Flying Through Phoenix

It isn't that I fly to LA all that often or anything, but every time I do, I find myself in Phoenix. And every time, the same thing happens. It goes like this:

We are making good time. Not only are we on time, we are a few minutes early. So far so good. But as soon as we land, we come to a stop, and the captain announces that our gate is occupied and we will just cool our w/heels out here on the fringes for a "few minutes" until our gate is free.

We settle down to wait, and from then on, every five minutes we hear, "It should just be another few minutes." This goes on enough times that my one-plus-hour layover ends up shortened by 25%. The flight attendant optimistically informs me that a run is probably not required, but a hustle will definitely be helpful, and don't worry, there are golf carts and moving sidewalks. So, I don't worry, but I tie on my running shoes and prepare to sprint.

Even 45 minutes is do-able for a grandma in fairly decent shape, but the minute I step into the terminal, I see that a run may not be a bad idea, because I have de-barked at this end of the "B" gates, and my connecting flight is alllllllllll the way at that end of the "A" gates.

The race is on! And God bless the man who invented wheels on suitcases. I just wish that was the kind of suitcase I had right now.

Sky Harbor is well-marked, and it takes just a quick glance to locate the "A Gates" arrow. I scurry over to the sign and behold a corridor stretching to eternity. I can't even see the other end. Fortunately there is a moving sidewalk. It would be even more fortunate if it worked. But that would be a lot to expect at this point, wouldn't it, so I gird up my loins and start the first mile.

Lo and behold! The second leg of the moving sidewalk is moving, and I hop on! "Stand on the right/Walk on the left," the sign says, and that's cool, except that the sign doesn't say how fast to walk, and it only takes one minute for me to catch up to the next walker who is taking his Sunday stroll. There is no way to pass, so I fall in and slow my step to match his, which leaves me frantically cooling my heels and see myself being overtaken, and passed, by the horde that spurned the hi-tech sidewalk in favor of only their own foot power.

The moving sidewalk finally reaches the end of the terminal. I think. But when I get off...PSYYYYCH! It's only the corner in a 90-degree turn, and off to the right stretches another endless hallway. "A" gates all, but mine is nowhere in sight.

I spit on my hands, hoist my non-wheeled case over my shoulder, and gird up my loins, rejecting the moving sidewalk to take off on my own. Sure enough, I easily pass the suckers walkers on the moving sidewalk. Coming to one last moving sidewalk, which I also bypass, I can see my gate coming up in the nebulous distance. YAY! There is light at the end of the tunnel!

I really don't know what I'm worried about. This event is scripted and finely tuned, and I have participated enough times to know how it comes out: I will make it to the gate in plenty to time to make my flight.

What I should be worried about is what comes next: KALIFORNIA.

The Last Day

Well, just a couple of hours in the car in the dark, not really a day at all, at least not on this end.

M and I left the house today at 4:20. AM. to catch the first flight of his trip, leaving at 7. He didn't actually have to be back at West Point until tomorrow, but as much as we would have enjoyed one more day with him, it was going to cost $500 to change his ticket, and as it develops, even outside of the $ factor, there are some definite advantages to giving yourself some margin. It definitely cuts down on the stress when

• you just commented on the great traveling conditions: good weather, good road, bare minimum of traffic, and suddenly you have to slam on the brakes when you come upon a sea of red lights on the road in front of you, and a whole herd of 18-wheelers and assorted other vehicles bring you to a complete standstill, with the only movement on the scene coming from one emergency vehicle after another screeching its way to somewhere down the road ahead of you, and you end up creating your own ramp to escape the interstate. Adventure driving at its finest. Just as you pull up to the feeder road, two more ambulances whiz by barely giving you time to stop, and then as you cruise down the access road toward the stoplight, you get a look at the cause of all the commotion: a dead 18-wheeler flat on its back, bellowing smoke into the night, sprawled across all southbound lanes of the interstate, attended by a host of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks. And then just for good measure, the stop light holds you up for a good half hour. Ok, maybe not that long, but at least long enough to convince you to "run" the light. Or when

• you make it the airport with still enough time to make your flight (unlike the hapless wannabe passengers at the kiosk next to you who are firmly informed by the friendly computer that "It is too late to check in for your flight."), but then you run into an ignorant, overly-zealous security guard whose disdain for the military is blatantly obvious, causing him to direct you into a safe little glass cubicle where he abandons you until he gets good and ready to make an example of you to the airport at large, waving his little magic wand up and down your body, and then patting you vigorously up the front and down the back, making sure you stay put by holding your shoes hostage, and letting you go with barely enough time to make the "last call" for your flight, thus ensuring that you will not have time to file a complaint against him. And then

• you make it back to West Point a day ahead of your roommates, allowing you to choose your bed and your desk, register your phone, set up your computer, grab a laundry cart (uncontested) so you can move all of your stuff in one trip, no hurries, no worries; and the next day when the rest of the corps, suffering delayed flights and missed connections and other travel perils comes dragging in, you have a nice, leisurely day on your agenda, while theirs is overloaded with anxiety and stress, and they still have to move in and unpack.
  

What a difference a day makes....

Happy New Year! x2

New Year's Eve found us on our way to visit Little Granny at the nursing home in Kerrville. We don't get there often enough, and we wanted to be sure and make the trip while M was here.

As we walked up to the front door, we noticed a van unloading: speakers, amplifiers, guitars, microphones, they had it all, right down to the three men, dressed all in black, relieved only by a white bandanna tied around the throat. Black felt cowboy hats, black Western shirts, black pants, and black...I had sorta expected black cowboy boots, but nope...canvas, tennie-style shoes (black, of course)...?!

We went around them into the lobby and immediately noticed people were beginning to gather. Some were seated in chairs placed around every edge of the room, others were being wheeled in, still others were shuffling along in their walkers. Whaddya know, it's PARTY TIME!! And we are just in time!!!

We collected Little Granny from her room, and settling in on one of the couches, we observed the remaining party preparations. As "The Sounds of Yester-Year" set up their stage, one of them commented, "I hope we get out of here early. I want to have some champagne tonight," and over in the dining room, aides were busily arranging fancy cookies on plates and pouring champagne ("With?" or "Without?") into fancy glasses.

I was tired, and it was the perfect time for a nap. Not a real nap of course, mostly just "resting my eyes." Anyway, how much sleep could I get with the Princess continually poking and pinching me while the sounds of the Lonesome Whippoorwhil and the Chattanooga Choo Choo were blazing away just inches from my right ear...? As I said, it wasn't a real nap, although I confess I was unaware of the aide standing in front of me until she very pointedly shouted, "Cookie?" at me. And she did mean "a" cookie, so I took care to choose only the very best...which, after it was too late to trade, turned out to be some sort of fruitcake cookie... Yum-no.

Well, that pretty well finished my pseudonap. While the Men in Black carried on valiantly with their repertoire, an aide passed out party hats and horns and tiaras and noise makers, after which came an announcement:

"We are going to count down the New Year! At 3 o'clock!"

Well, I supposed it would be the New Year somewhere in the world, even if not in Kerrville, Texas, and it looked like the members of the band were going to get their wish to go home early. I couldn't help noticing, though, that when the aide offered them champagne, they chose theirs "with." Hmmm.... champagne now, champagne later. New Year's x2 for the Men in Black.

Fifteen minutes later it was 3 o'clock, and right on time, the countdown began. Upon reaching "0", the Sounds of Yester-Year began their twangy rendition of "Old Lang Syne," something I hadn't ever heard before, and as for the noise makers and the horn blowers, let me just say that was one lively party! A whole lot livelier than our next one nine hours later... Party now, party later. New Year's x2 for us.

Shortly after the countdown we took off for a short visit with Aunt Fiona and her new husband. We still had a long trip ahead of us, but no hurries, after all... we had all year in front of us.

Happy New Year! Happy New Year!

Safe At Home!

We got our boy home last night! Just barely. Thanks to his early TEE's, he was one step ahead of the evil blizzard that crippled travel in the Northeast, and hours ahead of his classmates, all of whom managed to make it out of West Point, only to become stranded at various area airports and other places.

Amazingly enough, even with all the snow and the scare and the delay, M's plane arrived in Austin ten minutes ahead of schedule. We, however, were lagging an hour late picking him up, due to the omnipresent traffic factor of life in the city. (How in the world do people manage to live with this sort of thing on an every day basis? Another rant for another time...)

I felt really bad about that, but as it turned out, there was no need to, because even though he was early, his suitcase was a no-show, and he spent the extra hour in the baggage claim office where he was next in line when we finally arrived at the airport. When we saw him through the office window, the Blue-Eyed Boy exclaimed, "Uncle M looks sharp, doesn't he?" And indeed he did! Out of the mouths of babes....

The baggage man said his suitcase was on the next plane, due into Austin in a couple of hours. They do not deliver stranded baggage as far away as we live, so would we like to wait, or would we like to pick it up later? We would like to do neither, thank you. Fortunately, M, seasoned traveler that he is, politely inquired if they could fly it to Killeen, and whaddya know, they could. Via Dallas. But that well-kept secret is not an option that is volunteered; as is so often the case, it pays to know the right ?'s. So. Providing the luggage actually was on that plane, and providing there was enough room for it on the next two planes, we should hear sometime today that it is waiting for us to pick it up at the airport.

Luckily, the suitcase doesn't contain anything immediately necessary. Just Christmas presents from West Point. Clotheswise, he brought none, but it happens that we have a closet full of clothes just his size, so no worries on that score ;-)

We had plans to go buy a Christmas tree this morning, but at almost noon, M is still sleeping away, and he may sleep the rest of the day away for all I know or care. He apparently has had very little sleep the last few days, so I will not be waking him up today. As for the Christmas tree, my Man will bring one home with him from work shortly.

Tonight we have plans for a Christmas carol party at a friend's house. I will feel compelled to wake him up by then, if he hasn't managed on his own, but meanwhile, M is safe at home, asleep in his own little bed ;-)

WhataWeekend Saturday

Saturday started dark and early. My Man was off to work by 5:30, and for M, formation (or whatever they call it) was at 9, so soon it was time for the *boys* to get up and on their way. Off they went, with instructions to let us know when they got there.

A couple of hours later we got a text from Ko: "Just left Caldwell. We passed our motel. It looks crapy." I'm not sure if he meant "creepy" or "crappy," but whichever, I was pretty sure I got the message. Not worried about it, though. As long as it was good enough for Edgar Allen Poe, it would be good enough for us. Besides, it isn't like it was the purple motel in San Antonio where we were afraid to all close our eyes at the same time. No, we are talking about the motel next door to the MoreMart in Caldwell, for Pete's sake, where people aren't worried about being murdered in their beds.

So what if our rooms were upstairs and the balcony/deck/walkway seriously sloped toward the parking lot...? There was a rail to stop us if we should happen to slide too far.

So what if the pool was green...? It wasn't full of green water; it was filled in with dirt and had green grass growing in it. Quite a sight, complete with lawn chairs around the "pool" and a ladder going down into the grass.

So what if the luggage rack/stand fell apart when I opened it...? We only had one small overnight case which fit easily on the counter next to the sink.

So what if the chair almost fell to pieces when my Man sat down in it...? He just sat quietly and didn't make any sudden moves.

So what if the water tasted nasty...? There was an ice machine outside the front door, and if you suck on ice it numbs your taste buds.

So...It was early afternoon when we arrived in Caldwell. While walking around to our room, the Gingerbread Cookie stumbled and went down with a thunk like you have never heard, right on the big middle of her forehead. Good thing babies' bones are soft, and of course I carry arnica in my purse...melted that knot right off her little head.

As soon as everyone got there, we walked over to check out the MoreMart. It was a non/super MoreMart like we hadn't seen in years, and M hadn't seen any kind of a MoreMart in years...oh, wait, I mean in almost three months...so it was fun buying snacks and colored pens and band-aids and all sorts of clearance items.

After our little shopping trip, *some* of the boys began to wrestle and roughhouse and suddenly we heard the second THUNK of the day, followed by a scream from BB1. He jumped up with his hand to his head and M noticed "He's dripping blood!" This time we had our whole medical entourage in the room: M, who in his less than two months since CBT first aid training, already has three head injuries (not his own) to his credit; Ko, an EMT presently attending paramedic school; and Gi, an ER nurse currently enrolled in nurse practitioner school. And of course we still had arnica.

Once that little glitch was taken care of we went outside for a photo op and then off to dinner and the playground. It was so much fun for me and my Man, sitting on the park bench like old folks, watching our kidlets, big and little, on the playground. Monkey bars, jungle gym, merry-go-round, swings, swirly slides, they played them all. It would have been really fun if we hadn't been quite so busy scratching and swatting at the horde of burly, belligerent, Texas-size mosquitoes.

We had an early morning the next day, so we were soon off to put our swarm of little kidlets to bed. S and Gi went home and the rest of us drifted off to our rooms. There is nothing at all quite like making memories with your family. After all, to tweak a quote from Samuel Johnson, "To be happy with one's family is the ultimate result of all ambition."

Edgar Allen Poe never had it so good.

On the Gulf with Gustav

Well...not exactly. That would be the cruise before us.

Our trip, which was to have been the five-day cruise with calls at two glamorous ports, was instead, coutesy of Gustav, the three-day Cruise to Nowhere. Really. Rather than disembarking (debarking?) in exotic foreign places, we floated around out there, one "Fun Day at Sea" following another. A Fun Day at Sea consists of all manner of activities, sublime and ridiculous. Activities whimsical, physical, comical, or informational, take your pick.

Now about the food...It's true what they say about the food on a cruise: it is limitless. There may be two or three hours out of a day that you can't find a place to eat~perhaps between the hours of 3am, when the Gala Midnight Buffet shuts down, and 6:30am when the serving of breakfast begins. But don't worry. If you just can't make it that long, give the 24-hour room service a call.

And let me tell you, you aren't going to find any chicken-fried steak or fried okra or black-eyed peas or pinto beans on this menu. None of that "down-home" stuff. Try lemon curried lentils and Caribbean pepper pot. Grilled portobello mushrooms, tiger shrimp cocktail, pumpkin soup, charred corn, tempura veggies, and poached salmon. Even the lowly potato takes on the scent of rosemary. On the salad bar ~ a veritable garden: veggies fresh and pickled and marinated, lettuce in endless variety, dressings and toppings galore. And for dessert: mango cake and tiramisu, cheesecake in many flavors of both fat-free and yummy versions, coconut cake, banana cream pie, jello, and pudding, 24-hour ice cream and frozen yogurt, orange cake, and apple pie with ice cream. That's the sort of thing to find on the cafeteria-style line, and if none of that suits you, well, try the pizzeria, the deli, or the bistro. Or the grill, where you can get backyard fare of hamburgers, hot dogs, french fries, onion rings, sauteed onions, and the like, just outside the door by the big pool.

To drink: iced tea, coffee, lemonade, fruit punch, apple juice, orange juice. Really, the onliest thing they didn't have was...water. Well, they had water, but...well, ick.

That's the menu on the casual Lido Deck. If it's the fancy stuff you want, go to one of the dining rooms where you will be served by a staff of attentive, impeccably-mannered waiters, uniformed in vests and ties, who will serve your drinks in elegant stemmed glasses, and bring you menus of starters and entrees and desserts to die for. Some nights they will even dance and sing for you, and when they come marching and clapping down the aisles, it is hard not to get up and dance and clap along with them.

Did I mention the Chinatown Restaurant and the Rolls Royce Bar? You really can go from restaurant to restaurant for the duration of the cruise, and if you don't want them to have to roll you off, well...try out the gym. We opted to stay in shape by using the stairs. We walked from our cabin on the Main Deck (Deck 5) deep in the bowels of the ship up to the sea breezes of the Sun Deck (Deck 12) for putt-putt golf probably about 26 times a day. We did use the elevator on three separate occasions as a treat at the request of the Blue-Eyed Boy.

Just in case you might like to do something besides eat on your Fun Day at Sea, you can choose to swim in one of the four pools, play miniature golf, run/walk/jog on the Olympic track, play volleyball or basketball on courts totally enclosed by netting, play ping-pong or shuffleboard, or bask in the sun with a book from the ship's library. Play Bingo, or go to the beauty shop and/or the spa for the pampering of your life: hair fixes, mani/pedicures, massages. Get your portrait taken at one of the many photographer's stations set up at various places around the ship. Go to the card room for a hopefully friendly game of...whatever.

If you are traveling with a kidlet, as we were, you may want to check out Camp Carnival. They have a whole schedule of age-appropriate games and puzzles and parties beginning at 9am and going until 11pm (Shouldn't those little guys be in bed by then?)!

Need something more scheduled? Check your handy little Carnival Capers paper which is left in your cabin each evening by your devoted cabin steward, along with chocolates on your pillow, cookies with faces for the kidlet, and pillows folded into animal shapes, a different animal every night. In the Carnival Capers you will find a complete hour-by-hour listing of every activity on the ship: shows, classes, games, contests. Even menus ;-)

Oh! Don't forget gambling in the casino! I can't really speak with any authority on this, but if the jam-packed crowds and the clouds of cigarette smoke billowing out the door were any indication, this might well have been the most popular activity on board. Well, besides eating. And besides the unending army of bar staff around every corner handing out champagne, rum punch, Bloody Marys, screwdrivers, whiskey sours, wine, and the occasional "non-alcoholic fruit punch" (For more *ambiance,* try the Starlight Lounge or the Neon Bar or the Stripes Bar.).

And then there's everybody's other favorite: shopping! There were stores galore, and sellers of gold and silver chains and other jewelry in kiosks on every deck. Not being a shopper myself, I can only speculate, but there must have been some really great deals, because most of the people I met around the ship were burdened with bulging shopping bags.

Art aficionado? Go check out the Art Gallery and sign up for the drawing/contest to win a Picasso! No thanks, I think I'll pass...

If you are a night owl and can tear yourself away from the Gala Midnight Buffet, you might want to go to one or more of the shows. And don't worry about your kidlet. Just deposit him in "babysitting" (for a small fee of invisible $ on your *sign & sail* card) where you can leave him until 3am!!!

So, you see, a Fun Day at Sea really is a fun day (and night) at sea. Even for a non-smoking, non-drinking, non-gambling, non-shopping stick-in-the-mud like me. Because on a cruise, particularly on a Cruise to Nowhere, you have a luxury unmatched in your everyday life: Time. Time to sit and enjoy the timelessness of time. Without a timetable.

New York, New York

Thoughts on my recent trip to New York:

• When you make a purchase, you don't get a receipt if you don't ask for one, and then sometimes you still don't get one.
  
• Every single time we asked for something in a store or ordered a meal in a restaurant, our request was answered with "You gaht it."
• When they say "toll road" in New York, they really, really mean it.
• It costs a whole lot of $ to get into New York City. What I cannot fathom is WHY?!!!
  
• New Yorkers in general, and New York drivers in particular have a reputation. All I know for sure is that I have seen polite-er and courteous-er drivers in Houston and Dallas and Los Angeles.
• Bumper sticker on a taxi: "Save gas, call a cab." Do cabs in New York run on air or something?
• Police cars in New York have light bars that can stick straight up!
  
• Hwy 117K... Exit 1-41P.... Huh?
  

Trip Trivia

• There is a serious distinction between the "Delaware beaches" and the "Jersey shore." And don't you forget it.
• From antiquity, Easterners seem to have a predilection for bestowing odd sorts of names on places. Most notable are those containing the words "kill" and "neck."
• Favored convenience store in Delaware: Wawa's. Wawa's...?
• There is a lot more to Delaware than you might think there would be.
• There are stinging flies back East. Burly, belligerent, territorial stinging flies, to borrow a phrase from my favorite cousin.
• When they say "toll" in this part of the country, they are not kidding around!
  

Highway Headaches

It does not take long to develop a headache while traveling on the highway, and we could tell, almost immediately, that we were working up to one of epic proportions.

We had spent a happy weekend at the beach and were all set for a three-hour drive to West Point. Our friends saw us safely to the Delaware Bridge, and then we were all alone, armed only with a printout of Google directions. We decided, early on, to stop and buy a road map, for "just in case." Easy enough.

We pulled over into the first truck stop and went inside, where a rack of maps beckoned from the far corner. We made our way over there to find myriads of maps, from a NASCAR Atlas and a city map of Philadelphia to all sorts of other obscurities, but the multi-state (small states, mind you) map we sought did not seem to exist. There were maps of individual states galore ($5.00 each), but do we really need a Texas-size map of New Jersey? If we can get the whole state of Texas on one $5.00 map, the New Jersey map ought to go for about 25 cents.

We already knew we were going to be too late for the Highland Falls reception that afternoon, but we had tentative hopes of arriving in time for the evening's band concert at West Point, and after a cursory study of the map, we were pleased to determine that the Google directions were right on track. So we folded the map, replaced it on the rack, bought a couple of sodas ("pop" in New Jersey) to mitigate our guilt at not buying the map, and hit the road.

We were making good time, keeping one eye on Google, and all was well until we exited, as per Google directions, and found ourselves in Never Never Land. Just like that, we were lost, on a freeway that Google never heard of. After wandering around like the tribes of Israel, we stopped at a gas station to see if we could figure out where we were. It was absolutely the only civilization in sight, and we were happy to see a sign proclaiming "Open 24 Hours a Day." Only when we tried to go in the door was locked.

Then we noticed the attendants across the parking lot at the pumps. Oh, yeah, we found out later, this was New Jersey. The only state that doesn't allow self-service. No wonder the price of gas is $4.79. After finally getting the attention of a non-English-speaking attendant,we were directed through a garage door where we were met by a non-English-speaking customer service specialist.

We asked if he had any maps and he took us into another room where there was a whole counter full of maps...under lock and key. We asked if we could see the maps; he countered with which map did we want? It took every persuasive power we could muster up to convince him that we did not know where we were, and we really didn't know which map we needed.

I'm not so sure he knew where we were, either, but abruptly, after soundly berating us for using Google instead of MapQuest, an "AHA!" look came over his face and he began pointing frantically at the highway in front of us, directing us to "Tappan Zee Bridge." Huh???

Not knowing enough to even discuss the situation intelligently, we got back on the highway in search of the Tappan Zee. At one point we actually saw a sign for it, but then all at once we were at the George Washington Bridge. Well, there's nothing like the blind leading the blind, and across we went. Suddenly the highway was tracking with Google again and we were feeling hopeful that we might actually make West Point in time for the concert.

And then it began to rain in a torrent that would have done credit to Noah. The rain went on for miles, or maybe it just seemed miles, reduced as we were to a speed of about 10 mph. We re-evaluated our goal: Forget the concert, let's just get there.

On we went, holding our breath, while the storm raged away. It eventually cleared up and gave way to the most gorgeous of scenery, but we could not afford to squander one bit of our attention on it. Up and up and up we went into the mountains, sheer rock walls going straight up on both sides. And then going around a bend, we unexpectedly came to the edge of a cliff. We pulled over and got out of the car and found ourselves looking down in amazement at a medieval fairy tale of clouds and castles.

West Point! And in time for the concert! But, alas, when we presented ourselves at Stony Lonesome Gate, we were informed that due to the rain the concert had been canceled. All that worry for nothing! And then all that was left was to get ready for tomorrow.

Before going to the hotel for the night, we visited the local convenience store on a quest for local picture postcards, the kind that used to proliferate at every gas station and drugstore. It seems they are becoming a thing of the past, and there were none to be found that night. But, we did find that mythical multi-state (the entire northeast) map we had searched for earlier, and I was semi-happy to plop down $5.00 for it. Where was this map when we needed it? Well, never mind, we had it now.

We went back to our hotel then, but between another roaring thunderstorm and knowing we had to be up at 4 the next morning, sleeping that night was something of an exercise in futility.

The next day, my Man and I dropped M off at R-Day and prepared to head home. On our way north, we had been faced with a superfluity of toll booths, and while they were many, we consoled ourselves with the fact that the tolls were small, ranging from 35 cents (Why do they even bother?) up to $1.10; now we armed ourselves with a pocket full of quarters, in addition to our new map and our trusty Google directions. And optimism.

Google came into question once more, almost immediately, when it directed us to Highway 17K. K? What kind of a highway number is that?! But, whaddya know, Google was right again, and we took off down Highway 17K on our "three-hour" trip to Long Island MacArthur Airport.

That three-hour trip was replete with its own set of quirks and glitches. Right off the bat we met up with a toll booth. "Only" $1.10. We were amused (well, sorta amused) by the EZ Pay signs announcing an upcoming toll booth. Like they were advertising a desirable product of some sort. We forked over our $, and went through, and as soon as we got up to speed on the other side, the traffic started s-l-o-w-i-n-g d-o-w-n. It stayed that way for quite awhile, making us glad that we had allowed five hours for our three-hour trip. We never saw what happened to cause the delay, but after awhile it sped up again, just like it had slowed.

Before long we started to notice signs for the Tappan Zee/George Washington bridge. Google had noted this stretch of highway as "partial toll," so we weren't overly disturbed to find ourselves confronted with yet another toll booth. I stopped and rolled down the window, little coin purse in hand, ready to whip out a couple of quarters when I heard, "$8.00." "EIGHT DOLLARS?!!!" I shrieked. The toll taker calmly pointed down at a sign, and sure enough, there it was: "Cars $8.00." Well, then...Excuse me while I dig deep down in my purse for my big bucks. I apologized for my outburst, explaining that we were from Texas and knew nothing, thank goodness, about that sort of thing.

While I had his attention, I inquired about the bridge. Is it Tappan Zee, or is it George Washington? He took it all in stride, and bless his heart, being that rarest of public servants who is not only courteous, but actually knows more than just "his job," he was able to he clear up that little mystery for us. He explained that the northgoing lanes make the Tappan Zee bridge, and the southgoing lanes make the George Washington bridge. The Tappan Zee, as we had already noticed on our way north, was free, while the George Washington more than made up for that fact.

Then he asked me where we were going. I told him, and he offered directions which, we were pleased to note, matched right up with our Google directions. "After you cross the bridge, go right and then get on the Trog's Neck bridge." Trog's Neck?! What kind of name is that? Oh, wait. I know, I know...whatever a trog may be, the name is pure, quintessential New Yoahk. What he failed to tell us was that it would cost us another $5.00 to cross the trog's neck. I guess he was saving that for a surprise.

Lacking any sort of options, we girded up our loins and set out across the bridge. So far so good, but as we merged onto the trog's neck, we just barely missed being sideswiped by a car which almost missed the bridge altogether. We made it across untouched, just barely, and into Queens, down through a tunnel, and out into the Twilight Zone on yet another freeway unknown to Google.

We were going along at a pretty good clip, not really knowing where we were going. We would have liked to pull over somewhere and consult our map without having to worry about dodging anything, but there isn't enough space to stop a car in that part of the country. I really don't know how they do it. So we kept on going, and just about the time we were ready to throw in the towel, the sign changed, and we were back on track with Google! That was definitely one of the highlights of the trip.

Queens was the last obstacle in our quest for LIMA. That and the rubberneckers ogling a wreck on the other side of the freeway (hate their luck, but, thank You, God, for ours) backing up the traffic for miles. I cannot conceive of anything more nerve-wracking, and how four police cars managed to make it to the scene I cannot even imagine.

One particular point of interest while negotiating the Trog's Neck/Queens/Long Island labyrinth was a sign pointing the way to King's Point, home of the USMMA. M had a passing interest in going there at one time. Good thing that didn't work out.

My hat's off to Google. In retrospect, all of our troubles came from putting our faith in the highway signs instead of in Google. Thanks to M and what turned out to be Google's letter-perfect directions, we were never lost; we only thought we were lost. But sometimes that's as good as the real thing.

From safe at home, thank God for M and Google.

R-Day For Parents

R-Day is fraught with peril for cadets: standing in lines, getting their heads shaved, marching around in the heat, wearing seriously uncomfortable shoes, getting yelled at.... But they already knew about all of that. What nobody told us was that R-Day is perilous for parents as well.

Like new cadets, parents do a great deal of walking on R-Day, and it isn't just a stroll around the block. One of the things you notice immediately, and you will continue to notice throughout the day, is that everything is uphill. It is definitely a day for walking shoes, and if you had the foresight to join your cadet candidate in his physical conditioning program, it is going to pay off right here. Of course, unlike the new cadets, parents have the option of the shuttle bus... If they can figure out how it runs. In our case it was pretty much of a crap shoot, so we depended mostly on our own feet. Thank goodness for all those long walks with our new cadet over the past few months.

In addition to walking, walking, walking, another similarity between cadets' R-Day and parents' R-Day comes to mind, namely weight training.

Cadets get issued a bag of some sort that they carry with them all the livelong day. Every time they stop, someone adds something to the bag, so that by the end of the day I imagine it is quite heavy. And I'm not sure what they did to deserve it, but I noticed in the R-Day pictures, that more than one cadet had two full bags to carry. Did they disregard their packing list and bring too much with them? Well, they were instructed about that before they came, unlike their parents , who received no warning whatsoever.

Upon exiting the auditorium, after the abbreviated 60-second goodbye, most of the parents headed straight for the ballroom where every imaginable vendor had a booth set up. Every parent passing the USAA booth was graciously issued a sturdy canvas tote bag with "Proud Parent of a West Point cadet" written on one side (We made sure we kept that side facing out on our trip home.), and big enough to carry every little thing we might decide to pick up during the day. In addition to this nice roomy bag, most parents opted to spring for the "USMA Class of 2012" bag with their new cadet's name on it, and these, too, were fully loaded by the end of the day.

One problem parents faced that cadets did not, was finding their car when it was time to go home, and before they could look for their car, they had to locate the correct lot. Thanks to our early morning report time, we were able to park in the first lot, and we had actually taken note of where in the first lot we had parked, but not everyone was so visionary. On our way back to our car at the conclusion of the parade, we were surprised to see quite a number of parents sitting on the ground around the edge of our parking lot. Having failed to train adequately for the rigors of R-Day, these parents, defeated by the almost-vertical path up to the first parking lot, sent out scouting parties to search the upper lots and then sat down and waited to be rescued.

And on that car issue...it is hoped that the cadets can follow orders better than can their parents who clogged up the entrance to the first lot in order to avoid having to venture farther up.

But not all was peril at R-Day. Much more was praiseworthy:

Outside of the few who could have benefited from some etiquette training (People standing at the front and holding their cameras at arm's length up over their heads, so that not even the tallest in the back could see over them, come immediately to mind.), most people were friendly and gracious, with a "we're all in this together" sort of attitude.

The MP's were unfailingly polite and ready to give a ride when the shuttle bus service didn't measure up.

We were able to catch welcome glimpses of the new cadets here and there throughout the day, in varying stages of their in-processing and training.

The informative and humorous tone (as well as the content) of the supe's briefing was highly appreciated. Just the chance to sit down and cool off was appreciated by that time, so being educated and entertained all at the same time was a welcome bonus!

And don't forget the parade and the oath ceremony at the end of the day. We had no trouble at all locating our own new cadet, but even before we saw him, we were filled with awe at the accomplishments of the day. The scene at Trophy Point that evening was a whole different world from the scene at Ike Hall that morning.

Perils and Praises...both sides of R-Day. The outstanding one, though, the ultimate peril... was going home cadet-less. That is going to take getting used to.

West Point

We learned a lot on our recent trip to West Point.

It was our first time there, and while we had seen pictures galore, we were totally unprepared for the splendor of the real thing. West Point is breathtaking. It is beautiful. It is magnificent. It is awe-inspiring. It is mighty castles of granite and slate rising majestically from the river's very edge. It is indescribable. It is spectacular. It is a national treasure.

One of the most salient features of West Point is the steep hills rising in every direction. About the only level place we saw all day was The Plain, an ultra-impressive expanse of tenderly-cared-for soft green grass ~ the second-most expensive lawn in America, after the White House lawn.

We were happily surprised to find that if the shuttle bus service leaves something to be desired, at least on R-Day, the MP's are friendly and helpful and willing to do taxi duty if necessary.

We learned that, no matter what obscure need a cadet might have, West Point can meet it. A ride to the train station across the river? The West Point ferry boat stands at the ready. A specialty uniform? They are made in-house in West Point's own Uniform Factory.

West Point is a rich lesson straight from the heart of America's history, the wondrous stuff of legends and epics and heroes, and I am at once proud and humbled to be a part, however minor, of this stately American tradition.

Airport/Airplane Adventures

Adventures are marvelous, and for a somewhat "civilized" adventure, you can't beat a trip on an airplane.

Our leaving adventure was actually pretty uneventful, if you overlook getting up at 4am to make it to the airport in time, and if you overlook getting crammed into not-the-smallest but definitely the most crowded airplane I've ever been on, and if you overlook lugging four hefty carry-ons half a mile in the wrong direction while changing planes in Charlotte with no time to spare, and if you overlook getting trapped for 20 minutes in the plane at Newark and finally having to move the whole show to another gate because the jetway at our original gate wasn't functional, and if you overlook the culture shock that hit us while waiting for our ride out in front of the airport (That was an education all by itself...).

Our trip home, well, it was a bit more exciting, beginning with the fact that we were on our own!!! Well, not completely. Our ex-resident travel agent/tour guide had thoughtfully equipped us with all of our flight paperwork and detailed directions to the airport, and our handy $5.00 multi-state map of the northeast United States was at the ready.

After successfully navigating the LonGIsland freeway, as the natives would say, we saw an opportunity for a real bargain...$4.24 gas! So we stopped to fill up before we returned the car. Much to our amazement, the gas station would not take cash! Or so we mistakenly thought. After some frantic negotiation, it turned out to be nothing more than a slight cross-cultural misunderstanding, and we left feeling victorious: We had outwitted the Cross-Island Expressmaze, paid cash for bargain gas, and almost made it to the airport. Now, according to Google, it remained only to "turn left at Arrivals Avenue." NO! NO!!! We don't want Arrivals! We want Departures!

Well, it's all the same to the Long Island airport, so we turned left and followed the "Car Return" signs on Arrivals Avenue. There were signs for every car rental company, except ours, but luck was with us, and we had to try only two car lots before finding the right one. But that was the end of easy. The parking spaces were labeled with letters and numbers and the name of the company, but nowhere, nowhere, nowhere, was any kind of directions or an attendant to be seen. Was there a shuttle bus to take us to the terminal? Were we supposed to walk to the terminal? Where even was the terminal?!

We decided to go back to square one and take Arrivals Avenue from the beginning, only this time we would take the "This Way to Terminal" lane. We found our way around easily enough and pulled up in front of the terminal. Well, as close as we could get to in front of the terminal. Unattended cars and double parking are apparently the order of the day at the Long Island airport, if that nearly lounging security guard was any indication. We waved and yelled to get his attention and finally persuaded him to come over. Not that he was any help. The best we were able to get out of him was that the car rental counters were clear at the opposite end of the airport, so we took off again. At the end of the terminal, my Man went inside to inquire and was able to ascertain that we should leave our car in the lot, write down the mileage, walk back to the terminal, and return the key.

We still didn't know where the lot was relative to the terminal, and we had a lot of baggage, so we drove back around Arrivals Avenue one more time to the front of the terminal where we unloaded and momentarily abandoned our (triple-parked) car while we lugged all of our stuff into a shady place. We agreed that my Man would babysit our luggage while I hopefully went off to divest myself of the PT Cruiser.

This time, as soon as I pulled into a parking place in the lot, a young man came right up and held out his hand for the keys. Should I give them to him? Where was he the first time we were here? Why did they tell us to bring the keys inside? Who is this guy, anyway?! Well, he had a scanner in his hand, and he was wearing a B_____ Car Rental shirt, and he seemed to be asking the right questions: "Do you have your contract?" "What's your mileage?" "Did you fill it up?" Sooooo...I threw caution to the wind and gave him the keys. He said, "If they say anything in there, just tell them to call me." Oh, ok, noooo problem....

Well, we only thought we had unloaded the car. After really unloading it, I headed out across the wasteland like a pack animal, loaded down with two sweaters, a briefcase, a bottle of water, a bottle of Coke, and of course my purse, and made it into the terminal and to the right counter where I attempted to return the car to a not-too-communicative clerk. Oh, dear...I can see the makings of another cross-cultural misunderstanding here. But the other clerk at the counter was merciful and came over to get things sorted out. Turns out the Phantom of the Parking Lot was actually their guy, so that was good news.

Finally free of the PT Cruiser, I set out to join my Man and our luggage, only to find that they were not where I had left them. Oh, no! Lost in New York! I located them shortly, though, where they had managed to drag themselves out of the shade into the air conditioning.

We proceeded to the checkout counter where we got our boarding passes and were directed to check our luggage at a distant counter (huh???!), and then we headed over to join the short line to go through security. We passed the metal detector portion of the test and were putting our shoes back on when a burly security guard came rushing over. "Sih! Sih! Sih! Is this youah stuff?" Yes, yes, what about it? He held up my Man's treasured pocket knife and said, "You can't take this with you." Oh, rats. This is the only knife he has managed not to lose, and he really likes it. "You'll have to put it in your checked baggage." Oh, really? That baggage is already long gone, or I wouldn't be here, now, would I? "Do you have someone you could give it to?" Oh, sure. Would you like to have it? Well, whatever the fate of the pocketknife, it's safe to say that unlike at some other airports, the Long Island security guys are definitely on their toes.

Slightly (well, more than slightly, to be honest) peeved at being left pocketknife-less, we made our way up the escalator to the boarding gates and paused a moment before the monitor to see that our gate, and everybody else's gate, was A-2. Could that be right?

We took off in that direction, and sure enough, A-4 empty, A-3 empty, but A-2...Well, now, A-2 was host to a multitude of Biblical proportions, well appointed with a host of screaming little kidlets. We found a seat over by the wheelchairs and settled in. Surely all of these people weren't as early as we were? Surely there was another departure before our own flight two hours in the future? Well, whaddya know, there was (#3169 to Foht Lawdehdale) scheduled out of A-2 an hour ahead of ours (What was wrong with the other gates?) (Maybe the jetways didn't work...?), and we fantasized that all of these screaming little darlin's might sail away on it.

Time came and time went for the flight ahead of ours, and no move was made to board it, other than by the passengers who were beginning to line up. After about 20 minutes, someone came out and announced that the plane had sucked a bird into the engine on the way in and they were checking to be sure it was ok to go back out. This was mildly interesting to us, but as the time for our flight approached, we began to fidget.

Suddenly we heard an announcement over the intercom: We just want to be suah that everyone going to Baltimoah knows theih flight has been changed to Gate A-3. How would we know? Nobody told us! Well, never mind, we, along with half the population of A-2, are on our way. It was boarding at once, complete, alas, with our quota of screaming kidlets, plenty to go around.

We found a row of empty seats in the waaaaay back and sat down to wait while the rest of the passengers boarded. Most of them were filling in the gaps toward the front, but then a family carrying an odoriferous bag from McDonald's espied the very last empty row on the plane directly behind us and came barreling down the aisle to stake their claim. Finally, The Groom, as identified by his t-shirt, made his way back to sit in the last empty seat left. Next to me.

After a minor mishap of two cans of soda ("pop" in New Yoahk) exploding and spraying the back galley, the pilot revved up the engines and dimmed the lights, and we all settled in for our restful late evening flight (leaving Flight 3169 to Foht Lawdehdale of bird-in-the-engine fame still perched at Gate A-2, over an hour late by this time).

Oh, wait...Forget restful... As soon as the engines started to roar and the pressure started to change, all those little kidlets started to cry. And then The Groom whipped out his little iPod or MP3 player or whatever it was, stuck it in his ear, and cranked it up loud enough for me to hear over the wailing kidlets. And then the girl behind us started to sing. Yep...On Top of Old Smokey, belted out in a quavering off-key voice that sounded unlike anything we'd ever heard before. And when the song was finished, she started LAUGHING OUT LOUD in an eerie sort of cackle. I hazarded a quick glance behind us to see if perhaps a Twilight Zone escapee might have taken refuge there, but no...it was just this everyday, ordinary, normal-looking family of two old parents and one late-teenage girl. Fortunately, my ears plugged up, as ears are wont to do on airplanes, so quiet reigned for the rest of the way home.

Yes, adventures are definitely marvelous...but nothing tops the comfortable and comforting adventure of coming home.

R-Day

Such a day. We should have been in that "early to bed, early to rise group," but at least we got it half right. Up dark and early to make sure we had time for breakfast at Captain Jimbo's in front of our hotel. We weren't sure when we would have another chance to eat, and like mom says, "Food is like religion. You have to take it when you have it because you never know when you're going to need it." Good advice.

So just after 4am we were off to breakfast, carefully scrutinizing all nearby bushes and other likely places that might be harboring a renegade skunk. We didn't see a one, but I'm guessing they were probably fast asleep, considering that party they had going the night before.

In the otherwise deserted restaurant, we were greeted by a perky little waitress in black tights and a short black skirt, topped by a white shirt, perky green bow tie, and matching green suspenders. She handed us menus and went off to give us a few minutes to wake up and decide what we wanted.

It was a big decision, but we finally settled on...something...most of which ended up as leftovers. We should have gotten just one breakfast and shared. I hated not to take a doggy bag, but I couldn't really feature what that mushroom omelet was going to be like after a few hours stuffed in my purse, except that I was fairly certain no one would have the remotest interest in eating it. I did take my rye toast wrapped in a napkin, but it was never to be seen again. I didn't eat it, but other than that, I can't say what happened to it.

After our non/breakfast, we got in the car and took off down the mountain for our meeting with M's future. The sun was just beginning to come out (It comes out early up that far north and east in the time zone.) when we reached a clear spot at the side of the road, and there, through the middle of a cloud of fog coming up off the Hudson River, rose the magnificent slate and granite castles of West Point. It looked like a medieval fortress, which, I guess, isn't actually too far off.

We did not see many cars on the road, but they were somewhere out there, because by the time we arrived at the aptly-named Stony Lonesome Gate, there was a bit of a line to wait through, even 30 minutes early. Thanks to the early report time, we were able to get a spot in the closest parking lot, for which we were very grateful later in the day. Across the parking lot we trudged, down a steeeeeeeeeep path, and across another lot to line up and board the waiting shuttle buses.

After the short ride to Ike Hall~the only brick building on the place~we got off the bus and were greeted by a cadet shouting, "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES MILITARY ACADEMY. IF YOU HOLD A BLUE CARD, LINE UP ON THE RIGHT FOR IN-PROCESSING. IF YOU ARE HOLDING A YELLOW OR SALMON CARD, GO LEFT TO THE CREST-SOMETHING-OR-OTHER FOR A SHORT ORDER BREAKFAST" (M looked at us incredulously... breakfast? Had we but known...it wouldn't have helped us, as we were the holders of a blue card.). We heard that speech repeated often throughout the morning with the arrival of each new bus.

Well, "the long grey line" begins right here...down the sidewalk it goes, down one flight of stairs, around the corner, and down another flight of stairs. Then back on itself and under the stairs into a steamy tunnel in the bowels of Ike Hall (once again we were thankful for the early, cool-morning report time), around a U-turn, and finally into, ironically, a door marked "No Entrance." We learned later that we were being ushered in in groups of 44 cadets (# of seats on a bus) plus entourage.

When our turn came up, we were taken into the 4,500-seat auditorium, where we were given a lecture by a regular Army officer. All I remember from that lecture was, "They have what it takes." This is going to be my mantra/motto for the next 47 months. The honors were then turned over to a Cadet officer, and all I remember from her speech was, "You have 60 seconds to say good-bye." WAAAAIIT A MINUTE!!! We have just been gypped out of 1/3 of our seconds! We want our 30 seconds back!!!

Sorry, but in the Army our wants mean very little, more like nothing, so, we got our 60 seconds of smiles and tears, and then off went our now "new cadets" out the front door to the buses which would take them away to get haircuts, physicals, uniform fittings, etc, etc. The rest of us were directed to exit out the rear doors, where yet another Army officer handed out small packs of kleenex as he instructed the weeping horde to "Have a nice day." You bet.

The high point of R-Day came with spectators lining up to witness the parade late in the afternoon. The new cadets had spent the day being transformed, and it showed! Out of the sally port they came, down the street in front of "the supe's" house, and then a sharp right to march down to stand in front of the Battle Monument where they would be sworn in.

That was one sharp-looking parade! First the band, followed by the new/cadets, split into their companies. Each company was led by the infamous cadet in the red sash and the rest of the cadre in white, followed by what every spectator was here to see: our NEW CADETS! They were marvelous, shaved heads, BCG's, and all, and we were absolutely amazed to see what wonders West Point had wrought in just one day. Of course, we had to remind ourselves that, while West Point may have wrought wonders, West Point had nothing but the best to work with. I'm sure that probably made their miracle-working a bit easier.

We had been advised that all new cadets look alike, and we should just pick one out and call him "ours." But I am very happy to say that we had no trouble whatsoever picking out our very own. It probably didn't hurt that he is taller than most and has shaved his head many times in the past, so he didn't look all that strange to us. As his company marched up and turned to face the Battle Monument, I saw him cutting his eyes back and forth, even while facing straight ahead, and was suddenly rewarded with a WINK! I can see it still.

After the oath was given and taken, shouted orders brought the new cadets to face front once more and continue their march down the road, across the parking lot, past The Plain, behind the Eisenhower Barracks, through the sally port, and up the steps into Washington Hall, never missing a beat. After the last new cadet was safely inside, the last of the cadre turned to close the massive doors. They thundered shut, followed by a quiet I will never forget. I am humbly, sincerely impressed.

GO, TEAM!!!

'Twas the Night Before R-Day...

...and all through the hotel, all sorts of nervous "cadet candidates" (to become "new cadets" on the next day), parents, and other family members were stirring. They were everywhere: checking in, filling ice buckets, standing outside smoking, loitering here and there.

What they/we should have been doing was going to bed early, especially those of us with the 0630 report time in the morning. (The *official* 0630 call, that is. It seems that in the Army "early is on time," whereas "on time is late."). But no. We were more like antsy little kids waiting for Santa to drop in.

Our cadet candidate was in that 0630 group, but instead of going to bed early, we wandered upstairs to the balcony/deck for some solitude to ponder the enormity of what was coming up in a few short hours. However there was no solitude to be had. The balcony was full of others out there, just like us, with just the same thoughts on their minds.

So there we sat, alone in the crowd, and then invariably the small talk would start up. "Where are you from?" is always a favorite, and we learned that the young man sitting at the table with us was from Texas. YES!

Nighttime is not the best time to be away from home, particularly when facing a life-changing event, but there we were, bonded together into an odd fraternity of strangers. There was a big well-kept lawn going down to the road, and across the road was a body of water of some kind. It was beautiful, but foreign and uncomforting, giving rise to all manner of disconcerting thoughts.

And then...what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a skunk waddling around on that immaculate lawn. I poked the person next to me and whispered, "Is that a skunk?!" Yep, it was, but by the time he looked, there were two skunks. And then there were three. WOW! Just like HOME! And here we thought Texas had the corner on the skunk market! It wasn't long before the whole crowd began snickering and pointing. And it wasn't long until a fourth and then a fifth skunk showed up, milling around like a garden party.

By that time the skunks had the attention of the entire balcony assembly, though not that of the couple who stood on the edge of the parking lot, just a few feet away from a stand of tall grass where the skunk party kept going in and out. They (the couple, not the skunks) were hotly discussing something or other, completely oblivious to their peril.

Our focus began to shift somewhat from the skunks themselves, to wondering who would notice whom first, and speculating on all the possibilities that might occur? It happened that the people noticed the skunks before the skunks noticed the people, and they began pointing and inching away. This provided a whole new wave of amusement to those of us not immediately in harm's way. Fortunately the skunks behaved themselves and continued their marauding without making any sort of statement.

I often wonder what prompted God to create the skunk, but at least for that night, the funny little creatures provided some welcome comic relief to a poor band of uncertain ex-patriates.

...and we're off...!

In a few hours we are beginning the journey of a thousand miles. Off to drop our boy at West Point.

Is everything done? Let's see...bills paid, yard mowed, mail stopped, newspapers stopped, dog and garden care arranged, police and neighbors notified, suitcases packed...what else? I'm sure I'll remember at least one more thing after it's too late. Still to do: clean out fridge, clean out car (that's M's), pay one more bill, pack bathroom bag, and do some errands on the way out.

I'm feeling rather overwrought, overwhelmed, overworked, overloaded, overburdened, and overstressed, but I will probably feel a wee bit better after we are on the road. No more decisions to make.

If I can adjust my attitude a bit, this can be an adventure. Lots of fun on the way, but at the end...the Trail of Tears.