"You enjoy your ride? No? Too bad. You pay anyway."

Sometimes, you get taken for a ride, in every respect.

I’ll be honest: when Rand and I first arrived in Bulgaria, I was a little freaked. It was the first time in a very long while that I felt really and truly out-of-my-element while traveling. We’re usually pretty tame in our travels: we tend to stick to Europe, or countries where English is predominantly spoken. Failing that, we’ll be in a  country where we can get by on Rand’s minimal German, my Italian, or my miserable Spanish. In any of those situations, we never really feel like fish out of water.

But Bulgaria? That was another story.

I was petrified that, in this former Soviet country, we were going to get robbed, or beaten up, or swindled, or some combination therein. Fortunately, we only really got swindled, by one of the many rip-off artist cabbies that float around the city.

Before I tell you the tale, I would like to kindly note to my husband that I am not, in any way shape or form saying, “I told you so.”

Though man, if I wanted to, I totally could.

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Earlier this week, I started the Facebook Group Say No to Full-Body Airport Scanners. I found this picture online, and decided to use it as the group’s profile pic. Since the image seemed a bit too revealing, I added some black bars …

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A while later, someone informed me that the pic was a hoax (it was a tweaked version of stock-photo of a woman) and not actually from a back-scatter machine. Journalistic integrity being what it is (and sprinkled with a generous dose of Catholic guilt), I replaced it with this one that you’ve probably seen before:

Why is she smiling? If I were this naked and the world saw it, I would NOT be smiling.

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It's what I had to go through to get here that scares me.

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I’ve never been afraid of flying. I figure if anything does go wrong at 30,000 feet, worrying won’t really make it any better. Turbulence bothers me only so far as it makes me feel nauseated – I’m never concerned that I’m going to fall out of the sky. And if disaster did strike? I’d honestly be okay, provided Rand was with me. To paraphrase the brilliant Morrissey, to die by my husband’s side, well, the privilege would be mine.

And yet, despite this somewhat macabre but nevertheless fearless attitude towards flying, I am currently petrified to step foot on a plane. Or, more specifically, to step foot in an airport.

I’m absolutely frightened to death of the new full-body scanners.

Knowing that I have this biased approach, let’s talk a bit about the scanners first. There are two types – the Millimeter Wave Scanner and the Backscatter scanners.

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Well, what a coincidence ...

Disclaimer from my legal team (a.k.a., the voice inside my head that’s see one too many episodes of The People’s Court): I heard the following story from a friend. I don’t condone any of the behavior of these parties, nor recommend it to you to try. I simply think that it is awesome, and deserves our attention and admiration.

What you choose to do with this information is up to you. (more…)

I’ve been alluding to the experience of which I’m about to tell you for a while now. And I’d put it off for the last few weeks, because, frankly, I was waiting for it to become funny. After all, nearly everything awful and travel-related becomes hilarious after enough time, right? Like when my friend’s luggage was lost and she ended up wearing her 15-year-old daughter’s purple skinny jeans around town. When she finally caved and bought a replacement pair of trousers, her luggage miraculously appeared.

That’s funny.

My nightmare of a hotel stay in Ashland has not reached that point just yet (I am convinced that if I wait until it becomes funny, we will be long dead). However, my blood pressure has finally returned to normal, nearly two weeks later. I am no longer waking up in a cold sweat, no longer frantically feeling the need to pack up my bag every ten minutes and change rooms. I’ve stopped removing dog hairs from my clothing – though long after they were gone, I continued to do so, continued scratching my skin, my brain unable to accept that I was not, in fact, covered in pet dander.

Yes, two weeks after our anniversary trip to the Plaza Inn and Suites at Ashland Creek, I have nearly recovered from the experience. And with a calm and clear head, I would like to tell you about it.

And why you should not, under any circumstances, stay there. (Unless, of course, you are a masochist. In that case, go for it, because THIS PLACE WILL MAKE YOU UTTERLY MISERABLE.) (more…)

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Note: While this was written on Monday night, I only just posted it now. Fear not – Rand and I are safely home and out of our terrible hotel.

Folks, I am currently in hotel hell. I will elaborate more on it when I get home – right now I am toiling away one last night in a room the size of a hatbox with my husband. There is only room for one of us to sit at the desk they’ve provided us at a time (and only one chair) so I’ll try and get this post out in the time that he’s done brushing his teeth.

Why do I suspect this photo, taken a few months ago, will get a LOT of use on my site?

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Did I mention that the Plaza Inn and Suites in Ashland, Oregon, is horrible? NEVER STAY HERE. But, again, that’s for next week. In the meantime, I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have the support of my awesome friends like Christine, who tore the manager here a new a-hole on my behalf. Thanks, Christine! You’ll be happy to know that they sent us a cheap bottle of wine as an apology. Rand and I are at the point that we’re laughing our asses off about the whole thing: we joked that they were next going to move us into a janitorial closet (but the good news is that they’ll be giving us another bottle of shitty wine we won’t drink). (more…)

In my constant search for comfortable travel shoes, I am amazed by the number of heinously ugly options out there. If these shoes were horses, they would be shot, immediately.

I once thought that I was immune to such ugliness. When searching for comfortable shoes online, there were so many options, I’d simply skip over the unappealing ones and straight to the cute. My brain has its own filter for this sort of thing. And yet, there are times when a shoe is so unsightly, it will not be ignored. It screams to be noticed. “LOOK AT ME!”, it shouts. “I WAS DESIGNED BY DRUNK KINDERGARTNERS!”

Some of these shoes are impractical. Others are baffling.

All of them are very, very ugly.

Here are the top twelve worst pairs I’ve encountered while digging through the bowels of Zappos. Enjoy.

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1. Arcopedico N42

Seriously? N42 is what you are going to call the shoe? Sweet Jesus. Put in a little effort. Give it a name. May I suggest “The Bertha”?

Also, they appear to melting.

Ugh. These look like what the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man would wear when he wants to get laid.

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Dear Seattle Center;

Okay, I admit it: I’m officially worried about you. This post was going to be another Dick Move!, but when I started to consider things a little more, I switched gears from “blinded by rage” to “concerned about your well-being.”

Seriously, we need to talk.

Have you completely given up?

Because it’s starting to feel like it. When I visited back in the spring with Desiree, I had hoped that the things I witnessed (cranky personnel, jacked-up prices, and a general air of pure hate for mankind) were simply a phase you were going through. I mean, you have gone through phases. Remember this? Or the time you thought you should go back to your original color? Sigh. But we got through that together, didn’t we?

I figured, the next time I see Seattle Center, it will be cheerful and upbeat and back to its old tricks. But that wasn’t the case.

I once again had out-of-town visitors (including Katie and my poor, easily-corrupted cousin) and since none of them had ever visited the Space Needle, it seemed like an obvious excursion. Why? Because people LOVE you, Space Needle. And for some reason, you think that it gives you license to suck.

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