Better late than never... photos from the Dubliner's visit to Chicago
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Boo hoo
by Anna
The mean streets of Chicago finally got me a few weeks ago on my way to work. The skinned knee was the only physical damage, but the old pride was in traction for a couple days. No one hit me. It wasn't slippery. I just fell off my bike for an audience of fancy people in their fancy cars waiting to get into the Mercedes Benz dealership service entrance. I was uprighted and whisked into the showroom bathroom to clean up the blood and dirt and given a teeny little band-aid by a teeny little mechanic. And off I went to work to complain about the ordeal all day long.
The mean streets of Chicago finally got me a few weeks ago on my way to work. The skinned knee was the only physical damage, but the old pride was in traction for a couple days. No one hit me. It wasn't slippery. I just fell off my bike for an audience of fancy people in their fancy cars waiting to get into the Mercedes Benz dealership service entrance. I was uprighted and whisked into the showroom bathroom to clean up the blood and dirt and given a teeny little band-aid by a teeny little mechanic. And off I went to work to complain about the ordeal all day long.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Fun Times, Fist-Sized Cocktail Shrimp
as reported by Anna
Lesson Learned: Don't try to leave Chicago at lunch time the Saturday before the 4th of July.
It took 3 hair-pulling hours to get out of Illinois, a trip that should normally take an hour and a half. Not-Brother Lucas and I got into the Twin Cities around 9:30 p.m. and headed straight to Café Latte to pick up a slice of turtle cake, because that's what Rachael Ray ate on the Twin Cities episode of "Tasty Travels."
Monday afternoon we ventured west to collect Marcus at St. Cloud State and then pressed onward to Spicer, where x-treme competitive tubing and a full cooler awaited us on the boat. When the guests started rolling in at around 6 p.m., out came the enormous cocktail shrimp and endless platters of highly addictive bite-sized tenderloin sandwiches. Eating. Drinking. Eating. Drinking. The Jo Bros. cranked out the classic rock hits in the back yard until the mosquitos came out, as the she-welder/bartender did her best to serve up Josh-calibre cocktails. When the party moved inside, Little Ed stuck with tradition and was on the guitar quicker than you could say Bye Bye Miss American Pie. Which we did.
In honor of Marcus, the self-proclaimed star of the evening, we ended up dancing to our own singing of that famous Men At Work song without knowing any of the words except for, "I come from a land down under!" Have a look .
Lesson Learned: Don't try to leave Chicago at lunch time the Saturday before the 4th of July.
It took 3 hair-pulling hours to get out of Illinois, a trip that should normally take an hour and a half. Not-Brother Lucas and I got into the Twin Cities around 9:30 p.m. and headed straight to Café Latte to pick up a slice of turtle cake, because that's what Rachael Ray ate on the Twin Cities episode of "Tasty Travels."
Monday afternoon we ventured west to collect Marcus at St. Cloud State and then pressed onward to Spicer, where x-treme competitive tubing and a full cooler awaited us on the boat. When the guests started rolling in at around 6 p.m., out came the enormous cocktail shrimp and endless platters of highly addictive bite-sized tenderloin sandwiches. Eating. Drinking. Eating. Drinking. The Jo Bros. cranked out the classic rock hits in the back yard until the mosquitos came out, as the she-welder/bartender did her best to serve up Josh-calibre cocktails. When the party moved inside, Little Ed stuck with tradition and was on the guitar quicker than you could say Bye Bye Miss American Pie. Which we did.
In honor of Marcus, the self-proclaimed star of the evening, we ended up dancing to our own singing of that famous Men At Work song without knowing any of the words except for, "I come from a land down under!" Have a look .
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Fun Times, Noodle Salad
The annual summer
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Fun in the Big City
(Yes, yes, this image is property of Major League Baseball. An umpire may sneak up behind me at work and haul me to copyright prison.)
Although the poor Cubs lost 3-9 to the Tigers on Saturday, our spirits were kept high by expensive beer and Kosher hot dogs, complete with hand-cranked onions.
Photo Booth Fun
I realize this is a little late, but I knew everyone was dying to see what happens when Anna, Steph & Wes get anywhere near a photo booth...
Rainbo Club, Wicker Park, late April-ish
Rainbo Club, Wicker Park, late April-ish
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
A Tribute to Newt: May 15, 2006
Newt, my dad’s Weimaraner, was put to sleep today even though some of his closest friends had still not learned to pronounced the name of his breed. Newt was a good dog, as most dogs are. He was known for being slightly spastic, but overly friendly. He enjoyed nothing so much as a good petting, and one of his favorite moves was to walk to the nearest lap, lay his head in it, and fall asleep. Now, you biology majors may know that dogs cannot sleep standing up, and are thus keen on what would happen when Newt’s attention went from standing to sleeping. He usually woke up before completely crashing to the ground, but never without creating a humorous scene. His talents included hunting pheasants and tap dancing on wood floors. Things that made him sad were water and my cat, Magma. (Let Newt’s friendly personality not be faulted though; Magma always went out of her way to be mean to him). Newt has long suffered from a tumor on his spleen, but wagged his stub of a tail until his last days, and went out with a wry smile at having made it happily through 12 years of life, interrupted by only 2 baths.
My dad is what most people (short of Rush Limbaugh) would call Ridiculously Republican. He skips around on Election Day in a red tie with a conservative gleam in his eye. For this reason, many of Newt’s associates assumed that he was named for the Speaker of the House presiding during the year of his birth. That would be a really pathetic way to name a dog. Fortunately, someone more pathetic than my father named Newt. Twelve years ago, on a farm in western Minnesota, a man named Newton was breeding champion Weimaraners. He christened each of his pups as his own namesake (i.e. “Newton, Jr.”, “Newtina”, “Newt”, etc.). If George Foreman can do it, nameless horse farmers in the Midwest can too.
I am slightly concerned about Newt riding the elevator to heaven (Newt’s hips were wearing out on him, so we know he’s not taking the staircase), because he recently proved himself not very adept at elevator travel. On the first day I returned from Mexico, my mom and I got out Newt’s fancy, self-winding leash and took him for a walk by the Mississippi River. We boarded the elevator back up to the apartment and I began reading the announcement posting to my mother. Floor 18 arrived, Mom got off the elevator, Newt followed her, the doors closed, and I was left inside, holding the handle of Newt’s leash. The elevator began to descend. I began franticly feeding out extra leash line with one hand, and with the other hitting buttons on the elevator’s control panel. Floors above, Newt was dragged back towards the elevator doors as my mom tried to free his neck from his collar. I heard the leash snap and shortly thereafter managed to turn the elevator around. When the doors reopened on 18, after seeing Newt OK, I began to laugh hysterically. This was an incident the likes of which was only previously conceived in Woody Allen scripts. Unfortunately, sometime during this trauma, my father had also arrived on location. His face’s red hue was not, this time, to show his political leanings, but rather in outrage: first, at the abuse of his dog; and, second, and more emphatically, at the fact that I broke the fancy leash.
Newt stopped riding the elevator with me after that, and I would bet he’s glad I’m not with him now. With apologies, I wish him a safe and comfortable trip up. And, don’t worry Newt, I have on good confidence that they don’t have leashes in heaven… not even the fancy ones.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Steph's Back! Kind of...
She's within the confines of the USA, though still outside her comfort zone. Anna is attending a bachelorette party in Nebraska that the bachelorette may, or may not, attend. Hopefully, she will then have time to find Steph in Chicago, buy her 2-4-1 martinis, and send her back to the land of 10,000 lakes.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
I Miss My Aesthetician
by Stephanie
Her name is Michelle and she works at Juut Salon in Gavidaae in Minneapolis. She can work wonders on a girl that naturally has the eyebrows of Oscar the Grouch. My grooming in Mexico has to be done by a self-admitted amateur (me). Michelle would be horrified to know that the other day I attempted to trim my unwieldy brows with a fingernail clipper. The results were disasterous. All photos from the next two weeks will be destroyed in order to protect the stupid. I was forced to go to a Mexican salon to address the situation. I was obivously concerned about dealing with a language barrier in the administration of hot wax to my face, but my choices were slim. The beautician I was working with took one look at my face and asked, "did you do that to yourself?" During the repair process, she held her breath, something Michelle never does and conveys no comfort to the patient, whatsoever. Eventually I left the salon in a condition mildly presentable to a peopled society, but I am still wearing a baseball cap pulled low.
In other horrifying news from south of the Rio Grande: I have finally discovered the limits of my stubborness. After two months of responding to peer pressure to skydive by saying, "NEVER. EVER. EVER.", I paid to jump out of a precious airplane. Falling at a tropical paradise from 12,500 feet was the best view I have ever seen. My mom thinks it might have been bad for my back. My mom thinks peanut butter sandwiches might be bad for my back. She worries professionally... she even has business cards. She was informed of my recklessless post-skydive because I didn´t want to tie up any business hours.
If you have worrying that needs to be done, the international lines will free up at the end of April. I have been enlisted to fly the Twin Otter belonging to Skydive Ixtapa back to Chicago on or around the 17th. I will call this the end to my chapter in Mexico as I will be out of work, sick of tropical birds, and desperate to see Michelle.
The other day while hiking, I was attacked by a tarantula. The kind they have at the zoo and teenage boys keep as pets. These things apparantly also exist in the wild. I seem to remember from a childhood field trip that they are poisonous. I jumped no less than 7 feet to get out of the orange-and-black-death-monster´s way. I am positive it was bad for my back.
Her name is Michelle and she works at Juut Salon in Gavidaae in Minneapolis. She can work wonders on a girl that naturally has the eyebrows of Oscar the Grouch. My grooming in Mexico has to be done by a self-admitted amateur (me). Michelle would be horrified to know that the other day I attempted to trim my unwieldy brows with a fingernail clipper. The results were disasterous. All photos from the next two weeks will be destroyed in order to protect the stupid. I was forced to go to a Mexican salon to address the situation. I was obivously concerned about dealing with a language barrier in the administration of hot wax to my face, but my choices were slim. The beautician I was working with took one look at my face and asked, "did you do that to yourself?" During the repair process, she held her breath, something Michelle never does and conveys no comfort to the patient, whatsoever. Eventually I left the salon in a condition mildly presentable to a peopled society, but I am still wearing a baseball cap pulled low.
In other horrifying news from south of the Rio Grande: I have finally discovered the limits of my stubborness. After two months of responding to peer pressure to skydive by saying, "NEVER. EVER. EVER.", I paid to jump out of a precious airplane. Falling at a tropical paradise from 12,500 feet was the best view I have ever seen. My mom thinks it might have been bad for my back. My mom thinks peanut butter sandwiches might be bad for my back. She worries professionally... she even has business cards. She was informed of my recklessless post-skydive because I didn´t want to tie up any business hours.
If you have worrying that needs to be done, the international lines will free up at the end of April. I have been enlisted to fly the Twin Otter belonging to Skydive Ixtapa back to Chicago on or around the 17th. I will call this the end to my chapter in Mexico as I will be out of work, sick of tropical birds, and desperate to see Michelle.
The other day while hiking, I was attacked by a tarantula. The kind they have at the zoo and teenage boys keep as pets. These things apparantly also exist in the wild. I seem to remember from a childhood field trip that they are poisonous. I jumped no less than 7 feet to get out of the orange-and-black-death-monster´s way. I am positive it was bad for my back.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
"They will tell you, 'you can't sleep alone in a strange place', then they tell you `you can`t sleep with somebody else.`"
by Stephanie... in Mexico
I referred to a coworker as the "Canadian Time Share Messiah" and I got fired from my job as a real estate efficienado. Surprising? Not really, though I am certain the two events weren't directly related. What is surprising is that a week after firing me, my former boss tracked me down and asked if he could rent a room and be my flatmate. He did not see the strangeness of asking someone he just fired if he could move in. He also apparently did not find the humor of a real estate broker needing somewhere to live. I passed on my first chance at a 55-yr-old Mexican roommate. My Spanish might suffer. That's a risk I'll have to take.
For morale, I feel that it is important to be doing something more difficult than trying to learn Spanish, so I am surfing a couple mornings a week. The problem I find with both these endeavors is that improvement at either is nigh impossible to detect. All I notice is the things I cannot say and how much sand I have in my nose.
It has not been all losses since you last heard from me though. Operating on a standing policy of speaking to strangers in bars, I met the owner of the local skydive operation. I now have a nameplate on the right seat of his Twin Otter. As missing out on flying was the principle sacrifice of "Operation: Move to Mexico, Learn Spanish, and Eat my weight in Chips and Salsa", this turn of events was miraculous. "The Lord, He does provide." One of the company planes needs to go back to the States, so tomorrow, weather allowing, I will be spending 10 hours flying, 3 hours getting searched for drugs at the border, and 12 hours on the ground eating Cheez-its and drinking all the tap water I can swallow.
I referred to a coworker as the "Canadian Time Share Messiah" and I got fired from my job as a real estate efficienado. Surprising? Not really, though I am certain the two events weren't directly related. What is surprising is that a week after firing me, my former boss tracked me down and asked if he could rent a room and be my flatmate. He did not see the strangeness of asking someone he just fired if he could move in. He also apparently did not find the humor of a real estate broker needing somewhere to live. I passed on my first chance at a 55-yr-old Mexican roommate. My Spanish might suffer. That's a risk I'll have to take.
For morale, I feel that it is important to be doing something more difficult than trying to learn Spanish, so I am surfing a couple mornings a week. The problem I find with both these endeavors is that improvement at either is nigh impossible to detect. All I notice is the things I cannot say and how much sand I have in my nose.
It has not been all losses since you last heard from me though. Operating on a standing policy of speaking to strangers in bars, I met the owner of the local skydive operation. I now have a nameplate on the right seat of his Twin Otter. As missing out on flying was the principle sacrifice of "Operation: Move to Mexico, Learn Spanish, and Eat my weight in Chips and Salsa", this turn of events was miraculous. "The Lord, He does provide." One of the company planes needs to go back to the States, so tomorrow, weather allowing, I will be spending 10 hours flying, 3 hours getting searched for drugs at the border, and 12 hours on the ground eating Cheez-its and drinking all the tap water I can swallow.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Happy Birthday, Carrie!
by Anna
You know you're really my friend if you get this for your birthday.
In honor of the trusty soundtrack to some long car rides and late nights, I proudly presented my old college roommate with a bottle of Old Whiskey River for her birthday. And yes, the faux autographed guitar pick is yours to keep.
You know you're really my friend if you get this for your birthday.
In honor of the trusty soundtrack to some long car rides and late nights, I proudly presented my old college roommate with a bottle of Old Whiskey River for her birthday. And yes, the faux autographed guitar pick is yours to keep.
Friday, February 03, 2006
A Standard Exchange Between Steph & Anna
From: Anna
To: Steph
Subject: Flight Details: Game On
Date: Fri, 03 Feb 2006 10:18 AM
Ok, dude. I bought the ticket [to come see you]. A lay-over in Mexico City? I better bring a pocket knife...
-------------------------------
From : Steph
To : Anna
Subject : RE: Flight Details: Game On
Date : Friday, February 3, 2006 5:03 PM
Awesome Opposum, I say.
I can top your layover in Mex. City with the news that I have been recruited as a copilot for the local skydiving company. they busted an engine in one of their planes and the replacement is being held hostage near the border in Monterey. I am supposed to do an overnight mission with the company owner tonight to try to recover the lost engine and bring it back. It will be 7 hours of flight time in a night cross country over all of mexico. and, handily, the plane we will fly is a very common alaska bush plane. if i get shot down by a drug cartel, you can still stay at my place in feb. I live in the neighborhood of Pelicanos in Ixtapa... the pink apartment building. no. 303. that should get you there.
see you soon,
steph
To: Steph
Subject: Flight Details: Game On
Date: Fri, 03 Feb 2006 10:18 AM
Ok, dude. I bought the ticket [to come see you]. A lay-over in Mexico City? I better bring a pocket knife...
-------------------------------
From : Steph
To : Anna
Subject : RE: Flight Details: Game On
Date : Friday, February 3, 2006 5:03 PM
Awesome Opposum, I say.
I can top your layover in Mex. City with the news that I have been recruited as a copilot for the local skydiving company. they busted an engine in one of their planes and the replacement is being held hostage near the border in Monterey. I am supposed to do an overnight mission with the company owner tonight to try to recover the lost engine and bring it back. It will be 7 hours of flight time in a night cross country over all of mexico. and, handily, the plane we will fly is a very common alaska bush plane. if i get shot down by a drug cartel, you can still stay at my place in feb. I live in the neighborhood of Pelicanos in Ixtapa... the pink apartment building. no. 303. that should get you there.
see you soon,
steph
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Cash-aroake
Jami´s latest on what´s cool in MSP:
I had the benefit of experiencing Casharoeke last night. You heard it right. Cash-aroeke. It's kareoke but with a live Johnny Cash band, and it's my new favorite thing. Every monday night Lee's Liquor Bar hosts this fabulous event. There were some truly hard core Johnny Cash wannabees, dressed all in black and everything, but it's okay if you're not inspiring to Johnny or June Carter as well. Do not be deceived from the outer appearance of Lee's. From the outside it looks as though the local crack addicts and hookers own the place, but inside it's a whole different story. It's the cleanest dive bar I've ever seen. The best part is it's Elvis Presley shrine. Sure there were still a couple local crack heads in the corner, but they were so far gone they were harmless. So if you like Cash, Johnny that is, head down to Lee's Liquor on monday night. It's located on the corner of 12th and Glenwood, downtown Minneapolis. I'll be there and if you give me enough to drink I might get on stage and make an ass of myself. It's a win win situation, there's no reason not to go.
I had the benefit of experiencing Casharoeke last night. You heard it right. Cash-aroeke. It's kareoke but with a live Johnny Cash band, and it's my new favorite thing. Every monday night Lee's Liquor Bar hosts this fabulous event. There were some truly hard core Johnny Cash wannabees, dressed all in black and everything, but it's okay if you're not inspiring to Johnny or June Carter as well. Do not be deceived from the outer appearance of Lee's. From the outside it looks as though the local crack addicts and hookers own the place, but inside it's a whole different story. It's the cleanest dive bar I've ever seen. The best part is it's Elvis Presley shrine. Sure there were still a couple local crack heads in the corner, but they were so far gone they were harmless. So if you like Cash, Johnny that is, head down to Lee's Liquor on monday night. It's located on the corner of 12th and Glenwood, downtown Minneapolis. I'll be there and if you give me enough to drink I might get on stage and make an ass of myself. It's a win win situation, there's no reason not to go.
Monday, January 30, 2006
So, I´m standing on the beach, holding an iguana...
by Stephanie, who seems to have made it to Mexico
...and the man who gave it to me asks if I want to eat the iguana. The iguana is wearing a necklace.
And we´ll interupt my Sunday afternoon there to let you know that I DID get collected at the airport in Zihautanejo. The stranger that came looking for me wasn´t wearing any shoes and laughed hysterically when I put my seatbelt on. I´m glad I left it on, as I´ve witnessed 2 fatal accidents in the last 3 days.
My home is in Ixtapa: I have my own 3-bedroom apartment, with a bathroom that makes most phone booths look spacious. The ruling force in my neighborhood seems to be a dubiously organized feral cat herd. They do some dealings with a pair of floppy-eared bassett hounds, but its clear that the dirty cats are running the show. Mail and trash are left in respective piles on the sidewalk for collection. I don´t know how the cats sort the mail, so its for the best that i don´t even know my address to give it to you.
I´m working for a restaurant called Casa Morelos and at a real estate agency. I work about 7 hours a day, which for here is considered near slave hours. I am doing¨"PR" for the restaurant, and I consider it quite the apprenticeship as my boss claims to have INVENTED "word of mouth" advertising. For the real estate people, my main job is to repeat the words: "it´s not a time share!"
I know a lot more Spanish than I did two weeks ago, but I would compare my current attempts at the language to a game of Taboo: due to my very limited vocabulary, I am constantly trying to describe things using totally unrelated words. Sometimes I cheat and throw in charades. The results are always entertaining, but usually nowhere near what I was trying to express.
I even have a mobile phone. Granted, I had to borrow most of its parts from one "Enrique Bravo" and it only holds a charge for the better part of one afternoon. I´m just waiting for the calls and texts to roll in: mexico country code: +52, my numero: 755 111 7746.
Visitors are welcome, but get your bookings in, as space is filling up. And, you may want to know that my mom is predicting a border war that will halt all travel between the two countries and leave all Americans trapped here. Her wild fortune telling isn´t always correct, but this would be a VERY HOT place to have to spend eternity.
And no, of course I didn´t eat the iguana! I don´t know where YOU went to elementary school, but at Hopkins, right between "don´t get in a car with a stranger" and "don´t eat unwrapped, poisoned candy", they told us "don´t ingest animals wearing jewelry." Public education serves me yet again.
...and the man who gave it to me asks if I want to eat the iguana. The iguana is wearing a necklace.
And we´ll interupt my Sunday afternoon there to let you know that I DID get collected at the airport in Zihautanejo. The stranger that came looking for me wasn´t wearing any shoes and laughed hysterically when I put my seatbelt on. I´m glad I left it on, as I´ve witnessed 2 fatal accidents in the last 3 days.
My home is in Ixtapa: I have my own 3-bedroom apartment, with a bathroom that makes most phone booths look spacious. The ruling force in my neighborhood seems to be a dubiously organized feral cat herd. They do some dealings with a pair of floppy-eared bassett hounds, but its clear that the dirty cats are running the show. Mail and trash are left in respective piles on the sidewalk for collection. I don´t know how the cats sort the mail, so its for the best that i don´t even know my address to give it to you.
I´m working for a restaurant called Casa Morelos and at a real estate agency. I work about 7 hours a day, which for here is considered near slave hours. I am doing¨"PR" for the restaurant, and I consider it quite the apprenticeship as my boss claims to have INVENTED "word of mouth" advertising. For the real estate people, my main job is to repeat the words: "it´s not a time share!"
I know a lot more Spanish than I did two weeks ago, but I would compare my current attempts at the language to a game of Taboo: due to my very limited vocabulary, I am constantly trying to describe things using totally unrelated words. Sometimes I cheat and throw in charades. The results are always entertaining, but usually nowhere near what I was trying to express.
I even have a mobile phone. Granted, I had to borrow most of its parts from one "Enrique Bravo" and it only holds a charge for the better part of one afternoon. I´m just waiting for the calls and texts to roll in: mexico country code: +52, my numero: 755 111 7746.
Visitors are welcome, but get your bookings in, as space is filling up. And, you may want to know that my mom is predicting a border war that will halt all travel between the two countries and leave all Americans trapped here. Her wild fortune telling isn´t always correct, but this would be a VERY HOT place to have to spend eternity.
And no, of course I didn´t eat the iguana! I don´t know where YOU went to elementary school, but at Hopkins, right between "don´t get in a car with a stranger" and "don´t eat unwrapped, poisoned candy", they told us "don´t ingest animals wearing jewelry." Public education serves me yet again.
Monday, January 23, 2006
In Latin American News...
by Anna Skorczeski
My landlord is this dude who is about our age, and his parents are from Mexico. This is a synopsis of a story he told me a week or 2 ago...
His sister and her long-time boyfriend had just broken up. The boyfriend was devastated and crying on the shoulders of the ex's (the sister's) family. The sister's family thought they were a great couple and were also sad to see them split up, so her grandmother offered to hire a mariachi band on the dumped boyfriend's behalf, so he could win back the sister's heart.
Yes, a mariachi band to win back her heart.
My landlord is this dude who is about our age, and his parents are from Mexico. This is a synopsis of a story he told me a week or 2 ago...
His sister and her long-time boyfriend had just broken up. The boyfriend was devastated and crying on the shoulders of the ex's (the sister's) family. The sister's family thought they were a great couple and were also sad to see them split up, so her grandmother offered to hire a mariachi band on the dumped boyfriend's behalf, so he could win back the sister's heart.
Yes, a mariachi band to win back her heart.
Friday, January 13, 2006
What's my story?
I'm charmed you should ask, really.
It's basically this: I want to learn Spanish. It has been pointed out to me (none too subtly) that there might be easier ways than going to Mexico for an extended period of time. I disagree. I will be leaving Sunday for Ixtapa/Zihautanejo (yes, that's the town Andy Dufresne goes to at the end of Shawshank). The plan for my immersion program is as follows:
Duration:This trip was supposed to begin in October, but unforeseen delays popped up (most of them involving small planes). I don't think I can lengthen my stay accordingly, so I will have to make my language immersion program work by Spring.
Job: I'll be doing "PR" for a restaurateur in Ixtapa. My only qualifications are that I speak English and German, and the German's not required. A good portion of my negotiated pay is in food.
Home: I supposedly have an apartment. Some friend of a stranger is going to get me at the airport and take me there. Last time I rented a place site-unseen, it included a 40-year-old German flatmate with a comb-over whose favorite outfit was boxers and knee-high socks. Last time I looked at a place before moving in, there was a race riot on the doorstep. So, I don't have the best track record for renting abroad... I'll keep my fingers crossed.
Language: I have been studying, and I know most of my numbers and colors in Spanish. If the majority of conversations begin with "What is your favorite episode of Sesame Street?", I'll be fine.
If you're in Minneapolis, I believe Liquor Lyles has 2-4-1s yet again this evening. The smokin' and jokin' will begin when you get there... except the smokin', 'cause you can't do that in Minneapolis.
Now you know all my planning secrets. As you can see, they're not very impressive, they may get me killed, and they don't currently include a surfboard. Hopefully, the triumphant email I send in a few weeks will make you feel bad for doubting me.
Love,
Steph
It's basically this: I want to learn Spanish. It has been pointed out to me (none too subtly) that there might be easier ways than going to Mexico for an extended period of time. I disagree. I will be leaving Sunday for Ixtapa/Zihautanejo (yes, that's the town Andy Dufresne goes to at the end of Shawshank). The plan for my immersion program is as follows:
Duration:This trip was supposed to begin in October, but unforeseen delays popped up (most of them involving small planes). I don't think I can lengthen my stay accordingly, so I will have to make my language immersion program work by Spring.
Job: I'll be doing "PR" for a restaurateur in Ixtapa. My only qualifications are that I speak English and German, and the German's not required. A good portion of my negotiated pay is in food.
Home: I supposedly have an apartment. Some friend of a stranger is going to get me at the airport and take me there. Last time I rented a place site-unseen, it included a 40-year-old German flatmate with a comb-over whose favorite outfit was boxers and knee-high socks. Last time I looked at a place before moving in, there was a race riot on the doorstep. So, I don't have the best track record for renting abroad... I'll keep my fingers crossed.
Language: I have been studying, and I know most of my numbers and colors in Spanish. If the majority of conversations begin with "What is your favorite episode of Sesame Street?", I'll be fine.
If you're in Minneapolis, I believe Liquor Lyles has 2-4-1s yet again this evening. The smokin' and jokin' will begin when you get there... except the smokin', 'cause you can't do that in Minneapolis.
Now you know all my planning secrets. As you can see, they're not very impressive, they may get me killed, and they don't currently include a surfboard. Hopefully, the triumphant email I send in a few weeks will make you feel bad for doubting me.
Love,
Steph
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Northwest Airlines: Going Bankrupt because they SUCK, not because of Terrorism
by Stephanie Anderson
I was quite excited to see Uncle Ole, so his plane being continually delayed didn't really bother me. (He probably had a different perspective as he had started in Anchorage at 8am.) He was supposed to leave Minneapolis at 7pm Monday evening. We had time for one beer, but then the screen changed to "Departure 8:45"... time for another. We squeezed in a couple more Coronas before his flight finally boarded at 9:30pm CST.
In the only prompt move they made all day, Northwest had the flight from MSP to Fort Myers, FL in the air by 9:40. When I talked to Ole on Tuesday, I was more than surprised to find that he hadn't landed in Ft. Myers(RSW) until 7am.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line (well, except for the trajectory of the earth, winds, etc.), so the plane took about 3 hours to get to its destination in Florida. Unfortunately, RSW was fogged in, and after missing two instrument approaches and circling for 45 minutes, the flight re-routed to Miami to refuel.
Of course, NWA didn't ring up their people and tell them to receive this flight in Miami, so when they arrived, no Northwest employees were available to man a gate or operate a jetway. They parked the plane out on the tarmack and told the passengers it was because Miami Inaternational Airport was CLOSED. Right.
No one was allowed off the plane... for security reasons. After a couple hours, the passengers travelling with small dogs complained that their dogs HAD TO GO. Fine, the flight crew would allow the dogs off the plane, but not the owners. Two small dogs were escorted out for a break by a flight attendent. While the door was open, one female passenger panicked and made a dash for it. The crew caught her and were able to calm her down, get the dogs back on the plane and close the door without any escapes.
Naturally, the passengers were hungry, so the good people of Northwest said they would "open up the galley and they could have anything they wanted." But, snackboxs are still $5 and peanuts/trailmix $3. This announcement was greeted by cabin-wide booing.
After about 3 hours on the ground, a man in First Class stood up and demanded to be let off the plane and given a rental car. He could have been in Fort Myers by now. Even the elite were not given special consideration, and this man was eventually coerced back into his seat.
Ole was glad for those few beers at ol' MSP, enabling to find a bit of humor in this whole debacle.
After 4 hours of captivity, the plane was refueled and given a clearance to depart. One of the flight attendents looked at her watch and said, "I'm timed out. Let me off the plane." The protests of the Chief Flight Attendent meant nothing to this woman who had worked through a delay in Detroit, again in Minneapolis, and now in cross-coastal Florida. With the way Northwest is treating its employees, why should she work overtime? She got on one phone with the union and one phone with the Northwest representative and was excused to go.
Tragically, the flight was now one crew member short of legally making the half-hour flight to Fort Myers. They called a woman in Miami, waited for her to drive to the airport, go through security and find the plane out on the tarmack. After 5 hours on the ground and a sunrise, the flight left for RSW, arriving around 7am.
Northwest felt really bad that it took 10 hours to get their customers from Minneapolis to Fort Myers, and they naturally wanted to compensate the passengers for their inconvenience. So, as everyone deplaned, they were handed a coupon for 25% off of a FULL PRICE Northwest ticket.
I was quite excited to see Uncle Ole, so his plane being continually delayed didn't really bother me. (He probably had a different perspective as he had started in Anchorage at 8am.) He was supposed to leave Minneapolis at 7pm Monday evening. We had time for one beer, but then the screen changed to "Departure 8:45"... time for another. We squeezed in a couple more Coronas before his flight finally boarded at 9:30pm CST.
In the only prompt move they made all day, Northwest had the flight from MSP to Fort Myers, FL in the air by 9:40. When I talked to Ole on Tuesday, I was more than surprised to find that he hadn't landed in Ft. Myers(RSW) until 7am.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line (well, except for the trajectory of the earth, winds, etc.), so the plane took about 3 hours to get to its destination in Florida. Unfortunately, RSW was fogged in, and after missing two instrument approaches and circling for 45 minutes, the flight re-routed to Miami to refuel.
Of course, NWA didn't ring up their people and tell them to receive this flight in Miami, so when they arrived, no Northwest employees were available to man a gate or operate a jetway. They parked the plane out on the tarmack and told the passengers it was because Miami Inaternational Airport was CLOSED. Right.
No one was allowed off the plane... for security reasons. After a couple hours, the passengers travelling with small dogs complained that their dogs HAD TO GO. Fine, the flight crew would allow the dogs off the plane, but not the owners. Two small dogs were escorted out for a break by a flight attendent. While the door was open, one female passenger panicked and made a dash for it. The crew caught her and were able to calm her down, get the dogs back on the plane and close the door without any escapes.
Naturally, the passengers were hungry, so the good people of Northwest said they would "open up the galley and they could have anything they wanted." But, snackboxs are still $5 and peanuts/trailmix $3. This announcement was greeted by cabin-wide booing.
After about 3 hours on the ground, a man in First Class stood up and demanded to be let off the plane and given a rental car. He could have been in Fort Myers by now. Even the elite were not given special consideration, and this man was eventually coerced back into his seat.
Ole was glad for those few beers at ol' MSP, enabling to find a bit of humor in this whole debacle.
After 4 hours of captivity, the plane was refueled and given a clearance to depart. One of the flight attendents looked at her watch and said, "I'm timed out. Let me off the plane." The protests of the Chief Flight Attendent meant nothing to this woman who had worked through a delay in Detroit, again in Minneapolis, and now in cross-coastal Florida. With the way Northwest is treating its employees, why should she work overtime? She got on one phone with the union and one phone with the Northwest representative and was excused to go.
Tragically, the flight was now one crew member short of legally making the half-hour flight to Fort Myers. They called a woman in Miami, waited for her to drive to the airport, go through security and find the plane out on the tarmack. After 5 hours on the ground and a sunrise, the flight left for RSW, arriving around 7am.
Northwest felt really bad that it took 10 hours to get their customers from Minneapolis to Fort Myers, and they naturally wanted to compensate the passengers for their inconvenience. So, as everyone deplaned, they were handed a coupon for 25% off of a FULL PRICE Northwest ticket.
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