Lumberjacks in Bhutan

Lately, I've had the urge to travel. Unfortunately, I haven't had the money or time to travel. So, I've made up for these minor deficits by watching travelogues. Through the magic of Netflix, I'm traveling through the Himalaya region with Michael Palin. (As far as I know, he does not have any Alaska relatives. I'm guessing this because he hasn't shot and killed any animals on his journey. And he's not making nasaly claims about being able to see Russia.) In his younger days, Palin was a member of the Monty Python troop - the greatest group of entertainers ever assembled. I'm on the last of the 6-part series and so far, it's been a bit slow. I didn't expect Palin to do Monty Python sketches across the mountains, but I expected some dry wit now and then. Instead, it's a lot of very edited interviews and very edited commentary. The scenery is spectacular, though.

Anyway, in this last installment, Palin is traveling through Bhutan, a tiny country with few roads that borders India and China. On his walk through the country, his guide took him to an old guy's house in the mountains. The old fellow wrote one of Bhutan's best known songs. At their urging, the guy sang his song. It was a bit difficult to follow since I don't speak Bhutanese.

When the old guy finished, Palin said, "That was very good." He chuckled nervously and continued, "I could sing a song about a lumberjack." The guide, who understood English, and the old guy who didn't, encouraged Palin to sing. Noticably uncomfortable, Palin said, "Oh no, it's rather a silly song." But then...with more encouragement, in the middle of nowhere Bhutan, he started to sing, "I work all day, I eat my lunch, I go to the lavat'ry..." He made it to the chorus, then forgot the words. I actually squealed and clapped while sitting on my couch. Made this series totally worth my time.

Here's Palin in his younger days:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zey8567bcg

I am such a dork.

Corporate Responsibility

Yesterday, I'd resigned myself to just accept whatever the airline dished out on Tuesday. I didn't have the energy to navigate through an automated phone system so that I could talk to someone who might not understand English. Instead, I took a 3-hour nap.

Today, after a good night's sleep, I decided to raise some dust. I called the 1-800 number. To my surprise, the fellow on the other end understood what I was saying. As I expected, he handed me the party line, "Ma'am, because the problem was weather related, Delta is not responsible..." I cut him off before he could go any further.

I explained that I understand that Delta cannot control the weather. However, Delta did control the decisions that led to us sitting on the ground for 4 hours with limited food and beverages. It was because of Delta's policies that we were not allowed into the terminal, and it was because of Delta that more sufficient food was not delivered to the plane when it became obvious that we'd be there a while. I finished with, "I want compensation for my discomfort and inconvenience."

He informed me that he could not give me any compensation. Honestly, I didn't expect him to reach into his wallet and send me money. He then said that there wasn't "anyone where he was" who could give me compensation. I said, "You're kidding me. No one?" He said, "Not that I know of." I'd had it. I asked, "Do you have a supervisor?"

I was then transfered to Cincinnati. I went through my story again, got the "weather related, not responsible" line of bullshit again, explained that Delta is responsible for keeping people on the plane again, and was directed to the website to lodge a formal complaint. I explained that I felt like I'd be emailing into a black hole. He assured me that I'd get a response within a week - and I might receive some compensation if others on the flight had also lodged complaints.

So, if I'm the only one who decided to take even more time out of my day to type up an email, Delta will file my complaint where the sun doesn't shine, content in their "weather related, not responsible" rationalization. I really don't expect to get anything - but extra frequent flyer miles would be a nice gesture. I hope that everyone who is responsible for Delta's "weather related" policies and procedures ends up on a plane that's diverted and forced to sit dead still, eating crackers for hours on end.

Now, I'm going to get on with my life. I'll remind myself that I've flown six times this year and all the other flights were fine. And, I don't have any flights in the near future.

2:54AM

This weekend, I joined my college friends for our biennial reunion. Twelve of us decided to reconnect 10 years ago to celebrate our 30th birthdays. Since that first reunion on Kiawah Island, SC, we've gotten together every other summer, with each member taking a turn finding a location and organizing the event. This time, we went to a cabin outside of Minneapolis and had a fine time.

We had a great time catching up, and as often happens, as we prepared to leave, we found ourselves sharing stories of past travel nightmares. I've had relatively smooth flights since the beginning of this year and had a sneaking suspicion that I was tempting fate by reliving past problems. Still, I shared my 24-hour trip from Little Rock to Syracuse story. "It will be fine," I told myself.

I was further reassured when my flight left Minneapolis about 5 minutes late (3:50 central time), on track for a 7:35 arrival in Atlanta. About an hour into the flight, the pilot comes on and to say that we're taking an alternate route to Atlanta because there's a storm system over Tennessee. Even though this route would add 20 minutes to the flight, he assured us that we'd still be on time. We were puzzled, but looked forward to our trip through a gaping hole in the time-space continuum.

About 20 minutes later, the pilot was back. Never a good sign when you hear from the pilot multiple times during a flight. He told us that we were in a holding pattern because the thunderstorms had moved into Atlanta. The hole in the space-time continuum would not be able to solve this problem, so we'd be delayed getting to Atlanta. Bad news for those catching connecting flights, but Atlanta was still our destination.

The hammer fell at about 7PM. Atlanta told our pilot to circle for another hour, he told them we didn't have enough fuel, and they said, "Get thee to Charlotte, NC." True to his word, the pilot delivered us on time ... in Charlotte - where we couldn't get off the plane because Delta's 2 gates were already occupied.

Charlotte, NC - a 3-hour car trip to my house. It was still daylight out. "I could drive, if they'd just let me off the damn plane," I thought in frustration. My frustration was nothing compared to the folks who were headed to Atlanta to catch connections to places within 2 hours of Charlotte. I would have been homocidal had I been traveling from Minneapolis to Atlanta, to connect on to Charlotte.

One hour slowly became two hours. Delta's only fuel truck was finally headed our way (after filling up all the gate-hogs) when, you guessed it, the thunderstorms rolled into Charlotte. In the pilot's words, "You can imagine that we can't refuel in a thunderstorm." I'm sure more than one of us thought, "Put the fueler in rubber boots and get him out here!" The fuel truck returned to the terminal. We sat. We took turns standing in the aisle to stretch our legs. The flight attendants offered cookies, peanuts, and cheese crackers. They offered beverages. We limited our fluids, knowing that the bathroom situation could quickly turn ugly.

Two hours became three hours. The pilot assured us that they "had been in touch with Delta and they are aware of our situation." Well, that was good news. Someone somewhere knew that there was a plane full of people just sitting on the tarmack at the Charlotte Airport. They knew, but they didn't care enough to send food or find a way for us to get into the terminal. This shameful inhumane course of action renewed my belief that corporations are the source of all evil, right behind beans and peppers. The fact that everyone maintained their composure and forgave the remarkably short bursts of disgruntlement from the few small children on the plane renewed my faith in humanity. I passed the time with my new best friends, a polite male college student and a young mother who just wanted to get home to her baby.

The lightening finally moved on and the fuel truck returned to finish its work at 10:30PM. The pilot informed us that we were all set to take off for Atlanta by 11PM, should be in Atlanta by midnight. That was before we taxied out and took our place in line -14th in line for take off. Our projected arrival time quickly became our projected departure time.

At 11:50PM, we were in the air. Everyone was too exhausted to cheer. We touched down in Atlanta at 12:25AM, taxied in, and sat in full view of 4 empty gates for 30 minutes while we waited for one magic gate to open up. That was when the mood on the plane finally turned.

When I deplaned at 1AM, 8 hours after boarding, I praised the God of Direct Flights - because the Atlanta airport was full of really, really, really miserable people. I got to my car at 1:20, and walked through my door at 2:54AM. If they'd allowed me off the plane when we landed in Charlotte, I would have been home by 10:30PM.

I still haven't worked up the energy to see if I can get any compensation from Delta. I'm sure they won't offer any since this was all "weather related." Yes, there was bad weather and no, I don't want to be in a plane while lightening flashes all around. But no, forcing us to sit on a plane for 5 hours without a decent supply of food, water, and bathroom facilities was not weather related. Not allowing us in the terminal was not weather related. That's just mean.

Flotation devices

Last week, I traveled to Charm City for work. As the plane prepared for take-off, the safety video informed us that some of the seat cushions on the plane could be used as flotation devices. I wondered which ones. Would mine keep me afloat in case of a water landing, or would mine drag me to the bottom of the sea? Then I wondered if I couldn't use my seat cushion as a flotation device, what could I use it for? A hat? Lap desk? Very low step stool? Big heavy frisbee? Abstract art?

I remembered a comedian's comment that airplane passengers would be better served by seat cushions that turn into something that bounces, rather than something that floats. I thought about that, and decided that a seat cushion that turns into an inflatable pod would be great. Of course, you'd have to inflate the pod outside the plane, because if everyone inflated their pods inside the plane, you'd suffocate, which wouldn't be helpful. Something to think about.

Plane trips

I'm happy to report that I made it to the Windy City and back again. Had you checked in with me on Friday morning, I'm not sure I would have predicted success. I had just pulled out of my apartment complex when the cell phone rang. It was my good friends at American Airlines, letting me know that my flight had been cancelled. I turned the car around and went back into my apartment.

Although they originally rebooked me on an evening flight, the helpful customer service agent (you read right, a helpful customer service agent at an airline) rebooked me on a flight that left 2 hours after my original flight. So, I sat around, ate some lunch, and headed out.

Got to the airport without any problems, checked in, and made it through security without anyone pushing me from behind. I hate that! It takes time to go through security. Deal with it. I think that I manage to get all of the required items out of suitcases and backpacks and into plastic bins with minimal upheaval. I wear shoes that slip on and off. I'm even patient with the infrequent flyers who don't have the routine down, as long as those people are in front of me. I'm not patient with the jackass behind me who decides I'm not going fast enough, or that I only need one plastic bin, and puts his or her plastic bin right up against mine and starts disrobing. I especially hate when they force my bin onto the moving conveyor before I'm done filling it. I can't stand those people - even if it's a little old lady who's never flown before and is completely freaked out in security. Back up, take a breath, and wait until I'm done.

But I digress. I get to the gate and as expected, there's a gate change. I don't mind gate changes because it usually means that my plane approacheth and they need somewhere to put it. We all marched to the next gate and boarded without any glitches.

I sat on the aisle. I prefer the window, but at least I wasn't in the middle. A big guy sat in the middle and complained that he had a first class ticket, but the desk agent uncermoniously bumped him into coach. He explained that he had "over 200,000 miles with the airline and this is how they treat him." I felt like saying, "Buddy, welcome to the real world." But I didn't. Instead, I prayed for the high sign when we could turn on our portable electronic devices so I could drown out the inane conversation between this fellow and the young woman next to him. Something about sales, shipping, outsourcing, Chicago suburbs, commuting, blah, blah, blah. His voice blended in with the airplane hum, but hers could cut through lead. iPod, take me away!

As we approached O'Hare, the pilot came on to let us know that emergency vehicles were assembling to meet our plane. No, we hadn't won some contest and no, we weren't entered in a parade, seems we had "mechanical difficulties." He shared that the difficulties forced us to fly "lower and slower" than usual, which explained why our hour and a half flight was approaching two hours. According to the pilot, he decided not to tell us anything in transit because it was not "an emergency." But, as we approached, something happened that made it an emergency. He assured us that the flight attendants would have more information.

Well, if they had more information, they didn't share it. We all anxiously awaited touchdown, sure that the landing gear would fail and we'd skitter off the runway like a stone skipping across water. Without any information, everyone became an expert. The fellow next to me started explaining the ins and outs of removing the exit doors while the woman in the window seat, who flies all the time, got all excited and said, "Wouldn't it be cool if they had to use the foam?" Yeah, that would be cool, but not as cool as punching her in the face. Then, as you'd expect in these situations, strangers began sharing stories of wind shear, forced landings, smoke smells, and any number of other scary events on flights past. I didn't find it particularly comforting to learn that everyone around me had a story, as if they attracted problems.

In an attempt to drown out the chorus of "I almost died when...", I started thinking, "I wonder how I'll get my suitcase off the plane if we have to slide down the inflatable rafts to get out. I'm sure they won't let me take my suitcase with me. Will they get the luggage and bring it to the terminal? How long will that take?" It's funny where your brain goes when you don't have enough information to make informed judgements.

We landed and all went as it should have. As the pilot predicted, emergency vehicles lined the runway. On this day, we were happy they weren't needed. From there, I got a cab to my friends' house. He was either a new cabbie or a directionally-challenged cabbie, or both, because he had no clue where he was going. He kept calling his friends to guide him to the address.

Luckily, I'd been there before, so I knew we weren't way off course. As we got close, I told him to let me out at the corner, rather than circle the block again. I tried to pay with a credit card and he said he couldn't take the card, even though he assured me I could pay with credit before we left the airport. I said I was $5 short, and he said, "It's close enough. It's your lucky day." And upon reflection, I suppose it was.

Moon over Arkansas

Last fall, I traveled from the northeastern post-industrial wasteland to Little Rock to do the dance that all budding academics must do - I presented a paper at a conference. The trip to Arkansas went relatively smoothly. The flight left the NEPIW on time, and my flight from Atlanta left on time.

On the flight from Atlanta, I sat behind a couple - a decidedly rotund couple. As we began our descent into Little Rock, the fellow started fretting. He got out his wallet and said, "I've lost my social security card and the card to get the car out of the parking deck." He continued to fret, working himself up to "I don't deserve to walk around. I'm so disorganized. All I'm fit to do is work 24 hours a day."

Finally - we arrived at the terminal and everyone got up. The fellow leaned forward and stood up. I stood up, looked over the seat and saw something that should never see the light of day. Let's just say that this fellow needed a belt. A very large belt. I won't provide the gory details, but I've sworn off men. Forever.

I arrived at the hotel after 10PM and immediately turned in, hoping my dreams would be free of moons, fuzzy animals, and anything else that would remind me of the horror I'd seen on the plane. In the morning, I ordered coffee and yogurt from room service. Why did I order room service when no one was reimbursing my expenses? Well, because this fine hotel with ducks that waddled through the lobby twice a day couldn't put coffee pots in the hotel rooms. I felt a bit like Jack Sparrow - "but why is the coffee gone?"

When I called room service, they informed me that there was a coffee shop in the lobby. I almost yelled, "But I need coffee before I can find the coffee shop! I am not allowed to interact with people before I've had my coffee! I had to look at a fat man's ass last night! Now, bring me my damn coffee!" Somehow, I managed to remain civil.

The day before I was to leave Arkansas, a big wind blew. I know, because I finally made it out of the hotel and nearly found myself in Oz. I walked about 2 blocks and gave up. That evening, I considered the possibility of getting home the next day, and after watching the Weather Channel, I became convinced that I should have let the wind blow me back home.

The next day was beautiful and sunny in Little Rock. I arrived at the airport in plenty of time for my flight. After leisurely unwinding from the conference, I walked to my gate, where I learned that my flight to Motor City had been cancelled due to high winds. No more flights that evening. I could pay to spend another night in Little Rock or try to get to a hub city where I had friends. I went down the list: Atlanta? Only if I wanted to fly to Dallas first. Washington DC? Nope, can't get there from Little Rock. Chicago? Ding, ding! We had a winner. Two hours later, I was strapped in, enjoying the irony of heading to the Windy City because high winds closed every other airport.

I spent approximately 10 glorious hours with my Chicago friends and headed back to O'Hare. I managed to get on the early direct flight to Syracuse. I was on the plane, strapped in, when the desk agent came on board and asked if I'd please give up my seat for a distraught woman who just had to get to Syracuse. I said, "No." The desk agent explained that because I was the last one to buy a seat on the plane, I was the first one to give up my seat in an emergency. I said, "I'm not supposed to be here at all. I was supposed to be in upstate New York last night. I bought my ticket 3 months ago. No, she can't have my seat." The desk agent repeated her plea. I said, "What will happen to me?" She said, "We'll get you on the flight to Philadelphia, then on to Syracuse." I relented, after she promised me a $250 travel voucher.

As I passed the distraught woman, she didn't even turn to thank me. No acknowledgement, no "kiss my ass," no nothing. She headed off to Syracuse, with my suitcase under the plane, and I headed off to yet another flight to yet another airport, where I would give yet another airline yet another chance to get me home. It wasn't until I sat down in a middle seat on the plane to Philly that I realized that I'd forgotten my book on the Syracuse flight. I hope that distraught woman found some comfort in Fellowship of the Ring, while I flew to Philly without Frodo, Sam, and Legolas to keep me company.

I finally landed in Syracuse, 28 hours after I'd arrived at the Little Rock airport. Grand total for the round trip: 6 airports, 3 airlines. Upon arrival in Syracuse, I went straight to the Delta ticket counter, relayed my story, and inquired about the frequent flyer miles that I should have earned on the return trip, had I been able to take a Delta flight. When the manager said, "Hmm, I don't know," I demanded frequent flyer miles. Without any argument, the manager gave me a very generous boost to my total miles.

And, with American's travel voucher, I'm returning to the Windy City next weekend for a proper visit with my friends. It's been a year and I've almost recovered from this travel adventure.

Losing teeth in MS

I've decided to complete the Memphis-Mississippi story. I'd gone to Mississippi on a quest - to conduct oral history interviews with former civil rights activists. After a week in Greenwood, I was finally ready to leave Mississippi. I just had to make it through one more afternoon. So, I decided to make a second attempt to find Money, Mississippi. Money is a place only historians would want to find. And, this historian failed. At least I got a good story out of it.

I headed out of Greenwood on a long flat highway bordered on both sides by cotton fields. Following my trusty map, I turned right onto a 2-lane road that ran straight into the cotton field. Brimming with confidence, sure I was going to be the only person who'd ever successfully found Money in Mississippi, I blazed a trail in my Kia Rio. When the road narrowed, my confidence waned. When the road turned to dirt, I hit the brakes. As I turned around, I felt something more than chewing gum afloat in my mouth. "Oh shit!" I said, as anyone would in this situation. I ran my tongue along my teeth and discovered that my gum had pulled a crown off of my back tooth. Luckily I didn't swallow the crown. Imagine choking to death on your own crown in the middle of a cotton field on a second failed attempt to find Money, MS - oh the tragedy.

As I held the now-detached crown with the gum still hanging on, I thought, "How am I going to put this back in? Superglue?" I got back on the main road and did what anyone would do in this situation, I called a friend in New York. To her credit, she eventually stopped laughing and suggested that I call the insurance company and then find a dentist. So, I called the insurance company - the northeastern-based insurance company. The woman on the other end listened to my story and replied, "We don't have any providers in Mississippi. We don't have any in Tennessee, we don't have any further south than Pennsylvania." I said, "You understand that I'm holding my own tooth in my hand, and I'm in the middle of a cotton field." She was unsympathetic. I said, "You've been completely unhelpful." I stopped short of telling her that although Pennsylvannia is geographically south of New York, it is not "the South."

I returned to Greenwood, back to my new friends at the Hampton Inn where I learned two things: dentists don't work on Friday afternoons in Greenwood and there's tooth cement at CVS. I got some of that, glued the crown back on, and off I went to do an oral history interview. It was at that moment that I became an historian! All weekend, I ate like I was in a nursing home - only soft foods, please. On Monday, my parents' dentist took pity on me and the gaping hole in my mouth and recemented my tooth for a nominal fee.

Fast forward one month: In an effort to avoid work of all kinds, I decided to rewatch the Lord of the Rings movies - the extended versions and extra features. In one of the "making of" documentaries, Peter Jackson gushes about Viggo Mortensen's committment to his portrayal of Aragorn. At one point, he said that a fellow actor broke one of Mortensen's teeth during one of the many fight scenes. Seems the guy hit Viggo in the mouth with a sword. According to Jackson, Mortensen insisted on putting the tooth part back in place with superglue and carrying on with filming.

At that point, I put down my ice cream and said, "Oh my god, that's exactly what I thought when I was holding my tooth in my hand in the middle of a cotton field in Mississippi." This can only mean one thing - Viggo and I are clearly meant to be together. Our tooth odysseys will create a bond stronger than enamel. Our love will shine brighter than tooth bleach! Our bond will fill the cavities of our broken hearts!

And I hadn't been drinking.

Memphis

Last August, I hit the open road and headed to the Mississippi Delta on a research trip. On the way, I stopped in Memphis, TN. Here's a reprise of my reflections from that visit:

Yesterday, my travels took me to Memphis, TN. I drove four hours across western Tennessee. For anyone planning to make the same trip, there's lots of kudzu and not much else. I’ve rented the world’s cheapest rental car – a Kia Rio. Since getting the car, I’ve been singing my own version of the Duran Duran song: “Her name is Rio, and her engine is from a lawn mower.” It's the kind of car where you hit the accelerator and you can almost hear the engine respond, "Oh, you gotta be kidding me!"

Anyway, today, I went to Graceland and the National Civil Rights Museum. It was Memphis in August. It was hot as hell. I was really looking forward to Graceland, expecting lots of colorful Elvis fans. Elvis Week starts in two days after all. That’s the time of year when Elvis fans gather to mark the King’s death. Today, there were precious few crazies. The only near-crazy was this British woman who warbled "All Shook Up" in the Trophy Room. There we were, serious tourists, crammed into this small dimly lit space with all the gold records and Grammys, quiet as church mice, listening intently to our audio tours, and all the sudden, without warning: “I’m in love, I’m all shook up…” at full volume. I just about jumped out of my skin. Talk about all shook up.

Besides that, it was just me and the Harley dudes and dudettes reminiscing in front of the Vegas jumpsuits. “Remember when he wore that outfit in Vegas…” For my taste, there was too much Elvis worship and not enough Elvis realism. I realize the family has an image to protect, even if it’s totally fabricated, but to display his badge from the federal narcotics enforcement branch (a gift from Nixon) and not to mention Elvis’s drug use is just sad. As we went into Graceland, a little girl in front of me asked her dad how Elvis died. He diplomatically responded, “He had a heart attack.” I decided not to add, “Yeah, kid, after years of stress and strain, his heart finally said, 'Check, please.'”

Graceland is first and foremost a shrine to bad 1970s home furnishing. We can all be thankful because anyone else who had this stuff in their homes has long since traded it in for Ikea. You can’t go upstairs at Graceland because that was Elvis’s private space when he was alive so out of respect, the family maintains it that way. It just seems silly to say, “Here’s his parents’ bedroom on the first floor, and their bathroom. Go ahead, look around, invade their privacy. You can’t see Elvis’s room – but here’s the bed and dresser, complete with oversized ceramic tiger statue on top.”

After picking up some more tacky souvenirs (pose-able Elvis doll), I headed to the Lorraine Motel, now the National Civil Rights Museum. On the way, I got lost and ended up crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas. I quickly turned around, afraid I'd get stuck in Arkansas, which has always been my worst nightmare.

I have to say that I wasn’t particularly interested in seeing King’s (the real King) last hotel room, but I did want to see the motel in its surroundings – since you only ever see the picture after he’s been shot. Once I got there, I decided to go inside, I'd come all that way after all. The non-profit that runs the museum has done a nice job of telling the movement story, but it all felt unsettlingly voyeuristic to me. You can look into the hotel room, carefully preserved to show what it looked like right before King went outside to the balcony. There are ghosts there, I don’t care what you say. I wanted to yell, “Stop! Don’t go outside!” But, of course, he did go outside.

The non-profit has also purchased the boarding house where James Earl Ray stood in the bathroom with a high-powered rifle. I didn’t spend much time there. They have all of his personal effects, including the rifle. I didn’t need to see that. To stand where he stood, looking at the motel balcony, and thinking about that rifle and the hate that went along with it was just too much. Then, I saw the actual bullet pulled out of King's body. I left, and was glad to put the place behind me.

As I drove on to Greenwood, Mississippi, I thought about King and Elvis – and Memphis’s tourism industry built on lost promise. I think the key to Graceland and the Lorraine Motel is that you have to be able to block out the end of the story. To see Elvis go from a reasonably sensible, healthy person to a bloated paranoid shell was just depressing. And the Lorraine Motel was beyond depressing – it was sickening and unsettling.

Am I sorry I went? No, but I’m not in a hurry to go back.