Portland: Marathons, Hipsters and Hating On Pirates

October 3, 2014:

I had the occasion to travel to Portland, Oregon, for the Portland Marathon.  It occurs to me that people who run marathons are likely brain-damaged in some way.  I am no exception.  I wouldn't put a pet monkey through the amount of training it takes to run one of these, and I loathe monkeys.  Worst animals ever, and I put them right up there with other things I loathe, such as clowns.  Combine these two nightmares together, and you get something horrific like this:

Whoever put that picture together should be shot.  Let me go back to the marathon thing, so I can use it as a palate cleanser.  After more than 700 miles of running, it was time to run the Portland Marathon.  I will note that the first guy to run a marathon, a Greek by the name of Pheidippides, fell over dead when he ran the 26.2 miles that encompass a marathon.  A real dumb ass if you ask me.  If you are in any way curious about my prior thoughts on that example of Darwinism applied to the human race, click on this link:

http://reddingmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/09/naked-greeks-pink-floyd.html

Back to travel to Portland.  Interstate 5 has two contrasting parts.  If you travel South of Redding, California, on I-5, you will be "treated" to the nastiest sights and smells.  Dust clouds, city sprawl, and stinky cattle pens that look exactly like this:

I once spent a good hour and a half pulled over on I-5 across from one of those stinky cattle pens while I tried to dislodge my siamese cat from under the passenger seat of my car.  I had to cut some stereo wires to get her out, and she emptied her bladder all over me.  If you ever want to feel like a fancy sports car driver and get some driving gloves on the cheap, cat pee and cat hair make lovely wooly mittens for driving.  It was a good trade.  I lost my amplifier but gained some awesome wooly driving mittens.  After the thousands of hamburgers I've consumed, I have to count this one as a win for the cows.  I'm sure they enjoyed the sights and sounds of me cussing and swearing under a blistering 105 degree day. 

In contrast, however, if you travel North, you will witness the majestic views of Mt. Shasta and then the verdant green pastures of Oregon.  The only similarity with I-5 South is that these pastures are also dotted with cattle.  Unlike I-5 South, these cows are not awaiting their imminent processing into hamburgers while huddled together in a dusty lot.  They will eventually be "processed", but at least they are happy until they meet up with Ronald McDonald.  Ronald is the sole clown I do not consider scary.  Cows fear Ronald.  I do not.

A curious thing happens as you travel further North into Oregon.  The landscape is littered with "Adult Shops".  I'm a seasoned traveler, and by "seasoned" I mean that I'm forty-six (46) years old.  I know that an "Adult Shop" is a place where adults congregate for the purpose of purchasing ... you know ... marital aids.  Is that a nice way to put it? 

Anyway, I have a couple of theories as to why these shops are prevalent in Oregon.  I will only indulge in my primary theory.  My primary theory is that the amount of "Adult Shops" is directly proportionate to the amount of rainfall received.  Oregon is a rainy, rainy, rainy place.  There are many ways to ward off depression I suppose.  Need something to spice up that dreary day?  An Adult Shop is merely blocks away!  As circumstantial evidence in support of my theory, Time magazine states that Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the good ole U.S.A.  Indeed, indeed.  Anecdotally, I think that Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, has us beat.  Canada has to beat us at something.

http://content.time.com/time/travel/cityguide/article/0,31489,1975826_1975753_1975585,00.html

The windows of each of these "Adult Shops" are darkly tinted, and I'd be afraid to enter for fear of getting abducted and never found.  The chances of never being found would be very high.  Usually, missing persons investigations start with determining where the person was last seen.  That would be the tricky thing because I would make damn sure that nobody saw me going in there.  I'm not known for hanging around these kinds of places, so speculation (i.e., where can he typically be found?) wouldn't help at all.  As such, I did not enter any of these places despite the fact that they are conveniently located next to the interstate.  Suit yourself, dear traveler. 

I will mention as an aside that a location just North of Chico, California, once offered topless car washes.  I drove by that bit of conspicuous debauchery on the way to coaching my kid's football game in Chico.  Not the kind of pregame appropriate for a kid, so I drive on.  Just like California to one-up its neighbor to the North.

Have I also mentioned that being Catholic forbids entry into the "Adult Shop"?  Most non-Catholics think that we use confession as a crutch and excuse to commit all sorts of sins.  Not so ... it is terrifying!

This is not something I would want to confess.  I don't think I could get a word out after saying "Bless me father, for I have sinned".  I know that any seasoned priest has heard the full panoply of human stupidity, but after the sacramental equivalent of "how do you do, father?", I would be tongue tied.  In summary, being Catholic, married and a coward has kept me clear of a lot of stuff I shouldn't be involved in.  People always say to me, "Doesn't being Catholic make you have to follow a lot of rules?".  Yes, and for me it is obviously a win win situation.  Oregon "Adult Shop" crisis averted!

We arrived at one of the hotels located next to the Portland Airport.  The day basically ended with a short two mile run that took us to the airport.  That was followed up by my second hamburger of the day.  Take that cows!

October 4, 2014:

Any seasoned runner will tell you that you should eat carbohydrate and lean proteins in the days approaching a marathon.  No deep fried foods, dummy!  Well, I'm contrary.  I persist in thinking that I'm the athlete I once was (if I ever was a very good athlete) and that I can do whatever I want.  That's what I did on the day before the marathon.  The day starts with a visit to the mecca of all things doughnut - Voodoo Doughnuts (http://voodoodoughnut.com/index.php).  I've never been, and so I took my usual approach of going to extremes.  "Yay, a new experience!  Is there a way that I can do this so that it will cause me physical and psychological harm?  Yes.  OK, then, what do I need to do?"  The forty minute wait in line and the pickup game of ping pong with the wife right after gaining entry were the only healthy parts of this experience.

Notice how afraid those Voodoo Doughnuts are of me.  They drool green in fear!  So, to "carbo load" I ate one of those Voodoo Dolls and the Bacon Maple.  The peach fritter would then follow its Voodoo brethren into my belly at about 8:00 p.m. later that evening.  Is it possible to waste some 700 miles of training on a day of eating like a total pig?  Yes ... well, almost.

While munching away in my hotel on the peach fritter, I turned on the television.  If you really want to get the feel of a community, I believe you should watch a bit of their television.  I turned on the news and saw a brief bit on adopting "special needs" dogs. 

Warning flag!  Why would you do that to yourself?  I have one of those special needs dogs (the kind that pee all over your house, dig in the trash and bark constantly), and I must say that you are really doing a service to your fellow man by adopting one of these dogs.  By taking that dog out of the adoption pool, you saved that other fella from his own stupidity.  Here is a lesson in fatherhood, if your kid saves a just born pup by giving it mouth to mouth resuscitation, that is not the dog you want to allow your kids to keep.  The lack of oxygen at the very first moments of life leads to unholy consequences.

As we walked around the City taking in the sights (i.e., Saturday Portland Market), I started to notice the "hipster vibe".  The standard uniform of the Portland hipster is a light plaid shirt (not flannel - that honor must go to Seattle), some kind of sandals that only your mother would wear and a tee-shirt with a preachy logo on it.  Witness the "Think Globally, Drink Locally" logo I noticed on one of these unshaven muppets. 

What the hell is that slogan supposed to mean?  What does thinking globally have to do with getting drunk?  Most drunks struggle to look beyond the pint glass much less "think globally".  I realize that these two totally unrelated topics are supposed to sound smart and witty, but I'm at a loss.  Other potential tee-shirt slogans of the same vein but perhaps more logically related?  How about "Think narrowly, drink everything."  If you've ever spent time in a redneck bar, you know that at least there is a nexus for that slogan.  And those guys actually practice what the tee-shirt would preach.  Maybe, "Don't Think, Just Drink!"  That slogan would at least describe my particular malady.

Aside from the snarky feeling I get from seeing tee-shirts like this, I must confess that it did make me thirsty.  Why not go to the Portland Brewery (http://www.portlandbrewing.com/)?  I tried to be good.  I really tried.  My lovely bride of 25 years ordered up a sampler which gives you five (5) shorts of different ales etc.  Although she comes from a family that really knows how to drink beer, the girl came up short.  I was drinking water ... until then.  Fine influence she turned out to be!

I cannot stand when good beer is wasted.  I still punch guys when they spill beer.  Everyone knows this is the consequence of wasting beer.  My "bro code" kicked in so I polished off the last half.  Of course, if you are at a brewery, you have to take the tour.  Off we went, and then they comp you a bunch more beer.  Gulp, gulp.  My wife's cousin and I once polished off several pitchers of ale at the Sierra Nevada Brewery just before a half-marathon, and so I told myself that the same theory should apply to double that distance.  Gulp, gulp.

Well, on to the torture that was the Portland Marathon.

October 5, 2014:

Portland is a beautiful place.  The people are friendly.  What's not to love?  Just look at this picture!

Every long run should be preceded by the selection of music.  I created a 4 hour 15 minute playlist just in case I totally flamed out and took forever to finish.  Highlights with commentary where I fail to find the deeper meaning to the lyrics are as follows:

1.  Just What I Needed by The Cars - This song has the singer appreciating a woman who wastes all his time.  What makes this acceptable?  Because she has ribbons in her hair.  What the hell?????  Men are stupid.

2.  Pumped Up Kicks  by Foster the People - Have you ever listened to this song closely?  It's about some kid taking out his vengeance on other kids by shooting them.  "You better run ... faster than my bullets."  Oh, sh*t, I can't run that fast.  Whatever it was, I didn't do it!  Where are Tipper Gore and all her liberal friends to save us from the perverse effects of rock music.  Tipper????

3.  The Giving Tree by Plain White T's - Something about analogizing yourself to a tree that your woman cuts up into planks, builds into a boat and sails off.  Hey, buddy, why are you complaining?  You are still with her ... just in the shape of a boat.  Cling to her, my friend.  Cling ....

4.  Say It Ain't So by Weezer - A classic song for boys with daddy issues.  "You've cleaned up, found Jesus, things are good so I hear ... your son is drowning in the flood."  Something about adolescent rage because your parents said that you can't play Xbox I think.  Yep.  Nothing deeper than that, I'm sure.

This and a whole bunch of other tunes will keep me in form during the race.  The marathon starts and finishes down by the lawn area you see in the picture.  Thirteen thousand of us lined up to run the marathon and half marathon.  Before the start, all the participants sing the national anthem.  It was glorious.  Our voices cascaded down through the city blocks only to outlet over the quiet waters of the Willamette River.  It was so lovely that I resisted the strong urge to slap the goofy running cap off of every guy who didn't show due respect by taking off his cap.  It would have been kind of fun.  In the crush of bodies at the start, I could have easily slapped a couple off and nobody would have even known it was me.  Let's not stir things up, and get going!

The marathon route itself is mostly in industrial areas.  I was expecting a bit more with Portland being so charming.  The route was lined with bands, hefty belly dancers, and (for some strange reason) guys dressed up like pirates.  What would possess someone to dress up like a pirate and yell "Argh!!!  Ahoy, matey!" at a bunch of over-exhausted skinny people?  And this leads me to a moral dilemma.

I was chugging along, and saw the pirate guys.  Right as my head was nagging me to mutter out loud, "What the f**k?", one of these pirates starts calling out for high-fives.  I left him hanging.  I just didn't feel like high-fiving some off-balance, boozy guy who is doing the Renaissance Fair version of Pirates of the Caribbean.  Kind of like this guy:

 

I ran right on by.  The moral dilemma (and I actually thought about this as I ran by) is that I like to be friendly.  If someone is going to offer me a kindness, I want to reciprocate.  I really do.  Say what you will, but these knuckleheads took the time to come down to the race and wish us well.  In light of the effort, and despite the tailpipe inhaling induced desire to dress up like this, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  It's just too damned weird!  Nonetheless, I tried to atone by spending the remainder of the race high-fiving every little kid who offered it up.  Kids are great.  I like kids, and they can be excused if they want to dress like a pirate a la Mr. Depp.  No excuse for a grown man though.  None whatsoever.

In any event, the marathon course is largely flat.  I felt good.  I was flying and well ahead of my desired pace.  In fact, I left the 3 hour 45 minute pace group behind.  That worked well until mile 18.  It was at mile 18 that we had just climbed up to the St. John's Bridge and turned back toward downtown Portland.  I could see the skyscrapers that hailed the finish a mere 8 miles away in the hazy morning.  It was at that point that the little Voodoo Doll, Bacon Maple and Peach Fritter kicked my hind end.  Mix in that delicious Cherry Stout from the Portland Brewery, and you have the perfect concoction to bring you a potent amount of misery.  I slowed and slowed, but if you know anything about me, I would rather die than walk.  You don't train so you can walk a marathon - not even 50 feet of it.  If I can yell at my kid because he isn't giving 100% at a football practice, you can for damned sure bet that I was heaping all sorts of abuse on myself.

At mile 23 I was feeling worn out and nauseous.  If one of those pirates were to show up, I would have spewed all over his buckler and soiled his doubloons.  Some dude right in front of me pulled off the road to barf, and I almost did the same.  It only takes one to start a good barf o' rama.  Nonetheless, you have to stop to barf and that wasn't happening.  I swallowed it down.  It was at this juncture that every motivational sign I saw (there were hundreds) was a curse.  You know how when someone tells you everything is going to be o.k. when you are feeling miserable?  "Thanks, but you're not helping."  It would not be good form to wrestle one of these things away from some well-wisher, rip it up and stomp on it.  I digress.

At mile 25 the 3 hour 45 minute pace group passed me.  Even though my main goal was to crack 4 hours, I wanted that extra 15 minutes shaved off.  Unfortunately, the girl leading that pace group was shouting encouraging slogans "Almost there!  Push it!  You've got this!"  I followed for about a half mile trying to keep pace or at least shove her off the side of the road into a planter.  I had the humiliation of watching them slowly escape me.  Ah, me.  I finished it at 3:46.  One minute off, and I will damned sure blow up 3:45 next time, and there will be a next time .... without the hamburgers ... without the beer ... without the Voodoo Doughnuts ... and without the pirates.

My bride and I hobbled the four city blocks back to our hotel.  She didn't hobble.  She felt just fine.  I showered, and fell asleep on the bed for an hour and a half.  The only thing that got me out of bed is that I wanted to meet up with some family.  That resulted in lots of barbecue ribs.  Later that night, it was Thai food.  Because I have a brain mostly composed of empty space, gears and sprockets, I haven't learned a damned thing.  It took me a day and half to shake off the niggling desire to puke.

We did manage to make it into a lovely library across from the hotel.  It was three stories tall, and it was a matter of principle to walk up and down each step.  It was worth the effort because I found a freaky book called "Outcast Samurai Dancer".  It is a picture book with explanation in Japanese.  I know freaky when I see it.  I didn't need the English translation.

The picture on the front gives you a fair enough picture of what is in the inside.  But, no, not really.  The pictures inside remind me of something out of American Horror Story.  Naked Japanese men and women in odd, twisted poses with Kabuki paint.  Looking at this book is kind of like how you can't help but look at an accident as you drive by.  Wow!  These Japanese fetishists are weirder than your standard Canadian.

OK, I've had enough of Portland.  Time to go.  Tomorrow's drive awaits and I have wounds to heal.

In summary, and putting all joking and snarkiness aside, we had a great trip.  Portland is a stunning city.  It is dotted with lovely parks and cottages.  The people are very nice.  If you have a chance to go you should.  At the very least, stop and put a hurting on one of those Voodoo Dolls.

Just look at that little guy squeal! 

Sint Maarten/St. Martin Travel Blog - Free Drinks, Snorkeling, NYC and Urinal Flies!

June 15, 2014:

The day before, while the Smelly Cat thing was going on, I managed to procure passage on a snorkeling trip with Coconut Reef (http://www.coconutreefsnorkeltours.com/).  All we had to do was pay a whole bunch of cash, walk down the road and be at La Sucriere bakery by 9:00 a.m. the next morning.  No problem because they have some wonderful pastries there, and I'm all about getting chubby.

Our little snorkeling trip came with complimentary booze and food.  Typically, this is a recipe for disaster for me.  I recall being hungry a lot as a child, and we didn't have a lot of extras.  I've fixed the economic situation as an adult.  However, if I get the opportunity for free food and beverage, I revert back and take advantage.  Allow me to illustrate:

My opportunity for free booze (or at least what I perceive as "free") typically starts a lot like this:

and ends just like this:

 



To the surprise of both my wife and children, I kept it together.  I must admit, however, that a good buzz might have dulled that kidney pounding I took on the boat.  I grew up in a small town in Northern California where we have ready access to two large lakes.  That meant I spent a fair amount of time in boats typical to the lake environment.  For you non-nautical types, that means the boats are flat bottom.  In an ocean environment, you expect the keel to reach a bit further into the briny deep.

Nope.  No sea-going vessel for us.  Ours was a boat of the "get your ass in the lake and get ready to ski" variety.  Not to worry, we had good company on the boat, the sun was shining bright, and I only bruised one kidney during the ride.  Before I describe the snorkeling, I need to once again break down a cultural misunderstanding.  Get out your maps ... and you will quickly notice that California is a huge state.  See the below novelty map which, unfortunately, has a lot of truth to it.

I live in the section entitled "Apparently Part of California".  I'm quite confident that the rest of California doesn't want us (except for the water), but we didn't like them first.  So there.  I'm not sure about the educational systems elsewhere in our fine country, but a quick look at this geographically correct map should cause you to observe ....

"Hey, maybe not all Californians live by the beach".

And now I encourage you to dig deep and reach the next logical conclusion ... think ... think ...

"And then ... maybe ... not all Californians surf?"

That is correct!  You have it!  Now you can understand us better. 

I don't live by the ocean, and I don't surf.  I live at the foot of a volcano and my part of California is widely known for supplying the world with marijuana.  That's right, your Bob Marley inspired good times were brought to you by the emerald triangle of Humboldt, Shasta and Tehama counties.  It takes me a three hour drive to get to the ocean.  I don't go there.  Everyone knows that the ocean off the coast of Humboldt county is just chock full of these:

A couple of observations about this man-eater!  First, he or she (God only knows!) is actually smiling at the camera.  Probably similar to that look a chubby kid gets on his face just before he devours a brownie.  That shark is anticipating something yummy.  Also, it's as fat as a shark can get.  I hear that wet suits don't digest well and just kind of ball up in the tummy.  Last observation ... if this photo was taken by a real human, that person is a total dumb ass.

Back to California.  The point of this thumbnail sketch of my homeland is that snorkeling is not my gig.  This was my first time.  Fully confident that all the man-eating sharks are gorging themselves on stoned surfers (probably a shark version of a pot brownie) off the coast of Humboldt, I dove in. 

It was magical.  Kind of like being in an aquarium.  We found sea turtles and manta rays too!  Well worth the $$$, and the Coconut Reef people are top notch.  Here are some of the sights from our snorkeling trip:

 



But all good things must end, right?  On the way back to La Sucriere, we stopped at a place or two for additional beer and snorkeling.  The last place where we stopped provided a lesson in cultural anthropology and human anatomy.  At this remote beach, we stole upon two men and two women completely and irrevocably buck naked.  Don't get me wrong, I've been there.  I'm very familiar with the female form.  What I am not accustomed to is the male form (other than my own).

Picture if you will two fairly attractive naked ladies laying down on the beach.  I know ... weird right?  Usually the people that slag around naked aren't the kind of people that you really want to see naked.  I suppose there is an exception to every rule.  The teen age boy in our boat couldn't take his eyes away, so I'll take this as his vote that these ladies qualify as an exception. 

I understand, but focus! 

Now, if you dare, also picture the disturbing sight of one guy standing up next to (and practically over) the girls wearing nothing but a baseball cap.  I'm not sure how this public nudity thing is supposed to work or whether there is some kind of protocol, but I'm pretty sure standing there with your jingly jangly in someone's face while only wearing a ball cap gets you some kind of nudist douchebag award.

Nonetheless, I've learned from this that if I really want to impress a girl on a beach, I need to go full monty with the exception of the ball cap.  It is indeed the ball cap that says

"Hey, I'm casual, but I'm also ready to party!"

Well, we paddled around for a while (not the teenager - he remained on the boat staring at the ladies or perhaps even Mr. Jingles) and then hit the high seas to return to La Sucriere.  After loading up on pastries, we slogged back to the hotel.  Knowing that this would be the last thing vacationy that I would do on this island, I just kind of soaked it in.  Tomorrow would be full of worrying about rental car returns, getting on a plane, not crashing into the ocean in said plane, my first experience in a NYC cab, sleeping on the floor in the airport and so on.  I'll leave that for tomorrow. 

Right then, I was just kicking rocks on the way back to the hotel and wondering why the multitude of guys with dreadlocks on this island don't let them fly instead of putting them in those nylon-looking black pantyhose sacks that bob precariously on the back of the head.  Boys, jut let em fly because that black pantyhose blob growing out of the back of your head is not a good look.

As for me, I'm thinking that the next time I go to the Caribbean, I'm going to try this out:

I mean ... this guy looks happy with his John Lennon sunglasses and fake dreads, right?  I'd give myself about five minutes in this thing before I enjoy my first fight.  However, I'm willing to speculate that if Mr. Jingle Jangle would have ditched the dead give away that he is American (the ball cap) and instead donned this marvel in Halloween-themed stupidity, he would have scored.  Just sayin ...

June 16, 2014:

I'm going to admit that the last day of a vacation sucks.  When you leave for a vacation, you are fired up and ready to endure all sorts of misery just so you can get to your destination.  Whereas, on the return trip, there is nothing to motivate you.  Nothing..  Dammit ... Nothing!

Stand by for a wife explanation moment (these are sometimes necessary):

Dear Wife:

1.  I know that we can always look forward to the love and esteem of the five male children awaiting us at home.

2.  Yes.  I love them very much.

3.  Please focus on the point I'm trying to make.  It's called exaggeration for a reason!

Now back to the vacation ...

And so I awoke to the first challenge of the day.  The pack-up.  This is when you discover that half of the crap you brought on vacation didn't even make it out of your bag.  Witness the near 15 lbs of sun block lotions that my lovely wife brought.  Enough to displace the magma in one of those Icelandic volcanoes (i.e., Eyjafjallajökull) that are always ruining air travel to Europe.  Just trying to pronounce the name of that volcano makes me angry.  So did the lotion.

For God's sake, why bring that much lotion?  You know that I'm too damned stubborn to use the stuff and would rather burn to a crisp (goal accomplished!).  And you, dear wife, with your tiny 5 foot nothing of body size, it would take you 2,000 years to use up that stuff. 

That's right ... count all the way back to the days Our Lord and Savior walked the verdant hills of Galilee, and that is how long it would take you to exhaust your supply of lotion.

Also, there is the $600 camera I bought for use on our Ireland trip.  I'm super happy that it saw duty in Ireland.  In a rare case of reverse gender roles, I nagged you to bring it on this trip even though you didn't want to because of the crime issues that were supposed to plague us in Sint Maarten but never materialized.  My fault for nagging you, but not my fault that you forgot the card for the camera.  That's 15 lbs of metal and glass hauled halfway across the world for no good reason at all.

More importantly, with all that lotion and useless picture taking stuff, where am I going to store all the booze we bought?  I must honor the priorities, you know!  Fear not, dear reader.  Each adult and underage child was able to return with his/her bottle of island cough syrup.  Mine remains unopened in the pantry.  Some day, I'll drink enough good tasting alcohol to want to have a go at the Guavaberry Liqueur.  Some day ...

All the rental car return stuff went off without a hitch.  Off to the Princess Juliana International Airport.  Princess Julianna, I'm guessing, was some kind of important Dutch chick.  I don't know.  Cool airport though.

However, I've determined that airports aren't so great when you have arrived three hours early.  Approximate check-in time at the good ole Princess Juliana International Airport?  20 minutes.  That means 2 1/2 hours at the terminal watching some stupid soccer game between Costa Rica and Ecuador or something like that.  Who cares, right?

Once in flight, however, we were on our way to New York City.  I'm not well traveled so my time in NYC during the first 46 years of my life is "0 hours and 0 minutes".  When we arrived at JFK, we had to burn about 12 hours for the layover.  I try to look at such things positively.  It simply meant that I'm going to Times Square!

Travel Tip:  If you are ever nervous about how to do things when you get to a certain place, just check on the internet.  It is always helpful and never wrong!  Sarcasm aside, it worked for me.  Once again, thank you Google!

I learned that the cost of a cab ride to Manhattan from JFK is a flat fee ($57 if memory serves), which is pretty darn good when you consider that we have four people in the cab.  The good people at Google informed me that I can pay by credit card just by sliding that card through the machine located in the back of the cab.  I also learned that the typical tip is 15% and you also have to pay for the bridge toll.  No biggie, it was still a very convenient option.  Lastly, you have to hail a cab in NYC.  You cannot call for one to arrive.  Apparently, a pre-order of a cab ride is against the law.  Not sure why.  My point is that all decisions were fully informed and made before I set foot at Terminal 4 at JFK.

We jumped in the cab and told the cabbie that we wanted to go to Times Square.  I got a newbie cabbie.  He didn't quite seem to know specifically where to go.  I can't give him directions!  I have no idea where I'm at and vaguely think that JFK is located about 25 minutes drive North of NYC or perhaps somewhere close to Quebec.  How the hell do I know!  No problem, he drove in the general direction and got us to Manhattan.  Mission accomplished.  He then asked me where in Times Square I wanted to go. 

"How the hell am I supposed to know?  I'm the frickin tourist here!  Just plop me where they have all the pretty blinking lights and huge screens.  That he did.  First some pictures and then some observations:

I know these pictures really stink.  Iphones can only do so much ya know.  The first two photos were taken around 8:00 p.m.  The last two were taken between midnight and 1:00 a.m.  The first observation about Times Square is that it gets more crowded the later you are there.  At midnight there are thousands and thousands of people in Times Square.  In the second photo from the bottom, you will notice that the ground level screen is blocked half way up.  That is because they have permanent grand stands installed so you can sit there and marvel at the noise and electricity.  Sit down and ogle the pretty lights with your mouth all agape.

Is it safe?  Yeah.  I think so.  There are plenty of officers walking around.  You can see in the first photo that the NYPD even has a small depot at Times Square.  Fair enough ... I think it is safe.  Next up ... if you like to people watch, you have definitely come to the right place.  Not quite as good as Venice Beach in California but very close.

Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead in a Toys R Us.  The one at Times Square is three stories tall, however.  Kind of a freak in the kid toy peddling game.  That means I have to go in.  It has a ferris wheel inside!  I saw it from the outside, and nudged the wife saying "We've got to go into that Toys R Us!"  Knowing full well how I feel about shopping (particularly in places that closely approach a Chuck E Cheese vibe), she looked at me as though there were lobsters coming out of my ears.  I talked her into it.  Check it out.

All enthusiasm aside, I burned out after about 20 minutes when we started looking at giant sized candy.  The novelty of large packages of candy wore off after about 30 seconds, so I figured I'd gaze out onto the street.  I was looking out the window and what to my wandering eyes did appear (Christmas reference intended), but naked people!  Yeah.  They seem to haunt me on this trip.  At least these girls were painted.  Apparently, they were done making money as painted ladies and were changing into street clothes right there on the sidewalk.  The confusing paradox of seeing this on the sidewalk while being surrounded by hundreds of screaming kids in a Toys R Us kind of epitomizes my NYC experience.  Normal and weird all mixed in together without any logic to it whatsoever.  I like that.

A note about New Yorkers.  You can immediately spot New Yorkers.   They will be walking faster than the tourists.  They might also have a look of annoyance because the hordes of tourists are in the way.  You always hear that New Yorkers are rude.  I'm not sure about that and classify this as the NYC equivalent of "All Californians Surf". 

I wouldn't say rude.  I would say "busy" is the more appropriate adjective.  The waiter at the pizza place didn't want to chat.  He had no interest in hearing my "thank you" for bringing water.  No.  That waiter is dropping off four glasses and a pitcher, you pour it yourself and he won't be there to receive your ever so folksy "thank yee". 

To be fair, we probably annoyed the hell out of that guy.  My children have been taught to say "thank you" and they both work for Starbucks and can appreciate a customer "thank you".  In comes the water, and we mouth four "thank yous" not all together.  We sound like a damn glee club.  If you are polite in this way, you probably do think it rude if the waiter just takes off and doesn't acknowledge your niceties.  Nah ... he is just busy and has no time for the country yokel.  I get it, but I'm saying thank you anyway.  Deal with it.

After six or seven hours of Times Square, we decided that it was time to go back to Terminal 4.  I hailed a cab, and off we went.  Enter cabbie #2.  This guy was also a newbie.  When your cabbie asks you which bridge to take to get back to JFK then that is a problem.  Thankfully, I paid attention on the way in, gave him what he needed and he zig zagged our way back to the airport.  This guy made up for his lack of geographical skill because he didn't recognize speed limits or any of that stuff.  I like 80 mph in a 50 mph zone.  Not that I'm in a hurry, but it was fun.  I'm not getting the ticket!

Having arrived at our destination, the only thing left to do was bed down for two hours of sleep on the floor of Terminal 4.  If you've ever slept on the cold ground (i.e., camping, hunting), then this was the exact same body heat sucking thing.  We managed to retain a couple of those postage stamp sized red blankets from our Delta flight out, so we used those to the best of our ability.  Anyway, you don't get good sleep when the tile floor is cold, the door to the outside is thirty feet away and is constantly opening and shutting, and the custodian on the driving floor waxer can't seem to get his job done and get the hell out of the portion of Terminal 4 which we've claimed as our own.  And here is our very own patch of JFK.

When treating JFK as your home for the evening, a trip to the potty will obviously be in order.  So, I slide up to a urinal and see a fly.  You know I'm going to pee on that fly, right?  I have to.  I do, and I score.  Wet fly! 

No, wet decal. 

Somebody has figured out the male instinct to pee on stuff and is making a mint selling decals to the airports.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121310977

It would appear that if you are aiming at something you are less likely to pee on the wall, your hand, your shoes, the floor, the guy at the urinal next to you and so on. Well, if they were trapping stupid males at the bathroom, yours truly would be dangling from the ceiling in a net.

The flight and trip back was rather uneventful.  I won't bore you with the details.  Thanks for reading about our trip to Sint Maarten.  I'm acutely aware that my travel blogging style is far from a recitation of facts, dates and the posting of photos.  To me, travel is about the experience and how it relates to the traveler.  Every traveler has a unique set of experiences.  The enjoyment of travel is simply the relation between ourselves and what we experience.  It's different to everyone. 

I'm more likely to tell you a story rather than post a picture.  It's better that way.  It's more like me.  And with that, I send you off with some photos of the family while at travel in Sint Maarten.  God bless!

St. Maarten/St. Martin (Day 4) - Where I Buy Racist Booze!

June 14, 2014:

Every vacation has to have one of these days.  The dreaded shopping day.  I recall when I was a kid my mom would drag me around for shopping.  There were many, many days when I would rather just sit in the van while my mom would spend an hour or so in a fabric shop.  That's right, I choose 110 degree heat in a parking lot over shopping.  Perhaps that will provide a bit of perspective.

On this pleasant morning, however, we packed it all up and headed to Phillipsburg.  From our hotel, Phillipsburg is a short drive over the mountain pictured in the photo below.  After wandering around a bit, I found a place to park and we walked into the "tourist" area.

This is where hordes of American tourists decamp from their cruise ships to speak loudly, wave American flags, mistake where they are located, and complain when the food and drink isn't supersized.  There is so much to love about Americans.  And, yes, I was annoyed that they don't give free drink re-fills in this country.  Some people from other countries just don't understand us.  Click on the link and Go America! 

In any event, the beach side touristy area of Phillipsburg is much nicer than the rest of the town.  Here are a couple of pictures of what it looks like in the "non-murdery" part of town:

If you travel one block to the North, you find a slightly more "stabby" street where all of the heavy lifting (i.e., shopping) takes place:

On this street, we slogged up and down for the good part of four hours.  If you have read the Ireland Travel Blog (look to the right and click on anything 2013), you will know that there are certain rules that you must abide by while shopping on vacation.  Because I'm in an Old Testament kind of mood, I state them as follows:

Rule #1: If the Lord thy God did not maketh it at thy place of vacation, thou shalt not purchase it!

Rule #2:  Thou shalt not waste thine tythe by spending thine shekels for the mere sake of spending thine shekels!

Rule #3:  Thine purchases shall be reasonable in price, lest ye make the male thou hast covenanted to adore and serve weep!

On this particular trip, my beloved violated Rule #1 by spending our shekels on one of those fancy charm bracelets from Pandora (http://www.pandora.net/en-us).  I'm happy that she is happy about the purchase, but if you are wondering, she hasn't worn that bracelet since.

To illustrate Rule #1 by means of an internet example, you can easily find Pandora bracelets by searching Google for key words such as "outrageous", "expensive" "charm" "platinum" "rube" and "sucker".  If you prefer to make Google searches with key phrases, try "Why in God's name?" "I'm going to die young from job-related stress, so she could buy that?"

As for me, of course I followed the rules.  I went to this place:

 

 And purchased this bit of local in bottle:

In an age of heightened sensitivity and racial angst, I bring you the most racist bottle of booze I could find.  This liqueur is only made on the 37 square mile island of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  I didn't buy it because it tastes good.  It doesn't (unless you like the taste of cough syrup).  I bought it because it is unique to this part of the world.  That trumps all.  I'd bring home dirt if I had to.

In a nation that is mostly populated by the descendants of slaves, the bottle art doesn't seem to bother the good people of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  However, if this product were sold in the U.S.A., you can be darned sure that the label would have to go.  I offer proof by means of example.

In our country, the following rogue's gallery has been eliminated from the popular consciousness:

Aunt Jemima:

 

Aunt Jemima, I miss you.  I love, love, love you and your breakfasty goodness.  I'm not sure what is going on with the garish red lip stick, but rest in peace, Aunt Jemima.

 

Next Up: Little Black Sambo.  Sambo's restaurant overlords realized that Sambo was no longer accepted in the U.S.A., and promptly replaced him with Indian Sambo (A slightly less racially insensitive purveyor of pancakes, bacon and eggs?)  

Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo, I miss you so much.  You gave your name and image to my favorite breakfast diner franchise.  I so enjoyed your adventures as they were displayed in the menu and always hoped you would eat that damned tiger made of butter.  Both Sambos, I'm sorry you never ate the butter tiger.  He coveted your pancakes and really deserved to be eaten.  RIP, Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo.

And, last but not least, Disney's Song of the South:

Okay, Song of the South, I don't really miss you.  That "zippidy doo dah" song really sucked.  Out of principle, I must also despise all video which has actual people appearing alongside animated characters.  There is just something grotesque about it.  In short, this is one casualty of political correctness that I can say I'm happy about.

Before I leave the subject of Phillipsburg and shopping, I have a confession to make.  I engaged in an activity of which I am mostly not proud.  Witness my shame below:

By the way, most of that hair loss was due to a pair of clippers that I deftly employed prior to this vacation.  I swear that be so.  I really do.  I am not lying about this.  No need for deception.  I have nothing to hide.  Are you convinced yet?  Shall I continue?  No.  Moving on then?

Moving on.  We returned to our hotel for more fruity drinks and perhaps a bit of sitting on a beach chair under an umbrella.  I don't know how I did it, but I convinced my lovely wife to get the drinks despite the fact that she was confident that the female bartender hated her.  However, my karma would get the best of me because as I was making my way off the beach to spare my wife from having to deal with the grumpy bartender lady, I was confronted by the Aloe Lady.

What is an Aloe Lady, you ask?  An Aloe Lady is a person who wanders around on the beach with aloe leaves in hand ever-prepared to slap some of that sticky cactus-looking crap all over your sun burned body and massage it in until you are sticky and about to cry.  This one Aloe Lady saw me coming with my sun burn, and I know she was thinking that she is going to make a sale. 

Not so fast, Aloe Lady!  Your super human powers of persuasion will not convince this cheap bastard to spend one dime on your massage.  I say "No" to the offer - this time politely waiting for her to open up the negotiation.  I learned at Orient Beach that if you tell an aloe lady that you don't want a massage in advance of allowing them to ask, they get very, very offended. 

I've learned how to dance now.  I patiently wait and then parlay with a "No, thank you."  My polite retort doesn't shake her confidence it all.  She was expecting it.  According to the link I posted above, Americans are considered annoyingly polite by people from other countries.  I didn't know that, but the Aloe Lady did.  I'm clearly at a disadvantage.

I throw her off with a bit of polite small talk about things not related to cactus based massages.  During this break in the action, I see a small glimmer of pity in her eye.  Her eyes fall to my sun burn, and she offers me a free massage on the burned areas.

This unexpected offer of generosity frightens and confuses me.  The hint of concern is clearly feigned.  I recover quickly.  I'm sure she sees lots of burned white guys.  I know that she knows that if she gets her hands on me with a free bee, I'm going to pay her a little something.  My honor and dignity would require it.  So, Aloe Lady, you have gazed into my very soul and played your trump card. 

Ah, no!!! 

I resist, thank her very much and break off before my ability to resist is worn down. 

I win!  I win ... and I retreat quickly a bit bruised.  Just before I see my bride approaching with two of those fruity drinks in hand, I pray:  "I thank you Lord for granting me the courage and strength to defeat the Aloe Lady.  You have kept me from stickiness and granted reprieve to my wallet.  Amen."

After sucking down a couple of those girly drinks, it was time to head up to the room.  On the way up, we ran into a friend we met a couple of days before.  I introduce you to Smelly Cat.  My kids are like me in some ways, and one of them is a love for pop culture.  This cat was a stray and was probably named "Molly" at one time or something mundane like that.  Not anymore, because Smelly Cat is much better.  She even has her own song.

On the first day of our arrival, Smelly Cat  followed my oldest daughter all the way into the hotel.  Not having seen Smelly Cat for a while, I thought that maybe she ended up as that delicious barbecue smell I mentioned in a previous blog.  Alas, no.  Smelly Cat was there in full ratty, skinny and stinky glory.  However, she paid no attention to my kid.  Because cats are obnoxiously independent, Smelly Cat ignored my kid in favor of some chubby son of a tourist. 

Isn't it the nature of cats to despise what loves them?  I knew some girls in high school like that too.  The way you handle those girls is to feign some interest and walk away entirely unconcerned.  By the way, it doesn't work unless you mean it!  Same goes for Smelly Cat.  I had a date with some Red Stripe ale anyway.  Thank God we were not at home.  Otherwise, I would have found Smelly Cat as an unwelcome guest at my home.

Time to rest up so we can do some snorkeling anyway.  Good Night from the front door of our room.

Sint Maarten/St. Martin (Day 3) - Where I Discuss Bee Wearing & Break Down Cultural Divides

June 13, 2014:

Having acquired my mandatory "White Guy On Vacation" sun burn, I now had to sleep with it.  Usually I have enough sense to burn only the top of my head and face.  I'm concerned that there may be a corrolation between pattern baldness and how many times you have burned your scalp to a crisp.  I've done that more times than I would like to admit, so the future is not looking so good.

Having assured my short, but quick, trip to male pattern baldness, I decided that I would prevent those areas from sun burn but instead direct attention to burning my torso.  The worst sun burn I ever had was induced by my over indulgence in alcohol in Mazatlan.  I regrettably passed out on that griddle of a beach the next morning.  What I should have learned is that drinking and passing out on a beach is bad for you.  It earned me a trip to see the medic on the ship and a near threat to report me to the captain for not being ready to stand watch.  Go Navy! 

No, an an unrepetent sense, I'm going to state that isn't what I should have learned.  What I learned is that drinking is fun, and passing out is an unfortunate by-product of fun.  What I should have learned is that the equatorial sun is brighter, hotter and has a lot more of that UV ray roasting power.  I didn't learn this lesson, so I earned another trip on the "You Should Learn From This" buggy ride on this vacation.

Burning my chest and stomache was like putting on a shirt made of wasps.  Kind of like this ...

Oh wait ... sorry about that.  That is a shirt with the crappy metal band "Wasp" on it.  One of the first bands to lie that they are Satanists so kids would buy their bad records.  Ah me, I never bit on that one.  There are much easier ways to shock and offend your parents.  Why kill your dignity in the process?  I've done that in several other ways, many of which my family can attest.  If you ever had so much to drink that your five year old son asks your wife if "Daddy is going to die" then you have also learned a lesson in bad parenting and humility all at the same time.

Moment of self-realization:  I've made myself sound like a drunk in this blog.  A point of clarification ... I'm only an occasional drunk?

As for the shirt made of wasps, I had something more like this this in mind.

Let me get myself together here ... pause .... pause ... ok, I felt a bit like this girl looks except every one of those bees was stinging the sh*t out of me.  Welcome, bees, to my bed so that every time I roll over you may sting me!

And now we pause for a moment for a segment I like to call "When Art Meets Stupid".

Let's just start this segment by agreeing that this picture is stupid.  The girl in the picture is likewise stupid and let's throw in the photographer and "artistic" director as well.  I'm guessing the artistic director of this shot felt that what was really lacking in the art world was a proper understanding of "bee wearing".  I must admit I've never understood it. 

"Look at me!  I'm wearing bees!"

Maybe this bad photo will focus my obvious lack of artistic comprehension.  I'm going to make an unsuccessful attempt at understanding, and will put myself inside the head of the artistic director.  I need to get a grasp of this earth shaking development in the art world.

1st Principle:  Proper bee wearing requires a nude female model. 

Most things are improved with a little bit of nudity.  I'll illustrate by example.  Let's say I've known you for years, and we are hanging out together eating some bowls of cereal.  Well, the cereal is good but it is pretty boring listening to you slurp while cereal falls from your open mouth to the table.  I take a spoonful and stare at you.  Slurp, slurp.  You take a spoonful and stare at me.  Slurp, slurp.  Not much there, really.

However, if you were to eat those Cheerios buck naked, now you have my interest.  By the introduction of a bit of nudity, we've now turned the mundane into something interesting if not a bit creepy.  By the way, if you are male you are not invited to eat Cheerios at my house.  Everyone should eat their cereal in the privacy of their own home.

By this one small example I've managed to convince myself that art demands that, if we are truly trying to bring an artistic flourish to bee wearing, the bee wearing model should ... nay ... must ... be naked.  Moving on ...

OK, so the nudity suggestively covered by a billion bees captures my interest, but what does it all mean?  Art should convey some sense of meaning.  Otherwise, its just stuff.  If I'm the artistic director, I'm basically going to tell you something artsy, fartsy like:

"The nakedness of the model evokes feelings of isolation.  In her nakedness ... she's alone ... even when surrounded by thousands of our bee friends.  She sits upon a chair that resembles a torture device in an unapportioned room while rays of sun create a halo effect to high light her isolation.  The (pardon the pun) naked austerity of the photo shows how alone and isolated in society we are.  I'm so lonely ... help me."

Stepping outside the mind of the artistic director (because I can't stand it), I'll be me again:

"Or ... it could mean that bees aren't people so naturally she feels alone.  Bees aren't good company.  Have you ever had a conversation with a bee?  Discussed politics, religion?  No.  You haven't.  I suppose we enjoy the social construct of eating with bees if you count their efforts to pile on to your steak while you are trying to eat it.  If I stood on your steak and threatened to slap you if you got near it, you would not think me good company.  You may feel alone and isolated because you take pictures of naked girls wearing bees!  You, sir, are strange, and you owe that poor dumb girl an apology."

I'm going to move on from the the "When Art Meets Stupid" segment.  I feel like I've done my bit to reconcile art with the bee wearing community.  Besides, I spent my whole childhood having conversations with myself.  I should not indulge that any further as an adult. Back to the vacation.

On this fine morning, we went to Loterie Farm (http://loteriefarm.com) which is nestled near the summit of Pic Paradis, the highest point on St. Martin.  The "Flight Zone" is the part of the Loterie Farm experience where you go to the top of Pic Paradis and then zip line (is that a verb?) all the way down.  If you are actually reading this because you think I might pass on something useful to a potential traveler to Sint Maarten/St. Martin, then here it is.  Go to Loterie Farm.  Nuff said.

And now for a segment I call "Weird Signs I Saw While Traveling", here is one from the grounds at Loterie Farm:

The sign is in French, naturally, and it requires that "Le ramassage des fruits est interdit."  Now, I'm not sure why people go around massaging fruit in St. Martin.  Is that French thing?  If so, keep them away from bananas.  That is just unnatural.  I wonder why it is only the re-massage of fruit that is forbidden ... um.. interdit.  Can I massage your fruit once, but not twice?  I know the French are an odd group, but massaging fruit once (acceptable) is perfectly normal for them.  Go for a second fruit massage, and they land you in jail.  Is it possible I've misinterpreted the language?  I don't care.

At the start of the zip line experience, one of the guides convinced a guy from New Jersey in our group that you had to pass a strength test to zip line.  Made him military press a weighted bar bell four times over his addled head.  I guess nice guys from New Jersey are totally clueless because that dude went to work right away.  Idiot!

Think of the money, man!  They wouldn't be able to make much money if you had to qualify by pressing 150 lbs over your head four times.  Duh.  Ana Cortez couldn't do it.  She was too cool to try.  Likewise, I ran the economics of it and acted cool with the guide.  Nothing like two bros looking at some other schlep getting suckered and thinking to one another ...

"That guy is a total dumb ass." 

I'm not sure why men enjoy witnessing the humiliation of other men ... we just do.  I don't share culture or skin color with the guide, but we both knew that was funny.  And there you have it, my cure for racism and cultural mistrust.  Just find some clueless dude to humiliate.  Let the boundaries fall and the male bonding begin.

The drive in the pick-up bed up to the top is worth the price if you are into paying to be scared.  Every time the driver pulled the clutch to catch a lower gear, I was pretty sure we were just going to stall out and commence the screaming and dying all the way to the bottom.  Always having a contingency plan in mind, I was just going to bail out of the pick-up to the side of the road if it did that.  Probably should have shared that plan with the wife and kids.  Ah, maybe next time.

In any event, after a quick five minute speech about "if you do this, you die, if you do that you die" we were off and zip lining.  I went first followed by the ever lovely and dangerous Ana Cortez.  Our guide, Robert, let us go so he could handle the screaming group of girls above us.  Pretty much we had the run of the place all the way to the bottom.  I must admit that flying 100 feet above the rain forest while gazing to the bottom of the island and the azure ocean below is very charming.  Here's a picture I took from the top of the zip line:

After this adventure, we returned to the hotel to enjoy some of that "swim up to the bar" stuff.  By the way, no one tells you that to swim up to the bar you have to flog hordes of children splashing, screaming and near drowning in the pool.  That does not appear in the pictures.

One thing I must convey about our hotel area.  The air along the whole street is permeated with the smell of grilled meat.  Vegetarians, you would vomit in disgust.  For me, I was thinking that for heaven to be proper (and it must be, right?), it must have the smell of grilled meat. I'm a proper Catholic, so I get to go to Catholic heaven which is just downstairs from protestant heaven.  If I were a buddhist and were to reincarnate, I suppose the ever present smell of grilled meat would make me look more like this:

And, yes, due to my bad karma, I'm sure I would reincarnate into something like this hideous, drooling Komodo Dragon.  Maybe I should stop making fun of people in this blog, so I can avoid this near certain fait as a reptile?  Nah.

In any event, sometimes the smell of grilled meat is just a stumbling block for the unwary.  I ate some jerk baby back ribs that night (I will not post a picture!), and I think it sucked what remaining moisture I had in my body right out of me.  Must ... replenish ... with ... beer.  Recover, rest, and prepare for the next day of shopping.  You didn't think I would avoid that, did you?

Sint Maarten/St. Martin (Days 1-2) - The Advent of Ana Cortez & White Boys Should Wear Shirts At Beaches

In the realm of adventure, travel to a beach is not high on my list.  Nonetheless, my wife (aka Fighten Fitzgerald of Ireland Fame) and our two female progeny (Boo & Ana Cortez) really liked the idea of a beach vacation.  In my mind, a beach vacation conjures up images of watching the others play in the surf while I while away my time under a beach umbrella bored as hell.  I imagine that I share dull, sappy looks with the guy under the umbrella next to mine. 

Bro's can communicate without speaking.  We don't talk, but our imagined silent conversation is something like:

ME: I'm bored. as f*ck (edit made for my wife's sake - she will obviously still not be satisfied). 

ME:  What's the quickest thing I can get to drink that will make me pass out?

DUDE:  Uh, why are you looking at me like that?

ME:  I'm asking you a question.  What'cha drinkin?

DUDE:  Are you hitting on me?

ME:  How can you possibly mistake a look of complete and utter tedium with sexual interest? 

ME (giving him the pistol shooting motion and winking):  Oh wait, we do that all the time don't we?

DUDE turns to his wife and has an furtive "eye conversation" with her.

DUDE:  Honey, check out the freak with the shaved legs next to us.  I think he's hitting on me. 

WIFE:  Probably one of those Tour de France guys.  Ignore him.

DUDE:  He's too fat to be a Tour de France guy.

WIFE (sits up to look at me and says to DUDE):  Leave me alone.

Well, that never happened, but it was how I imagined it was going to be.  Fortunately for me, the Isle of Sint Maarten (if you are on the Dutch side) or St. Martin (if you are on the French side) was not dull at all.  A beach vacation was survived, and I think we all had a lot of fun.  That being said, our vacation started with a crime and then a delay.

June 11, 2014:

First the crime ... I have a friend at work who just retired, and he managed to get his hands on a Cuban cigar which he assured me was rolled personally by the baby-soft, cherub-like hands of communist dictator Fidel Castro.  Here's Fidel when he realized that one of his precious macanudos escaped the communist "utopia" of Cuba into my own hands:

He's really mad, right?  No big deal.  I never liked that guy anyway.  What I did like was burning up that small, precious part of Cuba, inhaling it into my lungs and letting it escape past my teeth into the Caribbean atmosphere.  Fidel, that's what you get for scaring a whole generation of Americans with your damned Soviet nuclear missiles.  I really miss the Cold War.  Living without the threat of imminent nuclear annihilation is so dull.

In packing, I managed to remove every single thing that TSA might find objectionable.  However, Fidel's cigar, Fidelito, stowed away in my backpack.  Just before going through TSA, I discovered Fidelito and made the decision that it would be an offense to Anglo-Cuban relations if I just threw him out.  The decision having been made, I threw out the small wooden humidor that kept Fidelito in its oaken embrace and pushed Fidelito into my Homer Simpson themed boxers.  These were then returned to my suitcase.  Very clever ... I know.  They search carry-ons, but nobody would think to search a bag that I've checked!  Losers ... I pulled it off.

In a case of reverse import crime I smuggled contraband from a country where these little Fidelitos are illegal to a place where they are not.  Not sure who I tricked, but it didn't matter.  I'm contrary, and that makes me happy in some infantile way.  In your face, someone?  Obama maybe?  I don't know.

Having checked Fidelito, the good folks at Delta Airlines (www.delta.com) decided that our airplane was far too small, and they needed a bigger airplane.  I'm not sure how these matters are "discovered" at the last moment rather than planned well in advance based on tickets sold.  We wait at SFO for a couple more attendants to arrive.  That made us a half-hour late.  That's a big deal when your layover at JFK in New York City is only an hour.

During the wait, I explain to the lady at the gate that Delta is laying a great dane sized turd on my vacation.  She promptly fixes the situation by moving us to the very front of ... coach.  For a minute, I thought I was going to have the satisfaction of telling Fighten Fitzgerald, Boo, and Ana Cortez all about how I used my charm and chiseled Germanic-inspired good looks to get us moved up to first class free of charge.  Alas, no.

In any event, my wife determines that the boarding passes are satisfactory (although still in coach), but that one of our children has been renamed by Delta Airlines as Ana Cortez.  I personally like that name, and she is deserving of an alter ego real or imagined.  Despite the fact that the Delta lady told the gate agent to just let us on the plane without scanning Ana's ticket, the gate agent scanned it anyway and my child officially boarded as Ana Cortez.  So our vacation crime spree continues, and I've gained a Hispanic child.  Boarding an international flight as someone else has to be a felony of some kind, right?  Ah, once again I am satisfied, and our crime spree continues.

Upon arrival at JFK, we have twenty minutes to board a shuttle, get across the airport, run all the way to the gate at the end of Delta's international terminal, and then board the plane.  Kind of reminds me of this old commercial from 1978:

 
It was very similar, except none of us is OJ Simpson ... thank God.  We made it on the plane just in time, pulled away from the gate and then waited for two hours.  That meant that they had two hours to get our luggage on that plane, right?  Alas, no.  Here is a travel tip.  If the plane has pulled away from the gate, not a chance in hell they are doing anything other than having you sit there.  My travel experience is limited, but I definitely learned that lesson.

Our flight down to Princess Juliana International Airport (SXM) in Sint Maarten was uneventful.  Nothing exciting happened like spilled pretzels, peanuts or Delta cookies.  Nope, not a thing happened.  The cool thing about landing at SXM is that the appearance is that you are going to belly flop on the ocean, but then you hit the tarmac.  Probably because from the ground at Maho Beach, it looks like this:

Pretty cool, huh.  Here's a travel tip to dealing with rental car guys at airports ... give the appearance (yeah, right) of being pathetic and they might just give you a bigger car.  We had reserved the smallest car available from Avis.  Something between a Fred Flintstone car and a tricycle.

When the rental car guy looked at the four of us with our bags, he said something like, "Hey, dumbass, how do you think you are getting all of those people and bags to your hotel in this tiny shrimp boat?"  Knowing this was part of the game where he gets me to pay for a SUV or something, I just replied that it was fine, and that "I've got it handled."  Seeing that it isn't fine and I am truly a dumbass of the cheapo variety, he upgraded the size of our car for free.  Ah yes, the law of unintended consequences for once did not bite me in the ass.  That rental car still looked like it spent some time on the streets of Baghdad but it was larger than the shrimp boat.  Mission accomplished.

Avis handed me a really basic, almost pictorial map of Sint Maarten/St. Martin and off I went to find our hotel.  As with Ireland, we basically just pointed ourselves in the right direction and started driving.  One plus is that you don't have to drive on the left-hand side of the road. 

PRUDISH AMERICANS PLEASE AVERT YOUR EYES!!!

That map would prove useful in getting from area to area, but it didn't help you at all if you get into towns like Marigot (French side) or Phillipsburg (Dutch side).  Nonetheless, I was surprised to discover a rather attractive and topless blond model in the upper left corner of the map.  She was helping all of us weary onlookers to "Pay to be Alive".  How might you pay to be alive?  You pay to attend a spa, of course.  Here's the advertisement without the text. 

Hey, look, she's alive!  Must be because she paid for that spa day.  Otherwise, she would have remained as dead as you and me.  I never went to the spa.  I still feel dead.

What shocks me about this picture is not the attractive blond. I know that what flies in other countries with regard to nudity does not fly in the Home of the Brave. In that regard, this is a minor curiousity to my American eyes. What does surprise me is that I could find the advertisement through a Google search of "pay to be alive" and "sint maarten".  Let this be a lesson.  In the land of the internet, nothing is ever erased or forgotten - not even crass advertising slogans.

Moving on.  We stayed at the Royal Palm Beach Resort, and it was very nice.  If you go to Sint Maarten, I highly recommend you stay.  These are time shares, so that means that we had a kitchen and two bedrooms with a balcony.  If you want an idea of exactly what our room looked like, just click on the link: https://www.diamondresorts.com/Rentals/royal-palm-beach-resort  What you see there is exactly what we got right down to the view out of the master bedroom and balcony.  You are also conveniently located across the street from some excellent restaurants and down the street from a grocery store.  We gobbled up some Johnny Cakes at Johnny B's and then I bought a whole bunch of Red Stripe and Heineken at the local store. 

Travel Tip:  American dollars are the currency for Sint Maarten.  In St. Martin (the French side), they take dollars or euro's.  Prices are quoted in euro's but they will give you the same price in dollars.  That means you should pay cash for everything in St. Martin in dollars if you can.  It will save you some $$$. 

June 12, 2014:

After not being provided any assurances at SXM that our luggage would actually arrive, I awoke to notice that my teeth had slipped on fuzzy slippers.  I figured it wouldn't bother me to skip a night of tooth brushing, but it did.  Not to worry, our luggage made a 9:00 a.m. appearance, and all was well.

After herding my fellow family vacationers out the door, we took off for Marigot.  I'd read that they have the best pastries and outdoor market.  The pastry notion was dead on.  Adjacent to the market (meh) was a little slice of heaven call Sarafina's.  On TripAdvisor it was made known to me that "Food amazing - don't use the bathroom."  Um ... I suspect that bathroom isn't too far from the kitchen, right?  Well, let's just check that out shall we?

WARNING!!!!  DOUCHEBAGGERY ABOUT TO OCCUR!!!!!!!

In an Unexceptional Travel Blog first, I've just posted a picture of what I ate on vacation.  Who really cares, right?  I find that generally when people post a picture of what they ate on a social media site, they want you to envy them. 

DOUCHEBAG:  Look at me, I have food! 

ME:  A first for you?  Congratulations, I guess???

Nobody cares that you ate something that looks like it is a kale flavored booger.  Let's reason this through.  Ask yourself whether you have ever had a conversation in which you discussed the food depicted on a photo which was posted by a friend on a social media site. 

No.  You haven't.  But you have had a conversation about what a douchebag that person is for having enough hubris to think we actually give a damn what he/she ate Friday night and would subsequently feed to the dog on Saturday morning. 

Yeah!  You have food!  You did it!

Have you also noticed that 99.9% of these photos show "healthy" food.  This smacks of elitism.  The poor eat fast food and you don't see a lot of "Proud Papa" pictures of Big Macs do you.  Adding something which indicates you have been suckered into the latest fad diet (hint ... paleo) just adds to the douchebaggery.  I lovingly ask you to stop for your good and ours.  However, every rule must have an exception or two.

By the photo above, you must think me a hypocrite.  Not so. I already know I'm a douchebag and so do you if you: 1) know me; or 2) have read any other entry on the Unexceptional Travel Blog.  Therefore, I know that there is nothing that can be done to impress you.  I also have no deep-seated emotional need to surprise you with a picture that causes you to question,

"Gee, that's odd.  A picture of food. I never would have known he was a douchebag". 

Nope.  You know it.  Also, this is not healthy food.  In fact, this sh*t will kill you, but you WILL die happy.  To that end, if you already know that you are a douchebag OR if you are posting a picture of something that you can consume but will slowly kill you (i.e., beer, whiskey, pastries), I offer you no malice.  Carry on in the joy of your short life.

Perhaps you have noticed that if I don't have much to say about a place I visited that I fill time with a rant.  True.  The outdoor market and adjacent areas of Marigot are very nice.  Otherwise, skip it.  Nothing else to see there except maybe the fort that overlooks the market.  Besides, that rant put me in the mood to tell you a sun burn story. 

Orient Beach looks like this:

Orient Beach is famous for the beach and the "clothing optional" Club Orient (www.cluborient.com).  I've been exposed to these feral nudist types on occasion.  It had been a year since I was exposed to the skinny, water bathing and dope smoking hippies at Lake Siskiyou.  I had read about Club Orient prior to arrival and figured that I had to drive in their driveway to hit the public side of the beach.  Well, I did that and when I made the turnaround in the parking lot, it was dong village all over the beach.  That is not something you want to see ... old, beer bellied dudes letting it all hang out.  People pay to belong to that club.  Is it really that much fun getting sand in your nether regions?  The answer is "Yes" if you get to do it with other fat dudes?

Anyway, we parked and made our way to the public part of the beach through one of several of the outdoor bars, past a "big bosomed lady with a dutch accent" and onto the beach.  If you noticed the Rod Stewart lyric from "You're In My Heart" you get a shiny, clothing optional star for your speedo!  And yes, she was big bosomed and looked dutch ... probably was considering where we were in the world.  Anyhow, I just couldn't help but work the lyric into the blog.

The ladies promptly threw all of their stuff down and got in the water.  I occupied an umbrella and started wondering what I was going to do for the next five hours.  I was going to get drunk if possible.  Anyway, Nicolas (pronounced "Nico - lah") quickly arrived and gave me a menu.  I think my wife was thinking about leaving me for Nico - lah with the French accent, but she left with me.  Not sure why. 

I know that it is now popular to take a photo of my feet resting on the lounge with the azure ocean behind said feet.  This is intended to announce to the world my state of relaxation.  I didn't take that picture because I'm a man.  That is cliche.  Instead, I put the beach goer potty cycle into effect.  Drink beer, get up, pee in ocean, return for beer and so on.  Don't judge me ... we've all done it. 

In any event, I ordered up a bucket of Carib beer and started on the drinking.  I put on the buzz early, so I can let the buzz wear off early.  The whole time I was thinking that if my buddy, Scott, was there, we'd surely tear that place up and make a mess of the thing.  Oh well, not to be.  The girls returned, drank some of my beer and ordered food.  Day pretty much over.

During this process I took off my shirt and commenced to get a raging sun burn along the left hand side of my body.  I'm not much of a shirt taker-offer since I no longer have the flat abs that are so ridiculously in style now.  In fact, mine were so "washboard" as a kid that my belly button stuck out.  I spent my whole childhood wanting to add muscle and now skinny with very little muscle is in.  I now have muscle (and some chub), but oh well.  My point is that this portion of my body has not been exposed to sun since I was probably 23 years old.  I got cooked.  Nothing screams "Tourist!" like a big ole sunburn.  Last vacation, I took my sun burn to Ireland.  I earned this on while on vacation.  Either way, its now my thing to be on vacation while sun burned.  Stupid.

In any event, the World Cup started on this day and everyone on the French side was excited to cheer for Brazil.  I know there is a proximity, but that's like me cheering for Canada for anything ... It just doesn't make sense.  On our way off the beach, we made our way through the bar and some of the local French guys told me to pull up a seat for the game.  I had to decline, but on the way out we could hear the collective lamentation of the fans over the noise of our car when Croatia scored first.  Having some hindsight now, it would have been a real treat to have been present when Germany drubbed Brazil 7-1 in the semi-final.  I would have liked to have witnessed some of this first hand:

And may be a little more of this:

Folks, this is what happens when your whole identity as a country is wrapped up in the ability of eleven of your citizens to play a game.  I guarantee you if the Germans lost, they wouldn't be crying about it.  They can fall back on their ability to make awesome cars and start world wars on a whim.  Every country has its thing I suppose.

Back to the hotel to smoke Fidelito and drink Red Stripe.