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adventures

We are taking a trip

She’s wearing my aviators, but she’s not flying the plane.

The Yankee flew the car, though. And that was a problem. Just as we got on the freeway and up to a NASCAR speed the whole thing began wobbling. It felt as if a tire was going out of round. We did not, she said, have time to go back home and swap cars. We were, ahem, riding it out.

After a while we ran over something and the wobbling improved. Later it returned. We stopped to check the tires, but everything seemed OK. And then we ran over something else. We stopped again to discover we hadn’t been hitting things, but rather were slinging rubber from the back passenger tire.

On the side of the freeway, having left home late and running to the airport, we found a tire exposing the steel-belted bits. We’d lost a chunk of tire about the size of your hand. This required a tire change. That required pulling all of the luggage out of the trunk and then the fastest tire change ever. Also, we had to add a bit of air to the tire. Our personal air pumps are a bit slow when you’re watching the clock.

We made it to the park-n-ride shuttle. We hustled through airport security, feeling safe with the oh-so-cursory attempt of security theater taking place — better than too much, I say — and then to the plane. Which was delayed. A flight attendant was late.

Oh, they’d leave you, but for one of their own, they’ll board half the flight, count their crew and then take the passengers off the plane. The flight attendant was late because her flight had not shown up. This happens so frequently they have back-up flight attendants waiting to spring forward and offer you a bag of peanuts.

Now, this trip is one-part conference and we’d done something we’ve never done before, which is to fly into the town on the day of our first role in the festivities. The Yankee had to chair a panel in this afternoon’s sessions, which made the plane and the shuttle to the hotel fun. Our room wasn’t ready. We were hours beyond the checkout time, but people weren’t leaving. The Westin in Boston is just that awesome, apparently.

The Yankee, then, changed into a power suit in the locker room. She broke a locker. And that was just how the day went. But, we made it here. She got to her panel on time. We had dinner with friends — her dissertation chair, who is also on my dissertation committee and a guy I went to Auburn with who’s now working toward his PhD at North Carolina — at a place called Dry Dock Cafe. It feels like a restaurant in a mall, but the soup and salad and crabcakes are great. Everything else was fried. The appetizer, nothing more than kidney beans, relish, garlic and mayo (all to taste) was wonderful.

And that was the day. We’ll be in Boston over the weekend through the ICA conference and then on to the next part of our long journey. All down hill from here.

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22
May 11

That’s gonna leave a mark

It is so hard to say goodbye to a four-star hotel. Especially when you know you’ll never stay at a Ritz again.

Though, I will say this: our ironing board was missing a foot, making it rickety. And the electric outlets in our room were installed upside down. Maybe it is really the Rits-Karltown, and we were mistaken.

But the towels, good heavens the towels were luxurious. You dried yourself clouds who had the misfortune of getting too close to the laundry room. The wait staff waded down into the infinity pool to bring drinks. People there fell all over themselves to help you. Breakfast this morning was the best buffet you could ever experience. The place smelled of potpourri and there was fine oak in dark accents everywhere you looked. Everything was granite-topped or better. Fine place.

After breakfast we checked out and went back to the lake house. Dave wanted to take us all out on the boat, so there we were, enjoying the sun and the breeze and a quiet stretch of Georgian lake and pine scenery.

Dave broke out the jet skis and people took turns riding them. One of them came free and The Yankee wanted to ride. She invited me along and I’m thinking She’s never driven one before. I’ve never been on one before. What could go wrong? I ask you again WHAT COULD GO WRONG!?!?!?!?

You drive a jet ski a little differently than other things that are not nautical. We putt-putt away and she says “How do you turn?”

“Wide. It doesn’t spin on a dime.” She turns the thing back in the general direction of the pontoon and guns it. We accelerate. We’re moving at a good clip. I glance down at the digital speedometer and see 52. (It should be noted we were on the slower of the two jet skis. And, if you are unaware, when you get in the 40-plus range on water, that is serious.)

I say “Slow down!” just as we cross a wake and are both elevated out of the seated position.

In the moment I had left before my savior called me home I decided it was either me or both of us. I pushed her shoulders down, forcing her back toward the jet ski and pushing me away. I fly off the thing somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 miles an hour. (Let’s call it 65, just to be safe.)

I managed to get my body turned to the right and tuck my right arm back in something close to a normal position and have mostly exhaled when I hit the water. And, if you’ve never done this: hitting the water at 145 miles per hour is not unlike hurling yourself into a sturdy wall.

I go under. And all of these are the first seven rapid-fire thoughts, occurring much faster than I can type them or you can read them:

1.) OOOOF!
2.) I’m glad for this life jacket.
3.) This is what death feels like.
4.) I’m going to die now.
5.) This is what broken ribs feel like.
6.) Wind, knocked out of me.
7.) Force breathing, force breathing.

That all happened in the amount of time I hit the water, submerged and the lake halted my flailing and flopping. I’d landed on my right side, feet towards the still-traveling jet ski, head back pointing at nothing in particular, and I took it all on my rib cage.

I haven’t absorbed a good shot like that in a long while. She said that by the time she had the jet ski turned around to find me she could already hear me grunting and straining to breathe. (The best way to do it, I believe, is just force your body to do it. The first two or three tries are no fun at all, but at least after that it is over and you can breathe again.) So I was in the water, thankful for the lifejacket (which I ordinarily hate) because I didn’t have to worry about swimming. I could just sound like some martial arts expert chopping a noisy tennis player in half while the tennis player volleys.

She turns to come back and I waved her off because that was all I could think to do. I really wanted to breathe and didn’t want to have to floating into her novice jet ski self. Finally I got it together enough that I brought her in, but I couldn’t climb on the stupid thing because I was wet, weak and slick from sun block. So she had to almost pick me up, like you see in westerns from time to time, but with much less grace. And that was pretty much my day. Before everyone got done with the boating I had gotten good and stiff.

I had some Advil at the lake house and then we hit the road. Just got home, in time to take some Ibuprofen and am moving verrrry gingerly. I haven’t bruised up, I can breathe, I don’t think anything is broken, but I got beat up good!

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20
May 11

Weekend trip

Packed for the weekend. Loaded the car. Changed the oil. Got gas. Found it six-cents-a-gallon cheaper almost immediately thereafter. Considered a haircut, but I was already late and there was a wait. Bought a shirt. Left town.

I stopped at the state line at the self-proclaimed world’s largest fireworks warehouse:

Click to embiggen.

That’s with the free Panorama app on my iPhone, staring into the sun and, thus, guessing. Nevertheless, the place is big.

I’d been tasked with getting sparklers. We’re attending a wedding in Georgia this weekend and the good people of that state frown on sulfur on a stick. Strictly in an advisory role, I thought I’d stick my head in this place. If it is the world’s largest, and if it is 20 minutes from my home, I should get to know the folks.

Their sparkler section is as big as apartment I once rented. The place is wonderous.

Worked my way up to Atlanta to pick up The Yankee. She’s been out of town at a conference this week and is coming home just in time for our friend’s big day. Somehow managed to avoid interstate tangles and then moved through the line at the airport at an astonishing four feet per minute. The terminal drop-off road has three lanes and for the most part only the inside and the center lane are used for disgorging airline passengers. It doesn’t matter on what end of this mess your person waits. You still have to make it through the crowd. They’ve just left, or are just dreading the airport experience and so rules and safety don’t mean a lot to them in that first/last moment of freedom. How people don’t get maimed here daily I do not know.

There actually was an ambulance on the curb with the lights on. Couldn’t say what the problem was, but it is both sobering to know the airport has its own medical fleet. If you must get on board that rig you’ll be waiting for 90 minutes before you can depart. No cell phones, and no checked bags. Also, the EMTs give you a Freedom Rub. It is entirely possible you wind up at one hospital and your belongings are discovered en route to Croatia. This is not the place to be hurt or ill.

Anyway. Picked up The Yankee and we headed east, to a lake about halfway between Atlanta and Augusta. That’s where our friend’s wedding is tomorrow. Checked into our posh hotel, headed out to the site of the big ceremony, the family lake house, and enjoyed a beautiful evening. Most people we did not know. The Yankee went to school with the groom — and his best man, who was there tonight. She knows the parents of the groom. We also know the bride, but that’s about it. We’re strangers to everyone else. Lovely people, though, and a charming place to see the big event tomorrow. It will be perfect, with a side of Georgia in May.

Went back to our hotel, the Ritz, where they have a fire out back and let you circle around for S’mores. I had two. Because, really, how often do you get to have S’mores? Answer: Not often enough, and that should be remedied.

Hit the pool, and then The Yankee hit the wall. She’s been traveling for the better part of the last two days and it is late. So here we are, ready to relax. (We ended today with S’mores and will start tomorrow with a lake and an infinity pool. Done and done.)

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13
May 11

Friday the 13th!

The only thing more terrifying is Thursday, the 13th!

My sense of pop culture, or my need to find such things funny, must have become especially detached lately. Didn’t even realize it was Friday and a 13th until I started writing this.

Happily, nothing terrible happened today. Slept in. Turned in my grades — the semester is done! Rode the bike.

We have a big hill at our house. I am convinced it might be the biggest hill in town — being officially in the coastal plains and all. The ride started with that hill. I do not like this hill in the saddle. The Yankee says “You’ll get used to it.”

Which is the thing that concerns me. That’s the sort of descent that will break something when you get casual about it. I have enough mass to build up some real speed on the thing. And I’m fragile.

So we pedaled a while, had a nice ride and then got ready for the Alabama at Auburn baseball game.

Which got rained out. Friday the 13th strikes after all.

We went out for barbecue and banana pudding instead. There’s always a silver lining in slow cooked meat. (As a general rule: if you find a silver lining in your meat you should send it back, but go with it.)

We visited Moe’s Original Barbecue, which has become a popular stop on Magnolia. I always said a little northern Alabama barbecue would do well here. The first time we stopped in the line was almost out the door. Now the college students have all gone home for the summer and it was merely full rather than packed. And, for the first time at Moe’s, I had the barbecue chicken. It was very good.

The banana pudding still isn’t anything to brag about. Now I just want Dreamland. Or Jim ‘N’ Nicks.

Our Friday night? We bought things at Walmart. We picked up a garden hose sprinkler attachment, socks, a birthday card and other small things here and there. We know how to party.

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10
May 11

Finals

Busy, busy day. You could spell it bizzy, but that’s just adding an extra letter and takes up more time.

Drove in to give my final exam this evening. Stopped by AAA to pick up a form they neglected to give me on my two other recent visits. The same very pleasant woman I talked with the first time was there today. She saw me playing with a map on my iPhone. She asked if I had the AAA app. I do.

“But do you have the other one?”

I do not. And if this conversation sounds at all familiar that’s because she and I had precisely this same conversation the last time I saw her, when she did not give me the form I needed.

But things happen. I had to drive more or less right by the place anyway. No big deal.

So we went to lunch at a place called Urban Cookhouse to meet with friends. They want you to buy local and eat urban. And it was spare and delicious. You could tell right away you’d soon be hungry again. But we all feel better about ourselves since this was the one meal of the day that was local and organic and probably healthy. Aren’t we the upwardly trendy types?

And then there was work. One meeting about cameras, followed by another meeting about some cameras in particular. And then a trip to UPS to package up some cameras. This took a long time, but you could have safely kicked the box down a flight of stairs, or floated on it in the ocean, without damaging the cameras inside.

And then there were Emails about the cameras, and a phone call about some cameras. And then I helped turn an office into a video location for tomorrow.

After that I helped a student with a tricky little coding problem. And then I had a snack, because it had been four hours since that spare, healthy lunch and I was starving. So I had some crackers while writing another Email about cameras.

Interject a few more camera things in here and you get the idea.

Finally came the final, where my students must present the fruit of their hard work in trying to simultaneously understand the mysteries of building a website and why the Adobe people put things in Dreamweaver as they did. The students all did quite well for themselves.

Nice guy that I am, I stuck around a little while to help with one on-going project. And the next thing I knew it was 9:30. So that meant an impossibly late dinner. My lovely bride, though is patient and likes Whataburger. It worked out.

Now all that’s really left to do is to calculate and tabulate the semester’s grades. I’m leaving this stuff out so any grading gremlins can stop by and take care of it for me overnight.