Thiefhunters in Paradise

“I loved your show.”

Bob and I both had our mouths full of Roquefort and pears and sourdough croutons. We raced each other to swallow awkwardly in order to answer. The man stood at our table expectantly and watched us chew. One of us finally managed a polite reply.

“You’re really good at reading people,” the man continued, and went on, full of praise and compliments. He was referring to a routine in our show in which Bob analyzes the personalities of five or six audience members. It had gone especially well that night and the man was raving about it. Bob and I set our knives and forks down and smiled up at him while he recalled “a similar show” in which a woman’s brassiere was ripped off.

We detest the comparison to this goofy magician’s coup, but we nodded and smiled some more. Our courtesy encouraged him. He gestured with enthusiasm, sloshing a bit of red wine onto the table. I folded my hands in my lap and realized the bouillabaisse would arrive before we finished our first course.

The man was now relating how he was almost pickpocketed once, long ago. Oh, you’ll like this story, he promised, and asked permission to sit down. Sure, we had to say, but my smile was thin. The man launched into his ancient near-catastrophe. Just as he was getting to the good part, how he foiled the theft before it ever happened, his wife arrived at our table, wine in hand.

“Oh, he hasn’t imposed himself, I hope,” she said. “Shelly, why are you sitting at their table? They’re trying to have a nice dinner.”

“I’m not bothering them, we’re having good conversation!” he said jovially. “They look conservative but I bet they like to get wild! We can join you, if you like,” he suggested. “I’m sure the waiter wouldn’t mind moving our plates! And a bottle of wine, please!” He gestured to a hovering waiter.

“Of course we won’t do that, Sheldon! Get up right now and let’s leave these people alone.” The woman turned to me. “I’m very sorry, he must be a little drunk.”

“Not at all! Sit down, Phyll. I’ll tell the waiter.” The man rose.

“Shelly, don’t be rude. You can’t just—”

“You’re welcome to sit,” I finally said, “just please don’t stand over us arguing.”

That was all it took. The couple’s cold, half-eaten meal was quickly brought to our table and Bob and I picked up our silverware. At least we didn’t have to say much. The man was full of stories and his wife supplied timely prods. Bob made appropriate replies, dredging up authentic courtesy from some stale reserve. My well was dry.

The bouillabaisse arrived steaming; its clear broth, fragrant with fennel, covered barely-cooked fish. I had the distinct impression that the couple had designed their finagle from the start, despite their bickering role-play. The way the wife sauntered over with her lipsticky wine glass, like a suburban housewife ready for twilight gossip. Why, otherwise, were their plates brought over so readily? And the bottle of wine. They must have cued the waiters. I took another sniff of soup scent and lifted my spoon.

“I know!” the man said looking at me. “Let me read your hand. You’ll love this.”

A palm reader in Yokohama's Chinatown

“He’s really good at it,” his wife said. Silver charms on her necklace flashed as she leaned back anticipating our satisfaction.

“Hold up your right hand.”

I dropped my spoon and limply raised my hand, wondering how long I had to allow this. We’d intentionally taken a table at the back of the restaurant, but that had meant parading through the whole room.

“No, fingers together. Open your hand hard!”

Yes, like a protest, I thought. Enough!, I silently gestured at him. Stop! But he didn’t read my mind or body language. He was going to read my palm and I gave him the pose he wanted.

“I can see right away that you don’t like spending money. Your lifeline is long, but your loveline is broken. You’ve had multiple relationships, yes? Or you will.” He stretched to pour me some wine. “I think you like the lifestyle…?”

I gave away nothing with my stoneface. I felt mean and I wasn’t going to let him cold-read me. I took a spoonful of broth, noticing a faint essence of orange peel.

“No, I’m not finished! Hand up!”

I put my hand up obediently and tuned out as the man droned on. My anger brewed and my tolerance withered. We’re often interrupted at meals, but most people are polite enough to keep it brief. And how many simply forego interrupting our meal at all?

“isn’t he wonderful?” the wife was saying. “Is he right? Isn’t he exactly right?”

“You’ve said a lot,” I offered, “and it was remarkable. I’ll have my dinner now, before it gets cold.” I wished for once that Bob would tone down his manners. He was too gracious about the intrusion. As always just after a show, he was high on endorphins, talkative. I was the only sourpuss.

I imagined the accidents that could occur with shellfish in broth. How well could I aim a recalcitrant mussel shell? I’ve splashed myself enough times to know how to orchestrate a brothy geyser. Or, the crab claw—might it squirt when I straighten the joint? Amusing myself this way made me feel a little better. What the hell, we were in it. Can’t change the situation now.

“This is only the second time he’s read someone’s hand,” the wife said. “Really, he doesn’t do it all the time. I don’t know what made him do it. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Are you hot?” She waved her hand in front of her neck, then lifted her silver necklace, as if it to let air under it, or to dislodge it from sweaty skin.

And of course, calling attention to her delicate chain made me notice the oddness of its four silver charms. They were two identical male gender symbols, and two identical female symbols.

Bob and I worked on our soup while the couple egged each other on with their stories. I guzzled the Chardonnay, thinking another bottle would be fair compensation.

The couple was not particularly obnoxious. The man, Sheldon, had certainly behaved badly when he imposed himself and then his wife. He didn’t notice (or ignored) my discomfort when he insisted on reading my hand. So he had poor judgment. Or was a little drunk. A life-of-the-party type, he’s probably accustomed to spicing up dull conversations. Full of himself, though, he failed to pick up our signals.

Maybe we failed to pick up his, too. Was this some sort of pitch or come-on? Did we miss some subtle clues embedded in Edward’s hand-reading blather? Maybe I should have paid attention.

Bob and I excused ourselves before dessert, preempting the invitation I now think would have been inevitable. But we’ll never know what Phyll and Shelly were plotting or what activities they had in mind.

I often struggle with the choice between courtesy and honesty. I’d like to practice both, but sometimes the two are mutually exclusive. In this situation, I was neither. And I hated it. Honesty was not called for, but I should have been able to dredge up some grace, if not courtesy.

Mac laptops—through the ages.

These are the Mac laptops I never sold or gave away. Three are in current use. One is a backup. The others have occasionally saved the day by accessing ancient files. Once, not too long ago, I actually had to dig out a SCSI adaptor to attach an old Zip drive to one.

Clockwise from top left:

• MacBookPro. 2.8 GHz, 500 GB hard drive. My current machine.

• PowerBook G4. 1.67 GHz, 100 GB HD.

• PowerBook G3 500. 500 MHz, 12 GB HD.

• PowerBook 180c. (That’s “c” for color!) 33 MHz, 80 MB HD.

• Macintosh Portable. Almost 16 pounds! 16 MHz, 40 MB HD.

• Macintosh PowerBook 3400. 180 MHz, 3 GB HD

• PowerBook 190. 66 MHz, 500 MB HD

• PowerBook G4. 667 MHz (The original Titanium).

• MacBookPro. 2.6 GHz. Bob’s current machine.

• MacBook Air. 1.86 GHz. Also Bob’s.

I’ve had many other Macs. I wish I still had my first, a 128k desktop with no hard drive, one 400k floppy drive. That was in 1985. I lived in the Bahamas then, and did actual, professional “desktop publishing.”

Coogee Beach, Australia— I spend a lot of time on our hotel balcony because the view is spectacular. The weather is glorious and the waves are loud. It’s a fine place to write, with a computer on my lap.

Coogee Beach. Photo by Paola Unger.

I can see a series of little coves just beyond our beach, and each is separated by a rocky promontory. The sea crashes into these dividers in slow motion, and white clouds of spray just hang there, punctuating each rocky spit of land like a period at the end of a sentence.

Hmmm, take that further: the coast is a paragraph, the country a book, a tome, a history since life began. Its sentences are long and the ragged right runs into the sea. Each sentence is an enigma, ending with a question mark shrouded in mist. The one closest to me ends with an ellipsis of rocks…

Coogee Beach, Australia—From our hotel, we walk around the corner to The Globe for “brekkie” every morning. We’re regulars on the stools at the open windows. We order a “tall black” and a “flat white.” Coffee. The Globe serves toasted fruit loaf, slices of a dense loaf packed with dried apricots, figs, dates, currents, and raisons. They toast it properly: dark so it’s as black as its poppy seed crust.

Earlier, I had seen a fruit loaf in a tiny market just across the street; the poster advertising it made me drool. It was called Dallas Fruit Loaf. I asked The Globe’s waitress if their fruit loaf was Dallas. She didn’t know. Anyway, it’s delicious.

One day they didn’t have the fruit loaf. I ordered the “full brekkie,” which Bob gets, and I was sorry. Next day, The Globe was still out of fruit loaf. “But I found out, it is Dallas,” the waitress said. “If I go and buy a loaf, will you toast it for me?” I asked her. “With pleasure,” she said.

So I ran across to the little market and bought a Dallas fruit loaf. The Globe’s waitress toasted three thick slices for me and served it on a plate with a crock of butter. I took the rest of the loaf back to the hotel.

Dallas-fruit-loaf

But how will we toast it, Bob and I wondered. It’s soooo delicious toasted! I thought about what we had in the room. We can steam it with our clothes steamer to make it damp, then let it dry out and get hard on the outside. Then we can heat water in the coffee pot and set a cup of hot water on the toast to warm it. No. We can put a slice in the trouser press! Set the timer for 30 minutes… slow, but it might work. What if we forget the bread in the trouser press, Bob wondered. Okay, never mind.

Later, Bob went out for a take-away Thai lunch. I stayed on our balcony and ate an apple. And a slice of Dallas fruit loaf. Toasted.

Yes—I remembered what else we had in our room. An iron!

Why not? It’s teflon coated. I tried just a corner first. The iron wiped clean on a towel. Who needs butter?

Yet another hotel bed

Mid-08, I noted my travel stats year-to-date. Here’s how the year wrapped up.

I made 105 takeoffs and landings during the calendar year. I stayed 162 nights in beds not my own or on planes. A record low for the past few years; probably for the past 15 years, except for 1996 and 1997, when we had a couple of very long-term gigs (and almost grew roots).

This is good, and by design. Although Bob and I still love travel, I’ve felt the urge to indulge my homebodiness more: to enjoy our home, cook, entertain, and get things done that can’t be done on the road. So we’ve made more trips: more domestic, fewer international. That means fewer flight segments per trip and fewer hours in the air. It’s still a lot, though.

2007 had 115 take-offs and landings and 176 nights away from home.

2006 had 117 flights and 184 hotel nights.

199 hotel nights in 2005; 222 in 2004.

I’m not counting any prior years, but I think they were higher still.

Police helicopter over my house.

Why am I compelled to run outside every time I hear the police helicopter hovering over my house? If there’s a criminal on the loose, isn’t it possible, at least remotely possible, that he’ll run into my yard to hide? My eyes are riveted to the helicopter, but I watch the brick wall, too.

Our typical haul: four aluminum Halliburtons to check, a roll-on each, a shoulder bag each.

For very frequent travelers, the right luggage is vital. Bob and I have used aluminum Zero Halliburton luggage forever. It’s heavy and expensive. It gets dented and full of stickers. Every few trips, a bag loses a handle or a wheel, and we keep on repairing them. We can’t even take advantage of their good locks anymore. Instead, we wrap strong tape around the seams to thwart thieves.

In iffy hotels we use one of these as a safe for small valuables, sometimes even laptops. The theory is that a camera, passport, maybe even a laptop can “get legs.” A large, heavy suitcase is less likely to go missing.

Bob uses a black aluminum Halliburton roll-aboard. It’s strong, padded, and lockable, so he’s not worried when his carry-on must be put in a plane’s cargo hold, no matter what’s in the bag. You can see it on the top of the left stack in the photo. This clamshell-type roll-on does not suit me at all. I like lots of zipper compartments, so I can easily grab my computer power cord, a book, or a document from a file folder. I also like a roll-on big enough to neatly carry an outfit or two. These are usually called one-suiters. I always have one suit and one stage dress in the roll-on. I’ve been without my checked luggage one time too many.

Carry-on system by Mandarina Duck.

My roll-on has a matching shoulder bag which stacks easily and securely. And of course it has a shoulder strap for the millions of stairs that require hauling instead of rolling. The shoulder strap attaches with a ridged plastic tab. This was my biggest concern when I bought this combo three-plus years ago. What if it comes loose? My laptop is in the shoulder bag, my iPod, passport, a little camera, and all my most important things. Many a time I have boarded rickety boats with this bag on my shoulder. But I’ve come to trust it.

The plastic tab broke on the way to Oman recently. The day I got home I photographed the strap and sent it to the company. In a week, I had a new strap, overnighted from Italy, no charge. So I think I should mention that my carry-on luggage is made by the Italian company, Mandarina Duck.

Just another hotel bed

I’ve made 69 take-offs and landings so far this year. There will be nine this week. I’m holding reservations for 27 more this year—so far. I’ve stayed 89 nights in beds not my own, these first seven months, or on airplanes. This appears to be a downward trend.

Last year I made 115 take-offs and landings. I stayed 176 nights in beds not my own or on planes.

In 2006 there were 117 flights and 184 hotel nights. 199 hotel nights in 2005; 222 in 2004.

Getting there used to be half the fun. That is rarely the case now-a-days.

“Bambi? In Las Vegas? Really? Are you a stripper? [Guffaw.]“

If your name is Bambi and you live in Las Vegas, these, apparently, are fair questions. I get them all the time. Sometimes they don’t ask, they just blacklist my email address. Bambi with a Vegas IP address could only be a certain you-know-what.

It’s no wonder, really: the Las Vegas phonebook has 110 pages of entertainers. And you know what I mean by entertainers. The naughty, discrete, spicy, barely legal, and exotic kind. They’re Swedish, Russian, Swiss, Vietnamese (twins!), Japanese, Korean, Thai, French, and Chinese. They’re sweet, new in town, and fiery. For years, my name was on the back of taxi cabs all over town, lasciviously illustrated with promises of bounty.

Being blacklisted is a pain but easily correctable. I communicate with quite a few police departments, and they’re the biggest offenders. So I do a fair bit of resending, while feeling like an illicit trifle, a forbidden floozy trying to regain her honor.

Here’s how introductions usually go:

Man: Really, Bambi? [[heh-heh] Like the deer?
Me: Yeah, right.
Man: And you live in Las Vegas? Are you a dancer? [read: stripper.]

or:

Woman: Bambi, cute. Is that your real name?
Me: It is, yes.
Woman: Where’s Thumper? [ha-ha] Just kidding.

According to my parents, I was not named after the Disney character, the one in the film made from Felix Salten’s 1923 book, Bambi, a Life in the Woods. My parents insist their inspiration was Bambi Lynn, a dancer best known for her appearance in the 1955 film Oklahoma!. But who was she named for?

As a kid, I had a few nicknames I dare not resurrect. None pleased or bothered me. None lingered, probably because I moved so many times. One move had me in a new school at the start of second grade. The teacher asked if anyone had a nickname or middle name she and the class should use. Aha, I thought, I do, and raised my hand. Lyn, I said. Sure, said the teacher. And all was well until I brought home my first paper. My mother said What’s this? That’s not the name we gave you! It was a meek and humiliated little girl who had to change her name in front of everybody the next day. Probably scarred me for life. Or made me shoulder my burden and bear it.

Two years ago, I was interviewed on television by a Thai woman named Flower. Bambi is Flower’s guest today. Sounds too cute. Most people probably switched channels at that point.

I think a lot about names, how people grow into them, or don’t; how people modify them, or don’t; the effect they have on the bearer and others; the significance or insignificance of them. And how people carry their own names. What they are called vs. what they like to be called.

Many people feel compelled to crack a joke about my name when they meet me. They think they’re being original. I haven’t heard a new one in decades. I don’t have any good comebacks, either. Have any suggestions? I realize how silly it might feel to use my name. I’ve known women named Ditty, Cheery, Bunny, and Honey, and I’ve cringed using their names. Then I remember that I have a toy name, too. A cartoon name.

I’m against middle names, like mine and my sisters’, chosen only for their sound. I like them to have some importance or meaning. I’ve convinced more than one woman to give her maiden name to her child as a middle name.

I like my last name. Not too common but still ordinary; easy to spell and pronounce around the world. A relief after my exotic first name. My mother and father were both Vincents, so I’m double-strength. Of course I couldn’t dump it for marriage. (Somehow, my three sisters had no problem ditching it, though.)

Despite the sound of this rant, I’m not complaining. I wouldn’t like a boring name like Linda or Kathy (sorry Linda and Kathy), or a funny name like Gladys (Happy-bottom). I’ve been amused by many a name: women named Wonder, Spratley, Greer, and Phelps. In South Africa, I knew a man named Lastborn and a woman named Surprise (Lastborn’s younger sister?). Having a name that amuses others is not so bad. Even I am amused when someone forgets my name. Something I imagine is so shiny and neon-colored and remarkable can be vin-ordinaire to some.

I did not intend to dwell on random negativity here, but when I came across this sign a few days ago, I took it as an open invitation. So here are a couple of gripes aimed against a new trend in corporate mentality.

1. “Yes, we owe our customers money, but make it difficult and they’ll go away.” This seems to be a growing, despicable, yet profitable attitude. Real examples:

a. Rebates. You send in all required forms and original box parts, but no rebate arrives. After many months, you are given endless runarounds, required to make endless phone calls, and send more letters re-documenting your claim. This has happened to us more than once. It really isn’t worth it. And who has time to fight for the principle?

b. Airlines. Due to mechanical problems, a flight is canceled and we are told to book a hotel. Send in the receipt with this form, and we will be reimbursed this (minimal) amount, and this (insufficient) sum for taxi. Took nine months of letters and phone calls to get our lousy $120.

c. Insurance. A mistake was made by a pharmacy, which resulted in the repeated denial of claims. Send in a form, document everything with originals etc., and the claims are denied again, except a check for $8.11, and instructions on how to appeal. Appeal. Denied. Write more letters, get another $150. Write more letters, get a promise of payment. This situation, ongoing for six months now, has not played itself out.

2. Front desk stoneface. I don’t know this, but I believe there must be some sort of staff training program making the rounds which trains front desk and customer service employees how to be helpless. They do not have access to billing records, a supervisor is not available, they will pass along the complaint, etc. Worse, I believe they are taught to document everything in reports, in which they are told to include random generic character attacks, in order to cast aspersions and denigrate the customer, the better to CYA. I have fresh evidence of this theory, too. They try to sidestep responsibility by accusing the complainant of spurious, irrelevant minutia. What happened to “the customer is always right”?

A birthday invitation to my family and friends: please join me in opting out of the birthday-present tradition. Why do we deserve presents on our birthdays? If and when I find or think of the perfect gift for you, I want to give it to you right then and there, regardless of the date. Children, up to a certain age depending on the child, may get birthday presents. Then, after reaching an age of understanding, they should not. That’s my theory. But there’s more.

For many years, I have felt that only one birthday gift makes sense, and I’m embarrassed that it has taken me so long to implement the idea myself. On one’s birthday, the only person who deserves a present is one’s mother.

Birthday cards, calls, and emails are fine but not necessary. Personally, I like them, in both directions. Gifts on other occasions are fine. I’m not against gifts. I’ll accept them any time, even on my birthday. But I really wish that tradition would go away. Give me a gift when you find the perfect thing, or if I especially deserve one. Not just because the calendar flips to the anniversary of my birth.

I know why it’s taken me so long to actually do this: I’ve been chicken. It’s severely counterculture. I don’t want to be perceived as stingy, cheap, or uncaring. I don’t want to be the only one doing it. And I’m pretty sure this new practice will be an unpopular option.

But here I go. I’ll lead, and hope to start a new tradition. Who’ll join me? In whole or in part, in theory or in practice, scroll down a bit (or click here) and commit with a comment here, if you dare.

And the charges are: against him, breaking and entering; against his sister, poisoning by E.coli.

It started with a loud thud in the dead of night, immediately followed by heavy breathing. I jumped out of bed and looked out the window, but it was too dark to see a thing. The labored breath was right outside. I also heard a wet trickle.

Exactly one year ago, I spent a magical week in the Galapagos. My sister chartered the 14-passenger yacht Parranda for the family. Besides our two onboard naturalists, we were six adults and six teens. I was asleep in my stateroom when I heard the intruder. Our yacht was in motion, sailing from San Salvador Island to Bartolome Island, so I couldn’t fathom who could have come aboard, or how. The chef’s provisioner? The captain’s wife? Pirates of the Galapagos?

I learned in the morning that it had been an 800-pound sea lion that had launched itself aboard for a free ride. It wasn’t alone, either. Several other beasts had made the aft deck their lounge for the night. The crew hates their visits, as they leave quite a mess behind.

A few days later, snorkeling off the coast of Floreana Island, we were joined briefly by a penguin and a couple of sea turtles. Then a flock (pride? school?) of sea lions surrounded us, jetting playfully among us with speed and grace never betrayed on land.

Close, close encounters with wild animals are thrilling, and I’ve had more than my share. I held someone’s pet bat in Ponape. I wrestled with a pair of 14-week-old lion cubs in Johannesburg. I had my hand in a kangaroo’s pouch in Sydney. I swam with hammerhead sharks in Maui, stingrays in Cayman Islands, and giant clams in Palau. To visit wild animals in their own milieu, to feel a clumsy foreigner in their domain, like an interloper and a trespasser, is wondrous. Mind-blowing. Jaw-dropping.

Jaw-dropping. Joyous. Laughing while snorkeling gets one a mouthful of seawater. The giant sea lion was just inches away from Geri when it let loose an opaque cloud.

That night onboard, all six kids got seasick at once. By morning, they had all recovered except for Geri, who deteriorated slowly. It wasn’t until she saw her doctor back home that we realized she’d been poisoned ingesting sea lion turd.