If I wanted my news "fair and balanced" I'd watch Fox or CNN, both channels decidedly coming down on opposite ends of the political spectrum while protesting that they don't. Where I didn't expect to find biased reporting was on the front page of a newspaper, further exacerbated by the fact that the article was an Associated Press feed.
The culprit The San Diego Union-Tribune and under the Wednesday, December 12, 2012 front page, above the fold headline "Michigan OKs Ban on Mandatory Payments to Unions" comes this codswallop:
Lansing Michigan
Over the chants of thousands of angry protesters, Republican lawmakers made Michigan a right-to-work state Tuesday, dealing a devastating defeat to organized labor in a place that been a bastion of the movement for generations.
The GOP-dominated House ignored Democrat's plans to delay the final passage and instead approved two bills with the same ruthless efficiency that the Senate showed last week...
"thousands of angry protesters"
"devastating defeat to organized labor"
"bastion of the movement"
"ruthless efficiency"
Hmmmm, any question on what side of the issue reporters John Flesher and Jeff Karoub support?
And you'd think from these glistening pearls of journalistic pap that the Michigan House and Senate had gutted unions, making them illegal to operate, or decertifying them. Nope, here's what the bills did, and this from the sidebar to the article: It isn't about the right to work but rather a right for workers to choose whether they want to join a union or pay fees similar to union dues. The legislation prohibits what are known as "closed shops", where workers have no choice but to join a union.
Giving workers a choice. Wow, that kind of sounds like America.
But now on to the continuing irrelevance of the newspaper.
I am exactly the kind of guy that should be holding on to my newspaper until you pry it from my cold, dead hands. I'm a bit past middle-age, an inveterate reader, and actually believed that I could get straight reporting from the pages of the local fish wrapper. Sure, if I wanted an opinion I know where to go...it's called the Opinion-Editorial Page (not the front page, people! Sorry, mild rant.)
But the sachems of the newspaper keep gutting the content. Once the Union-Tribune boasted a Books section, 8-pages of reviews, news items, lists, and recommendations. Local authors were featured and local reviewers featured prominently, especially the late Bob Wade, whose "Spadework" monthly column was an anticipated event for anyone who loves mysteries and thrillers. Gone. Barely two pages, with an increasing number of reviews reprinted from other sources.
Even the funny papers have fallen on hard times. They literally shrunk the comics. You need a microscope to enjoy "Bizarro", that quirky one-panel comic with its hidden pies, upside-down birds, firecracker, etc.
Is is also too much to ask that the newspaper know its reader? San Diego is and has been a Navy town. Yet the sports section carried not a single photo from last Saturday's Army-Navy Game.
And then there is the content, drifting more into a print version of "Hollywood Tonight". I could give a rat's ass about Brad and Angelina, Justin Bieber, Nicki Minaj, any of the Kardashians, ad nauseum.
Is it any wonder we are becoming a nation of ignoramuses? Where the hell do we go to get the news?
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Dear American Airlines
Several years back Jonathon Miles wrote a wonderful book titled Dear American Airlines, essentially a long screed that showcased the frustration of a stranded traveler who eventually misses his daughter’s wedding.
Here is my version.
Dear American Airlines,
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 3:00 p.m.
I am sitting in the departure lounge waiting for the 3:40 p.m. flight to Los Angeles. I am happy to be on this flight as my business in Miami ended early and I was able to move my reservation from a flight leaving at 6:10 p.m. Cost me $75.00, but the prospect of getting home three hours earlier was compensation enough.
I turn around and see that the flight has been delayed until 4:15 p.m. A mild ripple in the universe, to be certain, but not earth shattering. I turn around a few minutes later and see that the delay has been changed to 4:10 p.m. Good news. At 3:20 p.m., with the natives getting restless, the gate agent makes her first announcement. We are being delayed due to a mechanical problem. Grumbles, moans, and few exasperated sighs.
Forty minutes later, at 4:00 p.m., I approach the gate agent and ask if there has been any further news. She says no. I tell her that the people in the departure lounge are beginning to do more than grumble, and that anxiety is caused by powerlessness. I suggest that she make an announcement that first said nothing had changed in our situation and that she would keep us posted. She agreed. I no sooner step away from the podium when she picks up the mic and announces that that the mechanical problem had not yet be solved and she would update us again between 4:45 and 5:00 p.m. I pull a U-turn and head back to the podium and ask her what that would mean for my connection in Los Angeles. She reports that I will miss it but she will book me on the flight leaving at 10:30 p.m. My original connection. I ask her to put me back on my original flight and she does.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 4:15 p.m.
I nod to the gatekeeper at the Admiral’s Club who waves me in for my second visit of the day. I approach the customer service desk and ask that my $75.00 be refunded. Linda begins to type into the keyboard and soon is asking for help and assistance. She has hit more keystrokes that it took to write Windows 8. She slips me a drink ticket and tells me to chill and see her before I leave.
OK, now a word about the Admiral’s Lounge. I would say it’s more of a Petty Officer’s Mess than an Admiral’s Lounge. There is a bit of what I can only describe as a sort of pretzel kibble on offer alongside unwrapped cookies. With hundreds of cases of spinal meningitis these cookies are suddenly quite unappealing. And, in this regard I do admit to be a hard marker; the only single malts available are (surprise!) Glenlivet 12 and Glenfiddich 12, only one of which is barely drinkable. My expectations of arriving home early dismissed, I text Mrs. T. with the news.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 5:30 p.m.
I retrieve the credit card, my receipt, wave to the gatekeeper and head down the escalator to the departure lounge. My gate is directly under the Admiral’s Club and I see our aircraft. A solid stream of liquid is pouring out of the airplane just behind the nose. Thinking this can’t be good I arrive in the departure lounge in time to hear “We are taking the aircraft out of service. This flight has been cancelled.”
By the way, the 3:40 p.m. flight still has not left.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 5:32 p.m.
I am back at the Admiral’s Lounge, waving again to my new best friend, and queue up. I am beginning to delaminate, but hold it in reasonable check. Meanwhile I am thinking to myself, “Do these fuckheads have any working aircraft in the fleet?”
I hand the customer service representative my ticket with one instruction. “Get me out of here and home tonight.” She books me on three different flights and gives me the news that my chances of making the 10:30 p.m. LAX flight are slim. Nothing is available through Dallas. Chicago, the scene of Dear American Airlines by the way, not an option.
Saturday, October 13, 6:20 p.m.
Announcement: Flight 231 will take off at 7:30 p.m. from gate B44, far enough away from B15 to require a trip on the Skylink train.
Saturday, October 13, 7:45 p.m.
We take off. In the old days, the flight crew would have apologized for the delay and offered everyone a free drink. These are the old days. You want something other than a soda, water, tea or coffee and you’re paying for it. People used to laugh that Southwest only gave away peanuts. You don’t get peanuts on American Airlines. In fact, you better have your own earphones if you want to watch the movie.
Saturday, October 13, 10:18 p.m.
We land and a customer service rep meets the aircraft and directs me to Gate 44 to catch the shuttle for my connection. I run to the gate, fly down two flights of stairs and the gate agent tells me that my flight is closed. It hasn’t left, mind you. It’s just closed. I make the point that I will soon be joined by a number of other people in the same boat. See the customer service rep is her dour advice.
I walk back to the gate, now fuming a bit and sure enough a number of my fellow San Diego travelling companions have learned that our flight had been closed. This probably the only fucking flight that left on time at American that day. She directs us to the customer service desk at gate 42B.
We trudge down to 42 B to encounter a long queue, getting longer by the minute, and one (1, uno, ONE, une as in the loneliest number) customer service representative. She displays a distinct lack of a sense of urgency. People ahead of me in line say that is taking her about 30 minutes per person to resolve any issue. I pull out my phone and call American Airlines only to be told there is nothing that can be down. Finally, a wee African-American girl in her early twenties marches to the front of the line and asks “Can you please give us an idea on how long this will take? And why aren’t there other people here?” The smiling CSR says that she has called for support but nothing has happened.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 11:00 p.m.
As if by magic four other customer service reps descend and the pace picks up. When it is my turn I walk up to the desk. “You were late getting in from Miami,” are among the first words my Customer Service Representative utters. I go, as my Scottish mates would say, a bit mental. “No, I was on time. I was on time for two flights. I was four hours early. YOU were late!”
To which her answer was “I didn’t fly the plane, sir.”
And that, my friends, sums up the entire American Airlines experience. She didn’t care about me, the customer, and she is doing her job like a robot. Not once during these delays did we receive an apology. No one said they were sorry, no one tried to attempt a customer service recovery after a number of customer service failures, and no one seemed to be passionate about doing their jobs. In fact, I had the distinct impression that a lot of what I experienced on Saturday was intentional.
After confirming my flight out the next morning and handing me a hotel voucher and two meal vouchers, I stumble out to the curb and catch the shuttle to the Crown Pointe Hotel only to find…
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 11:25 p.m.
…that Miss Warm and Fuzzy has not given me a boarding pass. This means I have to print one out, never an easy thing on the bulky, customer-unfriendly site, where it takes multiple pages to even get to the check-in screen. I had to call Customer relations twice because my reservation hadn’t shown up in the system.
Sunday, October 14, 2012, 6:40 a.m.
We leave for San Diego.
Here is my version.
Dear American Airlines,
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 3:00 p.m.
I am sitting in the departure lounge waiting for the 3:40 p.m. flight to Los Angeles. I am happy to be on this flight as my business in Miami ended early and I was able to move my reservation from a flight leaving at 6:10 p.m. Cost me $75.00, but the prospect of getting home three hours earlier was compensation enough.
I turn around and see that the flight has been delayed until 4:15 p.m. A mild ripple in the universe, to be certain, but not earth shattering. I turn around a few minutes later and see that the delay has been changed to 4:10 p.m. Good news. At 3:20 p.m., with the natives getting restless, the gate agent makes her first announcement. We are being delayed due to a mechanical problem. Grumbles, moans, and few exasperated sighs.
Forty minutes later, at 4:00 p.m., I approach the gate agent and ask if there has been any further news. She says no. I tell her that the people in the departure lounge are beginning to do more than grumble, and that anxiety is caused by powerlessness. I suggest that she make an announcement that first said nothing had changed in our situation and that she would keep us posted. She agreed. I no sooner step away from the podium when she picks up the mic and announces that that the mechanical problem had not yet be solved and she would update us again between 4:45 and 5:00 p.m. I pull a U-turn and head back to the podium and ask her what that would mean for my connection in Los Angeles. She reports that I will miss it but she will book me on the flight leaving at 10:30 p.m. My original connection. I ask her to put me back on my original flight and she does.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 4:15 p.m.
I nod to the gatekeeper at the Admiral’s Club who waves me in for my second visit of the day. I approach the customer service desk and ask that my $75.00 be refunded. Linda begins to type into the keyboard and soon is asking for help and assistance. She has hit more keystrokes that it took to write Windows 8. She slips me a drink ticket and tells me to chill and see her before I leave.
OK, now a word about the Admiral’s Lounge. I would say it’s more of a Petty Officer’s Mess than an Admiral’s Lounge. There is a bit of what I can only describe as a sort of pretzel kibble on offer alongside unwrapped cookies. With hundreds of cases of spinal meningitis these cookies are suddenly quite unappealing. And, in this regard I do admit to be a hard marker; the only single malts available are (surprise!) Glenlivet 12 and Glenfiddich 12, only one of which is barely drinkable. My expectations of arriving home early dismissed, I text Mrs. T. with the news.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 5:30 p.m.
I retrieve the credit card, my receipt, wave to the gatekeeper and head down the escalator to the departure lounge. My gate is directly under the Admiral’s Club and I see our aircraft. A solid stream of liquid is pouring out of the airplane just behind the nose. Thinking this can’t be good I arrive in the departure lounge in time to hear “We are taking the aircraft out of service. This flight has been cancelled.”
By the way, the 3:40 p.m. flight still has not left.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 5:32 p.m.
I am back at the Admiral’s Lounge, waving again to my new best friend, and queue up. I am beginning to delaminate, but hold it in reasonable check. Meanwhile I am thinking to myself, “Do these fuckheads have any working aircraft in the fleet?”
I hand the customer service representative my ticket with one instruction. “Get me out of here and home tonight.” She books me on three different flights and gives me the news that my chances of making the 10:30 p.m. LAX flight are slim. Nothing is available through Dallas. Chicago, the scene of Dear American Airlines by the way, not an option.
Saturday, October 13, 6:20 p.m.
Announcement: Flight 231 will take off at 7:30 p.m. from gate B44, far enough away from B15 to require a trip on the Skylink train.
Saturday, October 13, 7:45 p.m.
We take off. In the old days, the flight crew would have apologized for the delay and offered everyone a free drink. These are the old days. You want something other than a soda, water, tea or coffee and you’re paying for it. People used to laugh that Southwest only gave away peanuts. You don’t get peanuts on American Airlines. In fact, you better have your own earphones if you want to watch the movie.
Saturday, October 13, 10:18 p.m.
We land and a customer service rep meets the aircraft and directs me to Gate 44 to catch the shuttle for my connection. I run to the gate, fly down two flights of stairs and the gate agent tells me that my flight is closed. It hasn’t left, mind you. It’s just closed. I make the point that I will soon be joined by a number of other people in the same boat. See the customer service rep is her dour advice.
I walk back to the gate, now fuming a bit and sure enough a number of my fellow San Diego travelling companions have learned that our flight had been closed. This probably the only fucking flight that left on time at American that day. She directs us to the customer service desk at gate 42B.
We trudge down to 42 B to encounter a long queue, getting longer by the minute, and one (1, uno, ONE, une as in the loneliest number) customer service representative. She displays a distinct lack of a sense of urgency. People ahead of me in line say that is taking her about 30 minutes per person to resolve any issue. I pull out my phone and call American Airlines only to be told there is nothing that can be down. Finally, a wee African-American girl in her early twenties marches to the front of the line and asks “Can you please give us an idea on how long this will take? And why aren’t there other people here?” The smiling CSR says that she has called for support but nothing has happened.
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 11:00 p.m.
As if by magic four other customer service reps descend and the pace picks up. When it is my turn I walk up to the desk. “You were late getting in from Miami,” are among the first words my Customer Service Representative utters. I go, as my Scottish mates would say, a bit mental. “No, I was on time. I was on time for two flights. I was four hours early. YOU were late!”
To which her answer was “I didn’t fly the plane, sir.”
And that, my friends, sums up the entire American Airlines experience. She didn’t care about me, the customer, and she is doing her job like a robot. Not once during these delays did we receive an apology. No one said they were sorry, no one tried to attempt a customer service recovery after a number of customer service failures, and no one seemed to be passionate about doing their jobs. In fact, I had the distinct impression that a lot of what I experienced on Saturday was intentional.
After confirming my flight out the next morning and handing me a hotel voucher and two meal vouchers, I stumble out to the curb and catch the shuttle to the Crown Pointe Hotel only to find…
Saturday, October 13, 2012, 11:25 p.m.
…that Miss Warm and Fuzzy has not given me a boarding pass. This means I have to print one out, never an easy thing on the bulky, customer-unfriendly site, where it takes multiple pages to even get to the check-in screen. I had to call Customer relations twice because my reservation hadn’t shown up in the system.
Sunday, October 14, 2012, 6:40 a.m.
We leave for San Diego.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
And the winner is...
We have an addiction. The first thing you can do to help yourself is to admit to the addiction. Our shared jones is the Caramel Shortbread, aka The Millionaire. This is a particularly lovely dessert, though we normally indulged in early or mid-afternoon. Shortbread layered with caramel and topped with chocolate. In our quest to find Scotland's best Caramel Shortbread we tried them at a number of locations: Cafe Nero, Costa, The Willow Tea Rooms, even the Glasgow Airport. The winner, hands down, Naked Soup, just off the Great Western Road. A fun cafe where we had a couple of breakfasts.
We returned yesterday from our three week sojourn, packed in like sardines on the British Air direct flight from London to San Diego. When we didn't have the craniums of the people in the row ahead of us in our face we were assaulted in the lumbar area by a wild child and his equally frenetic parental units. I am afraid it must be business class on any return trips across the pond. It wasn't a flight...it was torture. I am sure BA violated three or four of the Geneva Convention rules of conduct.
Lynn had the same opportunity to get into serious trouble on the day I led the assault on Dublin. She attended a "hen do", a bachelorette party. It is a bit disconcerting to be half in the bag on Nassau Street singing "Body of an American" and receiving an e-mail from your beloved spouse with "Nice bum" as the subject line.
Our last week was spent in a mad dash to Inverness on Tuesday and Wednesday, where:
We returned yesterday from our three week sojourn, packed in like sardines on the British Air direct flight from London to San Diego. When we didn't have the craniums of the people in the row ahead of us in our face we were assaulted in the lumbar area by a wild child and his equally frenetic parental units. I am afraid it must be business class on any return trips across the pond. It wasn't a flight...it was torture. I am sure BA violated three or four of the Geneva Convention rules of conduct.
Lynn had the same opportunity to get into serious trouble on the day I led the assault on Dublin. She attended a "hen do", a bachelorette party. It is a bit disconcerting to be half in the bag on Nassau Street singing "Body of an American" and receiving an e-mail from your beloved spouse with "Nice bum" as the subject line.
Our last week was spent in a mad dash to Inverness on Tuesday and Wednesday, where:
- We walked the River Ness and Ness Islands in gale force winds
- Saw a few brothers of the angle fly-fishing River Ness, using long Spey rods and making the elegant, long Spey casts
- Stayed in a wonderful bed and breakfast Ardconnel House where I sampled the haggis and back pudding...now there's a breakfast
- We took the Jacobite Tour to Urquhart Castle (don't even try to pronounce it, you'll be wrong, unless you're an Urquhart, then you might have a 50/50 chance)
- We continued the tour to the Loch Ness Monster Exhibit and despite all expectations thoroughly enjoyed the six-video presentation...bottom line, bollocks
- Learned how to pronounce Drumnadrachit
Thursday we toured Auchentoshan, a whisky distillery located just outside the Glasgow City limits. I was introduced to the whisky on the previous trip and it has fact become of my favorite single malts. Alaister, our tour guide, was delightful, informative, witty, and quite knowledgable. He also works one day a week at The Pot Still, a legendary pub on Hope Street that features over 400 whiskies. (Hmmm, I haven't visited there yet...) I've been on enough of these tours to where I think I could do a credible job explaining the process (washing, mash tun, yeast, barley, water, distilling, angels share, etc.), but Alaister was amazing. Anecdotes, ready answers to questions, and an appreciation of those who appreciate a fine dram. Of course, the best part of the tour is always a stop in the tasting room where we sampled a 12-years old. In the words of Para Handy, "Chust sublime."
Auchentoshan Three Wood somehow made it into our luggage.
Friday was a busy day. John Rae and Carol Smith picked us up and we drove to Dollar and we all hiked to Campbell Castle. The wet, steep trail put me in mind of Oregon, lush damp forest, with a raging stream (bern) cascading down the steep hillside. The evening found us back at Jelly Hill for a last dram and then we all decamped to Gallus, a pub on Dumbarton Road to listen to Easy Tiger, a cover band featuring our friend Gylen as the front man and Callan banging on the skins. Lucy sang a few songs, including a great duet with Gylen of the Johnny Cash-June Carter classic, "Jackson." We sang, we danced, we drank, we hugged, we said our goodbyes and made the last walk to the flat.
Closing thoughts...as Lynn observed within an hour of our arrival, this was a different sort of trip. While our 2010 nine-week sabbatical-of-sorts was filled with discovery and sense of newness, meeting and making new friends, all while enjoying the most pacific weather Scotland had enjoyed in 70 years, this was a return trip. We were visiting old friends (yes, we made a few new ones as well) on familiar ground in a city we knew rather well. Our timing was dictated by our desire to see The Royal Military Tattoo and Edinburgh Fringe Festival. On a positive note our friends are busy, and while they are not screaming "world-wide economic recovery" from the rooftops, there is a sense that things are picking up.
Just as we know when we see Andrew Kevan, Millennium Executive Travel, waiting for us in the arrivals lounge that we have made it to Glasgow, we know we are leaving when we shake his hand for the last time and walk into the departures hall.
We have been told by many of our friends that we have seen more of their land than many natives have seen, but that's a universal dilemma. You never "vacation" in your home town.
The Dublin trip will fall into the realm of legend.
And we will miss that quaint introduction, "These are our American friends."
Monday, September 3, 2012
Operation Dublin
Any great Naval Operation requires proper planning, because as we know: "Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance." Our swift deployment to Dublin in support of the United States Naval Academy football team demanded split second timing and stunningly swift execution.
One of the suggestions on the table was that everyone have a code name for the operation, which put someone in mind of an animated children's show, Captain Pugwash. Character names included Master Bates, Seaman Staines, and Roger the Cabin Boy. (Alas, a check of Snopes proved these names to be a bit of an urban legend, though I was mystified by Lieutenant Scratchwood.)
We planned to meet at 06:45 in front of Jelly Hill, our local, and one by one the cadre appeared, receiving and donning their one bit of uniform gear, a NAVY baseball cap. We were only missing one of our number, Callum, who fortunately lived just across the street and was easily summoned by battering down his door with the assistance of a SWAT team from Strathcylde Police. Our lad had ended his evening but a couple of hours before, thus giving the rest of us the impetus we needed to help him in assuaging his precarious position.
Gylen arrived carrying a rather large hold-all. There is an interesting turn of phrase here, "taking the piss"' for which you can substitute giving someone a rather hard time. Poor Gylen, I am afraid we rode him quite hard about the amount of product he carried in his bag, he being the only metrosexual in our team.
I must say, there is something rather delightful about a Guinness at 07:35. The only debate was the propriety of ordering a Guinness with Ireland but 45 minutes away by Aer Lingus. The question was never should we have a beer, only the brand. It was the first, but not the last. By the time we boarded the plane we had been fortified by a wee battle of Beck's (desperate times in the departure lounge called for desperate measures.)
Now we have been all been on flights where a group seems ecstatic about their destination and the prospects of having a wonderful time upon arrival. Ah, those groups can, at times, be a bit exuberant, and perhaps we have judged "those guys" rather harshly. Well, we were those guys, though I would like to think that we delighted our fellow travelers, Our flight was momentarily delayed because of problems encountered in loading the golf clubs of one of my countryman, a towering fellow who must have gone 6' 8" so you can imagine that his clubs were probably not normal size. We'll have to leave the tiny bathroom and the parabolic flight path for another time.
Our transport entertainment continued on the bus as we kept the entire top tier of the double decker in stitches. I am certain that the family from Spain thought we had been hired by the city fathers of Dublin to provide frolic and good times on what would have been a boring bus ride. We dumped the bags at the hostel. Gary challenged a young lady lieutenant to an arm wrestling match, though fortunately for him it never came off. She was the Brigade champion 125 lb. boxing champion.
We infiltrated Notre Dame's tailgate location at Temple Bar where the Guinness continued to flow. After fortifying ourselves with a pizza we hiked to stadium. Walking in front of us was a fresh-faced couple, the quintessential Americans, he a tall, good-looking lad with short hair, and she, a pretty lass, and they were lamenting the fact that they didn't have tickets to the game and hoped that they would be and to buy them from a scalper at the stadium. And that's how we met Justin and Iris Smith from Nashville, Tennessee who remained our boon companions for the rest of the day and well into the night. I traded my tickets for their money, at cost. Good karma. I heard that tickets were selling for $400 each I the states, but since I got the tickets through good karma, it only seemed fitting to pass them along in equal measure.
Let's not dwell on the game, a 50-10 shellacking with a shelelaigh by the bigger, faster, Irish team who also sported shoes in the color of the Irish flag. Highlights, watching my five Scottish mates trying to figure out when to boo and cheer, being stunned by paying €48 for six hot dogs, seeing a few if my classmates, and getting an on field moment with Admiral Jon Greenert, Chief of Naval Operations, but more important, a class of 1975 graduate. Jon is a real American hero and a true patriot.
You can imagine what followed, and despite the immense amount of Guinnsess consumed, either eight or nine Imperial pints before I switched to whisky, I was never in extremis. We met scores of midshipmen,, sailors and Marines. I asked one first class bosun's mate to play "all secure" on his pipe. We sang The Pogues' "Body of an American" outside of The Blarney Inn. While holding court we were approached by a somewhat familiar couple who looked at us and then shouted "You're the guys from the bus!" They then spoiled their insight by asking us if we had had a nap yet. Our answer, "We'll sleep when we die." Though my second-in-command, Commander John, went hors d'combat, he provided key on the ground logistics. We had a stunning meal a Gallaher & Company Bistro. I decided to call it a night after dinner, but half the team continued operations until the wee hours of 2 Septemeber.
After stumbling into our hostel room, four bunk beds, at different hours, all to hear John's admonition, "Use the wee light!" we all rose about the same ungodly hour of morning. We sent our official photographer, Chris, off on his Spanish holiday and the remaining five had a proper Irish fry-up breakfast.
Our final Guinness at the airport sealed the deal.
But remember, what happens in Dublin stays in Dublin.
One of the suggestions on the table was that everyone have a code name for the operation, which put someone in mind of an animated children's show, Captain Pugwash. Character names included Master Bates, Seaman Staines, and Roger the Cabin Boy. (Alas, a check of Snopes proved these names to be a bit of an urban legend, though I was mystified by Lieutenant Scratchwood.)
We planned to meet at 06:45 in front of Jelly Hill, our local, and one by one the cadre appeared, receiving and donning their one bit of uniform gear, a NAVY baseball cap. We were only missing one of our number, Callum, who fortunately lived just across the street and was easily summoned by battering down his door with the assistance of a SWAT team from Strathcylde Police. Our lad had ended his evening but a couple of hours before, thus giving the rest of us the impetus we needed to help him in assuaging his precarious position.
Gylen arrived carrying a rather large hold-all. There is an interesting turn of phrase here, "taking the piss"' for which you can substitute giving someone a rather hard time. Poor Gylen, I am afraid we rode him quite hard about the amount of product he carried in his bag, he being the only metrosexual in our team.
I must say, there is something rather delightful about a Guinness at 07:35. The only debate was the propriety of ordering a Guinness with Ireland but 45 minutes away by Aer Lingus. The question was never should we have a beer, only the brand. It was the first, but not the last. By the time we boarded the plane we had been fortified by a wee battle of Beck's (desperate times in the departure lounge called for desperate measures.)
Now we have been all been on flights where a group seems ecstatic about their destination and the prospects of having a wonderful time upon arrival. Ah, those groups can, at times, be a bit exuberant, and perhaps we have judged "those guys" rather harshly. Well, we were those guys, though I would like to think that we delighted our fellow travelers, Our flight was momentarily delayed because of problems encountered in loading the golf clubs of one of my countryman, a towering fellow who must have gone 6' 8" so you can imagine that his clubs were probably not normal size. We'll have to leave the tiny bathroom and the parabolic flight path for another time.
Our transport entertainment continued on the bus as we kept the entire top tier of the double decker in stitches. I am certain that the family from Spain thought we had been hired by the city fathers of Dublin to provide frolic and good times on what would have been a boring bus ride. We dumped the bags at the hostel. Gary challenged a young lady lieutenant to an arm wrestling match, though fortunately for him it never came off. She was the Brigade champion 125 lb. boxing champion.
We infiltrated Notre Dame's tailgate location at Temple Bar where the Guinness continued to flow. After fortifying ourselves with a pizza we hiked to stadium. Walking in front of us was a fresh-faced couple, the quintessential Americans, he a tall, good-looking lad with short hair, and she, a pretty lass, and they were lamenting the fact that they didn't have tickets to the game and hoped that they would be and to buy them from a scalper at the stadium. And that's how we met Justin and Iris Smith from Nashville, Tennessee who remained our boon companions for the rest of the day and well into the night. I traded my tickets for their money, at cost. Good karma. I heard that tickets were selling for $400 each I the states, but since I got the tickets through good karma, it only seemed fitting to pass them along in equal measure.
Let's not dwell on the game, a 50-10 shellacking with a shelelaigh by the bigger, faster, Irish team who also sported shoes in the color of the Irish flag. Highlights, watching my five Scottish mates trying to figure out when to boo and cheer, being stunned by paying €48 for six hot dogs, seeing a few if my classmates, and getting an on field moment with Admiral Jon Greenert, Chief of Naval Operations, but more important, a class of 1975 graduate. Jon is a real American hero and a true patriot.
You can imagine what followed, and despite the immense amount of Guinnsess consumed, either eight or nine Imperial pints before I switched to whisky, I was never in extremis. We met scores of midshipmen,, sailors and Marines. I asked one first class bosun's mate to play "all secure" on his pipe. We sang The Pogues' "Body of an American" outside of The Blarney Inn. While holding court we were approached by a somewhat familiar couple who looked at us and then shouted "You're the guys from the bus!" They then spoiled their insight by asking us if we had had a nap yet. Our answer, "We'll sleep when we die." Though my second-in-command, Commander John, went hors d'combat, he provided key on the ground logistics. We had a stunning meal a Gallaher & Company Bistro. I decided to call it a night after dinner, but half the team continued operations until the wee hours of 2 Septemeber.
After stumbling into our hostel room, four bunk beds, at different hours, all to hear John's admonition, "Use the wee light!" we all rose about the same ungodly hour of morning. We sent our official photographer, Chris, off on his Spanish holiday and the remaining five had a proper Irish fry-up breakfast.
Our final Guinness at the airport sealed the deal.
But remember, what happens in Dublin stays in Dublin.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Belgium...six days of friets, chocolate and beer
We departed Scotland on August 25th for a wee sojourn to Belgium. Our first stop was Antwerp where we met our friend Patricia's friend Pran and his son, Raj, the world's most poised and polite kid. When we first entered the house the power was off and after a number of fits and starts and flipping enough switches we finally hit the right combination. But Pran was already riding to the rescue and offered susggestions on what to see and where to eat.
Our first stop was to try friets, the famous Belgian fries. Yes, they are served with mayonaisse, but other choices abound, including samurai sauce, ketchup with curry. Our one day in Atwerp, cold, rainy, blustery was spent in the Museum aan de Stroom (MAS), a rather eclectic collection of oddments and art. Peter Paul Rubens, of course, van Dyck, naturally, but also a strange tribute to power where the Japanese claims to fame included shoguns, the Walkman, and Pokemon. We also saw the Cathedral, another church and Rubens' house. With the exception of the Cathedral, everything was free, a culture day in Antwerp.
On Monday we departed Antwerp's Central Station. Amazing train station with trains leaving from three levels. Our destination, Bruges.
We stayed at Hotel Patritius, owned by Garret and Elvie, who in addition to operating a lovely, family-owned 16-room hotel, we're equally generous with recommendations for dinner and must-see sights. We purchased a Bruges City Card, €35 for two days and then tore it up.
Our first stop was to try friets, the famous Belgian fries. Yes, they are served with mayonaisse, but other choices abound, including samurai sauce, ketchup with curry. Our one day in Atwerp, cold, rainy, blustery was spent in the Museum aan de Stroom (MAS), a rather eclectic collection of oddments and art. Peter Paul Rubens, of course, van Dyck, naturally, but also a strange tribute to power where the Japanese claims to fame included shoguns, the Walkman, and Pokemon. We also saw the Cathedral, another church and Rubens' house. With the exception of the Cathedral, everything was free, a culture day in Antwerp.
On Monday we departed Antwerp's Central Station. Amazing train station with trains leaving from three levels. Our destination, Bruges.
We stayed at Hotel Patritius, owned by Garret and Elvie, who in addition to operating a lovely, family-owned 16-room hotel, we're equally generous with recommendations for dinner and must-see sights. We purchased a Bruges City Card, €35 for two days and then tore it up.
- A canal ride
- Climbed the Belltower made famous by the movie, In Bruges, and it is impossible to toss anyone from the top as it all screened in
- The Groeninge Museum
- The Church of Our Lady, where a Michelangelo adorns the tomb of a wealthy Bruges merchant
- De Halve Maan Brewery tour, the last remaining brewery in Bruges
- The Chocolate Museum
- The Dali Museum
- Gruuthouse Museum
Another train ride brought us to Brussels, the home of NATO and the European Union. More museums, including the Rene Magritte Museum and the Comic Museum (think Tintin.).
We saw far too many depictions of Madonna and Child, the Last Judgment (Hieronymus Bosch by fa the best), apostles painting Madonna and Child, and portraits of dour Flemish merchants.
With Belgium the home of the Euro-nanny state we were surprised to see people smoking in restaurants, specifically the bar in Brasschaat and a restaurant in Bruges where we were dining al fresco.
Smoke 'em if you've got 'em!
Sunday, August 26, 2012
The Tattoo, the Fringe, fly-fishing, rubgy...and a wee rant
When we mentioned we were planning on visiting Edinburgh for the Tattoo, a number of people thought we were embarking on an L.A. Ink like mid-life crisis. Our son Justin was concerned we would return with cryptic Chinese symbols. Friends of Lynn at work harbored similar thoughts.
Not that kind of tattoo. This was the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo, a collection of military piping bands and other entertaiments performed in the massive courtyard of Edinburgh Castle.
What worked:
Not that kind of tattoo. This was the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo, a collection of military piping bands and other entertaiments performed in the massive courtyard of Edinburgh Castle.
What worked:
- The Lone Piper...a huge brute of a guy, a corporal, who first gave an elaborate toast in Gaelic and then drank a ceremonial dram with the guest of honor, the Royal Navy's Second Sea Lord. When he finished the Lone Piper turned over the quaich, a drinking vessel, and kissed the bottom, signifying the whisky had been finished to the last drop.
- The massed piper bands who both finished and ended the show.
- The Top Secret Drum Corps from Switzerland.
- His Majesty The King of Norway's Guards Band and Drill Team...though comprised of soldiers performing their one-year of mandatory service, they were sharp. (Can't hold a candle to the U.S. Marine Corps Silent Drill Team.
- The sentries posted by The Black Watch. Unlike the toy soldiers from Norway these were hard men, bemedalled, all carrying the latest combat weapons.
What didn't work:
- The United States Naval Forces Europe band playing a selection of comic-book hero theme songs.
- Disney-Pixar invasion with songs from Brave.
- Children dressed as Picts roaming around the courtyard to begin the show.
- An inordinate fawning tribute to Queen Elizabeth and her Diamond Jubilee.
We also attending the Fringe Festival which truly has to be experienced to be believed. Hundreds of shows, from comedy to cabaret singing to plays. The plays could be adaptations of Shakespeare or other classics to new productions to one-man or one-women shows. Every public space in town had been converted to a performing arts venue.
Our favorites...Four Screws Loose and their show, Screw the World. Four talented guys performing sketch comedy, including an opening with one of the troup wearing a Borat-type swim suit complete with faux pubic hair and a three-minute rendition of Titanic using brief excerpts from a number of songs. Our next favorite was a one-man play, Big Sean, Mikey and Me. Rory is still trying to break in to the acting scene, at age 36, and following a number of life's challenges. Gangs in Edinburgh, an enigmatic friendship with Mikey, and the voice of Sean Connery distributing, on balance, poor advice of life, love, and career.
On Thursday I went fly-fishing with Nigel and Callum. Due to concerns about the weather the trip to a loch morphed into a pond expedition. I had one on and Nigel landed a nice three-pounder. When we finished the day a wag who was sharing the pond with us mused, "A good result, Scotland 1, America 0." Callum shared a bit of philosophy: "The only thing more boring that fishing is watching fishing."
We ended the week by visiting Pollok House and The Burrell Collection and then attending a tribute to the late Gordon Mackay, a rugby player and former owner of Jelly Hill (our home away from home in Glasgow) who died of a heart attack in 2008. Rugby game, bevvies and food.
The wee rant...quite frustrated with Verizon Wireless. First Lynn's phone didn't work, and when Verizon entered her SIM card number my phone didn't and then it took hours to sort that out. No service available in Edinburgh and when we landed in Belgium yesterday my phone had no service requiring another call.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Trivia, 56 steps, and the death of Scottish football
We are shameless homers. Wanting to support the latest effort to provide non-stop service from San Diego to London, we booked the British Air flight with a continuing flight to Glasgow. A bit of a disappointment, British Air has a distinctly user unfriendly website hat required me to scroll back and print each of the four boarding passes separately. On the flight itself, while the service was top note the equipment was old and crowded. The experience of passing through Heathrow was also a trip. Through customs then about fur other checkpoints including another security screening as well as having our photos taken twice.
After finding our bags in "Baggage Reclaim" we walked into the waiting area of the Gkasgow Airport to see Andrew Kevan, our intrepid driver and owner of Milennium, and I broke into a huge grin. Seeing Andrew makes it official...we have arrived. What followed was a spirited discussion on the state of the worldwide economy, the future of shipbuilding in Scotland, and the upcoming election in the United States. We then met Callum who, along with Andrew, deposited us squarely into John Rae's flat. Graciously Callum and Andrew struggled up the 56 stairs hauling the two large pieces of luggage. We unpacked and headed to The Wee Curry House only to find...
...The Glasgow Curry House. Renamed, remodeled, a tribute to famous Glasgow curry, but staffed by the same team and greeted by the irrepressible Jimmy, who remembered us frm our previous visit.
And then to The Rock where I had a couple of pints of Guinness while helping our friends with a few answers in the trivia quiz. Who directed Mystic River? (Clint Eastwood). Tom Joad is a character of what American novel? (The Grapes of Wrath) What novel is narrated by Nick Carraway? (The Great Gatsby).
On Friday we laid in supplies, built a solid foundation of food in the belly before strollling over to Jelly Hill. We were surrounded by friends and caught up. Callan and Kirsteen are a couple of weeks away from opening the Siempre Bike Shop and Cafe. Gylen, firmly entrenched in a new business incubator, has launched a vide production company. Nigel is running a large construction project, building a new distillery in Arran. Lucy is hip deep in designing a 600-page fishing catalog. Four drams of Bruichladdich, two being doubles, and Marion's shout looking suspiciously like a triple, and we strolled home, none the worse for wear.
On Saturday we took the train to Helensburgh to visit Hill House. We stopped in Tourist Information to inquire on the location. Three ladies were in a deep discussion with Stewart, who was manning the shop, on the merits of bed and breakfasts versus hotels on Iona. When Stewart said, "I'll be with you in a minute" we said to take his time that we weren't in a hurry. He then gave us directions and suggested a taxi to get us up the hill. The trio of women offered to drive us, once again demonstrating the hospitality of the Scots.
Hill House was amazing. Walter Blackie, a successful publisher, commissioned Charles Rennie MacIntosh to design his home. A must see for anyone interested in art and architecture, especially fans of Frank Lloyd Wright, who appears to have "sampled" a few of MacIntosh's designs.
We finished the day with dinner at Cafe Andaluz and a visit to Tom and Marion Brodie's lovely home. The former ceilidh performer regaled us with stories that went from the mines of Campbeltown to puffer boats to kilt belt buckles.
The death of Scottish football...while riding for a couple of stops on the Clockwork Orange, Glasgow's loop subway system, we shared the car with a number of Rangers Football Club supporters, off to Ibrox and a match. The club filed for bancruptcy and was relegated two leagues down, effectively ending the Old Firm, the pitched battles and fierce rivalry with Celtic, the other Glasgow club. The two clubs were perennial winners of the Scottish Premier League. With one c,ub now gone, the league is effectively left with a singe strong team. Muhammed Ali needed Joe Frazer, the Yankees need the Red Sox, and who is Roger Federer without Rafael Nadal?
After finding our bags in "Baggage Reclaim" we walked into the waiting area of the Gkasgow Airport to see Andrew Kevan, our intrepid driver and owner of Milennium, and I broke into a huge grin. Seeing Andrew makes it official...we have arrived. What followed was a spirited discussion on the state of the worldwide economy, the future of shipbuilding in Scotland, and the upcoming election in the United States. We then met Callum who, along with Andrew, deposited us squarely into John Rae's flat. Graciously Callum and Andrew struggled up the 56 stairs hauling the two large pieces of luggage. We unpacked and headed to The Wee Curry House only to find...
...The Glasgow Curry House. Renamed, remodeled, a tribute to famous Glasgow curry, but staffed by the same team and greeted by the irrepressible Jimmy, who remembered us frm our previous visit.
And then to The Rock where I had a couple of pints of Guinness while helping our friends with a few answers in the trivia quiz. Who directed Mystic River? (Clint Eastwood). Tom Joad is a character of what American novel? (The Grapes of Wrath) What novel is narrated by Nick Carraway? (The Great Gatsby).
On Friday we laid in supplies, built a solid foundation of food in the belly before strollling over to Jelly Hill. We were surrounded by friends and caught up. Callan and Kirsteen are a couple of weeks away from opening the Siempre Bike Shop and Cafe. Gylen, firmly entrenched in a new business incubator, has launched a vide production company. Nigel is running a large construction project, building a new distillery in Arran. Lucy is hip deep in designing a 600-page fishing catalog. Four drams of Bruichladdich, two being doubles, and Marion's shout looking suspiciously like a triple, and we strolled home, none the worse for wear.
On Saturday we took the train to Helensburgh to visit Hill House. We stopped in Tourist Information to inquire on the location. Three ladies were in a deep discussion with Stewart, who was manning the shop, on the merits of bed and breakfasts versus hotels on Iona. When Stewart said, "I'll be with you in a minute" we said to take his time that we weren't in a hurry. He then gave us directions and suggested a taxi to get us up the hill. The trio of women offered to drive us, once again demonstrating the hospitality of the Scots.
Hill House was amazing. Walter Blackie, a successful publisher, commissioned Charles Rennie MacIntosh to design his home. A must see for anyone interested in art and architecture, especially fans of Frank Lloyd Wright, who appears to have "sampled" a few of MacIntosh's designs.
We finished the day with dinner at Cafe Andaluz and a visit to Tom and Marion Brodie's lovely home. The former ceilidh performer regaled us with stories that went from the mines of Campbeltown to puffer boats to kilt belt buckles.
The death of Scottish football...while riding for a couple of stops on the Clockwork Orange, Glasgow's loop subway system, we shared the car with a number of Rangers Football Club supporters, off to Ibrox and a match. The club filed for bancruptcy and was relegated two leagues down, effectively ending the Old Firm, the pitched battles and fierce rivalry with Celtic, the other Glasgow club. The two clubs were perennial winners of the Scottish Premier League. With one c,ub now gone, the league is effectively left with a singe strong team. Muhammed Ali needed Joe Frazer, the Yankees need the Red Sox, and who is Roger Federer without Rafael Nadal?
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