Beach? Book!

A vacation, for me, must meet at least one of a few criteria.

• A meaningful experience.

• A visit with one or both of my children and their spouses.

• Relaxation and time "off the grid."

• Warmer weather than my current hometown.

I’ll take any one of the above and optimally, all of the above to call it a success. The one non-negotiable item, however, is a good book. I can’t call it a true vacation unless I’ve devoured a good book.

And when I say book, I mean a printed work of fiction or nonfiction, on sheets of paper bound together within covers. The kind of object that needs a physical bookmark. The kind of object that absorbs your affection for its form while also absorbing sunscreen, splashes from the pool, raindrops, food stains, and spilled wine. The kind of object that is always in airplane mode and does not need to be stowed during takeoff and landing. The kind of object that can be passed along limitlessly and enjoyed until if finally falls to pieces.

It’s called a beach book. A single inquiry of female friends, any good beach book suggestions? usually results in more titles and authors than can possibly be consumed. Generally, a good beach book is a light read, a bit salacious, well written and not too long. You can dig in to read and put it down without too much angst to participate in vacation activities. It should enhance the vacation rather than overtake your agenda.

I happened upon my latest selection by chance. Given a few options by my book club buddies I couldn’t find any of the titles at the locally owned bookstore. Forced to browse (oh, please, twist my arm) I was pulled in by covers (pastels are often a good choice) and titles. I flip each book over for signs that it’s a part of a series; I dislike being dropped into the middle of characters with backstories previously defined. I read reviews and the source of the review. I finally pick up a book with a dark, artistic cover. The reviews positively glow, and oh, there’s one from NPR, nice. Just under 500 pages – enough for a good week of off and on reading.

I spent my vacation in Key West, with periodic detours to 1920’s London. I was a voyeur into the lives of a widow and her spinster daughter, renting out the top floor of their upper class home to “paying guests” (certainly NOT lodgers as that would be low class). I watched a forbidden romance bloom and grow, I agonized over the traumatic events and consequences that followed and brought home 100 unread pages to thoroughly enjoy on my final Sunday of vacation. I also swam, napped, ate great meals and enjoyed evening activities with wonderful friends.

I’m a reader. I love a great book, especially if suggested by a friend. I’m happy to share a book and if I suggest a book, it’s because I think it will speak in some way to the reader. So, no e-Readers for me. Give me a bound book, let me hold it, read it, love it, stain it, watch the progression of the bookmark from beginning to end, and then share it with others. My beach read? The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters. I’d be happy to lend it, just let me know.

The 22 hour rule

It’s no secret that Dan loves to drive. Anywhere and everywhere, Philadelphia, New Orleans, Los Angeles and even Texarkana Texas, for a Saturday lunch at Bryce’s cafeteria! (Lamb stew and pecan pie--I kid you not). I’m not so enamored of long-distance drives. My legs get jumpy, I get irritable and I’m not a big fan of Dan’s books on tape (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the Harry Potter series being notable exceptions). Bottom line, it’s the 21^st century, give me a plane ticket and I'm good to go.

Dan’s quite vocal that he always prefers to drive anywhere he can get in less than 22 hours. Our latest adventure to Cozumel requires an airplane because it (happily) crosses over Dan’s 22-hour rule and also includes a ferry, because--island! I manage the booking, through Funjet vacations, because they'll let us depart from Milwaukee. Our outbound trip was uneventful and reinforced my superior view that air travel is the best travel. Of course, superior travel views must be crushed by reality and our return trip was anything but uneventful.

I need to back up a few days into the vacation. I had some kind of something brewing. Dan and I had four dives over two days, and took a surface day on Tuesday. Wednesday I woke up with sinus congestion and a sore throat. Never dive with congestion as it’s extremely difficult to equalize and if you are able to reach max depth you can really hurt yourself on the ascent. No worries though, in a dive community strong decongestants are not hard to find – it’s a diver’s heroin. We missed three dives on Wednesday, including our night dive. But after 24+ hours of self-medicating we were back on the dive boat Thursday afternoon for two more great underwater adventures.

On decompression day Friday the congestion returned to my chest, along with a nasty cough. We had planned a trip to Tulum, followed by a stop over in Playa del Carmen to visit an old friend. In Playa, we stopped at a pharmacy, and were surrounded by shelves full of medical miracles. I’m sure I could have purchased all sorts of narcotics or sedatives or (the mind reels) stuff that would have had some street value in the US. Geez, at the very least cough syrup with codeine. I spoke with the pharmacist, some 16-year-old, and described my symptoms. I was given a magic elixir and money changed hands. Dan was also perusing the shelves and noticed those magic blue pills that require a prescription in the States. He’s tried them, on rare occasions in the past, and I will admit it does take things to 11 (Spinal Tap reference—look it up.) Those went in the bag as well.

I stepped outside and was encouraged by Dan to take a big swallow – blessed relief on the way – only to discover I had been sold what tasted suspiciously like what every mom knows is Dimetapp. I've never felt so ripped off. By Saturday, I was done in with an uncontrollable cough, anxious to head home and first world medicine.

The first flight from Cozumel back to the states went as expected and we landed in Charlotte early. Our connecting flight was marked as delayed, so we stopped for dinner. When we returned to the gate we found that the flight was cancelled. Over at customer service we got a hotel voucher and were scheduled on the 5:30am flight to O’Hare, so now we had two flights instead of one. I coughed maniacally all night long, logged about 45 minutes of sleep, keeping Dan awake as well. We left for the airport at 4am and made the first flight.

Landing at O’Hare we were directed to the connecting gate for Milwaukee. “Everyone going to Milwaukee on this flight goes to G3!” we were told three times as we landed. We sat at G3 for about 90-minutes waiting to board. When I handed my pass over to the gate agent, it was rejected. The agent then said we were “not on a US Airways flight, we were on United.” What? How would we know that? “Look at the code,” she said. “What?” I burst into tears and she happily pointed to the exit and the United terminal. She said to Dan “This happens all the time.” Feel the love.

Dan took off in a sprint and I did my best to keep up, stopping along to way to hack out pieces of lung. As I rounded the corner of the United terminal I realized I had lost Dan in the crowd, which only exacerbated my overall sick-feeling. Ready to just sit down and give up, I heard my name from a gate and saw Dan waving me down. He was already negotiating with a gate agent to get us on a new flight, any flight, which would get me home. He had deployed the “sick and weeping wife” defense in hopes of avoiding another trip to customer service.

(This is from Dan: I push past a bunch of people to get to the front of the line, asking what gate our flight is at—it’s not on the boarding pass. “That flight left 10 minutes ago.” Where does this boarding pass with the full color American Airlines logo indicate it’s a United flight? “It’s the “U” in this line of code right here—you will need to go down to Customer Service to get this straightened out.” I look up to see my coughing, sobbing zombie wife shuffling down the aisle. I yell her name at full volume twice before she sees me. She starts shuffling in my direction. I turn back to the clerk. “In a moment you will have a very sick, sobbing woman standing here. How do we get on a plane to Milwaukee now? “Sir, as I said you will need to do downstairs to Customer Service.” In my former Customer Service days I hated when people did shit like this to me, but in my lowest, quietest my-wife-is-sick-and-I'm-done-dicking-with-airplane-people I hissed, “and where the fuck is customer service?” We stared at each other and she started typing. We had two boarding passes for a flight leaving for Milwaukee in 30 minutes in my hand before Paula reached the counter. End of Dan comment.) It worked; we were on a new flight within 30-minutes and home within 90. I love my knight in shining armor.

We figured our luggage would be waiting for us, having already arrived on an earlier flight. We were half right as one of two bags had been set-aside by the United baggage service. The United luggage attendant was super. Sizing up the situation she apologized for all of American’s failings and hustled us over to the US Airways baggage area. Looking it up in their system, our bag was safely sitting in Chicago in a US Airways terminal.

“And what was in the bag?” she asked as she typed up a claim form. About $1000 in dive gear, my tripod, most of our underwear, the souvenirs we bought and the keys we need to get into the house if we ever get home. “There’s a two year supply of happy pills in there,” Dan whispered in my ear. I think it was the first time I smiled in 24 hours.

The bag arrived home two days later—safe and sound. I know this is just a collection of first world problems, but when you're tired and sick, all you want to do is get home.

In summary, departure time from our hotel in Cozumel – 2PM CT on May 30. Arrival time at our home in Wauwatosa? 10:30AM CT on May 31 = 20 ½ hours, still beats the 22-hour rule, so what am I complaining about? And while we were on vacation, we investigated a new spot for retirement—Playa del Carmel on the mainland across from Cozumel. Affordable, colorful, and lots of fun. 85 and sunny almost every day. Close to a beach and close to diving. And you don’t need a prescription for any of that…either.

Music that resonates:

Driving all Night - The Tubes

Superhero!

It’s been almost month since my last post, which left me dressed in virginal white and still scratching. While that whole skin thing has yet to be resolved (stay tuned) I thought I’d share a side effect of my 9-month itch distraction. As my 17 loyal readers know, October finds us in Key West, for a wonderful weeklong party called Fantasy Fest. This year was no exception and we were excited about the theme "Superheroes, Villians and Beyond". Except we almost didn’t make it. I have always been the chief trip coordinator and navigator, and I’ve been off my game. I blame the contact dermatitis for my lack of focus and attention to detail. (OK, no reminders about Belgium either, thank you very much.) We reserved the accommodations last January. I shopped flights until July, when I finally pulled the trigger on cheap flights departing out of Midway…that was my first mistake. For the play-by-play I’m turning my blog over to occasional guest contributor, Dan.

To say Paula has been off her game is, well, analogies escape me. Paula has been nuts. Buggy. Scratching in her sleep. Mildly crazy. Able to turn any conversation into a discussion of her skin. “Hey, our neighbors bought a new toaster because they got a bagel stuck in theirs and it almost started on fire!” “Speaking of being on fire, have you seen the backs of my legs? And DON’T get me started about the small of my back.” You get the idea. 

Fantasy Fest 2013—and the strong steroids promised by her specialist--offered an oasis from the itching, and a chance for us to cut loose with good friends and relax. And relaxed is just how the trip started.

A 3:30 am cab ride to the bus stop came off without a hitch. We should have 20 minutes before the bus was ready to leave for Midway in Chicago—but wait. The driver was closing the doors as we pulled up. Exasperated, he opened them to stow our multiple large suitcases. Making light of the situation, I asked, since we were leaving early, what time we’d make it to Midway. To quote Don Henley, he looked at me like cows at a passing train and spat “This bus doesn’t go to Midway. It hasn’t for two years.” Stunned, I pointed out that the schedule we’d printed the week before showed that yes indeed it went to Midway, at which point he waved me off and said to talk to his boss.

I’ll leave most details out, but the previous two weeks at work for me had included two meetings with an industrial psychologist, a meeting with another co-worker that didn’t go well, and two clustering sessions for our management employees. This on top of the aforementioned skin issue. And did I mention I was really horny? “Which reminds me how my skin resembles the skin of the Great Horny Toad of Southwestern Arizona. My God, if that burns as much as mine…” You get the idea. And you know this skin thing started in February? Nuff said.

All of this came to a head at a bus stop at 3:45am on the way to the one week a year I Live For. I asked for a number to call a supervisor. The driver supplied one. The first three seconds of the call went well, until I asked about the discrepancy between the printed schedule and the reality on the ground. “Well we haven’t updated our website in two years,” was his reply (Wisconsin Coach Lines). Like the Eighth Air Force in WWII, the F-bombs began to rain. At the end of my one sided tirade, we were herded onto the bus with a promise of a shuttle from O’Hare to Midway. And that’s when Ms. Itchy looked at the airline boarding passes. Yeah, our 9:30 boarding time had been moved up to 7:20…

We arrived at O’Hare just before 6. Our Hobbit of a driver told us the shuttle would be there in about 15 minutes. It was a time for action. Eddie Murphy’s Reggie Hammond character in “48 Hours” had a line that, cleaned up, goes “Lack of (lovin’) makes you brave.” I bolted from the bus and sprinted for the terminal, asking where the cab stand was. We were pointed toward non-functioning escalators, which, with two rolling suitcases each were a challenge. Between her sobs, Paula’s cardio training paid off, and we thumped our way to the absolutely empty cab stand at one of the busiest airports in the world. Stunned, yelling, the young attendant asked if we were OK. “We are so very far from OK…” was my reply. She called for the Emergency Cab. From a pocket of some unseen clown, a Scion XB was deployed and screamed up to the stand.

Having done my time in a Toaster, I know the ins and outs of an XB. But the power of Reggie was strong. We filled the interior with suitcases and before we climbed in to this clowniest of clown cars, I told my new BFF Aziz “You need to get us to Midway As Fast As Possible.”

“What time is your flight?”

“7:20”

“I’ll try.”

Aziz strapped in and lit the candle of that base-Camry-motored car, and took off. I know at times we went slower than 85, but I mostly hid behind the headrest not wanting to see. Horns blared. Brights flashed. We slid from lane to lane. Suddenly we were at the Midway terminal. Aziz got a $20 tip for a $50 ride and we sprinted for the terminal. Ours were the last bags checked on to the plane, and we got into separate security lines. Mine went faster, and I ran to the gate.

“How many minutes until this door closes?” “12” “My wife is stuck in security—she’ll be right here.” “The door closes in 12 minutes.” Look of unspeakable horror. Attendants retreat from the door. Paula arrives five minutes later. We are the last two passengers who board, and we are waved onto the plane without comment. 

The rest of the trip was without incident. We arrived in Key West and caught a cab to our rental house.  Happily, the steroids worked and the itch vanished for the week. And in the future, no matter how distracted I am, I won’t forget that it’s worth the extra money to fly out of the closest airport and paper work must be reviewed for most current details at least 24 hours in advance. And if you are ever in Chicago, in a hurry, look for Scion XB taxi. Because not all superheros wear capes, some drive a taxi.


Music that resonates:
The Boys are Back in Town - The Busboys

No-decompression limit

The day before we left on vacation, Dan sent me an e-mail stating he was “crispier than bacon.” Several incidents at work (details deleted) where his employees had been complacent. Had done things “the way they always did.” Had skipped procedures because they just didn’t see the point. As Dan explained, there but for the grace of God he would have had to tell three women that their husbands were not coming home from work. Ever.

Dan’s tension, coupled with significant changes in my job left us both ripe for some time off to decompress. We welcomed our annual dive trip to Cozumel.  We signed up for a “scuba review” to refresh our underwater skills, then launched into a week of diving. The one skill we’ve been less than proficient at maintaining is understanding our “no-decompression limit.”  Most divers these days wear a computer that calculates how much time they have at various depths against the amount of time needed for a 15’/3m safety stop before their final ascent. If you dive within the no-decompression limit your safety stop is 3 minutes. If not, you need extra time during the safety stop for your body to eliminate the nitrogen that collects in your bloodstream during the dive. As we don’t own dive computers (yet), manual calculation between dives is required, or you must rely on the dive instructor for direction.

Looking good underwater.

On our last dive of the week we hit our maximum dive time at depth and Sven, our dive instructor, had us follow him up from 90’ to 45’ to stay within our no-decompression limit.  Careful attention to the physics of diving and adherence to expert guidance resulted in a 67 minute dive, our longest, with "air to spare". It was the perfect way to end a week of diving, especially after a bit of a down note on the day before.

On the previous day, we learned (after our two glorious cenote/cave dives) that exactly four weeks before three divers had been complacent. Had done things “the way they always did.” Had skipped procedures because they just didn’t see the point. A dive guide with 15 years experience and two guests never finished their cenote dive. The guide and the woman were dead with empty air tanks. The guy still had 200 PSI (not a lot, enough to get out) but was dead as well. All in the cave we’d finished diving minutes before.

This got me thinking about the need for reflection. For decompression. For keeping a fresh perspective on the things, people and relationships I’ve known and had for years. For fear that if I get complacent, they (and I) may not fare so well. My personal self, my work self and my relationship self all do so much better when I’ve had time away from the routine. The need to decompress can not be underestimated. Inadequate decompression in diving will get you “the bends”.  Insufficient or infrequent decompression in life will result in all kinds of physical and mental side-effects, and they are not pretty.

During our first introduction to diving we learned that the number one rule of diving is to “look good”. We later learned that the real number one rule of diving is to not hold your breath. But we have always clung to the “look good” rule because it’s true. If you hold your breath, your lungs will pop, your eyes will explode, and you will not look good. So my hope for you is that you find your safe way to decompress. Because you have such lovely eyes.

The Reality of Fantasy Fest

It took a few days of reflection, but I’ve concluded there are both glaring differences and striking similarities between lots of things. Some examples include jet skis and motorcycles; shirts and body paint; people with cameras and people with cameras; sitting at the beach and sitting by the pool; and men wearing socks and men wearing socks. For my 14 loyal readers out there, you know that last week was our third trip to Fantasy Fest, a week long party in Key West Florida. What a blast.

I have written about our first Fantasy Fest before—how Dan researched it for two years prior, and as I’d walk past the computer and catch images of people in paint or wearing next to nothing, my comment was always the same: “If you expect me to wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” After this year, I realize that somewhere in the great internetosphere, some wife is possibly looking at photos of me and saying the same thing. But I am getting ahead of myself…

For the Loyal 14, you’ll recall that in a previous post I wrote about my love of roller coasters and high speeds. While I wanted to do it last year, we never seemed to find the time to take a jet ski around the island. And while I mentioned it several times over the winter, I can’t say that Dan yelped with excitement. So when I stopped at a booth to inquire on price and availability, I looked at Dan, and he had the same plastic smile I’ve seen several dozen times down in Disneyworld as we’d queue for a coaster. And as I did on those occasions, I smiled back and charged ahead.
 

We arrived at the dock, were given some brief instructions (Dan was driving—he has a sport bike—how hard can this be?) and we were launched. Everything was fine until we started to move. The jet ski seemed to veer to the right on its own. Dan would slow down and correct, then veer again. Falling behind our tour group Dan would accelerate only to suddenly veer left or right. His cursing started off soft, but grew ever louder. He was now carpeting the Key West harbor with F-bombs, screaming that he wanted to return to the dock. Thankfully our guide stopped after about 10 minutes to see how everyone was doing. Dan piped up that he’d love to return to the dock and get on a motorcycle. The guide said this: “Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars.” Dan said later that those same instructions on his high center of gravity V-4 Sabre would allow you to taste the wonder of God’s gravel and pavement.

The rest of the trip smoothed. Pretty soon I was hanging on tight and squealing with delight as we bombed over the waves at well over 40 mph. The trip was over way too soon.

That was also on Plaid Tuesday. The day I had decided to get body paint on my upper body (gulp). My skimpy costumes of the previous nights included items that kept me safely covered. At the appointed time we jumped on our bicycles and headed to the paint shop. Most painters are located next to the sidewalk. My painter, Frankie, was located away from the street, but not behind a closed door. In a moment of truth I had to take off my shirt (double gulp). Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars. For the next hour I sat topless as Frankie applied one color after another, working to match the plaid shirt that Dan was wearing. A finishing spray of light lacquer and Frankie was done. He signed his work, took a photo for his album, and I was walking toward a packed Duvall Street wearing shorts, socks and gym shoes. And it was fine.

Looking at the pictures, I was more covered by paint than I was or would be by clothes at several other parties. Which brings me to people with cameras.

There is etiquette at Fantasy Fest when it comes to people with cameras. Here is our version of the rules:

1.) You compliment the person on their costume or paint

2.) You always ask if you can take a picture

3.) You snap the photo of the whole person—no zooming

4.) You thank the person for the photo

5.) You must be in costume/paint to ask for or take a photo

These people can take my picture all night. It’s quite flattering to be a 54-year-old mom of two and to be asked for and to be in lots of pictures—often with other partiers half my age. And then there are The Creepers.

These men are usually white, obese and alone, with high-end cameras and big lenses being used at close range. They:

1.) Step in front of you so you can’t get past

2.) Snap away without asking, confident that neither your chin nor navel will be in the frame

3.) Follow you around if they don’t get what they want

4.) They don’t wear a costume

I put up with it at first, but it got old. One memory: In Capt. Tony’s one night, a creeper would not take my repeated turning away as “No.” He kept trying to get his shot. Dan, sensing my discomfort, did what any Midwesterner would do. He set down his drink, reached out his right hand, and introduced himself. I only saw it from the back, but Dan, smiling, stood there for five to ten seconds, and then released his handshake, turned around and picked up his drink. The creeper said nothing, but turned and left. Only later did Dan admit what happened. There are advantages to lifting heavy things all the time. You can administer a crushing handshake while never losing your smile.

Late that week, Dan had painted on his back “Next year I’m coming as a creepy fat guy with a camera and no costume.” He got a lot of compliments.

And then there is the beach. We sat on the Southernmost beach for a few hours pretty much every day. It is a top optional beach and I absorbed a winter’s worth of Vitamin D. Fletcher, the man who runs the beach and takes care of the beach chairs, will bring around frozen strawberries or frozen towels or put beads on the ladies’ heads or just stop to chat and it’s just natural. Back at the pool by our condo, had something happened to my top I’d be grabbing for a towel. Yes, private pool is on the list for next year.

Lastly, socks. There is an icon on that same beach that we call Sock Man. He’s been there for years. Buff, tan, and wearing a hat and a sock on a string (but only one and not on his feet). As best we can tell, it’s his only job. I don’t really have an analogy to other men in socks—I guess he just popped into my mind.

The most important things I take away from our week in Key West have nothing to do with the pictures or the costumes or the paint or the parties. They have to do with how much more fun we are having as individuals and as a couple. It’s a wonderful emotional connection to Dan and despite the crowds we do focus on each other. We are a couple in love, and in love with fun and adventure. Dan always says “Have fun every day. You’ll be dead a long time.” We're working on the fun, for sure.

Key Distraction

For the past few weeks Dan has been preoccupied with work. Employee reviews, trying to spend capitol dollars before year-end, wrapping up several big projects, etc. So preoccupied that his usual "Holy Cow--Key West is XXX days away!" e-mails I'd get every day last year vanished months ago. But his mood is lifting in fits and starts. The costumes are ready, the condo key will be in the lock box when we get there, our roomies will do the grocery shopping on the way down so food, beer and wine will be ready on arrival. I just need Dan to focus on the Keys. Just think about the Keys. The work stuff will pass. The Keys are right around the corner.

This morning I got another snarly cell phone call as Dan left one meeting on the road to another. I continued to type, interjecting a "Yes dear" and "I understand" and "That's terrible" as appropriate. "Dan, think about the Keys!" 

That rant finished, I went back to work. 30 minutes later he called back, apologetic, and with a better tone. The first night in Key West is a little black dress party. I have several, and I asked Dan to look through my closet, and if he didn't find exactly what he was looking for, we'd go shopping tonight. (He won't find the perfect dress, of course, because I'll reject them all.) His mood brightened noticeably at that prospect (Dan loves to act as my personal shopper). "Well, I just pulled into work--gotta go!" he announced. I hung up. 

Two minutes later my phone rang again. "Um, guess what?" a sheepish Dan asked.

It took me almost two hours to drive from Glendale to Waukesha and back to Glendale today. I had to unlock Dan's car. Clearly he was not thinking about the keys when he got out and locked the door. But based on where I know his mind was, I think he's moving into full-on Keys vacation mode.

Don't Panic

For those of you who may not be aware, the words “Don’t Panic”, written in large friendly letters, are found on the cover of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “Don’t Panic” provides all the instruction any traveler needs to negotiate the next unknown event. A second word from the Hitchhiker’s series having particular meaning in the Johnson family is “Belgium”, the most unspeakably rude word in the universe. It’s ironic that The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a work of fantastic fiction, contains two absolutely true references to my life.  For the last 10 years Dan and the boys tell a story of tremendous embarrassment for me as they relay the events around the irrational panic I experienced during a border crossing into Belgium. It’s time for me to own it.

The Belgium Incident, as it is recalled in Johnson family lore, is the most extreme example of my difficulty crossing a border. Sadly, there are more examples, but this blog is about Belgium.  In July 2001 we took a trip to Europe. Thanks to an inheritance from my grandpa I was able to put together a 15-day planes, trains and automobiles vacation. We’d land in London for a few days of sightseeing, take trains to Amsterdam where we’d spend a few days, followed by another train to Cologne where we’d pick up a rental car and drive to Munich, ending with the flight home.

Off we went. We had much fun in London once we got past the microscopic hotel rooms, “beam me up Scotty elevators”, mad-cow warnings and the total lack of showers and air conditioning during an unseasonably hot summer. Oh, and just an FYI, celebrating the fourth of July in London is a real faux-pas.  Finished with London we boarded the Eurostar, a fast train through the Chunnel to Brussels and a connecting train to Amsterdam.

Now I must tell you, until the recent acquisition of GPS, I have been the navigator in the family. I read maps with incredible accuracy. I can get from A to B via the straightest or most circuitous route possible, your choice. I know that all roads lead to Disneyworld and I was not at all concerned about navigation in Europe. My family was depending on me to get them seamlessly from point A to point B. 

After what felt like a many hour delay, but was probably 45-minutes the Eurostar left London for Brussels. I knew we would have a tight connection to pick-up the train for Amsterdam. As I obsessed about the unexpected lost time the first prickling of panic began to set in. When the train arrived in Belgium we were down to less than 15-minutes to make the connection. I needed to find the appropriate platform and the next train. It never occurred to me that we had just entered another country, an awareness that dawned when every sign was NOT IN ENGLISH. Yes, I was now in full on ugly American mode. 

I finally spotted a sign with the logo for Thalys, the brand of the connecting train, on an elevator with a single button. OK I inferred, we need to go DOWN as UP was not an option. (Insert accelerated breathing and increased heart rate.)  I looked around and spotted an escalator-type ramp, no stairs, just a ramp and it wasn’t moving. With family in tow I proceeded down the ramp, which suddenly turned on and began to move in the wrong direction. I started running to compensate and the family followed.

We found ourselves in a room with frosted glass walls and doors and we could see a lot of people moving on the other side. Dan stepped up and with little difficulty pulled the glass doors open. We walked through and simultaneously a few people came through from the other side. Success! Our next stop would be the correct platform. I showed our tickets to a confused looking man in a uniform. He pointed up--the direction from which we just came. Tick-tock--time was running out. 

We jumped on another elevator and when the doors opened there stood a uniformed man and a woman with a walkie-talkie. She asked us, in English (somehow she knew) if we had "forced open the doors" downstairs. At this point I stepped back and deferred to Dan as the family spokesperson, because I CAN NOT tell a lie. Dan said “no, we are just trying to get to our train.” “Follow-me” she said, walking to another elevator. It soon became clear that she was not going to take us to the correct platform.

As our little group descended into the bowels of the train station my panic rose. What had I done? We found ourselves in the security office. I wouldn’t call it an interrogation, probably due to the presence of our teenage sons, but we were questioned. Dan held up admirably. I sat with my stomach in my throat, positively nauseous. Carl and Hunter sat in chairs with the smug confidence of children who knew that the worst outcome was they’d be sent home early and alone to the loving arms of sane relatives, happily liberated from their mom’s idea of a fun family vacation.  

The woman asked Dan if he had opened the locked doors. Dan replied "of course not. You can't open a locked door". Once she translated this into French or whatever, both the pitch and volume of the conversation increased by about 30%. An older officer took charge and accused Dan of prying the doors open. Dan just shook his head no and pantomimed doors sliding easily open. Two younger guards stood at the back of the room and smiled. The entire episode ended less than an hour later, when the officer angrily stamped our passports and escorted us to an outbound train. They were more than happy to take us to the train for Amsterdam. And because we had missed our earlier reservations they had the perfect excuse to put us on a train that had been converted from hauling cattle earlier that week.  

By comparison the rest of the trip was uneventful. Dan, alone in the rental car, lost his way on the autobahn convinced that “Ausfahrt” was the largest unknown city in Germany. Hunter put four years of German language classes to work ordering ice cream treats in Bonn. Carl managed to get reasonable directions from a deaf gas station attendant in Frankfurt who only lip-read German. I was able to convince Dan that “living the dream” did not include sitting day after day on a bench begging for beer money in Heidelberg. We found our hotel in Stuttgart despite the fact that it was in the middle of a pedestrian mall. We all survived the drive from Mannheim to Munich when a tire on the rental car exploded at over 100-kph. And we managed to convince the incredulous airline ticket agent that we absolutely did not want to take a bump and stay another day, no matter how many thousands worth of incentives they threw our way.

Of course, from the moment we were on the train to Amsterdam and throughout the balance of the trip I tried to negotiate a “what happens in Belgium stays in Belgium” pact. Dan and the boys would have none of it. Since 2001 I’ve been to Belgium several times, at the behest of my employer. I still panic a bit when I travel there and I can’t help but think it is the most unspeakably awful destination there is. Happily the border guards do not have my picture on file and I’m free to conduct business in Belgium. Don't panic. 

Moving to Key West? No problem. No border.