Road Trip to SLO

Two weeks ago we decided it was time to go on a family road trip since the kids were on their three-week break from school. We took two days to drive up the coast to San Luis Obispo where we stayed two days and visited some of my childhood stomping grounds. The kids seemed intrigued by some of the places I used to go and play: Montana de Oro especially (photo) where they hiked and explored; Bubble Gum Alley and downtown SLO; walking along the creek at Santa Rosa Park, seeing up close the sea lions lying around at the pier at Avila Beach, eating seafood in Morro Bay, and even walking past a concert by Sean Kingston on the Embarcadero. We stopped at Los Osos Cemetery where my grandparents, great aunt and uncle, and several other extended family members are buried, and walked around looking at headstones. Maddie commented as we drove away: “Next time I want to look at all of them (headstones) to see of one of them says, “Birth mom.”

It was good to get away together, and as expected, nice to go back to where I feel grounded.

Fiji Natural Artesian Water

Sorry, but it tastes no different than tap water.

Meet Ben

Benjamin Midler was born in Poland 79 years ago and spent four prime years of his boyhood from ages 11 to 15 in concentration camps during World War II. Later he fought with the Israeli Army, including the 1948 War of Independence and the 1956 Sinai Campaign. At age 23 Benjamin married his sweetheart, born in Egypt, and he has been married to her for the past for 56 years with three daughters and four grandchildren. For 25 years Benjamin owned an auto parts store in the Chicago area before retiring to San Diego where he worked for two years as a driver for Car Quest store, and then retired for good, presently living in Rancho Bernardo.

Early last Friday morning I’d taken my aisle seat on the United flight from San Diego to Chicago and was reading Sick, a book by Jonathan Cohn about the healthcare crisis in the United States, unaware of the great story sitting beside me in the middle seat. Eventually the man and I engaged in small talk. He was on his way to Madrid for an eight-day tour while his wife stayed home because she doesn’t like to travel anymore. We chatted a little about current events, and he offered his People magazine to me with an article he found interesting about a woman who recently had a baby from invitro fertilization using the sperm of her husband who’d perished in the War in Iraq a few years ago. He said a few words about the tragedy of war, and then uttered something about spending time in concentration camps as a boy. I dropped the magazine onto my lap, turned aghast toward the man, and nearly asked him to repeat what he’d said. “You were in concentration camps?” I asked the man with something between incredulity and shock. He rotated his left forearm and presented the evidence: a faint blue series of numbers tattooed on his skin many years ago.

For a couple hours I asked questions and he shared stories. He remembers seeing a photo of himself as a boy with a younger sister but has no other memory of her. He said people who’d gone through that experience tend to block entire periods of time from memory, and this is probably why he doesn’t remember the sister in the photo. He seems heartbroken by the toll of wartime – all wars, even today. He meets monthly with the New Life Club, a group of about 100 survivors of concentration camps now living in the San Diego area. I asked him if he’s written down his story, and he replied instantly that he wrote a book in 1993, self-published and given away to his friend and family.

We introduced ourselves to each other. “I’m Ben,” he said.

Reading Today: Simplicity, Focus

After finishing The 4-Hour Workweek by Timothy Ferris on my flight to Fort Worth this morning, I date the last page and then grab this week’s Entertainment Weekly. Anyone else tired of seeing Britney in the news? The very first thing I read, since I read magazines back to front, is Stephen King’s column on traveling across Australia with his friend Carter Withey. He writes about how for the whole month of August he saw no movies and no news, realizing that “so much of what we watch, read and listen to… is disposable crap.” His piece simply reinforces what I’ve just finished reading in the Ferris book, that I do tend to distract myself too often with less meaningful activities, delaying what I know is time better spent on improving life, connecting with people who might share my career goals, going deeper in the gospel, or simply enjoying a shared experience with my family without the pressure of my perceived must-do’s. Ferris talks of eliminating “excuses for senseless pseudowork procrasturbating.” That’s hilarious, but so true.

Economy Plus

As if the antiquated notion of first class wasn't bad enough (I still don't get the sheer curtain that doesn't really hide anything but clearly sends the message that people in the front shan't be bothered), now there’s a new class in the middle of the plane: On United they call it “Economy Plus.” Anyway, you have all these extra seats that nobody wanted to upgrade to for an extra forty bucks or whatever, so instead we all sit closer than ever, knees pressed firmly against the magazine pouch on the back of the seat in front of us, praying that the guy in that seat won’t figure out how to use the recline function. I’m sure the idea thrown around in the sales & marketing think tank was something like: We could increase revenue by getting more seats in the back and charge the same as before, plus use the extra space left over to sell premium seats; but we can’t take away first class and their private lavatory, so we’ll leave that alone. And the please-use-the-lavatory-in-your-ticketed-cabin-because-this-is-for-security-purposes-and-for-your-safety thing just doesn’t make any sense. And I don't rant very often, so let me also mention that it must be hard for those poor airline attendants, because the same people ticked about not being able to move forward to an empty "Economy Plus" seat are also grimacing at the offer to purchase snack packs or headphones. So let this be my public declaration that United Airlines, among others that, frankly, are too much like them to tell the difference, could learn something from Southwest. They do it one easy way, they’re very successful, and they rule.

Frequent traveler

Because I’ve traveled weekly since the end of May, people often say, “You must be racking up those frequent flyer points!” The unfortunate truth is that I’ve earned only one ticket from Southwest, for which I’m grateful of course, but in our attempt to go budget in every way possible I’ve had to go with the cheapest available prices no matter which carrier I ended up with. Here’s how I commuted to work during the 14 weeks of summer: Twenty-six flights on six different airlines, fourteen car rentals with seven different companies, and only three nights at a motel before I was in my apartment. No points awarded for that! I also traveled around town using the T (Fort Worth transit buses), TRE (Trinity Railway Express), Coach USA (bus from Chicago to South Bend), airport shuttle, taxi, and walking.

Midwest Sunrise

In only my sixth consecutive week flying to work, I’ve lost interest in looking out the window during liftoff, and normally I choose the aisle, so it’s not the best view anyway. Today, though, as we level off somewhere in the middle of Indiana, heading south toward Cincinnati, a flat red-orange sun hints at sunrise as it emerges behind a totally flat horizon in the east, something I’ve never seen before. Since living in the Midwest I’ve watched the sunrise over houses and trees or behind clouds or other uneven obstructions, but never above a perfectly-cut, linear division between earth and sky without a cloud in sight. At first it only glows, then it takes the shape of a gold coin turned on its side and giving off a brilliant shine, and next it begins taking its recognizable fireball quality, only I can still look directly at it, mesmerized while the magazine I was reading, opened to an article I’ve since forgotten about, lies draped over my right leg. I’m not overcome with an I-love-living-here sensation, rather an I’m-glad-I-experienced-this-while-I’m here sort of snapshot to be locked into my memory.

A Typical Monday

It’s getting harder to remember when my life was normal, particularly my work life. Today most people will set out on their Monday morning routine waking up around the same time I did at five o’clock, but beyond that my commute and in fact my entire day are quite a different story.

At five I’m up and showering. I have my bags packed and clothes out last night, a regimen that’s getting simpler, and everything is on the kitchen floor ready for a seamless exit. I’ve packed some clean boxers and socks that I’ll need this week, but I still managed to stuff everything into my laptop bag which will be my only carry-on this time. The car that I’m driving is a rental that I picked up Friday night in Chicago where I’ll return it in a couple hours.

Ready with exact change for the toll booths, I leave the house quietly at five-thirty and start toward South Bend making stops at the bank and the Starbucks drive-through before entering the Indiana Toll Road at six o’clock. I’ll look for a clear talk radio station, probably 760 WGN Chicago, or an audio book. This week I started listening to Barack Obama’s Audacity of Hope, a father’s day gift.

Approaching the Indiana border where the I-80 and I-90 split, I watch a subtle Indiana sunrise in my rearview mirror, symbolizing my departure from real life and the one that my consciousness will accept as reality until Friday night.

I arrive punctually at Cicero Avenue in Chicago at 6:30 central time, stopping to refuel before turning in this week’s second family car.

Like other road warriors, I know how to navigate Terminal B at Chicago Midway, prepare myself quickly for the security checkpoint, and easily slip the shoes back on and repack the laptop as I take a few steps toward the same counter where I buy a bottled water and USA Today on the way to Gate 26, a routine which varies little from last week except for the hour-long delay that enables me to finish To Be Told by Dan Alender.

On the usual 737-800 I find my seat 1A again this week. I’d started in 2A but the family in Row 2 needs to sit together with their infant, while the 40 year-old mother of a newborn infant in Row 1 handles her sleeping daughter easily with the help of her mother on the aisle.

I’m still deciding which mode of transportation works best from the airport at dfw to work in downtown Fort Worth. I’ve rented cars and I’ve taken Super Shuttle which is less expensive than a taxi but far more than the train which I haven’t tried yet despite buying an Bus & Rail E-Pass last week. Unfortunately, the every-other-hour schedule into Fort Worth is either too early or too late for me. Mike and Terri, the “hot tub couple” at my apartment complex, said they’d heard that Yellow Checker Shuttle was reasonable at $15 so I try it this week and it works out great, dropping me at the Renaissance Worthington Hotel only a ten minute walk from my office.

I walk into the lobby of our building, say hello to Davis the security guard, and he lets me know that my laundry is ready. I tell him that I’ll pick it up when I leave tonight, and he says no problem.

I was clever last Friday and brought a change of clothes into the office before heading to the airport so I’d be able to come straight from the airport in my traveling clothes. I take the elevator to the 4th floor, say hello to people that are becoming more familiar every week, and open my office, grabbing the empty waste basket on the way in. I close the door momentarily, do a quick change while the computer boots up, and then open the door as if I’m flipping the “closed” sign over to “open” to start business for today.

I find the e-mail folder is 10 times fuller than last Monday. The expectations are greater, and that’s okay because I’m busy and the projects I’m managing are important. I don’t stop until six-thirty when I decide that I need to call Melissa and the kids, and then go for my swim without staying up too late.

The walk toward my apartment is warm and balmy, and although I tend to cross different streets and take different routines as I cut through town every night, it all seems more familiar and second-nature. I still look up and enjoy certain sights, like the contrast of modern skyscrapers with their glass faces looming behind the old turn-of the-nineteenth century ones, or the small country music radio station sitting in the middle of a downtown parking lot where I watch the deejay working behind the window before passing Jamba Juice in the same quaint little building. On the same street is Barnes & Noble, but each time is easier to pass without stopping as I look forward to spending time there with Melissa soon.

I’m reluctant to say I’m “home,” but as I open the door with the pog on my keychain, the air-conditioning pulls me in with a cool welcome. The walk down the long hallway toward the elevator is on a downward slope, leading me to end of the hall where I’ll call the elevator, turn the corner to the mail room where I’ll check my weekend mail – usually one item if I’m lucky, and then back to the elevator which has arrived.

I took the time on Friday to clean, vacuum, put away clean clothes and run the dishwasher, and as I open the door I grab the disposable camera that the kids gave me and take a few shots of my clean Texas apartment for them.

First things first, I turn on the A/C, take a frozen Healthy Choice dinner and put it in the microwave, get into shorts and comfortable socks, and turn on the TV because, I’ve figured out, I don’t like the silence of being alone.

I talk to Melissa and the kids, and then take my towel and walk back to the front of the complex and cool off with an easy swim before bedtime. The sunrise has nearly faded, but it still lingers over the trees on Trinity Bluff just over the fence. Suddenly my mind downshifts and mentally I have some capacity for creativity, but I am sleepy. Next Monday will be the same, and that’s okay. But the rest of the week, I tell myself, has to count for much more.