This is a story about one such argument.

I don’t remember how it began. Few great battles in history have marked beginnings. We say it was the assassination of Ferdinand, we suggest that it may have been the killing of Crispus Attucks and four others on a chilly night in Boston, but we are only guessing – trying to add sense and order to a situation where there likely isn’t one. Where there is only chaos and conflict.

I can tell you this: we were in London, and the turbulence at our table was in stark contrast to the unseasonably warm and sunny weather outside. I stated my piece, firm and reasonable, and was refuted by sheer madness. I shook my head. He shook his. Our voices grew louder. Our (okay, fine – my) attacks grew personal. I said some things about his mother, and her lack of a gag reflex, that I now regret. But still, I maintained my position. And that position is this: IT IS CALLED CILANTRO.

He disagreed, of course. “It’s called coriander,” he said, a claim which sounded all the more legitimate thanks to his English accent. If Patrick Stewart claimed that the sky was pink, we’d all believe it, on account of that damn accent. But I wouldn’t be so easily swayed.

“No one has ever been more wrong that you are now,” I said. Not even the guy who occasionally comments on my blog about how the holocaust never happened.

“I don’t see how I can be wrong if I’m telling you, factually, that’s what we call it,” he replied.

“And I’m telling you factually that YOUR FACE IS WRONG AND YOU ARE A TERRIBLE PERSON,” I screamed, and told him that I recently saw his mother servicing a fleet of young sailors. That was cruel and wrong. I really shouldn’t have said that, and most definitely should not have recreated the scene using Photoshop and some old beloved family photos.

He was undeterred, and kept pressing his point. I kept shaking my head. No, no, no. It made no sense. Perhaps we had misunderstood each other. Before it turned into an unfounded bloodbath, I needed to clarify that we were talking about the same thing.

“It has green leaves,” I said, my voice strained by vitriol, but still clear. “… it  resembles parsley, and can be found in many Mexican dishes. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“Yes. It’s a herb,” he said, making a point of pronouncing the “h” in front  of the word “herb.”

I let out a half sigh, half growl. I could only handle one epic disagreement at a time. We’d address the proper pronunciation of “herb” later.

“Yes,” I said, teeth gritted. “The HHHHHHHERB.”

“Yes. The herb. Coriander.”

“CILANTRO.”

“It’s called CORIANDER.”

“AND YOUR MOTHER IS CALLED FOR A GOOD TIME.”

I don’t know how long we went on like that. It may have been minutes, or days, or weeks. Time has no meaning when you are yelling at an Englishman. My aunt has been married to a Brit for 50 years, and I am certain she would agree with this sentiment.

Looking back, I realize it was an entirely absurd argument. Here in the states, the entire plant is called coriander, as are the seeds. But the leaves are called cilantro (the Spanish word for the plant) and for clarity’s sake, it makes things much easier. Go to a store looking for coriander, and you’ll find a dried spice. Search for cilantro, and you’ll end up with a fresh, leafy herb. In the U.K., so I am told, the whole dang thing is called coriander, and the leaves are called, intuitively enough, coriander leaves (or, on occasion, Chinese Parsley). Ask for “cilantro” and you’ll get wrinkled brows and confused looks. It’s just not as common a word over there.

We might as well have been quarreling over eggplant versus aubergine. Like the superfluous “u” in “humour” and “colour”, the transposing of the letters “e” and “r” in words like “centre”, it was just one of many inconsequential things that separates the English and the Americans. There would be no resolution to this.

In the end, we agreed to disagree and I promised to stop pledging money to neo-Nazi organizations in his name.  I suppose it was all for the best. After all, is it not our differences that make life interesting? If everything were the same everywhere, wouldn’t travel be pointless? Yes. OF COURSE. Of course. Our idiosyncrasies and foibles make the world grand, I reminded myself.  And I believed all that nonsense of tolerance and goodwill until our last day in London. Right up until we were in a cab on our way out of town. That was when we saw this restaurant’s sign:

Forgive the terrible photo. I had rage fingers.

-

If you supposedly call the whole thing coriander, WHY THE HELL IS THERE A WHOLE CHAIN OF CAFES (with reportedly terribly food) CALLED CILANTRO? HUH? EXPLAIN THAT.

Your move, buddy.

I’m constantly amazed by how efficient and logical things are across the pond. Like how, in the London subway, everyone stands on one side of the escalators and the people who want to race up or down do so on the other side. There is quite literally a passing lane on the escalator. This is in stark contrast to say, how we ride escalators here in America: we cram on as though it’s the last lifeboat leaving a sinking ship, fumbling with seventeen or so shopping bags, two coats, and some small animal in a pet-carrying case (let’s go with a chinchilla) and then we stand, utterly motionless, until we reach the top or bottom of the escalator. We then throw ourselves onto terra firma, after which everyone stands around looking as though they’ve just survived a war because THE STAIRS WERE MOVING.

I’m not pointing fingers. I do it, too. Escalators are SCARY. Plus, why use your muscles when the machines will do the work for you? It makes no sense.

But that’s just one of the many miraculously efficient things that go on in London. The subway system, though a Victorian relic that should prove to be an unnavigatable maze for any directionally challenged American (hi!) is surprisingly easy to figure out. Everyone is very polite, no one ever cuts in line, and if you look the least bit lost, ten young men with delightful accents will magically appear and give you directions, all the while calling you “love”. It’s really glorious.

Really, there’s only one thing I’ve encountered in the entire capitol that doesn’t meet these same standards of efficiency and charm: the damn showers.

Take a look at the bathroom in the last hotel we stayed at in Bloomsbury. It was actually a lovely place – breakfast was plentiful, the staff was helpful, and our room was bigger than a broom closet. But the shower looks like it was designed by someone who’s never actually had to take one. In lieu of a shower curtain, they have a pane of glass that covers half of the tub. Directly opposite this was a lovely little shelf where you could place all of your sundries that you wished to saturate with water.

It was literally impossible to bathe without sending several dozen gallons of water on to the bathroom floor (note the copious quantities of towels everywhere). I took to crouching right up against the wall underneath the shower head, trying to not spray water everywhere, wondering how a place that makes GERMANY LOOK DISORGANIZED hasn’t figured out that water gets things wet.

It’s not like shower curtains are incredibly pricey or complex. They’re plastic taps that hang from the ceiling. DO YOU HERE ME, LONDON? YOU ARE FROM THE COUNTRY THAT INVENTED EATING CAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. DO YOU KNOW HOW BRILLIANT THAT IS? Seriously. This is child’s play by comparison.

I suppose I shouldn’t pick on the English exclusively for this. Other countries have missed the boat when it comes to shower curtains, too. I’ve been in hotels and hostels in Italy, Sweden, Norway, and Spain that have had similar arrangements. I once encountered a shower in Hungary that consisted of – I kid you not – a drain in the middle of the bathroom floor, and a hose. But for some reason, I expect a little more of the English. They’re so damn reasonable. Couldn’t they have figured out that water doesn’t stay where you ask it to?

Seriously, WTF, London. You’re better than this.

My response to this is usually to giggle, because it is always a comfort to know you can still surprise your husband, even if that surprise stems from his shock at how evil you are.

Funny thing, though – I tend to surround myself with things that are the opposite of my temperament:

• My friends are all sweethearts. They remember my birthday and don’t give me nicknames that start with the word “ass” (I cannot say the same of myself).
• I like twee movies that involve little conflict.  I clap my hands when the two leads get together (so what if it’s predictable? I don’t know what city I’m in half the time – I NEED A LITTLE PREDICTABILITY.)
• Dessert marks the end, and occasionally also the beginning, of every meal of my life. Am I angelic? No. Do I like angel food cake? Yes. Yes, I do.

I seek out precisely what I am not. Perhaps that’s why I’m so stupidly smitten with Zach Anner.

A while back, the Oprah Winfrey Network set up a competition for folks who wanted their own TV shows. Aspiring tv-stars pitched ideas, and people could vote for their favorites online.

Anner was one of the folks who pitched an idea – you can see his Oprah audition tape here. He has cerebral palsy (which he describes as “the sexiest of palsies”) and requires a wheelchair to get around. His idea for a travel show was based on this premise. Thanks to his incredibly likeable and funny demeanor, and a hoard of rabid fans (including a passionate group of redditors), Zach received a slew of votes. His show, Rollin’ With Zach, will premiere on December 12th.

Based on his previous work, we can pretty much rest assured that it’s going to be best thing ever.

In the travel world, I encounter a lot of folks who ascribe to the church of Anthony Bourdain. I myself was a regular member of his congregation, watching delighted as he made snarky comments and gallivanted around the world. But after a while, I grew weary of the show. I have enough sarcasm and snide remarks in my life, courtesy of my own brain. I don’t need Mr. Bourdain’s as well.

Anner’s take on travel is markedly different. He manages to be smart without being a smart ass, upbeat without being treacly. He never really pokes fun at anyone besides himself, and yet he never comes across as self-pitying. Anner appears to be having the time of his life –  genuinely enjoying what he’s doing and happy to take us along for the ride. It’s a far cry from Bourdain, who makes every episode seem like the consequence of a lost bet, or Rick Steves, who is only remarkable for his ability to make any destination as dull as central Canada.

I’ve compiled a few of Anner’s clips below. If you have a few moments, check them out. Be warned, though: I showed these to a coworker of my husband’s, explaining that Zach was “my secret boyfriend” and she and I began fighting over him. We have not spoken since (edit: we talked tonight. It was weird.)

•  The video that started it all – Zach Anner’s Oprah audition
• In this less-travel-centric video, Anner fills us in on what he’s been up to (mostly doing a strip tease for Mickey Rourke.)
• In a preview of his show’s pilot episode, Anner visits Los Angeles and contemplates the fleeting nature of fame. Also, he eats a ginormous hot dog.
• In an amazing three-part series, Zach shows us around his hometown of Austin. He visits the capitol, gets carried to the top of a mountain (because he forgot to bring his manual wheelchair), and visits the Keep Austin Weird festival.

It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.

I see this as largely your fault, of course. When you saw me quietly sleeping in my chair, you – for reasons that defy logic (Was it curiosity? Thoughtlessness? Demonic possession? I’m leaning towards the latter) – decided to shake the back of my seat vigorously until I woke up.

Now, I’m not one to claim I’m a heavy sleeper. I’ve been woken up by the ticking of a wrist watch before. But kid, I was out. I’d just spent days with my family, who conveniently live under the San Diego airport flight path in an uninsulated bungalow that shakes and trembles every time a plane screeches overhead. Not only will any sleep you get will be in fitful anticipation of the next arrival or departure, but, to add insult to exhaustion, some members of my family wake up at ungodly hours. Kid, did you know there was a 5 am? And that my uncle is almost always awake for it? And, for reasons that escape me, REARRANGING DISHES IN HIS KITCHEN?

Even at your tender age, little blond kid (what are you, eight? nine? At what age are children too old to be considered adorable, but still sticky? Because that’s where you are), I hope you realize how effed up it is for my uncle to be unloading the entirety of his china cabinet before the sun has dared shed light on our corner of the planet.

Between the earth-shaking boom of the planes and the antics of humans under the delusion that they are roosters, by the time Rand and I headed home the day after Thanksgiving, I was knackered.  Exhausted. You can imagine my relief when I found out we were upgraded. Even though we spend roughly 1/3 of all our waking hours in airports, first class is something that eludes us. It is a rare treat when I find that we have plush leather seats and a snack available to us. The second we started to ascend, I was out. Ironic, when you think that this same plane probably woke me up earlier this week.

What’s more, I was having that really good dream I have. The one where I’m at a thrift store, and all the expensive clothes I’ve ever wanted are there, and they’re barely used and super cheap and they’re all in my size! And I get to fill my cart up and the total for all my purchases is something like $15. It’s glorious.

What’s that? NO, it is NOT a stupid dream, KID. And no, it does not suggest that I am materialistic (who the hell taught you that word, but failed to teach you the basics of living in our society? WHO?). It just means that I love a good bargain! It is a wonderful dream, and you woke me from it, just as I was trying on that Madewell jersey blazer that I’ve wanted for months. What’s worse, you did so by shaking my chair like an epileptic in the throes of an orgasm ( … okay, you are far too young for me to have said that. But if your parents let you roam freely around the cabin like an aerial version of Lord of the Flies, I suspect you’ve heard worse.)

Kid, do you know what it is like to be woken up on a plane by being shaken violently? I’m not a nervous flyer, but I was hurled from the golden dew of sleep gasping, convinced that this was, in fact, the end. I was going to die in a hideous plane crash on the day after Thanksgiving, and no one in my family would be able to eat turkey again without weeping (or so I like to think).

Instead, I found, to a mix of relief and annoyance, it was not my imminent doom that woke me, but you. And as I stared at you with bloodshot eyes that sought for an explanation, you merely stared at me, and then proceeded to sneeze in my face before marching up to the front lavatory. You slammed the door shut, did your business, and when you can back down the aisle, you glared at me.

Rand, unaware of what abuses you’d inflicted on me before saw only your face and noted, “Man. That little kid just gave you the look of death.”

Later, when I myself heeded the call of nature, I’d discover that someone had given the bathroom floor a fresh misting of urine. In the interest of fairness, I will allow that it might not have been you, kid. It may have been the gentleman sitting across from me who is at least 50 years of age. But given that he has at least 40 years more experience peeing in toilets than you, I suspect it wasn’t him.

All of that is behind us, now, little blond kid. You returned to your seat one row behind me, next to your exhausted, dozing father. I considered for a brief moment waking him up in the same manner you did to me, but decided to let him sleep. He’s dealt with you every day for the last decade or so, and will deal with you every day for another decade. He needs his rest.

A very cranky Everywhereist (foreground) and the sleeping father of the demon child (background).

-

But while I did not voice my frustration to your father, I still felt it, kid. I was exhausted, yet my body was coursing with the adrenaline that had been released when I thought we were plunging towards the earth (as an aside, having a bunch of adrenaline in a situation like that WOULD HAVE BEEN HELPFUL HOW?). And then something happened, kid, that made me forget all of that.

After we had landed, and we all were waiting to get off the plane, I heard sobbing. I turned around, and saw you wailing – absolutely wailing - while your dad attempted to comfort you. Apparently you had been jabbed in the eye by something (it may have been your little sister, your own fists of which you CLEARLY have no control, or the swift hand of fate. Whatever.) and were in hysterics.

I stared at you, kid, while you sobbed, and I actually felt sorry for your little demonic self. Because no matter how evil we are, how often we shake awake poor, exhausted strangers who have done nothing to us, we’re still human. We’re still squishy and mortal and we need sympathy and love.

Looking at you, kid, I understood this notion. And seeing your exhausted father try to comfort you, I knew that one day you’d understand it, too: that even the most obnoxious of us is fragile and delicate and needs to be hugged and comforted.

So here’s to the less shitty person you will one day be, kid. Until then? Cover your mouth when you sneeze, learn to aim your urine stream, and for the love of all that is holy, don’t wake me up unless the plane is actually crashing.

Actually, you know what? If we are going down, just let me sleep. Thanks.

Sincerely,

The Everywhereist

Take the following scenario, which happens at least once a month:

Rand and I are driving to the airport. We are almost running late, but not quite. If we are able to keep up the miraculous average speed which we’ve attained, we’ll be fine. If not, we’ll have to engage in that awful sport, long forsaken by the Olympics:  The panicked running-to-the-gate dash (in this race THERE ARE NO WINNERS). As the surprisingly light traffic rushes along, Rand will often say something like,

“Man, I can’t believe how light traffic is.”

At which point I will scream like mad woman, because really, WHY WOULD YOU EVER SAY THAT?

He has to know how physics and the universe works, right? The second you say something like that, the exact opposite will happen. Comment on light traffic, and you will find yourself in a parking lot in the middle of I-5. Make a crack about how you can’t believe that the dress you wore to last year’s holiday party still miraculously fits, and you will instantly gain 15 pounds (I’ve seen it happen. TO ME) It’s not luck. It’s science.

If you need more proof, ask Jodi Ettenberg about how many times she’s been pooped on by birds (current tally: 11 birds, 1 bat). Rumor has it that every time she begins to tell the story, another winged animal drops a bomb on her. SCIENCE.

It’s simple: tempt fate, and you will pay for it. This phenomenon is why the disastrous events of last weekend are utterly and completely my fault.

Rand and I were headed to Los Angeles for the weekend. He was going to be speaking at the Foodista food bloggers conference, and I, rather eagerly, was tagging along. Because Rand also had business in San Francisco, he was going to fly into SFO, spend the day there, and then meet me in LAX (I’d be taking a direct flight there from Seattle) that night. Multiple steps were involved, but it would be easy, right?

No. Of course not. Had it been easy, the story wouldn’t be worth telling.

At some point, as I was driving towards SeaTac airport, I quietly thought to myself how smoothly things were going. Even though traffic that day was heinous, I’d managed to miss a lot of it. My semi-unreliable car was driving quickly down the street. I realized how lucky Rand and I were when it came to travel. We never rarely miss a flight. We never get delayed, never have to sit on the tarmac for hours, watching our youth pass us by. And even with my delicate (read: wimpy) constitution, I’d managed to not get sick on the road in ages. It was really and truly a miracle!

No sooner had these words entered my mind that I realized: I’d doomed us. Doomed us good.

And I’d brought it on myself. I’d tempted fate. Hung my bare butt in front of her and screamed, “GO AHEAD, FATE. TAKE A BIG JUICY BITE.”

And she did. The next nineteen hours were … well … here’s how the next nineteen hours went:

5:00 pm: Because veggies are scarce on planes, I decide that it’s a good idea to eat a salad from the airport. You know the part where Romeo takes the poison, and you find yourself screaming “NO!” even though it’s inevitable? When I recall that salad, it’s kind of like that.

6:00-9:00 pm: Flight is incredibly bumpy as a result of storms up and down the coast. Inflight service is cancelled, and the little light indicating you may now make a rush for the lavatory never goes off. The “salad” is not sitting well.

9:30 pm: Land in L.A., motion sickness clouding my mind like the smog does the city. Stumble into a cab. Instruct driver to take me to a supposedly nearby restaurant, where my brother and sister-in-law were hanging out with some friends, including my pal Katie, who I’ve known since the fifth grade.

9:45 pm: Riding in cab, Rand calls. His delayed Delta flight has now been cancelled. He must get a hotel out of pocket (the airline won’t pay for weather-related cancellations) and fly out on an American Airlines flight early tomorrow.

10:00 pm: I finally arrive at the restaurant and find that I have been ripped off by the driver. He’d taken me the long route – the very long route, and my fare is $30 pricier than it should have been. Plus, I spent another 15 minutes in a moving car. I regret not barfing in his vehicle.

10:15 pm: In a shocking lack of critical thinking, I decide that nachos are the best way to soothe my stomach.

10:30 pm: They are not.

10:45 pm: I discover that no one bats an eye when they hear someone retching in a toilet in L.A.

11:00 pm: Katie loads me into her car to take me to my hotel.

11:05 pm: En route to the hotel, I calmly insist that Katie pull over immediately or face having her lovely Mercedes defiled.

11:05 pm and 30 seconds: Like, IMMEDIATELY, Katie.

11:05 pm and 50 seconds: Think about how Katie is a rather skilled driver (safely crossing three lanes of traffic in Los Angeles) as I deposit what little contents of my stomach remain onto a Santa Monica sidewalk.

11:06 pm: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. I’m lucky Katie is a middle school science teacher. She doesn’t seem that grossed out.

11:07 pm: Seeing me vomit for the second time in less than an hour, Katie decides to spend the night with me so I won’t be alone. Old friends have terrible logic. It’s wonderful, really.
-

Katie and I the next night. Despite feeling better, I continue to make the "barfy face." I shouldn't do that in L.A. - I might get discovered. -

-

11:20 pm: Katie and I arrive at the hotel. Miraculously, they allow us to check in, despite the fact that neither of us appears to be Rand Fishkin (the name on the reservation).

11:21 pm: In what would normally be a gracious gesture, the clerk at the front desk hands me a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. I am disgusted. WHAT HAS BECOME OF ME?

11:27 pm:  I stumble (and Katie walks) to our hotel room. As I press my cheek to against the cool seat of the hotel toilet and reflect upon my life (which I assume is about to end), I think of all the mistakes I’ve made. Most notably, eating that goddamn airport salad.

2:00 am: Katie can’t sleep because (I’m postulating) she consumes roughly 3 gallons of coffee a day. I can’t sleep because my body is full of poison. She begins to tell me ghost stories. I politely inform her that I am never sleeping again.

3:00 am: I manage to fall asleep. No one is more surprised than I.

6:00 am: Rand heads to SFO (while I am still asleep in L.A.)

6:30 am: My husband is informed that the seat that Delta secured him on an American Airlines flight (after they delayed and then cancelled his first flight) has been given to someone else. They cannot get him on another flight until that evening.

7:00 am: Rand runs over to the Virgin Atlantic counter, and manages to get on a flight headed out that morning.

7:30 am: He barely boards in time.

7:45 am: It doesn’t matter anyway, because the plane can’t take off. It was originally destined for Newark, and has too much fuel to safely land in Los Angeles.

8:00 am: Rand and his fellow passengers disembark, and wait for another plane.

8:15 am: I wake up in Los Angeles and read my husband’s tweets. I wonder if we will ever see eachother again.

8:30 am: Rand sends me a text. Virgin was able to secure another plane and they’re getting ready to leave! He’s going to make it to L.A.! We are both in a subtle state of disbelief.

8:40 pm: … Aaaand with good reason. Rand’s plane makes it to the runway before they are forced to head back to the gate. The plane has a sewage problem.

8:45 pm: Quietly accept that Rand is just going to have to live in San Francisco International Airport forever. I wonder how much money I can get from selling his clothes.

8:50 pm: Apparently Virgin is able to fix the sewage problem, but they need to shut off power to the plane first. Rand tweets the following photo. It does not instill me with confidence.
– 

"This is your captain speaking ... through a bullhorn." Since the power was off, they couldn't use the PA.

-

11:00 am: Rand lands in L.A. No, seriously. He makes it to L.A. safe and sound. Katie and I pick him up from the airport, and I don’t throw up. Not even a little bit.

11:30 am: We head to breakfast with my brother and sister-in-law. I am feeling so much better than the night before, I order two servings of pancakes. The waitress stares blankly at me, as though no one in Los Angeles has ever done this before BECAUSE THEY PROBABLY HAVEN’T. But I’ll be damned if I’m eating another salad.

12 noon: I look lovingly around the table at my friends and family, and slightly more lovingly at my second order of pancakes. All is right in the world, and I can’t believe how much better things are at that moment than they have been in hours. But there is no way I am saying that out loud. In fact, I’m going to try to not even think it. I’ve learned my lesson.

So, that’s my tale of nineteen heinous hours, courtesy of the twisted hand of fate. Fortunately, since we just went through an ordeal like that, odds are we won’t have to deal with anything like that again for absolutely ages and …

Crap. I just did it again, huh? I’m going to contemplate what exactly is wrong with me over another pile of pancakes.

They keep pestering me with “facts” and “reality”. Ugh. The biggest argument as to why moths cannot bite is that they have nothing to bite with. Apparently moths have a proboscis (instead of mouths full of razor sharp teeth) which really can’t be used to inflict pain on humans.

To help illustrate this concept, I drew a picture of how many of my readers would like me to think of moths from here on out.
-

Moths are supposedly cute and not evil.

-

Fortunately, I know that these are just a bunch of lies perpetuated by pro-moth organizations, and that the mouths of these winged monsters actually look like this:

-

Yup. They totally look like the alien from Aliens.

-

Of course, several of my readers see things differently than I. Everywhereist reader Lisa explained that these beasts are responsible for pollinating flowers and help to yield fruit. And Anne noted that not only do these moths not bite, but that she found them to be beautiful, to boot.

As I sit in the corner of my office, wielding a torch (wait … are moths attracted to flames?!) and listening for the nearly indiscernible sound of hairy beating wings, I’ve quietly wondered why so many seemingly sane people are preaching the merits of these creatures. I’ve come up with two equally valid hypotheses.

Hypothesis #1: Everyone is trying to convince me of the harmlessness of moths because the creatures really are harmless. Their super creepy appearance is actually quite cute, and their unpredictable flight patterns are endearing, and not actually cause for panic, stress, or urination due to intense fear.

Hypothesis #2: “Lisa”, “Anne”, and the other pro-moth commenters are trying to convince me that moths don’t bite because THEY ARE ACTUALLY HUMMINGBIRD HAWK MOTHS IN DISGUISE WHO HAVE SOMEHOW LEARNED TO USE A COMPUTER.

-

I'm sure you'll agree that this is the most logical scenario.

-

So … yeah. OF COURSE they don’t want us to think that moths bite. They don’t want us to catch on to them.

Obviously, I’m leaning towards hypothesis #2.

Consequently, I will be hiding underneath my dining room table, gently sobbing and throwing knives at anything that happens to flutter my way. If you would like to join me, please bring undeniable proof that you are not a moth (a doctor’s note stating that you are human will not, I repeat, WILL NOT be sufficient), and I will let you into my home so that you may help me fight the good fight.

*some details of that event might be slightly exaggerated.

Forged by Lucifer himself, I'm sure.

I have a brilliant idea for a horror movie. It would begin like this:

A couple – a young man and woman – enter a hotel room. For the purposes of casting, let’s say that the man, dark-haired, bearded and handsome, will be played by Joshua Jackson. And the woman will be played by me (SHUT UP IT’S MY BLOG). They enter the room together, the man tugging a suitcase behind him, his toned arm flexing against his Ted Baker suit jacket, which he’s paired with a dress shirt, jeans, and, oh, I don’t know, yellow shoes. And no one cares what the woman is wearing because by the end of the movie her clothes will be in a crumbled pile in the corner of the room after a gratuitous sex scene.

Ahem. I have completely lost my train of thought.

Oh – horror movie! Right. So, the man comments on how lavish the room is, and draws back the blinds to reveal a dizzying panorama of sea and sky, and makes some crack about how it doesn’t hold a candle to his wife’s loveliness. And she blushes on the apples of her cheeks and HER NOSE DOES NOT TURN BEET RED IN THE PROCESS and she looks adorable. Also, she’s a super-accomplished writer and all of her pants fit (this is what people in Hollywood call “subtext”).

She proceeds to head into the bathroom to “freshen up”, which in the movies is code for “get naked” but the second she steps in there, she lets out a blood-curdling scream and runs out of the hotel room. Her husband, confused, chases after her, but she’s already fled down the hall, in a wide-angle shot that totally doesn’t make her butt look big. He peers back in the bathroom, looking for whatever set her off. Is there a body in the tub? No. A threatening note scribbled in blood on the bathroom? Nope. He’s confused for a moment, until finally, next to the sink, he sees it.

It’s a magnifying mirror.

The point being that magnifying mirrors are horrifying. And also, I neglected to figure out where the sex scene would go (that can be addressed in the re-write).

—————–

At the risk of stating something which may already be obvious, I do not have perfect skin. It was worse in my early and mid-twenties, when I was trying to have some semblance of authority in my work, but mostly looked like a broken-out teenager. After some truly expensive cosmetic procedures (featuring ominous word combinations like “chemical” and “peel”) I’ve managed to get my skin under control, just in time for me to start worrying about wrinkles.

So, um, phew. I guess.

At home, my complexion tends to not cause me too much grief. But on the road, my skin goes through a caucaphony of abuses: recycled air on planes, unfamiliar climates, and the occasional trace of an earlier snack left on my face for several long hours (Yes, I licked it off, and no, I don’t have any shame. Thank you for asking).

Also, I don't know how to pluck my own eyebrows.

-

In the buzzing bathroom light of hotel rooms, I’m usually able to ignore it, unless, of course, there’s a magnifying mirror. A funhouse mirror for pores, it would make Natalie Portman look pock-marked. Just imagine the impact it has on a mere mortal like myself. And yet, I cannot look away.

Whenever I encounter one, my thought process usually goes as follows:

Huh. A magnifying mirror. Well, I’ll just ignore that. After all, it won’t be flattering at all.

Well, maybe I’ll just take a teeny, tiny look.

Yikes. I have wookie eyebrows. Let me just clean them up a bit. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Hmm. It appears that I have plucked my eyebrows clean off.

Seriously, how does Whoopi pull this look off? This is not at all flattering.

And – sweet jesus – what is going on with my pores? Let me just do a tiny squeeze and …

MOTHER OF GOD WHAT WAS IN MY FACE? I’m obviously some sort of mutant.

Note: At this point in time Rand usually notices that I’ve been in the bathroom for several long days.  Aware of my penchant for picking, he will inquire gently, “Baby, what are you doing?”

“Replacing my nearly invisible blackheads with screaming angry red marks.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to be doing?”

“Yes. Are you sure you want to be pissing me off?” I reply. After all, I’m a mutant, and probably have superpowers.

And that’s pretty much how it goes, until I run screaming from the bathroom, my face a mess. I’ll tearfully press my abused face to my husband’s chest, and he’ll quietly tell me that I look fine, and that soon the redness will go away and my eyebrows will grow back.

“But in the meantime,” he’ll say gently, “Stay away from that mirror.”

Oh, would that I could! If you are anything like me (i.e., for years you thought your mother’s pet name for you was “Don’t pick at it”) you know how addictive and destructive they can be. Like all good addictions, I’ve found the best solution is not to start. And here’s how, precisely, I do that:

• Turn the mirror towards the wall.
  

  Sweet heavenly father - even the back is reflective.

• Failing that, cover the damn thing up (a shower cap works delightfully well.)
• Failing that, turn out the light.
• Get co-dependent someone to support you. Someone to tenderly scream, “Honey, why have you been in the bathroom for the better part of Wednesday?”
• Remember that no one will stand four-inches from your face and inspect your pores. If they do, they will be in no position to judge.

And then, as you whisper to yourself that looks don’t matter anyway (and honey, if they did, pores would be the LEAST of your problems), quickly and resolutely walk away. Because that romantic interlude is waiting, and those clothes aren’t going to tear themselves off.

-

What’s that? Er, no, I’m sorry. Not the man in foreground. The man in the foreground is my husband. He has many lovely attributes, of which “god-like” is not one. He is charitable and kind and good, and he often smells fantastic. While he is one of the best humans I’ve ever been fortunate enough to encounter, he is still human.

No, the man to which I refer is this one, here:

-

He is no mere mortal. Mortals cannot sleep on planes. Mortals require quiet surroundings and consistent altitudes to sleep. They need dark rooms devoid of screaming babies; to spend long hours free of screechy announcements from the cockpit. But this man? He required none of those things. Instead, he boarded our flight from Boston to Seattle, sat down, and within minutes, enjoyed the golden dew of sleep. And he did not stir. Not when the passengers next to him, imprisoned in their middle and window seats, finally gave up any hope that he would wake and climbed over him to use the facilities. Nor when the beverage cart lumbered down the aisle, crudely banging his elbow (for in his mindless oblivion, he did not hear the 120-decibal warning blaring from the speaker above, instructing him to tuck in his arms and legs). Through turbulence and smooth flying, through ascent and descent, from east coast to west, he slept.

He is no mere mortal.

Would that I had his power. In otherwise pitch-black hotel rooms, I find myself draping articles of clothing over every blinking light and digital screen (to the good staff of a-hotel-that-shall-remain-unnamed: I am sorry for slapping a pantyliner to the digital thermostat on the wall. The blinking lights were driving me crazy. Also, the pantyliner was clean.) I’ve worn earplugs to bed, because a sound in the distance, barely above a whisper when it reached me, was too much to endure. And I’ve have trouble falling asleep in the past because the sound of my blood pumping in my own ears was too much for me. All signs that I am not a by-product of countless years of evolution, as my lack-of-sleep should have rendered me eaten by wolves long ago.

If only we had a Prometheus, to steal this god’s gift of sleep and share it among us mere mortals. What would the punishment for such a crime be? Being chained upon a hill, forced to polish off plates of lukewarm coach airline food every day, only to have them reappear the next morning? Or maybe just a really long layover in Newark?

Alas, I realized I had no hope of being able to so effortlessly enter and exit unconsciousness. The moment the plane’s wheels hit the ground, his eyes opened. He rubbed them gently, and within seconds looked refreshed and wide-awake.

When Armageddon comes, I suspect he will be the last survivor. Long after the cries of the wretched, burning in hellfire, have died down, after the earth has been scorched and no trace of life exists, he will wake. Looking around, he’ll wonder what exactly happened while he slept. And finding no one around to answer his question, he might just roll over and catch a few more winks, because really, why not?

Sadly, I don’t have a lot of photos that depict this concept, though this one isn’t terrible (ignore my passed-out husband on the bed):

Bizarre, right?

-

The room was entirely empty save for the bed and a small nightstand. And despite being brand new (the hotel was only a few years old) the design on the headboard looked like a well-preserved relic from the 1900s.

And it’s not the first time I’ve seen this phenomenon. Rand and I have stood in the lobbies of elegant European hotels and homes with similar decor. Clean lines in the architecture, crisp right angles and new, stainless steel doorknobs, and a single settee sitting in middle of the room with such elaborate upholstery that Scarlett O’Hara could have used it to make one hell of a cocktail dress. And you stare, scratching your head, trying to make sense of it, but can’t really.

It’s damn confusing.

Not as confusing as this shower, though:

I half expected Jeff Goldblum to emerge from it, naked, a la The Fly. Which, for the record, I would not complain about.

-

Notice, too, how its modernity is, in this case, completely at odds with the rest of the bathroom. But I digress. When I walked into the bathroom, I was at the “F#ck it” point that every traveler eventually reaches: I simply did not care anymore. I wanted a shower, and that was it. And I wasn’t going to let the fear of accidentally being teleported naked into another space and time stop me from it.

“Okay,” I said, looking at the – no hyperbole – 24 different jets from which water could potentially spray, and the digital screen which supposedly controlled them all. “You can do this.”

I couldn’t.

I don’t know who could. Honestly, if you had gathered Einstein, Spock, and Stephen Hawking and told them to figure out how the thing had worked, they’d had thrown up their arms (well, Stephen wouldn’t have, but you get the idea) and said, “Screw this. Let’s go get a beer.” (At which point I hope they would call me, because I so want an invite to that party.)

I hit a button which, instead of turning on the shower head above me, shot a stream of water from an unspecified location which hit me directly on the groin.

“GAH!” I screamed, and instantly shut off the water. I looked at the several of the two dozen jets, trying to figure out which one was the culprit. Even under my icy gaze, they revealed nothing.

One of these bastards is to blame.

-

“Okay,” I thought, trying to somehow lean away from the soaking wet crotch of my jeans, “let’s try this again.”

At which point the entire scene repeatedly itself, because I didn’t do anything differently.

“GAH!” I screamed again, still unsure of which jet had hit me.

And suddenly, I was in a Three Stooges sketch. Remember the one with the oyster that keeps squirting Curly in the face? It was like that, except in the crotchal region.

I forgot to pack my Rosetta Stone. How embarrassing.

-

I stared at the hieroglyphics on the shower’s digital screen and tried to decipher them (as an aside, why the hell does a shower need a digital control panel? Italy is thousands of years old. Bathrooms do not need to be this cutting edge.)

Should you ever encounter a device like the one above in your travels, let me spare you much time and frustration: all of the symbols that look remotely like water jets do not, in fact, control any of the jets. Instead, I would suggest frantically pressing all the buttons and whimpering, progressively soaking the crotch of your pants with errant blasts of water, until finally, and seemingly rather randomly, water begins pouring out from the jets near the top of the shower. At that point, hop in (you can keep your clothes on if you want. At this point, they will be soaked anyway, so you might as well give them a wash), and pray that the machine will behave for the next 8 or so minutes, and not begin sporadically spraying you with blasts of water or ultimately teleport your miserable and jet-lagged self to the middle of nowhere.

Seriously. WTF, Italy. Showers do not need to be this complicated. Make them more simple, and I promise, riding public transportation in downtown Naples will be a much more pleasant experience for everyone involved.

And that is where, depending on your geographic location, things will land somewhere on the spectrum of completely familiar to bat-shit crazy. Nowhere is this more true than Italy. Are there stranger television programs in the world than those found on Italian networks? Absolutely. But they are often in languages I don’t understand, and so their mysteries remain locked (we’ve watched ourselves on Japanese TV numerous times. We sincerely haven’t a clue as to what any of the screaming, animated angels, and Whitney Houston background music was all about). But in Italy, I speak the language. I know at least some of the local celebrities. And often I have a relative nearby who can put things into a cultural context for me. And still? Despite all of that?

Italian TV makes NO DAMN SENSE.

Even American shows are dubbed and changed in ways that render them remarkably different (I’ve talked about House before. Hugh Laurie’s voice, stilted and whiny when attempting an American accent, is dubbed over into something fluid and velvety in Italian. It. IS. Awesome.) There’s also an abundance of truly bizarre cooking and variety shows, usually mixed in to regular programming (because, really, why bother watching a television show or movie all at once, when you can stall it for 10 or 20 minutes at a time and learn about baccala? I’m convinced that somewhere in that is the root of why my mom can’t sit still through a 2-hour film. But I digress).

And believe me when I tell you that speaking the language will not help you at all. Behold the special guest chefs on a program I found myself watching in Rome:

-

Everything about the show was entirely normal, save for the fact that it was aired during another program and the WOMEN clearly have coifs inspired by Dr. Seuss. Okay, fine. Surely there is some explanation for this, right? But no. Nothing. No one even mentioned the hair. They all quietly ignored it, and went on talking about rigatoni for 15 minutes or so (I am not kidding). Rand, hoping I could shed some light on the subject, asked me what, exactly, was going on.

“They’re … they’re cooking,” I replied.

“But why is their hair like that?”

“Um … because they’re Italian?”

I never did get any explanation for the hair. Eventually, I changed the channel, found a game show, and promptly started giggling maniacally in the delight. I explained to Rand that Italian game shows are 20 minutes of sexist, fascist delight – not only are they designed, by completely arbitrary means, to ensure that winning any amount of money is near impossible, but they often feature girls in skimpy clothing occasionally reading questions or dancing. About halfway through a show that’s somewhat similar to The Weakest Link crossed with Who Wants to be a Millionaire (did I mention that Italian TV is also trapped in 2002?), this came on the screen:

I love it. Four brunette dancers, one of whom has blond hair.

-

And again, no explanation whatsoever. The host just announced that it was time for the lightning round, and then music started and the girls appeared and began dancing. I died.

Seriously, WTF, Italian TV? You make no sense. Don’t ever change.