Tag: Travel

One very determined squirrel drives me crazy.

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There’s a squirrel that treats my bird feeder like an endless buffet. For the past few seasons, he (or she) delights my neighbors, irritates me to no end, and shows no sign of moving to another location. I’ve tried everything to stop it. I’m on my third squirrel-proof feeder. I’ve moved the supporting pole at least five times. Nothing keeps this persistent squirrel away.

I’ve considered firearms (a poor choice), traps (not very humane), and, most recently, a slingshot. I was almost convinced to try the slingshot until I realized I’d probably last used one in 1950. So, that plan fell through. I admire the animal; the other day, I looked out the window and saw it surprisingly balancing on the feeder, its whole head in the basket.

My neighbors enjoy watching the animals’ efforts and my attempts to stop them. They’ve sent me photos, text messages, note cards, and alternative feeder solutions to remind me of my failures. A few days ago, while walking through a feed store, I thought: “Ok, I need a positive solution to this problem.” So, I bought a 50-pound sack of bird feed. That’ll keep it (and my neighbors) happy for a while.

Meet my magical Aura digital photo frame.

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One of my daughters gave me a new digital photo frame. I absolutely love it. It displays around 17,500 photos from around the world. It updates automatically, so I always have the latest memories at a glance. My frame sits on a desk near my workspace, making it easy to enjoy the images without moving. It’s like having a continuous, colorful story of my life unfolding 24/7.

The collection includes people, places, flowers, sunshine, beaches, celebrations, and even more meaningful moments, such as funerals, snow, cathedrals, street signs, and reminders that our memories are just seconds away. Watching the images appear and then fade into the next random one is simply magical. Since I’ve taken nearly every single photo, I can instantly recall where each one was taken and what was happening at that moment. What an excellent way to travel without leaving home.

My $100 Lesson in Not Looking Like a Tourist.

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Crowded taxi queue with many passengers lining up at Málaga Airport

The number one rule in travel is not to look like a tourist. Every self-assured traveler like myself wants to hit the ground in a new place looking like a lifelong resident of the very same city and be an expert in their local scene. This is an impressive goal, but it doesn’t always work out that way. Using taxis overseas is a lesson in small business management. Each person plays a different role; the driver, of course, and you as a passenger. They want to charge as much as possible for the limited time you’ll be in their cab, and I want to appear nonchalant and informed about the ride and costs.

Some time ago, I went to the Costa del Sol in Spain. The arrival airport was Malaga, Spain, and we were to make our own way to the conference. I was ok with that and headed to the taxi stand at the airport. I looked around and didn’t see anyone from our group, and I presumed they’d all taken taxis to the hotel in the Costa del Sol. I flagged down a cab and threw my stuff into the trunk. In my most knowledgeable travel voice, I sat back and announced I wanted to go from Malaga to the Costa del Sol. The driver was suddenly beside himself. Without another word, he blasted out of the airport, and we began a really, really long ride to the hotel.

Being the informed traveler that I am, I didn’t say anything. I was watching his taxi meter climb like a blood pressure test and wondering where in the heck I was? Fast forward, literally. After many, many miles, he pulled into the hotel. He was thrilled to present me with a taxi fare bill of some $100+- the cost of our journey. I was stupefied. However, I didn’t ask about the trip cost beforehand or inquire at the airport about alternative transfer services, which nearly all other delegates to the trip took advantage of. So, the moral of this story is don’t be a know-it-all. Especially when you don’t really know anything about the new country anyway.

All aboard the Fat Shan, next stop Macau.

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Living in Hong Kong was incredible. We were there when Hong Kong was a British Crown Colony, one of the last gems of the British Empire, with the Union Jack proudly flying from every building and the Royal Navy prepared to meet any challenge. The British Crown Colony was well represented in the day (my downstairs neighbor at the time was Sir Ivo Rigby, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Hong Kong). I miraculously became a Life Member of the Royal Hongkong Yacht Club (I still am, by the way). Amazing, even now.

We all had weekend activities and events to attend; however, one of my favorite things to do was to take the boat ferry from Hong Kong to Macau, which was then a Portuguese Colony. It was an overnight voyage up the Pearl River, and the two boats operating the service were “sister” ships, the Man Shan and the Fat Shan. If only they were still afloat. Traveling on either one was like being in a Sydney Greenstreet movie. Both vessels had overnight compartments, furnished with ancient wicker chairs and slatted windows. The distance between Hong Kong and Macau was about 40 miles, and the boat moved along at about 5 knots per hour. Just the right speed for an adventure.

When we finally docked in Macau, it was like we’d just arrived in Lisbon, Portugal, from some faraway place. Everywhere were signs in Portuguese; the hotels had Portuguese menus and tiny rooms. Around every corner, shops sold Portuguese food and, best of all, terrific Portuguese wine (way better than the Mateus we were gulping by the gallon). Who wouldn’t enjoy this? Here we were, 40 miles away from Hong Kong amid a tiny part of Portugal. It was a mini-vacation, and every time we steamed back down the river to Hong Kong, we looked forward to another river cruise back to Macau. You know, some things were better “then” than “now.”

The Postal Service needs help, now.

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Two USPS mail carriers delivering mail on a tree-lined suburban street

Our United States Postal Service is in a jam, and we all need to help them.

I recently read (and should have remembered) that Benjamin Franklin was our first Postmaster; he was an innovator who revived the then-Colonial Postal Service to increase efficiency and profitability. We need you, Ben, right now.

Nearly every resident of the United States is involved with the USPS and with their carriers and station staff. People in small towns, large metro areas, every state, and U.S. territories depend on them. Military and government personnel around the world depend on the USPS to help move their mail. We all need their services.

The USPS and its precursor, the United States Post Office, were essential to my family and me. My dad worked for the Post Office for more than 40 years; he had many assignments and spent most of his time in their Parcel Post unit. Along with many other changes, they don’t have Parcel Post carriers, and they don’t even call it the Post Office.

I’ve been a life-long user of “real mail.” My respect for the USPS remains solid. Nearly everyone I know in business, family, and social circles is aware of (and has received) real mail from me. I prefer handwritten notes and actual postage stamps; each envelope I drop into a USPS mailbox is a personal message from me to another person.

Today, I read an article about the USPS financial dilemma: people using 1st-Class mail is way down, which creates a huge revenue problem for the organization. In my view, now, more than ever, people need to be in touch with family and friends. Buying and using a postage stamp to send a greeting is a super investment in our USPS. Just imagine this: if 1% of the Nation’s population started buying and using stamps to aid communications, the USPS might be out of its downward spiral. I’ll send a few notes out today, so count me in. I’m happy to help.

Old stuff worked just fine.

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Four women in 1950s kitchen talking on a party line telephone

We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles.) At home, we had kitchen and bathroom tap water and, best of all, drinking water from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I know died from bad water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for airplanes of the future. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job. They actually protected passengers and prevented major damage to the car. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.

My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores. Our corner grocery was the Kroger of the day. It was about one-half block from our house, and my mom regularly dispatched me for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch there was a gas flame thing that looked like a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We never heard of packaged chicken.

We had a super social media platform then. It was a 4-party telephone line. It was fantastic; four families sharing one phone line. Each family had their own assigned telephone ring. It’s safe to say everyone listened in on everyone else. That was instant social media without the 5G speed people want today. My thoughts on stuff like this are endless. I know there’s an army of folks who had similar experiences growing up, and it makes me very happy we are all thankful for the small things that generated big results. To all who helped me along the way, thanks!

My dad’s ’39 Chevvy sure made memories for me.

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My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like the image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of it. My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded; the seats were covered with a light tan, fuzzy, carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.

Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.

You’ll always remember Venezia

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Venezia

Every single thing about Venice is memorable.

Imagine boarding a plane in Atlanta, sitting in a really uncomfortable seat for 9 hours on your way to Italy. Finally, you land, making your way through an army of fellow travelers at immigration and customs, looking for the exit and a way to get to Venice.

You look for a machine that may or may not work for purchasing a ferry ticket to Venice. You find one, but unfortunately, the instructions are in Italian, and the machine only accepts Euros. The signs point in different directions, and you hope to see a boat to somewhere. None of this is familiar to you, even with your guidebook.

You persevere and find a boat that seems to be heading to where you want to be. Hop aboard and squeeze into a tiny space, and soon your boat is racing across the water towards the city. You aren’t sure where you’re going or where to get off, but this is one terrific ride, just like you imagined it to be. You hang on, try to use your iPhone to take photos, and hope you don’t drop it overboard.

Suddenly, the boat pulls in near Piazza San Marco (if you’re on the right boat) and you’re where you’ve always wanted to be. I took the image shown here while standing at that very dock, so if it looks familiar to you, great. You’re in the right place.

You’ll be surrounded by hundreds of fellow visitors. Since the streets of Venice are narrow, you’ll have to navigate (lugging your heavy bag) like salmon fighting to get upstream. It’s a challenge to see street signs and GPS signals, which are very, very iffy, so you’ll need to stop about every 10 feet to ask where you are and how to get to your destination. Don’t be concerned. Everyone does this. When you reach your hotel or destination, you’ll feel like you accomplished something extraordinary. My advice is to take a brief rest and go out headlong into the city.

Now the fun part. Even with the zillions of people around you, there are countless places to visit, eat, and enjoy. Walk till you drop. Then stop for a snack and a drink. Repeat. Forget the tours and the guides waving flags to keep you up. Venice is a walking town, and literally around every corner is something to discover. Buy an all-day ticket for the Vaporetto (it runs to and from docks everywhere) and enjoy the ride. At some point in the trip, you’ll think you’re a bit player in the movie “The Talented Mr. Ripley.” When that thought strikes, immediately hop off the boat and head for the nearest bar for a Negroni. Now that’s being a Venetian.

Around dusk, the lights surrounding Piazza San Marco (the Heart of the city) come on, and it’s a spectacular sight. The square is enormous and surrounded on three sides by lovely, old buildings with shops and cafes on their ground level. Facing the square is the beautiful St Mark’s Basilica — and off to the side, the Campanile di San Marco, which towers over everything. It’s an incredible light show in an incredible town.

It doesn’t matter if you’re in Venice for a day or a week. It’s impossible to stay still. The sounds of Venice begin before dawn and continue until late in the evening. Whatever your interests are, there’s something here for you. I always, always hate to leave this magical city.

The motorcycle and the doughnut.

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When we lived in San Francisco, I decided I had to have a motorcycle, specifically a Honda 550 4 model like the one shown here. Never mind that I didn’t have 10 minutes of experience riding a bike like that, nor the required license to drive one. These were minor details in my plan.

Sure enough, one day, a friend drove me to the Honda dealer in Alameda, California, which is across the Bay from San Francisco. Once at the dealership, I had a brief discussion with the salesperson, signed some papers, and, in a frighteningly short period, I was (with my bank) the owner of a brand-new blue Honda motorcycle. Up to that point, I hadn’t spent one minute trying to drive it.

Emboldened by my total lack of experience and knowledge, I hopped on (no helmet, please) and wobbled around their parking lot for about 30 minutes. That was plenty of instruction time for me, and I shortly found myself blasting across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge on my way home, going at least 60 miles per hour. Miraculously, I made it home in one piece. Everyone was astonished.

I grew to love that motorcycle, and my daughters loved riding behind me as we discovered the hills and streets of San Francisco and up the coast to Point Reyes, Bolinas, and Sonoma for top-class picnics. Since I was now a skilled driver, at least in my own opinion, I wanted a regular and enthusiastic riding partner. Who better qualified than one of my daughters? Of my three daughters, my youngest was the most fearless, and she was up for anything I cooked up for us. To her, nothing was too ridiculous or dangerous.

A perfect match for me.

One Saturday morning, I woke before dawn; I went to her bedroom and shook her awake. I told her to quietly dress and meet me in front of our garage. Ok, Dad, another great plan waiting in the wings. It was just about dawn when we headed off on our adventure. She didn’t know where we were going, but it didn’t matter. We headed to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was a short distance from our house, riding up the highway entrance ramp. So far, so good. In a matter of minutes, we were screaming across the bridge just as the sun came up. It was a magnificent sight, and with very few vehicles on the road, we felt we were really flying.

We were, in a sense. We continued our ride to Sausalito, where we stopped for hot chocolate. At that point, she was up for going to Portland, Oregon, or any other place. I sensibly turned around, and we rode back to San Francisco, stopping at our favorite doughnut place, Ahren’s bakery, to select a dozen of their best.

We lived pretty close to that bakery, so we were back home in a few minutes. Everyone was still asleep when we arrived, so I put the doughnuts on the kitchen table, made coffee, and loudly announced to all that it was time to get up. Neither my daughter nor I mentioned our rip-roaring ride, so everyone presumed we walked down to the bakery. Hey, who knew that a doughnut tastes totally fantastic after greeting the dawn while blazing across the bridge? You know, I think that’s what dads are for.

The Spanish Olives and Jack Daniels

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Mercado de San Miguel in Madrid with crowds of people inside and outside at dusk

The two most beautiful benefits of travel are 1) meeting new people and 2) exploring everything about food. Madrid, Spain, is one of the top “foodie” destinations in the world; it’s impossible to walk for more than 2 minutes in any direction without seeing something fantastic to eat. On a sunny Saturday morning, we found ourselves wandering the side streets and happened to see a sign pointing to the Mercado de San Miguel. We continued along for a short distance, and before our eyes was a world-class food emporium. Open-air, bustling with people, food stalls, laughter, and enough to eat and drink for a very long time.

Everywhere we looked, it was jam-packed with people lined up for food and drink. Tables were scarce, so when someone saw a seat or two, it was a mad rush to get there before anyone else. We finally saw a table where four people were eating a vast spread of food with glasses of wine. There were two empty chairs, and I squeezed in, pressed up against an older gentleman from the group. They were really enjoying themselves and were polite to us when we sat down, moving closer together to give us more room.

I could hear them speaking in Italian, and I know enough words to make a significant impression on a child. Anyway, I pointed to a large bowl of olives they were eating and asked what kind they were. With that, he invited us to taste some. None of them spoke perfect English, but his wife leaned over and asked us where we were from. I replied, “Tennessee.” The man immediately lit up and said, “Yes, Jack Daniels!”

So, from that point on, we were all new friends. We all bought and shared a lot of food and drink and had a terrific time. At one point, the older man and his son-in-law disappeared; we took that as our signal to depart and started walking away down the small street. After a minute or so, we heard a young girl’s voice calling out to us, asking us to stop.

We turned around, and it was the man’s daughter gesturing to us. She said her dad had gone away to buy a special drink for us, and we had to return. Hey, who’d turn that down? When we approached the table, we saw six new glasses filled with a beautiful amber-colored liquid. He’d gone off to buy glasses of a fantastic Spanish brandy to salute our new friendship. He raised his glass and said to all: “Cheers to Jack Daniels!”

What a guy. What a family. And what a beautiful memory of Spanish Olives and our Tennessee whiskey.