Well, well, well…I know that it has been a while, but I finally have some time to write a travelogue for you. First, let me explain what my travelogues are. Basically, from time to time, I wax poetic about some of the experiences I have while traveling. Ideally, they are all true, but that would be implying that some of the experinces are false, when I have just previously stated that they are true. So I invite you to make your opinion. Maybe, I’m just a big, fat dork with an overactive imagination. Anyway, enough about me. Second, let me explain why I did not write travelogues between India and now.
Four Words: Minnesota and New Jersey
What the hell goes in either place?
I had the pleasure of going to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where the whole city is built on George Jetson-like skyways. And the national pastime is “watching for lost people in the skyways so that we can help them out,” according to Jeb, who was Marge’s brother and husband. Among other things to pass the time, Jeb watches grass grow, gets a daily supply of milk from something he believes to be a cow, and often gets trapped in the tailgates of pick-up trucks for hours at a time.
New Jersey, however, was quite a different story. Ahh Jersey (or as Guido the bellboy would say it “Joy-see”), what a place it was. It remains the only city on the planet where I had to bargain for my own stolen wallet. And where a bucket of bullets comes with every happy meal. Will someone please explain why New Jersey exists? My theory is that New Jersey is one big set of highways. There are at leaast 4….or 18 million. But I stopped counting because Guido the bellboy stole my calculator as well.
So, anyway, the moral of the story above is that you never have a need to visit New Jersey or Minnesota unless the prospect of being a transcontinental sex slave sounds like a better career than you have now.
**Commerical Advertisement***
We interrupt this travelogue for an important survey question:
If you were on the subway, and a cyclops got on the train, would you stare. Submit your answer to [email protected].
You will be entered into a lucky draw for a post card, signed by me. Losers get the finger. Good luck!
******End Advertisement******
**Espana…Otherwise Known As Spain**
“Getting There Is Half The Fun” or “Leaving On A (Crusty) Jet Plane”
Well, let’s begin these the way that we always begin these things. Let’s start with American Airlines, preferred carrier of those who would write travelogues. It all starts as soon as I see the plane, which is an old 767-300. The plane number here is not important, just that it was old. As it pulled away from the gate, the pilot seemed to be struggling to hold the plane together. Engineers worked dutifully on the plane with American Airlines standard tools: duct tape, a stapler, and a ball of yarn. You’d think these items wouldn’t work, but there something special about American Airlines. They are something special flying in the air. Just like Amtrak. And I think it has everything to do with the fact that they now smuggle angledust in the coffee filters instead of coke. So anyway, I managed to be able to fly business class, which one would expect would be cool. One would also expect that fat people at the movies wouldn’t order a large popcorn, a large soda, a bag full of candy, and expect a small diet coke to balance it out, but you’d be wrong there as well. Let’s just say that the experience was unpleasant, but like the pain of sobriety, I lived through it.
“What You Talking About Willis” or “‘O’ Boy”
Once we land, everyone starts talking this crazy talk. It turns out to be Spanish. They were all like “blah blah blah” and I was all like “yes-o, my-o name-o is-o Rodney-o.” Unamused by the fact that I thought that simply adding the letter “o” to everything was “good ’nuff” Spanish, I was nearly detained by customs. But after some apologies and a bribe, I was on my way to the hotel.
“Would You Like A Room To Go With That Pillow” or “Tuesdays With Rodney”
It get to the hotel, ready (I thought) to check in, as I had made “reservations.” Now, let me explain the concept of reservations. A reservation is the strangest thing. Depending on who books your reservations, sometimes they are an agreement between you and an establish for a service. Other times, a reservation is a concept which means that they told you in Spanish that they have no rooms, but you didn’t understand them. Although I was in the former, it seems that someone lost count of the number of rooms in the hotel. So, as you can imagine, I had an interesting conversation…hmmm…where will this lead…I’ll put in the benefit of translation for you….aren’t I sweet.
__Conversation I Thought I was Having__
Me:
Hello, I have a reservation.
Snotty Front Desk Man:
What is your name?
Me:
Rodney Cornelius
SFDM:
Please wait in the lobby while we get your room ready.
Me:
OK.
SFDM:
Would you like to take a coffee while you wait?
Me:
Neat-o (yeah, like I’d use neat-o, which is not swell at all)
__Conversation As It Likely Happened__
Me:
Hello, I have a reservation.
SFDM:
Hace tan mitad del mundo, usted estúpido, jackass mudos. Cuál es su punta?
(So does half the world, you stupid, dumb jackass. What is your point?)
Me:
Soy ouevos mexicanos con chile.
(I am a mexican omlette with peppers)
SFDM:
Si los cyclops consiguen en un tren, miraría fijamente él. Usted debe terminar la encuesta en [email protected]
(If a cyclops gets on a train, I would stare at him. You should complete the survey at [email protected])
Me:
Muy Bien
(Very Good)
SFDM:
Le espero dado
(I hope you die.)
Me:
Neat-o
(Neat-o)
**Commerical Advertisement***
Coming Soon:
If you went to Bentley, you know them. And now, Richard and Brian want to get to know you. Talk with them live at [email protected]
******End Advertisement******
“Rodney, Tuan, and Ahmed’s Excellent Adventure” or “Fast Car”
Well, the first day we were here, we thought that we would rent cars. After all, I have driven in Boston for over 7 years, so I have been road-tested and approved. Well, since I drive, those who have driven with me know that I actually refuse to navigate, instead relying on the knowledge and sense of direction to get us where we need to go (note I still think I drive up to New York). So the first day, following other people’s directions, I get lost. The second day, I get lost trying to get to work. As it turns out, this crazy talk also has a written language associated with it. Every sign, while helpful to those who can speak crazy talk, seemed to say something to the effect of “donkeys can be traded for shoes at next left.” It probably said something different, but again, it was crazy talk. Eventually, one the first day, it only took me and my associates 2 hours to get from the airport to the hotel (normally a 30 minute ride) and 4 hours to get to work the second day (normally a 45 minute ride). Needless to say, we traded in the cars for taxis.
Anyway, as I continue to have more adventures, I shall continue to write more. Of course, if you would not like to receive these pearls of wisdom, well…I don’t know what to tell ya.
Until next time.
–RC–
This travelogue was bought to you by American Airlines: “We Fly High”
and
The Kingdom of Spain Travel Office: “Come-o To-o Spain-o”