“What would you say your favorite Canadian band was if you only had one word to say it in?” I asked my wife.
And before I tell you what she said, I want you to take a moment to consider what your answer would be. Canadian bands you might consider are: Chilliwack, April Wine, The Kings, Brian Adams, RUSH, Accordions on Fire, Bare Naked Ladies, and that guy who sings about life being like a highway.
I know what you’re thinking, “There are that many bands in Canada? And you didn’t even mention Alanis Morisette or that country chick, or that other lady who married her grandfather. Is everybody in Canada in a band? How big can Canada be? Where is Canada?”
Almost and vast and north.
Anyway, Diane paused a moment, made a thinking face, and said, “RUSH?” And not because RUSH was the only band with one name she could think of. She used to live not far from Chilliwack (the place… well, and I guess, by definition then, the band too.)
RUSH was the perfect answer as I’d found out earlier that morning I’d won tickets to their Sunday show courtesy of one of the local radio stations. (105.7… The Brew not to be confused with 105.9… The Brew in Portland. Don’t be afraid to open both sites in different browser windows and Alt-Tab back and forth between the two. No… you are not trippin’ on shrooms.)
Diane and I were both very excited to be going to the show – not due to the fact we have eight children and had only two tickets – but because we are both big RUSH fans. And we proved this to each other as we put our heads together and were able to come up with some songs we knew: Limelight, Fly by Night, Tom Sawyer, and one involving magical airwaves crackling to life.
Oh well, we were both pretty sure we’d recognize more songs when we heard them played.
And we did.
Oh. But before I get to far into the show let me say that I spent $34.00 on beer. My American readers are likely thinking, “Good Lord man, that’s a lot of beer!” Unless, of course, they’ve been to a concert or sporting event lately. Draft beer was $8.50 a glass!. Eight-fifty!. Eight-fifty exclamation point and then a bonus period. Twice… because the first one was a typo and then I wanted to see if anybody noticed.
Speaking of beer, you know you can pour draft beer pretty quick. You can order it pretty quick too if you take time to take a look at the big beer levers the barmaid pulled on to serve the guy ahead of you. So, there’s no excuse to step to the counter and ask, “Do you have Molson?” because they don’t. Ordering, then, something that requires a two-minute conversation over the types of vodka they have does nothing to endear you to the people in line behind you. All this brings up another issue – what are they doing selling things like vodka tonics and rum and Cokes at a RUSH concert? Which brings up a third issue… is RUSH capitalized all the way through, or is it Rush?
The show was excellent despite my lack-of-RUSH knowledge. I’m a big fan of live music and Geddy, Alex and Neil put on a good show. I knew quite a few more songs than I was able to name prior to the show (how does a person forget “Working Man?”) and was able to forgive myself for mixing up songs I thought I knew. (At one point I told Diane, “I know right where to yell ‘invisible airwaves’ in this song,” only to say, twenty seconds later, “I think this is a different song.” I’d wondered why they were playing Spirit of Radio twice.)
The seats were good.
And free.
And Diane knew it wasn’t the invisible airwaves song right off but didn’t rag on me about it.
(Oh, my eldest really wanted to go to the concert and as part of his reasoning over why he should go with me argued he was a bigger music fan than either Diane or I are. So, to sort of play with him, when we were at the concert I texted him “There’s only three guys on stage. Do some Googleing and find out which one missed the show because he’s sick.”)
When we last left off, which was one post after when we started this tale, a Border Guard had just suggested we pull aside and make a trip into the border crossing building to speak with another Border Officer.
So we parked, got out, and made our way across the parking lot. The eight of us… and I’ll take this paragraph to point out that, you know how, in the spring, you’ll see Canadian Geese cubs walking along behind their mom all orderly and in a line? I’d thought that might carry across to Canadian People cubs… but it doesn’t. While the whole walking-across-the-parking-lot trip was nothing like herding kittens, it even less like just-hatched Canadian Geese taking a stroll.
We approached the Border Building throng-like. Two adults and five children ranging in age from 8 to 14.
Inside, we went up to the counter which was manned by five Border Guards. We handed over the slip the guard outside had given us. One of the guys asked us how we all knew each other and where we were going. We explained that Diane and I had been married for a year but that we were living separately until our visa paperwork was processed. When one of the guards asked, good naturedly, if I had been coming up for conjugal visits, Diane said, “It’s been quite the honeymoon year.”
[And while I present it that way for the sake of brevity, there was quite a bit more to it. They are nothing if not thorough at the border.]
When we’d done the travel math it was our goal to be in Ohio by Sunday evening, which would have had us driving just over 600 miles daily – which I thought might be something like 10 hours per day (this was before I knew you could throw dumbbell on the accelerator in places like Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota and just kick back) – Thursday through Sunday. We’d not tossed Wednesday into the travel-math equation and were going to use any Wednesday miles we travelled as bonus miles.
And so we shot off into Washington state to bank some miles.
Sort of, anyway.
We shot off into Washington state and stopped at the McDonald’s in Bellingham about 25 minutes later.
In the next post I’ll tell you about how we almost spent the night at Dave’s.
As I was lying in bed this morning a very clever title came to me for this post. I can’t remember what it was now, so you get the above.
I recall that one of last night’s dreams involved Christian Slater’s wife. I read an article, in my dream, about her and learned she felt she was too good for waxing and that she thought Pat Sajak was spreading misinformation (most likey via Wheel of Fortune).
It may be worth noting I had a little bit of homemade wine a buddy gave me before I went to bed.
In other news:
Today I turned 50
I never thought a person could be this old and feel this good.
Based on the how-my-life-will-work-out dream (a MLK-type dream, not a sleeping dream) I had when I was a kid, I’m 1/2 way to the 100-years-old (at least) I always intended to live to. Having said that, it looks like my wish to be a fireman is firmly out of reach now… probably has been for a few years.
BTW, if everybody who reads this blog will send me a dollar, I’ll have about 50… and it will be just like when I was 10 and got a ten-dollar bill from an uncle.
[Slater separated from his wife, Ryan Haddon a few years ago. Wikipedia is strangely silent on her waxing preferences and feelings toward Pat Sajak.]
…and moved to Beverly.
Except, in our case, it was a minivan and we were taking a tour across the country to Ohio.
So, Diane, the kids and I hit the road. King George Highway, to be exact, and made our way toward the border.
Did you know, and I’m sure you didn’t, that there are a couple of billboards you see, just as you’ve reached the I’m-going-to-the-border point-of-no-return (and, for you Kansas fans, the point-of-no-return, is about five miles from Diane’s house), that say something like “Warning: Entering High Medical Cost Area” and that encourage you to buy travel insurance?
While it’s not as friendly as “Welcome: Entering the US,” I suppose it is just as accurate.
Anyway, we rolled up on the border crossing and took our place in line.
By the way, the Americans have been doing some work on their border-crossing area. It looks very nice and, I’m sure, will make the process of crossing the border more efficient.
We waited a brief period of time, a guy waved us up, and then told us to go a new way down to station C. I tried very hard to drive past it but was signaled back by the Border Guard in the booth there.
The Border Guard took our passports and asked us a few questions.
“Where are you going,”
“Ohio,” I said.
“What for?”
“They’re driving me down and are going to spend some time visiting before heading back.”
“Are you all Canadians?”
“No. I’m an American.”
“What were you doing in Canada?”
“Visiting my wife",” I said, gesturing toward Diane.
“Why the split?”
What? Why the split? “Did he say why the split?” He’s younger than I am… is that young-guy talk for “Why are you leaving Canada?”
“What?”
“Why the split?”
“Why the split?” I asked.
“Why aren’t you living together?”
“Oh,” I said, “We didn’t split up. We’ve been married just over a year and are waiting for our paperwork to be finalized.”
“Pull over to the right up there,” he said, as he put our passports in a baggie and put a sticky note on our windshield.
A picture, of you and I and five children in a minivan at the CanAmerican border.
Or the Canadian/American Border if you prefer. And on the chance you’re more a Bob Hope fan than a Prince fan, adjust your thinking and pretend this post started, “Remember that time we were at the Canadian border with five kids? Wasn’t that wild? Wasn’t that something?”
Anyway, just over a week ago, Diane and the kids and I decided to take a road trip from Canada to Ohio. For many Canadians this isn’t a terribly long trip – if you’re on Lake Erie heading north from Port Clinton, Ohio you eventually come to a clearer stretch of water that continues north; this marks the beginning of the Canadian-owned portion of the lake, and in just an instant you’ve left Ohio and entered Canada. Sort of.
For the Canadians who are a stone’s throw away from dipping their toes in the Pacific Ocean the drive is a little longer. It’s over 4,000 kilometers or a bit over 2,500 miles.
“Did you use Google to plan your route?” Mike O would ask when I’d tell him this story.
“No, we got a Trip-Tik from BCAA,” I’d say.
“BCA eh?”
“That’s right, “I said, laughing, “and that’s how I’m going to write your dialog when I blog about this.”
“And a Trip-Tik?”
“Yep. We went old school.”
But we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves. Not by mistake, mind you – I was afraid I might forget the conversation I had with Mike, but ahead of ourselves nonetheless.
So, Wednesday we thought we’d all head to Ohio.
Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it. I know it did to us.
So, we loaded up the minivan, slipped a Grateful Dead CD into the player, and pulled out of the driveway.
We’ll continue with this later.
Diane is preparing to sell her house in Canada.
Canadians, just like Americans, make it a point to get their house in the shape the wish it was always in while they lived there prior to selling it. At least that’s how we always did it. (I think, the longest I ever walked on new carpet in a home we owned was three days… and that was three days of hauling things out of the house and into a truck.)
And so it is, she had new carpet installed.
The carpet guys did a great job and were kind enough to empty the rooms of furniture. As the Canadians will all be moving, we felt it wasn’t necessary to set beds back up for the kids. There were air mattresses for everybody, after all.
Except for Diane and me. And really, having a bed set up in the master bedroom makes a house look friendlier to a buyer. Doesn’t it?
In any case, Diane’s be was reassembled.
This worked out for everybody because:
- Diane and I had a comfortable place to sleep.
- It gave the kids an opportunity to rag on us for having the only “real” bed in the house.
And really, it was only the oldest daughter who was doing any teasing.
One night she popped into the room and we talked over the events of the day. Toward the end of the conversation she dropped into an exaggerated goofing-around tone and said, “Well… I guess I’m going to go sleep on my air mattress. You guys have fun in your bed.”
And then she paused and with alarmed ickiness in her voice yelled, “I didn’t mean that!”
I have mentioned before that I have good travel karma. I think this is because I’m the kind of traveler who obeys all of the traveling rules. Those that are given by the flight crews and those that simply come under the heading of being common-sensical.
- I put one bag in the overhead and one under the seat in front of me. And really, most times I have just one bag and I put it under the seat in front of me.
- I don’t push and shove to get off the plane. I wait until the rows ahead of me empty.
- I get out of the aisle as soon as I can.
- When i get off the plane I maintain the awareness that I’m not a multimillionaire traveling on my private jet. I realize there are people behind me and I don’t drag my ass dead-center up the jetway while moving in slow motion and texting.
- Despite the fact I’m sort of wide I always share the arm rest when I’m seated.
- If I’ve checked luggage I don’t crowd the carousel so others can’t see or reach around me. I realize that despite the fear some people have that the carousel might somehow reach Haldron Super Collider speeds and start whizzing luggage by us at such a rate it will be damned near impossible to grab if I’m not leaning right on the outer edge of the carousel, that this is unlikely. I’m confident that from the moment I spy my bag coming toward me I’ll have time to take five or six steps forward, ask people to make a hole, and pull it off the carousel. At this point I move away from the baggage area; I do not open my phone and text someone who knows what.
- I don’t take steamer trunks on airplanes and try to fit them in the overhead storage.
- I always say "please" and "thank you" to the flight staff.
- I always try to make number two before I get on the plane so I don’t spend the flight farting up the airplane.
- I don’t bang into people when I walk up and down the aisle on the plane. Good Lord, people, I weight over 250 pounds and look like I might fall over at any moment when I walk. If I can make it to the can without touching everybody I pass why must everybody run into me when I have an aisle seat?
It’s these little things that make travel for others a bit more pleasant
Anyway.
Travel karma, one of the hardest working karmas in the ether, appreciates my approach to travel and repays me whenever she can.
- Security lines are most often short whenever I approach them and it isn’t uncommon for me to walk right up to a TSA agent without having anybody in front of me at all. (This may be working in conjunction with my never-having-to-wait-in-line Super Power.)
- On a flight that has been described as "full" or "almost full" by a gate agent just prior to boarding, if there is an empty seat it is almost always by me. (The seat next to me as I’m typing this is empty, but I can see one or two more. The last flight I was on was full aside from the seat between me and another guy as was the flight before that. If a flight is jam-packed full, well there’s nothing karma can do about that.)
- Sometimes she bumps me up to first class. (A mailing I received from Delta, just yesterday, has led me to believe this has something to do with reaching "Silver Medallion Status" but I’m still giving Karma partial credit.)
- More than once I’ve gotten off a plane and found the gate for my connector has been changed… from a different concourse to the gate right next to the gate I just deplaned at. (Travel karma does not get cranky about ending sentences with prepositions.)
- She always sits me next to men or grandmothers. Which, now that I think of it, might be related more to my wife’s Travel Karma.
- But best of all, once in a while the pilots will both get food poisoning and I’ll get to land the jet.
And that gets me double miles.
A while back I wrote something called Travel Karma II. It’s been sitting on my hard drive and I’ll post it tomorrow or the next day. While, on the surface, it would appear to be a post about how I have good luck when it comes to travel as I, myself, am a polite traveler… under the surface it’s sort of me bitching about some of the idiots I’ve encountered while traveling.
And I blog about the idiots because it’s the only recourse I have.
Really, I don’t fly that much. For a while it was once a month. Recently, though, it’s been every two weeks or weekly
. And while I’m tickled that I’ve flown enough that Delta has elevated me to a super-duper status of some sort, I’m glad the amount of flying I’ve been doing will be dropping off significantly.
Not because I mind flying, but because I mind my fellow passengers. And not all of them, just those passengers that are on every flight that seem to be oblivious to the fact they are not Lindburg flying solo across the Atlantic and that there are other people on the plane with them.
I’ve often thought if I were a flight attendant and had to put up with rude jerkwads all day, every day, that I’d eventually go Postal on someone’s ass. And this guy did.
After years, and some of this falls into the assumption rather than I-know-for-a-fact category, of having passengers ignore his requests to remain seated until the plane is at the gate, of having passengers toss everything they own into the overhead storage bins rather than put their second bag under the seat, of having people, despite his requests, put bags in overhead storage sideways and not wheels out and taking up too much room which eventually makes more work for the flight attendants as they have to find room for bags, of watching people drag two bags down the aisle that are large enough neither should have been allowed on by the gate agent and being frustrated because they refuse to do any sort of baggage-size monitoring/enforcing at the gate, of having passengers not clear the aisle so others can get on the plane, of having passengers be rude jerkwads… he snapped.
But just a little.
He grabbed a few beers, deployed the rear emergency chute, and left the plane. (I’m guessing he used the rear chute as the jet-way was clogged with goofballs walking in slow motion and texting, “I… a…m… h…e…t…backspace…t…backspace…r…e.”)
Well. This didn’t take long. There’s a poll there you can take regarding whether you think Mr. Slater is a hero or a criminal.
You’ve all been there.
You go away for the weekend, decide to stretch it out for a week, your blog explodes, you don’t realize if for days, when you do find out it’s down you can’t fix it remotely and even a Mike O reboot does nothing to get it going. You finally get back to the server and find it’s kicked out an error message and is awaiting your command to do some disk checking.
When the checking is done all is well. So well, in fact, all the Viagr@ and C1alis emails you feared would have been lost in the ether come roaring into your mailbox with such vim and vigor that you fear the onslaught will last for more than four hours – requiring you to… well, you know.
Oddball crap – and that is crap I don’t cause myself – never happens to the blog when I’m home.
I remember reading, a long time ago, that people who sleep naked typically make more money than people who sleep clothed. I’m not sure how an employer is supposed to find out an employee sleeps sans vêtements – I know my company seems to lack anything in the way of a form I can fill out on this subject and mentions I make in staff meetings of my sleeping preference are met with an almost hostile indifference – but I persist… just in case.
In the second paragraph of this post it’s important to note that when I fly to the pacific northwest it is often 5 a.m. by my body clock before I get to bed. Otherwise, I’ll look like an incredible slacker in the third and, possibly, subsequent paragraphs.
And so it was, Diane got up somewhat early and ran the oldest Canadian boy over to a friend’s house, leaving me at home to get some extra sleep.
Returning from her errand, she came back into the master bedroom as the phone rang. It was a friend of the oldest Canadian daughter’s. Diane gave a shout down the steps and put the phone down. Turning to me she said, without the use of any French despite how I might type it, and apparently using her X-ray vision as I was covered, “You look mighty happy lying in bed sans vêtements.”
“I could only be happier,” I replied, “if you were lying in bed sans vêtements with me.”
As soon as I said me, a yell came up the steps: “Maaaaaahhhhmmm… hang up the phone!”
Per the teenagers, neither the oldest Canadian daughter nor her friend heard our conversation.
Of course, maybe they’ve both repressed it and it won’t resurface until they’ve had years of therapy.
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