Posts Tagged ‘travel’

It isn’t February and I haven’t written a book

Tuesday, October 5th, 2010

Anyone paying attention will notice that I have not written in this Blog since February.   I thought about sneaking in and writing eight months worth of posts and claiming some technical glitch but;  a) you are all smarter than that, b) I couldn’t write eight months worth of posts in eight months…how I imagine I could do it in a few days is somewhat illogical, and c) the wonderful technology of Word Press puts the date stamp on each post as it is published.  I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that no one would have been fooled by 120 posts that were dated 5-8 October.   Oh well.

So what has inspired me to find my Blog password and clean the cobwebs off of my keyboard after all of these many months?  A colleague at work.  (I suppose that should  have been “who” as opposed to “what” but don’t be picky, I have to ease back into this. )

In a somewhat normal (well, for me anyway) moment today, a work conversation with one of my highly intelligent colleagues led me down a stray path of synapses and dendrites into an intriguing mental room.  What if we wrote book reviews for books that we haven’t actually written, as if we really had…

Here, lightly edited to lightly protect just about everybody, is the first “Book Not Written.”  I look forward to reading yours as well.

_____

The General Doesn’t Eat Eggs

Jervis Pax

Simone and Schooster, $16.95 Amazon Hardcover Price

It’s December 2004 and Army Lieutenant Colonel Jervis Pax is sitting with guests at his breakfast table in a small Asian country when the deadly tsunami hits, taking the lives of hundreds of thousands of people in a matter of minutes.   When the phone rings moments later and a contact tells Pax that a “big wave” has hit the coast and that several hundred people may be dead, Pax is initially unmoved.  “Several hundred people,” Pax says glibly, “why that’s a bus accident in India or a wedding tent collapse in Pakistan.  Call me back if it turns out to be really bad.”   In the days and months that follow, Pax is responsible for directing the relief efforts of nearly 2000 U.S. military members that descend on the Asian nation bringing money, manpower and misguided good intentions.    Pax recounts this and other tales from his many years as a Defense Attache, the U.S. military’s equivalent to the Foreign Service Officer.  Whether relating his hours of consternation at having “lost” a senior foreign general in Asia only to find him sleeping in the wrong hotel room, or describing his indignation at watching junior staff officers sort M&Ms by color for an incoming group of dignitaries who “don’t like the red ones,” Pax’s descriptive power and dry humor will have you crying one moment and laughing out loud the next.    He describes, for example, an ordinary day of travel in Asia and the unusual occurances that routinely punctured all notions of reality.  “I noticed that I was hurtling towards a cluster of saffron-clad Buddhist monks who had gathered at the bottom of the ramp for reasons known only to them.  Great, I thought, I’m going to be the first and last contestant in the international bowling for monks tournament and by evening, I’m going to be in a prison in Hong Kong.”  Told through intimate portraits of Pax’s interlocutors and unsparing yet fascinatingly detailed descriptions of life as a U.S. Army officer abroad, The General Doesn’t Eat Eggs- the culmination of years spent struggling to herd cats in support of U.S. Foreign Policy —illuminates both the droll mysteries of executing the U.S. national security strategy at the “tip of the spear” and the realities of attempting to wield the spear and finding “that all you have is the shaft.”   383 pages.

“A must read for anyone interested in lives truly lived.”
Publishers Weekly

“Just how a good story should be told.”
Newsweek

“I laughed so much, I almost threw a shoe.”
G.W. Bush

Airplane Manners

Tuesday, January 19th, 2010

I believe in cultural sensitivity.  I am all for tolerance and understanding.  Compassion may not be my middle name, but it is certainly right up there in my core principles.  Bad manners on an airplane however, increasingly drive me to distraction.

I have done a lot of international flying over the years.  I’ve flown with goats (really), and in aircraft that should not be allowed to leave the ground.  I’ve been in smoke-filled no smoking cabins and endured intolerable meals and unpleasant seat mates too inumerable to recall.  At times, I’ve wondered if some of my fellow passengers should really have been allowed to leave the institutions in which they were undoubtedly housed.  These are the kind of things one must get used to when flying to exotic locales.  I will admit that decades of the worst possible experiences on international flights did not prepare me for the behavior of my seatmate on a recent domestic flight.  I cannot bear to describe his actions to you, so I will just have to write to him and hope that he is listening, little good it might do.

Dear Obnoxious and Nauseating,

I’m not certain where you grew up, or what cage you were released from, but I want to let you in on a few secrets that your fellow passengers all seemed to learn at an early age.

You shouldn’t pick your nose, especially up to the second knuckle.

You shouldn’t clean your fingernails with your teeth, or bite your cuticles until they bleed.

You definitely shouldn’t pick your nose, and THEN clean your fingernails with your teeth.

You shouldn’t EVER clean your fingernails with your teeth while your cuticle blood is running down your chin.

You shouldn’t reach your bleeding hand into your shirt to scratch your chest and belly.  If you do reach inside, leave whatever it is you find there.  If you do pull something out, do NOT flick it across the plane.  This goes for the contents of your nose and the cuticles you remove as well.  The lady in the aisle seat across from me nearly gagged.

I likely would have killed you when you started digging in your ear, but I was too busy looking for the hidden camera.  No sane person in a tie behaves this way in public unless there is acting involved.  How wrong I was.

When the flight attendant offers you food, you wait for her to hand it to you.  You do NOT reach across in front of your seatmate and hit him in the face with your arm.  If by chance your arm flies off on its own and you DO hit your seatmate, you apologize politely, not lean further across to grab at the food.  It was only a sandwich in any case, not that you would have been able to taste it around the delicate tastes of fingernail, blood, skin, belly hair and other treasures.

For the sake of other passengers, if not for your own dignity, close your mouth when you eat food.   If you must eat with your mouth open, try to use your teeth to chew the food.   Your palate and tongue make interesting, if not completely disgusting  sounds, but they do not masticate well.   Do not drink with your mouth open and full of food, there is a limit to what the human lips can hold without spilling, as you experienced but did not seem to learn.  Talking to the flight attendant during this whole process is especially impolite.   As your food particles and spittle hit my tray table, shirt sleeve and cheek, I contemplated murder.  It was only the knowing apologetic glance of the flight attendant and her silent pleas that I spare your life that kept me from disproving the TSA’s belief that a human being cannot be disemboweled with a plastic spoon.  I would have been most happy to show them that they are wrong.

If you cannot speak without profanity, perhaps you should keep your mouth closed.  When a six year old is sitting in the seat in front of you, the F-bomb is not an appropriate adjective to describe each successful word you fill in on your crossword puzzle.   I know you are sane, because you noticed the look I gave you, the one that said, “the flight attendant isn’t looking now, do you have any idea what I can do to you with this pencil?”  You stopped using profanity as decorative embellishments to your monologue.

Perhaps you can’t afford a dry cleaner.  I don’t want to know what the stains on your shirt and pants and tie were.  You could have at least worn cologne so that other passengers didn’t have to smell you.

When you have to get up to use the facilities (thank you for actually getting up), you shouldn’t climb over your seatmate’s tray and seat.  Just ask politely and allow them time to get up so you can pass.   Passing gas while passing is right out.  Chuckling while passing gas while passing is a coded request for being strangled with a leather belt.  Burping on the flight attendant is not cute.

Using your cell phone during the descent is illegal as well as rude.  Lying about it being turned off when the flight attendant asks you is childish, bordering on moronic.  Again, I know you are sane, because the “I’m going to shove that phone up your fourth point of contact if you don’t turn it off” look I gave you made you realize the error of your ways.

I will not discuss your shoes, or socks or feet.  I wish I had only seen one of the three, but there are many things I wish about that flight.

If I ever see you on a flight again, and you haven’t learned some modicum of manners, I shudder to think what will happen.

Yours,

Tolerant and Patient

There ought to be rules.  I mean, really.  You all fly from time to time.   We can add to the strong suggestions in my letter above and write a guide book/rule book for polite travelers based upon our past experiences.

I know I’ve seen a thing or two in my time, so I’ll start.

1.  On long flights, it is okay to remove your shoes.  It is NOT okay to remove your pants.

2.  It is a toilet, not a water park.

3.  The nice people in uniform are flight attendants.  They are NOT nannies, garbage collectors or psychologists.

4.  Yelling at the purser does not make the plane go faster, nor does it get you your choice of meal.

5.  If this is “the fifth flight you’ve been on that the seat has broken,” perhaps the seats are not the problem.

6.  If the Captain has to leave the cockpit to talk to you, it probably isn’t because you are a model passenger.

7.  Your cell phone should not be in use during take off and landing.  Your goats should not be copulating while the plane is in the air.

8.  Save the environment when you are alone; shower before you fly, even if it means wasting water.  As an additional tip, I would point out that deodorant is not that expensive, even in most developing nations.

9.  Altitude does not make you any sexier.  Similarly, your blonde seatmate will not be attracted to you simply because you drink more wine.   Your inhibitions may be lower sir, but her brain still functions.

10.  Do you really want to tell your children you met their mother outside the toilet on a plane?  Stop trolling for potential mates near the galley and toilet.  You aren’t fooling anyone.

All New For 2009 and Where the Heck Have I Been?

Thursday, January 8th, 2009

Happy New Year to those that are keeping track of the days.  I know many of you just plod along from one week to the next and may not have noticed the change.  I’m hoping that includes many of you.  Then you won’t notice how long it has been since I posted last.  I have a few excuses that I will get to shortly, but I did want to put in writing the same resolution that I did last year, namely, to write more.  Once I have that mental pressure perhaps I will get back into the swing of things.  I have so much to cover in any case.  Now, on to the excuses.

I traveled since my last post.   I traveled a lot.   One trip took me to India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.  Another took me to Korea, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Abu Dhabi, Afghanistan (again) and Kuwait.  Shortly after I arrived home from the first trip, which would have been late September, I found that my computer was fried.  Completely fried.  I called in experts.

Three incredible geek friends (these are incredible friends who happen to be computer geeks, not friends who happen to be incredible geeks.  Just clarifying since they all put on armor and hit people with sticks) came over and looked at it.  They poked and prodded and jiggered and moved cables and fiddled with knobs.  (Not that there are knobs on my computer, but fans of Black Adder will appreciate the reference).   They went to the DOS prompt and put in complex words and slashes and other symbols that were unintelligable to me.    AFter each input they watched the results and collectively muttered.  They looked like three surgeons working on a terminal patient.  It was NOT good.  I began to think when the first one started to nervously edge away from the computer and distance himself from the other two, that the patient was going to die.  When the second came back and nodded to the first then look hopelessly at the third who still tried to resucsitate the patient, I was certain there would be a funeral.  “It’s fried,” they collectively agreed.

I spent weeks mourning the loss.  I finally decided to buy a new gaming computer so I went to the Dell site and looked at their top end gaming systems.  This was obviously before the stock market crashed and I lost…well…I don’t want to talk about it.   I spent thirty minutes deciding what I wanted then bit the bullet and ordered a new computer, or so I thought.  Once I hit the “continue” button I found that I had to fill out “options” for the computer.  Each option had links to explain why I wanted whatever it was offering.   You know, you click on the “Illudium 238 Space Modulator” button and it explains how this will help keep rabbits out of your hard drive and assist you in attracting hot martian chicks.  There were sixteen pages of options if I recall.  It took me over an hour to get to the credit card page, by which point the system had timed out and I got an error screen.  It was late at night and I wasn’t thrilled, so I didn’t buy the computer.

The market crashed and it wasn’t a good time to buy a new computer so I took up a new hobby…more on that in a follow on post, though I will say in advance that Heather is an evil…I mean a wonderful influence.

I went on my second trip and decided that I might never get a new computer.  Just before I went on my trip however, my lovely wife called in an international specialist from Holland.  That is to say, the most incredible computer geek friend I have flew in from Holland to fix my computer.  Ok, he flew in from Holland for some training, but while he was here he fixed my computer.   (I like the way it sounds the first way better).   The computer runs fine now, though there is a big plastic bag full of parts (I’m not kidding) that he said I really didn’t need and could probably sell (so why were they there in the first place?).   So soon, when I get back into a routine, and break away from my new habit, I mean hobby, I will begin to write again, several times a week.

Did you hear that?  Several times a week.  I plan to write several times a week.  If you are close, nag me.  Really.

Happy New Year

Je ne comprends pas.

Tuesday, September 9th, 2008

Let me explain before I tell you this story from my recent travels that I don’t speak French. The fact that I don’t speak French is actually wrapped deeply into the way I first became a Foreign Area Officer, but that is another story. Those who know me, know that I am a polyglot, a rare beast that speaks more than a few languages. Those that know me very well are probably already snickering over the “rare beast” comment. One of the languages I do NOT speak is French, or perhaps it is more correct to say, French is not one of the languages that I speak.

I do understand a little French when it is spoken to me, and I do know one or two or ten phrases, but this is not the same thing as speaking a language. For the purposes of telling this story, I shall translate all the French I do not speak into italics, so that you will know that it was French I was hearing or speaking at the time. Understand? Hope so. Okay…

I was flying from Algeria to Paris in the final day of my 15 day travels. I sat in the aisle seat and was working patiently on the most difficult Sudoku puzzle I have ever worked when I was latched on to by a young Algerian boy about seven or eight years old.

In the way that only a child or someone from certain parts of the world (and especially a child from certain parts of the world) has a different idea of personal space, I soon found myself looking at the top of a small head that was attached to a body completely bent over my tray table and intervening between the puzzle and my face. The head turned up to look at me, still blocking my puzzle.

“A very complex and difficult question in French that I didn’t understand?”

I looked down at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” I said in French.

“You just did,” he said, amazed. He smiled as though he’d heard a funny joke.

“No, I understand a little French, but I don’t speak it,” I replied, quickly using up my Norman vocabulary.

“You just did it again,” he laughed. Okay, this was going nowhere fast. I pulled back from him and he pulled back from me, giving me a little bit of personal space to think, but he was still standing with both hands on my armrest.

“Another very complex question in French that I would have absolutely no chance of understanding,” he asked?

I stared at him blankly and began to speak. “I’m sorry,” I said in French. “You don’t speak French,” he finished for me in French, “yes, we’ve been through this.” I admit that he was growing on me.

He took a deep breath, bit his lip then asked, “The same very complex question in French that I would have absolutely no chance of understanding only louder and much more slowly, he asked?

I laughed and shook my head no.

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“No,” I replied. I began to count on my fingers for him, “English, Spanish, German.” Then because I had no clue how to name them in French, “Hindi, Urdu, SInhala,” I added in English. He stared at me in amazement.

“Lots of French words that clearly meant, you speak all those languages but you don’t speak French or Arabic?”

“Sorry, no.”

He gave me a nonverbal look that any linguist would have interpreted as “What planet are you from? Who ever heard of someone who doesn’t speak French or Arabic. That’s so weird.” Then he looked back at my puzzle and asked me the same question he had started with. I just stared at him.

“Airplane,” he said in French, pointing all around.

“What?” I said, in English?

“The Airplane is flying,” he said. “Then the airplane will go down.”

He pointed all around and looked at me quizzically. OMG, I thought, he’s trying to teach me French!

“The airplane won’t go down soon,” I said. He laughed and clapped his hands.

He then asked me the puzzle question again. He can’t possibly believe that I now know enough French to understand him. That’s fairly ridiculous. Then I stared at him, because I actually DID understand his question. He wanted to know if it was difficult! Fortunately it was in the Air France in-flight magazine and was one of five puzzles that were labeled in French. Easy, Medium, Difficult, Hard, Difficult and Diabolical.

“Diabolical,” I said, “This one is diabolical.”

At this point an Algerian man came up behind him in the aisle and asked him (in French) what he was doing.

“I am talking to this man,” he replied. “He doesn’t speak French. He speaks, what was that again?”

I listed them for him. He looked at the Algerian man as if to say, have you ever heard of such a thing in your life?

“Is this your first trip out of Algeria?”

“Yes”

“And you don’t speak English?”

“No”

“So how are you talking to this man who doesn’t speak French?”

His eyes widened in exasperation as he spread both hands to point out that I was sitting right there, could hear them and, in spite of the fact that I claimed not to speak French, was communicating with him all the same. Grownups! his look said.

“You don’t know any English words?”

“No”

“Do you know your continents?

What!?! I thought.

What,” the boy asked?

“Your continents! Name your continents!”

Apparently it is the job of every Alergian to teach something to someone else on the plane. The boy was teaching me French, the man was teaching the boy Geography (incidentally the boy could only name two continents, Africa and Asia, even though he was flying to Europe, but I liked him anyway), and I was deciding that it really was high time I learned French.

At this point, the bathroom “occupied” light finally turned green and the boy raced forward to claim his opportunity. The man lingered a moment to glance down at my puzzle, then said, “I’m sorry if that boy was bothering you.”

“It is good,” I said in French.

“I thought you didn’t speak French,” he exclaimed.

“I don’t,” I explained.

“I see,” he said, though he clearly didn’t.