Trail of Crumbs

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Why does no one ever mistakenly deliver cupcakes to my house?

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I get email. Lots of it. Sometimes, it’s not even meant for me. (A phenomenon that I can’t quite fathom. When people don’t have someone’s email address, do they just guess, and follow it with “@gmail.com”? Do they deduce phone numbers by punching a random series of numbers? Instead of asking where their friends live, do they drive around neighborhoods and knock on door after door? Because otherwise I DON’T UNDERSTAND.)

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From our eventful and nail-biting last road trip, in Ireland.

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Rand and I are currently in Boston; in a few days, we’ll be driving up to New Hampshire for a conference; a few of his colleagues will be making journey with us.

That’s right: we’re going on a road trip. WITH PEOPLE WE LIKE AND CONSIDER FRIENDS.

Oh, dear.

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(This is no doubt going to piss some people off. Oh, well. Isn’t that what Tuesdays are for?)

I’ve adhered to many of these rules for a while now, and I figured they were common knowledge. But the more I travel, the more I realize that they most certainly aren’t. So please forgive the obviousness of some of these edicts, but they must be stated. And with that, I give you the Ten Commandments of Air Travel:

  1. Thou shalt do all thou can to hold in thou’s farts. If thou really can’t contain thine own flatulence, thou canst either get up and release it in the bathroom, or at the very least turn on thy little overhead fan thingy.
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  2. When other people are trying to sleep, and thou has a window seat, thy little plastic curtain shalt be lowered so that the blinding light of the sun does not shine directly in the faces of other passengers.

    Thou should not do as this man hath done.

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As a writer, I am constantly concerned that something big might escape my notice, and when a new social trend is born, when something of cultural significance occurs, I will emerge from a bathroom that smells of methane and will ask the masses: What did I miss? And they will roll their eyes and feel embarrassed for me, as I did for that man who I encountered on a bus in mid-September, 2001, when he asked someone if they had heard about these planes crashing in New York (as he had just found out about them), and it was all the rest of us could do not to shout, HOW COULD YOU HAVE NOT HEARD ABOUT THAT?

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I spent the weekend in L.A.

After 48 hours or so, I was run out of town by an impeccably-dressed, gorgeous mob with chiseled abs, all screaming in unison: “DEATH TO THE SQUISHY MORTAL.”

Okay, fine. I’m exaggerating.

They actually said, “LASER HAIR REMOVAL AND NO MORE DESSERT TO THE SQUISHY MORTAL.”

Which is way worse, I’m sure you’ll agree.

But hey, a vicious mob is a great way to meet new people.

“You wield a torch like a pro!” or “OMG, that pitchfork matches your earrings!” are good ice breakers.

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Who knew keeping your shoes on would be such a luxury?

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I am not a gambler. Should there be any doubts of this, note that I was in Vegas for two whole days and the greatest risk I took in a casino was ordering a savory crepe (don’t do it. Cheese is no substitute for Nutella, and anyone who says otherwise is likely trying to sell you something. Probably cheese).

But the TSA has turned me into someone who takes chances, who rolls the dice again and again, because if I win, I get a bit of humanity back. How? Via the TSA’s new PreCheck program.

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Bavarian food doesn’t f#ck around.

Bavarian food is the guy at the gym in the tiny muscle tee who’s lifting weights so heavy, the veins in his neck and head (and other parts of the body that you didn’t even know HAD veins) start to pop out.

Bavaria‘s cuisine is a monster truck. It crumples the delicate-by-comparison culinary offerings of Spain, Italy, and France like tiny little Fiats and Peugots in its path.

Do you want to eat Bavarian food? OF COURSE YOU DO. It is rich and doughy and filling and is the only thing on the planet that can soak up German beer. Every other fare will simply hide in the corner of your stomach, petrified at the sheer awesomeness of the brew that resides in there with it, and it will never get digested.

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Dear PR People (at least, I assume it’s PR people, and not random folks who are just really excited about spring break and luggage) who have been attacking my inbox with an onslaught of incredibly dry, often misspelled press releases;

  1. Please stop. You are wasting your time. I have never done more than occasionally skim a few of these in hopes they’re about the opening of a new bakery in my neighborhood.  And they never are.
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  2. Randomly writing things in all caps is MY THING. Copycats.
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  3. For the love of Pete, stop sending me follow up emails asking if I have any further questions. I DIDN’T HAVE ANY QUESTIONS TO START WITH.
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  4. My name is not Jenny (nor has it ever been). If you must continue harassing me, at least address it properly, okay?

That’s all. Thanks.

Sincerely,

Geraldine