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... Continued from yesterday: The Manhattan Beach panorama is so beautiful, with the Palos Verde Peninsula to the south,  ...and Santa Monica to the north. Okay, I totally cheated here with my super-zoom lens,  ...but it's still a really nice view - a little less zoomed-out here,  …the palm trees and architecture behind us,  
  …this being the deepest I ever venture out into, and I'm perfectly happy just to walk along the beach, "close by the margin of the water," as the Stephen Foster song goes.  The thing is, despite being a native Philadelphian - meaning that I should have some Jersey Shore in my DNA - the ocean has always scared me. Maybe it's because I never learned to swim. Or maybe I just don't like being tossed around. However, for those who do, Manhattan Beach is known to be a great surfing beach, and there were quite a few surfers out looking for good waves the day we were there.  Manhattan Beach is also considered the mecca of beach volleyball, and The Manhattan Beach Open national beach volleyball championship tournaments are held here.  However for the rest of us there was the sun and the sand, 
 ...and the swings, 
 ...from which we bought surprisingly yummy wraps, salads, grilled cheese sandwiches, and French fries.  Or maybe everything just tastes better he sea. 
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...Continued from 8/26/16 Last Wednesday Tom and I decided to go for a walk to downtown Manhattan Beach then out to the pier by way of Veteran's Parkway, a popular local walking and biking path commonly known as The Chip Trail because of the wood chips that cover the trail.  The Chip Trail runs parallel to the Pacific coastline for 3.5 miles between the towns of Manhattan Beach and Hermosa Beach through beautiful neighborhoods,     ...as it meanders amidst the local flora and fauna.          
    ...then down to the beach,  ...to the pier,  
  ...and made the acquaintance of brothers Matt and Nick, two delightful young musicians from London, originally from Malta, who had just arrived in Los Angeles the night before.  This was their first day of their first visit to the United States and already they were loving it here. Tom and I assured them that not all of America is like Manhattan Beach. Though it's not a bad place to start.  So here's the conclusion to the saga of the dreaded flip phone. As recounted in my post from 8/20/2016, I recently replaced my cell phone with this little neanderthal flip phone,  ...which is one step down the evolutionary scale from my old keyboard phone,  ...though it's a pretty big step down. In fact, I've come to learn in the course of this ordeal (as every dealing with Verizon is, am I right?) that my keyboard phone is kind of the unique missing link between the flip phone, which is utilized by only the most back-to-basics Spartan types, 
 But I digress. Anyway, when my old phone broke the day before I was to leave for a 2 1/2 week trip to the West Coast, I, in a combined state of anxious haste, Verizon store-induced confusion and rank orneriness bought a flip phone to replace it. I immediately hated my new phone and was overcome with a gargantuan case of buyer's remorse. But the next day I flew to Los Angeles and I really didn't know what to do about my awful phone anyway, except to complain about it. In truth I think I was just too focused on my own personal pickle to see the pickle jar. But then my daughter informed me in a blog comment that there is a two-week window during which one can return a Verizon phone - the kid who sold me my flip phone neglected to tell me this - and one of my Facebook friends advised me to cart myself back to the Verizon store, take a deep breath, and ask for what I wanted. It was thanks to those wise counselings that I finally saw the light: I was by no means condemned to live my life in flip-phone hell. So I made my way back to the Manhattan Beach area Verizon store, feeling somewhat more intestinally fortified. The girl who greeted me with the standard cool friendliness of of the typical Verizon sales rep listened to my request to return my unloved flip phone, nodded, and after an intimidating pause asked me if I'd purchased the phone at a corporate store, leading me to fear the possibility that if I hadn't purchased the phone at the right kind of store then I wouldn't be allowed to return it. I told her I bought it at the Easton store in Columbus, Ohio, as if she'd have any idea where or what kind of store that was. Then she said she'd just look it up and asked me for my phone number. After giving my record a thorough going-over my rep girl asked me if I had the box. Do I look like I have the flippin' box?! I wanted to respond, but I just said no. She then informed me that I could exchange the phone but that there would be a $35 restocking fee. I don't know whether the fee was because I didn't have the box or if it was just part of the standard juicing process. Anyway, it turned out by auspicious happenstance that this store did carry my old keyboard phone, which was all I'd wanted in the first place.  I was so happy to get my new old phone that I put less than the usual effort expended in a Verizon store visit into trying to get my rep girl to clarify for me:
 But never mind, some things are not meant to be understood. I had my phone and it was all good.
The 2016 Rio Olympics have come to a close, and while many Olympians are doubtless still basking in the glory of their victories,  ...Team U.S.A. swimmer Ryan Lochte is spending his post-gold medal days on an apology tour, endeavoring to climb out of a pool of shame.  It's clear from the chain of events that began with a night of celebratory partying and ended in the shattering of Ryan Lochte's reputation and career that the 12-time Olympic medal winner has an alcohol problem along with the subset of ensuing problems that come with the territory, including in his case an episode of drunken vandalism at a Rio gas station, the subsequent cover-up lying, and the resulting mess in which he now finds his life. But it also appears from the unfortunate outcome of that inauspicious night in Rio that Ryan Lochte may well have another problem that he needs to deal with: a mother problem. Consider: Why would an uber-successful 32-year-old world champion, considered by many to be the best swimmer on the planet, feel the need after a night of drunken misbehavior to make up an outrageous lie to his mother about being robbed at gunpoint? Why, in fact, did he Ryan Lochte feel the need to say anything to his mother about what he'd been up to the night before? And consider this: Ryan Lochte and several of his fellow Team U.S.A. mates drank too much, indulged in rowdy behavior, damaged the door of a gas station restroom, were accosted by a security guard, ended up paying the gas station owner to his satisfaction for the damages, then went home. End of story, or it would have been had Ryan Lochte's mother not felt compelled to take control of the situation by complaining to the media that her son had been robbed and traumatized by Brazilian thugs. Understandably Ryan Lochte's mother must have been terribly distressed by her son's account of his ordeal; but seriously, what mother is still so up in her 32-year-old son's business that she'd believe it was her maternal prerogative to go over her son's head to the press? Subsequently the press went to the International Olympic Committee who went to the United States Olympic Committee who went to Ryan Lochte who first denied then later confirmed the account he'd told his mother, then re-told the lie on an NBC television interview which was seen by the Brazilian police who did an investigation of their own and revealed to the world that Ryan Lochte had not in fact been a victim of crime, but had himself committed the crime then slandered and insulted their country. Thus because of Ryan Lochte's mother's intervention an event of drunken disorderliness that would have ended in an unremarkable outcome instead spun out of control into an international incident and caused the downfall of an Olympian. Ryan Lochte admits that he's considering rehab for his alcohol issues. Perhaps he should look into some counseling for his mother issues as well. References:
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/20/sports/olympics/usa-swimming-ryan-lochte-tarnish.html?_r=0 http://www.msn.com/en-us/sports/olympics/ryan-lochte-won%e2%80%99t-rule-out-alcohol-rehab/ar-BBvUGWU?li=BBnba9I  A few nights ago I was hit with the terrible sight of my cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter in a pool of water that had escaped from a nearby leaky glass. Amazingly, my phone didn't die right away, leaving me with a false sense of relief until the following morning by which time my phone had given up the ghost. As I frantically pressed this button and that trying to resuscitate my drowned phone, the awful sense of dread I was seized with did not come from the knowledge that I'd have to live a few hours without a phone or that I'd have to somehow squeeze another errand into an already too-busy day before a trip to Los Angeles, nor was I upset over the thought of having to shell out for a new phone, as I'd been paying a $5 dollar monthly insurance fee to cover just such an eventuality as this one. What I filled me with fear and loathing was the realization that now I was going to have to go to the Verizon store. There are few are few prospects that fill me with such a mix of anxiety and resentment as a trip to the Verizon store, with its spotless, hi-tech,  ...futuristic appeal,  ...and efficient system of friendly greeters and speedy customer assistance personnel, and where every time upon entering the facility it's all I can do to keep from throwing myself at the first staff member who approaches me and crying out, "Sell me whatever you want! Charge me whatever you want! Just let this ordeal be over!" Because inside a Verizon store I invariably feel like a naif in a familiar yet strange land where I don't understand the customs, lingo, or anything else I'm supposed to know before setting foot across the border. I don't understand what the people are telling me, nor do I fully trust that the people who are telling me things know what they're talking about, either. Thus I have a severe case of Verizon store phobia. And yet this time I felt a little less anxious, a little more composed than usual. After all, this time my situation was clear and straight forward: My phone was dead, but I had insurance. I wanted a replacement, same item, period. If all my phone numbers were lost along with my deceased battery, well, so be it. I'd dealt with that possibility and moved past it. Just give me my new phone and let me go home. I even rehearsed in my lines as I drove to the Verizon store. In fact, by the time I entered the store and faced the pleasant young greeter I was feeling fairly sanguine. Or at least I was until I met my assigned customer assistance rep, a youngster of medium enthusiasm dressed head to toe in the black Verizon uniform - are they required to dress all in black to scare us? - with a couple of piercings. I told him my sad story and he took apart my phone to check out its still-soggy insides and offered that my phone was in fact probably fried but that I could try putting the phone pieces into a bag of rice for a few days and seeing if that might dry them out and bring them back to life. In retrospect I kind of wish I'd taken his advice, whisked my phone out of the store, bought a bag of rice, gone phoneless for a few days and taken my chances. However I shared with him that I needed a working phone that day as I was going out of town the following day and that, as I had phone insurance, I just wanted to exchange this one for the same model. My service rep kid then consulted his tablet and informed me that my $5-a-month extended warranty did not cover damage to or loss of the phone even though I swore I was told otherwise when I was sold the phone. "Nope," my rep kid replied, "it only covers replacement if the phone dies for no reason. But," he added in a tone that suggested he might be trying to cheer me up or maybe shut me down, "I see here that you're eligible for a really good upgrade." "Like what?" I asked, already having given up the fight over my useless phone insurance. "Like a $600 smart phone for $199." "No thank you," I said curtly. "Please just give me a phone like this one." My rep kid left briefly then returned with a post-it note on which were written some figures which, of course, made no sense to me as he attempted to explain them. Something about $129.99 for the phone plus a $40 dollar upgrade fee which would only come to $109 if I opted to pay $27.99 today followed by a monthly installment plan of $4.58 a month for 24 months. It made no sense to me. So little sense that I had not the wherewithall to argue. "But I don't want an upgrade," I did correctthe youngster, I just want the same phone as I had before. "The upgrade fee is to transfer your old phone number to your new phone." "I have to pay $40 for you to transfer my old number to my new phone?" That's an upgrade? I wanted to shout, Shouldn't that be, like, free? But I didn't. "Fine," I sighed, knowing better than to start any battles in the Verizon store that I couldn't win, knowing there were no battles that I could win, "I'll just take the phone. And the installment plan." "Well, here's the thing," he said, "we don't carry this phone anymore." "Fine. Just give me the closest phone you have in the same price range." "Well, here's the thing, the only phone we carry in that price range is a flip phone." Now, I certainly had no desire for a flip phone, and if I'd been in the mood to behave like an adult I'd have accepted the situation and asked to see what was available in touch-screen phones. But my inner adult had by now been replaced by my inner child and all I wanted to do was throw a tantrum. "Fine," I snapped, "I'll take the flip phone!" In truth I think that on some subconscious but close-to-the surface level I believed that by buying the cheapest possible phone I was punishing - who? - the Verizon corporate robber-baron behemoth? The poor rep kid who was just trying to give me what I wanted within his power and to make a living ? "Okay," my rep kid replied as he handed me the phone, "then you'll only have to pay $2.58 a month for this phone." I felt a brief moment of victory in my cheapness. So I walked out of the Verizon store in my usual post-Verizon store huff with my new flip phone,  ....which took me just one text to realize that I was going to hate, hate, hate using.  Now I feel like a fool who purposely gave up a comfortable home for a wretched hovel with no water or electricity and which won't even be paid off until 24 monthly payments of $2.58 each.
Is it a sin to harbor a death wish for a flip phone?  (Sigh). Another day, another fifteen shocking headlines about Donald Trump. Now, it’s perfectly clear to me why there are so many people in this country who don’t support Donald Trump. And I have enough imagination to get why there are so many people who do support him. And, there being such a great ocean of Hillary-hatred sloshing around out there, I can even see why there’s a good number of Americans who are undecided, unable to settle on what they see as a choice between the lesser of two evils. But what I really have a hard time wrapping my head around is all the Republican politicians who make harsh public denunciations of Donald Trump then tag on that, well, they still support him. Or they'll offer a variation on the theme, such as they don't support him but they endorse him,  Or they don't endorse him but they support him.  Or they don't support him or endorse him, but they still intend to vote for him.  What are they saying? What are they thinking? What do they think they're saying? Far and away the weirdest statement of all recently came from Marco Rubio, who verbally thrashed Donald Trump, called him a con man, then announced that he's going to vote for him anyway! Marco! Do your hear yourself? You said, in a public statement, that you're going to do your part to put a con man into the office of President of the United States! And you're asking people to vote for you for public office?  Why, people, why? It seems those of the psychologically bifurcated, "I--want-nothing-to-do-with-Donald Trump-but I'm with-him" cohort generally give two reasons for why they cannot stand with one conviction or another. The first reason they give is that Donald Trump if elected will appoint conservative Supreme Court justices who'll advance conservative social values. Or so they trust. Or so they wishfully think. In truth, who knows who Donald Trump would appoint to what, the wishes of his so-called fellow conservatives being the least of his priorities? The wishes of anybody but himself being the least of his priorities? Might not The Donald treat the Presidency as a continuation of the daily reality show starring himself that his campaign has been up to this point, leaving every appointment, every decision, every Presidential duty to the circle of advisors he chooses to surround himself with?     Seriously, would anyone want to bet their life on what might be end up being the prevailing ideology within a Donald Trump-appointed Supreme Court? The second reason Donald Trump's non-endorsing supporters (or non-supporting endorsers) give for giving him their vote is the shrugging excuse that they are obligated to vote for their party's choice whether they like it or not. Which sounds like the pusillanimous second cousin of "I was just following orders". Maybe they'll soon be saying that the Devil made them do it. But if I had to take a guess I'd venture that the real reason those among our supposed leaders who can't find the courage of their convictions are in that unhappy place because fear has turned them to jelly. Fear of Donald Trump. Fear for their political futures. But to these Jelly People I would say, firm up and take a stand on either one side or the other. Either stand up bravely for Donald Trump,   ...or stand up bravely against him,   ...and recall the words of Revelations 3: 15-16: "I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot; I would you were cold or hot. So then because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth." Otherwise come November your constituents might be feeling the same. References:
http://www.miamiherald.com/news/politics-government/election/marco-rubio/article95752532.html http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/08/where-republicans-stand-on-donald-trump-a-cheat-sheet/481449/ ...Continued From Yesterday: Tom and I started Tuesday morning with a breakfast rendez-vous with some of our friends at the restaurant of the Four Points Hotel, which I had re-named the Three Points Hotel (see post from 8/9/2016 for the reasons), where some of our group were staying while in Asheville for the University of Dayton Appalachia Club reunion.  In view of our overall experience at this hotel, I suppose it should not have come as a surprise that the breakfast buffet, which at 99% of hotels is included in the price of the room, cost $12 here. Tom and I found it to be a run-of the mill breakfast buffet except for the fact that the hot food was cold and from where I and a few others were sitting there was a distinctly unpleasant smell redolent of burning plastic.  Thus we further demoted the name of the place to the Two Points Hotel. In truth, though, our enjoyment of the day was in no way lessened by the sub-par breakfast and the water being shut off in the hotel that day from 11 am - 4 pm. After our morning-long re-visit to the ghost sites of the Montford area of Asheville (see yesterday's post), Tom spotted what turned out to be a great lunch venue, The City Bakery Cafe, which made the best sandwiches.  Tom had the delicious Turkey Day Turkey sandwich with turkey, swiss, cranberry relish, mayo, lettuce, and red onion on French bread,  ...while I had the indescribably yummy Avo Melt made with avocado, goat cheese, tomato, spinach, and fresh basil on multigrain bread.  The desserts looked absolutely ethereal,  ...yet we somehow managed to resist,  ...wanting to save plenty of room for the Appalachia Club Reunion picnic that evening,   ...along beautiful Lake Julien, 
 The food from a local caterer was great: Super moist and, tender barbecued ribs, 
 ...lots of tasty sides cleverly served up in an ice-filled baby pool, 
 ...burgers and dogs on the grill, 
 Upon the cake was super-imposed a photo of the house that Tom bought back in 1971 for $2400 in Salyersville, Kenutcky, where the group did its volunteer work, as a place for the UD students to stay while they were volunteering (see post from 3/10/2016). 
 Before Tom and I were married as a gift to Tom I had an artist paint a picture, which still hangs in our family room, from the above photo.  But anyway, the best part of the evening was getting together with old friends and meeting other groups of fellow volunteers who'd worked in withe the UD Appalachia program in the early 1970's.   
  Sharing our memories of those times,        ...thankful for the gift of being there then,  ...and being here now.      ...Continued from yesterday:
 ...who organized the University of Dayton Appalachia Club reunion in beautiful, 
 ...downtown Asheville, North Carolina,   ...home of O. Henry, by the way,  ...also arranged for us on Monday night a ghost tour of Asheville. Now, I was thinking, as I'd imagine the others in our group were, that we'd be riding around in a bus while being told ghost stories connected to specific sites around the town. Which is basically what the tour turned out to be.,,but with a twist. Kind of a twisted twist. First of all, there was the exterior of the tour bus,   ...and the interior, which was unexpectedly colorful,   ...as was the wiry, nimble-limbed, youngster who was our emcee,   ...and who right away had us all in stitches with his hilarious and low-end- -of- raunchy comedy stylings.  At one point he handed me this piece of dental floss and told me it was for me since it was almost bikini season. That was about the cleanest joke of the evening  However after his opening act he exited the bus and scurried away, his movements evoking a silly over-sized spider.  He was replaced by our tour guide, a "mad doctor" with a Count Dracula accent named Dr. Choparmsandlegsoffsky (or something close), and our driver, whom The Doctor introduced as Cyborg Randy.  The Doctor then gave us a hilarious R-rated tour of Asheville's historically creepy, purportedly ghost-inhabited sites, stopping now and then at the sighting of a resident ghost who would then climb on board the bus to crack some funny, baudy jokes, such as the Pink Lady who is said to still haunt Asheville's Grove Park Inn, 
 Then we met the ghost of Zelda Fitzgerald, who died in a insane asylum fire in Asheville (and who shared with us that she used to F. Scott Fitzgerald),  ...and an angry Raggedy Andy, who we picked up as he was stomping down the street near the site of a defunct doll asylum (where years ago people would bring old dolls they no longer wanted - go figure).
 Comedy aside, it was an interesting, enjoyable tour, though surely not for the easily offended. Tom and I agreed that our favorite leg of the tour was through the historical Montford area, a neighborhood of palatial old homes with spacious porches that used to be tuberculosis sanatoriums, the belief being that it was beneficial for patients to sit outside on these porches, called "breathing porches", to take in the fresh air. Of course tuberculosis being a bacterium, the fresh air was no cure and most of the TB patients died, thus this neighborhood, according to legend, being the site of many ghosts. Also in this neighborhood was located the asylum in which Zelda Fitzgerald died. Here was her "ghost" doing an interpretive dance of the event on the site of the old asylum - tasteless, I know,  We also passed the haunted-castle-looking residence of the asylum director. So much did Tom and I like this part of the tour that the following day, though we'd considered visiting the Biltmore Estate outside Asheville, said to be a must-see area attraction, our enthusiasm waned big-time when we learned that the admission price to the estate was $60 per person and we decided instead to return to Montford for another look - for free - in the day light at the gorgeous homes that used to be the TB sanitoriums.          And here's the spooky former residence of the director of the old insane asylum.  We did enjoy seeing these buildings in the light of day. Still, we had to admit it just wasn't the same without the creepy commentary and the dirty jokes. ;)
To be continued... ...Continued from yesterday: So then, Monday morning started with a yummy breakfast at the Tupelo Honey Cafe,  
 ... the tea was organic,  ..the tea bags fancy,  ...and the company, some of our old friends and fellow alum of the University of Dayton Appalachia Club, wonderful.   After breakfast Tom and I, and a couple of our reunion friends,  ...took a walk around downtown Asheville.        We learned that this crowded little patch of park in the middle of a busy thoroughfare is called The Bromuda Triangle, as it's generally full of panhandler-type guys who can often be heard calling out to each other, "Hey, Bro."   
 ...up to the beautiful St. Lawrence Basilica, built in 1905.      When lunch time rolled around - which our friends opted to skip - Tom and I set out to look for some nourishment and found a little Mediterranean place. 
   ...but best of all was the food. Tom ordered the meat kabab with tahini and hummus and a tomato salad, which he pronounced really good,  ...while I had the mucho tasty falafel wrap with a side of roasted potatoes, seasoned with a sort of pesto sauce - sooo good!  After lunch we did a few more turns around the town,   ...before returning to the hotel to for more catching up.  
 ...amazed at what we were back then,     ...and what we all grew up to be. To be continued...
This past Sunday Tom and I drove from Columbus, Ohio to Ashville, North Carolina for a reunion of the Appalachia Club, a group Tom and I both belonged to when we were students at the University of Dayton and whose members did volunteer work in rural Eastern Kentucky. (See posts from 3/9/2015 and 3/10/2015). University of Dayton Appalachia Club members in the 1970's:    ...and now:  The wonderful 3-day event was organized by a wonderful Appalachia Club Alum, Sharon. Sharon then,
...and now.  To get to the reunion Tom and I took the long scenic route down old US 23 – through Ohio, West Virginia , Virginia and Tennessee - a 9 ½ hour ride including lunch at – where else? – Subway (when on the road we eat lunch exclusively at Subway), and dinner in the whimsically-named town of Unicoi, Tennessee,  …where we found a cute little Italian restaurant called Primo’s.  Tom ordered the spaghetti and meatballs, which he liked well enough,  ...while I had the eggplant parmesan,  ... the eggplant part of which came out ‘way deep-fried, and the sauce part of which was…well, the truth is it’s rare that I ever find a really good spaghetti sauce in a restaurant. My mother could make a fantastic meat sauce, the recipe for which she passed down to me so that now I can make a fantastic red meat sauce. I can also make a fantastic meatless red sauce from a recipe I once found on a box of Kroger’s spaghetti. I will share my red sauce recipes a couple of posts from now. Anyway, it was late in the evening when we arrived at our destination in Ashville, The Four Points Sheraton Hotel, where most of the reunion guests were staying.  We were immediately charmed by the homey lobby and friendly staff.    We likewise found much to like about our pretty, cozy room, including the super-comfy mattress,  …ergonomic desk chair,  ...steel-on-white bathroom,  …and the soap, shampoo, and conditioner dispensers in the shower, which I thought was such a good idea that I couldn’t believe no hotel – at least no hotel that I’ve ever been in - ever came up with the idea before.  Such happy campers were Tom and I that we agreed that The Four Points Hotel deserved to change its name to the Five Points Hotel...until I turned on my laptop and discovered that the WIFI in our room was somewhere between limping-snail and non-existent. And when the WIFI in the hotel lobby proved to be even less functional, and the only site I could pull up while sitting in the lobby was “Problem Loading Page,”  ...that spot lost its charm as well. However, by the following morning when Tom and I began linking up with our old college friends, first over breakfast at a great little nearby restaurant called Tupelo Honey ,  ....where the food was yummy,    ...then later in the hotel lobby, 
 ...Tom and I came to learn over the course of the conversations that we were among the luckier Four Points Hotel guests: our friends shared stories of clogged drains, a jammed shower element, non-functioning air-conditioning, and a lack of hot water. Then when this sign suddenly appeared in the hotel lobby:  ...we all knew we were in for a kvetch-worthy experience, especially as the young desk clerks seemed clueless as to where the closest public restrooms might be. But then it occurred to us that in the grand scheme this really wasn't so bad. After all, hadn't we survived worse?     To be continued...
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"Tropical Depression"
by Patti Liszkay Buy it on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTPN7NYY Archives
April 2025
I am a traveler just visiting this planet and reporting various and sundry observations,
hopefully of interest to my fellow travelers. Categories |
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