Writing: Building a Website

I'm on day 11 of my website and so far I've only put up 4 pages.  It's a rough start but I want to make sure that I do it right from the beginning.  The first two days were spent planning and laying out the format and creating a business plan, a way to make money from the undoubtedly numerous amounts of people who will visit my site on a daily basis... so that leaves 9 days for actual web page construction.  Almost one every other day.  Not bad when you look at it like that.  In two months if I can keep this pace, which I can't so lets give it three months , I should have a halfway decent website.

I'm basically following the three-tier web page outline.  The first tier is the home-page.  It lays out the purpose of the website and acts as one of the main attractions.  The tier-two pages are subcategories of the home-page theme.  So for example, the home-page is about creative writing.  My tier two pages are Fiction, Nonfiction, Interviews (As soon as I get around to them), Writer's Block, and possibly book reviews/recommendations.  Sounds like I don't really have it all that well planned out doesn't it?  Don't worry, I have backup plans for my backup plans.  The tier-three pages are the heavy content, like the articles and interviews.

I've deleted as much as I've written at this point, which isn't unusual.  Yesterday I spent about as much time trying to fix the links between pages as I did actually writing them.  This would be easier if I didn't have to learn HTML on the fly.  Ah well, I'm getting there.  Luckily I don't need to know too much because the web-host I'm using, Site Build It! does most of it for me.   

Alright, back to the old word processor, not for the website, its off to the book for now... I've left my protagonist in a sticky spot and he doesn't do a good job of writing himself out of those while I'm working on other things.  I wish he would.  It would make my life a lot easier.

Flying: Ich bin ein Beijinger

I was ready for Beijing.  I packed my bag with everything I’d need for the short, 28-hour layover I was going to have. 

Camera, check. 

Crew ID, check. 

Camera batteries, check.

Flashlight, check. 

Camera, check. 

I really wanted to have my camera in China.  It’s a once in ten lifetime opportunity, to be in that close of proximity to the Olympics in a Communist Country that is trying to build its image as a world super power as opposed to an evil world super power. 

“Good Morning Ladies and Gentlemen,” the captain said over the PA shortly after takeoff.  “Welcome to flight 897.  My name is Captain Nick and we’re glad to have you on board for this thirteen-hour flight to Beijing in the People’s Republic of China.  Our flight today is going to take us North over Buffalo New York, up through the northern part of Canada coming back down through Russian Siberia and then into China.  If there is anything we can do up here don’t hesitate to let us know.”

The plane going over was mostly empty.  We only had 95 passengers in the economy section where I worked which comes out to about 37% full.  Business class had a similar load and only first was full but that was with deadheading flight attendants who were being positioned for Press Charter flights to New York and Chicago. 

There are different types of tired on flights.  It’s obviously tiring to work on a full plane for 13 hours but it can be just as wearing in a different way when the plane is empty.  It’s boring.  We have to stay awake but with nothing to do.  I ended up drinking obscene amounts of coffee and eating an equally obscene amount of airplane food that made my stomach feel less than calm.  Combined with the peaks and crashes from caffeine, it was a difficult flight.

Six hours into the flight I decided to pull out my camera (check, still had it) and make sure I had enough space left on the memory card for the amount of pictures I wanted to take.  I turned it on and it read “No Data.”  That was strange because I remember downloading the Brussels Pictures onto my computer but I didn’t remember clearing them off of the memory card.  In fact, I was sure I hadn’t cleared them off the memory card.  I was right.  All of the Brussels pictures were still on the memory card, which was safely plugged into the card reader in my apartment, 5000 miles away, and 2 miles below the airplane.

The built in memory of my camera can hold 15 pictures and I have no idea how to get them off of it, having lost the cord that connects the camera directly to the computer.  Not cool.   There was nothing I could do about it.  But still, I was going to China and I would still know I’d seen whatever it was I was going to see.

Unfortunately, you can’t. 

The plane landed in Beijing at around 2 pm local time, a 12-hour time difference placing it almost exactly on the other side of the world.

After spending twenty minutes in customs trying to get the paperwork for the entire crew in order I passed though the gate and was officially in my first communist country.   I was slightly irritated, though not surprised, to discover that China is the only country that rivals the United States in irritating customs practices.  We cleared one at a time, having our pictures scanned, our visas checked and double checked, and our passports stamped.  Then we walked out into the airport to wait for the rest of our crew.  There was an American girl sitting at a table on the other side of the customs hall, with a Chinese customs guard and a translator.  She smiled at us half-heartedly as we gathered in front of her, one at a time. 

“ Hey guys,” she said.  Her voice was measured, cracking slightly at the end.  “Where are you coming from?”

“D.C.,” I said.  “How ‘bout you?”

“Chicago,” she said.  Her eyes were puffy and red, we had interrupted her crying.

“What’s going on,” one of my flying partners asked.  “What’s with the escort?”

“My visa is expired,” she said.  “By fifteen days, I didn’t even notice until they pulled me out of line and pointed it out.” 

Having an expired visa isn’t something that many people let happen.  It wasn’t her fault entirely, although I can’t imagine being so careless (coming from the man who left his camera’s memory card behind).  Customer Service agents are required to check everyone’s visa before they get on the plane.  The company will be getting a healthy fine for letting her board with an expired visa.  But it’s China.  There have been dozens of news stories lately about people being denied visas because of their activist work in certain organizations that are suspected of being sympathetic to Taiwan.  If they’re that picky about whom they give visas to it’s crazy to assume they won’t check it when you get there.

She was hoping to get it renewed in the airport because apparently someone had told her that was a possibility.  If she were important enough I suppose it may have been, but judging by the fact that she was sitting alone with two Chinese escorts, I didn’t think she fell into that category.  She was going back to the states on the first flight out, no matter where it was going.  The Chinese don’t mess around with visas.  They’re just as strict as the Americans. 

I had grand plans for that first night in Beijing.  It was the night of the closing ceremonies and the fireworks show that was planned was supposed to rival the show from the opening ceremonies.  When we got to the hotel, I was pretty much abandoned by the crew.  It’s not that they didn’t like me, I don’t think.  But they flew together a lot and were a bit cliquey with each other.  They made dinner plans that didn’t include me and stuck to them. 

I tried to go out on my own.  I’ve done some bold things in my life but trying to find my way to the Olympic stadium on my own in the most over populated city in communist China was too overwhelming even for me.  I decided that my best course of action was to take a nap and wake up in time to watch the ceremonies on TV. 

I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes.  It was just going to be a two-hour nap.  That’s all I needed.  Just two, maybe three hours.  I woke up five hours later to the erupting fireworks all over the city.  It was too smoggy out side to see them properly so I figured I’d catch the reruns later.  I went back to bed and slept right through to five o’clock in the morning the next day.

I was scheduled to get picked up at 4:15 that afternoon, meaning I had to be back in my room by at least 2 to get packed, showered, and check my e-mail before I left.  So by 7:15, after watching Chinese News broadcast in English, (which, by the way focuses on very different topics than the American Election or Global Warming) I headed down to the front desk to ask how to get anywhere. 

I had two options.  First I could wait an hour and fifteen minutes for the hotel shuttle that would take me to the pearl market.  Second, he could give me a card with the name of some tourist attractions and places of historical interest in Mandarin for a Taxi Driver and English for me.   I took the card and asked how much it would be to get to Tiananmen Square. 

“About 50 RNB” he told me.  That comes out to 7.35 USD.  After hailing a cab on the congested street outside the hotel, and driving for a half an hour through significant traffic, I was dropped off outside of Tiananmen Square at 8:45 am.  49 RNB.  Not a bad guess by the front desk.

Beijing is a living city, not one given to sacrificing progress for the sake of preserving history.  However, it’s also a culture in which history is everything.  The Government has a tricky job balancing the two.  Even a communist country needs the support of the people to get anything done, and especially to get things done at the pace the Chinese do.  To sell a vision to 1.3 billion people tell them it’s their legacy on the line.  “Don’t you wish to be remembered as favorably as the generation who built the magnificent Forbidden City, or the Tiananmen?” (Tiananmen translates to “Gate of Heavenly Peace” according to Wikipedia.  They had a translation on a plaque outside the gate too, but I didn’t write it down then).  But all around this history the city is crawling with Skyscrapers and architecture to rival any American city. 

There is always the contrast when I travel of the old and the new that we seem to be lacking in the states.  It’s not that we don’t have contrast but our contrast tends to be between a hundred year old building and a new one.  In China, the difference is between the Tiananmen, built in 1420 AD and the CCTV Headquarters building, scheduled to be completed by December. 

I snapped my 15 pictures in about an hour using all the memory space built into my camera and took a taxi back.  I thought that was all of Chinese Culture I was going to see during my first visit.  I was wrong.

I got back around 10 am, and took my laptop down to Starbucks to buy a 18 RNB ($2.64) grande coffee and enjoy the free wireless.  I checked my e-mail and wrote a couple of my own and then decided to double check the flight before I went back up to my room to pack and get ready.  As soon as I pulled up my trip information I realized that it looked different.  Departure was now scheduled for 08:30 instead of 18:00.  There was only a moment of panic before I realized that the date had also changed.  I now had an extra night in China.  I was a little confused but I headed back towards my room to drop my computer.  I was going to take advantage of it, even if the company hadn’t bothered to inform me of the change. 

I was entering the hotel Lobby when I saw a flight attendant who had deadheaded out.  I had flown with him a few times before.  His name is Baron Von Transfer (His name is actually Baron von Hawse but he goes by von Transfer because he’s been based in San Francisco, New York, Chicago, Honolulu, London, Narita, Japan, and currently flying from D.C.). 

“Hey, they stole your plane,” he told me.

“They what?”

“They stole your plane for a charter.  You aren’t leaving until tomorrow.”

“I just saw that,” I said. 

“Well what are you doing now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Going out again I guess.”

“Well I’m meeting up with Brian,” he said.  “We’re going to the markets.  Want to tag along?” 

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.  I’d been dying to be invited out since I got there.  “Do I have time to drop my computer off in my room?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said.  “Meet us outside the Starbucks in like five minutes.” 

I hustled back up to my room and plugged my computer back in ($30 world wide power adapter from duty free, one of the best investments I’ve made) and practically skipped back downstairs to the Coffee Shop.

We jumped in a cab and pointed to the Silk Market on the little card that the Concierge had given me. 

“Market?  Ok,” the drive said.

We got to the market, which was a five-story warehouse looking building by the Chinese World Trade Center. 

“It’s not good to shop on an empty stomach,” Baron said when we got there.  “You guys want to get some food first.  I know a good Thai place around the corner.”

We agreed and walked two minutes around the block to the Thai buffet.  The food was good at first.  I loaded my plate with Red Curry Chicken, Chili beef, and a strange seafood salad.  There were chopsticks and a fork and knife set next to the plate.  I picked up the chopsticks.  When in China… I though. 

“You know Thai food is really eaten with a fork,” Baron said.  “I’m not criticizing your method of eating,” he followed up quickly.  “Just letting you know.  The British colonized Thailand.  It’s one of the only Asian countries that doesn’t use chop sticks.” 

I like interesting tidbits of history like that.  I also like eating fast so I traded my chopsticks for a fork and dug in.  I had finished the chicken and beef and was half way through my salad.  I took a bite and something crunched.  I’m not usually picky about my food with the exception of raw tomatoes but I was curious so I pulled the crunchy morsel out of my mouth and looked at it.  It looked back at me with eyes dangling off broken tentacles. 

“Crawfish,” Baron said matter-of-factly and kept eating. 

Brian picked one up with his chopsticks and made it crawl across the table towards Baron.  “Help me,” he said in a high falsetto, crawfish voice.  Baron snorted so hard that his chicken almost came out of his nose. 

The market is five floors of small stands specializing in one or two types of goods.  The first floor is mostly clothing, the second is shoes and leather goods, the third is sportswear, the fourth and fifth are jewelry and accessories. Bargaining is the unofficial State sport of China.  There’s an art to it. 

There are two key facts to remember.  First, the shop keepers won’t walk away from a profit, no mater how small the margin.  Second, they’ll whine, cry, threaten, and lie until you bring your price up or walk away.  Even if you know that you’re still probably going to get ripped off until you figure out just how to haggle with a Chinaman.

Baron is the gold medalist of Beijing bargaining.  He has form, poise, and a perfect technique.  He starts by asking what they want for the item.  Lets say a pair of board shorts. 

“150 RNB,” they say.  That’s about $22.  If the shorts were real, it would be about $13 less than in the states. 

“150?” he’d ask in disgust.  “Don’t play games with me.  I’ll give you 30.” 

“30?!” they say looking shocked.  “You want steal food from my family’s table?  I like you so I give you special deal.  One time only.  130. Final offer.”

He’d laugh.  It’s a game and they both know it.  Baron knows he’s going to pay more than 30 and the shop keeper knows he’s going to get less than 130.  They’re both going to seem inflexible. 

Baron examines the shorts more closely, looking for bad stitches, Velcro that doesn’t stick, or any other reason to not buy the shorts.  He can’t find any, they’re pretty good quality.  By this time he’s come up to 35 and the new final offer from the shopkeeper is 100 RNB.  

For the next minute Baron will insist on his price of 35.  He’s not moving.  The shopkeeper has gone to 90 but it isn’t sticking.  He’s getting frustrated.  He looks distraught.  At that point, if I were interested in the shorts I would have paid the 90 just to keep the grown man from crying.  But not Baron.  He’s been there before.  He knows what he’s doing. 

“Alright,” he says.  “I’ll give you 50.”

The haggling is back on.  The Shopkeeper is going to try to leak a few more dollars out of Baron but he’s heard a price he can do. 

“I do 80,” he says.

At this point Baron knows he has him so he turns around and starts to walk away.  “I said 50,” he calls over his shoulder.  The man stays put to make sure Baron isn’t faking it then runs out and grabs him by the arm. 

“Ok, 50,” he says.  “Don’t tell.  I starve if I give too many away like you.  50.  My baby starve.  50 RNB.” 

Baron takes out his money and after the exchange, they shake hands and both are smiling.  It’s just a game.  Everyone is happy. 

After the shopping is done, about three hours of this show where Baron does the bargaining for all three of us, we jump back into a cab and head back to the hotel. 

It’s about 5:00 when we get back.  Brian and I make plans to meet for dinner at the Red Door Restaurant across the street at 6:30.  We eat dinner, have a drink, and then both of us are dead and we go back to our rooms.  I remember lying down in my bed and setting my alarm and don’t remember anything else until it woke me up at 5:15 the next morning. 

By 7:30 that morning we’re on the airplane, safety checks done and ready to load the passengers and head back to DC.  There are about 30 Olympians onboard, heading to Dulles Airport to make connections home.  Half of them have medals, all of them were happy to be there for the experience and even happier to be going home.  The athletes aren’t hard to spot; several of them were very recognizable since I’d been watching them on TV for the past three weeks.  Men’s and women’s Diving, Men’s Water Polo, woman’s track and field (the shot put girls were bigger than me), Men’s and Woman’s Rowing, and a swimmer (Michael Phelps was booked on our flight but the Olympic committee hauled him off to London to promote the 2012 games).  All of them were happy to talk to us about the games. 

Any athlete that wins a medal is happy to show it off and be congratulated on it.  The flight attendants in the aft galley, myself included, were happy to be shown off to and do the congratulating.  It’s strange how patriotic and proud a chunk of gold can make you.  I don’t usually consider myself to be emotional about things like that, but all of a sudden, with the men’s diving bronze and woman’s rowing gold medals around my neck, I was.  They didn’t let me keep them but they did give me a Team USA rowing Pin.  It’s on my work vest.  I think I’ll leave it there for a while.  

  

Flying: Beijing

Not a real post, more of an update.  I'm on my way to Beijing, China, current host of the Olympic Games.  We have almost the minimum legality layover, (layover time has to be 2x flight time so in this case 27 and a half hours.  Ours is barely 28) so I should have just enough time to step on the great wall, snap a few pictures, catch the fireworks of the closing ceremonies and then get enough sleep to work the flight home.  Check back.  I'm taking a camera and I may even have a comment or two about my first visit to a communist country.

Writing: Chasing Success

It's no secret that the Airline industry is in turmoil right now.  Completely unpredictable fuel prices, upset customers, employees, executives, and an outdated business plan have left customers and industry workers alike wondering what the industry is going to look like next year, next month, and even tomorrow.  Even so, most flight attendants, myself included, have no desire to get out.  It's simply too good of a lifestyle to readily jump out of.  

That doesn't mean we aren't strapping on our parachutes just in case.  Being a flight attendant has its stresses but it also has its rewards, most notably, the rewards of time and travel.  As a writer (at least a struggling wannabe writer) I've taken the most advantage of the time off to spend time with what I really love: Creativity.

For me, it's more important to work with something I love than to make a lot of money.  This is a complete reversal in thinking from my teenage self to now but thats what growing up is all about, right?  

Success is reaching you're goal.  There's no use in making a load of money if the only thing you do with it is work and make more money.  The money has to have a purpose.  What does it do for you?  Does it allow you to see the world?  Does it open doors to change things you don't like about the world or your community?  Does it allow you to own a house on the French Riviera and allow you the time to while away your time there... wait a minute, I do what money like that.  But I want money so I don't have to worry about money.  Income from a job is good, but the job can drag you down.  Employers expect employees to be in an office (or at a construction site, or somewhere making money for them) for eight hours a day, at least five days a week.  For the employee the goal is to build up enough wealth to do the things you want in your spare time or when you retire.  Not enough people do what they want to be doing all the time and make money at it.  

Two sidetracks that I should probably point out.  I'm not saying that people shouldn't have office jobs.  For a few lucky people, a job can be the outlet for accumulated skills that let you go home every night and not dread going to work the next day.  I'm just not one of them.  When I am in an office (or airplane) I can't wait to get out of and spend time hunched up in front of my computer tacking on the next thought or scene into whatever it is I'm writing.  

The second note: I realize that this is a very contemporary middle class American attitude towards money.  When we're sure that there will always be money, even if we don't enjoy the time spent earning it, there is much less wondering where the next meal will come from and much more time spent in self wallowing pity, thinking we could be doing something more 'fun.' 

Back to the post.  

"Ladies and Gentleman, your attention please.  We're very sorry but due to bad weather in the Chicago Area, you're flight is delayed for rerouting."

I've decided to take a different route.  It doesn't involve giving up flying at all, in fact, the flight benefits I get could help me to actually realize this goal more easily.  

I'm starting my own website devoted entirely to Creative Writing.  Specifically, the goal of the website is to be a resource for creative writers, or people interested in the art of creative where they can find articles on writing Fiction or Non-Fiction, discuss current topics with other writers, and read interviews with established authors about writing.  

It's a good way to fuel my obsession.  I love to write for two reasons (or two prominent reasons, there are a lot more).  The first is because I love stories.  I love to hear them, read them, or tell them and I've been doing it in a variety of ways since I was a kid.  The second reason I love to write is because it helps me to organize my thoughts.  I'm very right-brained (thats the creative side) so when I have what I think is a good idea I have to get it down fast before it's over run with something else that I think is a good idea.  If I don't stop to write I get frustrated and feel like my head is flooded.  If I don't write, the ideas start to pool and rot and I start drowning in my own mind (metaphorically speaking).

By starting this website I have an excuse to do more research (which is something us writerly types love to do), refine my writing, and  hopefully get to sit down and have extended conversations with people who's writing and advice I love and respect.  They win by having some publicity (no matter how large or small) and hopefully by selling more of their books, the visitors to the website win by having these interviews, articles and essays and hopefully sound advice available at the click of a mouse, and I win because I get to put it all together.  

The two questions I asked myself before I started the whole process of brainstorming and gathering information (which is what I've been doing for pretty much the last 72 hour straight with only brief interruptions for sleeping and food) are as follows.

Am I credible enough to write essays on writing and have them taken seriously?

Would cashing in on this website via Google Adsense and affiliate marketing ruin the good intentions I have and destroy my writing?

The first question I spent the most time thinking about.  I do have a fairly respectable degree from Pitt in Creative writing.  However, it's undergrad and lots of other people can claim an undergrad degree in writing and I don't consider them experts.  I've spent the majority of my fee time for the past five years dwelling on, researching, and writing fiction.  Even when I'm not sitting in front of a computer, when I'm just staring out the window I'm thinking about writing.  What will make it better?  What am I doing wrong? What are other people doing right?  Why are oranges called oranges but pears aren't called greens?

I'm not an expert yet but I believe that if anyone spends enough time focusing on one topic, eventually they'll become an expert.  The website, if I follow through and make it everything I dream it can be, will make me a credible expert.  Problem solved.  All I have left is the hours and hours of work to get there.

The second problem is the corrupting influence of money.  My socialist instincts (courtesy of the University System) tell me that making money this way is wrong.  My capitalist instincts (courtesy of reality and my current economic woes) tell me to CASH IN, BABY.  The conclusion I've reached is that making money isn't going to ruin the intentions of what I'm doing as long as I offer something of value.  My guess is that I won't make money unless the site actually deserves to make money.  Therefore if I do make money I'm making it because I deserve to, and if I don't, it's because I haven't put enough valuable content into the site.  

That's the version I'm sticking with.

So thats the new plan, supplemental to flying, I know have tons of work to do on a website.  I'll post more details, including links and such when it's up and running which may take up to a month.  I'm not going to post it until I have some substantial content to go along with it.  Meanwhile, I'm learning the ways of the web, including site design, high value key words, Adsense and spider programs.  Wish me luck faithful readers.... I'm gonna need it.

Flying: Brussels or Flowers and The Mystery of Shoes

"Before you criticize someone you should walk a mile in their shoes.  That way when you criticize them you're a mile away and you have their shoes."

It seems like whenever I'm in Europe, I come at exactly the right time for this festival or that festival and if I would have come a day earlier or a day later I would have missed it and aren't I the lucky one?  For example, I was in Munich for Oktoberfest, Frankfurt for the largest Eurpean Christmas Market, Paris for Bastille Day, and yesterday I was in Brussels for the flowercarpet, which takes place one weekend every other summer.  Yes, I am the lucky one but not as lucky as you think, at least not to be catching these festivities.  I'm lucky to be going to Europe so often, but Europe is full of these festivals.  They happen often enough that if I had been there on a different weekend I would have simply had the privilege of attending a different festival.  

The flower carpet is an enormous design in the main Platz of Brussels that is made entirely of different flowers.

(For a better idea of the actual pattern see the website http://www.flowercarpet.be)

The crew and I met up at 4 o'clock after a nice nap to go down to the platz and see the design and then go out for drinks and dinner.  You can see the picture but it doesn't quite do the thing justice... not quite, but almost.  One of my coworkers, Teri, summed up all of our feelings when she said, "Ooh, ahh...alright, there it is.  Lets go get a beer."

That's exactly what we did.  We met up with the pilots at a little bar, aptly named for the statue it faces, "Manakin Pis."  The Manakin Pis fountain is well known to anyone who's been through Brussels.  It's a raunchy little statue of a child urinating into a pool.  Really, it's world famous. 

You can judge for yourself if it deserves it's fame.  The legend behind the statue claims that some royal figure or rich merchant visiting the city long ago lost his toddler son.  He organized a search of the city and the child was found urinating in a corner of the city, just two blocks from the platz.  The royal man or merchant was so grateful to the people of Brussels for returning his son to them, he constructed this fountain, so his son will always be pissing on the city.  He's been doing it for at least 300 years. Brilliant.  

We had our drinks, then made our way back towards the hotel to a great Indian restaurant where we ate spicy food until we cried and then went to bed.  It was a fun crew.  A great layover.

The real action of the trip, however, all occurred on the plane ride home.  It started during boarding.  I was working in the back galley, setting up, counting the food, getting the drink carts set up, all the things that we need to have done before the plane door closes and we start getting paid.  I discovered to my dismay, that the caterers hadn't boarded any trash bags, which makes cleaning up difficult to say the least.  I walked up to the door where the agents were to ask for more.  That's actually a inaccurate statement.  I fought my way against the torrential river of passengers in a heroic quest to reach the door.  Half way through the Economy section (197 passengers) I stumbled across a pair of shoes in the middle of the aisle.  Really, I stumbled on them.  Flat black, mens shoes.  I held them up, perhaps a little irritated, and inquired as to whom they belonged.  The gentleman sitting next to them said he had found them under his seat and didn't know who's they were.  I held them up and asked louder, "Do these belong to anyone here?"  I sized them up next to my feet for everyone to see and said, "they might fit me so you better claim them now.  Comfy shoes! Going once, going twice?"  I got no response.  As far as I could tell everyone had seen me do it.  Phantom shoes.  It's really not that unusual to forget things on the airplane, but shoes?  Really?  What did the guy wear off the plane?  

I handed them to the agent and told him where I found them.  

"Zomevon must have leafed zem behind," he said.  "I vill take zem."  I handed him the shoes and made my request for trash bags (I never did get those trash bags).  

The service went reasonably well, or as well as it can go when 197 people ask you to repeat yourself.  

"Would you like to have the chicken or pasta for dinner today, sir?"

"Sorry," they'll say, pulling their headphones off or looking up from their book.  "What are the options?"

"Chicken or pasta."

"Oh, chicken please."

Then we turn to the person next to them, "And for you, sir?"

"Sorry, what are the options?"

"Chicken or Pasta."

"Oh, Pasta please."

To the person next to them, "and for you, sir?"

Pulling off their headphones, "What?"

"Chicken or pasta."

"Chicken," they'll say.  "Geeze, didn't stewards used to be friendly."

Picking up the trash was fun without bags, but we were lucky enough to have a few hundred empty soda bins to store garbage in (are those bins washed before new sodas are put in them? you may ask.  I don't know but I don't recommend drinking from the can).  

Then the breaks started.  We're contractually guaranteed breaks on flights longer than 8 hours.  We have our own little curtained off area with those comfy economy seats to try and sleep in.  I was on second break. 

There are six bathrooms in the economy cabin of the Boeing 777.  Four in the center of the airplane, and two in the rear.  The two bathrooms in the very back of the airplane are right next to the door and facing the back jump-seats on either side.  I typically like sitting in the back.  It's out of the way and unlike the jump-seats at door 3, they aren't directly facing the passengers which encourages inane conversation during take off and landing.  However, the problem with facing the bathrooms is usually realized when bad airplane food is mixed with the human digestive system.  One could say that it doesn't smell as nice as the flower carpet in Brussels.

I have a new reason to dislike the jump-seats in the back and it comes as a result of mixing airplane food and children with sensitive stomachs.  I'm hanging out in the back of the plane by myself, chatting it up with the occasionally passenger who has wandered to the back for a drink or because they can't sleep.  I saw a mother and child waddling down the aisle towards the back. The mother has her hand cupped over the little girls mouth.  What is she doing? I wondered.  They turned to corner towards the currently occupied bathroom.  I was about to recommend that they use the opposite toilet which was open when the girl leaned forward slightly and vomit shot in three lines out of the little girls mouth and between the mothers cupped hand.  If I were Belgian, I may have been inspired to create a new fountain.  However, at the moment, I was really just inspired to rush them into the open bathroom on the opposite side of the plane. 

"Over here, quickly," I urged them, pointing at the other side.  The mother quickly dragged her daughter across the galley in the direction of the other restroom.  However once there, for some reason she thought that the aircraft must have been constructed differently on that side and she couldn't seem to locate the restroom door.  She was instead spinning around in circles looking for it when the child vomited again.  I had barely moved my foot in time as vomit splashed to the ground where it had been a moment before.  Not quite as impressive as James Bond dodging bullets, but I was happy it missed me.  I opened the door and the girl made it in just in time to dump the rest of her stomach's contents on the closed toilet seat.

Cleaning up vomit is not my favorite pass time on a plane. I almost lost my own lunch a couple of times in the process but eventually, using the two bio-sanitation kits, the other flight attendant and I got the mess on either side at least mostly scooped up.  Then I dumped a pack of coffee grounds on either side to help the smell, which was still not quite bearable, and threw a blanket over it so it didn't look so much like a white, brown and corn chunky mess. 

I was never happier to go on break.  

It was a relatively peaceful flight again, until the middle of the arrival service when a gentleman approached the cart and said, "excuse me, I can't seem to find my shoes."

"Your shoes, sir?" I asked while Teri, who was facing away from him scrunched her face to prevent herself from laughing out loud.  

"Yes," he said.  I don't know where they are."

"How long have they been missing?" I asked.  

"I don't know," he said.  I took them off when I got on the plane and I haven't seen them since."

"You waited 7 and a half hours to look for them, sir?" I asked.

"Well I didn't need them during the flight, did I?" he said.  With the amount of vomit on the floor I disagreed with him but I didn't mention that.

"They were under someone else's seat during boarding.  When no one claimed them I gave them to the Customer Service Agent."

"Well where are they?" he asked.

"In Brussels," I said, also trying not to laugh.  "Do you have another pair?"

"Yes," he said.  "In my checked bags."

"Well I'm sure we can get customer service to mail them to you from Belgium," I said.  At least he won't have to take them off for security, I thought.  I wanted to tell him that, but for some reason I didn't think he'd appreciate the humor.

 

Flying: Planes, Trains & Automobiles

Neil: What's the flight situation?

Del: Simple.  There's no way on earth we're going to get out of here tonight.  We'd have more luck playing pickup sticks with our butt cheeks than we will getting a flight out of here before daybreak.

~Steve Martin and John Candy in "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" (1987).

  

My Sunday was planned out and I wasn’t going to let a nasty blister on my left foot stop me from spending the day with friends in NYC.  I listed myself on two flights for the day.  One from Dulles to LaGuardia at 8:20 am and another from LaGuardia back to Dulles at 8:50 that night. It was perfect on paper.  My friends even volunteered to pick me up at the airport, which I hadn’t counted on.

The day started out beautifully.  I checked in early for the flight that morning which I didn’t need to do because I was the only one going through the security line and I only had a day bag to carry with nothing but a book, a camera and a notepad.  The Customer Service agent gave me the first exit row to myself on the 757, which has excessive legroom even if you’re 9 feet tall.

The first exit row is facing the jumpseat at the boarding door of the aircraft so I had time to talk to one of the flight attendants while he was seated. 

“How are you liking it so far?” he asked when he found out I worked for the company.  It’s a pretty common question.  It’s a job that you love or hate.  Sometimes both at the same time.

“It’s great,” I told him.  “Like today, for example, I’m flying up to the city for the day and flying back at night.  What other kind of job lets you do that?  I’m loving the freedom of it.”

“I know what you mean,” he said.  “As long as you’re making it on the flights you want it’s great.”

After a few moments of confusion caused by the discrepancy of the arrows pointing to the C gates, my friends, (Whose names are Brett and Jacklyn, and as far as I know they're the only two who subscribe to these posts) picked me up and we drove to the Upper West end where they have their shoe-box apartment.  Of course, in Manhattan size isn't the best indication of value as much as location.  What the apartment lacks in size it more than makes up for in location.

It was a beautiful morning so we decided to walk to the Museum.  It's only a few blocks from their apartment to the American Museum of Natural History (which feels a lot longer with a throbbing blister) and we broke it up a bit by stopping for a light brunch at a very European looking cafe.  We were served our fruit and pastries by a tall black waiter with an accent that I couldn't quite place and then headed back out into the streets.

On a side note, I understand why the I love New York tee-shirts are so popular even if they are horrendously tacky.   New York is a universal city.   It's easy to be comfortable no matter what your tastes.  There's a bit of everything you like and then more things to like on top of all that which you have yet to discover.  Every time I visit the city it's a new place.  Something new to see, to hear, or smell that I didn't know about before.  It can always be the city you want it to be.  

We walked around the Museum, starting at the wrong entrance and finally figuring out how to use the map around the time we were ready to leave.  We had a good time, saw some interesting and enlightening displays and then a lot, like several hundred too many, stuffed animals.  

When we left the museum, we went to dinner at a nice asian restaurant, picked up some Starbucks and went back to their apartment to watch a few Olympic events.  

Basically, it was a lovely day out.  Really nice, good company, good conversation, and good food. The blister on my foot didn't ruin the day.  I was worried it might.

Jacklyn's laptop was sitting on the coffee table in front of me.  I picked it up to check my flight status for that nights flight home.  When I checked in for the flight that morning, there were still 46 seats open.  46 seats open is like a dream for a Non-Revenue Space Available (NRSA) Passenger like myself.  It means that unless the flight cancels I'm going to get on it.  Naturally, the flight was canceled.  There was a four hour back up of planes going into Dulles because of the weather and my flight out was just too empty to justify the flight.  

Well good thing I checked, I thought, I still have enough time to make it to the airport for the earlier flight.  Getting on the plane is contingent upon the plane having seats open.  On the employee website, when we list for flights, the number of seats on in each cabin are shown, with the number booked next to that, and the number of NRSA's next to that.  There is also a color coding system to indicate the chances of getting on each flight.  Green means there's a good chance, yellow means its risky, and red means it just ain't gonna happen, give up, try another flight, why are you even thinking about this, you're kinda stupid aren't you.

The two flights that I could still make were both on red.  I think the first was a "give up," red and the second was a, "you're kind of stupid, aren't you" red.  

Ok, I thought, I'll look to another airline.  We have fairly extensive jumpseat benefits on other carriers so I looked at their schedules.  

There is a concept called code sharing, in the industry, which means that the same flight can be listed by partner airlines under a different name and number.  Two of the flights that I thought I could make turned out to be on the same plane that was cancelled.  And the rest were equally as sold out and overbooked as my airlines.  

"You can crash here if you want," Brett told me.  "But I know you said you have to pick up Kathleen tomorrow."

"Yeah, I just don't know how I'm going to get home."

"You could take Amtrak," he said.

My only other experience with Amtrak was a train from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia four years ago that was three hours late in Pittsburgh and then stopped for an hour on the track because some freight car broke in front of us.  That wasn't the most enticing offer.  

But then again, I had made a promise to pick up Kathleen at the airport and I had assured her that I would definitely be able to make it home in time to do it.

"Don't be silly," I told her.  "I always make my flights.  Besides, even if I miss it, I can take another airline home."

"Alright," I told Brett, "How do I catch the train."

I bought my ticket online ($172 for a business class seat on the express train from Penn Station NY to Union Station DC) and we ran out the door at about 5, to catch the 6 o'clock train.  After a bit of debate between Brett and Jacklyn about the benefits of the metro vs. Driving and vice versa, we jumped in the car and set off.  

"I don't know if the express runs on a Sunday so this is faster," Brett said.  "I mean, as long as there's nothing going on at the Garden."

Have you ever heard of the Jonas Brothers? I hadn't.  Apparently they're a Disney thing and that makes them huge.  They were what was going on at the Garden.  When there's an event at the Garden it takes about 20 minutes to drive four blocks. 

Alright, I had plenty of time.  It was a little bit of stress but I got to Penn Station in time (after wandering through the Long Island train station for five minutes even though I know DC is definitely not on Long Island).  After asking a cop, who didn't even look at me as I was asking, I found the Amtrak station and the train that would take me to DC.

After I boarded the train and took my seat that really wasn't comfortable enough to have cost me $172, I ended up helping the lady sitting across from me put her luggage in the overhead bin.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to make you do that."

"It's alright," I told her with a dismissive wave.  "I'm a flight attendant.  I do it all the time."

At this point I learned just how many people like to eavesdrop on conversations.  Four other passengers in my cabin, in the seats directly adjacent to mine were also on the train because of cancelled flights.  Not just on my flight, but on most of the other major and discount carriers.  

This lead to a chorus of questions about where there checked bags will end up (I don't know) why was their flight cancelled (I don't know) and how do they go about getting their money back (Good luck with that, I don't know).  

I usually like having conversations with strangers, it makes the time go faster.  It's not fun, however, when all the strangers have subconsciously blamed you for their inconveniences.  I wish I would have taken my iPod.  IPods are a really good signal that you would like to be left alone.  

2 hours and 46 minutes later we pulled into Union Station DC.  I walked down to the metro, bought myself a ticket for 10 bucks, and waited 18 minutes for the redline to go three stops to Metro Center, and waited 14 minutes to connect to the Orange line (I found out as the blue line was pulling out that I could also have used that) three stops to Rosslyn where I caught the Washington Flyer bus to Dulles.  I climbed out of the employee bus and into my car (I was really excited that morning about the awesome parking spot I had found) with great relief at exactly 11 pm.  

The moral of this story:  Don't promise your girlfriend you'll pick her up.  Just offer to pay for her parking.

Writing: A New Toy

I'm trying something different with my novel and I'm not sure if it's going to work or not.  I bought "novel writing software" put out by Mariner, a software development company that writes programs for Mac.  It's called StoryMill.  I was skeptical when I heard about it a few days ago and I guess I'm still skeptical to see how well it works.

The idea behind StoryMill is that novels are too complex to be easily constructed on the basic word processor (although obviously they can, have, and will continue to be built that way by many people, perhaps including me).  The StoryMill program is designed to give access to all of the individual pieces that make up a novel so it can be more easily organized and constructed.  It helps keep track of characters, locations, and timelines.  It breaks the story into manageable chapters and chapters into scenes.  

It has an option to put a start date and time on the scene and tag which characters are in that scene and where it takes place. If you want you can then view the story in a timeline, and break that timeline into the different storylines.  

One of the shortcomings of the program is that it doesn't have an easy way to import an existing novel into it, so I spent a few hours copy and pasting my already done work and then tearing that apart into all the scenes and adding times and tagging all the characters into their scenes.  

One of the features of this program that I really like is the full screen mode.  It opens the chapter you're working on into a full screen of white letters on a blue background, eliminating all the shiny and distracting icons on the desktop and especially nice for me, eliminating that safari icon on the tool bar that seems to call my name all day.  

So now that I've got the whole thing in there, I'm going to try to write.  Check in again and see how well it goes.