight (with good seats to boot!) was there again, and was still nice. He hooked my colleague up with a great standby seat, and then did the same for me. Good karma was working in my favor!


• But good karma only lasts so long. After boarding the earlier flight, we were then delayed on the tarmac for a bit, with claims of Chicago's rain delaying arrivals into O'Hare. Then, later as we finally neared Chicagoland, the pilot came on to say that Air Traffic Control had put us into an in-flight delay/hold pattern and that we only had 20 minutes of fuel to play with before he had to make a decision. About 10 minutes later (I'm guessing we were circling the northern suburbs?) he comes back on to say that we'd been cleared for landing and that we'd be on the ground in 30 minutes. The irony of his two conflicting statements was not lost on anyone, and the entire plane laughed aloud. I'm pretty sure everyone was just punch drunk from their travels, too.


• With two feet back on the ground in Chicago, I was forced to eat my third meal of the day from a stand at O'Hare. Dinner comprised of a yogurt parfait and a bottled water, consumed in the back of the fourth cab of the day, was all I could handle at 9:30 pm. My poor digestive system.

All in all, it was yet again a 15-hour travel day for a 60-minute meeting. I hope it turns out to have been worth it!

At least I saw the Little People in real life.

Policia

When preparing for our trip to Mexico, we kept hearing about the Mexican Police (Policia). Apparently they are nasty fellows, and not interested in making your vacation any lovelier. In fact, they have a terrible reputation for picking on American tourists.

So, I carefully observed the speed limit (to the best of my ability) and tried to make heads and tails of the lanes, the speed bumps and the Retorno lane (u-turns). See the previous post for more.

All was going well, until we decide to take a taxi into Playa del Carmen for the evening. Had a great dinner, a lovely time at a local bar, and then a rousing ending to the night at the Blue Parrot, where we danced, made sand angels (don't ask) and watched fire dancers.

Got into the tiny taxi, prepared to shell out our 150 pesos for a safe ride home.

We head out onto the highway, laughing, joking with the driver (in broken, high school Spanish) and were all feeling good (we love tequila).

Then, in the dark, as we rode along through the jungles (literally), with zero street lamps to illumniate our way, we see blue lights flashing.

Now, let's all be honest. Even if you're not driving, those blue lights are enough to make your heart race and palms sweat. Now add to that the urban legends/rumors we'd heard about the Mexican Policia, and the fact that we're 4 American chicks in this tiny taxi, and we're literally freaking out.

Janine is up front with the driver, and knows a little Spanish (un poquito) and she's glancing nervously at the driver. Smart enough to wait it out, we all sit quietly.

He gets out. Walks back toward the cop.

Uh, sir? That's not what we do. We wait, roll down the window and DON'T MOVE.

I crane my neck around (hoping the blue light glare will hide any activity in the car from police view) and see him back there, joshing with the cop.

Uh, sir? This isn't funny.

The cop comes around to us, machine gun in hand (yes, I said machine gun) and rounds the car, with a flashlight in the windows. I manage a feeble smile. Not a "we're guilty, sir" smile, but a "see, we're harmless, sir" smile.

He goes back. Cab driver gets back in. The whole thing lasted about 6 minutes.

The lights go off, we drive away.

Silence.

Janine looks at me. I look at the girls. We say to him, together (as if that's not complicated), in really bad Spanish, "what happened?" (for sake of blog readability, I'll use English here). He replies, in even worse English, "marjiuana."

Uh, sir? Please tell me we're not in a car with you while you're toting drugs across town, or whatever?

Apparently he was clean, but the cop pulled us over because he saw 4 girls, presumably white American girls, and was suspicious. I have no idea how the "flashlight in the eyes" from outside the car was supposed to clear our names, but apparently it did.

Frankly, it all worked out fine (somehow) and we didn't end up going to Mexican prison.

But, damn, wouldn't THAT have been one heck of a blog?!