Wednesday, May 31, 2006

My Dad Loves His Underwear


My dad loves his underwear.

I’m getting ready to go to Greece. This trip is different. It’s for pure pleasure. I don’t have to take a suit, or lipstick. My cell phone won’t work there and I won’t have to wear a badge or sign in at the registration desk of the corner café just to order a snack. I’ll be chillin’ on the beach, drinking with friends and writing my butt off.

The preparation for this trip has been intense. I’ve done it all myself and between cashing in airline miles, surfing the web and negotiating with Greek travel agents I’ve put together a pretty nice trip. Although Greece is not Italy, this process has brought back flashes of my trip to Italy in the summer of 2002. These images are not simply pleasant flashes, they’re flash backs. Smatterings of images brought on by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder resulting in the time I spent traveling though Italy with my father. A man who prefers to spend most of his waking hours in nothing more than his tighty-whities; which are neither tight, nor are they white. Being in the family travel trenches was hard, but I believe I’ve come out of it a better woman.

I’d traveled with my father before. Only, it wasn’t just me and Dad. My mom and my brother were there as a buffer and like infantry men, we had each other’s back. Spring after spring we made our way to Mexico for surf trips. We camped a lot and made day trips into San Francisco. The difference lies in the fact that I was a child. Our Italy trip was the first time we’d traveled together since adulthood took hold, and it was just me and dad, father and daughter, and the parent child roles had clearly started to reverse.

We went to Italy in summer. So it was hot. Not good conditions for warding off the instant-underwear move that my father has pioneered. Every time we checked into or returned to our hotel this was the scene:

We’d swerve into our parking spot. Step out of the car and make some low tone comments about what a great day it was. We made our way up the hotel stairs and down the hall that lead to our room. Inevitably I would be doing the pee-pee squeeze because I’d had a big lunch and too much pop. As soon as the door was open I’d push forward into the room, rush into the bathroom and by the time I got out, poof! the clothes my dad had been wearing had exploded off his body and were scattered everywhere. He’d be lying on his bed, face up with is ankles crossed, his face hidden behind a magazine and the only article of clothing remaining on his body were his not-so-tight and not-so-white underwear. I’d roll my eyes expecting the next move. And it would always come: “Shit! Where’s my passport? Louise!” He’d screetch like I’d lost his passport. Then he’d frantically rip through his bag, toiletries, and linens making a huge mess and covering any evidence of organization I had instituted in the beginning of the day.

Moments later he’d be holding his passport in his hand, panting from the adrenaline and smiling, pleased with the notion that he’d just saved us from having to find an American Consulate, wait in line all night just to be asked to come back tomorrow. Good job dad! All this in his loose, flaccid, man panties. No sense of shame, modesty or respect for the witness.

Over and over again this scene played itself through. Day after day. You’d think it was something someone could get used to. Think again. Soon this scene looked like something closer to a tantrum than a hunt for official documents. But, instead of diapers they were Jockeys. And I was expected to be the patient mother who’s there to support the situation.

My dad does whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it. No matter who’s watching or who it will impact. The baby Jesus isn’t even safe. Example: Every city in Italy has a Duomo, a church that’s clearly the spiritual center of the community. You don’t find churches in Italy that are rented steel buildings in the back of a parking lot. There are no modern religious structures. The thought of converting a Wal-Mart into a place of worship is an act of blasphemy. In the US, such redevelopment is considered an act of commercial genius. Anyway, we spent a lot of time in churches in Tuscany and Umbria. These places are quiet, spiritual caverns that give you the sense that God could crush you in an instant if he didn’t like what you were wearing. Or, if you chose to put four Euro in the donation box instead of five. Sinners beware. These places give you the feeling that no sin is too small for the heavens to open up and release an omnipotent smack-down on your feeble ass.

My father didn’t care. While worshipers, tourists, historians and school children endured the audio tour of some of the most ornate religious architecture ever built by man, my father, the moment his feet started to ache, sat down in the middle of the tile floor of the Duomo di Santa Maria di il vino Espiritu Santu Magdaleda. Horrified, I tried to scoop him up by the arm pits. “Get up!” I whisper-yelled. “Dad! If you’re tired, go out side. There are people praying. Get UP!”

“No. My feet hurt.” And he sat there.

I let go. With my head bowed in reverence I scurried away and tried not to look related to him. Minutes later I looked over my shoulder to see him still sitting cross-legged, reading the tour book and periodically leaning to one side or another in his attempt to squeeze one out. When I was ready to go I just passed him and whispered with a coordinated eye-roll “Come on. Let’s go.” I was just glad that he hadn’t stripped down to his underwear and lost his passport.

This behavior has endured throughout the years. And although I am impatient and embarrassed by it, I am also strangely jealous of his lack of inhibition. His ability to do as he pleases without any thought or hesitation has wisdom in it. He does what he likes and the world doesn’t stop. He’s not cast out of his social network. He usually gets what he wants and he has fun while he’s doing it. This is not to say it’s easy being him. It’s not. Nor is it easy being his daughter. But, what I’ve learned from him is invaluable. I’ve learned that you don’t always have to wear clean underwear and that you can sit on the floor of a Duomo and fart while you read and God won’t strike you down. Consider the possibilities.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

It's Dinner and a Show (like it or not)



I have come to hate eating out.

On the road I eat out a lot. And when I don’t eat out I eat in. It’s either take-out or room service which usually isn’t any better than a Hungry Man or a cold can of pork and beans opened with a knife and wolfed hobo style. “Tonight I eat out” I thought to myself as I headed for the elevator. Still in Minneapolis and staying on the edge of down town I surfed the likely resources for recommendations. Lots of trendy restaurants screamed “eat me” through the glossy ads in the lobby magazines. Concierges and front desk people, frequent Minneapolis travelers and bellmen, like usual, all had an opinion.

“Well, what are you in the mood for?”
“Fish.” I said.
I left the hotel with recommendation in hand.

Walking to the restaurant showed promise for a good solo evening. There was thunder and lightening but no rain. The air was warm and just short of soupy. A loitering black man gave me the once-over and a sincere sing-songy “Well hellooooo glamour girl.” I felt cute.

Things were looking good until I opened the door to the hotel that housed the restaurant I was heading to. I stepped into a cavernous lobby. It reeked of leftover afternoon busyness that had quickly wound down to a low, slightly stale hum much like a school play auditorium a half hour after curtain close. There were a few souls shuffling around and a handful of bellmen playing rock-paper-scissors to see who would go home early.

I made my way up the escalator to the convention level where the “great fish place” was. As I passed through the restaurant's threshold I was hit with sensory overload; low grade shock treatment in the form of entertainment. The place was loud, with jazzy décor and jazzier hostesses wearing jazzed-up hip little fashions. The music was more in the foreground than in the background and, big surprise, it was jazz. The “great fish place” was more like and over produced cirque-du-soleil a-la-pesce con musica fantastica. Viva Minnesota you cool catz. Strangely, I decided to stay.

At the bar I was handed a menu. As I scanned it I was shocked. A seventeen-dollar glass of California chardonnay! What? Thirty-seven bucks for a grilled piece of halibut, no sides. Yeah, isn’t that fish a bottom feeder? I turned my head and watched the people around me with mounds, yes mounds, of food scattered all over their tables. And I knew what it tasted like even before I ordered it. It’s business-people food. Expense account food. It’s all over priced, over sized, over salted, over presented, over merchandised and overwhelming. I wouldn’t be able to taste it over the music and when I was done I’d feel over stuffed. Back in to my hotel room I’d be doubled over but it would be worth it as I’d be getting double United Reward points because I’d bought it with my Double Miles card and I’d be doubly happy that I’d ordered the double-decker crab ravioli with clams. Is my description excessive? Try the desert menu. I went with the mussel appetizer plate. It was fit for a sumo demi-god.

Places like the “great fish place,” (or any other expense-report restaurant) are a lot like Disneyland for adults. But, instead of candy there’s wine, instead of roller coasters there’s sexual tension with your neighboring diners, instead of paying to get in you pay to get out. In the end you just feel tired, ripped off and a little queasy. All I really want is something in earthly portions that doesn’t taste a salt-lick. And, although I hate eating out I’ll continue to do it for the sake of hunger and for the sheer joy of writing stuff like this.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006


Tonight I was reminded that it’s lonely on the road.


I woke up from a nap feeling like I had nowhere to go. I slurped the moisture from my mouth as I became conscious of the TV that was left on when I laid down and hour earlier. I was still in my slacks and blouse, jewelry and lipstick. It was nearly 7:30. Disoriented and tired I sat up and felt a swell of indistinguishable emotion well up in my throat. I’m in Minneapolis. What restaurants do I know of? I’m at the Doubletree. Around the corner there’s Brit’s, an English pub. There’s beer and shepherd’s pie- mediocre food, perfect for a mediocre trip.

I forced my feet to the carpet and pushed down on the floor. The result was the rising of my body to a full standing position. Dragging my feet to my suitcase, I chose a pair of comfy army pants and a super soft long-john T-shirt. It was a deviation from my day time business battle-wear but I changed into it anyway and made it to the elevator, down to the lobby and out onto the street. Just outside the hotel rotating door I turned to my right and started walking.

Three buildings from my hotel tears welled up in the basins of my eyes like allergies coming on strong. I was about to have dinner all by myself, on a gloomy day in Minnesota, at the end of a difficult work day and on my fifth week in a row on the road. I was feeling the middle class homelessness that work travel elicits. Usually, the world feels like my family. I can slip in anywhere and feel like I’m at home. Like I belong to the things I’m watching. Like the hostess, or the bellman, or the taxi driver and I have been friends forever. Tonight I felt like the evening was a grave yard and the people I was passing on the street and sharing a restaurant with were animated head stones; each representing a life but not much more than a name and a date. They didn’t care about me and I didn’t care about them.

Loneliness is what my non-traveling friends never think I feel. “Wow, you’re going where? I don’t know how you do it. Jet setter!” I keep a smile and expect that the next trip will yield some kind of fantastic story about some guy in the airport that did some crazy thing that I’ve never seed before. And that that story will turn into “Dia, tell the story about the guy in the airport…” making me and my stories famous in my small circle of friends and working like a salve on my bruised travel bones.

I sat inside Brit’s and ordered one shepherd’s pie and two Boddingtons nearly back to back. I never write when I drink but tonight was an exception. The indistinguishable emotion stayed with me through my meal and as people filtered into the pub for the drinking hours, I began to realize that the emotion I had was loneliness. A feeling I haven’t had much.

The truth is, no matter where I go I’m always alone. I’m one person, self contained and separate from anyone else. I battle that feeling with club memberships, regular coffee stops and travel routines that make me feel part of something. I have life-talk with lots of the people who take my classes, I visit certain web sites frequently, I talk on the phone more than my wireless plan allows and I have parties at my house as often as I can tolerate. I exercise and call myself lots of titles that make me part of a virtual club. I’m a travel enthusiast, I’m a fun magnet, I’m family oriented, I’m a Hilton loyalist, I’m a hiker, I’m a Manhattan drinker, yeah, I’m a meat eater, non-smoker, German-car driver, beer drinker, big thinker, thin-book reader, wanna-be writer. All of these are tags that make me part of something that can’t be taken away no matter how far from home I am. But tonight they couldn’t save me. So I sat at Brit’s, as the anonymous girl at table 36, who wore a green shirt and army pants. I drank my Boddingtons, cried a little, and was reminded that it’s lonely on the road.