On our way to Kansas City this past weekend for Thanksgiving, Jon and I were listening to a podcast. This particular podcast featured a former war correspondent who recently published a book about his family's vacations. When asked how the two genres were different, he brought up a very interesting point.
He said that as a war correspondent, everyone was on his side. Readers were glad that he was in a war zone because that meant they didn't have to be. However, when it comes to travel writing, no one wants to hear about how amazing the trip was. Readers are jealous because they are not in an exotic locale or enjoying a fabulous vacation like the writer. Therefore, this author said that the key to travel writing is to expound on the things that go wrong.
I understood where he was coming from as both a reader and a writer. While I enjoy hearing about the awesome adventures that other people have, I confess that it makes me extremely envious (although NOT in the malicious, I-want-to-slash-your-tires kind of way). Yet, as a writer, that is precisely what I do in the majority of these posts. Hmmm.
So, I suppose I should apologize for any jealousy that this blog may induce. I don't mean it, really, I don't. Plenty of things go wrong on our various adventures (try being in a foreign country for four days without your luggage, or sleeping in the airport two nights out of three). In fact, when faced with ridiculous situations, we often remark that "at least it will make a good story."
But I'm not sure that I want to apologize, though. I will try to include more travel mishaps in future posts. When something unexpected happens, I'll write it down. When travel karma doesn't work out like it's supposed to, it will end up in this blog. However, it's also going to take some effort on your part. We hereby invite you on any future trips. The more the merrier. As you can probably tell, we're up for pretty much any adventures, so don't be jealous...join us!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Asheville: Portland of the East
11/11/11: Uber Veterans Day
In order to commemorate this once in a century occasion, we loaded up the car and drove to Asheville, North Carolina. We'd never been to North Carolina before, but the real reason we were headed east was to visit a friend currently living and studying in Blacksburg, Virginia. Asheville is not exactly half-way (at all), but it was a cool location that we all wanted to explore.
Since Jon had Veterans Day off (as he should), we left on Thursday night. We made it all the way to Knoxville, Tennesse--six hours away, plus a time change--before stopping for the night. Further confirmation that Tennessee is a long state.
I'm a fan of maximizing travel, trying to do as much and see as many people possible in one trip. So, the next morning, we met a high school friend of mine and his wife for breakfast. It was nice to catch up, and the big breakfast powered us up for the last leg of the journey into North Carolina. I'm glad we got to drive that part in the daytime because eastern Tennessee/western North Carolina is quite beautiful.
When we arrived in Asheville, we headed to our vacation rental. I was impressed by the organization of this house and immediately began taking mental notes for when we have our own brewery/B&B someday...when we retire and are independently wealthy, of course.
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| The view from our rental house |
We made it to about four breweries the first afternoon/evening, appreciating the time to catch up in such a laid-back atmosphere. By laid-back, I mean that a couple of the breweries are actually located in warehouses. Our house had the feel of being out in the woods, yet we were still fairly close to town, so when we went back out for dinner, we actually walked downhill.
The next morning, we headed out to Mount Mitchell and even drove for a bit along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I confess that the winding, uphill roads were a bit much for me, although I guess one could argue that the copious amount of beer I drank the day before had just as much to contribute to my queasy stomach. Regardless, the scenery was beautiful, and we were rewarded with some incredible views of the Smokey Mountains when we reached the top.
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| View from Mount Mitchell |
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| Deep in thought |
When we got back to Asheville, we had a goal to accomplish, so we hopped on our bikes and went in search of more breweries. It's not that I'm not a bike rider--I sometimes bike commute to work--but I was definitely the most inexperienced of the group. Plus, the memory of falling off my bike in the middle of the street in front of our building a month prior was still fresh in my mind (darn trolley tracks). However, the guys didn't leave me in the dust, even as I cursed them for leading me into traffic, which I hate. At any rate, we found more breweries, and at the end of the night, we got a free work-out by having to ride a steep hillclimb back to the house.
And just like that, the weekend was over. We had a long eight hours back to Memphis, but despite spending that much time in the car, we really enjoyed our trip. Asheville is a great town, and as always, it was wonderful catching up with old friends.
David Cook, In Concert
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| "Hey, Mr. Jaguar, I went to BSSHS with you!" |
I couldn't be more proud of David, as he genuinely is the nice guy he appeared to be when he won American Idol in 2008. Seeing him live in concert, however, was very different than watching him on TV.
I must confess that I entertained grandiose visions of reuniting with David after all these years and getting to hang out with him and the band backstage or something. He would, of course, remember exactly who I was, and we would reminisce about the good ol' days in Blue Springs. We might even hang out the next day while he was still in town, and perhaps he would even come and talk to my classes about the importance of writing.
Right.
I figured that I would be the only BSSHS alum in Memphis at the concert, so my odds of actually talking to him were decent in my eyes. In order for my plans to come to fruition, however, I would have to get his attention. I made a sign expressing our shared high school experience, and even added some Jaguar logos printed off the internet. I decided to keep it understated, so no glitter. Maybe I should have used glitter.
I had a moment of panic when the ticket-taker at the door had to ask someone if it was okay to have signs. What if that hour spent drawing and sniffing permanent marker was all for naught? But alas, I was allowed to take the sign in, and I held it patiently during the two acts that performed before David.
It wasn't the first time I'd been at a concert for a band/singer I didn't know well, but this time, I took more seriously my role as observer. It was really interesting to watch all the die-hard fans sing all the words to all the songs by Carolina Liar and Gavin DeGraw (who was technically the headliner). I sacrificed the hearing in my left ear as I spent that time inching forward toward the stage in order to ensure that I would be as close as possible for David's set.
Even though I had to wait until after 10:30 (on a school night, no less) for David and his band to take the stage, my strategy worked, as I was fairly close to the front. I'd moved over more toward the center so that I would be closer to the overhead lights so that maybe, just maybe, David would see my sign.
David takes the stage
I didn't want to be obnoxious, so I tried to time my sign-waving to in between songs. I was beyond excited when I saw the recognition flash across his face as he called out, "With me?" (as in, you went to high school with me?). I knew my time had come when he asked who was holding the sign--it was dark in there and he had stage lights in his face.
However, every time I opened my mouth to shout out my name, some "woo girls" screamed. David even tried to shush them, to no avail. Undaunted, I figured I would try again later. The show went on, and I really enjoyed the music. I was amused that random people were singing along, but glad that I had done my homework by listening to David's albums because I recognized most of the songs, too.
Witty banter between songs
David is still pretty much the same, slightly dorky, guy, as evidenced by the above clip. He and one of his bandmates continually flicked guitar picks at each other, and at one point, David played an entire song with one stuck to his forehead. I didn't know what to say when the woman in front of me gushed about David and how she wished the pick she almost fell on me to catch was the one from his face.
Encore?
All too soon, however, the concert was over. David played his encore as part of the show, and I didn't get the chance to wave my sign again. The band was gone and the lights came up. How could I have been so close and not gotten to talk to him?
Not wanting to leave without trying to see David, I went up to the stage and asked some of the concert security guards if they knew how I might get to say hi. They recognized me as the girl with the sign who went to high school with David, so one of them encouraged me to wait outside by the tour bus.
So there I was, a groupie for David Cook.
I waited outside for probably too long (maybe 15 minutes) when another security guard said the bands were still inside. There was a long line to meet members of all three acts, but I'm not 100% sure how one got access to that line. I'm pretty confident that it involved the purchase of albums I already owned and t-shirts I felt weird wearing, so needless to say, I never did get in that line.
Completely bummed out, I tried to check out the tour bus on the opposite side of the building, but that was a dead-end, too. I went back inside for one last attempt. As I was feeling pretty sorry for myself--and silly for feeling that way--I ran into David's band. I asked them to pass along a message for me, but who knows if that actually happened. Still, better than nothing, I suppose.
After all of that anticipation, I drove home with ears still ringing and no enthusiastic reunion. I was--and still am a little bit--disappointed, but when I think about the fact that I saw David Cook following his dreams by playing the music he loves, I feel pretty proud of him. Like Jon said, "Local boy does good."
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
My Bookprint
When I turned eleven, what I really wanted for my birthday was one of those ridiculous stuffed troll dolls, dressed as a pirate, or a cheerleader, or some other such nonsense.
What I received instead literally changed my life. An equally bookish friend gave me the complete Anne of Green Gables box set. I have always been a reader and at the time was grateful to have something new to read. However, I had no idea how much the books would consume me. I had heard of the story but knew nothing about it. I didn't even know there was a movie version (which, while excellent, is of course far inferior to the books).
So, after getting over my birthday disappointment--having purchased a troll with my birthday money--I plunged into the Anne saga. I don't know at what point I got hooked, but somewhere along the way, I became an Anne fan for life.
I'm not sure exactly what drew me to the spunky redhead. Our childhoods were vastly different. I grew up in a loving two-parent household, in twentieth century America, far from a nineteenth century orphanage in Prince Edward Island, Canada. I hate to admit that I didn't posses a "scope for imagination," at least not in the same way as Anne, for I was--and still am--a rule-follower, not having much of a penchant for "getting into scrapes." I was much more of a Jane or Diana, actually.
But, I suppose, like millions of readers, I recognized a kindred spirit. As I continued to read through the series, I felt as if I actually knew Anne. I became part of her world and she, mine. I recognize how cheesy that sounds, but it's true. And a real testament to Lucy Maud (L.M.) Montgomery and her ability to paint such vivid characters. The only other author I can think of who does that just as well is Jane Austen. It should come as no surprise that I compared the two in a paper I wrote in high school.
It wasn't long before my life began to emulate Anne's. It really wasn't that much of a stretch, for we are/were interested in a lot of the same things, like literature and writing. What was unexpected, however, was how subconsciously my imitation came about.
The Anne books are some of the only books I've read multiple times. There are so many books in the world that I simply don't have the time to read the same thing over and over. But I keep returning to Anne. Each time I read, I connect in a different way, and I've found that as I move through each stage of life, there's an Anne book right there with me.
The first couple of reads through the series, I related most strongly to the young Anne and her schoolgirl stories. School was important to me, and like Anne, I constantly strove for the top. I even fabricated rivalries amongst unknowing classmates, well aware of my standing in the class in comparison to others, Anne vs. Gilbert-style. I also began participating in speech competitions, just as Anne repeatedly was asked to "recite" as an elocutionist.
Everything after that first book was projecting into the future. As I grew older, I found myself living out the story of Anne's college days while I, myself, was in college. Anne of the Island quickly became my favorite of the favorites. Like Anne, I had a wonderful relationship with my roommate(s), and once again, school was at the forefront. Her greatest strength is in English, which happened to be my major. Anne even dabbles in writing; I continue to dream of publication. I know I'm really making myself sound like a colossal nerd here, but it's something I've come to accept--and embrace--about myself.
My favorite part of that book, however, is the romantic tension between Anne and Gilbert. I, of course, couldn't relate to that aspect of the story at the time, but it certainly shaped how I perceived romance. In fact, I truly expected that I would initially hate my future soulmate before having a life-changing epiphany that I had loved him all along. Perhaps that is why it took me so long to realize that I did indeed love Jon without hating him first. Whoops.
After college, my Anne connection went out of order slightly as I regressed into the second book: Anne of Avonlea. I was at the cusp of my first teaching job and felt great solace as I recalled Anne's failures, jubilation in her successes in the classroom. No, I didn't teach in a one-room country schoolhouse, but teaching is teaching. Interestingly enough, a lot of Anne's teaching philosophies are quite progressive, evidence, I suppose, that the pendulum in education philosophy/theory/reform constantly swings back and forth.
My life continued to parallel Anne's in ways I could never have expected. While I never hated him, I did fall in love with my best friend. Like Anne and Gilbert, we were separated for quite a while.
Anne of the Island ends with Anne and Gilbert's relationship, and originally, the next book picked up with their wedding three years later. L.M. Montgomery wrote Anne of Windy Poplars several years after the publication of the series to account for the time lapse. In this late addition to the story, Anne moves to a new town to teach while Gilbert toils away in medical school. Each maintained an independent existence, yet their relationship blossomed through written correspondence.
Throughout Jon's and my time apart, we also relied on written communication, dating via e-mail, if you will. It may not have been ideal, but having to talk to one another without the luxury of going out to dinner or a movie or a ballgame like most couples really forced us to be honest with one another. I truly believe that we grew closer in those ten months, and it should come as no surprise that our reunion contained a marriage proposal.
Book five in the series, Anne's House of Dreams, relates Anne and Gilbert's newlywed days. This book had new meaning for me when I read it for the first time after being a newlywed myself. The couple finds themselves in a new locale as they create a new life for themselves, which is definitely something I can relate to, having moved halfway across the country days after getting married. I understood the joys of setting up a home, making "his" and "hers" into "ours". I knew what it was like to make new friends while missing those who were far away. We've been married for several years now, but I am still in this stage in my life.
The remaining three books in the series--Anne of Ingleside (another late addition), Rainbow Valley, and Rilla of Ingleside--focus on Anne and Gilbert's family. We're not there yet, but perhaps someday when I re-read the Anne books again for the umpteenth time, I'll discover new connections.
*I had a profound revelation about my Anne-ness one day, which prompted this post. Providence intervened when a link to the following article showed up (from the Anne of Green Gables Facebook page, of course) in my Newsfeed shortly thereafter: http://thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2011/9/25/lifebookshelf/9498707&sec=lifebookshelf. This article led me to Scholastic's "You Are What You Read" page: http://youarewhatyouread.scholastic.com/adults/. What's YOUR Bookprint?
What I received instead literally changed my life. An equally bookish friend gave me the complete Anne of Green Gables box set. I have always been a reader and at the time was grateful to have something new to read. However, I had no idea how much the books would consume me. I had heard of the story but knew nothing about it. I didn't even know there was a movie version (which, while excellent, is of course far inferior to the books).
So, after getting over my birthday disappointment--having purchased a troll with my birthday money--I plunged into the Anne saga. I don't know at what point I got hooked, but somewhere along the way, I became an Anne fan for life.
I'm not sure exactly what drew me to the spunky redhead. Our childhoods were vastly different. I grew up in a loving two-parent household, in twentieth century America, far from a nineteenth century orphanage in Prince Edward Island, Canada. I hate to admit that I didn't posses a "scope for imagination," at least not in the same way as Anne, for I was--and still am--a rule-follower, not having much of a penchant for "getting into scrapes." I was much more of a Jane or Diana, actually.
But, I suppose, like millions of readers, I recognized a kindred spirit. As I continued to read through the series, I felt as if I actually knew Anne. I became part of her world and she, mine. I recognize how cheesy that sounds, but it's true. And a real testament to Lucy Maud (L.M.) Montgomery and her ability to paint such vivid characters. The only other author I can think of who does that just as well is Jane Austen. It should come as no surprise that I compared the two in a paper I wrote in high school.
It wasn't long before my life began to emulate Anne's. It really wasn't that much of a stretch, for we are/were interested in a lot of the same things, like literature and writing. What was unexpected, however, was how subconsciously my imitation came about.
The Anne books are some of the only books I've read multiple times. There are so many books in the world that I simply don't have the time to read the same thing over and over. But I keep returning to Anne. Each time I read, I connect in a different way, and I've found that as I move through each stage of life, there's an Anne book right there with me.
The first couple of reads through the series, I related most strongly to the young Anne and her schoolgirl stories. School was important to me, and like Anne, I constantly strove for the top. I even fabricated rivalries amongst unknowing classmates, well aware of my standing in the class in comparison to others, Anne vs. Gilbert-style. I also began participating in speech competitions, just as Anne repeatedly was asked to "recite" as an elocutionist.
Everything after that first book was projecting into the future. As I grew older, I found myself living out the story of Anne's college days while I, myself, was in college. Anne of the Island quickly became my favorite of the favorites. Like Anne, I had a wonderful relationship with my roommate(s), and once again, school was at the forefront. Her greatest strength is in English, which happened to be my major. Anne even dabbles in writing; I continue to dream of publication. I know I'm really making myself sound like a colossal nerd here, but it's something I've come to accept--and embrace--about myself.
My favorite part of that book, however, is the romantic tension between Anne and Gilbert. I, of course, couldn't relate to that aspect of the story at the time, but it certainly shaped how I perceived romance. In fact, I truly expected that I would initially hate my future soulmate before having a life-changing epiphany that I had loved him all along. Perhaps that is why it took me so long to realize that I did indeed love Jon without hating him first. Whoops.
After college, my Anne connection went out of order slightly as I regressed into the second book: Anne of Avonlea. I was at the cusp of my first teaching job and felt great solace as I recalled Anne's failures, jubilation in her successes in the classroom. No, I didn't teach in a one-room country schoolhouse, but teaching is teaching. Interestingly enough, a lot of Anne's teaching philosophies are quite progressive, evidence, I suppose, that the pendulum in education philosophy/theory/reform constantly swings back and forth.
My life continued to parallel Anne's in ways I could never have expected. While I never hated him, I did fall in love with my best friend. Like Anne and Gilbert, we were separated for quite a while.
Anne of the Island ends with Anne and Gilbert's relationship, and originally, the next book picked up with their wedding three years later. L.M. Montgomery wrote Anne of Windy Poplars several years after the publication of the series to account for the time lapse. In this late addition to the story, Anne moves to a new town to teach while Gilbert toils away in medical school. Each maintained an independent existence, yet their relationship blossomed through written correspondence.
Throughout Jon's and my time apart, we also relied on written communication, dating via e-mail, if you will. It may not have been ideal, but having to talk to one another without the luxury of going out to dinner or a movie or a ballgame like most couples really forced us to be honest with one another. I truly believe that we grew closer in those ten months, and it should come as no surprise that our reunion contained a marriage proposal.
Book five in the series, Anne's House of Dreams, relates Anne and Gilbert's newlywed days. This book had new meaning for me when I read it for the first time after being a newlywed myself. The couple finds themselves in a new locale as they create a new life for themselves, which is definitely something I can relate to, having moved halfway across the country days after getting married. I understood the joys of setting up a home, making "his" and "hers" into "ours". I knew what it was like to make new friends while missing those who were far away. We've been married for several years now, but I am still in this stage in my life.
The remaining three books in the series--Anne of Ingleside (another late addition), Rainbow Valley, and Rilla of Ingleside--focus on Anne and Gilbert's family. We're not there yet, but perhaps someday when I re-read the Anne books again for the umpteenth time, I'll discover new connections.
*I had a profound revelation about my Anne-ness one day, which prompted this post. Providence intervened when a link to the following article showed up (from the Anne of Green Gables Facebook page, of course) in my Newsfeed shortly thereafter: http://thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2011/9/25/lifebookshelf/9498707&sec=lifebookshelf. This article led me to Scholastic's "You Are What You Read" page: http://youarewhatyouread.scholastic.com/adults/. What's YOUR Bookprint?
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
There Is No Place Like Nebraska
When we got married, we never thought that college football would come between us. In fact, I would wager to say that Jon liked the fact that I am a football fan. However, for the third time in the span of a year, we found ourselves at odds with one another.
Last September, my family descended on Seattle with thousands (I'm not exaggerating) of Nebraska Cornhusker fans. The sun shone down on a healthy mixture of purple and red as my beloved Huskers laid a beating on Jon's Washington Huskies. Thankfully we did not sit with each other, and I was free to display my exuberance at each sucessive Husker touchdown and Blackshirt hit.
Fast forward to December. Due to a loss in their final Big XII championship game (and because they were jumping ship for the Big 10, I think), the Huskers slipped in the polls and were invited to play in the Holiday Bowl...against Washington. While it is absolutely no excuse for such a shoddy performance, Nebraska played like a team that oozed disappointment from every pore. They had been hoping for a more prestigious bowl and were playing a team they had trounced several weeks prior. Not exactly where they envisioned their season ending. Washington, on the other hand, was a team heading in the opposite direction. Their conference season had been successful enough to make them bowl-eligible for the first time in years. Their coach had brought a new excitement to the team and to the fans, and when taking all this into account, it is really no surprise that Washington won (or rather, Nebraska lost) the re-match.
I know I can't blame him for supporting his team, but it was beyond annoying to hear that Husky Stadium siren Jon played from his iPod as he snarfed down stinky smoked oysters. All this while at my mother's house surrounded by loyal Cornhusker fans. At least he had the decency to stay out of the "Red Zone," a family tradition involving a red Herbie Husker blanket in front of the TV that no one is allowed to walk through.
So, needless to say, I was ready for redemption this fall. My grandpa has had season tickets at Memorial Stadium in Lincoln for as long as I can remember, and while he and my grandma stopped going years ago, he kept his tickets for my immediate family to use. I have been to several games this way, and I can honestly say that Memorial Stadium on a game day is the most special place for a college football fan to be. (Yes, I'm biased.) People in Nebraska live and die with the Huskers, and it should come as no surprise that Memorial Stadium is the third most populous location in the state when there is a game. Seriously.
Way back when we found out about the Nebraska-Washington series, we put in a request for tickets with my grandpa. Not only did he honor said request, he also played the role of host to a "T." He baked us a pie--which he tried to serve us when we finally rolled in after midnight--and even bought four different types of milk because he couldn't remember which type we preferred. Even though there is a zero percent chance that Grandpa will read this because doesn't have--or want--a computer, we would like to publicly thank him for his hospitality.
But back to the game. Saturday morning dawned overcast and chilly. Thinking back to the year previously, it was a bit ironic that the game in Seattle was sunny and warm, while the game in Lincoln was drizzly and cool. Apparently, the faithful Washington fans brought their weather with them. Undaunted by the threat of storms, Jon and I headed out early to join my cousins at a tailgate several hours before kick-off. I love my family tremendously (duh), and it was so great that the whole group was able to come out at various times during the day. Jon left for a bit to attend a Washington Alumni party but was back in plenty of time for some more good-natured teasing. Actually, I think he found all of the Nebraska fans--both related and unrelated to us--to be quite courteous.
About an hour before game time, we headed into the stadium and up to our seats. Every time I enter Memorial Stadium, I get that special feeling...and no, it's not just that my hunger is abated by the runzas and Valentino's pizza. I think Jon felt it, too, although I doubt he would admit it. I was just excited for him to experience the whole thing. I'm well aware of the fact that my vague descriptions are not doing Memorial Stadium and Nebraska football justice, but for those of you who have been there, you know what I'm talking about.
At any rate, when the game started, we both began cheering our respective teams. I confess that it was slightly awkward at times sitting next to each other, and I was conscious of not being too obnoxious. But when chants of "Gooooo Biiiiiggggg Reeeeeddddd" rippled through the crowd, I did what any self-respecting Nebraska fan would do and echoed in reply: "Go Big Red!" Other than shouting encouragement for the players on the field, though, we were pretty quiet. Our only real communication was exchanging the binoculars for every offensive possession.
The game was fairly close in the first half with each team experiencing some success. Things changed in the 3rd quarter due to some big plays by Nebraska and big mistakes by Washington. The Huskers took game three by a comfortable margin, although they didn't quite make the 17-point spread. This fact, which I tried to point out tactfully at the conclusion of the game, was of little consolation to Jon. I wisely kept my celebration in check while Jon heatedly expressed his supreme disappointment.
We returned to the tailgate area after the game where many of my cousins were still hanging out. Jon was mostly out of his "Debbie Downer" funk so we had a good time there, and later at dinner. The best part of the weekend was truly the family time, so despite the outcome of the game, we're both glad we were able to make the trip. And as much fun as I've had watching these Husker-Husky games over the past year (well, 2/3 of the time), I'm just fine with returning to a football season in which we can each cheer on our own teams and genuinely be glad for one another.
Last September, my family descended on Seattle with thousands (I'm not exaggerating) of Nebraska Cornhusker fans. The sun shone down on a healthy mixture of purple and red as my beloved Huskers laid a beating on Jon's Washington Huskies. Thankfully we did not sit with each other, and I was free to display my exuberance at each sucessive Husker touchdown and Blackshirt hit.
Fast forward to December. Due to a loss in their final Big XII championship game (and because they were jumping ship for the Big 10, I think), the Huskers slipped in the polls and were invited to play in the Holiday Bowl...against Washington. While it is absolutely no excuse for such a shoddy performance, Nebraska played like a team that oozed disappointment from every pore. They had been hoping for a more prestigious bowl and were playing a team they had trounced several weeks prior. Not exactly where they envisioned their season ending. Washington, on the other hand, was a team heading in the opposite direction. Their conference season had been successful enough to make them bowl-eligible for the first time in years. Their coach had brought a new excitement to the team and to the fans, and when taking all this into account, it is really no surprise that Washington won (or rather, Nebraska lost) the re-match.
I know I can't blame him for supporting his team, but it was beyond annoying to hear that Husky Stadium siren Jon played from his iPod as he snarfed down stinky smoked oysters. All this while at my mother's house surrounded by loyal Cornhusker fans. At least he had the decency to stay out of the "Red Zone," a family tradition involving a red Herbie Husker blanket in front of the TV that no one is allowed to walk through.
So, needless to say, I was ready for redemption this fall. My grandpa has had season tickets at Memorial Stadium in Lincoln for as long as I can remember, and while he and my grandma stopped going years ago, he kept his tickets for my immediate family to use. I have been to several games this way, and I can honestly say that Memorial Stadium on a game day is the most special place for a college football fan to be. (Yes, I'm biased.) People in Nebraska live and die with the Huskers, and it should come as no surprise that Memorial Stadium is the third most populous location in the state when there is a game. Seriously.
Way back when we found out about the Nebraska-Washington series, we put in a request for tickets with my grandpa. Not only did he honor said request, he also played the role of host to a "T." He baked us a pie--which he tried to serve us when we finally rolled in after midnight--and even bought four different types of milk because he couldn't remember which type we preferred. Even though there is a zero percent chance that Grandpa will read this because doesn't have--or want--a computer, we would like to publicly thank him for his hospitality.
But back to the game. Saturday morning dawned overcast and chilly. Thinking back to the year previously, it was a bit ironic that the game in Seattle was sunny and warm, while the game in Lincoln was drizzly and cool. Apparently, the faithful Washington fans brought their weather with them. Undaunted by the threat of storms, Jon and I headed out early to join my cousins at a tailgate several hours before kick-off. I love my family tremendously (duh), and it was so great that the whole group was able to come out at various times during the day. Jon left for a bit to attend a Washington Alumni party but was back in plenty of time for some more good-natured teasing. Actually, I think he found all of the Nebraska fans--both related and unrelated to us--to be quite courteous.
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| Mmm...so good |
The game was fairly close in the first half with each team experiencing some success. Things changed in the 3rd quarter due to some big plays by Nebraska and big mistakes by Washington. The Huskers took game three by a comfortable margin, although they didn't quite make the 17-point spread. This fact, which I tried to point out tactfully at the conclusion of the game, was of little consolation to Jon. I wisely kept my celebration in check while Jon heatedly expressed his supreme disappointment.
We returned to the tailgate area after the game where many of my cousins were still hanging out. Jon was mostly out of his "Debbie Downer" funk so we had a good time there, and later at dinner. The best part of the weekend was truly the family time, so despite the outcome of the game, we're both glad we were able to make the trip. And as much fun as I've had watching these Husker-Husky games over the past year (well, 2/3 of the time), I'm just fine with returning to a football season in which we can each cheer on our own teams and genuinely be glad for one another.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Civil War Roadtrip
The first time we visited Memphis, we took the night train north to visit friends in Chicago. Jon had our playlist planned, and as the train chugged out of the city, Willie Nelson's "City of New Orleans" filled our tiny sleeping cabin. Even though I'd most likely heard the song before, I didn't pay close attention to the lyrics and was confused as to the relevancy until Jon pointed out that the song was about a train. The train we were currently riding. The route has since been reversed, but the endpoints are the same. The Amtrak City of New Orleans train travels from Chicago to New Orleans.
Having taken the train north a couple of times, I've been itching to head south to New Orleans. Jon went last winter on a work trip but didn't have a chance to explore the city. We thought that Labor Day would be our perfect opportunity to go to the Big Easy. However, Tropical Storm Lee put a damper on those plans. Literally.
Rather than brazenly move ahead with our plans in defiance of Mother Nature, we decided vacationing in a hurricane would not be much fun. Neither would vacationing in a town preparing for a hurricane. So we scaled back our travels and opted to check Alabama off our list of "states to see" on our quest for Civil War history.
Being Yankees--kind of; I'm from a border state and Jon is from a state that didn't even exist until 1889--we're at times tickled and at others disturbed by the pride of the Confederacy. Even in the "Mid-South," there remains a fierce loyalty attached to the "Stars and Bars." After all, it's a matter of states' rights (tongue firmly in cheek). Regardless, there is history in our own backyard and we were on a journey to find it, whichever way that history was slanted.
Yes, there is plenty of history in Memphis, but since we had two days remaining of a long weekend, we set out Sunday morning to Shiloh, Tennessee. There we got to watch a ridiculously out-dated movie (I swear we could hear the "dings" telling us to advance the slide projector), check out some cool historical artifacts, wander around the cemetery, drive around the battlefield while discussing military tactics, and watch an artillery demonstration.
Having taken the train north a couple of times, I've been itching to head south to New Orleans. Jon went last winter on a work trip but didn't have a chance to explore the city. We thought that Labor Day would be our perfect opportunity to go to the Big Easy. However, Tropical Storm Lee put a damper on those plans. Literally.
Rather than brazenly move ahead with our plans in defiance of Mother Nature, we decided vacationing in a hurricane would not be much fun. Neither would vacationing in a town preparing for a hurricane. So we scaled back our travels and opted to check Alabama off our list of "states to see" on our quest for Civil War history.
Being Yankees--kind of; I'm from a border state and Jon is from a state that didn't even exist until 1889--we're at times tickled and at others disturbed by the pride of the Confederacy. Even in the "Mid-South," there remains a fierce loyalty attached to the "Stars and Bars." After all, it's a matter of states' rights (tongue firmly in cheek). Regardless, there is history in our own backyard and we were on a journey to find it, whichever way that history was slanted.
Yes, there is plenty of history in Memphis, but since we had two days remaining of a long weekend, we set out Sunday morning to Shiloh, Tennessee. There we got to watch a ridiculously out-dated movie (I swear we could hear the "dings" telling us to advance the slide projector), check out some cool historical artifacts, wander around the cemetery, drive around the battlefield while discussing military tactics, and watch an artillery demonstration.
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| Ready, Aim, Fire! |
I learned more than I ever thought I would about the Battle of Shiloh. I certainly learned more by visiting than I did from my history textbooks. Funny how that works out, isn't it? Our admission for the National Park also got us in to the Tennessee River Museum in Savannah, Tennessee, so we made that our next destination. It, too, had a lot of interesting information and artifacts--another hidden gem in a small town.
Despite our best intentions, Lee's wrath had crept far enough north to turn our overcast day into a rainy one. Undaunted, we continued eastward toward Alabama. Being much too far from anything of significance, or at least anywhere we have heard of, our venture into the "Yellowhammer State" (I just had to look that up) was a quick one. To appease my engineer husband, we did stop at the Wilson Dam. We also--accidentally--drove through Helen Keller's hometown of Tuscumbia, although unfortunately the museum was closed for the day.
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| "Dam, we're in Alabama." |
We drove through the increasingly heavy rain to our third state of the day, having made reservations at the Generals' Quarters Inn located in Corinth, Mississippi. Finally we encountered the bias we were anticipating, as the museums and visitors' centers had portrayed both sides of the Civil War as accurately as they could. This bed and breakfast really got into the theme, as this was the picture at the foot of our bed:
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| Jon and new friend General Beauregard |
After a hearty breakfast the next morning, we headed to the Corinth Civil War Interpretive Center. Fortunately their Battle of Shiloh video was much more up-to-date. We strolled through the exhibit, gleaning even more knowledge about this strategic stronghold, but I must admit the rain that was still falling did take away from the peaceful ambience of the symbolic water feature outside.
Since we had to return to reality the following day, we headed back to Memphis. We did make one more stop, however, since we were "in the area." It was kind of out of the way, but we couldn't imagine driving to Tupelo any time soon, so we headed toward Elvis Presley's birthplace. We've been living in Memphis for almost exactly a year but haven't even made it to Graceland yet. A pilgrimage to Tupelo was the least we could do. The very least we could do was not even pay to go inside the house. Rather, we just took a picture from the outside.
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| Elvis's humble beginnings |
Having checked everything off our to-do list, we were back on the road to Memphis. Not going to New Orleans proved to be a good idea, even if we did get rained on most of the time. As we are officially in the sesquicentennial years of the Civil War, we hope to do more such historical roadtrips soon.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
No Fly Zone
We hate to fly. No, not because we get airsick or are scared of crashing (although who doesn't get a little nervous during take-off and landing?!?). Rather, we hate all of the potential ways we can get screwed over.
Sure, the idea of flying is great. It's amazing that we can wake up in Memphis and be in another part of the country--or world--in just a few hours. However, it's also incredibly frustrating, right from the beginning of the experience. Like everyone else, we are annoyed with the ever-rising cost of tickets and endless fees. I can't count how many times we've chosen an itinerary only to have the price leap hundreds of dollars by the time we're ready to commit a few days later. But, after swallowing that exorbitant expense--and in all honesty, forgetting about it--we typically reach our destination without incident. All that changed this summer.
Really, we were due for some complications. We've certainly tested fate more than enough. We've rushed through security at the last minute. We've run through the airport to make a connecting flight. We've slid into our seats as the flight attendants go over the safety precautions. So, yes we were due.
When you think of it that way, it's really no surprise that we've had a bit of, um...difficulty flying this summer. In fact, when we got bumped from our flight to Norway, we took it all in stride. Karma, right? The airline promptly rebooked us, compensated us for our troubles, and sent us on our way. When our luggage didn't arrive at our final destination, we were confident that it would only be a matter of time before we were reunited. Four days--and lots of money spent on international phone calls to resolve the matter--later, and we finally were. While Jon remained fairly calm, I was a mess, and my good-natured acceptance had been shaken.
However, we considered it an isolated incident. Just an unfortunate consequence of computer problems. After our next trip, it was hard not to believe that some evil forces were working against us. Our travels began innocently enough. It was to be a quick trip to Nebraska for a cousin wedding. We booked our tickets early enough and were able to fly into our actual destination of Lincoln, which is typically more expensive than Omaha. Security was a breeze and we boarded the plane without another thought. The plane even pulled away from the gate. Until it stopped. And pulled back in again.
It's hard to complain about safety, so there was really nothing to be said when the captain explained that maintenance was checking out a suspicious gauge. We "de-planed" (such a funny word) with the rest of the passengers until the matter could be resolved. All in all, it only took about 45 minutes to diagnose and repair the problem, so we re-boarded. However, that was just enough time to miss our connecting flight out of Chicago. We were informed we would not make our flight to Lincoln...which happened to be the last flight of the night.
With little other choice, we resigned ourselves to a night in Chicago. For whatever reason, the airline didn't have any hotel vouchers available, but luckily we were able to stay in the USO at the airport. We were booked on the first flight to Lincoln in the morning (still giving us plenty of time to make the wedding, thank goodness), which was another reason to stay so close. The USO volunteers were so welcoming to us weary travelers, and even though there were no beds, they helped us get settled in the lounge. So, there we were: me on a lumpy couch and Jon on the floor, trying to get some sleep to the soothing sounds of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, which happened to be on TV at the time. All in all, we slept okay...until waking up in the middle of the night surrounded by sailors. Apparently a group of "kids" had just completed basic training and were on their way to their various training locations. They were clearly excited--especially for 3am--which frankly was a bit annoying until I realized that we were the only non-Navy personnel in the joint.
Needless to say, we didn't have a problem waking up and headed down to pass through security once again. Minus my eye twitching uncontrollably, we were no worse for the wear. Until we read the giant Departures board. Our flight to Lincoln? Cancelled. It was about this point when I started to get nervous. But we're seasoned travelers, so we quickly picked out at least three flights to Omaha that would still "get us to the church on time." Walking with purpose to customer service (again), we were informed that we were already re-booked on one of the Omaha flights. Like the best-laid plans o' mice and men, our trip had gone completely awry. But we made the wedding and had a nice story to tell.
Our story on the return trip was not so nice. We made it out of Lincoln just fine, returning once again to Chicago O'Hare. We had a lay-over and so did what we normally do at O'Hare: head immediately to the Goose Island bar for some overpriced beer. It had started raining, but the storm was brief, so we didn't give it much thought. We headed down to the basement where the hoardes of regional economy jet peons were waiting and discovered that multiple flights had been delayed. But ours was still on time, so we settled in to wait. And wait. And wait. We got excited when the gate agent announced that our flight had arrived...and were disappointed to hear that our crew had not. We were assured that they would get to the airport soon, so after briefly debating taking the overnight train back to Memphis, we ultimately decided to wait it out. It was only 7pm, after all. Sneakily, in 30-minute increments, our flight continued to get pushed back. We grew restless. The prophetic passenger next to us predicted that by the time the crew arrived, they would have run out of flying time.
Finally, at 10:30, the dreaded announcement was made. Our flight had been cancelled. Our neighbor was correct. The crew had spent too long in the air and were mandated by law to take a break. By this time, the train had left and there was no way we could make it to the Greyhound terminal. Even the Mega Busses were about to leave. We had no other choice than to join the ever-growing line of disgruntled passengers in the customer service line. We knew that Jon would be late for work the next day (fortunately I was at the beginning of a three-week break from classes), but were upset to learn that the earliest we could get confirmed seats to Memphis was 9:30 the following day. 9:30pm. Defeated, we headed back to the USO (no hotel OR food vouchers this time).
We attempted three times to fly stand-by, even volunteering to travel separately so Jon could get back to work. Finally, a more helpful customer service representative informed us that we just needed to get out of town. She routed us through Huntsville, Alabama so that we could get back to Memphis approximately 24 hours later than scheduled. When we added up the time, we realized that we had spent more time at O'Hare than we had in Nebraska, 33 hours to 27.
With such a bad travel taste in our mouths, it was with great trepidation that we embarked on our next trip, a mere three weeks later. Another cousin wedding, but this time in Seattle. We wisely opted to avoid Chicago and flew through Denver. It felt like deja vu when the captain came over the loudspeaker and informed us that there were mechanical problems on our airplane. Murphy and his law were hard at work and the airline decided to switch aircraft. Fortunately, we had no checked baggage, so we were able to get on another flight a few gates away. But the damage had been done. We were delayed again.
Yet, we made it to our final destination and had another fun time at another wedding. Potential disaster struck again on the return trip when after Jon received his boarding pass, I received the dreaded "departure management card." Even though I had reserved and purchased a seat, it wasn't guaranteed. I will never understand this dirty airline trick. Usually, everything works out fine, but based on our recent experiences, we weren't very confident. This is precisely what had happened to us when we tried to fly to Norway. How the airline can give away a seat is beyond me. I get the fact that they don't want to fly a half-empty aircraft, but there is no excuse for such blatant over-booking. The flight was boarding and I was still on the "yellow list," not quite stand-by but not quite confirmed. I had readied myself to fly at a later time (which would have been okay since I didn't have to teach until the following Tuesday), when suddenly, my name was on the "green list" with zero explanation.
We spent another three weeks recovering from this flight before heading out of town again, back to Nebraska, but this time for a football game (see future post). Learning a little from our mistakes (which I blame mostly on bad luck), we refused to fly through O'Hare again and even found a direct flight. Since Jon has been spending a lot of his time working in southeast Missouri, he was equally close to Memphis and St. Louis. We were able to book a direct flight from St. Louis to Omaha, which left fewer opportunities for errors and delays. We certainly had to drive a lot more (I stayed an extra day on both ends in Missouri, so as to not have to make the Memphis-St. Louis drive all at once), but it was nice to not have a lay-over. Our flight out of St. Louis was only delayed 30 minutes, small potatoes these days. Once again, our trip was worth the hassle, as we had a lovely time with family.
However, we panicked briefly in Omaha on the way out when the ticket kiosk spit out not one but two "departure management cards." Apparently the airline's policy is to issue the final 15 seats at the gate. I guess we should have checked in on-line...but excuse us for staying with a relative who still has a rotary phone. Thankfully, we did get seats--crappy middle seats in the back, but seats nonetheless.
After this last adventure, we have made a pact. While we love you all dearly, there will be absolutely NO FLYING...at least until Christmas.
Sure, the idea of flying is great. It's amazing that we can wake up in Memphis and be in another part of the country--or world--in just a few hours. However, it's also incredibly frustrating, right from the beginning of the experience. Like everyone else, we are annoyed with the ever-rising cost of tickets and endless fees. I can't count how many times we've chosen an itinerary only to have the price leap hundreds of dollars by the time we're ready to commit a few days later. But, after swallowing that exorbitant expense--and in all honesty, forgetting about it--we typically reach our destination without incident. All that changed this summer.
Really, we were due for some complications. We've certainly tested fate more than enough. We've rushed through security at the last minute. We've run through the airport to make a connecting flight. We've slid into our seats as the flight attendants go over the safety precautions. So, yes we were due.
When you think of it that way, it's really no surprise that we've had a bit of, um...difficulty flying this summer. In fact, when we got bumped from our flight to Norway, we took it all in stride. Karma, right? The airline promptly rebooked us, compensated us for our troubles, and sent us on our way. When our luggage didn't arrive at our final destination, we were confident that it would only be a matter of time before we were reunited. Four days--and lots of money spent on international phone calls to resolve the matter--later, and we finally were. While Jon remained fairly calm, I was a mess, and my good-natured acceptance had been shaken.
However, we considered it an isolated incident. Just an unfortunate consequence of computer problems. After our next trip, it was hard not to believe that some evil forces were working against us. Our travels began innocently enough. It was to be a quick trip to Nebraska for a cousin wedding. We booked our tickets early enough and were able to fly into our actual destination of Lincoln, which is typically more expensive than Omaha. Security was a breeze and we boarded the plane without another thought. The plane even pulled away from the gate. Until it stopped. And pulled back in again.
It's hard to complain about safety, so there was really nothing to be said when the captain explained that maintenance was checking out a suspicious gauge. We "de-planed" (such a funny word) with the rest of the passengers until the matter could be resolved. All in all, it only took about 45 minutes to diagnose and repair the problem, so we re-boarded. However, that was just enough time to miss our connecting flight out of Chicago. We were informed we would not make our flight to Lincoln...which happened to be the last flight of the night.
With little other choice, we resigned ourselves to a night in Chicago. For whatever reason, the airline didn't have any hotel vouchers available, but luckily we were able to stay in the USO at the airport. We were booked on the first flight to Lincoln in the morning (still giving us plenty of time to make the wedding, thank goodness), which was another reason to stay so close. The USO volunteers were so welcoming to us weary travelers, and even though there were no beds, they helped us get settled in the lounge. So, there we were: me on a lumpy couch and Jon on the floor, trying to get some sleep to the soothing sounds of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, which happened to be on TV at the time. All in all, we slept okay...until waking up in the middle of the night surrounded by sailors. Apparently a group of "kids" had just completed basic training and were on their way to their various training locations. They were clearly excited--especially for 3am--which frankly was a bit annoying until I realized that we were the only non-Navy personnel in the joint.
Needless to say, we didn't have a problem waking up and headed down to pass through security once again. Minus my eye twitching uncontrollably, we were no worse for the wear. Until we read the giant Departures board. Our flight to Lincoln? Cancelled. It was about this point when I started to get nervous. But we're seasoned travelers, so we quickly picked out at least three flights to Omaha that would still "get us to the church on time." Walking with purpose to customer service (again), we were informed that we were already re-booked on one of the Omaha flights. Like the best-laid plans o' mice and men, our trip had gone completely awry. But we made the wedding and had a nice story to tell.
Our story on the return trip was not so nice. We made it out of Lincoln just fine, returning once again to Chicago O'Hare. We had a lay-over and so did what we normally do at O'Hare: head immediately to the Goose Island bar for some overpriced beer. It had started raining, but the storm was brief, so we didn't give it much thought. We headed down to the basement where the hoardes of regional economy jet peons were waiting and discovered that multiple flights had been delayed. But ours was still on time, so we settled in to wait. And wait. And wait. We got excited when the gate agent announced that our flight had arrived...and were disappointed to hear that our crew had not. We were assured that they would get to the airport soon, so after briefly debating taking the overnight train back to Memphis, we ultimately decided to wait it out. It was only 7pm, after all. Sneakily, in 30-minute increments, our flight continued to get pushed back. We grew restless. The prophetic passenger next to us predicted that by the time the crew arrived, they would have run out of flying time.
Finally, at 10:30, the dreaded announcement was made. Our flight had been cancelled. Our neighbor was correct. The crew had spent too long in the air and were mandated by law to take a break. By this time, the train had left and there was no way we could make it to the Greyhound terminal. Even the Mega Busses were about to leave. We had no other choice than to join the ever-growing line of disgruntled passengers in the customer service line. We knew that Jon would be late for work the next day (fortunately I was at the beginning of a three-week break from classes), but were upset to learn that the earliest we could get confirmed seats to Memphis was 9:30 the following day. 9:30pm. Defeated, we headed back to the USO (no hotel OR food vouchers this time).
We attempted three times to fly stand-by, even volunteering to travel separately so Jon could get back to work. Finally, a more helpful customer service representative informed us that we just needed to get out of town. She routed us through Huntsville, Alabama so that we could get back to Memphis approximately 24 hours later than scheduled. When we added up the time, we realized that we had spent more time at O'Hare than we had in Nebraska, 33 hours to 27.
With such a bad travel taste in our mouths, it was with great trepidation that we embarked on our next trip, a mere three weeks later. Another cousin wedding, but this time in Seattle. We wisely opted to avoid Chicago and flew through Denver. It felt like deja vu when the captain came over the loudspeaker and informed us that there were mechanical problems on our airplane. Murphy and his law were hard at work and the airline decided to switch aircraft. Fortunately, we had no checked baggage, so we were able to get on another flight a few gates away. But the damage had been done. We were delayed again.
Yet, we made it to our final destination and had another fun time at another wedding. Potential disaster struck again on the return trip when after Jon received his boarding pass, I received the dreaded "departure management card." Even though I had reserved and purchased a seat, it wasn't guaranteed. I will never understand this dirty airline trick. Usually, everything works out fine, but based on our recent experiences, we weren't very confident. This is precisely what had happened to us when we tried to fly to Norway. How the airline can give away a seat is beyond me. I get the fact that they don't want to fly a half-empty aircraft, but there is no excuse for such blatant over-booking. The flight was boarding and I was still on the "yellow list," not quite stand-by but not quite confirmed. I had readied myself to fly at a later time (which would have been okay since I didn't have to teach until the following Tuesday), when suddenly, my name was on the "green list" with zero explanation.
We spent another three weeks recovering from this flight before heading out of town again, back to Nebraska, but this time for a football game (see future post). Learning a little from our mistakes (which I blame mostly on bad luck), we refused to fly through O'Hare again and even found a direct flight. Since Jon has been spending a lot of his time working in southeast Missouri, he was equally close to Memphis and St. Louis. We were able to book a direct flight from St. Louis to Omaha, which left fewer opportunities for errors and delays. We certainly had to drive a lot more (I stayed an extra day on both ends in Missouri, so as to not have to make the Memphis-St. Louis drive all at once), but it was nice to not have a lay-over. Our flight out of St. Louis was only delayed 30 minutes, small potatoes these days. Once again, our trip was worth the hassle, as we had a lovely time with family.
However, we panicked briefly in Omaha on the way out when the ticket kiosk spit out not one but two "departure management cards." Apparently the airline's policy is to issue the final 15 seats at the gate. I guess we should have checked in on-line...but excuse us for staying with a relative who still has a rotary phone. Thankfully, we did get seats--crappy middle seats in the back, but seats nonetheless.
After this last adventure, we have made a pact. While we love you all dearly, there will be absolutely NO FLYING...at least until Christmas.
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