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?
The glass window opens wide and has shutters folded on the other side.
To wash, but not to dream…
A full-length, fully-opening glass window in the marble shower allows me an expansive view while washing. I can see the bedroom, the tv, the husband, the balcony, palm trees, the ocean, the sailboats…and the room service man picking up our breakfast tray.
Paradise is paradise, I’m not complaining. Lunch in Naples, Florida Tuesday was a delight. You know: balmy breezes, swaying palm trees, gentle surf lapping at the soft, white-sand fringe of manicured gardens… The meal was vaguely Asian, with coconut this and pineapple that, good fresh seafood, and creative seaweed garnishes.
Yet another generic paradise.
Two days later, some 5,000 miles away, same-same lunch in Maui was an equal pleasure. But look at my views: which is which?
Who designs paradise, anyway? And where do they get their plans? The little grass hut and tiki torches, seashell motif… I remember many years ago listening to a Finnish friend describe his fantasy. It contained the elements of these photos, exactly as generic, as soulless. Paradise packaged.
“Checking out, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Hope you enjoyed your stay. Your bill, sir…”
“How can I owe $670?”
“It’s only telephone charges, sir.”
“But I didn’t make that many calls. 40, 50 maybe…”
“Yes sir, that’s why your bill is $670.”
“But it’s written in the room ‘call 800 numbers free!'”
“Yes sir, 800-numbers are free—”
“They told me ‘no charge for 800 numbers!”
“Right, but—”
“I didn’t call 800! I called only 50 or 60 numbers!”
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.
It was a long series of flights to South Africa last week, for a three-day visit. We were upgraded to first class on the Denver-to-Frankfurt segment, and got a day room at a Frankfurt airport hotel for a rest and a shower. In total, it took 43 hours to get there.
If we don’t fly business class, we almost always take an exit row, the better to accommodate Bob’s long legs. A number of qualifications must be met in order to sit in the exit rows. You must be over 15, understand English, be physically fit, be willing and able to help in an emergency. We were surprised to see then, on the Vegas-to-Denver segment, a nonagenarian couple in the exit row. When the plane landed, we greeted the couple in the airport and audaciously asked their ages. “75, both,” they claimed, instantly ready with their lies.
Another couple boarded early from wheelchairs on the Frankfurt-to-Cape Town segment. Upon landing, they pushed their way off the plane quickly and rushed to be first in line at immigration—suddenly able-bodied.
On the trip, I listened to the whole four and a half hours of Laurie Anderson’s United States Live. The two-night concert was recorded live in Brooklyn in 1984.
… you know, to be really safe you should always carry a bomb on an airplane. Because the chances of there being one bomb on a plane are pretty small. But the chances of two bombs are almost minuscule. So by carrying a bomb on a plane, the odds of your becoming a hostage or of getting blown up are astronomically reduced.
That was from “New Jersey Turnpike.” “The Night Flight From Houston” is on another Laurie Anderson album I listened to:
It was the night flight from Houston. Almost perfect visibility. You could see the lights from all the little Texas towns far below. And I was sitting next to a fifty-year old woman who had never been on a plane before. And her son had sent her a ticket and said:
“Mom, you’ve raised ten kids; it’s time you got on a plane.”
And she was sitting in a window seat staring out and she kept talking about the Big Dipper and that Little Dipper and pointing; and suddenly I realized that she thought we were in outer space looking down at the stars. And I said:
“You know, I think those lights down there are the lights from little towns.”
The trip home from South Africa was over 33 hours.
Stung by a Wasp: Scooter-Riding Bandits
Buzz Bob and Bambi
I didn’t think it could happen to me.
There was no forewarning. One moment Bambi and I were walking down a narrow, cobblestone alley in Naples’ Centro Storico, having just looked back at an empty street. The next moment I was grabbed from behind, like a Heimlich maneuver—except I wasn’t choking on chicken. I was being mugged and there were three of them.
There was nothing slick about it; they were just fast and singularly focused on my 30-year-old Rolex. Without finesse, it was merely a crude attempt to break the metal strap. What these amateurs didn’t know was that they had selected a mark who had himself lifted hundreds of thousands of watches in his career as an honest crook.
Until now, I had never been on the receiving end of my game, even though I’d strolled often through ultimate pocket-picking grounds in Cartegena, the souks in Cairo, and La Rambla in Barcelona. I’d been pushed and shoved using public transportation like the Star Ferry in Hong Kong and rush-hour subways in Tokyo, London, and New York; yet I’d never been a victim.
A typical street in Naples' Quartieri Spagnoli.
Finally my luck turned—I’m not sure for the good or bad—during a visit to Naples, Italy. Though I hadn’t been there in some fifteen years, I knew full well about its slick pickpockets, and particularly about the infamous scippatori. This latter is a unique style of rip-off which involves speeding scooters and short Italians with long arms. Little did I know that I would finally become a statistic in what must be one of the world’s highest concentrations of muggings and pickpocketings in an area of less than a square mile: Quartieri Spagnoli, a district even the police avoid.
Scippatori are marauding teams of pirates on motor scooters. The scooter of choice is the Vespa, a nimble machine with a plaintive buzz which, when carrying a pair of highway bandits, delivers a surprising sting. Scippatori ply their vicious bag snatching chicanery on unsuspecting tourists in Italy, and in Naples particularly. Handbags and gold chains are plucked as easily as ripe oranges by backseat riders in daring dash-and-grab capers.
It was therefore with extreme caution that Bambi and I walked these streets, popular with tourists primarily as a gateway city. It’s the starting point for ferry trips to Capri, bus tours to Pompeii, and drives along the spectacular Amalfi-Sorrento Coast. Let me emphasize starting point. Even Naples’ car rental companies urge tourists to drive directly out of town.
Though it hardly matches the beauty or historical magnitude of Rome, Venice, or Florence, Bambi wanted to photograph the colorful Quartieri Spagnoli. Its old section, the Centro Storico, has a seedy, rustic, old-world fascination, with its dismal balconied apartments stacked on minuscule dreary shops. As we walked, I reminded my wife that this was the birthplace of pickpocketing, and I scrutinized every scooter that buzzed by, making sure we were out of reach.
Shot from the back of a moving Vespa.
It was mid-afternoon, siesta time, as Bambi and I strolled the deserted lanes. Little light filtered down through the seven or eight stories of laundry hanging above the narrow alleys. Almost all the shops were shut, their steel shutters rolled down and padlocked, and it was quiet except for the snarl of traffic on Via Toledo, the perimeter street. A lone shellfish monger remained, amid shallow dishes of live cockles, clams, snails, and cigalo glittering in water. Though we were practically alone in the area, we frequently glanced behind us.
Still, they caught us completely off-guard. With silence their foil, they rolled down a hill: three young thugs on a Vespa scooter, its engine off. One guy remained on the scooter, ready to bolt; another held me with my arms pinned to my sides, and the third tried to tear the watch off my wrist. It was sudden, quick, and silent. No shouts or vulgar threats.
It‘s a joke, I thought that first crucial instant, expecting a friend or fan to say “Gottcha!” I’m quite often grabbed by people who’ve seen me perform; they like to make me faux-victim as a sort of role-reversing prank. Although this vice-grip felt deadly serious, my thought process, instant and automatic, cost me several seconds. I didn’t fight back with a sharp elbow or kick. And because my reflexes never got into gear, I didn’t have a chance to coil my muscles into a protective stance.
Decorative street marking in Quartieri Spagnoli.
Fortunately, pickpockets are generally petty criminals who can easily be scared off. They prefer stealth, diversion, and speed to violence as their modus operandi. Bambi reacted a moment before I did, bravely smashing my captor on the head with her umbrella. Other than breaking the umbrella, this had no effect at all.
As soon as my adrenaline kicked in, I yelled at the top of my voice “Polizia, polizia.” Years of stage speaking enabled me to project my voice throughout the neighborhood. Instant reaction! They scrambled away as fast as they had appeared.
We walked away, lucky but shaken. My steel watchband didn’t give despite considerable force applied in attempting to snap its pin. All I had lost was my own track record. I could no longer claim that pickpockets had never tried to steal from me.
Bambi still tenses at the buzz of a motorcycle behind her—not a bad legacy, perhaps. And both of us now strip down to skin and cloth when visiting this most colorful district. The proof of my own stupidity, namely, wearing a Rolex in Naples, was a scratched up wrist. I should have known better.
Scippatori in training?
First rule for avoiding pickpockets: don’t attract them. Don’t signal you’re worth their while. Second rule: acknowledge that it can happen to anyone. Whether you’re strong, confident, aware, or careful, you are not immune. Even a veteran pickpocket can become a victim.
A pickpocket steals from a back pocket, aka the sucker pocket.
Over-confidence is the enemy of travelers in unfamiliar lands. The know-it-all risks loss and embarrassment. Henry started his story with the wistful remark we’ve heard countless times:
“I didn’t think it could happen to me,” he said, shaking his head. “I never even sensed the other guy was near me.”
Henry and Kathy were world travelers. We met them in the third month of their current foreign travel adventure. Only in their forties, they were quite young compared to others with the time and resources for extended travel. Both were physically fit and mentally sharp. To Kathy’s alert, quiet reserve, Henry radiated self-assurance and arrogance.
On this day, as usual, Kathy carried their cash in the deep front pocket of her tight shorts. Henry carried nothing but the plastic boarding card issued to him by his cruise ship.
Another pickpocket's back-pocket technique.
The couple was standing on a street corner near the souk in Casablanca when a large local man approached. Glancing at Henry’s Blue Jays cap, the interloper leaned into Henry, lightly knocking his shoulder.
“You from Canada?” he slurred, in a drunken act. Henry, always on his toes, second guessed the ulterior motive.
“Keep your hands off me, pal,” he said threateningly.
The stranger backed away and glanced across the street. Kathy followed his look and watched as a second man approached them. He was the big guy’s partner.
“Sorry, I have no use for this,” the partner said, and held out Henry’s boarding card. The couple had never even noticed him near them; yet somehow, he had been.
I like this story for its considerate thief. Most, with hopes of snagging a credit card quashed, would drop the worthless plastic in a trash bin, or more likely on the ground. The notion of a quixotic thief appeals to my wispy romantic being. Luciano, that ever-present menace on Naples’ trams, told us that, since he doesn’t use the credit cards he steals, he drops them into a mail box so they can be returned to their owners.
Had Henry Smartypants read the U.S. State Department’s report on Morocco, he would have known that “criminals have targeted tourists for robberies, assaults, muggings, thefts, purse snatching, pickpocketing, and scams of all types,” and that “most of the petty crime occurs in the medina/market areas….” Perhaps he would have thwarted the thief who snuck up behind him; his antennas would certainly have been up.
If misfortune befalls the unwary and swindlers seek the weak, enlighten yourself and raise your awareness.
As a very frequent flyer, I can understand that 12,000+ laptops are lost each week in U.S. airports. What’s shocking is that, according to a study, only 33% of laptops that make it to lost-and-found are reclaimed. My first thought is: insurance fraud. Lose it, claim it, get a new machine.
The point of the study, though, is really data loss, theft, and abuse. Who cares about the hardware? Wouldn’t it be fascinating to know how many of those never-claimed laptops sitting in lost-and-found actually contain sensitive data? And when was the machine last logged into? After the loss?
Having lost a few precious things myself (a special scarf, an autographed book), I know how impossible it is to contact airport lost-and-found, and the runaround you get if you luck out and reach a human. “You have to contact the airline,” “just file a report online,” “the airline controls those gates,” etc. Hopeless.
And I hate to say it but, I’m convinced that airplane cleaners reward their thankless jobs by the old “finders keepers” law. How else to explain a book left between the window seat and the wall, gone without a trace five minutes after I disembarked? Losers weepers.
Who's alert after suffering the human maze?
I just re-read the study, Ponemon Institute’s Airport Insecurity: The Case of Missing & Lost Laptops.
I had first read it back in July when its stats were thoroughly discussed on Schneier’s site. One of my own comments there is “no departments try to return property. Look at all the staffing cuts. Who’s the first to go? An individual might try to return something, but not a department. Even if you know you left something on a plane, even if you report it a minute after you get off, you can kiss it goodbye.”
Most laptops are lost at the security checkpoint—no surprise. People think the area is full of “security” personnel, and that makes their stuff secure. Many times, I pick up my own computer, then Bob’s. No one notices or cares that I picked up two machines. No one questions me whether I have two in my arms at once, or pack up mine and walk off with another.
While the report’s stats are interesting, I think the “Recommendations and Conclusions” are unrealistic. They suggest you allow enough time, as if you haven’t just run between terminals as fast as you can to make your “airline legal” but still-tight connection. They suggest you carry less; hey, we carry what we need, and what we don’t trust the airlines (or TSA) with in checked bags. They suggest you think ahead and have a mental strategy at security. That works—as long as you aren’t in a sleep-deprived fog from flying 14 or more cramped hours and now you don’t know if it’s morning or night. And as long as everything at the checkpoint goes smoothly, which is never certain. Someone cuts in front of you and delays you from getting to the other side, where your stuff sits vulnerable. A bossy TSA agent disrupts your strategy because he wants it done his way. TSA needs to rescan half your stuff and your items are spread out all over.
I have long had a strategy. I lay down my things—always the same things—in a strict order. This allows me to pick them up on the other side and reassemble everything quickly and logically. Every once in a while, that bossy TSA employee will rearrange my things, or hold back some of them in order to re-run someone else’s. This tampers with the otherwise reliability of my strategy.
I like two of the study’s recommendations. One is obvious, to label your laptop so you can be easily contacted. The other mildly recommends that airports make it easier for passengers to report losses. That would really help. Fat chance.
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.
Choosing the right luggage
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.
