Tales and tips from a mother on the road

Saturday mornings, when I’m not on the road, are devoted to paper airplane flying.  Well, two weeks ago it was devoted to baseball, but mostly to paper airplanes, the current passion of my 8-yr-old.

In most ways, the passion he has is for the folding.  He has learned numerous fancy folds from YouTube, where teenager and adult men, still with the passion for folding, demonstrate it to the neophytes.  More fancy folds from the airplane book he got at his birthday.  And now, if he is to be believed, his own designs, some of which fly well, some of which do not, but all of which seem to require a PhD in at least getting those pesky folds to do something you thought paper never could.

Last Saturday we went down to the neighborhood square with two paper airplanes, one a light glider, the other a stunt plane.  I was given the latter, and in the windy, tiled square (Eidelweiss hotel on one side, the six-foot wooden elephants of the Bollywood Cafe on the other, fountain down the middle, potable water fountain close-to), and instructions.  First to fly it into the wind (a disaster, immediate crash, all passengers lost), then with the wind (more successful, emergency evacuation possible).

We played for the better part of an hour, my stunt plane getting yet worse after flying into the drinking fountain, and being rescued and dried off, but not improved.  We went off to do some errands and drink a hot chocolate, then came back and played some more.

A little girl of about 5 was watching us.  She went to her father who had her and her little brother, and spoke to him, pointing at the airplanes.  We tried to get her interested in playing with us, but she was too shy.

To the grocery store for the weekend’s groceries.  I am standing at the bread counter waiting for my son to bring the big cart–we’re buying more than we expected.  Something hits me on the left side of my neck.  I look to the side.  Nothing.  I look down.  Nothing.  I look down and to the side–the five-year-old has retrieved her airplane that hit me on the neck.

Ha!  The minx has had her father fold her a plane, and now she has her own.  She sent it my way–as a missle or not, unclear, but I smile a really big smile.  More paper airplanes make the world a better place.  She goes and confesses to her papa, he looks shocked and begins to apologize.  I don’t want an apology–having a new paper airplane convert is enough.

This weekend I’m suggesting that we take the many many shopping bags of airplanes my son has made and give them away in the square.  Will the square Swiss take them?  Will they fly them with us?  Will the air be full of recycled paper Harriers and Concordes?  Or will we only have one five-year old to join us, hollering as her airplane, like all the others, inevitably finds its way to the water.

I just heard my young neighbor–mother to a one-year-old–come home at 12:40 a.m.  Suddenly, I remembered our first date.

Not the first date when my husband and I went out to pizza on the Upper West Side of New York (and I paid, because he was broke, and a musician, and I had a good job, and we laid the foundations for the rest of our lives), and then went and watched pay-per-view Holyfield fight at his friend’s house because I was a recent karate black belt and I could understand what was happening even though the men could not, and then we drank pints at a bar that now doesn’t exist and went home to my apartment in Queens and slept together, but not… and stayed together for two days because he could not only cook fish with its head on and make it look appetizing but he could cook the leftovers and the leftover leftovers, proving himself a real cook (and laying the foundations for the rest of our lives), but…

…the first date we went on after our first child was born and we hadn’t been alone together for months and we had forgotten what we looked like without a kid on the shoulder and an agenda for when one or the other might–pee, talk on the phone, walk the dog, make dinner, sleep, pretend to care, stop caring, answer email, go to work–and we came home and paid the babysitter twice what she normally got because we were so giddy to have been adults and to have come home again to the gorgeous little package that was…

…incredibly…

our son.

Anyone who doubts the glamour of today’s travel need go no further than the village hotel in very fancy Kent where I stayed on Friday.

After days of peripatetic travel around snowbound England, never two nights in the same hotel, I landed with relief at the hotel opposite the terribly fancy school where we were holding our board meeting.  The hotel itself is not terribly fancy–kind of classic English, with the smell of Detoll and ancient patterned carpets.  Nice enough, though.

Woke in the morning with two bites on my arm.

The next morning with two bites on my shoulder.

Wouldn’t have thought much about it, but a colleague show up COVERED in bites, which, because she is allergic to everything, had gotten infected and required a trip to medical care.

Ah, so that’s what bedbug bites look like.

A good friend posted numerous quotes about bedbugs:

I want to be a hospital bed bug”
- Ota Dokan
“A hundred bed bugs bold, and bad”
- Colfax Burgoyne Harman’s poem “The Landlord” 
“a bedbug mother tips back her baby’s chin”
- Eliza Griswold
“crown and mitre me Bedbug the First”
- Derek Wolcott 
“I bit the queen’s bottom!”
- John Foster’s bedbug brag
“[bedbugs] came like specks of cinnamon”
- Anne Sexton 
“Swarming bed bugs, like black army tanks in the night”
- Ho Chi Minh’s prison poetry 
“Umkhosi weencukithu neentakumba”
- J.R. Jolobe
“next door nobody/seems to live at present…or, bed-
bugs.”
- e.e. cummings 

And another good friend posted a link about what to do if you bring them home.  BRING THEM HOME? OMG!  Turns out that’s how this little pest is regaining resurgence in London and New York–intrepid travelers go around the world, and bring them home in their luggage.  

When I switched rooms, for the third night there, no bedbugs.  Instead of getting bitten, a friend and I stayed until 3 am in the hotel bar drinking free wine given to us by the disgruntled chef who had just handed in his resignation.

The hangover in the morning almost made me forget the bites.

I think I’m going to keep track of the number of times that I’m told I should do something in the next week.

I think I’m going to shoot anyone who says I “should” do anything.

For context, here’s a brief sample of what I actually HAVE done in the past six days:

Took the lead on several high-level meetings with board and management regarding the strategic direction of our division.

Prepared, or worked with consultants to prepare, documentation on all activities of the division in the last five years.

Tutored my older son in phonics.

Continued negotiations with a potential partner to do teacher training for the entire country of Nepal.

Created spreadsheets for my kids’ fundraising projects for Nepal.

Facilitated the internal process of a major partnership to create a virtual community of 2.5M users to become live within 18 months.

Attended my sons’ karate class, black belt demothed, and helped to lead the class.

Exercised two days out of four.

Negotiated new space for my team, reviewing floor plans, correcting them, and mapping out new ones.

Made lunch every morning for my kids.

Made dinner 3 out of 4 nights.

Did grocery shopping.

Began planning a workshop to assist fundraisers in Geneva in the new financial environment.

Migrated to a new laptop.

Reviewed a former employee’s resume and met to discuss improvements.

Wrote an essay in support of a retiring board chairman.

Met with my son’s teacher to discuss his progress.

Visited a potential new school for my older son with learning disabilities.

Drafted a blog post five nights out of six.

Worked with attorneys in two countries to ink a contract with a third… for the largest gift in the organization’s history.

Did the recycling–but not on Sunday when it is illegal in Switzerland.

Connected with two past donors to make sure relationships were on track.

Conducted two personnel reviews and finished documentation.

Cuddled the boys every morning to wake them gently.  Scratched their backs according to demand.

Read a book on the bus every morning including the morning that we drilled for spelling on the cards I created to deal with spelling issues.

Picked the children up from school two afternoons.

Made bread pudding for breakfast tomorrow.

Entertained a new colleague.

Wrote a diary note five days out of seven.

Actually had a sex life.  A couple of times.

Finished reading a novel, wrote a quick synopsis and started another.

Cleaned the toilets.  Three times–I hate Swiss toilets.

Took two kids and ski gear to school, put on ski boots, talked to teacher.

Wrote “I love you notes” for kids in their lunch boxes.

Rewrote my resume in anticipation of my company moving to another country.

Practiced the violin one night to keep son interested.

Met with consultants to keep presentation on track.  

Had two conference calls to firm up strategy for critical board dinner next week.  Including two Lords and maybe one Prince.

Played deep politics on an important project for the organization, including multiple emails and phone calls.

Washed, dried (air dried–our drier is broken), folded and put away multiple loads of laundry.

Started planning for an educational series on fundraising in difficult times to support the development community.

—-

At the same time, in the same week I have heard:

That I should not let the bastards get me down.

That I take things too personally.

That I should stay the course.

That I should take a new tack.

That I should fight the good fight.

That I should preserve our space.

That I should come home earlier.

That I should spend more time with my kids.

That I should begin all processes earlier.

That I should consult with more partners.

That I should exercise more.

That I should sleep more.

That I should get a new job.

That I should stay in my current job.

That I should enjoy life more.

That I should not be so hard on myself.

—

This doesn’t include what I tell myself…

That I should clean the house more.

That I should organize the paperwork

…manage the finances better

…lose the 10 lbs I’ve gained since taking medication (and getting myself off)

…exercise harder

…go to Capoeria class

…take my young friend to horse riding so I can start riding again myself

And I know I should…

Screw it all and go to bed now.

Good night.

If you have to spend a few hours to pass in terminal 2, Munich airport, think about grabbing a date and…

having a fabulous hot chocolate at Aran cafe.  It is beautiful!  While you are there, watch the smokers in the Camel cubes, isolated in the middle of the hallway.  It is actually a tourist spectacle, with people standing outside watching the strangeness of it all.

Then, walk down to “Private by Beate Uhse” outside of gate H30.  This is a sex shop, that, if you can get over the front windows, you will find it is brightly lighted, well stocked, and with a staff that speaks English.  When I walked in, the only clients in the shop were women.  Over by the, um, flourescent sexual aids, I saw the intellectual-looking clerk talking about quality comparisons, in English, with a woman of age about 35.  “This is certainly the best quality”, I heard him say “and the best for what you are describing.”  Alas, I wasn’t there to have overheard the description for travelingmama “overheard in airports” section.

If you are too timid to actually walk in, just sit in the restaurant almost opposite, order Wiener Schnitzel with roast potatoes and cranberries and watch people’s responses to the store.  Can they go in?  Do they dare?  Will a couple go in?  Two male colleague travelers?

If you and your date do manage to buy a video, it is only a brief 50m to the two “Napcabs”, opposite H32.  These are two little pods that you can rent for 15Eur per hour or 80Eur overnight.  Complete with a bed, a little desk space, and a DVD player.  Even if you don’t have a friend, the cabins look really inviting for the jetlagged and airport bound.

Otherwise, the only other interesting things to do are to see the world’s largest beer stein, so they say, 32 litres and 1630Eur, or to have a decent salad (but in a plastic plate) opposite gate 38.

I recommend hot chocolate and Private.  Both friendly and warm.

Monday of this week I had my lovely new boss over for dinner. She had flown in from Singapore for two days before she went on to more meetings in Europe.  Having raised three happy daughters, now all grown, and stayed married for 30 years, she is a good model of mother, wife, successful worker.

And, while I’m at work at 8 pm trying to get her documents for the board meeting next week, I call my husband to tell him that, for the second night in a row, I won’t be there for dinner with our 7 and 9 year olds.  Or, for that matter, with him.

Then, the email from the boss saying “and shouldn’t you be home with your lovely boys?”

And the response from my husband “okay, we’ll eat without you, but the boys really want to see you.”

There’s no question that at too many junctures altogether, you CANNOT be a good worker and a good mother.  Both require interest, attention, many hours, attention to detail, and serious commitment.

No matter where you go, you’ve got a good dose of guilt.  Maybe the answer to the perpetual “balance” question is “I have a good resistance to guilt.”

Answer 1:  Five.  One to make the appointment to go to the store, one to organize the carpool to go to the store to buy the lightbulb, one to tell the nanny to call the management, one to supervise the electrician, and one to complain over coffee how expensive it is to get anything done.

Answer 2:  Screw that, I’ll just do it all myself.  Again.

Q:  When is the shortest distance between two points not a straight line?

A:  When you are at Terminal 5.

——-

I love Terminal 5 at Heathrow.

I love Gordon Ramsey’s Plane Food.

I love being able to get Wagamama at 7 a.m.

I love the entertainment value of a terminal that was designed by people who have never traveled through an airport, have no conception of how signage might help a traveler, and who think that the shortest distance between two points is a line that goes from a bus to an escalator, to an elevator, down a corridor, through a visa checkpoint, down an escalator, up another escalator, through security, down a hallway and down either one or two more flights.  My average clocked time to pass through Terminal 5 (arriving at Terminal 5 and leaving at Terminal 5) is 45 minutes of continuous movement.

I recently got a great dose of the Heathrow follies when I arrived from Geneva on my way to Seattle.  My flight arrived on time, but somehow the bus to take us to the terminal wasn’t there.  ”Oh well,” said the flight attendant at the top of the stairs, “at least it is a sunny day.”

You have to love the Brits–they made it through the Blitz and they’ll never complain about having to wait.  Which is why they think nothing of Terminal 5.  Cranky Americans, however, are likely to say “that’s great, but I’d rather be spending my day on my flight to Seattle…”  Actually, cranky Americans do say that, regardless of how perky the flight attendants are.

The bus finally arrives, the chipper flight attendants get on, and we begin our journey through Terminal 5.  One of the fascinating things about the terminal is that there are no screens to tell you where you should go in the terminal, other than a fixed sign that tells you your terminal by length of flight and airline.  Problem there–BA flights go out of two terminals, one for “long haul” and one for “short haul.”  Can anyone define these for me?  Is the Ukraine long or short haul?  What about Moscow?  Murmansk?  

Never mind.  I know I’m to leave from Terminal 5.  So, I go up and down and around and through, and then up the very very long escalator that takes you three stories up to departures.  The escalator is pretty full.  About 75 feet from the ending, the escalator starts to sound like screeching brakes in a 70’s Burt Reynolds movie, augmented by a KaThump, KaThump, KaThump of “STOMP” every ascending pitch.  Hmmm.  Are escalators supposed to sound like that?

Well, don’t have time to think about it, as we’re approaching the top of the escalator and the line into security is so backed up that people are beginning to walk backwards down the up escalator.  No emergency stop button in sight.  As I’m beginning to hit the wave of people who can’t get off, I struggle through the crowd, reach the top, and begin a kink in the line that lets us have at least 30 more feet of line (see above re: shortest distance between two points).  Still can’t spot the emergency stop button.

Snake my way to the doorway, and there is a Russian woman (judging by her accent), back turned to the escalator, sitting on a folding chair tonelessly saying “any liquids, give me your bottles.”  Beside her is not a garbage bin but simply a rapidly multiplying pile of water bottles.

Patiently walk further along the line and find another snafu–the main entrance to Terminal 5 from outside joins this line, and no one wants to merge.  The Brits are rather particular about their queuing (see the incredibly enjoyable anthropology book called “Watching the English” for the best article on queues that I’ve ever read), and they really grumble if you break the invisible rules.  Well, too bad, I have a flight to catch, and while I’m not about to be aggressive, I don’t have time to figure out the passive aggressive barbs that they’re throwing at each other.  Sorry, don’t speak British.

Just behind me is a woman with her daughter in tow.  She has 5 minutes to catch her flight.  Extremely politely, she calls over a huge guy who apparently has some authority granted by virtue of the yellow neon reflective vest he wears (these are ubiquitous in the UK–I swear everyone carries one in his pocket).  That, and the fact that he is about 6 foot 6 with a belly the size of 8 months of carrying twins which, given his size, he uses as a rounded wedge to knock people on the side of the head if they’re not paying attention.  ”Excuse me,” she says, trying to get his attention.  ”Excuse me!”

He rams a few people in the heads and shoulders casually sauntering his way over to her.

“I’m very sorry, but I have only 5 minutes to catch my flight.  Can you help?”

“No,” he says, in an accent that an American has no business trying to imitate.  Not BBC.

“No?” she says.

“No.  You have to stand in this queue.”

“But I have only five minutes to my flight.”

“Listen, if I let you into this queue, I’ll be butting you in front of all of these people.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asks. “Anyone I can talk to?”

“You can talk to the managers.”

“Great.  Where are the managers?”

He gestures behind him.  ”Through this queue on the other side.  Sitting on their arses.  As usual.”

Well, a little class warfare at Heathrow.

By then I’ve snaked my way through three turns.  When I get up to security I have lost track of the woman and her daughter.  All my stuff goes on the tray and I get through.

On the other side of security, redressed in shoes and coat, I walk toward the first electronic, updatable sign I’ve seen since I started this process 30 minutes ago. Go through Heathrow on faith along, my beloved.  

My gate is posted, flashing “GO TO GATE.”

I hasten to obey.  And yet…

To my left, there is a foldup card table with a sign saying “Heathrow traffic flow study”.  Around the table are standing three guys in, of course, yellow neon vests, all holding clipboards.  They stand there, generally looking at the mayhem that I’ve just been through. They are nodding sagely.  They are talking about “flow rates.”

I have a plane to catch, but I can’t resist a look at what they’re seeing and nodding at so contentedly.  A sea of people, random movement from one line to another, and, best of all, no view at all of the backed up escalator.

Not my business.  Plane to catch.  I walk past.

I can’t leave it.

I go back.  ”Excuse me,” I say, in my best American accent.

They look at me, take my measure.  Middle aged woman, nothing to attract or threaten.  ”Yes, ducks?” says the 60-year old one, alpha by British standards.

“Um, do you have any authority to influence the flow here?”

All three take a deep breath.  What, am I stupid?  They’re wearing yellow vests!

“Of course, love.  Is there a problem?”

“Well, around that corner you can’t see, there’s a three story escalator and people are backing up on that escalator because the security line is backing out of the security area.”

Suddenly I don’t exist.

“I’ll go!” says the elder alpha.

“No, I’ll go,” says the younger omega.

The last I see is a yellow neon vest, striding purposefully past the managers, sitting, on a raised dais, on their arses, presumably, while I practice my high-heel sprinting down to my flight that is about to close.

Can’t wait for my next episode of Heathrow Follies.  Think it would be a great radio drama.

The very smart colleagues in HR at my job have decided to implement a time-keeping system that you have to log into and log out of. 

They’re trying to keep track of the laggards who take 16 smoking breaks a day to be sure they don’t cheat the company.  16 times 7 (or the time we thought was average for a cigarette when I smoked in high school in the 1980’s) is a fair amount of time for a company if a lot of people smoke.  

Last I checked, though, only five people in my office smoked.

But, they’re always worried about controlling the least common denominator, so they’ve established this login procedure.

Putting aside the technical difficulties of the system, which is in its infancy, I’m saddened by what it has done for the people who work so ridiculously hard in my office.

First, it has made people feel like they are really paid by the hour, because the system shuts off at 7 pm.  7?  How many times have my whole staff been in the office at 7, long past everyone else because we feel like we’re creating something, and the starting of things takes tremendous work?

Second, it has various cutoff points, like lunch must be taken between 12 and 2 and a half hour has to be deducted, even if it isn’t taken. Okay, that’s the law in Switzerland.  But, in reality, we frequently work past 2 to get something done before NY gets into the office, then take a break at 3 or 4…

Third, in order to log exceptions, I spend at least 45 minutes a week on my own and my staff’s exceptions.

Finally, it only will give you 8 hours a day when you are traveling.  

Ha!

One of the reasons that I look forward to traveling is that, when I’m not obligated to be at home for dinner with my family (as it if were a burden and not my favorite thing in the world, except cuddling with them in the morning and discussing our dreams), I work 15 hours a day.  There are breakfast meetings, meetings through dinner, then email and phone calls with the office that is open 8 hours ahead of you.  

For people who are breathing their work, those long stretches of time are almost a luxury (if I weren’t so jetlagged).  To ask me to count those hours makes me so sad.  I don’t want to know how pathetic I am.  I just want to get the job done and get home as quickly as possible.

Such programs are designed by folks who don’t travel, who don’t know what it is like to have only Pringles and white wine to look forward to in the evening, and so will use the opportunity to catch up on the 237 emails that accumulated from your last trip.

So, I’m keeping track, soon to find out what my real hourly wage will be.

In ten years, and hundreds of hotels, I have only three times found myself in a hotel fire.  Or, rather, hotel fire alarm.  

What I learned 10 years ago, I was able to practice this week when the fire alarm went off in my London hotel in the middle of January.

First, ten years ago.  Novice traveler that I was, I didn’t realize that most fire alarms are pranks or mistakes or false alarms.  So, when the fire alarm went off in my DC hotel at 7 am, I simply ran out of the room in what I was wearing and walked down the stairs. It wasn’t until I hit the ground floor in my bright red silk kimono that I realized that all the men around me had taken the time to put on their suits, or at least most of them.

Ah.

So, I stood there, a peacock among pigeons, and decided that that humiliation was one I didn’t need to repeat.

A few rules for hotel sleeping, then.  First, even though I sleep in my birthday suit at home, I always sleep in something, even if it is a little something, when I’m in a hotel.  Therefore, if I had to really run out in a desperate emergency, I won’t be thinking about what is covered or not.

Second, leave your briefcase with your passport and critical documents by the door.  Whatever else, if the building really does burn down, you want to be able to get home.

Make sure your shoes and your coat are also near the door.  If, like me, you find yourself having to go out in your nighty in the middle of the night, it helps to have your shoes and coat nearby.

If you have a fur coat, all the better.  (That was my good fortune, even if it is only sheep–see Twitter–travelingmama).

Take your briefcase.  You will spend less time out in the cold wondering what will happen to you if the whole building does burn down and you have neither underwear, nor credit cards, nor passport.  Underwear you can do without.  The others will require you to fake an accent and go camp out at the nearest embassy.

If you don’t see smoke or flames, don’t really follow the guys in the emergency vests beyond the parking lot.  But don’t hang out on the porch either–the guys with hoses might knock you over.

All of this is moot, of course, if, when you touch the door handle and it is hot, like they taught your kids in kindergarten.  In that case, revert to basic training, forget everything, wet a towel, crouch down, and go out the window if the door is hot. 

Chances are, though, that you will mostly be caught out in your pj’s in the cold.  

That’s why traveling is so darned glamorous.