Category Archives: Chattanooga

My First Chattanoogan Drive

Posted by dkrashb on

The hardest part of taking a two-week vacation is going back to work.  I ease into it gradually, getting up early and taking a morning walk with Pat and even taking my camera so I can shoot the sunrise.  We wander along the riverfront slowly, shooting every few minutes.  We run into another photographer.  I ask him how he likes his tripod (having still not bought one) and he chides me for trying to take landscape shots without one.  OK, maybe not “chides,” but I was pretty humiliated when he asked me how long I’d been shooting and I said, “about 7 years” and he said, “time to get a tripod!”  He also points out a sunrise rainbow that’s formed on the other side of the bridges, which I had completely failed to notice.  Strike two.  We manage to enjoy the sunrise none-the-less, but as a rainbow predicts, rain drops started falling so we high-tailed it home before we (by which I mean my camera) got too wet.

After two weeks off, I’m ready to go back to work from an emotional perspective, but from a pure memory standpoint, it’s like bits and pieces of information have fallen out of my brain and have to be swept up and poured back in again.  However, the last bits of dust that make it all fall back into a coherent picture have to be chased around and forcibly gathered.  Things that seemed vitally important two weeks ago are now just distant memories that I don’t know the status of.  I find myself wishing I had timed my vacation differently, but then I pause to wonder when would have been a better time?  It’s never a good time to take a vacation.

I dive into my email.  It’s actually not as bad as I was afraid it would be.  Fortunately, there is someone to cover for me for once and the more urgent items got taken care of while I was gone.  As I hunch over my keyboard sitting on an ottoman, I am quickly reminded of something I didn’t take care of before going on vacation–I must get an office chair.  The pain in my neck has not gone away even after 2 weeks away from my “desk.”  After only a couple of hours back, I’m in so much pain that I have to move back to the couch where my head is supported.  I decide that I will go chair shopping tonight.

Pat left this morning to go back to Columbus for three days.  I could have gone back with him and worked from Columbus, but I feel a need to stay home for at least a week.  He wants to go home next week, too, so I will go back then.  In the meantime, I am left to keep myself busy for the next three days.  There is one advantage to having just come back from a two-week vacation–I will have plenty to do.

It’s now after 5PM EST and I decide to take a break to go chair shopping.  I google office furniture and discover a website that has some really nice office chairs.  Just out of curiosity, I look up their location and discover that they are located 1 block from me.  This is a nice surprise!  I walk over there to see what they have.  The woman there, Leslie, gets down chair after chair and asks me to sit in each one for a while to get a feel for it.  There is one chair that has a funky neck rest on it.  It’s the only chair that has it.  I sit down and the neck rest hits a sore spot in the crick in my neck.  I think it feels rather awkward and it’s uncomfortable, but Leslie gives is a tug and adjusts it so that the top edge is sitting just under the ridge at the base of my skull.  There is something relieving about being able to set the weight of my head on this headrest.  Although it’s still putting pressure on my neck in ways that I don’t like, I find myself wondering if it might feel better after getting used to it.  Leslie makes the most amazing suggestion:  She tells me to take the chair home and try it for a couple of days to see how it works out.  This is the perfect solution–I get to try the thing before I buy it!  However, I wasn’t optimistic when I came over here that I would find anything, so I didn’t bring the car.  I contemplate rolling the chair down the sidewalk, but see scuffed wheels full of road dust in my head and decide that’s not a good idea.  Instead, I walk back home, pick up the van, and drive in Chattanooga for the very first time.

Yes, it was only a block from home, but, remember, I had to drive 2 blocks by the time I went round-trip.  I did not even use the GPS.  I got in the van, started it up, and drove it like I’d been driving every day for months.  I think about it and realize I haven’t driven since our last trip to Columbus when I drove part of the way home.  That was a month ago.  But, I make it to the furniture store unscathed and amused that this tiny jaunt would end up being my first official drive in Chattanooga!

I retrieve the chair that I’ve signed out on loan and manage to load it into the car with only a couple of new bruises, and then go into the grocery store (which is right across the lot) to get some beer and dinner.  I pick up some stuffed shells, which have become a standard “lazy” dinner lately, and Sierra Nevada.  I forgot to grab a shopping bag when I left the apartment and was unable to find one in the van, so I tell the cashier I don’t need a bag.  Normally, I get $.10 for each bag that I bring and use.  I’ve always thought it was $.10 for every bag of theirs that I don’t use.  Apparently not.  I do not get $.10 for not using a bag at all.  When I think about it, I bring in reusable grocery bags that are 2x the size of the paper bags they use if they bag my groceries, yet, I don’t get $.20 when I fill one of my bags because I saved two of theirs.  No.  I get $.10.  It occurs to me that perhaps I should try bringing a bunch of hand-puppet-sized bags and put one item in a bag.  Would I still get $.10 for each bag I bring?  I may have just found a way to make shopping at Green Life affordable!

When I go back to the house and get my chair upstairs, I go back to work while my pasta shells heat.  I adjust the chair just right and feel my neck stretching and my shoulders relaxing.  I think maybe I will like this chair.

The Last Vacation Day

Posted by dkrashb on

One thing I have learned through experience that I try to do with every vacation, but especially one involving international travel: Always fly home 2 days before returning to work. Best case, it gives me a day to unpack, do laundry, get caught up on mail, nap at will, and settle back in. Worst case, if Pat gets detained in immigration (or a storm rolls in) and we miss a connection, it gives us an extra day to get home. We have needed that day for travel three times now, but when we don’t, I always appreciate having that day at my disposal. This is doubly true when my body has gone through a time change of more than 3 hours. I don’t do time changes well. Coming back from the West Coast actually messes me up worse than coming back from Europe, but I still need a few days to get back on schedule.

We managed to get into Atlanta last night without incident. The drive from Atlanta to Chattanooga was killer. When I booked our flight, I thought, “Oh, we’ll get into Atlanta at 7:30PM, that won’t be too bad for the drive home.” I failed to add 6 hours to that–our bodies were still on Germany time. To us, it felt like we arrived at 1:30AM. Then, it took another hour by the time we got our luggage and found our car in the “economy” lot (which turned out to cost almost double what the economy lot in Columbus costs). We hadn’t made it half way home before I was nodding off in the passenger seat and Pat was soon struggling to keep his eyes open behind the wheel. We had to stop and find a place to buy some water, stand up, get some fresh air. I don’t know which exit we took (I was probably asleep), but as we drove down the main drag, it seemed every building was boarded up. Some had signs that said “open during construction.” Others look abandoned. I remembered that tornados went through the area earlier in the year before we moved from Columbus and was astounded by the remaining devastation after so many months. We pulled into a gas station that had a trailer for a building. A large building was about halfway built behind the trailer. It’s a creative solution to staying in business. My mind shifted from the misery of being overly tired to the fortune of not having gone through a tornado. Unfortunately, this didn’t keep me awake for long once we were back on the road.

When we pulled into our parking lot, Pat told me that he’d been nodding off again for the last 10 miles. I said that he should have pulled off and found a place to take a nap. He had thought about it, but decided it would be weird to pull off the road so close to home. I replied, “Better weird than dead.” He agreed, but we were already home so it was a pointless conversation. We drug our tired selves upstairs, not even bothering to take all of our luggage with us, and fell into bed.

So, here we are, we’ve made it home without incident and now it’s Sunday morning. I managed to sleep through the night and wake up at 6AM after our long drive home the night before. I have no desire to do laundry or anything else that isn’t vacation-like. However, I don’t want to end up laying on the couch all day because it will slow down my adjustment to the time change. I talk Pat into walking across the bridge for breakfast in the Bluffview Art District. On the way back, we decide to walk down to the aquarium and find out about their River Gorge Explorer tour. They have a really nice boat that they use for tours of the river gorge. We confirm the schedule at the aquarium, but don’t buy any tickets. On the way back to the apartment, I talk Pat into going on the sunset tour tonight. I purchase tickets online when we get home just in case there is a big rush and the boat fills.

We do a little unpacking and a little laundry, but we spend a couple hours relaxing, dozing off and taking a short nap before it’s time to walk back over to the aquarium. We stop in member reception because the online ticketing didn’t have a way to get our membership discount. The guy is extremely nice and apologetic in crediting back the discount. The aquarium also credited us for 3 adult tickets we had purchased when we signed up for our membership. With the $10 we save on the cruise, we’re now exactly even on the cost of the membership–it’s a really amazing deal.

We walk around trying to figure out where we need to be for the boat ride. The boat is still out on the previous tour. When it returns, we watch it spin in the water and then slide sideways over to the dock. When we get on the boat, there is a video playing that explains how it was built and then transported to TN from WA. Two of the boat captains actually picked it up in Florida, tested it, and then brought it up the river to Chattanooga. It’s a very cool boat that goes very fast, but I lost interest in all the details about what it could do. We have to remain seated during the fast portion of the ride. We get up to speeds over 60 MPH, but the captain stops suddenly whenever he’s approaching other river traffic or docks, etc. The wake rises above the windows when we stop, but the guide explains that the fast stops and starts actually minimize the amount of wake, preventing rocking other boats.

The guide is actually a naturalist and, apparently, a history buff. He talks us through the history of the area going back to the Native Americans and the Civil War. He also talks about the wildlife in the area and points out anything that he sees as we go down the river. When we get to a wide open area, the boat cruises slowly and we all go stand up on the deck, watching for wildlife. We pass the convergence of Suck Creek with the Tennessee River and the naturalist explains that before the river was dammed, there was a huge whirlpool at the confluence that would suck down boats, etc. Apparently, it’s still there, just in deeper water. I wasn’t clear if it was still dangerous or not, however. In any case, he solved the mystery of why someone would name a creek “Suck.”

I have brought my big lens in the hope of seeing exciting wildlife, although I’m not exactly sure how well I will be able to shoot from a moving boat. We see many, many Blue Heron. I knew they had recovered well in Ohio after the banning of DDT, but the number along the Tennessee River is amazing. The most exciting bird (to me) we see is the Belted Kingfisher. Unfortunately, we’re too far away for a good shot. We also spot a huge gathering of Turkey Vultures circling above the river. I keep my eyes peeled for masses of dead fish floating on the water, but we never do spot what’s attracted them. While Vultures are always a little creepy, having had a large die-off of fish in our pond when we lived in the country many years ago, I have tremendous gratitude to vultures–I didn’t have to clean up a single dead fish.

When we return to the dock, we are all invited to go up on the deck to watch the captain spin the boat 360 degrees using a remote control. We stand on the boat while it spins. Then, the captain steers it sideways to the dock using the same remote. It’s a little crazy that a boat can maneuver like that. As we de-board and walk up the dock, we discover the lights on the pier have interesting patterns that shift as we move. We can see these lights from our apartment, but they just look like normal lights with interesting shapes from across the river. Up close, the light shoots up a post that has metal shaped in parabolas and a metal reflector at the top. The parabolas reflect the light so that it looks like the entire post is in motion as we walk. The reflector at the top doesn’t appear lit at all looking at it from below, but from across the river, it looks like it is the source of the light.

As we return home crossing the bridge, we discuss our day and decide that it was the perfect last day of vacation.

Canadian Pennies and Travel Prep

Posted by dkrashb on

It’s Saturday morning and we’re leaving for Germany for two weeks tomorrow. We have a day to get ready. I am wide awake and it’s 5AM. The first order of business is to finish up on my backlog of work emails–I had nearly 700 I hadn’t replied to yet when I started this task last night. I’m now down to about 8 emails that I couldn’t clear out quickly, but I don’t want to leave knowing that those are still sitting there with the pile rapidly growing since I won’t have access from Germany. I sit at the computer and do the 6 tasks required to clean up all but 2 of the remaining mails. What’s left is a reminder about an online training class I’m required to take by the end of December and a notice about an administrative request that I want to remember to follow up on when I get back. Satisfied that my backlog is as clear as it’s going to get before I go and feeling pretty happy about only having 2 emails in my inbox for the first time since my last vacation, I set up my out-of-office message and shut down my work laptop so it can take a vacation, too.

That done, I make a list of the odds and ends that need to be taken care of before we go. I’m glad that I learned a long time ago to schedule travel so that I have a non-working day before the trip and another after we get home. I would have been up all night trying to wrap up lose ends if we were leaving today. Having done that before, I know it does not lead to a good start to a vacation, especially not one where we’ll lose 6 hours (mostly of sleep) between here and our destination.

Pat interrupts me and asks if I want to take a walk since we need to go to the bank anyway. Thinking about our 2 hour drive to Atlanta tomorrow followed by over 9 hours on a plane, I decide getting a walk in is important.

We head down to the riverfront, walking around the wetland to get there. We spot a Great Blue Heron standing in the water and stop to watch. Two more herons approach from the air, flying straight towards us, their wings casting giant shadows in the morning light. One flaps awkwardly to a landing near the one in the water while the other circles over our heads. The two on the ground commence an argument when the new arrival lunges at the one who was already there. Apparently herons don’t believe in first-come, first-serve. The original heron is displaced with a loud, complaining squawk as it rises into the air. The third heron must have decided the fishing in the wetland isn’t good enough for a fight because it banks away from the wetland and heads towards the wide waters of the river.

I think of an article I read several years ago that herons recovered faster than Bald Eagles when the use of DDT was banned and that the recovery of the eagles would eventually check the rising population of herons. I find myself wondering if there are any Bald Eagles here–I haven’t seen any yet, but there are certainly a lot of herons.

The show over, we continue to the riverfront more slowly than usual. My legs are stiff and sore from my workout on Thursday. I walk awkwardly and Pat teases me that I look like an old lady hobbling along. Each step reminds me that I hadn’t done a good leg workout for a month at least and that I probably should have gone a little easier. Unfortunately, going to Germany for two weeks isn’t going to make the next workout any easier.

We eventually make it to the end of the walkway on the river and head up one short block to walk along the store fronts that face the river park. Many are open for breakfast, but we have groceries to use up before we go, so we resist the temptation to stop. However, the smell of Julie Darling donuts gets to Pat this morning and he decides he wants a glazed donut to go along with his breakfast. We run across the street no where near an intersection, which would be quite dangerous if it weren’t a quiet Saturday morning. We dig out exact change to pay for the donuts, hoping to lighten the jingle for our trip. The woman who waits on us counts the change and rejects a Canadian penny. Pat tries to talk her into taking it on the grounds that the Canadian dollar is actually stronger than the US dollar (or at least it was when I was in Toronto a month and a half ago). She smiles and says, “I just don’t want to take advantage of you,” a quick and witty response that makes me laugh. We find a US penny, take our donuts and move onto the bank, Pat now making an argument to me that he thinks Canadian change is considered legal tender and that stores have to take it. I tell him that may have been true at one time, but I know my Canadian change has been rejected many times at many establishments, so I don’t think it’s true now.

When we get to the bank, our favorite banker, Clayton, is sitting at his usual desk inside the door. His face lights up with a smile that says he is genuinely glad to see us and I, once again, feel the warm glow of belonging. I am still astounded by the warmth of this man–I would never consider going to another bank just because I enjoy seeing Clayton so much. He gets out of his chair and walks around his desk to greet us, asking us how we’ve been.

After exchanging pleasantries, Pat decides to ask Clayton about the Canadian penny. Most people would have just answered to the best of their knowledge given that it’s just a trivia question, but Clayton gets on the phone, gives the person on the other end some special code that identifies him as a bank employee, I guess, and then asks if Canadian change is supposed to be accepted at stores. Now who else would do that? As I suspected, stores are not required to take Canadian change, but the care that Clayton takes to make sure Pat’s question is answered more than makes up for all the Canadian change we have.

We chat a while longer and then go to the teller to take care of our business. She is almost as friendly as Clayton, but without the familiarity of an old friend that Clayton conveys. Our business done, we stop to tell Clayton good bye and he wishes us well on our trip as we head out the door, walking over to shake our hands one more time. I feel like we’re leaving a friend behind.

Returning to our apartment, we take on the other tasks left before departing. I attempt to figure out if I can get data access from Germany, but am quickly reminded of the one disadvantage to having chosen Verizon wireless as my 3G carrier for my iPad–no service outside the US. I’m a little annoyed with Verizon when I get off the phone–they have an entire section of their website dedicated to international travel and how to get service outside the US yet they don’t actually offer any service. I assume someone in marketing thought it would be a good idea to have a competitive website to AT&T’s and threw up a page to fool unsuspecting international travelers. I find it odd that they would make this investment along with a call center for a service they don’t offer, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen companies create a marketing campaign before they actually have product to go along with it. I just wish they hadn’t wasted my time.

By the time our errands and tasks are done, we are both ready for an afternoon nap. I am nodding off as I try to resolve some issues with my various electronic devices and Pat has already given up and gone to lay down in the bedroom. However, the frustration of sorting out getting books and movies downloaded to my new iPad (having broken my old one and gotten it replaced has created some confusion in my accounts in that they don’t recognize this device) wakes me up a bit and I end up spending the time sorting things out instead of sleeping. Pat comes back out a half hour later and says he couldn’t sleep either, but as he starts to fuss with getting ready to go, I nod off and sleep a bit after all. When I wake up again, Pat has decided we should officially kick off our vacation with a margarita from Taco Mamacitos around the corner. I protest that it’s now 5:30PM and we haven’t started packing yet. He argues it will make packing more enjoyable. I get up and go look in the mirror, trying my best to wipe the sleepy look away quickly.

We sit at the bar at Taco Mamacitos and each order our favorite margarita along with chips and salsa. It seems like we are only there for a few minutes, but by the time we get home, it’s 7:15. I go into high gear and start pulling together outfits for hiking in the Black Forest, walking around cities, and one for going out at night (not that we’re likely to be able to stay awake late enough for that).

When I start putting my stuff in my roll aboard and half of the one large suitcase we will take, I discover that I really am a light packer. With plenty of extra space, I throw in an extra sweater and some extra T-shirts and even a long underwear top, just in case. I try to run through the list of things I packed and think of what I’ve forgotten this time (always forgetting at least one thing on every trip), but I can think of nothing else I need. I zip up the suitcases and sit down to relax. It’s now 9:30. It’s hard to believe it takes nearly two hours to put together the necessary items for a two-week trip, but it sure beats how long it takes to pack for a backpacking trip! After working on my blog and relaxing for a couple more hours, I go to bed hoping that the margarita didn’t muddle my brain so badly that I’m going to discover that I didn’t pack some basic necessity, but mostly satisfied that I’m ready for tomorrow.

It’s Official

Posted by dkrashb on

It’s time.  I must get a Tennessee driver’s license and plate today.  I am officially 1 day late doing this since Tennessee law requires new residents to get their Tennessee license and plates within 30 days of arriving.  In this age of online everything, it’s extremely difficult to get the required documentation to prove that you’re a resident, but I managed to come up with two pieces of acceptable evidence–our lease agreement and a printed statement from the bank.

This is the 4th time I’ve tried to get my license.  The first three tries, the lines were too long.  Pat went ahead and took care of his two days ago, so now we have a plan as to how to get this annoying necessity taken care of.  First, Pat took care of my emissions test for me earlier in the week.  Second, we arrive at the Drivers’ Services Center at 8:10AM, 20 minutes before they open, in the hope of being first in line.  This did not work out so well–there are already 9 people ahead of us.  We stand in the parking lot and watch the other people in line.  3rd in line is a woman with graying hair sitting on a stool outside the door.  At about 8:25, a man in a sports jacket and dress pants arrives and greets her.  She has been holding a place in line for him.

At 8:33AM, someone finally opens the door.  We all file in with the faces of people being sent away to prison.  We line up along the wall, forming a square around the room.  We celebrate by exchanging silent, happy looks each time a person ahead of us is rejected for not having the right paper work or being in the wrong place–one less person to wait behind when we get to phase 2.  But, I feel bad for the graying woman who must have gotten here before 8AM–the man she was waiting for is being relocated here from Mexico by VW.  Apparently he didn’t read the memo, because he’s there without the necessary proof of residency.  The woman asks him to check his brief case twice to make sure he doesn’t have some document in there that would meet the requirement, but he doesn’t.  She says sweetly, “Oh well, we’ll just go to the bank and come right back” in a subtle Southern drawl.  But I know what she’s thinking, “You dumb &*#!  I waited here for your for over a half an hour so you wouldn’t have to stand in line and you can’t even show up with the &*#^%$@ documents I told you to bring!”  Well, that’s what I would have been thinking anyway.  🙂

When we get to the window, the woman checks my documents, makes copies of them, and hands me a form and a number and tells me to go sit in the next room until my number is called.  I am prepared for this since Pat went through it two days earlier.  We sit down and I fill out my form.  It’s now 9:00AM.  I pull out my MiFi hot spot and work laptop and get online and start to work.  It takes until 10AM before my number is called–partly due to a faulty license printer.  By this time, I have finished a presentation I needed to get done before vacation, answered a dozen or so emails, responded to multiple instant messages, and caught up on several administrative tasks.  I wonder if I could work from this waiting room every day–I get so much done here!

I walk up and hand the woman my form and other documents.  She keys in all the information I’ve written down on the paper.  As I watch, I wonder why we couldn’t do that from the web.  I ask her if my motorcycle endorsement will transfer and she says “Yes” and circles an “M” on the form without looking at my driver’s license to see if I actually have a motorcycle endorsement or not.  Just then, a man walks in carrying a helmet and asks about taking his motorcycle endorsement test.  Confirming he has an appointment, she tells him she’ll be with him in just a minute.  She finishes up with me and sends me over to wait to have my picture taken.

I stand there remembering my own motorcycle endorsement test.  I don’t remember all of it, but I remember the three hardest parts:  A slalom through tightly spaced cones at less than 20 MPH, a surprise swerve, and, the killer of those on big bikes, a U-turn at slow speed inside a tight box painted on the pavement.  There were 10 people in the group that took the test that day.  3 of us passed:  a woman on a 50 cc scooter, a man on a 750 who was taking the test for the third time, and me on my little 250 Kawasaki.  I seriously considered staying after and renting out my bike when I saw the next group full of 750s and bigger.

The woman who will take my picture is almost ready and she asks me to sit in the chair.  Before she can take my picture, the woman who took my paperwork comes over and I hear her ask the photographer woman, “I’ve got someone here for a motorcycle test.  What do I do?”  The other woman replies, “Just have him ride up the block a little ways, turn around, and come back.”  I find myself wondering how motorcycle death rates compare between Tennessee and Ohio.

After I passed my test that day so many years ago, on my ride back home, I was almost run over 3x.  I was happy I knew how to swerve unexpectedly, gear down quickly, and to always have an alternate plan for escape from such situations.  By the time I got home, I was also happy that I’d made the decision to trade in my Kawasaki for a 1340 Harley Dyna low rider.  Although it was a few more weeks before I got my Harley, when I finally did, the noise and size kept me in drivers’ sights far more frequently than when I was on the Kaw.  However, the Kaw was a life saver for the endorsement test–I never would have passed with the rake angle on the low rider.  I couldn’t turn that thing around on a 2-lane road, let alone inside the box required by the state of Ohio.  Sigh.  Those were the days!

The woman at the Drivers’ Service Center hands me my new Tennessee Driver’s license.  I look it over.  It’s not as colorful as my old Ohio license, but I can’t compare side-by-side because they took my Ohio license from me.  Although I’ve lived in other places for a few months at a time in the past, I’ve never become a resident of another state before.  I am suddenly struck by the officialness of having a driver’s license and it being from another state.  I guess I am a Tennessian–or whatever we’re called.  After putting away my new license, I gather up my things and Pat and I walk outside.  Pat drives me to transfer my title and get my new license plate (there’s only a rear plate in Tennessee), which, amazingly takes less than 10 minutes.  As he rushes me back to my home office for my next conference call, I suddenly realize that I haven’t driven a car in Chattanooga once yet.  Oh well, at least I can if I need to!

 

Walking and Running

Posted by dkrashb on

I am working out with a trainer at a gym that seems to largely cater to younger people (younger than me, that is).  When I first signed up for training, the trainer asked me if I had an event I was getting ready for like vacation or a wedding.  Apparently I am unusual in that I don’t get motivated to workout by major events in my life.  I just want to be able to do fun things that require moderate fitness and I have a hard time getting to the gym if I don’t have an appointment.  I’m OK with only going to the gym 2x a week.  I’d rather get exercise outside or in yoga class (which I have yet to go to since moving to Chattanooga).  My trainer sent me “homework” that suggests what I should be doing on the days I’m not working out with him.  He congratulated me for deciding to make a “change.”  I’m not sure if he really gets the notion of just maintaining.

That said, today I am going to the gym at 5:30AM.  This is because it’s hard to get convenient times in the morning before work and, by joining up with another woman, we will work out for an hour instead of a half hour.  I’m not quite clear on why I can’t just go at 6:00Am for a half hour, but apparently this woman likes to train for an hour.  In any case, the alarm goes off at 4:45Am and it’s the first time my alarm has gone off before I was awake in about 2 months.  I’m a little annoyed that I booked an appointment at 5:30AM at a time when I couldn’t sleep past 4:00AM, but I’ve now slept until 6:00AM several days in a row and, of course, I have to get up at 4:45AM.  But, I steel myself and get out of bed, trying to remind myself how good I feel after I work out.

After having some coffee and doing some basic grooming (like brushing my teeth and running my wet hands through my crazy hair to try to calm it down), I pull on workout clothes and fix myself a bottle of water.  I walk next door and stow my jacket in the locker room.  I have 10 minutes, so I get on a treadmill.  Today, it’s clean–possibly an advantage of coming in at 5:30?

I walk for a while and then realize that it’s after 5:30AM and there is no sign of my trainer.  He had mentioned that the woman I was supposed to work out with hadn’t signed up yet two days ago, so I find myself wondering if I’m working out with him at 6:00AM instead.  Since he’s a punctual guy, I decide I might as well get some cardio and step up my treadmill pace.  I alternate 1 minute intervals of walking and running.  I really hate to run.  I don’t know why.  I have vague memories from childhood of spending most of my time running around outside chasing things like run away balls and, later, boys.  I remember racing across the field outside my elementary school and trying to outrun the wind.  I’m not sure how one knows when one is outrunning the wind, but it seemed like a fun game at the time.  Yet, by the time I was 15 and thought seriously about trying out for track for all of 24 hours, going out for a morning run felt like torture.  And that is how I have continued to feel about running ever since.

Unfortunately for me, walking on a treadmill is about as interesting as watching concrete harden.  I have to do something to break up the time.  So, I run one minute at a time.  Each run interval, I go a little faster until I get to an 8 MPH pace.  For those who prefer not to do math, that is 7.5 minutes per mile, more than 1 1/2 times the average pace of Mutai over 26.2 miles at the Boston Marathon.  Did I mention that I feel like I’m sprinting at a 7.5 minute/mile pace?  I might be able to run faster, but I have too many visions of shooting off the back of the treadmill and crashing through the window behind me to try.  So far, I’ve only come off a treadmill once, and it was worth it to see the look on my trainer’s face that day since I sustained only a minor bruise.  But, there’s no one around to catch me today, so I’m good with maxing out at this pace.

After spending 20 minutes alternating running and walking, I decide I should start slowing down.  I figure my trainer will arrive at 6AM and I don’t want to be too out of breath to start lifting.  I slow the pace to a 4.0 MPH walk and decrease the incline to slow my heart.  After a few minutes, I slow down some more and keep slowing down the pace every 30 seconds until I’m crawling along at 3.0 MPH.  My trainer arrives and walks by to let me know he’s there.

When I join him, he’s headed to the Smith press so I can do squats.  I tell him I just did running intervals on an incline as I mop my face with my shirt (I keep forgetting they don’t provide towels).  He asks me if I usually do cardio before lifting.  I laugh and explain that I thought we were starting at 5:30 and thought I’d do cardio since I was there.  As it turns out, he had texted me last night to tell me we would go at 6:00AM instead, but I didn’t get his text before turning off my phone for the night.  For a moment, I am nostalgic about the days when we had landline telephones in our homes and people actually called us on them when they wanted to tell us something.  But, times have changed and now technology makes our lives both easier and, sometimes, more annoying.

I do the squats on my tired legs and complete a tough 30 minute leg workout.  Doing legs always makes me dizzy.  The up and down of squatting makes me light headed after a while.  I’ve been told this is because I have low blood pressure.  Whatever the reason, I think it’s a good excuse for the fact that I accidentally (I swear!) walked into the men’s locker room after my workout.  Truthfully, I didn’t make it around the corner to actually see anything, realizing that the entry looked unfamiliar, but I sure scooted out of there quickly when I realized my mistake!  There are surveillance cameras all over the gym–I bet I made someone smile at least.

When I make it into the correct locker room, I take some time to really stretch.  There is space in the women’s locker room with an exercise ball and two matts on the floor.  I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do there, but stretching seemed like a good use of the space.  I went through several yoga poses, practicing yogic breathing.  As I relax into pigeon pose, I realize I haven’t stretched for weeks.  I really need to get yoga back into my schedule when we get back from our upcoming trip–every muscle feels like wood.  After spending 20 minutes trying to regain some flexibility, I’m pretty sure it’s time for a nap.  But, I head home knowing that there will be no nap today.

Grocery Shopping

Posted by dkrashb on

At the end of another long work day made more frantic by the holiday on Monday and our upcoming 2-week vacation, I log off and put my laptop to sleep wishing I could go to sleep as well.  We have no food in the house and are at a loss as to what to do for dinner.  We decide to head over to the local Greenlife Grocery store, the Whole Foods of Chattanooga.  I get out two large, reusable shopping bags and we head out the door.

The walk to the grocery store is only a block and a half through the pleasant, recently developed neighborhood.  We pass a riverfront mid-rise condominium building that advertises its “sustainable” construction.  I’m not sure what about it is sustainable–maybe they have solar panels on the roof?  But it’s a nice building with a large, beautifully landscaped courtyard in the middle, visible from the sidewalk as we walk by.  When we first came down to Chattanooga looking for a place to live, we had considered this building, but we didn’t want to buy property and they didn’t have anything for rent.

We arrive at the grocery store in less than 5 minutes and walk in the door expecting to see our favorite cashier standing at the checkout just inside–she’s been there every time we’ve come to the store.  She likes to tease Pat, who comes to the grocery store more often than I do and often at times that most people are at work.  When Pat recently had his hair cut from shoulder length to something under an inch, she said, “Someone must have gotten a job!”  He laughed and explained that he’s always had a job.  When I asked her, “Don’t you think he looks good with his hair short?  He looks so much younger!”  She replied with, “I don’t know, long, short . . . ” her voice trailing away as she ducked her head and blushed.  I realized then that she has a crush on my husband.  This happens frequently.  I’ve grown accustomed to other women envying me for my husband.  Women who have never met him fall in love with him when I talk about how he does laundry, cooking, and grocery shopping as well as more traditionally male tasks like building things and maintaining cars.  But women who meet him usually find themselves blushing and flirting.  He brushes this off when I tease him about it, commenting on the fact that most of the women who gush over him are over fifty and that he doesn’t have similar power on “hotties” under thirty.  I think this is a great compliment–after all, we women gain wisdom about men as we age and gaining the affections of these wise women speaks to the underlying compassion that comes through in every interaction with Pat.

But today, a different cashier stands at the checkout line and greets us only automatically.  We smile and say hello and move on to do our shopping.  We have an addiction to Naan.  This store carries a particularly good brand that is displayed in the freezer case.  It toasts up fresh and hot like bread straight out of the oven.  However, I think someone at the store has realized our addiction and is playing a game with us; every time we look for it, it’s moved.  Today I check the first three places we found it to no avail.  Then, I spot it in a new place in the center of the freezer aisle.  With the relief only an addict can feel, I seize a package and throw it into our cart.  It’s a funny thing how attached I can get to simple pleasures.

We pick out eggs from a free-range, local farm where the chickens are free to roam outdoors.  They cost twice as much as the “cage free” eggs, but having learned that “cage free” just means they hens are kept in an over-crowded barn, I spend the extra money gladly.  I don’t want to eat eggs from overcrowded hens.  Regardless of my sympathy for the hens, there is just too much disease associated with overcrowded animals and I would rather eat animal products that come from more natural conditions that keep all of us healthier.  Moving on, we pick out organic Greek yogurt from grass-fed cows, another recent addiction.  After finding wild caught smoked salmon, organic almonds, and selecting a couple of day’s worth of fruit and vegetables from mostly local farmers, we realize we haven’t solved our dilemma over dinner.  We go to the prepared foods section and find some stuffed shells that will bake up nicely in the toaster oven.

We make our way to the cash register, hoping our favorite cashier has returned, but it’s still the same woman who greeted us when we arrived.  Instead of exchanging banter, we go through the paying process exchanging only minimal small talk.  It’s funny how developing rapport with a cashier makes us feel like we belong–today we feel like anonymous strangers passing through, just as we did the first time we came to this store.  Perhaps the fact that we still have made no friends in this town makes us cherish these small connections more, but I feel more disappointment over not seeing our regular cashier than I think is normal.

We distribute the groceries equally between the two grocery bags even though they would all fit into one.  This allows Pat to carry the bags balanced on both sides.  He slings each bag over his shoulders and we head on down the road.  Arriving home, I volunteer to make dinner.  This is a private joke between Pat and me–he took over preparing our meals early in our relationship, having decided I don’t know how to cook.  I’m actually quite competent in the kitchen as long as I have a recipe, but Pat is one of those artistic chefs who can whip up a meal from nothing.  He is insulted by the prospect of using a recipe and was convinced of my lack of ability the first time I made chili and didn’t sauté the onions before putting them in the pot.  The recipe didn’t call for it, so I didn’t do it.  Pat is religious about starting virtually every meal by sauteing onions in butter with salt.  He claims he can taste the difference when the salt isn’t properly incorporated into a recipe and just added later.  I like sauteed onions better, I admit, but I think he’s fooling himself on being able to taste the difference when salt is added later.  Personally, I’d rather add salt if a dish needs more flavor than eat it bland because of some rule about when to add salt, but not Pat.  Fortunately, he usually gets just the right amount the first time.

Tonight, I am allowed to make dinner because it requires only reheating the stuffed shells.  In the 15 years we’ve been together, when Pat needs a break from cooking, I’ve prepared only 3 things from scratch:  scrambled eggs with toast (which I take great pride in making so that the eggs are extra fluffy and still moist), grilled cheese with tomato soup (I only make the grilled cheese part, but I make it well), and Nabeyaki Udon (a Japanese soup that Pat loves but has so many steps that I only venture to make this on rare occasions).  Otherwise, Pat is not interested in my cooking.  Since cooking is not a great pleasure to me, I’m relieved that I don’t have to be the one to come up with interesting things to eat night after night, so this works well for both of us.

We sit down with our plates of hot food and discover that it’s not really all that hot.  I’m disappointed that I can’t even re-heat well, but we decide we are too hungry now to put it back in the oven.  I use the excuse that I don’t cook often enough to know how long things take.  Pat smiles and rolls his eyes, but he thanks me anyway, enjoying the break from kitchen duty.

Taking Lunch

Posted by dkrashb on

One of my colleagues who has worked from home for many years advised me that getting out of the house is imperative.  He told me that he makes a point of going out to lunch nearly every day just to make sure he gets out and around other people.  While I often have too many back-to-back conference calls to go out to lunch, today I have a a half an hour, which is just enough time to take a walk to pick up take out.  My husband just happens to come in about the same time I’m wrapping up my last morning call and asks me what I want to do about lunch the second I hang up.  “Want to walk to the Riverstreet Deli?” I ask.  “Sure!” he replies.  I rush around finding shoes and a jacket (can’t believe I need a jacket when just a few days ago I was sweating in a tank top and shorts).  I check with my husband to make sure he has the apartment key and we head out.

Feeling stiff and sore between my morning workout and sitting at the computer all morning, I opt for the elevator.  The elevator in our building has a mind of its own.  It decides if it wants to allow you to push the button to call it or not.  When it’s cranky, only a firm but gentle touch will convince it to come.  Then, if it honors you by opening its doors, it may change its mind and refuse to let you select a destination.  When it’s in a really foul mood, it will close its doors and then refuse to go anywhere.  If you dare to lose your patience and bang on its buttons, you’re pretty much guaranteed to be stuck until someone else comes along who it likes better.  Fortunately, people come and go a lot, so we haven’t been stuck for more than 30 seconds so far.  I’m pretty certain that it’s only a matter of time before one of us gets trapped for days.  While this should motivate us to take the stairs, it’s become almost a competition of wills.

Today, the elevator is only slightly cranky and we make it to the first floor unimpeded.  The rain has changed from a downpour to an almost floating mist.  We run across the street with our rain jackets zipped and hoods up.  I, however, couldn’t find any shoes appropriate for the weather, having packed my cold-weather shoes into a box somewhere in our storage closet down the hall, and am, once again, wearing my Chacos hiking sandals with socks.  While this is comfortable for fall temperatures, it doesn’t work out so well in the rain.  My feet are wet before we turn the first corner even though I step carefully around the puddles.  Fortunately, it’s not so cold that my toes freeze.

We walk quickly across the street while the light is green–it’s a difficult intersection to get a across with the afternoon traffic.  There are usually pedestrians around the neighborhood, but today we seem to be the only ones silly enough to walk in the rain.  We take the scenic route through the park and as we pass by the wetland, entering a wooded area, a fawn suddenly appears at the side of the path.  We stand still and try not to scare it, but we are clearly making it nervous.  We back away slowly to give it some room and it bounds across the path to the woods on the other side.  We stand still and watch some more, waiting to see if it has a mother near by.  After a few seconds, a doe appears in the brush behind where we originally spotted the fawn.  The fawn, now about a hundred yards away in the other part of the woods, starts making a woeful noise that perks its mother’s ears.  We back further away and take a different route, hoping that mother and fawn will reunite quickly.

We walk along the riverfront looking at the cityscape on the other side of the river.  Lookout Mountain has disappeared in the clouds.  Only the buildings immediately on the riverfront are visible through the mist.  It’s like a giant cloud has parked itself on the landscape.  We walk quickly today, not having much time, with me hopping over puddles as best as I can.  We wind our way under the Market Street bridge holding our breath–the giant trash dumpsters located there never smell fresh.  Arriving at the deli, it looks dark from the outside, but when we open the doors, it’s completely full of people.  Apparently this is a popular lunch destination–impressive considering there aren’t many offices on this side of the river.

The man at the counter greets us and tells us about their specials.  He has a gruff voice and a Northern accent, making us think of New Jersey.  He describes today’s sandwiches with relish, clearly proud of the food he serves–we assume he is the owner.  I order Muffaletta.  I don’t know what Muffaletta is, but I’m on a “try new things” kick.  Pat orders a “Classic Rueben” with no dressing.  The man seems somewhat affronted.  He says, “No dressing?  Do you want some mustard on it?”  Pat says no and the man says, “Dry?” shaking his head.  Pat affirms and the man tells him, “OK, but if it’s just a good Rueben and not a great Rueben, it’s your fault, not mine.”  Definitely New Jersey.  Pat smiles at this and agrees to the man’s terms.  We wait for our sandwiches standing by the counter, looking over the crowd in the room.  Many people are dressed in business casual.  Groups of mostly men sit at tables swapping stories from the office.  Then there are a few younger patrons in jeans and looking quite casual.

Most tables have 4 people at them and I wonder what they do that they’re able to come up with four people to go out to lunch on a Tuesday after a holiday weekend.  I remember back to when I started my first job out of college and we used to take an hour for lunch everyday.  Lunch was considered sacred back then–no one would schedule meetings between 11AM and 1PM since we had flex time and people went to lunch at different times.  Lunch disappeared from my schedule at least 10 years ago.  Working with mostly remote teams across multiple time zones made it impossible to set aside an hour to go eat.  Now days, I mostly hope one of my conference calls will end a few minutes early so I can grab some food to eat while on my next call.  I miss being able to go to lunch.

The cashier hands us our sandwiches in an old fashioned brown paper bag.  We thank her and head out the door.  We decide to take the short way home since I only have 15 minutes now before my next call and I’m leading the call, so I won’t be able to eat at the same time.  We pass Julie Darling Donuts and sniff the air much like the nervous deer we saw earlier.  The smells coming from the donut shop always make my stomach growl.  But we pass on by, neither of us much in the mood for donuts.

We dare to take the elevator again when we return to our building.  It behaves rather well and we make it to our apartment with 10 minutes before my call.  The Muffaletta is still warm.  The big round bun soft, but with body to it and a nice, slightly crisp crust.  I love good bread.  The meat is piled so high that I can barely fit the sandwich in my mouth.  Since we eat in the privacy of our own home, I don’t worry about the grease I’ve smeared all over my face until I’ve finished the sandwich.  It’s really good.  I remind myself that I wanted to get in the habit of eating really healthy again and that I can’t eat like this every day, at the same time realizing that I have been eating like this every day for several weeks now.  Finishing up my sandwich, I use up several napkins cleaning up just in time to go back to work.  In spite of the calories, my only real regret is that I didn’t have ten more minutes to savor my sandwich slowly.

Back to the Gym

Posted by dkrashb on

Collapsing on the couch after a long weekend at Great Smoky Mountain National Park, I think about tomorrow.  I’m supposed to meet my personal trainer at the gym at 6:00AM.  I wonder why I thought that would be a good idea?  My legs and shoulders are aching from hiking over the weekend and all I really want to do is sleep.  The gods must have heard my protest because I receive a text from my trainer that he’s had several cancellations and he’s able to reschedule for 7:30AM instead.  I think briefly about running out to buy a lottery ticket while my luck is hot, but decide not to push it.

I collapse into bed feeling wide awake and sleepy at the same time.  I download a new book to my iPad, having finished “The Help.”  I choose something light and fun and go with Kathy Reich’s newest novel.  I turn to the first page and get about a paragraph read before I’m nodding off.  I plug in my iPad, set it on the nightstand and roll over, falling fast asleep.

The next morning, I awake before my alarm goes off at 6:00AM, but not by much.  It’s nice to be sleeping in again–I’ve been waking up around 4:00AM for weeks and it’s gotten really old.  I go through my morning routine, making coffee, sitting on the balcony, writing my blog.  But the temperature has dropped about 30 degrees with all the rain.  I go back inside to grab a fleece and slippers before returning to the balcony.  It’s still raining and I wonder if the whether will clear in time for our upcoming trip to Germany.  My weather app tells me it’s going to rain for a week and I worry for a moment about our flight on Sunday, but then return to my blog.

Putting my computer away, I brush my teeth and head out the door, forgetting to bring a bottle of water.  Today, I am wearing long workout pants for the first time in months.  I zip up my rain jacket and pull up the hood before exiting the lobby.  It’s a short walk to the gym–it’s right across the street–but my feet get wet anyway.  I hang my jacket in the locker room and go back out to the treadmills.  The treadmill I pick has an error and won’t start–the dependency on a computer to go for a walk strikes me as strange.  I move over one machine and start walking.  I only have a few minutes before my training session starts, so my goal is just to warm up and stretch a little.  As I increase the speed, I notice that there are puddles sitting on the handrail around the control panel.  The entire handrail is splattered and I wonder what sweaty beast last used the machine.  I am already walking and not up for changing treadmills again, so I try not to touch anything.  I add a 2% incline and speed up to 4.2 miles per hour, about the fastest I can walk without breaking into a trot.  In my fivefingers shoes, my foot fall hits mid-sole and I keep my knees more bent so that I probably look like I think I’m running–I imagine what I look like to an observer, running in slow motion.  My feet make a funny “slap, slap” noise with each stride and I try to figure out how to walk more quietly.  I actually am walking more quietly than I do in regular shoes; when I wear running shoes, my feet go “thump, thump” instead.  I’ve often wondered why I am such a noisy walker, but I’ve never figured out how to walk silently.  I have no more success at quieting my stride today, but the other people in the gym are all wearing ear buds, so I hope that they can’t hear me.

After warming up for 5 minutes, I hop off the treadmill and grab a spray bottle and a cleaning towel.  I spray down the treadmill and wipe off the sweat left behind by some stranger, trying not to think about it too much.  Then, I stretch my calves against the wall.  Wow!  I didn’t know calves could be so tight, but I realize I didn’t stretch after doing many miles of steep hiking over the weekend.  I make a note mentally that getting into yoga class has to be a priority when we get back from Germany.

My trainer walks up and tells me he’s ready when I am and I follow him back into the small training room.  I don’t much like this room.  It’s tight for two people to be in and it heats up quickly, making me feel like I’m working much harder than I am.  He starts me off with 2 minutes of mountain climbers.  Mountain climbers are a deceptive exercise.  First, they are nothing like mountain climbing.  Second, they seem easy when I start, but after about a minute, I’m ready to get off the mountain!  With my arms extended and hands on the floor, I move my feet back and forth underneath me.  It’s like skipping in place while supporting your upper body with your hands.  As I slow my pace and shorten my stride, my trainer chuckles and comments that he really likes this exercise because it uses your whole body.  I would make a smart acre remark about how maybe he really likes this exercise because he’s not the one doing it, but I’m too out of breath to say anything.  Next come push-ups.

He tells me to do 30 full push-ups with a pause at the bottom.  I look at him skeptically and say, “Maybe 10.”  I’m not good at full push-ups–too many years of doing them off my knees, I guess.  I do get 10 on my toes, which is quite an accomplishment for me.  Then, I drop to my knees and do 20 more.  My trainer says encouraging things like, “Good job!  I’m proud of you!” when I’m done, but I suspect he picked up positive reinforcement from trainer school and that he’s really laughing at me.

Next I do jumping jacks with shoulder presses.  While the average person may find this to be an easy exercise, I lack the coordination to keep track of my feet and hands simultaneously.  I have a hard time keeping my shoulder press in time with my jumping jacks, and find myself nearly smashing my head between the weights when I get confused.  Fortunately, self-preservation kicks in just in time to prevent a concussion.  This time, my trainer does laugh at me.  I switch to concentrating on my arms instead of my feet and find myself jumping backwards until I almost collide with the massage table that sits against the wall.  My trainer covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his amusement.  I switch back to concentrating on my feet and then forget about my arms again.  All of this reminds me of when Pat got me a drum kit because I thought I wanted to learn how to play.  I had three problems in learning to play the drums:  1)  I can’t keep time, 2)  I could only get one foot or one hand going at a time, and 3) I kept missing the drum heads with my sticks.  Other than that, I was a natural.

Finishing up the shoulder press jumping jacks, my trainer has me do some exercise whose name I don’t know.  If you asked me to name it, I would call it “torture.”  This involves getting back into push-up position, but with each hand on a weight.  Then, while holding my body in a plank, I’m supposed to do a one-arm row with the weight, alternating sides without twisting.  By the time I finish, my shoulders are burning (not in a good way) and my fingers are going numb.  Sharing this with my trainer, he decides to give me a break and has me lay down on the massage table.  He takes out a foam roller and rolls it all over my sore muscles.  Now this I can do!  When he gets to my left calf, I practically jump off the table.  My right leg bends and I grunt.  He says, “Calves a little tight?” and I “ugh” back at him.  He moves to my right calf and it’s even worse.  He tells me, “If that’s too much pressure, let me know–sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”  The man resembles Michael Clarke Duncan in physique–I can only imagine what it’s like to be that strong.  Truthfully, he’s also a lot like many of Michael Clarke Duncan’s characters in that he’s sweet and soft-spoken in spite of his intimidating size.  For that reason, I trust him to roll this foam thing over my sore muscles.  When he’s done, I do feel better.  The knots in my shoulders have shrunk from walnuts to peas and my fingers have stopped tingling.  I wonder if I could just come in for a half hour of roller therapy instead of a workout?

The Art of Waiting

Posted by dkrashb on

One of the things we have to take care of soon is getting a Tennessee driver’s license. We think that in a small town, this is likely to be easier than in Columbus, so we plan to walk down to the closest Driver Services Center at lunch. Lunch comes and I have an hour before my next conference call. We head out, but I make the mistake of letting Pat navigate and we discover a half mile later that we went the wrong direction. As we walk what has become a mile to the center, the trees disappear and the neighborhood deteriorates. It’s amazing the difference a mile can make.

We are hot and sweaty by the time we arrive at the center. There is a small woman standing in the entrance between two sets of doors and it appears that the line is backed out the door. I ask the woman if she is waiting and she replies with something unintelligible like, “it shor ’nuff is, uh-huh,” which I take to mean yes. But then I look more closely at her, standing away from the inner door, swaying slightly on her feet and wearing enormous sunglasses that cover 2/3 of her face. I decide to ask again as someone comes out the door, but she doesn’t move. This time, she says, “uh, no, uh-uh” along with a bunch of other mutterings that seem unrelated. We decide to step inside, discovering a line that wraps the wall of a 20×20 room. There are no cattle ropes to create switchbacks in the line and people lean wearily against the wall fanning themselves, although it feels cooler than in the entry way by at least 20 degrees.

Following the line around the room leads to a window to our immediate right with one woman working with one person, moving as slowly as if she has all day to wait on each person. I look at the line, my watch, and then Pat and say, “We’re not going to make it.” We walk on home and I return to work early for my call, but we decide to try later in the afternoon when my calls are done for the day and I can come back to work on my own schedule.

We decide to drive on our second attempt. It’s only gotten hotter and the neighborhood wasn’t really conducive to walking. When we arrive, at first we think the line hasn’t moved but we don’t recognize the people in the room from earlier. Many are teenagers. Most have books–never a good sign when you’re getting in line. A woman arrives after us and suggests that the long line is due to kids wanting to get their driver’s license before the holiday weekend. I ponder this and think about the increased death toll on the highways over Labor Day each year–coincidence?

We wait outside the door in the terrarium-like entry way until people shuffle forward enough for us to fit inside the air-conditioned room. No one has actually left, but they condensed somehow. We stand there watching the same, slow-moving woman waiting on a man that could have been the same guy who was at the counter three hours earlier. We are there 20 minutes and the line hasn’t moved. I experience a flash-back to picking up an overnight package at the Rome airport nearly 15 years ago.

Back when I was doing software acceptance testing and Telecom Italia was my customer, I was once on site when we needed a patch and we needed it quickly so that I could wrap up and go home on time. The team in Columbus decided it would be faster to ship the patch to me (back when software was shipped physically on tape) through airline cargo service instead of DHL since I could pick it up at the airport the next day whereas it would take two days to have DHL deliver it to the site. When I told one of my Italian colleagues this, he rolled his eyes and did the Italian shrug thing indicating he thought it was a very bad idea, but smiled when I told him I would pick it up myself. He asked me twice before he believed that I was really going to pick it up myself. Had I been older, wiser, or a little more experienced, I might have known better than to volunteer. I arrived at the airport cargo area just before 9am the next morning. My first problem was reading signs in Italian. I followed a sign around a fence and paused, confused as to whether I was in the right place. As I started moving forward again, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw two uniformed men carrying automatic weapons, running towards me frantically waving their arms. Things got worse from there.

Fortunately for me, it was pre-9/11, so they didn’t shoot me. But I was apparently headed out onto the run-way when they stopped me. They gestured me back to the other side of the fence showing some small amount of patience for a lost American who didn’t speak Italian, but not much. After that, I spent the day moving from one desk to the next, changing buildings 6 times, paying fees and getting papers with special stamps. I literally had to get approvals from 10 different people, only one of whom spoke English.

Had it not been for a kind English-speaking man who guided me through about five of the steps and humbly asked each Italian bureaucrat to take care of me quickly since I didn’t understand, I’m fairly certain I would still be standing in one of those lines. I brought my American expectation of customer service with me to the airport that day and was wholly unprepared for the Italian bureaucrat who wields power by withholding a stamp.

At the end of the process, I stood outside a warehouse in my spring dress next to a group of truck drivers there to pick up their daily load. A man driving a forklift would disappear for 20 minutes at a time and reappear with one load associated with one number regardless of how empty the forklift was. A security guard came over and started chatting me up while I waited. He spoke enough English to take pity on me. He spoke to the forklift driver and my package was the next to be delivered. I was extremely grateful, but not grateful enough to accept the security guard’s offer to take me out for pizza. The funniest part was seeing the forklift driver arrive with my package. He drove this huge forklift that could haul a good-sized truck load, but he made a single trip for my one box that was about 2″x3″x4″. I imagined him trying to lift it with the fork.

When I arrived at the office just after 3PM, my colleague looked up with shock on his face, “What?! You are back already?? That was fast! We will have to send you every time!” Not on your life, I thought. I made sure to tell all my American colleagues never to ship that way again.

But now, here I am in the good old US of A being held hostage by another bureaucrat. Once again I look at my watch and think of the work I need to finish before the holiday weekend. Pat suggests we try another office that’s bigger, although across town. We head out and drive 20 minutes to get there (partly because we took the long way by accident). The office is bigger, but the line is longer. They use numbers here and we’re told that they’ve already announced that they aren’t giving out any more numbers today. It’s 45 minutes before close and they aren’t sure they’ll be able to serve all the people already in line. We give up and decide to block out several hours on my calendar the following week since we will be at the 30-day limit for getting our licenses changed. I do not look forward to our return.

These tasks are never fun, but I find myself frustrated by agencies who make them worse.  I’m not sure why Chattanooga is so behind the times on making this easier.  Maybe they haven’t outsourced the task to private business owners?  Maybe they don’t collect enough taxes?  Who knows, but I wish I could order my drivers license online!

Flying and Irene

Posted by dkrashb on

Returning to the weekday feels like being pulled down under water slowly and gasping for breath. The problems that I managed to forget about for two days wait for me with evil grins. I quickly find myself embroiled. But, I have only half a day to tackle work before I have to get on a plane and take my first business trip out of the Chattanooga airport. The airport website boasts of direct flights to 8 cities. To complicate matters, I am trying to get into White Plains, NY via Atlanta. Atlanta is not a problem, but hurricane Irene has just passed through New York while I was busy enjoying myself over the weekend. I was supposed to fly out Sunday, but my trip was postponed a day to accommodate Irene. I mentally prepare myself for a difficult travel day.

We check the directions to the airport several times, not being familiar with the route. The GPS and google both say it will take about 18 minutes to get there. We allow plenty of time in case there is traffic or long lines, since sometimes small airports are the hardest to get through efficiently. The drive to the airport takes us on some back roads on the Southeast side of the city. The houses we pass remind us that times have been hard and not everyone has a fantastic view of the riverfront.

I am on a conference call as we drive and, of course, am mid-sentence when we get to the airport. Pat takes the drive in and, confused by the signs directing us to long-term parking but not to passenger drop-off, picks a drive that takes us right back out of the airport. I laugh out loud that we have driven less than 50 yards and managed to go right by the airport and find myself explaining my laugh to the folks on my call. Fortunately, it’s a laid-back team call.

Pat finds the drop-off on the second pass and I manage to mute myself long enough to tell him good-bye. The airport seems abandoned. There are only a handful of people in the ticketing area. I continue my conference call while I use a machine to print a boarding pass, attempting to get a seat assignment on my second leg with no luck. It never bodes well to not have a seat assignment.

I find myself with time to kill, waiting for my conference call to end before attempting to go through security. I walk around a display of photographs of Chattanooga. Listening to the call makes it hard to appreciate the photos, but it at least gives me something to look like I’m doing besides lurking. When the call ends, I get into a security line that has 3 people in it and, in spite having removed all metal, a beep goes off, I am told I’ve been randomly selected for additional screening. Seems like I am frequently the target of random forces. In this case, it just means they test my carry-on for traces of explosives. I always wonder what kinds of dust might attach itself to my suitcase that would register as explosive, but so far I’ve always passed this test and today is no exception.

When at last I am sitting on the plane, lifting into the sky, I bend down to look out the window. We curve up and back over the downtown area. I am surprised by how flat it looks. With most of the buildings being less than 10 stories, they don’t register as office buildings from above, but flatten into the landscape, looking not much taller than houses. The river bends crazily through the town and I spot the now-familiar bridges that we have so often crossed. I try to feel like this is my home town, but seeing it from the air for the first time makes it seem completely unfamiliar.

The flight to Atlanta is so short that by the time I get my iPad out and start reading, it’s time to turn off electronics again. The pilot startles me several times as we come in for a landing with sudden drops in altitude and quick turns. I don’t startle easily on planes, but I haven’t been flying often the past few years, I wonder if I’m getting rusty. We land hard and stop fast; I’m thrown forward against my seatbelt. The pilot seems to be racing and I find myself looking out the window again, fearful that he’s crossing a runway in the path of an incoming plane. But, we are safe and we arrive at the gate on time and uninjured.

Of course, the premonition evoked by my lack of a seat assignment on the next flight comes true. I am stuck in Atlanta overnight and will not arrive in White Plains until late the next morning, meaning I will miss the first several hours of my training class. After waiting in line for 45 minutes to get my ticket changed, I am grumpy and irritated. But the woman who helps me seems to take it all in stride,and in a matter of minutes, she has me laughing and feeling grateful for the opportunity to meet her. I can’t say what she did to cause this change in attitude except her best to help me, but I wish I could get a dose of whatever it is she’s got that has this calming effect on people.

I manage to get a hotel room at the near-by Marriott. When I arrive, it is swarming with people greeting each other and catching up on the disasters they’ve worked since last seeing one another. It turns out that Atlanta is FEMA headquarters for the response to Irene. I am reminded that being stuck in Atlanta overnight in a comfortable hotel is hardly a disaster. When I get to my room and my key doesn’t work, I find I am not irritated. I return to the long line in the lobby and feel nothing but patience as I listen to people swapping stories about flooded areas, lost homes, and injured people.

When I get settled in my room, I work for a couple of hours, trying to get caught up, knowing that it’s impossible, being in class for the next three days will mean I get woefully behind, but I look forward to the class anyway. I have missed the mind-bending of corporate training classes since working for a smaller company who didn’t worry so much about creating a culture. I’m interested to know what direction the mega-huge company that purchased us expects our minds to bend.

I put my work laptop away and call it a night. I feel like I will not sleep for hours, but when I pull out my iPad and start reading, I find my eyes closing almost immediately. Apparently travel (or lack there of) is exhausting.