A Trip to Beijing, China

August, 2013

The smoggy view of Beijing I'm used to, taken from my hotel

Before going to bed I checked the computer. I was number 2 for a 4 day trip and there was 1 on the board- to Beijing. I think I rolled my eyes. I’ve been trying to get to Beijing for over 5 years. It’s been at least 9 since the last time I was there. It’s a neat city to visit, I wanted to return to the Great Wall and do some shopping. But it’s the most senior trip in the system and continually eludes me. I was so close. So yes, I rolled my eyes; so typical, the rotten luck! I hoped that something would happen; maybe another 4 day trip would pop up overnight and the flight attendant in front of me would get that, leaving me in line for Beijing.

      My phone rang at 0600hrs. I knew who it was by the ring-tone. The crew desk advised me they had a trip for me. As soon as she read the trip ID number, I recognized it…Beijing! I remained calm as I wrote down the information, thanked the scheduler, hung up and closed my eyes with my head dropping and a smile upon my face, full of joy. Finally, I would return for my 3^rd visit.

A child's ride outside the local grocery store.

      Unable to sleep, I simply got up. I grabbed my Chinese money, packed, had breakfast and left for SFO. There would be no tardiness for me today. I felt on top of the world as I drove to work. Traffic was light and I caught all the lights green; fortune shown upon me. Did I hear singing? Some angelic choir, perhaps?

      Trips to China can be difficult to work. I love how some of the passengers say hello during boarding, but then later in flight, when told to be seated because the seat belt sign has come on, suddenly, don’t speak English! It seems like most passengers don’t like staying in their seat. They roam around the plane, visit friends and congregate. They go to the jump seat windows, raise the blind and look out, often taking photos. We’re over the Pacific Ocean. What are you taking photos of? When the chime sounds and the pilot comes on the PA to ask everyone to be seated is when many decide to get up. They ring the call bell to ask us for another customs form when they make a minor mistake, not understanding that at least when coming to the US, it’s all right to cross it out and make the correction on the form. And perhaps most irritating is how so many don’t put their tray down for us. It’s like a shock to them that we are asking what they want to drink or eat. Why do you think I’m pushing this heavy cart down the aisle…my health? You see the cart coming, start thinking of what you want to drink and have your tray ready!

     And the trip home was especially difficult for me, as I’ve never seen more passengers on our flights who didn’t speak any English. It was frustrating asking what they wanted to drink to have them point at the cart, full of sodas, teas, coffee, water, juice, milk and beer. What are you pointing at? All right, don’t learn how to say tea, orange juice or water. Maybe have someone make you a card with both English and Mandarin so you can show me what you wish to order, since showing you the menu with drink logos doesn’t seem to work either. I thought the Coca Cola brand logo was international. A mechanical issue delayed our takeoff nearly two hours, yet one yahoo rang the bell to ask me if we’d be landing on time. Yes. Yes we are landing on time because Santa is our pilot, and you know, he tends to fly fast! It was trying at times, to say the least. “Where are we?” another passenger asked. We all laughed out loud. Um, I don’t know…Boston? I’ve not looked out the window in 6 hours. I have no idea!

      The crew was great to work with. Everyone got along and worked very well as a team. There was much humor and I enjoyed my time with them. Asian crews are different from other crews I work with. They have unique culinary needs that they remedy themselves. It’s not unusual to see them bring soups, hot wings, steaks, legs of lamb, citrus and one time they even baked a cake on the flight. Many are bringing things difficult to fine in Asia. I’m always fascinated watching the culinary skills of Asian crews.

     Not having been to the Chinese capital for such a long time, the crewmembers were a wealth of information about the new hotel, where to find good deals on the products I wanted to shop for, and who to seek out for a great massage. These are the things important to a flight attendant. This trip, I decided was about shopping more than sightseeing. I had just picked up a trip to Beijing for the following week (when it rains it pours; 9 years without a trip to Beijing and now 2 trips in as many weeks) and I would put off a visit to the Great Wall for then.

My hotel room with glass bathroom walls.

      China is a great place for massages, as they are so cheap. In Beijing, an hour massage with tip costs about $25. They aren’t always the best massage. The first one I had on this trip was a petite woman with pink toenails who basically just wanted to rub the same 4 spots on my back for 20 minutes each. I had to ask her to start on my arms and legs and when she was finished, I asked for my hands to be done. She balked, but I told her I’d tip her for it. The massage felt very good at the time, but the next day I was sore on those 4 spots she had rubbed so vigorously.

      Shopping can be a pain in China. Fortunately, there are places frequented by airline crew, and these places aren’t as annoying as others. After all, they have to keep us happy or we all leave and find a new place. But in the markets, as you walk past the stalls full of wares, the workers stand at the entrance and call out to you, “Hey, you look. You want glasses? You need watch? I have purse! Come look, you buy!” No. No. No. As much as a glance into a shop turns these Chinese merchants into a bunch of seagulls and you have a nice big piece of shrimp on your forehead!

      I went to the Pearl Market with 4 other flight attendants on my crew. It was about 20 minutes from our hotel via taxi in the heavy morning traffic. I found that in the 9 years since my last visit, drivers seem to be catching on. Last time I was here, lanes were merely suggestions. Riding in a taxi was a horror, or a thrill if you are into such things. And I was always juniored into the worst place- next to the driver. Most motorists now do a very good job at keeping in their lane. And there were much fewer bikes on the roads, weaving in and out and playing Tetris at the lights, squeezing past stopped cars.

Shopping in Beijing; photo not mine.

      I’ve found the weather in Beijing to be oppressive on my past summer visits. Between the heat, humidity and smog, it’s not a great place for a picnic. I couldn’t get over how clear it was as the plane neared the airport and the city spread its complex carpet of buildings, parks, roads and entertainment complexes below. The skies were uncommonly blue and the weather was very nice; only slightly muggy and quite comfortable at night. The next day was slightly warmer, but still very manageable. The day we left, however, some 44 hours after touching down, the smog was a bit more noticeable.

      My shopping was a success, but Vaughn, Kitt and Sandy were ready to return to the hotel before I was. Vaughn asked if I had plans for dinner. Since I didn’t, I asked if he would like to join me. He said yes and Marianne and I continued our shopping pursuits for another couple of hours. We then returned to the hotel, where I set out to find a good foot massage. The woman I was told gave wonderful massages had moved and I had the old information, so finding her was a fail. I returned to my hotel and found another woman who would come to my room. My feet were sore, but not as much as my right ankle and left knee. Between the long flight the day before and all the walking I’d done in Beijing, my dogs were barking, and you know how I don’t like barking dogs!

      My foot massage (which in China includes the back, arms and legs) was the kind where you close your eyes and they constantly roll back. Your inner dialogue repeats, "Oh, my gods." Every now and then she'd hit a sweet spot and I'd think, "Fudge." Only not fudge, but the full-on F-word. After all, it's just my inner dialogue. Even if she could hear it, she doesn't “speakul the Englais” and she really does know how to give a sweet massage! I had her go easy on the sore spots that still resided in my back muscles. The part where she got to my feet and legs was bliss.

      She finished just in time for me to change clothes and meet Vaughn for dinner. In the lobby, he told me Kitt would be joining us. Good news; the more the merrier! With none of us knowing the area, we took the advice of another crew member and went to the food court in the mall across the street. Food courts in China are so much more interesting than those in the states; not full of mass-produced meals from national conglomerates.

     After ordering an oyster pancake and some dim sum, I found Kitt and Vaughn and took my seat at the smallish table with silver metal chairs. Kitt, wanting beef, had gone across the hall to McDonalds for a Big Mac and fries. I know, right? Who goes to Beijing and eats at McDonalds? I could tell his was a foreign value meal; the soda cup was the size of a can of soda and not the huge monstrosities served in the US.

      Vaughn, wanting vegetables and rice, had gotten a variety-pack meal from the food court; rice, soup, diced chicken and some vegies. He said it was good, although he seemed a bit uneasy with the whole deal and only finished half of what was on his tray. It was his first time in Beijing, and perhaps his first time in a Chinese mall food court, where one purchases a debit card for each station; no money changes hands. There were all sorts of great looking Chinese dishes. There were soups, dim sum, dumplings, noodles and all sorts of foreign oddities to delight the palate of those bold enough to try something new.

Gyoza and dim sum at the food court.

      The conversation came easily between the three of us. Vaughn was full of questions for both of us and Kitt was very outgoing. I enjoyed the conversation as much as my dinner companions obviously did, as we sat there for about 90 minutes- long after we had finished eating.

      People watching was fun as the conversation meandered around our lives and interests. Suddenly, I became very much aware of how great my life was. Here I was with two people I had not known before the previous day half way around the globe. Vaughn and I had worked together a few years prior going to Sydney, but we had not spent any time together. I love that I get to meet new people all the time with my job. I love that we bond over our jobs and sharing a city and new experiences. I love that in a short amount of time, I get to learn so much about people, and chances are, I won’t see these guys after this trip for months. Maybe years!

      Kitt is Swedish, hailing from a small town almost an hour north of Stockholm. He left for New Jersey at 17, although I didn’t ask why he moved. His parents still live in Sweden and he goes home once a year, although it’s been 2 since his last visit.

      I was amazed when he met us that morning to go shopping. He wore a grey tee shirt and jeans with the legs rolled up to the middle of his calves, very European. I had to comment to him at how well his uniform had hidden his muscles. I could tell he was in good shape, but now one could see just how well developed, and large, his muscles were. So large, in fact, that his veins sat above them, restrained by skin, looking like a map of German roads. Obviously, a guy who spends a ton of time in the gym.

      When I first met Kitt, I couldn’t tell he was gay. He did look German, with facial features typical of such, and blond hair with a hint of wave in the front. During the whole flight, it was hard to tell if his demeanor was slightly effeminate or just European. But when he spoke now, out of uniform, he definitely sounded gay. He began to speak of his partner, who he had married 14 years ago. I asked if he was a body builder as well. He is, but Kitt says he’s not as big. Well, If he were half as muscled as Kitt, he’d still be ripped.

      His partner owns a car dealership in the Denver area that specializes in luxury cars. They drive a used Bentley that was originally over $200.000, but they got it for “cheap”; a measly $50K! I looked at Vaughn, who looked at me, and said, “Obviously one person’s cheap…” Vaughn finished the sentence for me.

A street near our hotel.

      Vaughn is a larger black guy who lives outside Vancouver with his wife and daughter. He has two boys, as well, both in college. He normally only flies to Sydney, but has decided to start flying Beijing trips to do what so many other flight attendants do; sell inexpensive Chinese merchandise in the US. He told us of his plans to build a customer base through a web site to sell iPhone charge packs. But after he saw the quality of small Bluetooth-enabled speakers, he’s’ now convinced he can make over $900 in just 4 months.

      When asked about his plans for his first trip to Beijing before we left San Francisco, he told us that other than shopping, he was only going to stay in his room. He had no interest in seeing the Great Wall of China, Tiananmen Square or the Forbidden City. I was actually a bit surprised he was open to have dinner with me, thinking maybe he’d stay hidden in his hotel room that evening.

      He comes across as a shy, quiet type, who doesn’t like adventure or risk. In fact, he admitted as much at dinner. We started talking about cruises (Kitt has been on over 30) and he mentioned his fear of being at sea. “I can go all around the world and have no problem walking in bad parts of town, but being on the water in the middle of the sea…”

      Vaughn was very inquisitive and often kept the conversation going with a line of questions – what’s a luxury car to tell someone to stay away from? What’s your favorite city? What do you like most about going on a cruise? I could have sat there another hour, but when Kitt suggested we head back, we all just got up. I was eager to hit the gym, sauna and soak in the pool on the 27^th floor of the Renaissance Hotel with a grand view of the moon rising over the ancient and now modern looking capital city. That was sort of surreal; being in a pool with such a view.

The pool at the Renaissance Hotel. Great views.

      As I clung to the side of the pool, I thought about dinner. It was very much like dinners I’ve had before in cities like Sydney, Seoul, London, Frankfurt or even New York, Miami and Chicago, getting to know crew members for a short time. I love my job and how I get to peek into the lives of so many interesting people while seeing so many wonderful places.

      After my soak, I returned to my room and opened a beer. My view from the 17^th floor was the same as from the pool, only ten floors lower. The moon was rising. The buildings flashed images of children jumping rope. The Chinese do love flashing buildings at night! Tomorrow would be breakfast, packing and taking the bus back to the airport for my flight home. I can’t wait to return. Next time, I will go to the Great Wall of China. They say you can see the wall from space, but did you know you can see space from the wall? Lots and lots of space.

Adventures in Flight: A Day in the Life

After a long day at work you go home and what do you do? Cook dinner? Chat with your loved one or a neighbor? Throw a load of laundry in the washer? Take the dog for a walk? Maybe run to the store or work on a project in the garage.

    As a flight attendant, I don’t have the luxury of doing such things when I’m done with work. Half the time, I’m in another city; whisked away in a van to a hotel with a dozen sports channels on the TV and other various cable channels, all of which never live up to their name (Headline News rarely covers the headlines, Discovery Channel is full of things better left undiscovered and don’t get me started with MTV!). The workout rooms are small and the pools are often infested with children. For me, domestic projects have to wait until my days off and compete with all the other minutiae of things that need my attention; cleaning, errands, tasks, and, oh yeah, rest.

    There still seems to be an impression of glamour when telling others I’m a flight attendant. In many ways, I guess that’s still true. The hotels are deluxe retreats, the travel is wonderful – if you’re into travel, and one is exposed to a whole new world; one which is smaller than the one in which most people live. Breakfast in New York, lunch in Chicago, dinner in San Francisco; it’s no wonder it’s hard for me to keep track of time. I can be gone for 2 days and it feels like 5!

Aviation; an old propeller engine by PenguinScott

    Many people have no idea what really is involved in a typical day of a flight attendant. So I thought I’d open a little window into my world, which isn’t as easy as it might sound. Ours is a life full of Federal oversights, technicalities, legalities and union rules. I won’t bore you with the why’s of certain things, but feel free to ask if you would like to know more.

    First, a little background, one of the most annoying questions I get is what route I fly. Only the very senior can hold a route, and even then many don’t always fly the same trips. Each month we bid for our flying, and for most of us at my airline, we fly one month on reserve (on call) and the next month is a line month, which means we know exactly where we will be all month. We can trade and drop trips, thus we have much more control of our schedule. On reserve, I only know my days on and off and trading days is much more complex and often very difficult to do, as they are done so at the discretion of the crew desk, who need to ensure there are enough flight attendants to cover the ever changing needs of the flight schedules.

    For this typical day, I’ve chosen a reserve day. This when we have the most chance of experiencing problems, or as I like to say, having my trip go wonky. Things can change at the very last minute on reserve. You may think you’re going to do one leg to Denver and then fly home, but once in Denver, they may send you to Dallas for a layover and all of a sudden, you’re gone an extra night. That’s why I always keep my bag packed for as many days as I’m good to fly. Even if I go for a two-day trip, if I’m good to fly for 5 days, I pack for 5 days!

    Before going to bed, I look on line to see where I am on the list of reserves for the following day. This helps me gauge if I might get called for an early flight or a later one. I’m high on the list, so I go to bed at 2200hrs, which is very early for this night owl, who prefers red eye flights. (It helps with this job to use military time, so I’ll do so here as another way to show you what my life is like.)

    Sure enough, the crew desk calls at 0315 for a check in at 0835. I’m told I’m going to Philadelphia. After hanging up the phone, I now have to figure out what time to set my alarm. I have to leave my house an hour and 10 minutes before check-in and I usually allow an hour to wake, shower, print my paperwork for the trip and grab a bite to eat. After doing the math and checking it, I pray that I can get back to sleep. This is much more difficult than it seems. With a constantly changing schedule, my mind often thinks, ‘that was a good nap and now, let’s think about ‘all’ the stuff’!

    On the drive to work, I realize that I forgot to factor in that this is a Thursday and I hit rush hour traffic. Fortunately, it’s not too bad and I don’t have far to go in it; this is why I choose to live close to the airport. We are provided parking in a garage and a bus takes me to the terminal, which is why I must allow just over an hour to get to check-in even though I live 15 miles from work.

    Once past security, I squeeze past those who see the people mover as a ride and fail to keep to the right so those of us actually wishing to get somewhere soon can pass. I yell out, “Passing on the left and keep trudging through. Soon, I reach in-flight, our base of operations in the bowels of the airport terminal. I say hi to other flight attendants I recognize, never remembering their name or how it is exactly that I know them. Maybe it was a flight to Maui last year. Maybe it was a flight to Orlando last month. I have no idea, so I just say hi with a big smile and feign interest. I’m only really here because I have to check my mailbox and then log onto the computer to see what cyber info has been handed down from mother airline, in all her wisdom.

Passengers by PenguinScott

    After filling up the circular file, I find my room to brief with the flight attendants I’ll be working with. Those who are based with me in San Francisco (SFO) will be there. Sometimes we might fly with crewmembers from other bases; they will meet us at the plane. On this trip to Philadelphia, I’m assigned the purser position, which means I’m the lead flight attendant on the trip. I make the announcements, work first class and am responsible for briefing with the captain and relaying information to my crew. We are a crew of 3, flying an A320.

    Following the briefing, we emerge from the belly of the terminal and make our way to the gate. I brief with the customer service representative (CSR) and board the plane. Next is a busy time for me; stow my luggage, perform safety checks of equipment, brief with the captain, check galley provisions and start getting the galley ready to provide world-class pre-departure service to the wonderful people who occupy the first class seats, all while greeting the passengers with a smile, a few laughs and trying to look chipper as one can be at 0900hrs after getting 5 hours of sleep!

    Mr. Sir is upset that he’s not sitting with his wife and asks if I can help move people around. I know he’s already asked the CSR and been told the flight is full and he’ll have to ask people to move. I tell him the same thing; we are not allowed to move passengers. Tee-Shirt-Mom boards with her stroller, already tagged to be placed in the plane’s cargo hold, so I have to remind her to take it to the door so a baggage handler can stow it for her. People are shoving 2 and 3 bags in overhead bins sideways, so I have to make an announcement telling them not to do this. No one listens to our announcements, but I did my job. The bins fill up and there are still 20 people on the jet way with large roll aboard bags. I inform them there is no more room for bags and that they now have to check them, which really makes me a popular person. 2A , 2E and 3F all have jackets for me to hang. Mr. Got-an-upgrade-and-has-never-flown-in-first-class finds out he can have alcohol right now, and asks what I have. I ask what he likes as I have no intention of trying to name all of our drinks. I make his screwdriver, pour 2 red wines, and deliver 3 ice waters, a beer and 2 gin and tonics. The first officer wants a coffee with cream and sugar and the captain asks for a diet coke. The interphone rings and the flight attendant in the back tells me there are bags coming forward to be checked. I have overhead bins to close before we can close the door and 1F would like another glass of wine.

   Finally, the CSR hands me some paperwork, signaling that we are finished boarding and she closes the aircraft door. I make an announcement asking for all electronics to be turned off. About half the people actually do this, and most who don’t are in first class. I check with the pilots to make sure they have all they need and confirm that they want to eat their crew meal later in the flight and will call me when they are ready to eat. I make sure all passengers are seated and notify the pilots that we are ready to go.

    Now I start getting paid. You read that right. I am only paid flight time, which means once the brakes are released and until they are set again. It’s the same for pilots. This is why, so often, when we know there is a delay in taking off, that we push from the gate and go sit on the tarmac. We want to be earning money, and we can’t when sitting at the gate with the door open. Of all the jobs I’ve had in my life, I think it’s the hardest I’ve ever worked for free.

Wheel markings and chocks by PenguinScott

    As purser, I make another announcement welcoming the passengers and introduce the video safety demo. For planes with no video equipment or if it’s broken, I have to read it live, while the crew demonstrates the safety features. Following the demo, I check for customer compliance, secure the galley and take my seat in the jump seat for takeoff. This is where I go over my emergency commands in my head, just in case, as there are only two times you can evacuate a plane: before takeoff and after landing!

    The flight time to Philadelphia is over 5 hours, so there’s no hurry to the service today. It’s drinks with warm nuts from the oven, drink refills, hot towels, lunch, ice cream and 90 minutes later I might get a chance to sit down for a minute before the cockpit calls to come out to use the lavatory.

Since two people are required to be in the cockpit at all times, I now have a chance to escape the passengers for a few minutes up front. I cherish my time spent in the cockpit during flight and the opportunity to get a front-view of the terrain below. I look over the cockpit controls; 32,000 feet, wind from the west, coming up to Denver with aircraft at our two o’clock and four o’clock. The pilots like to ask where I live, where I’m laying over, how the passengers are doing, if it’s cool or warm enough in the cockpit and sometimes we chat about world events or company goings on. It’s almost always the same drill.

    Later in the flight I’m back in the cockpit for a second break and this time I’ve got the pilot’s crew meals. The first officer scoffs at how cheap the pasta dish is. He asks if this is the same pasta I serve in first class. It is. He is dumbfounded at how we get away with serving it for what people pay to sit in first. I sort of agree, but offer, “Well, I smile a lot, if that helps!” This makes him laugh and the buzzer sounds notifying us that the captain is ready to re-enter the cockpit.

    Now we play Stay Awake for the rest of the trip, going out to replenish drinks every so often and reading magazines left on the plane from previous crews. You can normally see the crew start to get excited about 40 minutes before landing. Not only for the work we have to do to prepare for landing, by putting things away and collecting trash in the cabin, but just in the excitement that soon the seatbelt sign will be on and the constant line for the lavatories at the back of the plane is finally gone.

   This trip has gone well; the passengers in first class weren’t as needy as they can be. Some were quite nice and talkative as they got up to use the lav. The guy in 3F was surly the whole time, but at least he wasn’t demanding. Mr. Upgrade wound up sleeping most of the trip. Madam was nice, telling me about her cruise to Alaska with her daughter, who lives in Oakland. I enjoyed the flight and working with the crew in the back. But it’s great to take my jump seat and finally see the tree tops out the window of door 1 left. Hello, Philly! I make my landing announcements, with a dash of humor, and I enjoy looking at the passengers who catch it, chuckle and look up at me. The woman in 9E gives me a thumbs up when I ask that people keep their conversations interesting when saying that they can now use their phones…as we are all listening.

   The taxi to the gate seems to take forever, like we actually landed in Camden and are just going to drive the rest of the way! Seatbelt sign is off, so I’m up to disarm my doors and check that the aft doors are also disarmed by calling the crew on the interphone. The jet bridge comes and the agent opens the door. I tell her that I have 2 passengers who need a wheelchair and have no other specials; sometimes we have unaccompanied minors that need an escort off the plane. I now say goodbye to over 130 passengers; trying to vary the parting comment so no one hears me say the same thing twice; goodbye, farewell, thank you for flying with us, enjoy your day, see you next time, have a great day, thanks for your business, goodbye, see you soon, thank you, farewell, adios, have a great day, etc. A few passengers thank me for the great announcements. Two shake my hands, one gives me a hug. That hardly ever happens, but I never refuse a hug.

Airplane getting serviced photo by PenguinScott

   The pilots rarely stay in the same hotel and they leave with the passengers. Soon, the plane is empty and a few passengers are waiting near the door for the strollers to be brought up from the cargo hold. There isn’t a crew waiting so we have to wait on the strollers as well. Once all the passengers are clear, we can enter the terminal and head to our pick up for the van to the hotel. It’s all prearranged and the pick-up area is listed on my paperwork.  The van shows up after waiting a few minutes and we are taken to the hotel. This time we are down town, since the layover is more than 20 hours. If it were less, we would stay in a hotel close to the airport. Check in is a breeze for us; a name and some information on a form and we are handed keys.

   I say farewell, for now, to my crew. I head to my room, change out of my uniform and head out to explore the city. I don’t have long, as my return flight is 0800 the following day and those 5 hours of sleep the night before are dragging me down fast. But I love Philly and head to my favorite spot for a great cheesesteak sandwich. I walk a few miles and return, exhausted, to my hotel room. I enjoy the fact that my windows face an apartment complex across the alley and spy on a few people who seem to enjoy the fact that they live across from a hotel with prying eyes. Oh, you didn’t know I’m a voyeur? I see a topless lady playing with her 3 dogs, a couple having sex through half-drawn blinds and a guy eating dinner on his sofa. He looks over and up at me and waves. I wave back and we laugh.

   It’s been a long day and it’ll be a short night. Time for bed; tomorrow comes too soon so often in this job. I’ll fly to Denver before eventually reaching SFO. I’m good for 2 more days when I get home and I know I’ll be used for them. I’ll get home; too tired to do the domestic projects that most of you get to enjoy doing when ‘you’ get home from work. I’ll put them off for another day. Before I know it, that bill I thought I’d pay when I next get home, doesn’t get paid until my next day off, in 3 or 4 days. But at least I will have 4 days off; one day to recover and 3 to do get things done. It’s never a dull moment in the life of a flight attendant!

747 in air by PenguinScott

One of the worst days

Another gorgeous Pacifica day; clear blue skies, slight breeze, wonderful ocean with mist rising into the air; I love living here. I had my plan: Chinese consulate to renew my visa, stop at Costco for gas and a few items, doctor’s office, then to the mall to conduct a mystery shop for dinner.

I left a little later than planned, so I felt rushed to get to the consulate before they closed. Traffic was heavy, like it was nearing rush hour, but it was only 1:20. I found a parking spot only 2 blocks from the consulate, which was good for the part of the city I was in. It was now ten to two and the sign stated no parking from 11-2. There were many other cars parked, so I thought I’d take my chance, but no need to worry. I got half a block and suddenly I realized I didn’t recall grabbing my passport. I checked my pockets and the contents of the envelope in which I had placed my application. Nothing. All that way, all that traffic, for nothing. Back to the car in shame.

                Because of the traffic, I decided to go back a different route, which did seem better. I found a good parking spot at Costco and as I grabbed my wallet to show my membership ID, I realized I DID have my passport. Now I was really kicking myself. How could I have not realized I actually had it on me? Why didn’t I feel it when I searched my pockets? And the whole drive back south I was racking my brain on where I had put it the night before after making the required copies for the application. I just couldn’t remember.

Cloudy

                My brain has been on vacation for a while. It was very bad after my illness in November of 2009. It’s been a long, slow process of healing and feeling like I’m on top of things again.  A few weeks ago, I nearly missed my first trip back to work after thinking it was on a Sunday, when it was actually on a Saturday. I still don’t know how I did that. Now this.

                I felt bad and a bit worried about myself so I called Mom and told her. She laughed, saying she does things like this all the time. I hear that a lot, when explaining odd things I have done in my recovery. But I was never like this. Mom used to always tell me what a great memory I had. I graduated in the top 10% of my class. I’m a smart person. Or I used to be.

                I told Mom I was in Costco to get some mouthwash. I also needed to buy ink for my printer, cash my annual cash back check and stop for gas. I walked around as I talked to Mom and got a few food samples. I found the mouthwash and got in line. Before leaving, I thought I’d treat myself to a mocha freeze. I pulled out of the parking lot to head to the doctor’s office, not half a mile away. I still had 20 minutes, so I parked in the garage with a view of San Bruno Mountain and texted a friend of mine, who I knew would enjoy hearing of my time with trying to renew my visa. He did laugh.

                As I sat in the waiting room, I realized I had left Costco without getting ink or cashing my check. Now I was really feeling stupid. I was also feeling quite tired and while I waited to see the doctor about my sleep apnea, I wondered if there isn’t something more seriously wrong than just, well, “I do things like that all the time, it’s normal.”

                Things checked out OK at the doctor’s. My next stop was the mall. My assignment there was to have dinner at Five Guys to evaluate customer service and timing. I had also received in the mail a week prior a post card from the mall. Turn it in to receive a gold egg and maybe inside will be a $500 prize. Taking a better look at it, I now realized I was in the wrong mall. It was the right mall for the assignment, but the prize was another mall entirely. Not sure how I didn’t realize that, either.

                On the way home, with my failed day still going through my head, I thought about how I now am constantly worrying myself. When I leave for errands, when I leave a hotel room after a layover, when I board a plane or walk into the briefing room before a flight, I’m always feeling like I’m forgetting something. I take careful notes on what time I have to be places and what things I need to take. For weeks I’ve been forgetting to buy aspirin. Last week I went to cook meals for the pilots, turning on the oven without placing the meals in them. It caused me to overcook the meals for the passengers. I think now know what it feels like to be 80! And it’s scary as hell. This constant feeling like I’m forgetting something is stressful. What if I forget something important, like arming doors for takeoff?

                As I drove down Highway 1 towards home I enjoyed the view of the Pacific Ocean as the sun neared the horizon.  The sky was clear and there was now enough mist over the ocean that it rose quite high and created a haze as I looked out to the ocean. The breeze blew this haze on shore to where it nudged into the hills and gave way to the blue sky above. The light on my gas gauge came on. I had forgotten to get gas at Costco. God damn it.

Going back to work hits a bump

March 2, 2013

Being back to work is so bitter sweet. I really missed being on airplanes and mixing with pilots and crew, talking to people from all over the world, making a passenger’s day, staying in hotels and seeing the world. But I’d come to really appreciate my freedom- to do as I pleased whenever I chose to do them.

                The 12 month furlough from work was voluntary- a fact I’d wanted at first to keep from my family. I was still struggling with medical issues stemming from an illness in late 2009, which nearly took my life and was tired of my health always being the driving force in conversations. When I first took the furlough, I felt as if I may not be alive at the end of it. I was constantly tired and run down and there was just an odd feeling that loomed over me like a sinister parrot on my shoulder. I felt like if I didn’t take the time off to work on my health, I’d die, which explains why I also wanted to use my time off to visit friends and family and do some leisure traveling.

                One of the more sinister fingerprints of that illness was how my brain was affected from the 106 degree temperature I suffered. I was having a very difficult time thinking in the months right after I got out of the hospital. It was as if my internal thesaurus no longer worked; I couldn’t think of words and in the middle of a sentence I would completely forget the topic. Many people told me they do that all the time and that it comes with age, but for me, it was new…and terrifying!

                I’ve been doing much better in the past 12 months, but apparently I’m still having some issues with how to read a calendar. As part of returning to work, I received my line of flying (a series of dates and trips) for March. I was very happy with the line I was awarded because it made easing back into that routine easy…with late check-ins, long layovers and for the most part, one leg a day. My first day back was a Sunday. Or so I thought.

                To get ready for my return, I spent Saturday afternoon getting things ready. I packed my suitcases and got my uniform ready. I sat down at my computer to send out some last minute letters and received a confused note from my neighbor, who thought my first flight was Saturday. I was about to set her straight when I thought I’d better check my schedule, just to be sure. I felt the blood leave my face as I realized how wrong I was.

                I looked at the clock; 9:00PM. I had to check in for my flight at 10:15PM. I dropped everything, got dressed, realizing I’d not shaved and would have to look like a bum. I grabbed my bags and shot out the door. I got 10 blocks away and realized I had left my airline ID. It was questionable if I could return home and still make it on time. Surely, I’ve never driven so fast to work in my life!

                This was not how I wanted to start things off with my return to work. As I sat on the employee bus, which seemed to move like molasses, I tried to figure out how I could make such a mistake. I looked at the calendar on my phone, which had Sunday as my first flight. Had I simply recorded the date wrong? I was to attend a party on Sunday morning and was happy when I saw my schedule that I could still attend. What made me think this?

                Even with difficulties getting through security, I still arrived with 5 minutes to spare. My flying partners were relieved I had made it on time after telling them what I had done. I left a message thanking my neighbor for sending a note when being confused about my schedule; had she said nothing I would have missed my first flight back, and that would have been bad. I also thanked the gods for me living so close to work and that I had not put off getting things ready. When I showed up, I was winded and disheveled, something I am used to with this job. So, not much has changed, it seems. Yep, I was back. Just a little more confused.

Black Eyed Peas for Prosperity

Black Eyed Peas for Prosperity

By PenguinScott

(Photos NOT by PenguinScott)

Superstition has always been a curiosity to me. Never having bought into superstition, I’ve always walked under ladders, have no issues with black cats, and don’t blindly fall for most religious doctrine, which in my eyes, is nothing but superstition. There is one superstitious practice I generally adhere to, however, and that is that I tend to eat my pie crust first and finish with the point. Yes, there are people who think eating the point first is unlucky. My reason for doing so isn’t about luck but that the point of the pie slice is the middle of the pie; the best part, if you ask me.

                Growing up, my father always made me eat black eyed peas on New Year’s Eve. It seems that in the southern United States, those who eat them are favored to discover good luck and fortune for the coming year. It’s a tradition I escaped from after leaving home and living on my own. I’ve had some really good years without my annual dose of black eyed peas; and I do like eating them!

                However, after several years in a row of what I would call…less than stellar years…I recently decided to break down and give superstition a chance. I decided that my contribution to the New Year’s Eve party I had been invited to would be the lucky legume I had avoided for so long. What could it hurt, right?

                No longer living in the south, it was not as easy to find them. Even though California has a pale-colored pea with a prominent dark spot named after it, none of the grocery stores I ventured into carried any. All right, that’s a bit of a mistruth; one did carry them, but not canned. I had been lazy and put off until the last minute purchasing any. December 31 is not the time to buy them raw and deal with cooking them. Not when the recipe calls for mixing a variety of canned beans to marinate overnight. Who knew it’d be so hard to find them?

                The party was starting in a few hours. I still had time to try a few more stores. I could make it when I arrived, let it sit overnight, and the next day, when we prepared our brunch, ta-dah, magical good luck for all!

             

   At this point, I had searched the shelves of five grocery stores. Then I thought about the Asian market a few miles out of my way, but surely to have them. After all, they have been commercially grown all over Asia much longer than they’ve been growing in the south.

                The Asian market is one I enjoy going to from time to time. They have a variety of items any local store would have. The bonus is the wonderful selection of Asian items; from kitchenware to frozen and fresh dishes normally only ordered at a restaurant. They also carry cans of black eyed peas. I think I even heard a heavenly choir as I finally found it on the shelf; tears spilling out of my eyes. Finally, the bad luck of the past few years with health issues, financial issues and death would be washed away with a few spoonful’s of lucky peas looking in all directions with those dark eyes of theirs.

                It was New Year’s Eve and the store, including the other restaurants and shops of the complex, all Asian, was bursting with patrons. Why, the parking lot was so packed that I wound up parking a full two blocks away on a neighborhood street. I was certainly determined.

Armed with my one can of peas, I found the line that appeared shortest and stood behind a young woman busy on her phone and began to look over the impulse items of Chinese cookies and treats. All of a sudden, a woman approaches with about a dozen items and plops them down on the conveyor belt. I realized that the teenager in front of me had nothing to purchase. She had been standing in line only to save a place for her mother. I tried to ignore it.

I failed.

                “Hi,” I started casually, “I think it’s rather rude of you to have your place saved in line like that.” She regarded me casually, in her black sweater and pants and well coiffed hair. “I’m her mother,” she replied simply.

                “I don’t care if you’re if the president of the United States, what you did was selfish,” I replied back. I know. I feel horrible about it. But I’d been to five stores, walked two blocks from my car, and had been standing in line for over five minutes. Looking at the people behind me, I continued, “We all chose a line based on how quickly it was going to move. We all have plans. Then you come along with all these items and now we have to wait. It’s selfish of you to have your daughter hold your place in line while you shop.”

                At this point, the woman starts into me, that I’m selfish, and she begins to raise her voice. I retort, “I’m selfish? You do something wrong and you blame me? That’s not how this works. You’re the one in the wrong. I’m simply calling you out on it; and you thought you’d get away with it.” She continues yelling at me and the effect on me was to raise my voice in return.

A security officer who was nearby approaches and inquires as to what is going on. She continues yelling at me and he asks her to calm down. The officer suggests that I move in front of her with my can of peas. I declined. If she feels it’s so important to cut in front of a group of strangers, by all means, let her finish her business. I simply want to let her know it’s wrong.

                A young man in the next line over shouts out to me that I should let her be, and then he tells me I’m in an Asian market. Now I assume what he meant was that in Chinese tradition, one wouldn’t argue with a woman in line. Maybe he even meant that I should respect my elders. I looked younger than this woman, but I feel pretty confident that she was about my age. Surely, he wasn’t trying to infer that being the only non-Asian meant anything special.

                I look around me mockingly and reply to the young man, “Really? I’m in an Asian market? Well, I had no idea. Thank you for getting involved and helping me out.” He makes a snide comment and leaves the debate.

                The poor cashier had no idea how to handle it. Where she had been friendly and warm and talkative, she was now silent and sullen. She rang up the woman and placed her items in bags. The officer stood nearby. As she gathered her bags, she looked back at me, almost triumphantly. So I took the opportunity to get one more dig at her, “Good luck in the new year, you’re going to need it!” She almost looked shocked.

                Her reply is something I don’t feel comfortable in writing in this story. There was a certain word that most people try to refrain from using in conversation in public. I asked if that was the proper example to set for her young daughter. She repeated a portion of her first retort and huffed off, the daughter still engrossed with her phone.

                The cashier, still silent, rang up my can of black eyed peas and I paid. As I started to leave, the officer approached and warned me to beware of the young man from the other line. He and a friend were now standing in the lobby watching me and he was afraid for my welfare. I let him know in a voice they could certainly hear that I wasn’t concerned and that I could take care of myself. This was a lie. That young kid probably could have really put me in a world of hurt. But I’m a pretty good actor and know how to carry myself.

                As I walked out of the market, I did so with my head held high and the can of peas firmly in my hand. Maybe they’d make a good weapon. I didn’t look back and started towards my car a few blocks away. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. But I had stood my ground and made my point to everyone in the store that day. I was a mix of emotions. I was ashamed that I behaved so poorly and let this woman’s moronic behavior pull me down to her level. I was proud that I stood my ground. I was terrified this young punk was going to accost me and force me to try out my fighting skills, rusty from, oh, I don’t know, 25 years or more of non-use?

                At the New Year’s Eve party, I recounted my tale of the black eyed peas as I made my superstitious dish. I concluded by stating that I bet it’d be a long time before that woman ever cuts in line again. My host said she doubted that. I don’t know. I did make a big scene, intentionally. I just hoped I hadn’t cursed my magical peas. I needed to make 2012 a good year, after all.

                The following day, we ate the dish I had lovingly prepared for my friends in hopes that we could all experience prosperity and good fortune. It was a huge hit with everyone, even though none had realized that eating them was good luck. I guess it truly is a southern tradition; perhaps one that I should revisit and make my own on an annual basis. I’ll just try to get them a little ahead of time and avoid the Asian market on December 31^st.

The Lyngbakr, or, I should have known when she ordered the shark’s fin soup and chicken feet

The Lyngbakr, or,

I should have known when she ordered the shark’s fin soup and chicken feet      

By PenguinScott

From the airplane window, I looked out over France. There were towns and villages with roads meandering from one direction to another. It looked lush and inviting from 29,000 feet. I wished I were down there sitting in a café enjoying some wine with bread and cheese. Oh, and butter. I remember how delicious the butter is in France!

                For the past six days I had been in Barcelona and was flying back to America. Stress was heavy on me, which is odd, having been on vacation for three weeks. Barcelona was but the destination of an Atlantic crossing on a luxury cruise ship which left from New Orleans with stops in Miami and the Azores. I boarded with five friends and left Europe with over thirty new ones. We had all been through a lot, maybe not so much on the ship, but for the five of us in the apartment, Barcelona sure was trying. For me, the entire journey was epic.

                I fell in love with Spain. This was my first visit and long overdue, having resided in my bucket list for years. Was it possible that I enjoyed Barcelona more than other European cities I’ve been to? The architecture was exciting. The food was fresh and creative. The people were vibrant and easy going. We had complimentary weather and getting around the beautiful city was a breeze—even on bike. I choked up when viewing the steps upon which Columbus climbed to inform Queen Isabella that he had just returned from what wound up being America. And staring up at the spires of architect Antoni Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia was mesmerizing. 

               As France passed below I was of two minds of the past three weeks—such an epic vacation. I had truly seen both sides of the coin on this trip: the good and the bad. Sure, I had my camera and travel wallet stolen. Gone were all the photos from the cruise, my time in New Orleans and of Miami, Ponta Delgada in the Azores, and the first two days of sightseeing in Barcelona. That’s what I cared about most—not losing my travel wallet with two credit cards and about a hundred dollars cash. Not the feeling of being violated for having someone’s hand inside my front pocket without my knowledge…or enjoyment. Many of the adventure had been captured by my friends, but many—my artistic shots, selfies, and photos I took—cannot be replaced.

                When asked, it wasn’t having my pocket picked that was behind my answer, “I had a great time. I had a horrible time.” The real reason behind the stress weighing me down was that the date I shared a room with on the cruise, and then an apartment with in Barcelona, turned out to be a Lyngbakr. Others called her the Kraken, but Lyngbakr is more appropriate.

Lyngbakr

                You see, Lyngbakr is an Icelandic mythical sea monster known to bait seafarers by posing as a fantastic island, and when a crew lands on her back, she sinks into the sea, drowning them. This is a more appropriate illustration of my experience; as I was lured into a lovely relationship and then, once safely at sea, this woman turned into a monster, and sunk us into the darkness of a volatile sea of crazy. I’ve researched how the Lyngbakr was felled. I can find no such story. Lyngbakr is alive and well and I’m lucky to still be alive after bedding one.

                We met briefly six months prior on a camp out with a group of friends. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, mostly because I avoid smokers. She was easy to remember: walking with a cane after an illness left her partially paralyzed for a brief period of time. And she appeared to enjoy the attention of being surrounded by our caring group of friends. Her name is Beth.

Fast forward a few months, I organized a Sunday Dim Sum lunch on Christmas Day. She responded immediately and was so excited that I noticed her posting to encourage others to join us. In the end, maybe because it was Christmas, it wound up being just the two of us. This being the case, Beth suggested a Chinese place in Oakland near her apartment. Two things hit me when I walked into the restaurant: This was going to be a good meal. Everyone was speaking Mandarin. And finding Beth would be easy. We were the only two non-Chinese in the whole place.

                Beth was a fairly attractive woman. She was a few inches taller, with straight black hair, and was now off of the cane that had assisted her when we met. She moved slow and methodical, which is also the manner in which she spoke, pronouncing each syllable of every word; sometimes over-pronouncing them. I assumed this was related to her accident. She wore a sun dress with flat sandals. She was also all smiles.

                Our server handed me a sheet with the dim sum options for us to choose. I marked a few items of interest and handed it to Beth. She asked a few questions, marked a few things, and then paused. She regarded me intently, then asked if I’d ever had shark’s fin soup.

                I immediately protested, “Of course not. They cut the fin off and toss the shark back into the sea to die a horrible, painful death. I could never eat that.” My inside voice continued, “And how dare you even ask.”

                Silently, she looked back at the menu. Her gaze returned and she asked if I had ever had chicken feet. Now, I’m sure they don’t cut off their feet and toss them down to die a horrible, footless death. But the thought of eating animal feet... I don’t eat pig’s feet, ergo, I don’t eat chicken feet. I made my point, but not as strongly as that of shark’s fin soup. After all, someone might as well eat the feet; it just won’t be me.

                I watched her make two final marks on the menu order form and she explained that she likes to try new things. Beth was ordering both the fins and the feet. I was invited to try them as well. I assured her that as much as I love new things and the spirit of adventure, she was alone on this one.

                Beth didn’t like the soup and asked that it be taken off the bill. She said the chicken feet was disgusting and didn’t finish as much as an instep. Nice waste of animal appendages; she should have listened to me.

The rest of the meal was wonderful and with time to kill before a party of a mutual friend, we went to her place and talked. Our conversation meandered through our separate medical issues as well as our interesting lives and experiences. There was never an awkward silence or an acrimonious word. I soon forgot all about the shark fins and chicken feet.

                Several weeks pass and I found a great deal on a thirteen-night cruise to Spain and posted it on line. She replied immediately. Was she serious? I was leery about sharing a room with a smoker, but she assured me that she was quitting, and would not be smoking at all before setting sail in six weeks. She was OK with the time line, the expenses and being at sea for so many days. I warned her that once I put down a deposit, there was no backing out. Even though it was her first cruise, she assured me that I need not worry. She was in.

                I booked the cruise and we started making plans. We got together several times at her place over lunch or dinner. Hours flew by as we chatted in person and on-line, joking and flirting. It looked like this would be a grand voyage.

                Our exuberance attracted the attention of a few other friends. Beth invited Kit, a mutual friend of ours who I’d known for years, and Will, a guy she knew from Burning Man. Will was in his sixties and lived in Boston. I mentioned the cruise at a party and the host started asking questions. His name was Jerry, and after a recent separation from his wife, a cruise is just what he needed. The sixth member was a guy I met on line from a cruise critic forum I had joined. He had a lot in common with our gang and proved to be a lot of fun. He was the stage manager on the ship, but wanted to spend a few days in Barcelona with us. His name was Nathan and he lived in Vegas with his partner of nineteen years.

                Much time was spent on line making plans in the weeks leading up to the voyage. We discovered that the Jazz Festival was occurring the weekend we set sail from New Orleans, so we planned an extra night in The Big Easy to soak that in, as well. I adore New Orleans and Kit’s daughter was in school there. Beth and Jerry had never been. It was perfect.

                Jerry invited those of us living in the bay area to his place for a few planning parties, which included dinner and a soak in his hot tub. We were all getting along famously and we were so excited; it was better than Christmas—but this one would be an unusual one with shark fin soup and chicken feet.

Things changed the day we left San Francisco.

                Beth complained about the airport in New Orleans. There was construction, requiring us to go outside and back in to get our bags, then back outside for the hotel van. It was late. It was humid. Beth may not have been feeling well. I paid little attention to the complaining and tried to be accommodating. I know what it’s like to have pain cause a bad attitude.

The following morning we returned to the airport to meet Nathan. I know a place that serves great beignets, so I suggested we eat breakfast there, then from the airport, a bus could take us downtown for the jazz fest, saving money hiring a cab. Beth didn’t care for the beignets, which confounded the rest of us who nearly melted from the decadence. Nathan couldn’t join us downtown until dinner, because he had business with the ship’s entertainment group. Once downtown, Beth, Jerry and I entered Bourbon Street, which was full of festive people. Beth needed a restroom break and Jerry wanted a beer, so the first bar we came to, in they went. I would wait outside for them. After all, this was Bourbon Street and I wanted to soak it in.

                It was a beautiful day: clear, a few billowy clouds, and warm but not too hot. The people filling the street were having a great time. I stood in the shade and watched. After fifteen minutes, feeling a bit flustered, I wandered inside the bar. It was empty except for my two friends sitting at the bar drinking. When telling them they could leave the bar with their drinks to join in the festivities of New Orleans, they had no interest in such things.

                I was near crazy. Who goes to New Orleans—on Bourbon Street, no less—and sits in an empty bar? Apparently only those two. Everyone else was in the street. You can sit in a bar at home. Kit texted that he was at the Napoleon House. Unable to pry them away, I told Beth and Jerry that I’d meet them later, so off I went. Alone.

                By dinner time we were all together, except for Will, who was arriving later that night and would miss out on our jazz fest experience. Nathan brought along a guy he would be working with on the ship and Kit was with his daughter. The seven of us enjoyed a sumptuous dinner at a trendy eatery. The trip was getting off to an awkward start, but things were looking up.

Then the bill arrived. It was passed with each making their contribution. When it got to Beth, she pulled out a piece of paper and a calculator she carried with her. She began to query everyone on what they had ordered and began dissecting the bill with the skills of a hybrid mad surgeon/book keeper. It was the most thorough going over of a bill in history. If the dinner had us going at 90MPH, this brought us down to a school-zone twenty.

                Looks were shot from one to another. It was decided that we’d meet her later; we all had our phones, after all. Beth looked cross at me and probed whether I had left enough money. My reply? “Well, dear, I’ve put in $5 more than my meal including tax and tip. If you discover that I owe more, you know where to find me.” Motioning towards the large picture window, “Look at all that fun...I gotta get out there.” The entire group were all smiles as I led the way out the door, leaving our good doctor with the bill and a wad of cash.

                After the spectacular fireworks display later that evening. We found ourselves in yet another crowded restaurant—Italian. Seems we were eating our way across this fine city! Along with the bill came a loud exclamation from Beth, complete with expletives, about the price of her hurricane. Heads turned from all corners. I wanted to crawl under the table and hide. I might have met Nathan under there had he followed his impulse to do the same. Will explained that a hurricane is a large drink full of much alcohol, and was served in a discriminating restaurant during a festival. She slowly accepted this and began to calm down. At least she didn’t dissect the bill this time. 

Past experiences have taught me to arrive at the cruise terminal early. It’s better to leisurely wait an hour in the lounge prior to boarding than arrive later to then stand in line for an hour. We arrived at 11AM and got our bags checked. Beth and Jerry needed to make a grocery store run. Will was now with us, and had a mission of beignets and coffee from Café du Monde, so he was off as well. I wondered why my plan to arrive early had met so much resistance if they were now running errands.

                An hour passed quickly and I received a text from Jerry and Beth—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They had decided to go into the city and explore a voodoo museum and have lunch. The plan had been to have lunch for free on board, but I reminded them to be on board by three. Jerry can be like a child and Beth had never been on a cruise. The people around me were a bit concerned. If they missed the ship, they could catch up to us in Miami in two days. The funny thing is, the ship left an hour early. A few people were left behind. Dee and Dum were not among them, but it was close.

                In Miami, Jerry’s parent’s and brother, who lived a few hours away, came to meet him. They invited Beth and I to come along to South Beach for a few hours. It seemed like 6 people in the small car would be crowded, but South Beach wasn’t very far, and with a laugh, I was ordered to get in.

                Jerry’s dad needed navigational assistance so Beth got on her phone to bark directions that I knew would take us on a longer route than necessary. She did not need my help, which left me little choice but silently submit to being in spectator mode. Despite her directions we wound up on the causeway to South Beach. Our ship was visible to the right, yet a confused Beth instructed Jerry’s dad to turn around, which he promptly did. South Beach was but a mile in front of us, and now we were headed back to downtown—our ship laughing at us to our left. I was unsuccessful in convincing anyone otherwise. This new route across the islands instead of the causeway would add another thirty minutes to our field trip. Beth realized that her phone was giving walking instructions instead of driving. I remained silent while enjoying the scenic route with impressive homes on the bay islands.

Beth commented on sighting a police officer we passed along the route, calling him a pig. Every time we saw a police officer, she called them pigs. I have friends and family in law enforcement and I found it quite demeaning. This being the hundredth time, I asked that she stop. She protested, stating she never called them pigs. Wait. What? Driving to Jerry’s house for our Bay Area planning parties, she called them pigs. Seeing a police boat as we arrived in the port of Miami that day she called it a pig boat. And just now, on our short, but detoured field trip, she called them pigs. In fact, I’ve never heard any other name come out of her mouth, when referring to the police. She apologized. Jerry’s mom turned and smile at me with approval.

Later, Beth asked that in the future, I not call her out in front of other people. She was upset about the whole pig thing. I had asked nicely. I used quiet tones. I even said please and thank you. I called less attention to it as than her protesting how she had not been doing so. I said I would do my best to not call attention to her shortcomings around others, but if I felt uncomfortable about anything she was saying, I would address it as discretely as possible without delay.

                As we walked along the pathway on South Beach, I heard mention of thirst from Dee and Dum. The first bar we saw happened to be the Ritz-Carlton Spa. A stop was ordered. I was beginning to see a pattern here, and regret in my selection of travel companions was growing. I so wanted to explore the Art Deco and actually see South Beach rather than a bar. Nathan, who was doing his own thing, texted to ask how things were going. We agreed that in Barcelona, these two would be left behind in a bar. I sit at a bar only when my body needs a rest from exploring.

                It was now crystal clear that Beth was...somehow different. The pleasant woman I had gotten to know the previous three months was gone. Good moments with her were few and far between. I’m not sure where that spirit of adventure was that roped her into fins and feet, but there was as much adventure in this woman as...well...in the fin of a shark.

                The next day we were at sea. With VIP status on board the NCL Spirit, I was invited to a small cocktail party hosted by the captain. Beth and I dressed up for the occasion to enjoy elegant canapés with caviar and shrimp as well as cream cheese on toast. The booze was flowing, while ship’s officers were dressed in dark uniform with gold trim. She lauded the rich experience numerous times. The sex that night was intoxicating, but in the morning, she was Lyngbakr waiting to drag me into the deep.

                Most days, Beth slept. One day she was only awake for five hours. Another night, I came in to go to bed around 2AM and she got up and went out. From what I could tell, time spent outside the room was to smoke in the lounge one deck up. She had not stopped as promised, so the room stunk to high heaven from her clothing.

                When she did come to dinner, she complained about the food. It was not as bad as the scene she made in the Italian place, but it was close. She’d take a bite and push her plate making the face of a child and exclaim, “Well, this is awful!,” letting all around understand her displeasure.

               My new friends asked what was wrong with her. Perhaps a drinking problem? Was she crazy? I know I was going insane. I explained that I had only known her for a few months. The general consensus was that she had to complain in order to feel alive. Before long, others complained about her as much as she complained about food.

Then Kit came to see me. Having known her a few years, the real reason he was on this trip was his torch for Beth. Not that it was his intention to steal her away (you can have her, Kit—really) but within our social community polyamory was normal; he had hoped to join our relationship. Recognizing the duress felt among our group, he confronted her and she confided to him that she had gone off her meds our first day at sea.

                “Off her meds?” I asked. “What meds?”

She never mentioned her bi-polar problems and I had failed to recognize them. I guess they were working. Why she would chose her first time on a cruise with a small group of frirends is beyond me.

                One of my favorite things about a cruise is feeling like a rock star. I love returning to the cabin to find the bed made, bathroom cleaned, and mess organized. This was but a memory of cruises past since I couldn’t enter the cabin and not find her in bed. My status on the VIP list guaranteed daily treats left in the cabin prior to dinner each evening. Beth mostly stole this perk because she was in bed with the ‘do not disrupt’ sign on the door. One day, I found that a plate of chocolates had been left and eaten. My fancy delicate chocolates with the ship’s logo emblazoned across the top. She ate them—after having told me how her roommate ate her food in the fridge at home, so to get even, she contaminated her food with Beth-cooties for her roommate to eat.

                Things peaked a few nights prior to reaching Barcelona. I was in the disco with friends, enjoying late-night libations and dancing. When two uniformed security officers entered the club, I instinctively knew they were there for me. As their eyes landed on mine they approached; my heart sank. “Are you Mr. Penguin?” “Yes, that is me.” “Are you in a cabin with Miss Lyngbakr?” “Yes, I am that poor soul.” “We need you to come with us. It’s urgent.”

                They found Beth in a bar too intoxicated to function. Others stated that she had only ordered one drink. I explained that she was on medication for a health issue. While I thought she had taken too many, more likely was that she had started out drinking from the supply of vodka she snuck on board. Concerned about depositing an incoherent monster alone in our cabin, they asked that I check on her. Kit came along for support. Or perhaps it was in hopes that this would be his opportunity.

                I opened the door and was greeted by Beth’s bare ass. She was stuck, head-down and ass-up, between the bed and the wall. I grabbed the towel animal the steward had left on the bed and covered her up and asked for help. With Kit and the security lady, the three of us managed to get her back in bed. Beth had removed her clothes, and then fell, getting stuck, and passed out. Assessing the state of things helped me realize three things: The towel animal on the bed indicated that she had left the room long enough to have turn-down service earlier in the evening. The wetness of the bed indicated that after being brought back to the room, she had undressed and wet the bed. And for her to pass out stuck as she was, this was the smallest room on any ship I’ve sailed.

                I was over it. I was this close to asking for a new room. It was difficult having to ask the room steward to replenish all of our linens and bed coverings when possible. I made sure to leave a generous tip for doing so. But then, a hung-over Lyngbakr apologized for her behavior the night before. I apologized that I had given up on her so easily. Spending two weeks at sea on my first transatlantic voyage was a dream fulfilled. I wasn’t going to let her poor attitude bring me down; she had been warned. I assumed that she hated the cruise. This must be the reason she spent much of it in our cabin sleeping and why she stopped joining us for dinner after the first week. I was prepared to allow Beth to experience this cruise however she wanted. After making up, we spent time together, had dinner, went to a show, and gave the steward a more appropriate reason to change the sheets the next morning after making love half the night.

                The cruise was nearly over. My group of travel companions had formed a stronger bond after all that we had gone through (which included a suicide scare, but that’s a whole other story). And I had made so many new friends—many who would remain friends long after this cruise ended. I enjoyed the cruise part of this odyssey and was hopeful that things would change when we were on land. But Lyngbakrs make for terrible vacations and are hard beasts to kill. So hard that a mere 24 hours later, things returned to what had become status quo. An agitated Beth had again over-indulged on the final night at sea, and before leaving the cabin, she relieved her stomach of its contents quite unexpectedly. The rest of the morning was hell, with her constant complaining.

We were now in Barcelona and eager to experience this wondrous city that none of us had been to. We easily found the neighborhood in which our apartment was located. While waiting for our host to arrive with the keys, Beth needed the immediate use of a restroom; only this time it wasn’t her stomach. In her sudden absence, I declared that effective immediately, I was breaking up with her. Nathan stated that the announcement was unnecessary. Everyone assumed that happened days ago.

The apartment could comfortably accommodate seven, with three beds in the one bedroom, two couches and a fold-away bed. The original plan was for me to share the larger bed with Beth, along with one person in each of the single beds, and then two could sleep on the couches in the living room. I stated that after the last two weeks, I was claiming the larger bed for myself and Beth could sleep in the living room. Nathan and Kit were quick to claim the two single beds in room with me. When entering the room, Kit called out that it was definitely appropriate that I take the room. There was a Picasso penguin hanging on the wall.

There were no arguments. Will was the only person Beth appeared to still be friendly with, and Jerry was her drinking buddy. I’m sure she was as over sleeping with me as I was of her. We got quickly settled in with enthusiasm and banter. Beth said nothing. She refused to join us on our initial outing that afternoon, instead, crawling under the covers of the fold away.

Beautiful Spain. We found a quaint restaurant off the beaten path and enjoyed tapas and sangria. We had prearranged to meet a few ship mates who were also staying in town on the main drag for more sangria. We strolled to the harbor, took the gondola ride across town, and after dinner returned to our apartment by bus. We ventured into a wine shop a few doors down and discovered that Barcelona has some of the best wines for under $4. When we returned, Beth was furious at us for not leaving her with bottled water or a key so she could venture out to buy some. Poor dear didn’t understand that the water in Barcelona is safe to drink. But in our defense, she she was present when we agreed to these plans and she did refuse our invitation to join or meet us later.

As on the ship, she continued to stay in bed for most of her stay in Barcelona. She only went out in the evenings and usually to go to a local bar. She never went sightseeing. She didn’t go on any tours. She never left the neighborhood. The most she ever saw of Barcelona was the ride to the apartment from the ship, and then leaving from the airport. There was a day she never spoke to any of us but Will; and we later found out from him that she was being a Lyngbakr to him as well. One evening, she and Jerry were getting into it, as they often did at this point. Will, who had the misfortune of sharing the room with them, turned over in his bed and asked that they turn out the light. She commented that she should simply die then, since she wouldn’t be able to see what medicine she needed to take. The drama was too rich. We would have flooded the apartment with light to help her take happy pills.

And so it was that Lyngbakr had not only plunged us deep under water, but she next took us down into the darkest depths of the cruel, cold sea. One morning she informed us that the night before she was attacked and nearly raped. She struggled and made it back upstairs but did not call the police. It was quite a tale and we were all concerned. Her plan might have worked if not that the physical proof—bruises on her arms—were the very same she obtained from the night we unwedged her in the cabin and put her to bed. After logging onto social media we discovered that her story was quite different from the one given to us.

The following night came a new story: she heard a woman screaming, and fearing the woman was about to be raped, she went downstairs to assist and was again attacked. But this time she kicked the shit out of him. From victim to hero in 24 hours.

She posted her miserable experiences on the internet. One of the six of us had nearly been mugged on our first night. This was news to us. Did we have a 7^th that we were unaware of? From this point, we could not trust anything she said. She was more ostracized than ever. While sightseeing, we created a new game: guess what had befallen ‘Drama Central’ that day. More arguments with Jerry? Another attack? Maybe aliens from outer space. It was scary.

Our final day, I left Barcelona on a flight earlier than the others. Nathan and I departed for the airport leaving the rest in the apartment with Lyngbakr. (She and Will were actually going to Madrid next, and we’re told she enjoyed her time there.) I boarded the plane for my triumphant return to San Francisco. After three tense weeks, I could finally breathe. I looked down on French wine country and imagined riding a bike along one of the narrow, winding roads, pulling into a little shop, and ordering a nice glass of wine to go with cheese and bread. A silent wine; not the annoying whine that followed me across the Atlantic. I couldn’t wait to get home.

When she returned to America, she told everyone what a horrid place Barcelona was. She shared stories of rape and muggings and of being abandoned in the apartment while we all went out and had a rip-roaring good time. Meanwhile, the five of us felt victimized by her; our time together once spent planning our vacation was now spent in wonder of how we survived. As her stories spread to our shared friends, I couldn’t remain silent. I responded that she didn’t know Barcelona because she never saw it. She had not been abandoned once. She chose not to go out with us—even if we secretly hoped she wouldn’t. And while my pocket was picked, none of us were mugged. One night she’s attacked but never called authorities, the next she’s kicking ass?

Decrying us as evildoers and spreading lies, she unfriended all of us. I survived the Lyngbakr. She mostly ruined a perfectly good vacation. Other than my experience being victim to a pick-pocket, nothing bad happened on that journey. I made numerous friends during the two weeks on board the Spirit, and a year later many of us had a reunion on a second transatlantic cruise. But that first cruise, the one when I shared a cabin with a Lyngbakr, it had something in common with the Titanic. We left New Orleans on the 100^th anniversary of that ship’s infamous sinking in the North Atlantic. Maybe it’s an unlucky date to depart for an ocean crossing. I’m not superstitious, but I would gladly sacrifice my wallet to never come across, and be taken down so deep, by a Lyngbakr.