More About Door - Part 3

You've probably been waiting with bated, cheese breath to learn more about Door County. And I'm anxious to tell all. I truly am not one to gush. It can be disgusting, but I digress. However, if one were to choose to gush, Door County, Wisconsin would be worth gushing for.

I live near the Chesapeake Bay, which is beautiful, but, perhaps it's the fierceness of the weather (22 below chill factor while I was there), combined with the bay and the lake that makes Door County so appealing. Of course, it's not that way in the summer. Door County has any number of beaches and summer-style vacation amenities. It truly is a boater's paradise.

Because I've always been aesthetically-challenged when it comes to weight, I have never been big on bathing suits...big in bathing suits, maybe, but I was the type who would go to the beach and jump in the ocean before any other bathers arrived. And, so as to not show my physique, I'd just stay in the ocean until sundown.  It produced a lovely prune-like affect, and saved lots of embarrassment. 

Hence, I'm a fan of weather conditions that necessitate overcoats.  I've found that overcoats can hide quite a few pounds. Now, if they could just make an overcoat for one's chins. Anyway, I digress again. The point is I love winter and Door County has plenty. Green Bay is just starting to ice up. I'm told that within the next few weeks, it will virtually, completely iced over. 

Because the area gets 100 inches or snow annually, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, and snowmobiling are popular activities. While there, my group actually had an opportunity to ride in a two-horse open sleigh. Try doing that without singing. We couldn't.

And, as for the local folk, these are some of the friendliest people I've ever met. Sometimes on travel writers press trips there will be business people who are forced to be friendly to us (and if you've ever been with a bunch of travel writers, you know that can be a challenge), but in Door County everyone went out of their way to show us hospitality.

And, no one could have been friendlier and more accommodating than Jon Jarosh, the publicity coordinator for the county's visitor's bureau. Even though he's a Packer fan, Jon is an okay guy in my book. And, when I mentioned in a previous blog that he walks with a bounce, I wasn't referring to any cute little gait.  Jon explained to us the beauty of cherry bounce. Ever heard of it? Well I hadn't.  Actually, I've learned since the trip that even Martha Washington enjoyed a little cherry bounce. It's a cordial, but, in Door County, it's their equivalent to our corn liquor.

Let's just say Jon described it so vividly that we could almost taste it. Heck, we could even spit the pits from the cherries in the drink, just from listening to his description. Jon definitely has a way of making a description come to life. And that's all I'm going to say on that subject.

I guess I've rambled on plenty for today. But, if you're looking for a vacation spot that is almost 100% free of your traditional chain restaurants and homogenous mall retailers, if you want a spot that provides plenty of amenities, but in a get-away-from-it-all atmosphere, then I'd would whole-heartedly recommend Door County, Wisconsin. 

There's one more thing I haven't told you about and that's the ol' fashioned fish boil. Who'd have thunk fish and kerosene go so well together. I'll save this story for my final Door County report. But if you want more info, go to http://www.doorcounty.com/.

 

Door County, Wisconsin - Part 2

When I was first invited to join a group of travel writers to visit Door County, Wisconsin, my first response was, "What's Door County."  I'd hardly heard of Wisconsin, much less Door County, but I was assured by a representative of the PR firm sponsoring the trip that I would love it.

Yeah, right. Have you ever known me to love anything?  Besides my sparkling repartee, that is? Well, I'm on my way home after spending three days here in Door County, and I'm quite upset about this whole thing. The problem is that I don't have one thing to complain about or to ridicule. How am I supposed to do my job under such intolerable conditions.

Everything about the trip, except for the two hour delay at Richmond International, and, oh yeah, the $40 roundtrip luggage charges that Delta has, but beyond that, this was a perfect trip. I really shouldn't complain about the luggage charge. After all, those 12 peanuts they gave me cost something, not to mention the space age packaging they come in.

But, back to my trip...Door County is beautiful. Green Bay (the bay, not the city) is to the west and Lake Michigan is to the east. Door County juts up between the two bodies of water. It's a 70 mile or so peninsula that ends, to the north, at a treacherous water passage that was dubbed Death's Doorway. That's how the county came to be named. Think about it. These must be some hardy folks who celebrate the fact that their county is a great place to die. 

Truth is, these people, many of whom are either Scandinavians, Icelandic, or Cheeseheads, are tough, rugged, and yet exceptionally friendly individuals. They'd give any southerner I know a run for his or her money when it comes to hospitality. They also have some of the best restaurants I've ever visited. 

And, as for the scenery, absolutely gorgeous. I don't use that word very often. It just isn't a manly word and, as you know, I'm a manly man in a manful sort of way. Of course, I'm not as manly as Jon, from the county's Visitors Bureau, but I'll tell you more about him later. He's a guy who walks with a bounce, but I'll explain more about that as well.

I can't go into more detail  right now because I'm sitting in the airport in Green Bay (the city, not the bay), waiting to catch a plane. I have a little bag of Wisconsin cheese in my carry on.  I'm going to take my seat, fasten my belt, and eat my way into oblivion.  But stick around, there's a lot more about Door County I have to tell you.

My Wisconsin Trip - Part 1

I'm on my way to Door County, Wisconsin. And, at the moment I'm waiting in the Detroit airport for a flight to Green Bay. Go Vikings!

Here's something you may not believe. I wouldn't have had I not seen it with my own eyes...the airport here in Motor City is one of the nicest I've ever seen. There are people movers everywhere, so if you're exceptionally lazy, or a hypochondriac, or both, as in my case, you can travel throughout this huge place without actually having to put one foot in front of the other. And, if that's not enough, about 15 feet above the walkway, there's a tram to carry you wherever you want to go. Except it doesn't go to downtown Detroit. I don't think that was such a stupid question to ask, but, sheesh, some people have such an attitude.

My flight from Richmond to Detroit was uneventful, pretty much. It was delayed by about 90 minutes or so, but that's not so bad. Just gives me more chance to sit in a cramped seat with a little seatbelt around me and make small talk with strangers, while I try to keep my mind off of those horror stories of folks who have sat on the runway for hours. I tend to be claustrophobic, so I try not to have any panic attacks on the plane. Sometimes I just have to count from 1 to 1000 loudly in order to keep my mind off the fact that I may suffocate any moment. People seem mesmerized by my counting trick.

As we were fighting some turbulence upon landing I got to looking around the plane and thinking about how many precious lives would be snuffed out if something should happen. There was a beautiful little girl, about 4, sitting on her father's lap. I thought about her, and how she had her life in front of her.

I don't know if you know this or not, but I suffer from a mental disorder known as Acute Sympathy Syndrome. It's been voted the worst disease to abbreviate. I got to worrying about a guy named Michael. No, Michael wasn't on the plane, but his boss was. And the boss was typing a document that I couldn't help but read closely as I sat behind him. Seems Michael is making more than he's worth. He's an accountant, somewhere in Virginia, and he was making $65,000, then all of a sudden the guy's making $95,000. I thought about how proud his wife must be. Little does she know that Michael will probably be getting the boot within a day or two. I worried about Michael and his wife, and his two precious children who look up to him each evening when he comes home and who say, “Hi Daddy. We missed you. Will you carry us on your back.” Pretty soon Michael can spend the entire day carrying the little tykes around on his back.

Then there's this guy next to me, across the aisle. He's the type that as soon as the plane lands, he gets on his cell phone and talks so loudly, you'd think he must think the cell phone is kind of a glorified tin can with a string that you have to yell into. I wasn't feeling sorry for this guy, let's call him Tim, at all, until he said something that bothered me.

“Have you found anything in Florida,” he screamed to someone on the other end of the line. “Something's turned up on my end.”

Ouch, I'm thinking. Is it a tumor? A boil? “It's pretty big,” he says.

Double ouch! Now I can't stop worrying about him.

Then to further complicate things for an Acute Sympathy Sindrome sufferer, as I was walking through this really neat tunnel in the airport (the walls turn colors and cool, mood music plays), I saw three guys with the word DEPUTY emblazoned on the backs of their jackets. I got to thinking how cool it would be if they were transporting a criminal. Then I saw him. The criminal.

But, then I got to feeling sorry for him. Everyone in the whole place was staring at him. How terrible. He was just a young guy. Why do people have to be so cruel? As I was staring at him, he turned and looked at me. “I care,” I mouthed to him, the way Acute Sympathy Syndrome sufferers are wont to do. He flipped me the bird.

So, at least that helped me with my condition. Well, I guess that's enough for now, but I did want to keep you informed. I know you're following my every step with baited breath, and many of you are living your lives vicariously through mine. I'm not sure what that means, but I've always wanted to use the word, “vicariously.” So, there, I've used it. Talk to you later.

All the News That Fits this Little Box

I've been seriously trying to decide what to do about my online column, sometimes pronounced “blog.” While I definitely have an opinion on just about everything, those opinions include one that tells me that most of you don't really care what I think. That's only fair, since I really don't care what you think.

Okay, that was just me being cool. Truth is, I do care. So I've decided that instead of just presenting my opinion of life's daily events, I'd just simply report the news and let you make your own decisions. So, here goes, my first in what I hope will be literally years of news reports without any personal opinions thrown in.

First story, and this is one I like to call a potential widow-maker, did you hear that an iceberg is headed right for Australia? True! I mean we're talking about an entire, virtually civilized continent, facing something that could destroy all life as we know it. Ted Turner is probably already predicting eventual canibalism there.

Anyway, these Aussies have themselves a potential disaster. I don't know what an iceberg would do if it rammed into a country, but I can only think that it wouldn't be pretty, except to persons, who, like myself, love to chew ice. My question is, where's Al Gore when you need him. I think those Australians should be pretty much hoping for global warming right now. I may be wrong about that, though, because I just read that one climatologist has claimed that global warming could cause more icebergs.

I can't figure out how that works, but, hey, I'm no climatologist. One thing I do know, though, is that I sure would hate to be global warming. It gets blamed for just about everything. In a way, I guess I can relate to that, so, while this is not an opinion, I can say that I do feel sorry for it.

In another story, that may somehow be blamed on global warming, an ambulance crew in England dropped this fat guy they were carrying and killed him. I don't think that's an accident, to be totally honest. I think if there's one group of people who are discriminated against these days it's fat people. And, having watched Biggest Loser for the past few years, I have come to the conclusion that fat people are people, too, and should have the same rights as regular people. Sure they're fat, but some of them, when they take off a ton or two, are downright pretty. Maybe this guy was really good looking and could have contributed something to society, but we'll never know because those ambulance guys in England couldn't care less about him and the rest of obese society.

And, finally in today's news, my heart goes out to Mario Flores. Flores, 37, of Long Island, was stuck in a cesspool for 4 hours. He was rescued, but really, by that point, what's the use. It does remind me of the story of the guy who fell into the cesspool and began crying, “Fire! Fire! Help me!.” I'm sure you've heard it, so I won't bore you with the punchline.

Anyway, how did I do? Pretty opinion-free, wouldn't you say? Well, if you like it, stick around. I may make this my new career. I mean, Paul Harvey's dead, so somebody has to do it.

The Nightmare Continues

Okay, so where were we?  Oh yes, I had regaled you with the events of Thursday night at the Quality Inn in Syracuse. Just the thought of 4 glorious days in Syracuse, New York must thrill you beyond words. I had mentioned that despite our room problems, primarily the 32 degree temperatures in the room, the manager was very kind and assured us that all we needed to do was to phone Priceline, have them phone her, and, voila!, we would be credited for our first night's stay.  

Oh yes, before I move on, I will as politely as possible inform you that the toilet in the bathroom of our room wasn't working properly. The manager assured us that she would make sure that was cared for. That was very much appreciated. I'd rather sleep in a 32 degree room and have a working toilet, than have a nice, warm room and an unflushable toilet. Call me old fashioned, but that's the way I roll. So to speak.

As my wife and I headed over to her grandparents' home, she decided to call Priceline. I'm sure the clever customer service people there have cleverly designed a system that, at least half the time, results in the caller hanging up and shooting him- or herself  before he/she ever gets to speak with someone.

But my wife is tenacious. After about fifteen minutes a real live human comes on the phone. What more could we have asked for? Okay, it would have been nice if said human spoke English, but I don't want to be too picky.

"We had a problem with our room last night," my wife tells someone who could very well have been Osama Bin Laden's wife for all I know. And, if she is, that might explain a few things. Anyway, my wife begins to relate the adventures of the previous evening, beginning with the clerk's refusal to change our room to non-smoking and ending with us having awakened with icicles dangling from our noses.

After my wife's unabridged explanation, the pleasant woman says something that sounds somewhat like, "Let me see if I understand. You have left the hotel?"

"Well, we have left for the day, but we're still there," my wife explains.

"But, you want to check out and not stay the next two nights?" Masumi asks.

"NO!" my wife explains. "We spoke with the manager and she said that because we had no heat last night, she would comp us the night, but we have to go through Priceline." Clear enough, I'd think.

"Okay," Abdullette continues, "If I'm understanding you, you would like for the hotel to move you to a smoking room?"

"NOOOO!" my wife explains again. "The manager at the hotel says she will give us last night free because there was no heat in the room. She told us to call Priceline."

"Oh, I understand," Mahatma says. "Well have you spoken with the manager at the hotel?"

"Yes," my wife says, almost patiently. "She told us to call you and that if you call her she will tell you that she will comp last night's room."

"So has the hotel offered to do anything?" Sumiko asks so politely. 

"Have you not heard a word I've said," my wife explains. "The manager said that if you, Priceline, will call her she will authorize you to credit us for last night."

"Now, let me see if I have this correctly," Falafel says. "You want me to call the manager for you?"

"Close," my wife says, feeling that maybe she's getting somewhere.

"And ask that you be switched to a smoking room..." Babaghanoush states proudly.

"Can I speak with your manager," my wife explains.

"No," Affifa says. "You must call back to do that."

"Okay," my wife explains. "I'll do that."

"Before you go," Badriyah says, "Let me ask you this. Have I completely cared for your needs today?"

CLICK

After a couple more thirty minute phone calls to Priceline, I can proudly say we got our credit. And who says there is no such thing as customer service anymore.  There is more to the story, but I think you've probably had your fill for today. We'll talk toilet next time.

My Four-Day, Three-Night(mare) Getaway

I'm sitting here in my hotel room in Syracuse, looking out the window at the glowing Embassy Suites sign. The only problem is the sign is in front of the hotel across the street. I'm in a fabulous 2 star Quality Inn. I've been here one day, with two more to go. I would have told you this morning, after my experiences last night, that it couldn't get any worse. I would have been wrong.

But, let's start at the beginning. It's a very fine place to start. My wife and I came up yesterday to visit her grandmother and step-grandfather. I like them both. On the trip up, we tried some of the tricks we'd heard on the radio about negotiating for the best hotel rates. We failed miserably, so I decided to try Priceline. I'd tried it in the past, but my offers were always rejected. My brother brags about the great deals he gets, so I figured I'd give it another shot.

My first offer for a 2-and-a-half star place got rejected. So, I dropped down to two stars. Immediately, I got back a response. We had been accepted. My wife and I joined hands and danced around her grandmother's kitchen. "Two whole stars," we shouted in unison.

I should have known that something must be amiss. I mean, why would the fine folks at Quality Inn accept my $3.79 a night offer?  Anyway, we drove over to the hotel. I checked in. The place wasn't the Taj Mahal. It wasn't even the Oddfellows Hall, but it looked okay.

As soon as we walked into our cozy, little, closet-like room, the smell of tobacco gently wafted up into our lungs. After a few seconds of subdued gagging, I called the front desk. "This must be a smoking room," I said, kindly enough.

"Yes," the not so very concerned front desk guy replied.

"Do you have a non-smoking room?" I asked in my nicest nice-guy voice.

"Yes, but because you came through Priceline I can't let you have it," the guy says, relishing the opportunity to tell me that. "I'd have to charge you again and you'd get no refund on your first room."  He was in his element now.

"That's the most asinine thing I've ever heard," I said, my voice dripping with kindness. "How about that sign in the lobby that says that if something doesn't meet my satisfaction, you'll correct it?"  I thought my comment was very well thought out.

"Yeah, but you came through Priceline," he said, as if that pretty much answered my well thought out question perfectly. Evidently Priceline customers are second class citizens in the hotel world.

"This is absurd," I say.

"Here, give me the phone," my wife says. She's made a career of apologizing for me. 

"Help yourself," I say lovingly to her, handing her the phone.

Well, to expedite this thing, I'll just say that she was able to get the guy to extend to us a degree of courtesy not known in the Western World. He gave us another room and promised he wouldn't charge us.

We moved next door. The room smelled great. We brought all our luggage in, turned the hi-tech little wall air/heat unit on, and proceeded to get ready for bed.  After noticing that the rather chilly room wasn't warming up, I checked the heater. It wasn't heating up either. It was blowing cold air. 

My wife called the office. This time the caring clerk was also clever. He didn't answer. So, we just turned the heater off and slept in the cold room. Needless to say, we both survived the night.

This morning I spoke with the hotel manager. She was very kind and understanding and agreed to comp our room for last night, but, she said, we'd have to call Priceline to get them to initiate the credit to our card.  

So we called Priceline. That's when the real fun began. I will tell you more about that tomorrow. I'm tired and going to bed...not in the same room as I woke up in, but I'll save that story for tomorrow as well. Who knows? I may even have more to tell. The night is young.

IF YOU'RE LAUGHING OUT LOUD, YOU NEED HELP.

I'm not sure who started it. But, I'd love to find out, and then beat them mercilessly about the head and face. I am, of course, talking about the originator of that now famous expression, "LOL!" I hate it. Honest, I do. Please, I beg anyone who ever writes to me, comments on my Facebook, or engages in any social interaction with me, DON'T SAY "LOL," or "ROFL," which is even worse, or the granddaddy of them all, please never, ever say, "ROFLMAO." Eeeek, that one gives me the shivers.

I'm sure I've already ticked at least one someone off. But, please believe me, I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to save you from yourself. Let me try and put this as delicately as I can. Saying LOL is tantamount to admitting that you're a complete idiot with a vocabulary of a first grader (my apologies to many of your first graders).

Think about it. What does it mean? Laugh(ing) out loud. Oh really. So, you're sitting there, brilliantly commenting on what a text mate or a Facebook friend has said and you're truly laughing out loud? Really? And, pray tell me, just what are you laughing out loud about? 

Most people, I think, if I'm reading them correctly, are saying they LOLing about their own comment. Occasionally, one will simply respond to something someone else has said with an "LOL." That's not too bad, if, indeed, you truly are laughing out loud.

But, more often than not, the ubiquitous LOL will be used somewhat like this: I'll write, "I'm working hard today."

Then Mr. or Ms. Laugh Factory will respond, "Working hard or hardly working? LOL" Are you really laughing out loud at your clever retort?  Because, if so, what we probably have going on here is some sort of bipolar thing. I mean who, really, sits around by themselves, just them and their keyboard, and laughs out loud?

So, unless you really are laughing out loud, don't say it. If you don't think the recipient of your LOL humor is smart enough to know you're joking, then just don't joke with him or her. LOL is kind of like the cyber version of those old TV show laugh tracks.  

It evidently is used as some sort of primal pump to encourage the person with whom you're having some sort of online communication to start laughing.  Let me give you a little tip on humor. If you have to tell someone to laugh, or if you have to laugh to get them laughing at something you've said, you're not the least bit funny.

Gee, I feel so good, just getting this off my chest. It's something I've been wanting to say for so long, but I have been afraid of alienating friends. But, hey, who cares? Not me. 

Now, on occasion, you may worry that the person with whom they're chatting may think you're being serious and you need to warn them that you're not. For instance, suppose someone says something that is a bit of a put down, so you cleverly reply, "Yeah, and your mother wears army boots." And then you get to thinking that maybe they'll really believe that you think their mother wears army boots. And, truth is, you really don't want to cause them any lasting emotional harm, so you'll quickly add, "LOL." And, you'll feel much better.

I'm not an unfeeling person. I can understand that. So, here's my suggestion. If you're using LOL when what you're really trying to say is, "Hey, that is an example of my biting sarcasm," then wouldn't it be better to do something like this:

Your chat partner says, "I'm feeling pretty good today."

And, you, with that quick wit of yours, say, "What? Are you pretty and good?"

Don't add LOL. It would be much better to add "BS" 

Of course, one caveat here to finish things up.  If you are exceptionally clever and spend your day communicating your biting sarcasm to any and all comers, you had better watch out. It could be that your chat messages will be full of BS. LOL.