Archive for the ‘Adventures in Travel’ Category

The Rundown

Wednesday, June 2nd, 2010

I once had to watch a movie called The Rundown, all by my defenseless selfie, and review it as part of a job application process. (To be a film reviewer.) It put me off the term for seemingly ever.

Except today I have a lot to report, such that I can’t go into detail about anything and need to substitute pithy remarks in a web-friendly list. Is that, in fact, a rundown?

Anywayz:

1) Back from Monterey. Note to travelers: The Holiday Inn Express at Monterey Bay is not, as I should have known by the prominent and pretentious employment of “at,” in Monterey. There is a drive involved. Happily, a short drive.

Highlight of the trip: penguin-feeding at the aquarium! Highlight of the penguin feeding at the aquarium: A kid in the audience asks how to tell male from female. Presenter says: a) Males are often bigger; b) The females lay eggs; and c) Males have black namebands, females white. Belly laugh!

Also-ran: Happy, lazy time at the beach. The empty-ish, pristine-ish one in Seaside, NOT Monterey. Take that, Actual Place We Meant To Go.

2) Babies. Funny, sweet, and a smidge mind-exploding. Namibians, you rocked it. I think, if given the choice of the four destinations and a this-lifetime do-over, John might choose Namibia. I’m going with San Francisco. Good thing! As I am already here. Ish.

(I prefer Berkeley anyway. Speaking of which, there is a scene in the movie that takes place TWO BLOCKS from our house. It’s the one where Hattie face-plants in the sand at the playground.)

3) The Ask. Is the problem with the hapless, hilarious, failure-at-everything narrator that there’s nowhere to go but a) sentimentality in awakening to responsibility or b) down? I think I’ve now read enough of these books to know that there is never a satisfying payoff. But oh, the first 50 pages! I was nearly screaming with laughter.

4) And another question: Is there anyone who can balance irony with sincerity quite so perfectly as Jonathan Franzen? Or maybe, is there anyone who can balance them at all, other than Jonathan Franzen?

I am in love with his latest story, such that I have launched into a third-time reread of The Corrections, one of my favorite novels of all time. Oh, my little (big) Corrections, we have been apart for far too long. (Although the preamble might be a touch overwritten. Shh! Don’t tell Jonathan!)

5) I finished Season 3 of Mad Men. While I don’t always love it, I am always interested, and I did adore the finale with a pulsing passion not evinced since the Season 2 finale of The Office. And the recent Berkeley Rep musical. But nothing else! Thank the fates and furies that my Personal Cable Liaison and Friend Forever Vicky will record Season 4 as it airs, so I don’t have to wait for the DVD.

6) Three weeks until Wipeout. It seems to be calling itself “Reality TV’s guiltiest pleasure.” A thousand times no! There’s so much that’s guiltier—and not much that’s as pleasurable. It’s more like, “Reality TV’s pleasuriest guilt.” Or maybe: “The highest pleasure-to-guilt ratio in summer 2010 major-network reality TV programming.”

And you wonder why I get the big bucks for copywriting.

Consider yourself rundowned.

Shut Up, Sheets!

Wednesday, February 10th, 2010

Whenever you tell people you’re going to Santa Cruz, they ask where you’re staying. That’s because Santa Cruz has a heaping shovelful of crappy suicide motels, two or three expensive B & B’s, and one swanky beachside hotel at $350/night.

And nothing else.

We have our favorite suicide motel, distinguished mainly by its perfect location and frequently functioning hot tub, but this time we went for the beach joint. Why? John had a two-night credit.

It was awesome.

It was also hilarious.

Case in point: We arrive, pull the car up to check-in, and immediately don’t know what to do. There’s a valet there, and he wants to unload our baggage and take it up to our room while also somehow simultaneously parking our car. We’re so used to unloading our own baggage and parking our own car that we ask to borrow the luggage cart.

“Sure,” he says, “I can take your luggage to your room.”

No, we want to take it. We love loading the luggage cart, and even more fun is driving the luggage cart down hotel halls! Plus maneuvering it into the elevator! Plus making jokes about how much luggage we pack for three days away!

But it’s not to be. The valet rules the cart. We apparently can carry the luggage up to our room (requiring several unseemly trips, as we pack in multiple smallish bags and have a 27-lb. portable freezer for my ice), or the valet does it. We go with the valet.

Who is humorless! While John parks the car, the valet and I travel together up to floor 7, where he unloads our stuff without once laughing at my hilarious jokes. Sigh.

Our room is a suite (gorge) with sliding glass doors and a balcony overlooking the bay (gorge), styled in chic mid-century modern, with accent colors of lime, lemon, and tangerine. Love! We even have a chocolate-colored bean bag (brand: Fat Boy) which John attempts a seat-dive into, only to be instantly spat out. (Hilarity.)

The bathroom mirror has two parallel strips of gray that turn out to be lights. The shower has a wand. The wallpaper is the exact same color as the ceiling paint, only textured. I didn’t even get that it was wallpaper until the second day!

Immediately I feel that all my clothes are wrong. To compensate, I change into sweats and get into bed.

This is where things get kind of sad. The sheets! Are loud! Very, VERY loud. They’re starched to such a crackly crisp that it’s impossible to make a move without creating a cacophony of rustling and crinkling noises. LOUD rustling and crinkling noises. GARBAGE-TRUCK LOUD rustling and crinkling noises. On the first night, I spend pointless minutes lying awake, afraid to change position for fear of waking John. And when he turns over, I bolt awake in earthquake hysteria!

Who could have predicted sheet-induced loss of sleep?

Anyway, we had a fantastic time, including two pay-per-view movies (more in a future post), an 11 A.M. hot fudge sundae, and some primo hot-tub-on-the-beach relaxation.

Thank you, Dream Inn. And please quiet the sheets!