A Big Surprise - A Post by Bree

It’s my turn. Matt has been telling me this for the past week. I keep putting it off. Thus, the two week delay in telling you about MJ’s big birthday surprise.

I had planned it out for a long time. (But those of you who know me, know that although I had a brilliant plan in my head, I didn’t actually take any action on this plan until the day before.) Doesn’t matter. Everything worked out great, almost.

I convinced MJ that he couldn’t work late because we were going to dinner. We met at the tube station after work (how romantic, eh?), then we hopped on a bus to….Oxford Street. No great and exciting things there, except for a fabulous Turkish restaurant that we both love. Things were working out great, except for the fact that MJ was exclaiming his hunger and I could see his mouth watering thinking of the spinach and feta that he would undoubtedly devour at Sofra, when I suddenly realized that there was one gaping hole in my plan.

We weren’t going to dinner, instead, we were going to see the classic Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. (In case you think I was being serious in the preceding sentence, let me clarify - the show is closing next month.) But ever since we got to London (way back in February) and saw the billboards with the glorious Chitty car, MJ has been wanting to go.

Apparently it was his favourite childhood movie. I, however, do not see how any parent could let their child watch a movie that had a Child Catcher in it! Talk about nightmares - that dude is scary. (no offense RJ and KJ –you’re great parents)

However, back to the present dilemma. We weren’t going to eat dinner, but to a show. And in my excellent planning I had neglected to allow any time whatsoever for a bite to eat… A hungry birthday boy on my hands was not going to make a pleasant theatre companion. (Although he would have fit right in with all the other crying six year olds around us.)

My worry grew and grew as I led MJ to the theatre to collect our tickets, all the while scanning for a McDonalds or Pret. Meanwhile, MJ is explaining to me about how he didn’t eat much at lunch, expecting an excellent dinner tonight, and should he go with the kebabs again tonight or try something new?...

The show was starting in 10 minutes. Finally, we turned the corner and saw the bright yellow sign with Chitty. And luckily there was a Café Nero next door. We could a least grab a sandwich. Would MJ be too disappointed? With excitement in my voice, and a touch of hesitation, I announced our new plans. No, he said as he laughed. He had already figured it out. He wasn’t really hungry. He was just playing along for my sake…..

So much for surprises.

Dear Mr. Allen

Dear Mr. Allen,
I'm honored that you took the time to read my blog and to leave a comment. I'm sorry if you feel that we've infringed on your privacy in anyway.

It does seem a bit malicious that you retaliated by destroying my hard drive on my personal computer. You'll certainly be horrified to learn that a nice man with dreadlocks at the computer shop as managed to restore the system without any loss of data. If you will please mail me a check for £100 to cover the cost of the repair plus an additional £250, I will remove the reference to your yacht and refrain from posting your name without permission in the future.

If you value your annonymity however, I would suggest that you not create vain displays that are the size of a football field and park them obtrusively in public waters, infringing on my free view of the harbor in Monaco.

Certainly another option would be to donate just one of your three yachts that you have on the top ten list and use the money to combat cybercrimes.

While I have you listening, can you please explain to me why Windows does not come with Hearts loaded anymore, and when it does why you can only play over the Internet?
Finally, do you secretly use Firefox when you're on your yachts away from the public eye.

If you ever come through London, certainly give me a call and we'll be happy to meet you at Wagamama's for some Japanese noodles on you.

Thank you for your time,
MAJ

Nice blog! (part trois)

I definitely agree with you - it's time to move on and get past the U2 concert.

So...
the next day we laid on the beach all day, swimming a little and reading a little. It was another rock beach which wasn't so Nice, but it was still a wonderful day in the sun. We couldn't have asked for any better weather.

That night we journeyed over to Monaco - but they wouldn't let me drive the bus like a mad man. It seems that Monte Carlo only allows reckless drivers who are posh.

We viewed with our own two eyes the fourth largest yacht in the world, which is owned by Paul Allen. Reagan looked it up to verify. The yacht had a helicopter parked on board.

We ate at a place called Stars and Bars and had a wonderful evening being thankful that we didn't have to worry about such lavish ways to spend millions of dollars. Being rich would involve so much stress, you know.

Taking a small departure from our own little world, I offer links to three very humorous posts on other blogs:
1) The Sharester makes fun of other people's emails, including mine.
2) Bree & I getting slammed by Slade
3)Josh Langston - See Tuesday, July 12, 2005 when he's talking about what he did in order to get on a plane in Paris.

I have other blogs that I could recommend as well, but I will respect those authors privacy as I do not (yet) have their permission to encourage strangers to read about their personal lives. Whereas the three people above seem to not care - particularly TheSharester who has been bombarded with advertisers who love her site.

Nice blog! Part Deux of Trois

I apologize to those who feel that we've left you hanging.
There are four reasons for the delay.
1) It's nice to know that somebody actually is reading the posts.
2) It's nice to receive comments. One fellow blogger recently gave an award to the individual who provided the most comments.
3.) Contrary to popular belief that all we do is traverse around Europe, slade, we do have jobs to attend, and usually work quite hard.
4.) Some of you needed extra time to wish me happy birthday. While we are a few hours off from you guys, we still use the same calendar and 9 August has come and gone.

But due to popular demand, our publishers have urged us to release part two of nice blog.

Along with the 50,000 others traveling to Nice for the U2 concert, we elbowed our way onto the train from Marseilles. As we managed to get a seat, it was a beautiful train ride with the coast plainly in view whenever our eyes were open.

The journey to the hotel wasn't quite as uneventful as I'd hoped. Apparently the road that was the main vein straight to our hotel was actually a tunnel which pedestrians could not enter. I begrudgingly hailed a cab.

However it is at this point that a one-line highlights of the trip occurred. A lad, probably only slightly younger than I approached and requested a light. Being children of the surgeon general's warning era, we naturally could not oblige.

A frail, older woman was walking our direction.

"Look at her -I bet that lady's got a light," he quipped.

Upon request, she opened her bag (purse) as if trying to locate a cell phone to call 911. His thirst was quenched in moments, and he looked around like a man who had just won 50 quid bet off his mates. "I told you so," he boasted.

We splurged and stayed in a real hotel, with a real swimming pool, with a real queen-size bed, not two twins pushed together.

We changed into concert attire and caught the concert shuttlebus to the concert arena to watch the concert.

In the open air, with mountains in view off in the distance, and the beach not too far in the opposite direction, it was a beautiful day to be part of the throng listening to one of the most well-known bands in our generation.

Leaving you hanging again... that's all I had time to write on the train yesterday and today.

Nice blog!

We fell asleep in the train that was supposed to take us to Nice. When we woke up and deboarded, we were still unmistakably in Paris. Vacation can be mayhem - especially when you can't figure out what's going.

For the last two months we've anticipated that right now we would be reclining on the French Riveria. Instead, we're leaning against the wall in the Marseilles train station, a few agonizing kilometers from the coast.

One of my wife's coworkers was the mastermind who acquired tickets to see U2 in Nice.

Train tickets were subsequently booked, saving a few pounds versus if we'd flown. The thought was that the overnight sleeper would be more adventurous. And it certainly has been.

We stood in security at London Waterloo for 45 minutes. Apparently an undercover reporter wrote an expose at the beginning of the week after traveling on the Eurostar using someone else's passport. Now security has been seriously beefed up. Three people checked my passport; last journey it was scanned once.

Once we finally boarded, we found that our seats were adjacent to an individual who apparently was on a two month fast from bathing. We would have asked the motivation for such behavior, but the stench stagnated the air to the point that soundwaves could not travel.

What was supposed to be a mere two hour layover at Gare de Austelich was not so simple. We ate a simple dinner at McDonald's, which I must say is usually a very pleasant place to sit for awhile. They have nice chairs and interiors, not to mention the bathrooms, which require a code from your receipt. We strolled into the station to find that are train had been cancelled due to a fire. It took talking and listening to five train workers to piece that together. They were all quite proud however to tell us that the train would still be available for sleeping.

Everyone rushed to the ticket counter to clamor for alternate trains. Shortly thereafter a bomb threat led to evacuation of the area. We went off to try to rent a car, but were deterred by the 190 euro price tag for a two door diesel. Just for the day!

The ticket counter reopened and we were booked onto a 6 a.m. train.

Into our sleeping car we went. Surprisingly, when the train is not moving, you can get decent sleep in those beds. We dreamed that while we were sleeping, the train decided to proceed, but some dreams unfortunately never come to fruition. After the 5:30 alarm went off, we got up and transferred to the train that actually had plans to attempt the journey.

As I write, we are having another elongated layover, uncertain as to whether Bono will have these fans to entertain ce soir.

Je voudrais un iron

“Je voudrais un iron.” I said.

The man rattled back in an unintelligible language, switching back and forth, as I suppose I had, between English and French in such a manner that neither none of what he was saying could be deciphered.

With the help of a younger assistance, I finally came to the conclusion that the hotel did not own a single iron. For a second, I wanted to make up new words to describe my level of “bedazzlement” and “astonishincredulousness.”

How could a hotel not own an iron? My blue shirt hid the wrinkles, but the white one would be absolutely hideous, even when coat and tie covering 90 percent of the visible surface area.

The ironing lady would arrive at 8:30 in the morning, which I conveyed as “no good.” They made a phone call and before I knew it, they asked me to bring my shirt down and she would come pick it up tonight. I’m still a bit wary as to whether I’ll actually get it back or not, but I might actually witness an unusual display of European customer service.

It is but one of numerous mini-adventures since my arrival in Geneva yesterday evening. Who would have thought that so much could happen in such a short time?

When I first arrived, I found that my card would not be authorized by the ATM [machine] (redundant word deleted). This forced me to find a cab and ask, in my impeccable French no doubt, “Accept-tu le carte?”

The guy returned the question with a question – how far are you going?

Apparently I passed muster – little did I know that he probably just felt sorry for me after hearing where I was staying. I would soon feel sorry for myself.

My dorm room was 50% bigger, and more shockingly, the dorm bed was larger as well. When I took a shower in the morning, I thought they had forgotten to provide me with a towel. Investigating further, I found what I’ve labelled “a priority towel,” because it’s so small that you have to prioritize which parts of your body absolutely need to be dry and which ones can be left damp.

But nothing could dampen my spirit, and I quickly changed and headed out for a walk. The mountains that I could see from the cab window reminded me of how much I adore the magnificence that God bestowed upon Switzerland and that they’ve done a remarkable job of stewarding through the years.

A few fireworks dotted the horizon as I stood on the edge of the lake, gawking at the hundred-foot man-made geyser that essentially creates a waterfall in the middle of the sky.

I’d arrived on a fete national, and everyone was out to celebrate. When I realized that every individual was carrying fireworks and setting them off whether the area was clear or not, I decided I should have upped my health insurance policy. Needless to say, I didn’t linger long.

But I did catch a glimpse of a live outdoor concert – the cover of the album featured a Tonka-type truck. I didn’t get a chance to translate the title, but it surely must have been a band called “destruction” or something like that. They certainly sounded the part.

In the morning, there was a misunderstanding with the doorman. I told him where I wished to go “ je voudrais aller a rue de rive”and he pointed down the street and told me to turn “a la goche et marche deux [insert some word for blocks] et [turn] a la droit.” Quite proud of the French I’d retained, I headed on my way.

Quinze minutes later without having passed the right street, I repeated my request for assistance. This time a man showed me on a map – and I was disheartened to find that the office building I sought was less than a block from my hotel.

I would have blamed it on my French, except the receptionist actually mistook me as a francophone, asking if I preferred her to talk in French or English. The amount of bilingualism made me think fondly of Texas.

When I walked into the office and my cell phone said 8:03, I still figured I’d done pretty well; only to realize that I’d forgotten about the change in time zones. But in Europe, 9:03 is still in the top 50th percentile, if not better.

Further adventures were postponed until lunch. Again forgetting about the time change, I was surprised when a man popped his head in at 12:30 and asked if I was going to leave and get food at some point. It was already 1:30!

Like Balboa, I set out to explore (I don’t know any Suisse explorers, so I figure French is as close as I can get). I found the Palais du Justice, where I ventured into the library. I read the introduction to someone’s law thesis on the social contract of modern and then switched to an article in an ethics journal that compared the breakdown that allowed falsification of sources at the New York Times as the journalistic equivalent to scandal breaking out in the Vatican. That was the first, and probably the last, lunch hour I have spent deciphering/skimming/guessing my way through French-authored material besides “A beginner’s guide to speaking French.”

Then, my wanderings brought me to an art and history museum that housed the most gargantuan flashlight I’ve ever seen. It was about 12 feet high and 50 feet long. It had at least 100 moving parts and a light on the end. Apparently engineers from all over the world come to study this work of art.

At least that’s what the docent told me. Despite being raised in Washington DC, he came to Geneva 40 years ago for an art festival and has never returned.

Then it was on to find food. This is quite a difficult chore when none of the small bakeries accept un carte banque and none of the ATM’s accept your carte banque. Finally I gave in and changed the pounds that I had, certainly at some exorbitant rate, in order to have lunch money. A couple of tarts caught my fancy and a couple of chocolates from a place further down the street.

It was the best lunch hour I’ve had in quite a while – educational and filling.

I would have saved myself a bit of trouble had I called my bank before travelling abroad – but I’ve just taken for granted the ability to get money at any time in any place. I’ve mistakenly assumed that I’m always abroad so my card must work anywhere…

The live music festival continued tonight even within the confines of my cell– this time with an Elvis impersonator and a much older crowd. No fireworks tonight, so I reckon I’ll make it to bed earlier. Plus, yesterday I read the entire Grisham novel that I’d brought so that distraction is out of the way.

And Bree – don’t worry about her. She’s throwing a party at the flat tonight in my absence. No boys allowed.

It’s been a good day in this European capital. Maybe tomorrow I can catch the Red Cross museum before it closes. Hopefully it doesn’t cost much, because these 60 francs won’t last long and I still have to catch a cab back to the airport.

Au bientot.

Author's Note: This post has not been screened by the French grammar police and may contain errors in the French language

Discovering Airportgate

For a West Texan boy of fairly modest means, flying in and of itself has always been an prodigious event. In fact, I remember strong feeling of jealousy when my sister got to fly to my grandparents house, when the summer before I’d driven with them to California, stopping at the Grand Canyon and the Petrified Forest.

Now a few kernels of wisdom and insight that I’ve picked up in the last 14 years hint that I got the better end of the bargain, but it’s still a close call.

I remember flying alone for the first time, following all of the signs, earnestly listening to the flight safety video, talking with the people sitting next to me. Mmm… and the Southwest peanuts. Those were the wonderful days before we accommodated individuals with a horribly defective gene that causes allergic reactions to peanuts – oops, once again enter my sister. I always ordered Ginger Ale to go with them.

Each take-off and each landing was a milestone, and each window seat demanded full attention to be paid to the land below and the wing-hindered views of the cloud cover. Turbulence was bliss. Everything about flying was an adventure. I dreamed of going to the Air Force Academy and becoming a pilot.

Unfortunately, I’ve found that I, and probably thousands of others in the general masses, have been seriously duped. For while I was content with peanuts and my one cubic inch of allotted foot space, it is highly likely that there were indulgent individuals who boarded and exited the plane first, roamed freely about an airport lounge without the hindrance of minding their baggage, ate and drank without converting any money, and had twice as many movie choices!

Forget the fact that their tickets may have cost four times as much – I am appalled that they have diluted the simple joy of Orville with such pleasantries. They spread out and their elbows find no one close enough to share the sheer excitement. Their legs idly dangle out in front of them, without bracing knees into the seat in front to obtain maximum impact from the turbulence. They let themselves be distracted by the redundant chore of eating a full three-course meal and the drink attendant… err, flight attendant… is rarely brining Ginger Ale.

Instead of dreamily studying cool new gadgets in the airplane shopping magazine, they’ve already placed an order for 3 of everything, and spend their time reading important financial magazines and newspapers.

I would have never stumbled into this appalling scheme, except for the fact that my flight was booked through a corporate travel agency. The ticket entitled me to a “Fast Track” sticker, which allowed be to enter the security check through a different door. Through the glass I could see hordes of people waiting in line to have their carry-ons x-amined. I walked through so quickly I could barely pull all of my gadgets out of my pockets in time.

As a side, it was much simpler back when the only electronic in my pocket was a disposable camera. Now, I pull up as closely to the machine as possible and use two trays to hold my keys, coins, phone, mp3 player, spare battery, headphones, camera, spare memory stick, and sometimes a charger as well. Plus, out comes a wad of papers that includes my train pass, passport, frequent flyer number, boarding pass, booking reference, hotel address, and receipts that need to be saved. In fact, usually 50% of my net worth is on my person!

Returning my gaze to the glass, I see the children loudly expressing (it looked loud at least) their annoyance with waiting in line, and being hungry and thirsty.

Aah, thirsty. I walk to the lounge where my ticket is scanned, my bags are held, and I help myself to some cheese and a piece of chocolate cake. I pour a drink from an elegantly labelled glass bottle of cold water and walk to the newspaper rack. In this surreal world, which includes a television with the news blaring, it seems irrelevant that the flight is delayed 20 minutes.

Reverting to my former nature, I instead pull out a John Grisham book and happily exit the lounge into a world of mystery and other tales of deception.

When I later boarded the flight, I continued to read, trying desperately to restrain myself from sprawling in the overstuffed seat and attempting in vain to butt my knees into the seat in front of me – it was too far away. I tried to make my back stiff, but the chair was too soft. Sulkily I devoured the gourmet chicken, the tangerine salad, and the apple pie a la mode after discovering that there were no peanuts to be found.

Ginger Ale was the only reminiscent comfort available.

For the moment I’m in Geneva pondering all of these disturbing trends. I’ll fly home on Thursday. I hope I get bumped up.