Delhi hi, happy holy, no shorts please, and Hirsch the Indian tour guide

Hello dear Reader, I am happy to report that I am setting off on another journey. This time, I will be visiting the magical land of India, accompanied by my dear friend Hilary. This is to be our own Julia Roberts-esque pilgrimage to the birthplace of yoga and cheap offshore engineering outsourcing. Leaving my darling husband and children back home, I am thinking of this trip as my own personal Eat, Pray, Shop. I must warn you that being on the 4th week of a 6-week sucrose detox (no rice, no naan, no delicious mango chutney); this adventure poses a particularly difficult challenge for me. I have pre-ordered a diabetic meal on all flights to ensure minimal temptation aboard the 2 long flights to India.


If faced with a warm scone and clotted cream prior to landing, I fear I may buckle. I am undaunted, however, and after settling into my comfy seat on a Lufthansa flight to Munich from where we will connect to our flight to Delhi, I am feeling excited and relaxed.




The purser, one Hehr Renner approached my aisle seat soon after take off and in a soft yet heavily German accented voice discreetly inquired as to whether I was “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein.” I nodded yes. “You heh-free-qvested dee-a-betique meal, jah?” Again I nodded yes. Hehr Renner then gently placed a hand on my cashmere wrap covered arm and looking deep into my eyes said, “Pleez do not hez-et-ate to ree-qvest helf for eny-zing et owl Mizz Boh-ren-shtein, vee are he-ah to helf.” I nodded again and smiled gratefully, realizing with some melancholy that his misunderstanding regarding my actually being a diabetic would likely serve as a full proof deterrent against my indulging in a glass of sucrose filled champagne. I wondered momentarily whether my not carrying an insulin kit might pose a credibility issue but then realized that my frequent trips to the bathroom would prove an excellent smokescreen.

A few moments later a younger male flight attendant wheeled his cart of dinner trays down the aisle and stopped at my side. “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein?” he asked surprised. I nodded. He produced a tray containing a cold, grilled chicken breast a top a small pile of iceberg lettuce and as he placed it down in front of me, smiled and laughing knowingly under his breath added, “no carbs,” before rolling his way down the aisle. A momentary sense of shame washed over me and I said a silent prayer that he would not rat me out to kind Hehr Renner. Needless to say I had no alcohol but a lovely sleeping pill helped ease me into a gentle slumber on the long flight.

After landing in Delhi some 20 hours later, we were greeted by Balla, a 25 year old South Indian fellow with a large scar across his forehead that might have been the result of an unfortunate encounter with a Bengal tiger. Balla wrapped sweet smelling jasmine and rose flower around our necks and ushered us into the waiting van. Our driver Mr. Jith (pronounced jee-th) nodded effusively in welcome.

20 minutes later we arrived at our sumptuous hotel, The Imperial, where a lovely hostess who placed a red bindi on my forehead between my eyes, a typical Indian greeting custom, showed us to our room. After showering and enjoying a cup of tea in the atrium, we headed for lunch at the Spice Road restaurant in the hotel. The hostess politely informed us that the restaurant had a “no shorts” policy and regrettably informed us that we could not gain access. I for one was in a pair of capri length cargo pants, which while not the most fashion forward of trousers, was most certainly not a pair of shorts. I smiled widely at the hostess and leaned in to explain to her that these were not shorts but well below the knee capris (I bent down and drew a line with my hand across my shins for emphasis) and assured her that they were quite acceptable. She gave me a concerned look and asked me to wait a moment while she inquire with her manager. She returned quickly and with a grand hand gesture welcomed us into the cool, ornately appointed and dimly lit restaurant. Lovely. We enjoyed lunch outside by the gazebo and fountains, attended to by a remarkably sprite and assertive waiter who insisted on refilling our plates and glasses himself. It made for an amusing pantomime of sorts with my reaching for the sparkling water or sautéed vegetables, and his sprinting across the courtyard to wrestle bottle or spoon from my tender grasp.

After lunch we met our guide, who introduced himself as “Hirsch.” He was most unlike any Hirsch I had met before; for one he was clearly Indian and for another he sounded Indian. I asked if I had heard him correctly and that indeed his name was Hirsch. He said simply, “You may koll me Hirsch orreh you may koll me Raj, dey are boat good nems.” I agree they both are. I decided to call him Hirsch.

As luck would have it, today is an Indian festival to welcome Summer and everyone we pass raises their hands into prayer position and calls out “Happy Holy,” to which I reply “Happy Holy to you.” It was only much later that Hirsch explained that the festival is actually called “Holi.” On Holi, Indian men, women and children throw brightly colored paint and colored powders on each other, covering their clothes, faces and hair with patches of paint. The effect of it all is that throughout the entire city it looks as though everyone has been involved in a serious game of paintball. Even the cows, which are considered to be sacred and can be found lying just about everywhere you look, are covered in swathes of magenta, fuschia, purple and green paint.

Hirsch took us to visit the Red Fort and we took a bicycle rickshaw tour through Old Delhi where hundreds of rainbow splotched and neon colored men teetered drunkenly in the streets. Happy Holi everyone.

Holiday Beading Success, Employee Abuse, Coke Zero envy, the greedy Astrologer, Tai Chi Master Surprise, Ms. Sanchez

It is hard to imagine a sense of satisfaction greater than that felt when the answer to "Where did you get that, I love it," is truthfully, "I made it." But indeed ladies and gentlemen, I anticipate many such exchanges to be on the horizon for yours truly, as today was a triumphant beading day for me. Unfortunately this cannot be said of the rest of the crowd in attendance at this morning's holiday beading class, a.k.a. The Bead Goes On or Don't Worry Bead Happy as it is referred to in the Ranch program schedule. The class did not start out on an energetically positive track as one of the guests, let us call her Martha, arrived a full 10 minutes late and swept into the Pavilion in quite an attention seeking huff. Martha, it is worthy to note, is in her mid-70's, and unlike the majority of Ranch guests, neither dyes her gray hair nor differentiates between her and her husbands sweatpants. Martha does however have a most vindictive nature, as you will soon see. Donna, the beading instructor, who incidentally was wearing a silver leather belt she had adorned with Swarovski crystals to a truly bedazzling effect, paused her in depth explanation of the difference between the metallic and ceramics beads to ask Martha if she was all right.

"Well, I guess you could say all right if you ignore the fact that I just spent the last hour in medical."

Without further prompting, Martha began a detailed and bitter recounting of the morning's events. While she was leaving the Clubhouse and walking behind an employee of the Ranch, a new guest appeared on the horizon and called out a greeting to the employee. The employee slowed down and responded to the greeting with an effusive and wide gesturing of her arms in a V-shaped air hello. As her hand flew with apparent jet propulsion up into the air, she caught the side of Martha's weathered face. The force of this contact was apparently sufficient to cause Martha to seek out medical treatment, and although there were no signs of injury on Martha’s face visible to the naked eye, she assured us all that her jaw was now clicking.

Donna quickly told Martha that she was sure the employee must feel terrible about the incident, to which Martha replied, “Well, you’d think so.” Donna tried again with a different approach; “I bet her hand must be hurting something awful.” This produced a visible smile across Martha’s face for apparently her clicking jaw injury had no effect on her jaw’s ability to support an effusive ear-to-ear grin. “I certainly think so,” was Martha’s official response. Unsatisfied with this, I leaned in toward Martha and asked playfully, “Do you mean “think so” or “hope so”?”

Martha winked at me with great pleasure and said in a fiery tone unbefitting her benign, baggy sweatpanted appearance, “Yup, you got it.” A few of the fully make-upped forehead sweatband sporting guests (think Olivia Newton John but 70+ and in tranny makeup with reading glasses) were seen to take a few discreet steps away from Martha. Donna continued with her explanation and I quietly moved my things to a table on the far side of the Pavilion.


I returned to fight my way through what can only be accurately described as a bead frenzy. Age spot covered hands were diving madly in and out of the many containers of beads spread out according to color on the tables. Beads were flying as the ladies’ acrylic nails clawed in the turquoise and red holiday beads. I avoided the frenzy almost completely by sticking to the pearl and earth tone beads, which were surprisingly unattractive to the Olivia impersonators. “Don’t cha wanna a-yedd a liddle culla fah oomph doll?” one Jackie from Cincinnati asked. I decided to sit next to Jackie for in spite of her black sweatband, I liked that she cared about the quality of my output. While Jackie struggled to find the holes in her ruby and turquoise beads through which to thread the wire, I quietly began stringing my bracelet together. Upon my asking Jackie from Cincinnati what part of New York she was from originally, Jackie dropped her bracelet in apparent shock that she still had a discernable accent. I helped Jackie from Cincinnati collect her beads as she explained how she was actually born and raised in Brooklyn but had lived in her adopted home city for the past 54 years.

When I had crimped my last bead, I tried on my bracelet and Jackie declared it to be “ah-eb-sa-loot-ly gohgess.” If you look at the photo attached, you’ll see it is hard to disagree.

After the toil of beading, I decided to sit by the flagstone pool near the Double U Café and read in the sunshine while sipping on one of the Coke Zeros I had smuggled into the Ranch on Day 1. My carcinogenic beverage acted like an open bottle of male pheromones and soon I had women of all ages and sizes approaching me to demand I tell them where I got the beverage and whether I had more. I had mixed emotions about this, for on the one hand I had empathy for these diet soda-deprived women, but on the other hand I felt contempt for these same women who clearly did not love their delectable slimming fizzy drink enough to have planned ahead and smuggled some in for themselves. I explained that they could get their very own by hiring a car to take them to the Circle K and eventually collecting my things and moved on; I knew I was no longer welcome as they sipped jealously on their unsweetened boysenberry iced tea.

I entered the Catalan Room excited for the lecture on Astrology. Katherine, the chief Astrologist at the Ranch was there and greeted me warmly, even offering me a piece of Dove dark chocolate, which I accepted gratefully. Katherine looks exactly like what I would imagine Terri Garr’s older, food obsessed sister would look like. She also speaks in a similar ditsy yet charming manner, employing multiple run on sentences that are colorful if often hard to follow. We were joined by Mona, a Ranch vet who appeared to be separated at birth from the new football coach on Glee, and Kelsey an adorable 20 year old from Atlanta visiting with her Mom.

Rather than teach us the basics of Astrology and how it is used to guide ones life toward enlightenment, Katherine spent much of the first 30 minutes showing us screen shots on the projector of various financial astrologers and talking about the incredible price increases in gold and silver. She then projected the chart of the United States of America and explained how it will be a full 12 months until we begin to emerge from the current financial turmoil due to the squaring of Uranus with various other planets apparently responsible for the movement of money.

At Mona’s behest she also pulled up the birth chart of Barack Obama, and paused in silence once it was on the large screen before us. “Well, you can certainly see how hard he’s working and what a tough time he’s having.” In truth I could not, I could see nothing but a series of numbers and squiggles. Fortunately, Mona had to excuse herself to prepare for some intense athletic feat and I left to join the lecture on Spiritual Anchoring in Turbulent Times next door.

The class was full and so I sat on the carpeted floor at the very back of the room. I noticed Hispanic Tom Selleck and his much older sugar momma sitting in the chairs in front of me listening intently to the speaker’s pointers on the importance of anchoring oneself with spirituality before allowing a situation to turn into a problem. I am still unclear on the distinction between a situation and a problem, although I am clear that a problem is much worse karma and dharma wise. I am also unclear on what dharma really is, but I digress. The fourth step in anchoring is to breathe. According to the speaker we forget to breathe and this is to our detriment. Having never personally forgotten to breathe, I can nonetheless imagine how doing so might prove problematic if not fatal. At this point Mr. Selleck raised his hand and asked the speaker if he might lead the class through a brief breathing demonstration that would underscore the power of breathing as well as its simplicity. Having always found breathing quite simple myself, I was curious as to how to make it even easier. The speaker asked how long Mr. Selleck thought such a demonstration might take, an experienced speaker move, and he said no more than time it takes to take 4 or 5 breaths. Permission was granted and we were handed over to Mr. Selleck.

As it turns out Mr. Selleck is no ordinary boy toy. He informed us that he is the 1998-1999 World Tai Chi Master and that breathing technique has been the key to his success. He spoke slowly in thickly Mexican-accented English.

“Feerst ju tekke a deep clensen bref, en led id ow bery bery slow. Nex’ ju pud jour ton on dee roof a jour mao, en exhale bery bery slow.” We all did as instructed. “Pee-chure in-chaling piss and ex-chaling war, pee-chure in-chaling love and ex-chaling chate, pee-ture in-chaling li’ an ex-chaling death.” After 5 such rounds he gave us a brief explanation of the physiological changes we had just undergone as a result of the “deep clensen bref’ and the room exploded into spontaneous applause. Mr. Selleck was very pleased and his blinding smile shone proudly.

Later at the spa, I was awaiting my 100-minute Ashiatsu treatment when Mr. Selleck’s sugar momma walked in. The door from the spa waiting room to the massage rooms opened and a woman with a clipboard called out for "Mrs. Sanchez, Mrs. Jane Sanchez," and Mr. Selleck’s sugar momma stood up, “Yes, that’s me.” And so, it became clear that Mr. Selleck was far more than the sum of his oversized pearly whites, he was indeed a true master. Kudos senor, kudos.

The Numbers of Your Life, DJ Dance Party, Tyler Perry encounter, Ayurvedic profiling, Tarot Tarot Tarot

I treated myself to a sleep-in this morning and sauntered over to the dining room for breakfast at 8:45am. The disapproving glares of the sweat stained masses as I was shown to my favorite table did not have their intended effect. Rather than feel "less-than" my compatriots who had no doubt already completed the 8 mile morning walk and an early spin class before their dry egg white omelet repast, I felt "more than". So superior was my mood that I requested a half order of the whole wheat banana pancakes plus a half order of the cranberry pecan gluten free french toast, plus an organic chicken sausage patty and extra warm maple syrup. The sniggers were silenced as I tucked into my feast. "Yes," their eyes said, "we want what you have oh lazy one."

After breakfast I attended a fascinating information session on "The Numbers of Your Life," which was a primer on Numerology. As luck would have it I was sandwiched between two sturdy Midwestern-looking sisters who seemed completely lovely. Of course what became clear was that the big sister (when i say "big" i am referring purely to age although it would be a fair assessment) had hauled the little sister to the session in order to encourage the Numerologist, Diana, to explain why she was unlucky in love so that their late mother could rest in peace knowing that little sister (again purely a reference to age) would be armed with that which she needed to focus on in order to finally settle down and have a family. Diana was somewhat uncomfortable at being thrust between the two pasty faced siblings in this manner, but carried her session out with grace explaining how the numbers are indeed the numbers of your life and you can choose to go with the flow and find the path to happiness or not. As for me, according to Diana, my life's purpose is to self-actualize and create something joyful to change the world. This will apparently become clear to me in the fullness of time but most likely in this lifetime, which is a giant relief as you can well imagine. While changing the world is apparently somewhere in my future, I hope in some small way my blog is currently bringing you a modicum of joy or at least the odd chuckle.

I then made my way to Gym 1 to take DJ Dance Party with a throng of fully make-upped, headband sporting 50 and 60-somethings in various sizes of Lululemon capris and ultra white sneakers. A myriad of chassees, kick-ball-changes, and grapevines carefully choreographed to the latest Rihanna, Katy Perry, and Pink ensued with mixed success. While the V-steps and getting-low moves were less than picturesque, the full upper torso shimmying was quite frankly a deeply disturbing part of the class from which I may require some hypnotherapy. You see dear reader, no matter how fit one tries to be, nor how many elective skin tightening procedures one undergoes, at 67 one's neck and upper arm skin vibrates in a most unflattering manner. Seeing 30 preternaturally tanned wagging wattles while hearing how California Girls are all Daisy Dukes and Bikinis On Top, is not for the feint of heart.

Fortunately, it is only a 45 minute class and soon I was out by the drinks dispenser filling my standard issue plastic Canyon Ranch water bottle with lemon infused water. Suddenly I spied a tall and rather wide African American gentleman, the rarest of guests at the Ranch which tends to the chubby east coast Jewess and the lanky Atlanta-bred Wasp. The occasional make guest is most often the significant other of the former two categories of guest. He looked somewhat familiar yet I could not place him. He might be a retired professional athlete whose erstwhile muscles had turned to fat, or a character actor from a quick cancelled cable sitcom. He approached a 70 year old Jewish looking gentleman with a partial comb-over and shook his hand warmly in greeting. That is when it struck me, this looked like a scene from a Tyler Perry movie where the old Jewish man would be played by one of the Wayan's brothers in heavy prosthetic make-up. And like that, I realized that the gentleman was in fact Tyler Perry, billionaire movie producer and frequent house guest of Oprah and Steadman. He is very friendly and has tiny little teeth that are bright white. He also looks good in royal blue basketball gear but between us is not a great shot.

Soon it was time for lunch and I noticed a number of 70 year old women with 50 year old boy toys. I don't know how I had missed this phenomenon before but it was as though a tour bus full of semi-attractive middle aged male escorts had just been dropped off to entertain the senior women. One couple caught my eye, she was Caucasian, slim, in her early 70's, and likely grew up in a warm climate where she was overexposed to the sun in childhood. He was a bucktoothed, Hispanic version of Tom Selleck from the Magnum P.I. era. His hair was dyed jet black to cover his graying roots and gave him a slightly comical air, as though he were dressed as a caricature of a somewhat upscale cholo boy toy. His prodigious overbite was rendered all the more pronounced by the nearly luminescent white veneers that covered all of his teeth. No doubt a present from his sugar momma. And though I found the scene largely hilarious and tried to imagine how an SNL skit might be constructed using this subject matter, it was remarkably sweet to see Mr. Selleck hold out his date's chair, share his frozen yogurt, and laugh at her jokes with his enormous mouthful of snowy white chompers.

I then enjoyed an Introduction to Ayurveda and found that I am a Pitta Vata Dosha, (same as Meryl Streep natch) which basically means that I should avoid spicy food, use plenty of sun block and avoid overly strenuous sports. Finally it was time for my Tarot Card reading with Laurie, the Ranch Tarot Card reader who happens to be the biggest Chicago Cubs fan in the world. As she sipped from her Cubs tea mug and jotted down notes on her Wrigley Field notepad, I could not help but wonder whether a Tarot Card reader of substance would remain a devoted fan her whole life to the losingess team in the MLB, knowing (as she must) that they would never win. I felt some skepticism as I shuffled the deck of cards set out before me. However, Laurie soon proved herself to be a worthy metaphysician with her excellent observations of my multiple unique talents and abilities. When she went off script to simply read my aura and declared my energy to be positive, strong and remarkably attractive to those seeking truth and higher meaning, I could hardly disagree. Cubs fan or no, Laurie has real Tarot talent.

Tomorrow I am making a Holiday Bead Bracelet, attending a lecture on Astrology as well as one on Spiritual Anchoring in Turbulent Times, and having at least frozen chocolate covered banana.

Alpine Muesli in the Desert, Hiking with the balance challenged, Dusty never forgets, Massage etiquette and Watercolor painting 101

I awoke at 6:30am and pulled on multiple ski worthy layers in preparation for my morning hike in the unseasonably cold 40 degree weather. For any one who has yet to discover the New Zealand based outerwear company, Iceberg, may I encourage you to hop online and buy yourself as many of these miracle wicking tops as your budget will allow. I donned my gloves and beanie (which in fact is more of a woolen gangsta rappa style beret), and grabbed my hiking sticks (yes i now bring my own and yes it impresses the other guests immeasurably) and made haste for the Double U Cafe. I noticed a new addition to the early morning breakfast menu, Alpine Muesli. Of course we are in the Sonoran Dessert and nowhere near Alpine country, and so I was curious as to what exactly made this particular Muesli offering Alpine-esque. The server who took my order had neither the faintest idea nor interest in the provenance of the name nor in my fashion forward hat.

After a hot cup of tea I joined the hiking group and our lead guide for the morning, Dusty. The Leki hiking sticks in my hand immediately set me apart from the other hikers and if that wasn't enough Dusty said how nice it was to see me again. We collected our packs and alighted the Ranch van but due to my urgent need for a final pit stop before leaving on the journey, i was stuck in the 4th row. This van positioning is problematic for two distinct reasons: first, i am hopelessly car sick; and second, all important ranch conversation is conducted in the first 2 rows. I opened my pack and removed the tupperware full of glorious trail snacks from it, and began unpacking the contents of the tupperware back into the pack while leaving the unnecessary weight of the tupperware in the van. Immediately heads from the front of the van were turning to see what I was up to and I did my best to pretend not to notice their stares. Soon several other guests began to copy my inspired snack ritual while other less daring guests who simply could not bear to part with their plastic containers began consolidating tupperwares with their friends, creating a more heavy tupperware for the "snack mule" which is both inconsiderate and foolish. But alas, I was too busy feeling nauseous from the lurching bus to point out the error of the strategy. So sick was I and so quickly that at the behest of another passenger with an enormous heart, Dusty pulled the van over and I was urged into the front passenger seat next to Dusty.

Within a few short minutes I was once again able to breathe with ease confident that my Alpine Muesli would remain one with my stomach. The trio of women in the second row began discussing the legendary group of Toronto women they had heard about who visit the Ranch each year in a pack and race up the hiking and biking trails with a vengeance. I turned to Dusty and asked non-challantly, "Are they talking about that nice group of ladies we hiked up Soldier with in May?" Dusty nodded. Now I had their attention. Jackie, the tall divorcee from Manhattan spoke first, "You hiked with them Lorna?"

"Yes," I replied cooly. "Dusty took us up Soldier Trail earlier this year." I replayed the hike in my mind and recalled gasping for air as we climbed and my trying desperately to keep up with those insane Canadian she-beasts without showing them my pain.

"Were they seriously intense? I mean we heard they are totally hard core and not exactly friendly," Jackie said.

"Oh, I wouldn't say they were unfriendly," although indeed they were completely unfriendly until they had been satisfied that i was not going to slow their sprinting pace down too significantly.

I continued the defense of the group, "They were just intent on keeping a pretty quick pace and worried about anyone who may not be able to keep up and slow them down," I began delicately tapping a hiking stick against my REI convertible hiking pant/shorts as I turned to Dusty, "Dusty remember that older woman who came on the hike, she was about 70, very tanned, and in great shape too?"

"Yup," Dusty said, "she stayed right up by my side the whole way and that's our toughest Level 5 hike."
"It sure is a pretty hike," I added, emphasizing my love of nature's vistas while the three girlfriends whispered nervously behind me.

"Dusty," Jackie asked, "this hike we're doing is just a Level 3 right?"
I had to stifle the smile that wanted to spread across my lips.
"Yup, just a 3 but a real nice one. Kinda short but you'll get some terrific views," he assured them.

We headed out on the trail and began our climb. Apart from the balance challenged guest who insisted on walking directly behind me so that every so often i was forced to duck for cover as she tottered in the loose gravel before falling forward, the hike was a pleasure. Back at the Ranch, I iced my knee and enjoyed some baked zucchini hot cakes in honor of today being the first day of Hannukah. Ordinarily one would enjoy potato pancakes deep fried in oil, but this is the Ranch. I saw the same elderly couple at lunch from yesterday and the wife (clearly feeling our friendship had attained a higher level of intimacy than i had imagined) told me in her sweet Atlanta accent that she was "gah-yassy, gah-yassy, gha-yassy" and then proceeded to ask me an important spa etiquette question: "What do y'all thenk I shud do eff I pah-yass gah-yass during my-eh meh-sauge darlin'?"

This is a serious question that any spa goer worth her mettle has contemplated on numerous occasions. I gave my honest opinion, "Well," I said, "if you really can't hold it in then you just need to laugh when it happens and move on with the treatment."

This seemed to satisfy her, although in truth i would fight to contain the offending toxins with all my strength to the point of endangering my life with the threat of spontaneous combustion of the colon, rather than simply releasing and trying to pass it off with a coquettish giggle.

After my mango sugar scrub and my rejuvenating facial, I grabbed a quick bite of rice pasta with turkey meatball marinara and a side of mashed cauliflower, and then made my way to the Creative Arts Center for a class in Introduction to Watercolor Painting. I am convinced that my finished masterpiece it is not a fair reflection on Jay's talent as an instructor. Please appreciate that i didn't have to share the painting with you but I am. And no I am not sure why my bird is wearing a blue chinchilla.

Tomorrow I may return to the beading class part 2, aptly entitled "The Bead Goes On" in the Ranch weekly activity brochure.


"

Return to the Ranch, Loyalty Program, Beading Genius, Mind the Sauce

oh my dear reader, it is with great joy that i share with you the news of my triumphant return to canyon ranch. my how i have missed the myriad of registered massage therapists and the long term staff like ed, the cycling guide, who never laughs at a guest no matter how pathetic the neon pink cycling shorts she sports may be. kath, the friendly ranch driver picked me up from the airport and whisked me to the ranch in no time. i mentioned my need after check-in to arrange for transportation to the circle k minimart to purchase my week's supply of coke zero and kath offered to take me gratis. i love kath and her oddly oversized feet.

kevin checked me in and after warmly welcoming me back to the ranch, informed me that i had been upgraded to a cassita (private 1 bedroom villa). lovely. of course i checked the location of the upgraded room and was slightly concerned at the lack of close proximity to both the clubhouse where fiber rich meals are taken as well as the spa, but no cassitas closer by were available and so i assured kevin that i would make do. kevin was very gracious and after offering me a size small ranch t-shirt, bless him, which i declined in favor of a size medium, informed me that not only was i upgraded but that on account of my milestone visit (i believe it is 5 or more visits within 2 years) i was being given a gift of my choosing from the ranch management. fortunately there were plenty of other guests nearby including a gentleman with a slightly greasy ponytail to overhear the conversation. "how thoughtful," i replied at hearing the news. kevin then produced a somewhat lackluster looking leaflet from which i was to select my gift. there were but 3 meager offerings on the cheap, glossy paper stock he handed to me; a notebook with a mildly offensive southwestern motif, a pair of mini collapsable binoculars (tres skymall), and a ranch logo water bottle holder with a stainless steel water bottle. the choice was clear and i requested the water bottle and holder which i imagined would serve as a proxy for my elevated status at the ranch with those in-the-know. sort of the way that the harvard university sweatshirt with the simple "harvard" inscription serves as a status symbol because only a student on a varsity team can acquire such a sweatshirt and only harvard varsity athletes are aware of this fact thereby entreating wearers of the coveted sweatshirt with the knowing nods of his elite comrades. the thought of this freemason-like clubiness made me smile right up until the point when kevin felt it important to mention that the bottle was not included with the bottle holder. seriously? i thought to myself. just the holder, that is embarassing. i kept a smile pinned to my face as i slowly stepped away from registration and made my way to the dining hall in the clubhouse for a bite of lunch.

after a quick word of caution to the newbie couple seated next to me who were throughly enjoying the vanilla frozen yogurt with "hot fudge sauce" about the fact that the main ingredient in the "hot fudge" was in fact prunes and that it was best practice for those sharing a room to have a rule that consumption by one roommate of the sauce required disclosure of said consumption to the other roommate so that s/he could arm themselves appropriately, i was off to program advising in order to tweak my exercise and spa treatment schedule.

i signed up for the very best hikes and bike rides, careful to mark my correct height and grateful no request for my correct weight was made on the sign up sheet. good old ed was setting up bikes for the next day's ride and we chatted as his nose ran like a disturbing faucet in the unseasonably cold weather. ed was remarkably unphased by the droplets falling from his nose onto the ground and i decided it might be quite frozen solid thereby rendering ed unable to feel the profusion of sinovial fluid emanating from his person. thankfully i had a beading class to attend before my 100 minute hot stone massage and made my way to the craft center tucked away behind the sanctuary.

i entered the craft center at 5 minutes past the appointed start time and the room was atwitter with lanky blonde 60-something plastic surgery afficionados all clad in lounge wear in various shades of pale blue. it was like the golden girls had been cloned and put through a gentrification machine and subsequently spat out as the ghosts of heidi montag's future. the women paused for a split second to greet me and then returned to their busy work of selecting beads for their projects. each woman had a tray in her hands onto which she was carefully placing beads in the grooved semi circular indentations from which she would later string her masterpiece. rather than making an eyeglass holder/necklace to dangle elegantly around my neck like the other women, i decided to make a book mark, which for some reason i cannot fathom was being referred to by the chief craft woman, suzie and her golden girls, as a "book thong". apparently i am the only living being at the ranch who finds this both strange and immensely amusing as i found myself giggling and could not help but picture books wearing victoria secret undergarments each time someone said "book thong". i found a table with an open workstation and after gathering my turquoise southwestern beads and peace sign charms, sat down to work. suzie, who was clearly raised on long island and wore a farcical amount of bronzer she had not quite managed to blend in despite her bifocal contact lenses, gave me careful instructions on how to use the bead spinner. a bead spinner is a wooden bowl with a spindle sticking straight up from its center in which one places beads and then spins the bowl while simultaneously skimming the top of the beads with a very long and slightly hooked threaded needle. this causes the beads to jump onto the needle in order for one to easily thread them into a magnificent handcrafted creation. the charming woman with the joan rivers eyes next to me seemed to be struggling to string her beads and i was almost embarrassed at how quickly i was completing the task. she asked me whether i was a "serious beader", to which i responded, "oh, i bead here and there" in an effort to assuage her feelings of inadequacy. suzie was asked how the spinner worked and she said it was the "centrifugal force" of the spinner that causes the beads to "jump onto the needle". alhough i am no physicist, i am fairly certain that while the centrifugal force is what pushes the beads to the outside of the spinner, it does not in fact cause the beads to magically alight the needle. of course a magic beading force is far more interesting to discuss across the pool during aqua fitness, so i held my tongue. soon suzie began nervously rushing the golden girls and encouraging them to hurry up as the room needed to be free and clean in another 45 minutes for martha's ceramics class. martha is from germany you see and enjoys promptness and tidiness according to suzie. suzie is from long island as i mentioned and enjoys abundant make up and talking. i finished threading, crimped my final bead and tried to leave quietly but suzie grabbed me before i could make my escape. after grasping at her breast in mock cardiac arrest at the speed of my completion (a joke in rather poor taste i think given the audience in the room) suzie insisted i had to do "show and tell" for everyone. she clutched my "book thong" with her acrylic french manicured nails and held it up for all to admire. a mixture of ooohs and aaaahs from the crowd was followed by several discreet head shakes of dismissal, "she may be quick," their gestures said, "but she's no artist."

and so i took my "book thong" and walked over to the spa for my massage knowing that even after my 100 minutes were over the golden girls would still have unfinished works of art.

Upgrade disappointment, no whole wheat bread for you, step aside ma'am, and the joys of Sky Mall

This morning I embark on a short but sweet journey to visit my eldest daughter in Boston, where she attends prep school. I awoke before my alarm at 3:45am and eagerly dressed, took Coco (our adorable new puppy) out to “go potty”, and climbed into the sedan at 4:15am under the cover of darkness. I have a carry-on roller bag with me and a small Longchamps tote containing TSA flight approved liquids and gels in a medium sized zip lock bag, my Kindle and laptop. I am flight ready with my small messenger style Coach purse slung diagonally across my person containing boarding pass, wallet, lip balm and Cinnamon breath strips. I prefer this small purse to the proletariat look of the blue plastic I.D. and boarding pass holders often seen hanging from the necks of orthopedic soled senior citizens in airports around the country. At the airport I check to see if an upgrade to First Class is possible but alas the superior cabin has checked in full according to the friendly and somewhat apologetic Japanese-American ground agent.

At least I have an aisle seat in Economy Plus, one of the sadly valuable perks of my Premier Executive status with United Airlines. Undeterred from enjoying the anticipation of my reunion with my daughter, I make for the Max’s Greek Deli stand, one of the only food stalls open at 5:15am, and patiently wait my turn in line to order a sandwich to eat on the airplane. The rubinesque Philippina woman in hairnet finally turns to me and humorlessly asks for my order. I request a roasted vegetable sandwich. She grunts her agreement and grabs two slices of deli sized rye bread containing cumin seeds. I ask if I might have the sandwich on the whole wheat bread sitting on the shelf above her netted hairline.

“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now.” She replies gruffly.
I am confused. Is she truly only prepared to make me a roasted veg sandwich on the rye bread. I assure myself this cannot be and so I repeat more slowly and clearly, “I would like the roasted vegetable sandwich but instead of putting it on the bread” (I point for emphasis) “I would like it on that other bread instead (pointing again).”
“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now,” she repeats annoyed at my apparent dullness.
“But the whole wheat bread is right above your head, can you please just make it on that?” I try to remain friendly and avoid condescension.
“No mem, we no hab.”
“Yes, you do have it, it’s right there.”
“No mem. No hab.”
I am stumped, perhaps this poor woman is afraid to bend the breakfast bread rule due to strict management instructions to not make any special requests. I try a different tactic, “Would you have a supervisor who might be able to approve the use of the whole wheat bread?” I admit my tone may have become somewhat Kindergarten teacher-esque at this point but not intentionally.
“I em Supervisor. We no hab.” She states emphatically.
“Oh, well if you are the Supervisor,” I try to emphasize the importance of her status, “then I think you must have the authority to make my sandwich on whatever bread you like.”

“No mem. No hab. On-elly brake-fass menu.”
The gentleman behind me rolls his eyes in credulous at the sandwich making bureaucracy and gives me a supportive smile.
I see bagels on the breakfast menu and quickly fire back, “Well then can you please make me the sandwich on a bagel?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz.”
I see the bagels still uncut in a bin on the counter. “But the bagels are still uncut, can’t you cut it in half and then put the vegetables on it plain?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz, no plain.” She gestures to the menu where indeed it does specify “Bagel with Cream Cheese $3.09”.
“Yes, but I would like the bagel without the cream cheese and the roasted vegetables on it. You can charge me for both but just make it without the cream cheese.”
“No mem, no hab.”

I turn to my kind neighbor in line and his support has morphed into obvious displeasure at the length of this futile exchange.
Although I should be furious, oddly I am not. Rather I feel sorry for this woman, so disempowered that she cannot even contemplate swapping bread. I look at her reassuringly, “I think you have the power to do this Nita,” I say reading her name tag. She shakes her head emphatically and gives me one final “No mem, no hab.”

And so I leave the line at Max’s Greek empty handed and somewhat broken hearted at the death of common sense in America, one deli sandwich at a time. I make my way to the gate and queue up for the pre-boarding. After the all important Global Services, 1K, and First Class passengers are boarding from the red carpeted left lane, the gate agent calls the lesser but still somewhat important Premier Executive and Star Alliance Gold passengers through the right lane. I advance roller bag and tote in hand, and hold out my boarding pass to the gate agent, a 40 something African American woman with a high pile of hair so shellacked and ironed that I wonder how close to a candle she can come without serious peril. She looks down at my boarding pass and without eye contact points to the wall and orders me to wait on the side as she says angrily, “I haven’t called Group 1 yet.”
The sting of the reprimand smarts. I hold my ground. “No, but you called Premier Executive,” and resubmit my boarding pass for inspection.
Our glossy haired agent is unphased and again without eye contact commands me to, “Step aside ma’am. You need to combine your items into no more than 2 before you can board the plane.”

She is good. Too good. Indeed my hands-free small messenger style purse technically could be categorized as an item even though it is obviously not offending to the intent of the TSA regulation and a matter of discretion for the airline. How ironic I think, that Nita would not use any discretion to swap my bread yet Ms. Gloss Head is employing the full force of her discretion in order to show me who is boss. I step aside and quickly tuck my mini-purse into my tote and return for a third time to the humorless gate agent. She scans my ticket and I give her the most sweet, light and airy, “Thank you so much dear.”

She did not flinch, not a millimeter, but I like to think that somewhere deep inside her noxious and befumed head, she hurled an unspoken profanity at me.
I boarded the plane and took my aisle seat in Row 6 immediately behind the last row of First Class. I was relieved to see that the aircraft seats in First did not have foot rests nor did they have individual video monitors for personal media entertainment. Although I must admit that when the flight attendant handed out the pre-flight orange juice I did feel just the smallest pang of envy.

My neighbors on the flight would turn out to be a bizarrely tall senior couple traveling to visit their grandchildren. The husband sported a fabulously bushy grey toupee cut abruptly above his ears and that lifted off a good half an inch from the back of his neck. His wife immediately began fishing in the pocket in front of her in search of the Sky Mall magazine. When she could not find it, her husband relinquished his, albeit reluctantly. The next 30 minutes were filled with the joyful cries of the Mrs. followed by a careful explanation of the many wonders of the Perfect Lasagna Pan with inner walls to distribute heat evenly unlike conventional lasagna pans, as well as shout outs for the Star Wars toaster which emblazons your bread with a toasty image of Darth Vader and the Warming Cat Bed with Detachable Hood. Mr. mumbled with feigned interest in response to each of his wife’s delighted supplications but secretly rolled his eyes and focused his attention on his USA Today.

While air travel may not be what it used to, in my experience it does provide plenty of entertainment.

The Long Road Home, San Juan Surprise, American Airlines Strikes Again

After a few blissful weeks in the Virgin Islands we bade farewell to our luxurious rental villa and our ever-smiling Spanish speaking staff, and headed to the marina. Captain Bennu arrived promptly at 9:30am to ferry us safely across the Caribbean Sea to the island of Tortola, from which we would be flying home to San Francisco after having been away since June. We checked in at the American Airlines ticket counter and soon discovered there was a slight problem. The decidedly unsmiling woman at the counter informed me that although David was scheduled to fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico and then home via Miami that day, the kids and I were only scheduled as far as San Juan with an overnight stay, and then the flights home the following morning. I felt the blood instantly rush to my head in a panic. “There must be a mistake,” I said calmly, “can you please see how you can get us home all together today?”

The agent looked to her right and spoke wordlessly through some secret island eye contact language with her fellow female agent, who in turned eyed her back in a clear show of solidarity that did not bode well for me. Of course the peacock blue eye shadow abundantly piled atop the neighboring agent’s eyelids made this wordless conversation far more intimidating than it might otherwise have been. The flashes of iridescent blue were downright menacing, like male peacocks in a battle for mating rights, and I wondered whether and how I might respond. The be-shadowed agent sauntered over to address me, she was obviously the heavy, and informed me that, “You will haft-eh cawl Ah-mehr-ee-cahn Ai-er-lines, and see whod dey ken do ‘bout it. Dehr’s nohtin’ she ken do fahr you.”

I blinked confusedly, and double checked that I was indeed standing at the American Airlines counter. “But this is American Airlines, you are American Airlines, can you please help me place the call?” I asked, compelling my voice to sound sweet, somewhere between helpless and hopeful. In my experience gate agents must first be made to feel totally superior to you before they are allowed to engage in even the smallest effort to assist a passenger in distress. I put on my best and most pathetic “distressed traveler” look and waited with pleading eyes, lowering my head slightly in deference to the mighty peacock. Some more secret eye contact conversation occurred and then the peacock lidded woman reached for a telephone, dialed some numbers and handed the received to the original agent. She then spoke some words at remarkably low volume to obscure my ability to understand and sauntered back to her counter.

The agent spoke almost inaudibly into the phone and then looked up to tell me. “Der iz nohtin’ I ken do, you ahf to fly ‘ome tomarrah.” I asked if I might speak to the person on the phone myself, and after she checked with the woman on the phone if it might be acceptable for me to speak with her, I was handed the receiver with only a mild look of disgust.

Soon the American Airlines agent on the phone had my full story, I was in a wheelchair and traveling with my three children and terribly sorry for the inconvenience but could she possibly get some or all of us home today? My submissive tone was found so agreeable that the woman managed to find a flight home almost instantaneously for my eldest daughter, at an albeit exorbitant increased fare. As for myself and my two other children, she could get us home first thing in the morning via Houston but we would have to overnight in San Juan. After thanking her for her assistance and handing the phone back to the agent, I explained the change in flights for us all and she began to input information into her keyboard with the tips of her impossibly long acrylic nails, which had some rather ornate rhinestone inlays.

Peacock lady sauntered back over and asked what had happened and when told of the change in flights, looked directly at me and asked, “Well how much dey gonna charge you fahr de change?” Her partner in crime offered up the figure jubilantly and Peacock lady looked at me with genuine amusement, “Well dats Am-her-eec-an Ai-er-lines farh you, dey don ker nohn fahr dey-er passen-geers sit-too-ehtion. But good you getting’ ohm tomarraw.” She chuckled, closing her phosphorescent eyelids for a long moment, before wandering back to the abandoned passenger at her counter.

I remain non-plussed as I sit here typing into my laptop at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in San Juan. Clearly Peacock lady is employed by American Airlines. She wears the AA uniform and nametag and works behind a counter labeled American Airlines, and yet she has somehow separated herself from this reality and carries on as though she were merely a by-stander to the travel atrocities being committed by said Airline. I cannot explain it, nor understand it, although I suspect it may be a suspended reality survival condition afflicting commercial airline flight crews and ground crews across the world. Clearly this sort of schizophrenia is a coping mechanism so that the airline employees themselves can carry out their duties shoddily (in accordance with union regs) yet bear no remorse or feeling about it whatsoever. I suppose this is the same type of desensitization military interrogators adopt in order to be able to carry out their duties. I do intend to write to American Airlines after my long awaited return to see if perhaps they can address it, although I am as doubtful as ever. Should I receive a reply, I will of course share it with you dear reader.

But for now, I will descend to the pool and join Livvy and Justin who are no doubt ordering virgin daiquiris in their lounge chairs and making the best of our unexpected return to San Juan.