3 Sisters 7 Days

When traveling – especially while traveling internationally – I always try to stay away from the trendy restaurants…with the exception of McDonald’s and Starbucks, which are always good for a clean and free bathroom. I spent this past weekend in Las Vegas, and, though I say this everytime,  next time I really am flying. We were stuck in 2.5 hours of traffic in Ontario on our way to Vegas because of an accident!

On our first night there, we decided to stay away from the high end restaurants and go for something the “locals” would eat. We ate at a restuarant just off the strip called Battista’s Hole in the Wall. Out in front is a huge gaudy neon sign letting us know it serves Italian Food. The restaurant was large, but broken up into small rooms with half walls. We were seated within five minutes, which is great for a Vegas restaurant on a Friday night with no reservations. We all laughed once we saw the menu. All meals come with the following: salad (garden salad with italian dressing) or soup (minestoni only), bread sticks, side pasta, cappuccino, and all you can drink wine! We read it a couple of times to be sure. The waiter arrived and put down a carafe of white and a carafe of red wine on the table. The white was a chablis and the red was a cabernet. If I weren’t pregnant, I really would have enjoyed the wine! Both tasted great for a FREE table wine. The cappuccino was a complete surprise. I was told it tasted like sweet hot chocolate, but there wasn’t a single hint of espresso. On our way out we picked up a card with the ingrediets to their famous espresso. What’s in it? Mostly, coffee, chocolate, cream and…a shot of brandy. The waiter never even mentioned it was alcoholic. Good thing I opted out because I didn’t want the espresso.

If you ever find yourself at the Hole in the Wall located just behind the Flamingo, I recommend the chicken rio.

All I said was that one perk of living in Riverside is that there’s really no pressure to buy your kid a car…And she started justifying herself. Her daughter’s a good student; her daughter works and she thinks that’s great; she just doesn’t feel that there’s anything wrong with buying her daughter a car. She rolled her eyes, put her hand on her hip, turned and walked back to her seat.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was grading papers on my flight home last night from Hartford, CT, chatting with my “neighbor,” who was on her way back to LA after visiting the University of Massachusetts Amherst (UMASS) with her daughter and grand daughter, the latter of whom will be a freshman there in the fall. The woman’s daughter had stopped to visit with her mom, who explained that I am a professor and had been grading papers since take-off. She asked if it’s true college kids can’t write. Following my somewhat flippant response of “Not this one,” we chatted about our children and the challenges of 21st century parenting. I probably should have stuck with commiserating, but I didn’t.

My fellow mom and Delta passenger, a self-confessed "helicopter parent," admitted to hiring a coach to help her daughter complete her college applications because the process is so confusing now. I disagreed, and explained that while there might be more competition at some schools and it’s certainly more expensive to apply, the application and financial air processes are actually easier and more efficient. The vast majority of my students successfully (obviously) filled out their own applications.

She said she was worried that even though her daughter had graduated from Westlake High School – a predominantly white, highly rated public school in the Los Angeles area – and been admitted to UMASS, she wouldn’t be able to write. I told her not to worry. I’m sure her daughter’s quality high school program had prepared her well for college. Anyway, in my experience, poor writers suffer more from some combination of laziness and hasty, last-minute efforts than lack of ability. I used my son, Quentin, as an example; he rushes every writing assignment, and has to edit, revise, and rewrite repeatedly.

She explained that she’s a single mom and had sacrificed to ensure her daughter had access to a quality high school program and ensure she got to go to college on the East coast. That’s when she mentioned the car. I told her that was too bad she felt that she had to purchase and maintain a car for her daughter that was worthy of Westlake’s student parking lot. I don’t feel at all pressured to buy my son a car. To be honest, I don’t think every driving-age child needs a car, and believe that those who do should contribute to the costs of car ownership and driving. I told her that my loving spouse and I don’t intend to get our son a car until: a) he genuinely needs to drive, and b) he can pay a significant share of the costs associated with doing so. That’s when she turned on me.

I really didn’t mean to offend, but rather to re-assure, which is odd. After all, I’m the one who deserves consolation. My purportedly under-socialized children are home-schooled. In Riverside. Yikes! The poor things can’t expect to “ride for free,” and will be responsible for their own college applications.

Perhaps aware again of the red ink on the papers I was grading, she suggested I “write something nice” on my students’ papers. “Always,” I said. For all the poor grammar and style errors I have to wade through, most of the students manage to provide plausible arguments; some even blow me away with their insights.

At the end of our tour of the Hacienda Doña Engracia Distillery a couple of years ago, Jeanna, Terri, and I bought “Mexican” margaritas, each consisting of a generous shot of tequila poured straight from the bottle over ice, then filled to the brim with Sprite. So you can imagine my surprise when Stephanie Elizondo Griest describes "Russian" margaritas in her memoir of a year abroad in Moscow: "Sprite on ice with a few shots of tequila." Small world!


Peter and I decided to go wine tasting in Paso Robles for our five year anniversary. I’d wanted to go for years but thought we needed a good reason. A “major” anniversary was a perfect reason. Hearst Castle topped my list of sites to see while away, so we decided to stay in nearby Morro Bay, a place where my dad use to camp and go fishing with his brothers annually. Always one to jam pack my vacations, leaving little time for leisure, we’d pre-paid for our hotel and massages and purchased Hearst Castle tickets early. Once we found out we were expecting a baby, the wine tasting trip turned into a Morro Bay/Hearst Castle tourist vacation, minus the wine. I guess we’ll have to save the wine tasting trip for another time. Small price to pay for a baby.

The trip turned out to be fantastic.

Morro Bay was a cute little town full of the elderly. I swear we were the youngest people in the city! We rented bikes and road down to Morro Rock, and ate seaside every evening. I was surprised that the temperature there remains about 65 degrees almost year round. At that temperature, I was surprised to see people in the water kayaking and swimming – it was way too cold for me. We stayed at the Inn at Morro Bay directly adjacent to the Heron Rookery. If you are not a fan of birds, I wouldn’t recommend this Inn. The birds made so much noise and the amount of bird feces on the property was amazing. At check-in, they even warn you that your car will be dirtied and they give you the location of the closest car wash.

I LOVED Hearst Castle. We went on two tours, I wanted to go on more, but Peter didn’t think it was necessary.  I purchased a biography on William Randolph Hearst and I cannot put it down. I want to join “Friends of Hearst Castle” – an organization that raises money to assist with the renovations. The Castle brings in more than $12 Million in a year, all of which is given to the state. The state then re-distributes the money to all state parks leaving only $100 Thousand for the Castle. According to the docents, this isn’t nearly enough money to maintain the billions of dollars worth of artifacts stored within the Castle. There is so much money in art located within those walls, its a shame the state would allow it all to deteriorate.

On the way home, I stayed awake and noticed that we passed several California Missions! Had I known, I would have tried to add them to our vacation. Next time there will be wine tasting; I’ll finish up my tours at Hearst Castle, and visit the Missions.

I had a wonderfully decadent breakfast of beignets with my cafe au lait this morning, entirely thanks to the kindness of a diminutive server at Cafe du Monde in New Orleans, LA.

My breakfast was on the table in front of  me before I realized that I’d left my cash – just over the $5.60 total for my meal I’d saved just for this morning – in my hotel. Cafe du Monde does not accept ATM or credit cards. My server suggested that I finish my meal and then go across the street to the ATM machine for cash.

Note this was the second time during this trip when satisfying my hunger depended on the kindness of a stranger. On Wednesday, the bartender at Gordon Biersch Brewery laughed with me when I pulled out my Auto Club card to pay for dinner. (Yep, I picked up the wrong credit card holder when I ran out – literally, I ran – for a quick meal.) Then he poured me a beer to go “on the house,” and waited for me to return with my Visa.

Just think: until now, I’d believed that only the Canadians were this nice.

Now, I’m sure that there are similarly accommodating Americans; however, I have yet to meet them. I recently had my brows threaded at a local salon I’ve frequented for more than a year, but which no longer accepts ATM cards. I had to call my son, who was elsewhere in the mall, to come and get my ATM card, go to the bank to withdraw cash, and return to the salon so that I could pay.

Thank goodness he was there; otherwise, who knows how long it would have taken to work off that $13 treatment?

Vibram didn’t create it’s Five Fingers footwear as a conversation piece, but that’s how they’ve worked for me – repeatedly and in nearly every setting where I’ve worn them. Most recently, I wore them on a series of walking tours in New Orleans. In addition to countless looks and whispers on the theme of “Did you see her shoes?” and “Those shoes have toes!” one guy actually got down on his knees outside the Plaza de Espana to examine my shoes and confirm that they really have (Vibram) soles.

Until yesterday, I could honestly say that I NEVER go anywhere without a book. Then Sunday, I flew a full four hours home from Nashville without cracking a book, though I couldn’t help myself from browsing the SkyMall catalogue tucked in seat pocket in front of me. Does that count?

I’d finished my last “real” book during the trip out on Thursday, and read a friend’s book, and my roommate’s magazines during my stay in Nashville. I just couldn’t bring myself to purchase an actual book for the ride home. You see, my loving spouse gave me a Kindle for Christmas, and I’d vowed not to purchase anything but ebooks for the foreseeable future. Between my sister’s library and my own, I wouldn’t have had a problem if sometime between Christmas and the start of this trip, I’d managed to choose a cover to protect my sacred Kindle. Ugh!

As someone who spends practically every otherwise free moment with my “nose in a book,” I was at a loss for how to occupy myself for the full duration of a four-hour flight home. A prolonged internal discussion of my options resulted in my decision to sleep. I indulged in an over-size beer at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge before boarding the plane, and settled in between two tall, quiet-looking men seated near an exit to ensure ample leg room. Thankfully, I was “out” not too long after take-off. If I hadn’t woken up with an insurmountable need to pee when we hit turbulence, I may  have slept until we reached Ontario.

Once we were again free to “move about the cabin,” I headed for the bathroom. Back in my seat, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I looked at the aforementioned SkyMall, and shifted so violently in my seat that I’m surprised that neither of my companions stirred from their naps.

I’ve never used my iPod on a plane – I’m always reading, remember? (And I don’t require music in the background to do so.) That changed on Sunday. I listened to the final two chapters of Barbara Kinslover’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, which was almost unbearable – not because of Barbara, but because I was so uncomfortable just listening to a book read aloud. I’m used to driving or running or…something…while I’m listening. Likewise with my music playlist.

I finally gave up. I turned my iPod off, pulled my earbuds out, and returned the tiny device to a pocket in my purse.

Thank Buddha, one of neighbors was alert by then. We exchanged itineraries, and talked about the snow-covered mountains  below. Our plane was continuing on from Ontario to Sacramento, which was the starting point for his trek into the Northern California wilderness in search of somewhere he could “live off the land” fairly easily. He told me that he could see himself sitting on his porch at the end of a long day hunting and foraging, reading while his dinner cooked on the stove inside, or over an open fire.

Thank goodness I’ve developed a habit of throwing out my holy socks and tossing mismatched socks in the trash. On a recent trip through airport security, I pulled off my boots to reveal matching brown socks. The woman ahead of me was not so fortunate. Attired from head to the top of her boots ready to march straight from the plane to the boardroom, I heard her wince when she pulled off her second boot to reveal NOT another black sock, but a striped one with a hole in the toe that fell loosely around her ankle.

From the pictures available online, she’s far from the only one who could really use sock-shoes, at least.

We are leaving Prague today at 2:30; I think the train ride should be about 4 hours to Berlin.

Prague is very small. We can walk most of it in no time at all. The first day here we went to Prague castle by taxi (which is about 2 miles away) and walked back. Everything here reminds us of a fairy tale. Imagine five story town homes with ornate sculptures and decorations. Each painted a completely different color. In most of the places like this that I’ve visited, the buildings like these only surround the area just outside the castle/palace, but here it goes on for street after street. Every square has Christmas decorations, shopping from little booths, food, and drinks. We’ve decided that we need to get a shop in Big Bear, and sell hot wine and kabobs on baguettes. It’s cheap and warm – perfect for the cold weather.

Prague is also COLD. We have NEVER been so cold! Before we leave each day, we do a “layer” check to see who is wearing the most. Nicole is always wearing the most amount of clothes; Danny and Peter switch off wearing the least. We’ve bought ear protection, scarves, coats, etc. all in effort to stay warm. Today wasn’t so bad, it was about 36F. Juliann – you were right; all the women here wear tights, boots, and long coats. I don’t know how they keep from slipping on the paved roads or stay warm; the wind has got to go straight through the tights! Terri – the thin layer of silk bottoms don’t work! I should have gotten the super thick ones.

I know most of the world thinks we Americans are obnoxious and rude, but I’ve got a whole other outlook. We are definitely the loudest people in the room; we walk fast, and expect everyone to speak English. But the people here have no self awareness. We’ve been stepped on, pushed, shoved, and cut in front of. Then they say “Pardon” like that’s supposed to help. Nicole was standing in line for eggs this morning at the hotel, and an entire family stepped right in front of her and ate all the eggs, leaving none for her. It doesn’t make any sense! She was standing there, plate in hand, and they just took over. I think the people here have been extremely rude! With the exception of the hotel staff … they, at least, were really, super nice and informative!