Tag Archives: travel

Letting it Hang

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Right now, as I’m writing, I’m looking at the wall behind my computer and I am rather proud of it. There are two framed photos, a calendar (on the wrong month) two cardboard pieces with chalk drawings and the painting I made at a painting party many years ago.

I love looking at these things, but Roy avoids looking at this wall because it offends all of his sensibilities. It’s not that he minds the things I have on the wall (well, maybe he wishes the calendar was right), it’s the way I have hung them up. I like to say that my ability to decorate a wall with artwork or pictures is somewhat random, if you know what I mean.

Where Roy will measure and estimate and carefully string up a hanger on the back of the item, I prefer the thumbtack and sticky tape method. As for placement, well, I’m a little random there as well. It’s hurtful to the eye of a man who prefers precision in the hangings on his walls.

He came out of the bathroom after his morning shower one day rubbing his shoulder and holding a framed picture that I had just hung up the day before.

“Why did you take that picture down? I want it to hang over the shower,” I whined.

“Explain why we need a picture over the shower in the bathroom, where no one is likely to notice it?”

“It’s a beautiful picture of rain on flowers; perfect for the shower,” I said. “Now why did you take it down?”

“I didn’t take it down. Your perfect rainfall picture fell on me when I got out of the shower,” he explained, handing me the picture. “What did you hang it up with?”

“That little needle, right there,” I said, pointing to a tiny shard of metal on the wall above the shower.

He shook his head, walking away. “It’s too small to hold that picture and besides, it’s way off center.”

“Well, I’m hanging it back up, so just watch yourself when you come out of the shower,” I said, defiantly.

“Just the words a fella wants to hear concerning his own bathroom,” he was getting sarcastic. “Maybe none of my relatives will have to use the toilet when they are here.”

It’s always the same. What should we hang up and where should we hang it? It’s a question that can at least cause ripples in a marriage. While I am holding the picture up approximately where it should go on the wall, he is dragging out the tape measure and sorting through his supplies of nails to figure out which one goes.

After hanging a picture recently that required him to get up and down on a ladder, he said to me, “Is this hanging evenly?”

“Yes, it looks just fine,” I answered. “Don’t worry about it.”

It seems those are exactly the wrong words to say to him about pictures. He climbed down off the ladder, stepped back to look at the picture, got back on the ladder, adjusted it (he didn’t ask my opinion that time), got down, looked again and went up for one final tweak. I’m convinced the last one wasn’t necessary; he was just showing off.

I have several more things that I would like to hang up, but I am going to wait until this latest round of marital picture hanging has faded into memory. In other words, I’m just going to let it hang!

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

Insecure in the Security Line

Photo by Connor Danylenko on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I say too much here, allow me to state that I understand the very serious purpose of security checks at the airport. I am grateful for the caution that is used to keep me safe.

Having said that, I must tell you that security lines at the airport make me frozen with fear. I don’t know why. I’m not trying to smuggle in a weapon; I don’t plan to hijack the plane or blow it up (I’m not keen on killing myself). But suddenly, when I look into the eyes of a security officer at the airport, I remember that I still have that breath mint, wrapped in crinkly paper, stuck in the pocket of my jeans. It came from Amsterdam, and here I am, trying to get into Paris. What if it shows up in X-ray and they detain me for unlawful transport of oral deodorants???????!!!!!!

I think it’s safe to say that authority of any kind turns me into a dithering idiot and on most good days, I don’t have all that far to go to get there. I don’t need a lady eying me up and down as she puts on her plastic gloves and asks me if I want to step into a private room. No I do not! Whatever we’re going to do, we’re going to do in front of everyone! Or upon reflection, maybe not!

Generally, I am not thinking about these security lines when I get ready to go on a trip. And it seems like every time I go through one, either I wore the shirt with the studs decorating the shoulders, or I brought home a bag of trinkets in a souvenir bag that has what they described as a “suspicious odor.” I don’t tell them that the studs are really cheap plastic and the souvenir bag smells funny because it spent the night before sitting on my smelly sneakers. It’s better not to argue; just let them pat down those plastic studs or run a security wand through the souvenirs and discover there is really nothing lethal on the Paddington Bear I was bringing my grandson!

The X-ray machines are always a treat. I once heard a lady tell a TSA officer at the Denver airport as she stepped into the security X-ray, “Oh good, I’m overdue for my mammogram!” The officer was clearly not amused and so I swallowed my laugh before it could get out and meekly entered the machine without any smart comments about needing copies for my Christmas cards! The first thing you are told is not to make jokes. Unfortunately, when I am nervous, jokes just fall out of my mouth and they are wasted on people who aren’t allowed to have a sense of humor on the job.

I once set off the security alarms with a briefcase in the JFK in New York. With four security officers standing and staring at me, I went completely blank. I couldn’t remember the combination to the briefcase. I tried three times to get it right and by the time I finally got it open, even I wondered if I was smuggling in something lethal! It turned out that the marble statuette I had gotten my mother-in-law looked suspicious to the machine, but when they discovered I couldn’t shoot bullets out of it, they gave it back and left me alone to try and re-lock my briefcase with my trembling fingers!

I also get rattled when I am trying to put all my belongings into the little bins. At the Dublin airport, I needed to take off my jacket and give them the bag I had around my neck. Unfortunately, the bag was over the jacket, so when I tried to take the jacket off first, I nearly hung myself. The security fellow said with a heavy Irish accent, “Off in reverse of how they went on, Love!” I was so rattled by the accent that I asked, “Do you want anything else off?” It’s the first time I ever accidentally propositioned a security officer, but he was very nice and just shook his head.

I have been traveling with a cane for the past couple of years because I need it for stairs. It’s a pain in a security line, though, because everyone has a different procedure for how to handle it. In the Paris security line, they took it away from me completely and ran it through a special x-ray machine. I got through everything and had the rest of my hand luggage, but the cane never appeared. I asked a couple of the officers, but they didn’t know what happened to it. Finally, I saw it sitting, leaned up against a wall. Were they done with it? I don’t know. I simply grabbed it and, resisting the impulse to run like I’d just robbed the bank, I walked on down the hallway to my gate. My face hasn’t appeared on any international terrorist wanted posters for illegal pilfering of a cane, so I think I’m fine!

Okay, now I’ve had my fun and the security officers have had theirs, so I can end this little saga. And the next time I travel…I’m taking a bike!

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

The Viking Invasion

Photo by Fernando Cortu00e9s on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Since coming to Ireland, I have learned that the Vikings never technically invaded the island. After an attempt or two, hundreds of years ago, they left for greener pastures (or easier targets).

That was true until my latest vacation. I had been planning the trip of a lifetime. For six years and more, I have planned to go to Europe and most of all, I wanted to visit Ireland. During those six years of planning, Roy has researched, mapped out and done a lot of legwork to decide where we were going to travel.

I would look at his research and improvised itinerary while he was busy with Sunday afternoon football. “I like the idea of spending several days in London,” I remarked.

“No, no, no! Where’s the defense!” he yelled, shaking his fist at the television. That kind of response could only mean the Vikings must be on.

“I also like the idea of ending the trip with Dublin. It will be a nice wrap-up,” I continued, glad I don’t have to travel with the Vikings.

“That reminds me,” he said. “Guess who will be in Dublin while we are there? The Vikings!”

It couldn’t be. “Tell me it’s the kind who invade countries and not the kind who play football!”

“Oh it’s the Minnesota Vikings football team. They are playing the Pittsburg Steelers in Dublin and it is just a lucky coincidence that we are going to be there too. I think we should go to the game.”

Lucky coincidence. It’s just a lucky coincidence that on the trip I have been dreaming about for years, I would have the opportunity to see the Minnesota Vikings play football. On the last Sunday of my vacation. In Dublin, Ireland! Lucky how?

I don’t believe in coincidence. I think the Vikings did this on purpose. They loaded up their Viking ship, sharpened up their weapons—or footballs and planned on invading Ireland just to put a dagger into my vacation.

The worst part is that this time Ireland was welcoming the Vikings—and the Steelers. They had up banners and signs and flags all over the city of Dublin. So, what was otherwise described in the travel brochures as a lovely old world city with quiet, winding streets, turned into a full scale flood of people in Vikings and Steeler gear and the only question you heard from a millions mouths with American accents was: Are you here for the game?

No! I was there to see Ireland. Ireland, which held off the Vikings hundreds of years ago and suddenly couldn’t hold them out long enough for me to see the city without balloon structure of every description hanging everywhere in Viking and Steeler colors. Thanks a lot, all you Irish Paddys: now, instead of old-world charm I’m going to get American football like any other random Sunday! You couldn’t have held them off for one more week?

So it was, on the last Sunday of my dream vacation, I moved as one with a swarm of American invaders to the ball park, where they fought, not with swords, but with downs and touchbacks and referees blowing whistles.

Since it was technically a Steelers home game, we were hopelessly outnumbered in the fan department, but we put on our purple and gold nonetheless and prepared to back Minnesota’s play.

And then, even worse happened: by the end of the third quarter, the Vikings were down by 15 points and their invasion appeared to be thwarted by a Pittsburg Steeler win. The least you Vikings could have done was win…or score or something! No, no no! Where’s the defense???

As is the case with the Vikings of Minnesota, they came back in the fourth quarter so hard that instead of the Steelers fans singing their victory song, there was the sound of thousands of Steelers fans holding their breath as the Vikings livened up the game by coming within three points at the final whistle.

So once again, a Viking invasion of the beautiful green island of Ireland failed, but not before it had caused my vacation to take a very weird turn. Skoll, Vikings!

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

Go ahead; Bite Me!

Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I would like to write an article today in praise and admiration of that most humble and small insect…the mosquito. I would LIKE to write an article in praise and admiration of them, but unfortunately, mosquitoes do nothing to incite my praise or admiration!

I love the summer, but at about this time, when I am nursing the 910th mosquito bite of the season, I am ready for a good frost…something that will offer warm days after it but will kill off the mosquitoes! Of all the beings God put on the earth, this is the one I can’t quite reconcile myself to!

If a person is walking in the early morning, especially after a rainstorm, your walking companions are sure to be mosquitoes. If anyone saw me waving my arms and screaming at nothing, “Get off me! Will you get away from me?” they would have one of two reactions. First, if they are from this area, they would know I’m talking to mosquitoes. If they are not from this area, they might just assume I am the local harmless madwoman. And with enough mosquitoes around, it might just be both!

What is there about that dratted insect that causes it to go straight for the face? My grandson was here for a week and on the first day, he had four bites on his cheeks and one on his eyelid! Poor child looked like he had been in a street brawl!

I slap the most mosquitoes from my face and especially do I despise the hardy little varmints who try to crawl under my glasses. I have deformed, defaced and downright ruined more glasses while going after mosquitoes crawling under them than I can count, and a lot of times by the time I tear off the glasses, scream, “I’ve got you, you little devil!” and slap myself in the face, that is all I’ve accomplished—a slap in my face! The mosquito is flying away, laughing, “No, no, it is I who have got you! Thanks for the blood donation—happy itching!”

And therein comes my next complaint—what is there that effectively stops a mosquito bite from itching? Usually, by the time I realize I am scratching a mosquito bite, I have successfully removed one layer of skin—at least. Nothing I have tried has made a difference, and I think I’ve tried it all. I have slathered myself with enough oatmeal paste to feed a small nation and I have tried myriad types of jellies and creams and only succeeded in greasing myself up like a pig in a wrestling competition.  None of the treatments I have tried have stopped the itching.

In order to distract myself from my latest set of bites (seven of them on my feet, no less), I looked up information about the mosquito. Only the female “bites” apparently, but she does it so she can develop eggs. That means that miserable witch is using my blood to make MORE mosquitoes! Whatever they use it for, they draw blood with the precision of a needle and the skill of a surgeon. They live about 30 days, which is just 29 and three quarters too long, and best of all, while they are digging around in our blood vessels, sucking blood which would make Count Dracula proud, they are able to share all the nasty diseases they are carrying!

It said in the article that mosquitoes can be “controlled” with insecticides, or by destroying the areas where they breed. I am sure that the scientists out there know what they are doing, but I have to say that nothing is so satisfying in controlling a mosquito as the “slap, slap” of my hand, producing a squashed insect! I know that makes me bloodthirsty but look who I’m fighting.

I suppose, since I have nothing praise-worthy or admirable to say about the mosquito, I should end this article. But let me say in closing, “Mosquitoes: we are bigger than you and sometimes even smarter and besides all that, winter is coming; so why don’t you just bite me? Oh, wait! No, I take it back! ‘Slap, Slap’ I don’t mean to actually bite me, ‘Slap, slap, slap…”

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

The Walkabout

Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Because of all the health issues I’ve had and the health issues I would really like to avoid, I’ve come to the sad conclusion that I must stay physically active.

So, a few years back, I decided it was time to institute a daily walking program. I call it my “walkabout” because that sounds so much more fun and elegant than “the daily trudge.” In Australia, a walkabout is a hiking trip through the bush country—or so I understand. I can pretend I’m there and I feel so important!

It starts with the daily argument my body has as I am dragging it out of bed. Let’s see: whose turn is it to hurt today and turn the walkabout into a limpabout?

“The left knee has been hogging the headlines for hurting now for four days. I think it’s time to let the right ankle have a turn at hurting,” I will hear them say as I pull on my old clothes and my walking shoes.

“Well, okay, but don’t forget that the upper body has a lot of neat pains as well. The shoulders can make walking unpleasant and there’s nothing like a good headache to create just the right amount of strain.”

Once we have determined what is going to create the walking problem, it’s time to select the correct brace. An ankle brace or a knee brace? Is it a sling we need for an arm that’s out of commission or do we need a neck brace to be on the safe side? I have a collection of braces for various body parts that would put a hospital to shame and pretty much every day, I need one (sometimes more) for the morning walkabout.

The next question is where to walk. The health recommendation to keep all the body parts moving is to walk at least 30 minutes. My own health recommendation is not to walk on any major highway, because getting hit by a vehicle would mess up my walkabout a great deal. That does, however, limit my walking choices. I have determined that if I walk twice around the little housing area where I live, I will meet the recommended time. In order to do that, I have to walk by my own house several times and it’s always a temptation to just give it up and drag myself back into the house for a second cup of coffee.

If I can resist the temptation to cut the walk short and just tell everyone I did a full 30 minutes, I find that it’s upsetting for the neighborhood dogs to have me skulking by their houses several times. We have reached an understanding, though—I’ll stay off their lawns and they won’t sound like they are going to eat me! It’s a satisfying arrangement for all of us—especially me!

Weather becomes a real issue when it comes to the walkabout. When I was younger, I walked in any weather, usually very early in the mornings, because I had to get to work. Now that I’ve retired and regained my senses, I find walking at 6:30 in the morning, in the dark, in a snowstorm, to be a little too much. I do still try to go as early as possible because I have discovered a correlation between the time of day and my ambition: the later it gets, the less I want to walk!

So I aim to get in a full walk; except if it’s too hot…or too cold, or too sunny…or raining…or foggy. Foggy is the worst because that messes up my glasses and I can’t see where I’m walking.

I decided I needed a way to walk even when the weather is not cooperating, so I invested in a treadmill, which frequently doubles as a clothes closet. They say that is not as good as walking outside, so I do try to make it a walkabout in the great outdoors, because saying, “I went for my morning walkabout on the treadmill”—really loses a lot of glamour! But, if the weather’s too bad, or I’ve waited too long, I clear the hangers off the treadmill and go for my “walkabout” there!

The end result of this is that I still wake up in the morning wondering what things on the body are going to complain, but I’m assured by every medical source I’ve checked that it would be worse without the walkabout. So, if you see me out there trudging down the road, looking like I’m really not enjoying myself—I’m not, but I’m at least pretending I am in the bush country of Australia and doing something elegant!

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

Directions Dilemma 

My grandmother used to joke that it was a good thing that there is only one way to go when we are born, or there are those of us who would get lost on the way out. This joke was never particularly funny to me because I am one of those who would most definitely get lost.

On my honeymoon, I tried to read a map and guide Roy through Kansas City. The result of that trip was the first fight of our married lives. Fights over travel and directions have continued apace with every travel adventure we have taken. Most people fight about the charges on the credit card or the money spent on shoes or guns. Not Roy and I. Our fights frequently come from the fact that I told him to turn left when he should have turned right and now we are in a neighborhood which looks like a dangerous place to stop, roll down a window and admit we’re lost!

Maps were the original field of my inabilities. In final checks before we set off, Roy would say: Gas? Check. Suitcases? Check. Cash? Check. Map right side up? Check. I would have been much more insulted by this last instruction except that he was justified. I once guided him halfway through Denver before I discovered I was holding the map backwards and we were traveling pretty much in circles through heavy Denver traffic!

The introduction of GPS to our lives has improved things, but I find I can still mess up in giving directions even then. GPS and Google maps both speak directions, but Roy always asks me questions, anyway. “What direction is the next turn?” he will ask, wishing to be in the proper lane to react quickly. “Right,” I reply, pointing for good measure. “Okay,” comes his response, “you said right and you’re pointing left. Which is it?”

“Sorry,” I answer, “it’s my directions dyslexia kicking in. We turn left.”

“Now you’re saying left and pointing right,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Oh wait, there’s our street and we missed it.”

“Recalculating,” intones the GPS.

This year, we went to Germany and Roy wanted to go to places where his family had originated. That meant taking a car and going off some of the main tourist paths through the country. We took the car from the central train station in Brussels, Belgium, which didn’t look too bad until we contemplated driving through it.

“There’s a GPS on the car,” the young man told us with heavily accented English.

“Oh good,” Roy replied, “because our little Garmin won’t connect over here.”

“Yes, but don’t follow its instructions until you get out of the Ring,” he continued. “You want to drive out onto the Ring and then follow the GPS after you leave the inner city.”

We had no idea what he was talking about and judging from the expression on his face, the minute we left, he turned to his co-worker and made a bet as to whether we would have our accident while still in “the Ring” or if we would crash the minute we drove out of the train station.

Well, we made it to “the Ring”. The trick we couldn’t figure out was how to get out of the Ring. We just kept running in circles in heavy traffic, while the car’s GPS intoned in perfect British accents, “Take a slight right and then turn right.” It gave no distances, no road names and no clue as to which of myriad “rights” that were all along the street was the correct “slight right and right turn.”

In desperation, Roy pulled into a small side street and got out the Google Maps on his phone and plugged in the directions to southern Germany. The map loaded up and instructed, “Continue on this street for 1 kilometer.”

Feeling more confident, Roy put the car in gear and asked, “Which direction does it want me to turn up here?”

“Turn left,” I said, pointing to be certain and of course, I was pointing right.

“Take a slight right and then turn right,” intoned the car’s GPS.

It was a long drive through Germany.

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

Signs that I am not in the United States…

It has been an eventful couple of weeks for me. For only the second time in my life, I was what you would technically refer to as “abroad.” All that means is that I spent two weeks in Germany and I can tell you it is a different world from my life in the United States. Some things better and some things worse were the result of my observations during this vacation, but I’d like to share with you some signs which told me I was  definitely not in the United States.

First, there is the bathroom. I know I’m not in the United States because I walk into a bathroom only after I agree to pay and then pass through a turn style. In addition, I have only paid and used this bathroom after a search of several blocks to find one. When I am in the bathroom, I have to worry about having two levels of flushing and I go through the stress of wondering  if I pressed the right one! When it’s easier to hold it, than to go through the stress of the “WC”, then I know I’m somewhere other than the United States.

I know I’m not in the United States when I feel compelled to begin every conversation with “Do you speak English?” To the credit of the German people, they are remarkably conversant in English, but inevitably, my question was answered with “Ya, a little bit.” A little bit was anywhere from those few words to a fluency in English that put mine to shame. Just once, however, I did run into a woman who could speak no English. Since she was the clerk in the train station and I was lost…not in the United States… this was a problem.19429656_1534105623294529_3039647992177886607_n

And this brings me to another thing that tells me I’m not in the United States. I traveled a lot by train. In Europe, the train is a popular method of getting around and the people there are very easy with it. I find it unsettling that I must find the proper train and I will be allowed to board without anyone checking my ticket. Tickets are not collected until after the train leaves the station. I spent most of my train trips in a panic that I was on the wrong train and on at least one occasion, that was the case. Then, there were the others in even worse shape than me. “Pardon me, do you speak English?” I was approached by one worried passenger, ticket in hand. Then, before I answered, she continued, “Do you know if this is train the 1501?” Not wishing to appear as ignorant as I really was, I smiled apologetically, pointed at myself and said, “Sprechen da Deutsch.” That’s something I definitely wouldn’t do in the United States.

I know I’m not in the United States because of the “Nos.” By this, I mean things that I am used to that they don’t have…no water, no ice, no hurry, no air conditioning, no fans, no window screens, no chocolate and sugar sweets. The last one was the worst. I would have given a great deal to go into a store anywhere and see a KitKat on the shelves. As it was, I couldn’t find anything that was recognizable and the ingredients were all in German. Add to that the fact that soda came in 8-ounce bottles and was referred to as “German coke,” and you’ll see the dilemma for a sugar freak like me. However, on reflection, the Europeans may have this one right.

No water and no ice go together. Water also came in small, 8 ounce glass bottles (or the European equivalent).And  if you were not careful to ask for “still” water, you would end up with a mineral water that was as pleasant for this spoiled American to drink as Alka-seltzer! They use ice in nothing. For me, I’ll forego the liquid if I can still have the ice. For two weeks, I looked for water everywhere, suffered with no ice, and sweated out what little liquid I had in the heat, since there were no air conditioners. Now, I have long said the United States keeps air conditioners ridiculously low,  but NO air conditioning was not pleasant either! Windows in hotels opened and contained no screens. This bothered me, but I’d rather battle bugs than have no air moving.

My final clue that I was not in the United States had to do with restaurant dining. Food was abundant and very filling. So much so that I could seldom finish a plate. When the waiters would retrieve it they would shake their heads solemnly at me and intone, “Not guut?” They also didn’t believe in a speedy conclusion. They would clear the food and leave you sitting there…and sitting there…and sitting there. Apparently, we in the United States finish our food and leave the restaurant too quickly. There, people linger over coffee or drinks or cigarettes (the summer means all dining is out of doors).  Anytime I grew impatient and asked for the bill, they all looked so sorry for the boorish American with no appreciation for what a quiet time over the table could offer…they were right.

And of course, no conversation about being in Europe is complete without talking about paying that restaurant bill. Cash only…they didn’t like credit cards—in fact, they trouble swiping them when they would use them. Not only cash, but in the smallest common denominator. Each waiter carried their own cash pouch for paying the bill and they encouraged you to pay in as close to correct change as possible. In fact, one young lady went so far as to look in Roy’s wallet as he opened it to get money out and request specific bills.

There were many ways in which I was charmed by the German people I met, but there is a definite difference between their methods and those in the United States. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to use the bathroom for free and then sit with my tall glass of still water on ice and have the air conditioning blow directly on me. Because I am now in the United States!

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

No room at the inn…

It was a strange bathroom. I groped my way inside the extremely tiny space and found the toilet. I made the mistake of sitting down before I reached over and turned on the light switch. And found a bug….no two bugs…no three bugs on the floor. Of course, the third bug might not count because he was dead.

It doesn’t happen very often because Roy and I are both paranoid about making sure we have good motel rooms when we travel, but occasionally, we get stymied. We decided on the spur of the moment to take a little trip over the weekend. Except, it was Labor Day weekend and we soon discovered that EVERYBODY books rooms over the long Labor Day weekend and we were just a little late. Like Mary and Joseph, we discovered there was no room at the inn…at least, any of the inns we normally frequent.

At last, however, in a small town outside of the immediate area of our destination, we were able to book a room at one of those non-chain, smaller venues. It was alright, though, because when we got to the motel, there was a long line of people also checking in. Must be a great place, right? Except we soon discovered in talking to people in line that we were about the only ones who had made any kind of reservation. The rest of them were traveling impromptu as well and were stopping here as a last resort, hoping for an open room. We were all standing in line praying for a good experience.

The girl at the counter spoke so softly that even those of us not hearing impaired had to hang over the counter to hear her. The fellow working with her made up for that however. He indicated that he was ready for the next customer by pounding on the counter and bellowing, “Next!” We all jumped and flinched like frightened recruits on Army induction day.

It was finally our turn and when we had filled out the necessary paperwork with the soft-spoken girl, the loud drill sergeant reached into a box behind him and handed Roy an unusual, metal-looking object.

“What is that?” I asked Roy as we left the office.

“It’s a key,” he answered, wonder in his voice.

“That didn’t look like a key card to me,” I said skeptically.

“It’s not a key card; it’s an actual KEY,” he said and held it up, glinting in the late afternoon sun. Now, it’s not that I like those key cards; it’s just that they suggest a little bit more up-to-date facilities than the old-fashioned keys. However, beggars quite definitely can’t be choosers.

As we walked down the hall, we passed a table containing a coffee pot and some individually packaged, dry-looking granola bars. I indicated the table with a jerk of my head as I told Roy, “If that’s the continental breakfast, we’re going to need to find a Perkins somewhere instead, tomorrow morning.”  It was and we did.

We unlocked the door of our room with the actual KEY and were cautiously surprised to find a fairly modern looking room before us. Of course, it packed two beds, a night table and a luggage rack in a mighty small space, but by using the sink as a desk for our computer, phone and camera to recharge on, it worked pretty well. I was feeling pretty good about it until I went into the bathroom and encountered the refuge from Raid convention.

“There’s a bug in here,” I called to Roy, “in fact, there’s several.”

“Well, kill them,” he returned, “I’m busy with a couple of wall crawlers out here.” His shoe hit the wall for emphasis and I knew we were one cricket less.

I returned to the main room when I had finished the bug stomping party in the bathroom. “I’d like to sit on these extremely hard beds and watch some television, but I see there isn’t a television.”

“Look up,” he replied and sure enough, there was a nice, not flat-screened television, hanging from a holder on the wall.  “Which of the three stations it gets would you like to watch?”

We made it through the night and we reminded ourselves a number of times that we had been lucky to get the room at this place, or we would have been forced to spend the night in our car, so when we thought about it that way, it didn’t seem so bad. However, the next time this Mary and Joseph go traveling, they are going to be sure they have booked their accommodations far in advance!

 

 

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column