My Trip to Salt Lake City

• Come on, Delta Airlines: No free movie, no free meal on a nearly cross-country flight? That's weak. The menu says:
Todd English has developed a unique style and approach to the cuisine of his many restaurants, both on land and at sea (Cunard's QM2 and Queen Victoria). Among them is his highly acclaimed Olives, featuring interpretive rustic Mediterranean dishes, now in six cities nationwide. This award-winning chef, author, and television personality offers a modern twist on familiar favorites for his signature entrées on Delta's new in-flight menu.

Translation? Eight bucks for a chicken parm sandwich. I'll admit, it was a surprisingly good sandwich. But I'll take Continental's shitty-but-free "Pierre Creations" beef-and-swiss sub any day of the week. (Note to mon ami Pierre: Here in the U.S. we actually call that dish a "cheeseburger.")

• I will give Delta a couple of points for the hardwood-pattern floor covering in the lavatory. Classy.

• In three days, I only got hassled by Mormons once. Two dark-suited young fellows accosted me (albeit politely) as I waited to cross the street. I was handed a card with a picture of Jesus on it. I was told there was a number on the back that I could call for a free DVD. Not my cup of tea, but still, with Delta charging $6 for a movie, I admire the generosity.

• The state's citizens are called "Utahns." Which rhymes with croutons.

• As a movie buff, I really like living near New York City. But the truth is: In Salt Lake City, it's cheaper to go to the multiplex ($8 vs. $12) and they have selections that haven't even been released in Manhattan.

• Shouldn't an arcade called "Tilt" contain at least one pinball machine?

• Shouldn't I be too old to be wandering around mall arcades?

• Since when did Blondie get topical?

• "Isaac Asimov's Super Quiz" appears in the Salt Lake Tribune.

• I like the airline seatbelt urging "low and tight across your lap." It sounds kind of sexy.

How do you bowl a 37?

I took Isa bowling when we were in Lake Tahoe. I strongly suggested that she not use the bumpers. She was amenable to the idea--she was five hundred miles from home, there were no peers around and the stakes were low. She bowled a 44, and we celebrated wildly. But I expect more from someone who wants to be President.

395, Revisited

We took the 'back way' to Lake Tahoe, the 395. (Yes, in California apparently it's THE 395, but in NY or Jersey we take 78 or 87) I was worried, a storm was coming to Tahoe and we'd be coming in on the 50, from Nevada. I'd been watching the weather reports and although they kept changing, one thing was apparent: it was quite warm in the daytime (40's-50's) and dipping to the 20's at night. Prime icy conditions.
John tried to find a local am station for an updated weather report. "He's obviously a radical muslim and his left wingers are going to support that in his election efforts," we heard and John turned the dial.
"No one wants a woman for president," some man said and John kept searching. We heard that weather and traffic were coming up next. Albuquerque. John turned it some more. All in all, we found Denver, Reno, San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco were represented, as well as one Antelope Valley town that had it's own radio station but it was all ads. No weather.
We talked about the am waves up in these remote Eastern Sierras-- is Denver a few bounces over?
John said Bill Clinton always said he was a Cardinals fan because he got in Saint Louis stations. They had fans everywhere because of the am.

I guess it's obvious we're not interested in satellite radio, but most of the crap we tuned into was Clear Channel. Sad days for radio indeed.

"Bernie Berlitz" part one

Several months ago, Juan, a man very beloved to John and I for his stone wall building at our house, saw Isa as we were on our way out and he said (in Spanish) "Hello, Isabella! How are you!"
She stared at him blankly. I nudged her.
"Isa, aren't you going to respond?" I said.
"I don't know what he said," she replied.
I felt rage. Two years of Spanish, second grade, third, and now into fourth grade, and she couldn't even respond to a greeting. (I never learned Spanish, but I took two years of Italian in college.) I made some not-so-wild claims for John to give me five days and I could have Isa speaking more Spanish than she learned in two years at her school. First off, I took inventory of what she did know. Well, she knew colors, the word for desk and pencil and paper, and the numbers one to ten. She said that every year they would get new kids in the class so they'd have to start at the beginning, so they would do these same units all over again.
Our five day challenge is in Puerto Vallarta.
Because Isa has had two years of zero sum gain, I need her to hit the ground running. I also need a translator. It's a fact that if I spoke Spanish, she'd fall back, and defer to me, so this way, she will be the translator. I buy her a phrasebook . It's very cute, she gets instant results with her phrases, surprising herself. "A table for two, please." "Please take us to our hotel." "Can you direct me to the nearest bathroom?" "Excuse me, may I have a glass of water with no ice?" (I don't bother to explain that one). Amazingly, to her, each sentence gets a response. She carries the book with her everywhere. I make her order my food for me. I make her ask how much the items we want to buy cost.
I make her ask "How do you say this is in Spanish?" People are helpful to this little girl and her phrase book. I made her find in her phrasebook how to write "This does not work" and place it on the coffeemaker.
Obviously, one does not need to leave Los Angeles to practice Spanish, but in this case I wanted to advance beyond that ridiculous rojo and blanco.

aloha!

The last day in Hawaii, checkout time at the hotel was noon. Our flight wasn't until ten at night, so we reserved a car and driver; that way, we could tour the island, then slowly work our way to the airport.

The man who answered the phone at the limo company asked what we wanted to see on our tour. When I said I'd leave it largely to the discretion of the driver, I knew he would send his best man.

Michael was an experienced driver with a side business in aromatherapy. He started us off with one kind of scent, before slyly announcing he'd switched to a pine blend halfway through. He has fourteen children and seemed particularly proud of one who was turning out well. He was obsessed with real estate, describing many parts of Hawaii as the "Beverly Hills of..." (it's the Beverly Hills of Waikiki, it's the Beverly Hills of Kailua).

He drove us to various lookout points, where he would get out of the car and, in his suit, personally escort us to the romantic bluff. We'd stand there a while, until he decided we were sufficiently awed, at which point we'd head together back to the car. I whispered to Bernie to get a shot of me and Michael looking out at the scene together. The next stop, as he was extending his arm to highlight the view for us, I subtly put my arm around him. But Bernie hadn't brought her camera. After that, she brought the camera, but he mysteriously lingered behind (this is when he changed the scent to pine, I strongly suspect).

Michael name dropped with abandon, and I can only hope to one day be added to his arsenal. He has driven (or "taken care of" in his parlance) Adam Sandler, Cameron Diaz, John Travolta, Los Angeles Lakers, and a real-life Hawaiian princess. He confided proudly that he takes care of the cast of Lost. "Then you need to take a little more care of them, they keep getting arrested for drunk driving, they shouldn't be driving," Bernie said immediately, the first time she'd spoken in quite a while.

Michael went into a little bit of a shell after that. And we drove in blissful silence, watching the ocean, smelling the pine.

family vacations

On the beach in Honolulu, there is a trend this year of fathers, in a last-ditch losing effort, trying to keep a tight lid on their teen-age daughters' burgeoning sexuality. These girls, age seventeen to twenty-one, are looking for trouble, Dirty-Dancing style. Their fathers, like Jerry Orbach, are good men, out of their depth. In some cases, it is the last vacation they will ever take as a family.

There are usually younger children, sure, still buying what dad is selling, but to ease his frustration, he turns to the oldest son. And that's when the wrestling begins.

I can not tell you how many fathers and sons I've watched go at it on the sand in the past three days alone. Dad inevitably wins and order is restored in the universe.

And Baby sneaks off to fuck Patrick Swayze.

Sam Choy's

Last night, we went to the famous Hawaiian restaurant. There was an insane seating system featuring waiting in a lounge for a half hour for no apparent reason, with empty tables everywhere, while anyone who happened to call on the phone to make a reservation for two weeks from Sunday was given instant priority (aloha!).

We sat down to dinner, and I ordered a salad. The waiter asked me which dressing I wanted. There were two choices--creamy oriental or spicy vinaigrette. I asked him to tell me the ingredients of the creamy--

Wait a minute. The waiter was Asian, and I stopped myself to quickly confirm the word really was there in the menu, before finishing the sentence--oriental. Yes, that's what I was wondering. What's in the creamy oriental salad dressing?

Mayonnaise, he started.

Stop right there (I have a gag reflex), that's all I needed to know. I'll have the spicy vinaigrette, I said, very glad I'd asked.

Very good, the waiter replied, one salad with the spicy oriental dressing.

Wait. What's that? No oriental (that could mean mayo). Spicy vinaigrette. No oriental!

I didn't shout that. I waited patiently to see which dressing arrived. It was the correct one. Salad with spicy oriental vinaigrette, the waiter announced proudly, seemingly having cemented the decision to add the offending word to every salad dressing.

Why would you want to go there?

I've never spent much time in Honolulu, generally I'm off a plane and on another one to other points west, typically Guam. But we had a few days to kill so here we are in Waikiki. Sadly, though not surprisingly, over the past decade or so, it has turned into every other mall in America. Every single chain is represented here. I have no idea why Americans travel places to shop, when they have these same places at home (someone please explain this to me). The Cheesecake Factory in Waikiki, we all know by now, has the same menu as it does in Boca Raton.

It's sad that one has to make a concerted effort to find an authentic experience while traveling--the taupe malls dotting the landscape with Old Navys and Banana Republics and Buca de Pepos are the new tracks of Magellan. But John thought Chinatown and downtown Honolulu might be a win.

The taxi hailer at the hotel looked at us oddly at our destination request and added, "Make sure you aren't there after dark!" and we were on our way. First of all, Chinatown, which abuts downtown, is full of old buildings worthy of a visit. Then we found an open air market and, upon entering, it was like being in Asia again. I walked by the piles of fresh fish and rambutan(!) bunches of bok choy, lychees and of course unidentifiable dried items. We found a food court in it with most Asian cuisines represented. John got a Korean "Ome-rice" and I almost got Nasi-goreng but then settled for some Pho but then almost bought something from every stall(I felt like I was in Singapore, and I respect that in a food court.).

Red Lobster, Outback Steak House, and the ten thousand other corporate food chains especially Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory can go fall in the ocean now for all I care.

"The Kept Man" drops in twelve hours

I'm sitting on the balcony at our hotel in Honolulu. If I position myself just right, I can get the internet. If I put down the lap top to open the door to the room, it will blow away. It was not easy getting internet service here (aloha!), causing one of my "famous meltdowns." Meanwhile Isa is melting down on the mainland, missing her mother. It is our second wedding anniversary.

Against this bittersweet backdrop, a new novel from Jami Attenberg. When Jami had a series of interconnected stories published last April, I thought to myself, sure, I could write a book of interconnected stories. I mean I've dreamed interconnected stories, man. And if they weren't interconnected I could always tie them together later. The point is it was an achievable goal...if I ever got rid of my family and really hunkered down. But now Jami's just messing with me. Before I've even had time to consider the enormous ramifications of my choices, she's shat out her second book of the year.

"The Kept Man" is getting great reviews. It hits bookstores tomorrow. Congratulations, Jami.

NPR Humor

On a recent road trip, NPR was humming along in the background, barely audible. There was laughter, so John turned up the volume. It was a woman telling a Thanksgiving story, about being filled with stress about her parents coming to New York City to see her. She spoke in what I can only call that "classic NPR tone"-- dry and over-enunciating. You. Can. Hear. Her. Now. She said, "My father sat in a chair all day," and paused for full dramatic effect, "and kept telling jokes. That weren't funny."
The unseen audience roared with laughter. The three of us looked quizzically at one another. John turned the volume up a little more and the woman continued talking about her mother. She said, "I knew my mother would say something about the cornbread. To her, there is only one kind of cornbread, and it wasn't what I had. My mother said, 'That isn't cornbread, that's something you put in your hair.'"
Again, the audience went wild with maniacal laughter.
Finally Isa said, "I just don't see why they are laughing so hard."
"Me neither," I said.
Just then we heard her talking about taking her parents to Ellis Island. It was cold, it was rainy, her piece went on and on for minutes (another NPR trait: lots of needless descriptive turns of phrase, I would think for traffic but she was performing live) and then she said, with more enunciation than the radio speaker could possibly bear: "The problem with going to Ellis Island-"
and she paused, for great dramatic effect here (and I could picture her looking up at her audience with a gleam in her eye as she delivered her punchline) IS THAT YOU ARE GOING TO ELLIS ISLAND.

John turned off the radio.

That's right, the problem with Ellis Island is that you are going to Ellis Island.

home

I flew into LAX from Newark last night on American Airlines. I arrived at the airport two hours early for a flight that was two hours late (information that they sold us fifteen minutes at a time, no more than we could handle). I had a jangly stomach and I'd rather shit my pants than go on a plane. Don't get me started on Newark airport.

I bought an imodium at the airport store. I went to get a drink and realized it was the kind of individual packet you need to open with scissors. I'm not allowed to have scissors in an airport. I go back to the store to see if they can open it, there's now a long line. I'm afraid if I bite the package, my teeth will lose badly. Ultimately, someone from the TSA opened it for me. After some consultation.

When we finally landed, after eight hours and nineteen hundred miles, they told us we could use our cell phones. We all eagerly dialed our families, as piped in music blared in the cabin, so none of us could hear anything. We had twelve channels of music to choose from during the flight. No one had been deprived of music.

Speaking of music, the movie on the flight was High School Musical 2. Are we meant to believe that, along with being a talented singer and dancer, Zac Efron's character is also some sort of basketball star? Are even the young girls who love him buying this?

Bishop is the end of the line

Bishop marks the end of Route 6, the other end being Provincetown MA. Road afficionados should read this if they want to take the 6. Route 2 is also a good one.

on the road

Bishop, California