![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Plane Truth
Jan. 10th, 2006 11:03 pmAs I travel more and more, not only does the thrill of the experience fade, but lackluster truths fast become inside jokes amongst those who frequently travel. The old clichés also ruthlessly apply. Although they are clichéd, they are no further from the truth than they have ever been:
One city blends into another: No matter how long it has been since I've been to a given city--Orlando, for example--it always seems like I was just there. I tend to start forgetting which restaurants and which shows took place in which cities. I'm in San Diego at the moment--a beautiful city save the misfortune of being placed in California. It's a tepid 72 degrees...every day. Funny, it still feels like the same 72 degrees inside the hotel that I had set on my thermostat at home. Not going outside, I don't have the opportunity to re-hydrate my desiccated skin, crisp up my luminous (and by luminous, I mean so-white-I-glow) skin, or any other such thing. I do, however, get to drool over my balcony at palm trees.
Hotels are pretty much the same anywhere you go--save the particular predominant ethnicity of the "hospitality specialists." In Orlando, you get the Russian mafia girls. We were in Orlando and our talent (read: actor) asked the lady at the front desk for an extra pillow. The following is the actual dialogue from their ensuing conversation:
RMG: [Chomping on a New-York sized slice of pizza with one side of her mouth] Can I help you, are you a guest here?
Talent: Yes, I'm a guest.
RMG: What is it you are wanting? [chomp, chomp]
Talent: Could I get an extra pillow please?
RMG: [chomp, chomp] No, we are not having any pillows.
Talent: [points to stack of pillows right behind the front desk] What about those pillows.
RMG: You are not wanting any of those pillows [chomp, chomp]
Talent: Why not?
RMG: They all have blood on them. [pause...chomp, chomp]
Talent: Okay, then why do you have them out?
RMG: In case guests be asking for extra pillow, but we are not having any without blood on them. [licks grease off fingers]
Luckily, this hotel isn't terrible. It's the Marriott Marina. I got the handicapped accessible room. This means I'm "special"--but it also means I get a detachable showerhead. I'm quickly finding that hotels give you a secret code to figure out your room conditions before you arrive. For example:
Anything "Marina"=The water tastes like salt and dead fish
"Resort"=Mini bar/snack bar that automatically charges you the moment you touch something (you think I'm exaggerating, I was charged $2.50 for a can of soda when I turned it--without picking it up--to read the ingredients label)
"Kid-friendly"=bowchickabowwow music inexplicably coming from the rooms next door, pure lye soap...mmmm...burning eye skin
"Modern"=non-adjustable thermostats--we're saving energy biyatch!
"European charm"=you’re sharing your bathroom with your floor. No, seriously--you wanna pee? Go down the hall. You're getting really friendly with the bowchickabowwow neighbors.
"Economy room"=Those sheets used to be white, and you're not getting any hair conditioner in your in-room hospitality kit
"Historical"=The Irons are chained to the ironing boards—and the chains are too short to reach the end of the board. Don't laugh, it's not quitesofunny as it sounds when you're trying to run to a meeting. *cue Benny Hill theme music*
Actually, our hotel is currently hosting a rather nice "professional men's martini night" which means that the bar was swarming with cute eye-candy to admire (look, not touch y'see):
We look around the bar...
Dan: Gee, it must be singles night, there are a lot of people with handwritten nametags
Mike: Yeah, but there aren't any girls...hmmm
[we ponder]
Missy: Maybe it's gay single's night
Dan: [Fetches business card with the "Professional men's martini night" on it--it states that it's a weekly meeting of gay male professionals]
Chris: Missy, you're my best friend right now. Don't. Leave. This. Table.
Mike: Missy, I bet you've never felt this utterly unappreciated before.
Missy: *sigh* Yeah, thanks guys...love you too.
And for some reason I still *enjoy* being the only girl at this particular company? I'm nuts. Where's HR when you need them?
Soon one starts to play the part of the weary traveler. Hopping on a plane, putting on your best "don't talk to me" face, and sitting for four hours while flight attendants treat all passengers like they're in grade school. To be fair, some of them are. Really, my plane experiences haven't been that bad. I do, however, manage to sit next to one of three people:
--A reeeeeeeally perky girl named Tiffanie (with an "ie"--not a "y") who has boyfriend troubles. And giggles. A lot.
--That person that leans over your shoulder and asks in a friendly voice "whatcha readin'" followed by "is it good?" "what's it about" and "oooh, what do you like best about it so far?"
--The old couple. Yeah, this is two people, but they count as one. They sit in the aisle and window seats flanking you--because they just "like it better that way." You pretend to sleep, and they talk about you like you're their long-lost daughter back from the Peace Corps. When the flight attendant asks you if you'd like pretzels, they answer "no, I don't think she needs any" for you. By the end of the flight, you know that Aunt Myra just visits Great-Grandma Bee so she won't be disinherited...and other seemly bits of gossip.
I have had some very amusing plane rides, however. In fact, just today our plane was grounded for an hour while they fixed a mechanical error. They gave up and decided to move us to another plane/another gate. We get to the gate, and every row boards save rows 15-5 (upper economy) I'm in row 8. They suddenly shut the doors and command us to return to our seats in the airport--there's a mechanical error and we can't board the plane. After waiting for half an hour, they reopen the doors, and let us know that *whew* the latch on a first-class bin has been repaired, then replaced. I guess we can all rest easy with those tightly fastening latches.
To be fair, I did have a security guy (a retired thespian, no doubt) sing me a beautiful rendition of "I Left my Shoes in San Francisco" as I was waiting at the security checkpoint in the San Fran. airport last month. It was actually rather charming.
And in San Diego, just before Christmas, I turned to hear a very inexperienced guard say, "Just a minute, I'll have to check with my supervisor."
In earnest, he turned away from the small child and asked his supervisor, "Are light sabers allowed on the plane?"
*giggles*
So the plane truth--if you're going to fly you can bring your light saber--but as we've learned in the past, they'll point their guns at you if you try to pack your normal run-o-the-mill voltmeter. . . don't ask--that's another story...
Missy
One city blends into another: No matter how long it has been since I've been to a given city--Orlando, for example--it always seems like I was just there. I tend to start forgetting which restaurants and which shows took place in which cities. I'm in San Diego at the moment--a beautiful city save the misfortune of being placed in California. It's a tepid 72 degrees...every day. Funny, it still feels like the same 72 degrees inside the hotel that I had set on my thermostat at home. Not going outside, I don't have the opportunity to re-hydrate my desiccated skin, crisp up my luminous (and by luminous, I mean so-white-I-glow) skin, or any other such thing. I do, however, get to drool over my balcony at palm trees.
Hotels are pretty much the same anywhere you go--save the particular predominant ethnicity of the "hospitality specialists." In Orlando, you get the Russian mafia girls. We were in Orlando and our talent (read: actor) asked the lady at the front desk for an extra pillow. The following is the actual dialogue from their ensuing conversation:
RMG: [Chomping on a New-York sized slice of pizza with one side of her mouth] Can I help you, are you a guest here?
Talent: Yes, I'm a guest.
RMG: What is it you are wanting? [chomp, chomp]
Talent: Could I get an extra pillow please?
RMG: [chomp, chomp] No, we are not having any pillows.
Talent: [points to stack of pillows right behind the front desk] What about those pillows.
RMG: You are not wanting any of those pillows [chomp, chomp]
Talent: Why not?
RMG: They all have blood on them. [pause...chomp, chomp]
Talent: Okay, then why do you have them out?
RMG: In case guests be asking for extra pillow, but we are not having any without blood on them. [licks grease off fingers]
Luckily, this hotel isn't terrible. It's the Marriott Marina. I got the handicapped accessible room. This means I'm "special"--but it also means I get a detachable showerhead. I'm quickly finding that hotels give you a secret code to figure out your room conditions before you arrive. For example:
Anything "Marina"=The water tastes like salt and dead fish
"Resort"=Mini bar/snack bar that automatically charges you the moment you touch something (you think I'm exaggerating, I was charged $2.50 for a can of soda when I turned it--without picking it up--to read the ingredients label)
"Kid-friendly"=bowchickabowwow music inexplicably coming from the rooms next door, pure lye soap...mmmm...burning eye skin
"Modern"=non-adjustable thermostats--we're saving energy biyatch!
"European charm"=you’re sharing your bathroom with your floor. No, seriously--you wanna pee? Go down the hall. You're getting really friendly with the bowchickabowwow neighbors.
"Economy room"=Those sheets used to be white, and you're not getting any hair conditioner in your in-room hospitality kit
"Historical"=The Irons are chained to the ironing boards—and the chains are too short to reach the end of the board. Don't laugh, it's not quitesofunny as it sounds when you're trying to run to a meeting. *cue Benny Hill theme music*
Actually, our hotel is currently hosting a rather nice "professional men's martini night" which means that the bar was swarming with cute eye-candy to admire (look, not touch y'see):
We look around the bar...
Dan: Gee, it must be singles night, there are a lot of people with handwritten nametags
Mike: Yeah, but there aren't any girls...hmmm
[we ponder]
Missy: Maybe it's gay single's night
Dan: [Fetches business card with the "Professional men's martini night" on it--it states that it's a weekly meeting of gay male professionals]
Chris: Missy, you're my best friend right now. Don't. Leave. This. Table.
Mike: Missy, I bet you've never felt this utterly unappreciated before.
Missy: *sigh* Yeah, thanks guys...love you too.
And for some reason I still *enjoy* being the only girl at this particular company? I'm nuts. Where's HR when you need them?
Soon one starts to play the part of the weary traveler. Hopping on a plane, putting on your best "don't talk to me" face, and sitting for four hours while flight attendants treat all passengers like they're in grade school. To be fair, some of them are. Really, my plane experiences haven't been that bad. I do, however, manage to sit next to one of three people:
--A reeeeeeeally perky girl named Tiffanie (with an "ie"--not a "y") who has boyfriend troubles. And giggles. A lot.
--That person that leans over your shoulder and asks in a friendly voice "whatcha readin'" followed by "is it good?" "what's it about" and "oooh, what do you like best about it so far?"
--The old couple. Yeah, this is two people, but they count as one. They sit in the aisle and window seats flanking you--because they just "like it better that way." You pretend to sleep, and they talk about you like you're their long-lost daughter back from the Peace Corps. When the flight attendant asks you if you'd like pretzels, they answer "no, I don't think she needs any" for you. By the end of the flight, you know that Aunt Myra just visits Great-Grandma Bee so she won't be disinherited...and other seemly bits of gossip.
I have had some very amusing plane rides, however. In fact, just today our plane was grounded for an hour while they fixed a mechanical error. They gave up and decided to move us to another plane/another gate. We get to the gate, and every row boards save rows 15-5 (upper economy) I'm in row 8. They suddenly shut the doors and command us to return to our seats in the airport--there's a mechanical error and we can't board the plane. After waiting for half an hour, they reopen the doors, and let us know that *whew* the latch on a first-class bin has been repaired, then replaced. I guess we can all rest easy with those tightly fastening latches.
To be fair, I did have a security guy (a retired thespian, no doubt) sing me a beautiful rendition of "I Left my Shoes in San Francisco" as I was waiting at the security checkpoint in the San Fran. airport last month. It was actually rather charming.
And in San Diego, just before Christmas, I turned to hear a very inexperienced guard say, "Just a minute, I'll have to check with my supervisor."
In earnest, he turned away from the small child and asked his supervisor, "Are light sabers allowed on the plane?"
*giggles*
So the plane truth--if you're going to fly you can bring your light saber--but as we've learned in the past, they'll point their guns at you if you try to pack your normal run-o-the-mill voltmeter. . . don't ask--that's another story...
Missy
