Missing Stuff

          My very best friend, Irene, is lucky enough to be able to travel the world for several months of each year.  Her expeditions so far have taken her to some exotic places…a cruise up the Rio Negro with a self caught piranha for lunch; walking across the pristine snowy, vastness of Antarctica counting the penguins; and, watching the sun rise over the Taj Mahal are all now exciting memories for her.

          Like most women, Irene is also fond of good jewelry.  There have been many occasions we’ve had to stop and stare at some fabulous stuff in the windows of expensive jewelry stores, usually just to drool and perhaps dream.

          So it was some years ago, Irene came to visit with us in Northern Virginia.  Since this was her first time to the east coast, it was incumbent upon me to show her all the ‘places of power’ in DC and generally play tour guide.

          We had a great time walking around all the monuments on the Washington Mall while also pushing back tears at the overpowering pull of the black granite wall of the Vietnam Memorial.  We toured the Capitol and admired the White House and we stared at the magnificence of the Supreme Court Building.

          Of course, tours of the various buildings of the Smithsonian were a definite must.  We started with the Air & Space Museum.  Between marveling at the fortitude of Lindbergh to fly his flimsy Spirit of St. Louis into history and actually touching a rock brought back from the moon, and then being able to climb into the seemingly miniscule space capsule that brought the astronauts back to earth…it was an exciting day.

          But, by the time we had scoured all over the American History Museum, seen Dorothy’s ruby slippers, the inaugural ball gowns of many of the First Lady’s and even stood silent and in awe as the original Stars and Stripes was revealed without its Perspex protective shield, we were pooped and ready to return home.

          As we exited the building and being a good host, I asked Irene if she wanted to continue into the building next door; The Natural History Museum. 

          ‘What’s in there?’ she asked. 

          ‘Don’t know.  Rocks and stones, I guess,’ said dumb, dumb me, really too tired to care at that stage.

          Well, tired as we were we decided to give the Natural History Museum a big miss.  And in so doing, two women who could spend hours with their noses pressed to jewelry store windows, missed out on seeing the Hope Diamond, some of the Crown Jewels (on loan from the UK), many of Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond pins, tiaras, and necklaces and a history of how diamonds are created.

          Sometimes it is best if you find out exactly what you’re going to miss out on before you give a place the flick, isn’t it?

The Hope Diamond

                            

Loving America

          Most Australians have always been madly in love with America and anything American, particularly the accent.  Before jet travel closed the gap between the two countries and travel became more readily available to everyone, Aussie’s based their idea of life in America on the movies and magazines.  Often stuff that was featured in one or the other was unavailable in Australia and therefore became a source of speculation and desire. 

          Young girls poured through the pages of hard to find American magazines like Seventeen to establish how they should dress and look.  They styled their hair into flips and shortened the legs of their pants so they could sport ‘capris’ and therefore more closely resemble their American cousins.

          Anyone lucky enough to spend a vacation touring around any part of California or even further East, arrived back in Australia with an American accent so thick it was easy to assume they’d been born and bred in the US of A.  Well, for at least a week or two until the accent slowly disappeared.  But for that week, they felt special and were often treated as celebrities.

          ‘Wow, you’ve got an American accent!’

          ‘Really?  Ya think so?  Well, I have just returned from the States.  I guess I must’ve inadvertently picked it up.  The Yanks sound like this all the time ya know.’ 

          This said with much rolling of ‘r’s and the chewing of gum to emphasis the point.

          I mentioned this love affair to an American I worked with in D.C. some years ago.  He had been debating spending a few days in Sydney on his way home from a business meeting in Singapore but was hesitant because he didn’t know any one in Sydney and would feel lost.  I must explain here that despite his business acumen, this man was extremely shy and the fact that, unfortunately, he looked like a run-over tennis shoe as well didn’t help matters.

          But knowing how Aussie’s adored Americans I told him that if he followed my instructions to the letter, he would meet some lovely, friendly people and have a ball in my favorite city, Sydney.  He did and he did.

          These are the specific instructions I gave him.  They can be used by any American visiting Australia and will have the same result.  Trust me!

          Start by standing on a busy, city street corner clutching a map of Sydney and look confused.  Within a few minutes an Aussie will stop and ask if you’re looking for directions to any particular place.  Tell him or her that you’re hoping to visit (insert name of place).  Make sure you string enough words together for the Helpful Aussie to hear your accent. 

          The HA will immediately brighten and ask:  ‘Oh, are you an American?’  A quick affirmative response and the doors are open for you to be the recipient of some overwhelming hospitality.

          Having established that you are indeed a ‘Yank,’ the HA will offer to drive you to your sightseeing destination, and will play tour guide for the duration.  Also, noting that you are alone in the city, he/she will invite you home for a backyard ‘barbie’ and to meet all their friends and neighbors.  This invitation is not as noble as it appears at first glance…having an American as their guest elevates them into special neighbor status in the eyes of everyone in their street and surrounds.

          If it happens to be the weekend, you’ll be invited to join your host/hostess in a game of golf at their club the next day, or if you’re not into sports, the offer will be to pick you up at your hotel and take you for a lengthy drive around the beaches and gorgeous suburbs of the city.  If there’s time in your schedule you’ll also be taken to a wildlife sanctuary so you can cuddle a koala or feed a kangaroo.

          And if you’ve made a real impression with your ‘Americaness,’ at the end of your stay you’ll be driven to the airport for your flight home with lots of ‘do write and come back soon’s.’

          But you don’t have to take my word for all this.  Let me know when you’re planning to visit Oz and I’ll make sure the cheering squad is waiting at the airport for you!  You’ll be glad you did.

         

           

Rich Beyond Compare

          Lately I’ve been inundated with emails advising me of the bags full of loot sitting around just waiting for me to say, please deliver to my door.’  Apparently I am such a paragon of wondrousness that even the UN has put me at the top of their ‘Relief from Poverty’ list and desire to make me happy with a check for at least $1.5 million.  Now isn’t that just the nicest thing?  And the UN with such a huge unpaid bill of its own too.

          One such advice really tugged at my heartstrings.  It was written by a man, from his hospital bed, dying of some terrible disease, yet still wanting to tell me of the enormous pile of money waiting for me.  He wrote this missive with ‘tears in his eyes.’  Now I ask you…how incredibly sweet is that?

          Of course one could be a total cynic and question how anyone could write anything on a computer from their deathbed, but that would not be me.  I do however hope the hospital has plenty of Kleenex tissues at hand to wipe the tears from the man’s eyes before he completely soaks the bed.  I’m sure the cost of laundering stuff in Nigeria is quite expensive.

          However all of this largesse on the part of these lovely Nigerians did make me think about incredible wealth.  What would I do if I had it? I mean to have so much loot that you literally couldn’t spend it in your lifetime if you truly tried to do so.  Well that boggled my mind far too much so I settled on a usable sum.  Twenty million.  What would I do with twenty million?  And investing it to make even more millions for myself was not to be an option.

          So I started making mental lists of who would get the money and for what purpose.  By the time I had bought beautiful homes in a nice area for my two kids; set up decent trusts for the grandkids for their education and a small house or apartment for each, I was on a roll.  There would be wonderful vacations, round the world trips for everyone…travelling first class of course; a car for each of the grandkids when they turned 18 and perhaps some cash to start a business if that was on their horizon. 

          My friends wouldn’t be left out either.  Mortgages would be paid off, some lovely new appliances would be delivered for those who needed it…or perhaps didn’t need it but would like it…what fun it would all be.

          I was having such a great time with my mental shopping that I wasn’t actually taking notice of how much I was spending.  When it was all added up I found I was going to be about $1 million short!  How could that be?  Obviously the Nigerians would have to find another lottery I’d won and send me much more cash even while crying buckets of tears.

          Ah, how lovely to dream.  I walked out onto my lanai and gazed at the majestic Ko’olau mountains.  The sun was just setting behind them and a song I heard many years ago came to mind:

          ‘I’m rich, I’m rich beyond compare

          I own those mountains over there

          I own the sun, the moon, the stars….’

          I can’t remember the rest of the verse but right then, the few words I remembered said it all for me.  I don’t have a lot, but looking at God’s incredible creation, I felt so rich….and that makes me truly happy.

           

 

         

I Love Paris

          I see the dollar is getting stronger and stronger against the euro…or should that be the euro is getting weaker and weaker?  Either way, it should make American and Aussie travelers to Europe chuckle with glee as they load up with previously far too expensive goodies or gifts to take home.

          During my trip to Paris last year with my granddaughter, the exchange rate on our beloved dollar was so pitiful it was hard to enjoy many of the lovely sights Paris has to offer.  Well, if it’s a choice between the Louvre and lunch…?

          So of course, all this euro buzz brought to mind a previous trip to France some years ago.  After touring through Provence for several days, I’d made arrangements to meet up with friends in Paris.  Since we were booked into different hotels we agreed to meet outside Notre Dame early evening and figure out then where to have dinner.

          The cab from the station dropped me off outside my hotel.  A narrow street loaded with Smart cars and only a doorway into the hotel…hmmmm.  However, remembering how unimpressive some of the hotels had looked from the outside in Provence, I optimistically dragged my suitcase and roll-on over the threshold and smiled broadly at the rather fierce woman behind the desk.  I think working as a concierge was her weekend job…she probably works as a prison guard at the local women’s’ institution during the week.

          The prison guard spoke very little English and she apparently wasn’t too impressed with my French because she slapped a registration card in front of me, told me I was a half hour early for check-in and promptly ignored my presence for the next thirty minutes.  Not to worry, I was happy to sit in the lobby and peruse some of the brochures.  After all, I had hours before I was to meet up with my friends.

          Exactly thirty minutes later Madame Prison Guard advised me my room was ready for occupancy.  She apparently got this information through mental telepathy because the phone didn’t ring nor did anyone resembling a maid appear to advise the status of the rooms.  Ah, but why quibble over little details?  I was in Paris!  Let the fun begin!!

          It was then Prison Guard informed me that the elevator was not working and my room was on the third floor!  The elevator would not be fixed for at least 24 hours and so how do you like them apples?  I stood open-mouthed staring at the circular stairway that seemed to rise all the way up to heaven.

          Have you ever tried to get something big and heavy up a circular stairway?  The tread is not the same width all the way across…plus, in this case each step was only about ten inches wide anyway.  Oh, and Prison Guard was happy to tell me, there was no bellman, no janitor, no nuttin’ to assist me in lugging my bags up to the third floor.

          One might now wonder why I didn’t hotfoot it out of the place and find accommodations with a working elevator or at least a bellman…simple…Paris was more or less booked out…the French elections, Liberation day and the like.  So I was stuck.

          I tried to put a happy face on it and lugged my roll-on up the stairs one step at a time.  I was sweaty and exhausted when I finally got to my room.  I truly thought I was going to cark it right there and then.  But, I didn’t have time to drop dead…I still had to make a second trip dragging my very heavy suitcase.

          Back downstairs, I bent over my suitcase panting.  Madam PG apparently worried that I actually might become a corpse in her lobby, suggested I leave the suitcase behind her desk until the morning when, hopefully the elevator repairman would present himself for service.  I explained I was meeting friends for dinner, I had to shower and my change of clothes were in the suitcase.

          PG came up with brilliant idea…I should take my shower and then I could come back downstairs and change right there.  I had visions of me running down the stairs wrapped in a bath towel, rummaging in my suitcase for the appropriate items and then what?  Bobbing up and down behind her desk while I put on my clean knickers?  Heaven forbid that anyone else was checking in at the time.

          But, finally I was in my room, flaked out on the bed and wondering if I’d ever be able to stand upright again.

          That’s when I discovered the toilet didn’t work properly.  Flush and listen to the water running endlessly into the tank.  I located a maid on the floor above (who didn’t speak English of course…she didn’t speak French either, she was Jamaican) and with hand signs explained my problem.  She was so helpful, she showed me that by turning the water off at the wall all would be well.  So for whatever my euro outlay was per night, not only did I have to haul my own luggage up three flights of stairs, I also had to turn the toilet water on and off every time I wanted to pee!

          But I still love Paris.  I’ll just make sure future stays will have hotels with at least a bellman if not a working elevator.

Perception: in the eyes of the beholder?

         

          Recently I received one of those ‘forwarded to thousands’ supposedly hysterically funny emails.  Except in this case it actually was funny.  It was also sad and mind bogglingly frustrating because it purported to be true.

          The contents of the email were said to be the questions of would-be visitors to Australia with the answers provided by the Australian Tourism Authority.  The questions came from as far north as Sweden and the United Kingdom and as far east as the USA.  All left me speechless.

          Admittedly I laughed.  The way one does when a question is a little embarrassing and you’re not sure if the question is actually a serious one or someone poking fun.  But then I started thinking about the lack of plain common sense from the inquirers.  Or is it lack of education?  These days does anyone planning a trip outside their own country actually look at an atlas?

          One questioner asked if it was possible to walk from Perth, on the west coast, to Sydney on the east coast, by following the railway line.  A quick glance at a map would have shown that distance was about the same as the distance from Tallahassie, Florida to San Diego, California.  Quite a lovely little stroll!  ‘Just take plenty of water with you,’ advised the Tourism office.

          Surely today, with the internet at everyone’s fingertips, a rudimentary search for information on any country on the planet is just a few clicks away.  On the other hand, a look at the size of a country, establishing that there are real cities with tall buildings dotted along the horizon isn’t going to help with questions like these:  ‘Is English spoken in Australia?’ and ‘Should I bring my own cutlery?’

          Hmmm.  The question of English could be tricky.   Aussies do seem to have a language of their own.  One which bears only a slight resemblance to English as spoken by the English.  As spoken by Americans…well…that’s a whole different blog for another day.

          The use of cutlery however should be addressed here.  Do people planning a visit to Oz (that’s what Australians call their country) really think that because Australia is at the bottom of a spinning globe, it’s a nation of vegan/vegetarian hunters and gatherers?  People who still eat with their fingers?  Apparently so.

          So it all boils down to perception.  Unfortunately for most would-be travelers to Oz, from all parts of the planet, that perception seems to have stopped expanding somewhere between kindergarten and elementary school.  Many of the enquiries concerned countries other than Australia, although they did all start with the letter ‘A.’  Let me help with the following:

          Africa – where Tarzan swings from the trees;

          Austria – where the Von Trapp family are still yodeling in the Alps;

          America – where the streets are paved with gold; and

          Australia – where kangaroos can be seen hopping down the main street.  How many you see will depend on how much you’ve been drinking.

          The final question which is important to get right was:  ‘which direction is north in Australia?’  Tell you what, you crazy globetrotters you, once you land on Aussie soil, turn 180 degrees and then ask for further instructions.