BoomerChicks

Have Tent Will Travel

Yes, we are packing up our tent and traveling to Beverly Beach, Oregon next month to meet up with cousins coming from Washington, Idaho and Arizona.  I actually stole the title of this blog from my Seattle cousin who coined the phrase when she let us all know she had made her camp reservation. 

Now it has been eons since I camped out in a tent, but I have no doubt that it will be as exhilarating now as it was all those years ago.  RJ does have his doubts though, not about his own endurance, but rather he doesn't share my confidence that I will be able to handle it.  I remind him that I lived in a tent for months while backpacking through Hawaii.  His response (accompanied with an evil chuckle) ..."and what year was that?"

RJ can never seem to remember that I become highly competitive when challenged with doubt and snark, or may be he is as sly as a fox and does this so I will get in my competitive frame of mind.  Whatever his motive, he wants to question my ability to live among the elements for a few days...game on!

We discussed taking our dog Murphy after learning that a couple of my cousins would be bringing their furry friends.  RJ did bring up a good point that Vinny, our other dog would be lost without Murphy, who he clings to.  I started thinking about Vinny being left behind without RJ, myself or Murphy and it only made sense that Vinny should come along too.  So having made that decision, I began to think about the tent we were going to take, a 3-4 man dome tent, would not exactly be an ideal dwelling for two adults and 217 pounds of dog!  We must have a larger tent, I thought.

I did my usual research online and decided on a Coleman 8 man tent based on 1) we need a bigger tent, 2) great customer reviews, 3) not sure how often we will camp, which led me to 4) so I better not spend a fortune on one.  So off we went to find it because I was not going to pay for shipping charges. 

Once we had the tent, we also bought an air mattress, extra sturdy tent stakes, a folding table, two cheapo lawn chairs and a sleeping bag for me since there is only one here at the house.  We cracked up because a couple of these things we actually sold in one of our yard sales!  That's the way it goes down though, you always need something after you get rid of it, but as RJ put it, "we would have never been able to find it in our clutter!" 

It was tempting not to buy a whole bunch of other gear on the market to create a five star camping experience.  One thing that did catch my eye was a porta-potty with a separate tent for housing it!  If one thing has me a bit nervous about this camping trip, it is how far are the restrooms from our site...in other words...how far do I have to walk in the middle of the night to get there!  Definitely too much information, perhaps, but this is where I am all too aware that I have entered into middle age!

As I made my way down the aisle, checking out the gear, I decided it would be fun to freak RJ out.  I began to fill the cart up with various items that finally made him question my madness.

He picked up a string of decorative lights and said, "What the hell is this?"

"Oh that", I said.  "We have to make our site look decorative and cozy!", pretending as if it was normal to decorate the outside of one's tent.  Nonchalantly I continued.  "We can get a cute little windsock to hang on the outside of the tent door too!  Perhaps even add a potted plant or two!" 

"Oh God", he mumbled.

I reached for some "bed sheets for camping" and said, "What do you think?  Should we go with the khaki or add a little color with the red?  May be the red would be too much, might attract bees!  Hmmm...let's stick with the neutrals, after all we are camping!"  

"Is this really necessary?", he said.  "How do you know if we will ever use this stuff again and where are we going to store it all?"   

"Oh, don't worry, we'll manage something", I replied.  "Now how about this nifty little rack to make toast over the camp stove?  You like toast!" 

By this time RJ looked completely frustrated so I thought I better let him in on my little prank.  I spun around in Michael Jackson fashion, busted out some dance moves while belting out in song...

                        Wwwweeeelllllll, he likes bread and butter, 
                        he likes toast and jam, 
                        That's what his baby feeds him, 
                        he's her loving man.

I was quite amused with myself as I returned the extravagant accessories to their proper places on the shelf.  RJ looked relieved and could now return to his vision of camping caveman style.  Funny though, as we made our way down the aisle towards the checkout, he did give that porta-potty a second look. 

Aloha from 1972

Sifting through my boxes of stuff has brought me a lot of laughs.  It is quite possibly the reason why I can't seem to get this organization project finished.  I have basically been through all of the "things" boxes and have now moved onto the thirty or more boxes of paper. 

These boxes contain just about everything one can imagine that most people throw away.  I seem to have kept everything, but it has, like I said, provided some good laughs. 

I found the receipt for the plane tickets from my 1972 trip to Hawaii.  Round trip ticket from San Diego to Honolulu - $114.00!  That's once all the tax was added in.  Island hopping from Honolulu to Hana - $12.00!  These will be nice mementos to add to a scrapbook someday.

I also found a page from a journal I kept from that same trip.  Hopefully I will find the entire journal, but if not, I have a kazillion letters that I exchanged with friends and family here on the mainland while trekking around the islands with a backpack and a tent.

This particular journal entry gave me a good laugh though.  God, I was so young and silly.  My friends and I would laugh at everything.  The entry is dated June 3, 1972 and reads:

"The plane was an hour late taking off and "S" and I cruised the airport to see what was happening.  We got a little hungry so we went into a snack shop.  Everything was pretty expensive.  Luckily we were in the mood for a brownie, the cheapest thing on the menu.  However, they were in small portions so when the chick asked us what we'd like, we told her the biggest brownie you have.  She was peeved but we were hungry.  We chowed down on those brownies next to a drinking fountain.  Our next adventure was in a telephone booth.  We decided to call each other on the pay phones.  I deposited a dime but since we were economizing, we just let it ring, just to blow people's minds."

As I read this entry, I remembered that my friends and I loved the word "peeved" and we used it often.  It was always pronounced with a great deal of emphasis --P -EEEEEEEEEEEEE- VED.  Eventually we substituted the word for "pissed off" due to a cat we had found whom we named Leo.  Leo was not very friendly and always seemed mad.  Calling him Peeved Leo just didn't cut it so we dubbed him Pissed Off Leo and it stuck.  From that moment on, any angry person we met was referred to as a Pissed Off Leo. 

The telephone booth episode is historic.  First, who can make a call for a dime, or even better yet, who uses a telephone booth these days?  Superman would be in a world of hurt today.  We did make public pay phones ring though, and we would make them ring and ring and ring until the people nearby would get so ticked by the distraction, they'd answer them only to find no one there.  Naturally, we would roar with laughter, thinking we were so clever and sneaky.  I wonder now just how many were onto our little game.  It was so much better than prank calling from the home phone because we got to see the faces and reactions of our victims.  We died laughing. 

As ridiculous as all this may sound, these were innocent and harmless gestures of our immaturity or should I say, our growing years.  What was far more wonderful was that we were four teenage females, taking off to Hawaii for adventure and discovery.  We paid for the entire trip ourselves without parental donations, working at fast food joints and saving.  We had no chaperones or means of communication with our folks back on the mainland, other than the two cent postcards we would send home. 

Along with my plane tickets and journal entry, I also found the receipt for my Travelers Cheques, a grand total of $290.  I stayed months in Hawaii on that small amount of money.  I knew exactly how to budget, often times picking wild avocados for the day's meal.  We had no interest in hotels or souvenirs and used our thumbs as our means of transportation. 

Ah, the good old days!  This must be a sure sign that I am getting older as I tell stories about how times have changed.  Those were the days though when life was simpler and allowed for raw adventure that one only seems to find on a reality show these days. 

 

Francs vs. Franks & the Forlorn Foreigners

About fifteen years ago, RJ and I took a Caribbean cruise.  It was always his dream to go to the French West Indies so we took the cruise that included Martinique, although I wanted Aruba, but no matter, we went cruising. 

We flew to San Juan, PR, spent several days exploring the island before boarding our ship for paradise.  We stopped at St. Thomas, St. John (via St. Thomas), Dominique (Dominica), St. Maarten, and Barbados before reaching our last island visit on Martinique, RJ's dream come true.  We both laugh now because it was a living hell.

Actually our hell began on the previous island visit of Barbados, but we had so much fun on that island that it is hard to call the experience hellish.  Nevertheless, I was swimming in the beautiful Caribbean, with all of our valuables inside one of those "swim" purses that one used to wear around their neck.  I have no idea if those things are still in existence.  The majority of our cash and our credit card were safely tucked inside, secured around my neck and tucked into the top of my bathing suit. 

Unbeknowest to me, while frolicking in the deep blue sea, the purse took a swim of its own.  I didn't realize it had gone missing until I had been out of the water and basking on the beach for about an hour or so.  We went back into the water and tried to find it, but it was long gone.  I was irritated with myself, but I still had our ATM card back on board the ship, locked in the safe. 

Upon our return to the ship, we went to the service desk and tried to get cash from our ATM card.  I was shocked to find out that my card did not contain some silly logo on the back and we couldn't get any cash.  They told us that we would have to get cash at one of Martinique's banks when the ship docked the next day. 

The next morning we reached Martinique and took a cab to the capital city of Fort-de-France.  The fare was insanely expensive, which had to be paid up front, but we had to get to a bank.  The cab ride should have been our first inclination that this was not going to be a great day.  As we approached the city, the traffic was very heavy.  Suddenly the driver stopped and told us to get out.  We were stunned and asked how far the bank was, at which he just pointed in a direction that was void of any bank.  We stood by the side of the road as he turned his cab around and took off in the opposite direction. 

During our long walk to nowhere, searching for a bank, RJ indicated that he was hungry.  This seemed a bit odd because God only knows we got plenty of food on the ship.  RJ saw a McDonald's and wanted to get a hamburger to eat on our way to the bank.  I was not amused at the thought of dining at a fast food restaurant that we could eat at any time at home.  RJ persisted, claiming it was only a snack and it would be cheap.  I caved.

Once inside Mickey D's, I was at least relieved to see that it had island decor, minus the clown and that there were no lines.  We went straight up to the counter to place our order.  Almost everything was in French and at first glance, it took a minute to figure out what was what.  The cashier never greeted us, but stood stoic and dour before us, looking a bit disgusted that we were "taking too long." 

Looking up at the menu posters plastered with pictures of burgers, RJ told the girl that he would take a Number 35.  An alarm went off inside my brain as I could only see 1 through 6 with regard to the combo meals.  The cashier just stared at RJ.  Suddenly I noticed a small 35 in the right corner of one of the combos on the menu.  At the top of the menu was a big number 5.  I nudged RJ and said, "there is no number 35, you want a number 5."  He was adamant that he wanted the number 35.  I told him, "that's 35 francs!"  What he said next made me lose it.  "I don't want franks, I want a hamburger, the number 35!" 

I began laughing so hard that RJ became a little miffed.  The cashier was pissed.  I said to RJ, "no, no, not those franks, French francs!"  RJ said, "I don't care if they are French franks, I still want a hamburger."  I was dying.  There were tears streaming down my face as I tried to say the word "money."  Suddenly the cashier just walked away and RJ was ticked.  "Calm down", RJ said, "you're embarrassing us and you pissed the cashier off!"  I held onto the counter, took a deep breath to get air and loudly said, "Francs are French money, not hot dogs!" 

RJ quickly looked back up at the menu and froze.  I died all over again.  I saw the light bulb go off in his head.  He burst into laughter and the two of us stood there rolling.  It was so absurd.  Finally the cashier came back with the manager who asked us what we found so funny.  I tried to explain the confusion about franks vs. francs, but he wasn't buying it.  He told us to either order or leave. 

As RJ placed our order, I whispered, "you had better stand here and make sure they don't spit on the burgers!"  He was mortified as we sat down to eat in addition to being upset that these people had no sense of humor whatsoever.  "It was an honest mistake", he said.  Honest mistake or not, it was very uncomfortable while we ate.  The employees gawked at us like we were common criminals.  At any moment I anticipated a crowd carrying baseball bats ascending upon us. 

That was the start to a very bad day in Martinique.  After visiting two banks they refused to give us any cash from our ATM card.  We waited in long lines at both banks in humid heat with lots and lots of rude people.  I have never been so mistreated as I was in Martinique--it felt like we had Cooties or something.  No one wanted to help us, sending us from one long line to another.  People took cuts in front of us and acted like we were freaks, not one smile or courteous word did we encounter.  In hindsight, we should have returned to the ship immediately and spent our day lounging on deck. 

We did manage to hike to an old fort and swim at a nearby beach, where we were the only two people with clothes on!  I met some folks from England while immersed in the water.  We struck up a conversation, but it was rather uncomfortable talking to naked people.  We got a lot of looks.  People probably thought we had something to hide, which in reality, we did!  These folks didn't like us fully dressed, imagine what they would have thought if we were nude.  Plus, by this time, we were convinced that we did indeed have Cooties!

On the way back to the ship, we stopped to get two soft drinks.  It was boiling hot outside and the humidity was unbearable.  As we waited in line, the man in front of us, a Martinique resident, ordered two Cokes at which the cashier charged him four dollars.  When it came our turn to order, RJ told the cashier, "two Cokes", and pulled four dollars out of his pocket.  The cashier placed the Cokes on the counter and said, "fifteen dollars!"  "What", I said, "you just charged the guy in front of us four dollars!"  "Take it or leave it", he said.  I grabbed RJ's arm and said, "we'll leave it, thank you very much". 

Hot, sweaty and thoroughly disgusted we hiked back to the ship.  As we entered the terminal, there was a group set up asking tourists to take a quick survey about their experience in Martinique before boarding the ship.  We started laughing, but took the survey along with several other grumbling passengers.  No one we spoke to had a good time or great experience on this island.  Our survey had many, many comments added to it. 

I have no idea if those surveys helped the folks of Martinique with regard to their hospitality issues.  I have no desire to return.  As we boarded the ship that day, I said to RJ, "next time dude, Aruba!"  He replied, "Amen!"

Tart Flambe in Strasbourg

Watching President Obama in Strasbourg, France brought back memories of my trip to this quaint town. 

I visited Strasbourg with a cousin I met over the Internet.  I had posted a query on the web way back in 1999 looking for information about my Croatian ancestry.  It wasn't long after that posting that I received an email from a family living in Germany who had the same surname and whose family came from the same address as my great-grandmother in a small Croatian village.  We exchanged emails, spoke on the phone and subsequently I flew to Frankfurt, where my cousin picked me up.  We began an 18 day odyssey tripping the light fantastic across the continent. 

There is a lot to say about this trip, but I'll stick to my memories of Strasbourg for now.  Cuz (which we have affectionately come to call each other) took me everywhere in that short time span.  Staying at his parents' home in Karlsruhe, we covered some ground before meeting his parents in Bosiljevo, Croatia.  Strasbourg was one of the stops on our itinerary, where we spent the day, chalking up moments that today, still brings us both to hearty laughter. 

We set out for the French/German border on a cloudy morning.  I am not sure how long we drove before we came to an old border crossing, something that looked so familiar from those 1940's movies.  There were no officials, however, just a small stone bridge-like structure which took us from Germany into France.   

Upon our arrival to Strasbourg, we drove around for sometime looking for a parking spot.  This was actually a good thing for me as it allowed me to see more of the town.  Cuz  (pictured above in the streets of Strasbourg) had warned me before I came to Europe to make sure that I was in shape because we would be doing a lot of walking.  I was good to go with regard to the physicality of the walking, but I should have given more thought to the shoes I brought.  Birkenstocks are not conducive to the kind of trekking we did, especially over cobblestone surfaces.  Nevertheless, I managed, and having improper footwear did not stop me, although the dogs were loudly barking by the end of the day. 

Cuz and I were both a little hungry and decided to eat before we started to check things out.  A friend back home had told me that given the opportunity to visit Strasbourg, I should definitely try the tart flambe.  I relayed this to Cuz and he took me to a quaint little restaurant where we both ordered up this specialty.  While we waited for our flambe, Cuz ordered up two drinks, a yellow liquid that had a definite anise taste to it.  We laughed and drank up, passing the time until our food arrived. 

Soon the waitress served our much anticipated meals.  The tart flambe was huge, and it had the appearance of a pizza made from a crisp flour tortilla.  It was sprinkled with slices of thin, lean ham, a little onion and covered in creme fraiche.  It looked and smelled delicious.  We began to eat and not too long into our meal, I noticed I was doing all the talking.  Cuz had his head bowed, avoiding eye contact with me while we ate.  I asked him what was wrong and he quietly said he would tell me later. 

This alarmed me because Cuz is extremely affable and animated.  It also sent a chill up my spine because his mood had drastically changed.  I started thinking I really don't know this person.  Hell, we met over the Internet.  I began a barrage of questions.  "Are we not related?  Are you an impostor?  Are you a serial killer or something?  Is there something stuck in my teeth?"  I was in full panic mode now and finally he said, "Cuz, everyone is looking at you.  You are eating with your hands!"  I looked around the room and I was indeed receiving stares of disgust from the other customers.  Even the waitress' attitude had changed as she tried to avoid our table.  I leaned across the table and whispered, "We are eating freaking pizza, how should I be eating it?"  Cuz answered without moving any part of his mouth, "with a fork!" 

Once again I looked around the room, smiling shyly.  I was mortified.  These people think I am a heathen, a disgusting barbarian!  My nerves got the best of me and I yelled out, "I'm an American.  I had no idea that you eat tart flambe with a fork.  It's like pizza in my country which we eat with our hands.  I am so sorry."  I continued to smile while sinking down in my chair, waving timidly at everyone looking at me.  Cuz was the color of a strawberry!  I picked up my knife and fork, trying to look dignified, and began cutting small pieces off my flambe, eating it with my fork. 

After a moment of silence, everyone seemed to get back to their meals.  I looked at my cousin and explained to him that I am a firm believer in the philosophy that when in Rome do as the Romans do, but I need to know what the Romans are doing!  I said, "Look, the next time I start to go off the beaten path, please let me know.  Don't get embarrassed.  You won't hurt my feelings.  Just tell me!"   

I also apologized to the waitress who seemed to warm up to me after my admission of ignorance.  Cuz perked up too, and started laughing about asking him if he was a serial killer.  This began a whole litany of mass murderer and serial killer accusations that continued the rest of my visit.  Thank God my cousin had a sense of humor or else my interrogation may have really offended him, resulting in certain misery for the remainder of the trip. 

As we left the restaurant, I smiled and and acknowledged those I had offended.  Everyone seemed pleased that this American Eliza Doolittle had been transformed into a proper lady.  From that moment on I fully realized I was a foreigner and needed to be more conscious of my manners.  In so doing, I learned a couple of things about the French. 

First, they definitely have a bad rap when it comes to the belief that they are arrogant.  Quite the opposite in my opinion.  They like to be acknowledged and once you open up to them, they are quite engaging.  Every shop I stepped into, I greeted the shopkeeper with a "bonjour" and upon my departure, I provided a friendly "au revoir et salut."  If the language barrier got too intense, I politely offered my version of "I don't speak French" in the form of "no, parle vous francais."  Definitely not the proper way to say it, but nevertheless, it was comprehended and much appreciated by the recipient.    I even had one shop owner run out after me in the streets to give me more change back from my purchase.  She indicated that the clerk had made a mistake on the price!  I smiled broadly, told her "merci" and we hugged. 

The second thing I learned about the French is that they love their dogs which is okay in my book.  I love dogs as well.  These animals are pranced about, well-mannered, beautifully groomed and happily stroll alongside their masters.  You do have to avoid the little presents that they deposit on the walkways though because they aren't picked up by their owners.  I commented to my cousin, "It is strange that it is so vulgar and undignified to eat tart flambe with your hands, yet the sidewalks are embellished with poop bombs.  What's up with that?"  He laughed hysterically, but I had to admit I gave this phenomenon much thought.

We continued on that day, traveling the little villages that line the banks of the Rhine, stopping in pubs and meeting some interesting people.  We drank red wine mixed with Coke, and beer mixed with Picone, both recommendations from a friendly female bartender who was eager to satisfy the taste buds of this American who doesn't drink very often.  She spoke to Cuz in German and before we left, I snapped a picture of her giving him a big kiss on the cheek. 

Before we drove back over the border to Germany we stopped in a French supermarket to pick up a couple of bottles of Picone.  Cuz had become quite fond of this in his beer.  Again, standing in line at the checkout, I became immersed in conversation with a French woman who spoke perfect English.  I told her about my faux pas with the tart flambe and she laughed. 

As we crossed the border back into Germany I became aware of the power of a smile along with a little humility.  I told Cuz it seems these characteristics transcend all cultures.  He agreed and still reminds me today what a great trip we had, despite my horrible manners!