Every year, Maria goes home to Puerto Rico for the Holidays, and every year she waits until the very last minute to book the flight, paying the equivalent of first-class to Istanbul in the process. I’ve given up on trying to change that habit; apparently her whole family does it, too. Instead, I have decided to become the official household ticket-purchaser, and in my family, we buy tickets practically a year in advance.
Travel Tip #1: Don’t buy your tickets too far in advance.
So, I booked Maria a good, cheap flight out of Orlando many months ago. This would be fine, I thought. For the money we saved, I wouldn’t mind driving an hour and a half out of the way to drop her off and pick her up.
But then, of course, our plans changed. I decided to go to Puerto Rico for Christmas, too.
Had I considered this possibility, I would have booked Maria out of Tampa like any normal, sane person. But now, we had a problem. How were we going to get there? How do we get home? I wasn’t about to spend all of the money we saved flying out of Orlando on long-term parking or, God forbid, an airport shuttle. And so, because being a good person means sometimes having to drive many miles to distant airports for cheap friends, I sent an email to everyone I know looking for a ride.
Tip #2: Don’t forget the toll money.
Ever since I stopped waiting tables, I have never had more than about five bucks on me. That’s when I’m feeling rich. And while our neighbor Eve, in her usual “morning person” humor, did not seem to mind shelling out half a week’s paycheck to cover the nearly criminal number of booths en route to the Orlando airport, we still felt like schmucks. This, of course, on top of the steak dinner we felt we owed her just for the ride.
Travel Tip #3: Don’t forget your cell phone.
Of all of the things I could forget—my toothbrush, my underwear, my nicotine gum—nothing was more sorely missed than my cell phone. Long after Eve had probably squealed onto I-4, I realized that it was there, tucked into the door of her SUV. Since Maria and I were actually on separate flights (courtesy of my maniacal need to buy tickets so far in advance), it was really a lousy thing to forget. And, guess what practically doesn’t exist anymore? Payphones. That’s right. The best I could find in the Orlando airport (the airport!) was an obscure hallway with three phones, two of which worked. Now I understand why I see people in jalopies held together with chicken wire talking on RAZRs: They have no choice. I know it’s crazy considering that only ten years ago most people barely had a computer, much less a cell phone, but I cannot tell you how isolated and, well, almost panicked I felt without being constantly connected to the world. Come to think of it, that’s pretty sad.
Travel Tip #4: Don’t buy water.
Yet another hallmark of our “modern society” is the fact that you can now purchase bottled water on every street corner and every vending machine. Landfills overflowing with plastic debris aside, I love this. And, I know that I’m risking nomination for the Neurosis Hall of Fame, but water is my safety blanket. If I have to wait in some insanely long airport line, listening to screaming children and the complaints of Holiday travelers, at least I can content myself with the fact that I will not die of dehydration.
It seems, however, that the Department of Homeland Security is out to strip us of even this consolation. Apparently as security measures tightened, some brilliant bureaucrat decided that terrorists might be trying to smuggle nitroglycerine in plain view in a bottle of Aquafina. People, I have seen enough movies to know one very sure thing: If I am swigging and swinging a bottle of clear liquid, it most certainly is not nitroglycerine. I mean, if you even breathe on that stuff it’s like Chinese New Year, right? I think asking someone to take a big gulp of whatever beverage they happen to be carrying should be good enough. Can we please dispense with this idiotic “security measure”?
Forgetting this rule, I purchased no fewer than three bottles of water, all of which had to be abandoned barely opened. My stupid mistake, I know, but don’t you find it disconcerting that when I handed the security guy my lighter, he said, “Oh, you can keep that”?
Travel Tip #5: Airlines don’t care about you.
Yes, I know. Big revelation, Shelly. We’ve all seen air travel degrade, even before 2001. Long gone are the days of polite and well-trained attendants offering you a pillow or a refill beverage, but apparently even the beverages and pillows have gone by the wayside. Spirit Air, the unfortunate carrier I flew with, is clearly shorthand for “In the Spirit of Ripping You Off Air.” Free baggage check? Nope. Free soda? Nope. Free bag of seven gnarly airline peanuts? Not a chance. Forget electronic check-in. Forget the movie. Forget the four stupid in-flight radio stations; there’s not even a jack in the seat. Oh, and for some bizarre reason, all window shades must be up at take off and landing. Huh? If the pilot needs to see out of my window in order to safely maneuver the plane, perhaps we should speak to the engineers…
Travel Tip #6: Puerto Ricans know when you’re not one of them.
Even before I open my mouth, they know I’m a gringo. I dress funny, I have nuclear holocaust pale skin, and I don’t wear a bathing suit. That’s no big deal when I’m on the island because, well, I’m on a tropical frickin’ island, and I actually really like Puerto Ricans. But apply these details to the airport, and it’s annoying.
Anytime you’re waiting for a plane to arrive from Puerto Rico (as I was for a full four hours), it’s not hard to tell what gate they’re coming from. Puerto Ricans love to wait for people at the airport. They dance and sing and ignore their screaming children—it’s quite entertaining. Except when I want to ask them a question. They look at me with some mixture of suspicion and disgust, as if to say, “Why on Earth would some white little gringa like you be meeting someone from our plane?” I had to ask five people before I figured out that, yes, this was the 7pm flight from San Juan, and no, they hadn’t come out yet.
Travel Tip #7: Remember where you parked.
In Tampa, the honest-to-God best airport in the world, I have never lost my car. That is because their system is ingenious, designed for even the biggest moron to easily find their vehicle. Orlando, it seems, has a different approach. Remember the “characters” system of the Disney parking lots? Well, Orlando has pigs and cows and other cartoonish barnyard animals that correspond to each level of their parking garage. That’s about where the organization ends. See, my friend (who shall remain nameless to protect her deficiencies) forgot to catalogue exactly where in the approximately 9,000 spaces of the “pig” level she had left her car. Thus began a Griswoldian search through the rows of towering SUVs for my friend’s tiny VW. If I hadn’t been trying to talk myself down from a panic attack, it would have been funny.
Travel Tip #8: Remember your house keys.
This is a very easy thing to forget when someone else is driving you to and from the airport. Actually, we didn’t forget ours—this time. Although I still give a little chuckle over the fact that once, after a very long trip from California, we had to scramble around our house to find a window to pop open. Ah, good times.
But this time, we finally made it in the door, appreciating our dilapidated little house in a whole new way—as only those who have navigated the gauntlet of Christmas travel can. I was reunited with my cell phone, and can now consume as much bottled water as I want. I even know where the car is. Mostly, though, I have learned—as perhaps any Holiday traveler will tell you—that it’s probably better if you just stay home. Really. Your family will understand.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, 1/10/2008
January 5, 2008
December 11, 2007
Pizza to Impress the Neighbors
Several months ago, after over a year of staring at an empty house, somebody finally moved in across the street. Our new neighbors are a fun couple, Amber and Eve (I did not make that up), who hail from parts outside of Florida. Now, considering that I’ve only met three people who were verifiably born in the Sunshine State, that’s really no surprise. However, when people (and by people, I mean Eve), who have lived their entire lives in Chicago want to take me out for “good pizza and beer,” I start to panic.
Florida may be known for many things—its weather, its beaches, its dizzying array of outlet malls—but “pizza capital of the country” it is not. Heck, we’re not even the pizza capital of the South (a distinction that, I would wager, belongs to Atlanta). But you know what? I can’t figure it out. I mean, all of these people—pizza-making people—come from places like New York, Boston, Chicago. These are the pizza capitals of the country; places that practically run on pizza. So why is it that when my neighbor wants to know where we can get some good pizza and beer, I’m clueless?
All right, I know. I’m being a bit hard on our metro area. The fact is, there are some pretty great pizza joints around here. When we get delivery, Maria and I call Joey Brooklyn’s downtown and have reveled many times in their yummy, doughy crust and fresh toppings. Central Pizza and Subs, on the “Pasadena side” of Central, puts together a decent pie, too. But these places (Joey Brooklyn’s few tables notwithstanding) are truly delivery-only. There’s no ambiance; there’s no beer.
So, the other night I wanted to take my new neighbor somewhere that could hold its head up against Chicago (okay, well maybe just Atlanta). You see, as a lifetime resident of the Windy City, Eve is under the impression that Chicago does everything better. She’s still in that new-to-Florida stage where northern transplants complain about our lack of seasons, our inconvenient store hours, our “I-don’t-care-if-we-ever-get-there” driving habits. That’s cool. I’ve seen enough of them come in my lifetime to know that this time next year, she’ll be warming her feet by the fireplace in two sweaters, swearing that “these tourists” are just crazy to go to the beach.
But back to the pizza. Our hunt began with the block and a half walk to the Grand Central District’s Roman Gardens Ristorante & Pizzeria. Nice little place; great ambiance. They must have some pretty good food, too, because the dining room was packed. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about their pizza. On a Saturday night, they had only one server who frantically informed us that we were welcome to sit down, but she seemed to have no idea when we would eat. Not good enough for our hungry crew.
So, we set out in the direction of downtown, vacillating between Fortunato’s in the Janus Landing block, or Dal’Italia on 4th Street and 22nd North. Now, Maria and I have ordered out from Dal’Italia on many occasions, and I’ve eaten at the place at least a couple of times. I can tell you that they do have decent pizzeria ambiance, and the service has always been efficient. Dal’Italia also stocks good beer (imported anything, if you’re wondering what my standards are), many of which are on tap, but honestly, I don’t love the pizza. A lot of folks really dig it, but I find that their toppings are just too, well, big. They don’t dice the onions or peppers, and the result is a slippery, stringy piece of topping that kind of sticks in my throat. Oh, and they use canned mushrooms, which I am especially not fond of.
That in mind, I pushed for Fortunato’s on Central. I have had so many butter-dripping garlic rolls and hearty slices at this deli-style eatery, I was sure we’d find something to appease the hungry neighbors. The inside is all fluorescent lights and cafeteria-line service, but they have breezy table seating on the sidewalk, totally available on an early Saturday evening. Mind you, I have only ever been to Fortunato’s during the lunch hours, so I’ve never really bothered with what kind of beer they offer. A quick check of their icy tub revealed an unfortunate variety of domestics—mostly light, tasteless brews. Strike two.
Appetites mounting, we stood out on the street while I silently cursed the disaster that is St. Petersburg’s pizza-and-beer situation. Of course, if we’d been in Chicago, we’d already be patting our bellies and sipping our Peroni’s at some quaint, 50 year old pizzeria famous for its delectable deep dish. How could I salvage this night? I cast about the street for some sign of redemption, and then I saw it.
Now, CitySearch.com bills this place as a four-star restaurant, which I’m certain is a mistake, but Jojo’s in Citta was voted “Best of the Bay 2007” (though for what, exactly, I don’t know). Here’s what I do know about the place: great service, great outdoor seating, and an exemplary beer selection (no less than three honest-to-God Italian brews!). I’d been to Jojo’s a million years ago, and was not impressed, but clearly the place is under new management. (At my request, one of the waiters even took pains to find out when the Bucs’ game started on Sunday.) They don’t do “full-sized” pizzas, but the personal sizes we ordered—one “custom” with pepperoni, tomato and basil, and one “Special” with just about everything you can throw on a pizza—were more than enough, and incredibly tasty. Also, if you go, do not miss their bruschetta: little toasted breads with garlic heaven on top.
So, in the end I (or rather, Jojo’s) somewhat redeemed St. Petersburg. It’s not every day that you can take a “Chicago girl through-and-through” out for some decent pie in Florida. But, let this be a call to all of you northern transplants: Bring us your pizzerias! I’ve got to impress the neighbors.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 12/13/2007
Florida may be known for many things—its weather, its beaches, its dizzying array of outlet malls—but “pizza capital of the country” it is not. Heck, we’re not even the pizza capital of the South (a distinction that, I would wager, belongs to Atlanta). But you know what? I can’t figure it out. I mean, all of these people—pizza-making people—come from places like New York, Boston, Chicago. These are the pizza capitals of the country; places that practically run on pizza. So why is it that when my neighbor wants to know where we can get some good pizza and beer, I’m clueless?
All right, I know. I’m being a bit hard on our metro area. The fact is, there are some pretty great pizza joints around here. When we get delivery, Maria and I call Joey Brooklyn’s downtown and have reveled many times in their yummy, doughy crust and fresh toppings. Central Pizza and Subs, on the “Pasadena side” of Central, puts together a decent pie, too. But these places (Joey Brooklyn’s few tables notwithstanding) are truly delivery-only. There’s no ambiance; there’s no beer.
So, the other night I wanted to take my new neighbor somewhere that could hold its head up against Chicago (okay, well maybe just Atlanta). You see, as a lifetime resident of the Windy City, Eve is under the impression that Chicago does everything better. She’s still in that new-to-Florida stage where northern transplants complain about our lack of seasons, our inconvenient store hours, our “I-don’t-care-if-we-ever-get-there” driving habits. That’s cool. I’ve seen enough of them come in my lifetime to know that this time next year, she’ll be warming her feet by the fireplace in two sweaters, swearing that “these tourists” are just crazy to go to the beach.
But back to the pizza. Our hunt began with the block and a half walk to the Grand Central District’s Roman Gardens Ristorante & Pizzeria. Nice little place; great ambiance. They must have some pretty good food, too, because the dining room was packed. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about their pizza. On a Saturday night, they had only one server who frantically informed us that we were welcome to sit down, but she seemed to have no idea when we would eat. Not good enough for our hungry crew.
So, we set out in the direction of downtown, vacillating between Fortunato’s in the Janus Landing block, or Dal’Italia on 4th Street and 22nd North. Now, Maria and I have ordered out from Dal’Italia on many occasions, and I’ve eaten at the place at least a couple of times. I can tell you that they do have decent pizzeria ambiance, and the service has always been efficient. Dal’Italia also stocks good beer (imported anything, if you’re wondering what my standards are), many of which are on tap, but honestly, I don’t love the pizza. A lot of folks really dig it, but I find that their toppings are just too, well, big. They don’t dice the onions or peppers, and the result is a slippery, stringy piece of topping that kind of sticks in my throat. Oh, and they use canned mushrooms, which I am especially not fond of.
That in mind, I pushed for Fortunato’s on Central. I have had so many butter-dripping garlic rolls and hearty slices at this deli-style eatery, I was sure we’d find something to appease the hungry neighbors. The inside is all fluorescent lights and cafeteria-line service, but they have breezy table seating on the sidewalk, totally available on an early Saturday evening. Mind you, I have only ever been to Fortunato’s during the lunch hours, so I’ve never really bothered with what kind of beer they offer. A quick check of their icy tub revealed an unfortunate variety of domestics—mostly light, tasteless brews. Strike two.
Appetites mounting, we stood out on the street while I silently cursed the disaster that is St. Petersburg’s pizza-and-beer situation. Of course, if we’d been in Chicago, we’d already be patting our bellies and sipping our Peroni’s at some quaint, 50 year old pizzeria famous for its delectable deep dish. How could I salvage this night? I cast about the street for some sign of redemption, and then I saw it.
Now, CitySearch.com bills this place as a four-star restaurant, which I’m certain is a mistake, but Jojo’s in Citta was voted “Best of the Bay 2007” (though for what, exactly, I don’t know). Here’s what I do know about the place: great service, great outdoor seating, and an exemplary beer selection (no less than three honest-to-God Italian brews!). I’d been to Jojo’s a million years ago, and was not impressed, but clearly the place is under new management. (At my request, one of the waiters even took pains to find out when the Bucs’ game started on Sunday.) They don’t do “full-sized” pizzas, but the personal sizes we ordered—one “custom” with pepperoni, tomato and basil, and one “Special” with just about everything you can throw on a pizza—were more than enough, and incredibly tasty. Also, if you go, do not miss their bruschetta: little toasted breads with garlic heaven on top.
So, in the end I (or rather, Jojo’s) somewhat redeemed St. Petersburg. It’s not every day that you can take a “Chicago girl through-and-through” out for some decent pie in Florida. But, let this be a call to all of you northern transplants: Bring us your pizzerias! I’ve got to impress the neighbors.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 12/13/2007
How the Grinch Sold Christmas
My mother loved to shop. As a child, I was toted to every department store, discount store, outlet store and garage sale within 30 miles of our house. Needless to say, Tyrone Square Mall was our second home. Frankly, some of my earliest memories involve me hiding inside racks of clothing, trying to entertain myself with safety pins while my mother spent countless hours examining every possible outfit and shoe combination.
Now, I don’t begrudge the woman. We hardly ever had any money in those days, so my mom’s excursions were usually just fodder for her wish list. But I don’t mind telling you that as a kid—as a teenager, and even as an adult—I have despised shopping. For me, getting new clothes is right up there with a visit to the gynecologist. About the closest I come to shopping is perusing the wine list at a restaurant or browsing the stacks at my local bookstore. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how my mother and I were ever related.
All of this is to say that I, like so many other people who loathe shopping, am in a quandary this time of year. Put aside my personal opinions about how commerce has stolen anything that was ever sacred about the holidays; put aside how it infuriates me that families with no religious inclination whatsoever will put themselves into a yearlong debt just to keep up with their neighbors.
The truth is, I have long wanted to tell my family that I have donated all of the money I would spend on their presents to some deserving charity. But really, how do you tell a little kid that their gift is the knowledge that some homeless person will sleep in a warm bed tonight?
I know, I know. In that way I have succumbed to all of the marketing and commercial come-ons that saturate our holidays. But, two days after Halloween I visited a Walgreens and found myself face-to-face with a giant, inflatable Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (itself an entirely commercial character, created to entice Christmas shoppers in the mid-twentieth century). Alas, with so much marketing stacked against us and our wallets, how can we possibly resist?
Undoubtedly the commodification of Christmas (or the “Holidays” if you want to get a piece of everyone’s money) has become an indispensable part of our economy. There are plenty of businesses that would fade into the sunset without their November-December sales figures. And, while I miss the Charlie-Brown-Christmases of my youth, I cannot deny that once the holidays are upon us, the manifest from society is “Go forth and spend.”
So, gentle Gabber reader, that is why this year I am extolling the virtues of the small business.
I mean, really. Why should Macy’s and Penny’s and Best Buy get most of your “good will”? In my opinion, giving all of your hard-earned money away to these holiday profiteers is just one step away from selling your soul. For yourself and for your giftees, I say: You can do better.
Remember the Art District? Yeah, that’s not just a quaint promenade for you to stroll twice a month. These are (tiny, community supported) businesses with way cool items for sale—items that would make a very fine (and interesting) contribution to the extravaganza under your tree. Anyone can walk into Circuit City and get a flat-screen TV or some yuppie HD radio, but c’mon. If you can afford that stuff, chances are your family can as well! Let them get the impersonal, big-ticket items.
Local businesses are what make our communities such fine places to live. They’re what we’re built on. Think about it: Why not make your loved-one happy AND contribute to the local economy? As Martha Stewart—the First Lady of creative gifts—would say: It’s a good thing.
I am not here to endorse any one business over another, or any one district over another. (Though, for that matter, the Grand Central District in St. Pete is the perfect place for you to pick up some enchanted item for that finicky gift-receiver.) All I’m saying is that if you, like me, are crippled by the expectations of the gift-giving season—if the thought of setting foot in a mall makes you break out in hives—there are alternatives.
Personally, I’m still pulling for the real spirit of Christmas. And I’m hoping that this year, my family will not be too outraged by a wee fewer presents under the tree. What I mean to say is that you see, little Susie…your gift this year will be the satisfaction of knowing that Aunt Shelly is spending Christmas under a palm tree in Puerto Rico.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/27/2007
Now, I don’t begrudge the woman. We hardly ever had any money in those days, so my mom’s excursions were usually just fodder for her wish list. But I don’t mind telling you that as a kid—as a teenager, and even as an adult—I have despised shopping. For me, getting new clothes is right up there with a visit to the gynecologist. About the closest I come to shopping is perusing the wine list at a restaurant or browsing the stacks at my local bookstore. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how my mother and I were ever related.
All of this is to say that I, like so many other people who loathe shopping, am in a quandary this time of year. Put aside my personal opinions about how commerce has stolen anything that was ever sacred about the holidays; put aside how it infuriates me that families with no religious inclination whatsoever will put themselves into a yearlong debt just to keep up with their neighbors.
The truth is, I have long wanted to tell my family that I have donated all of the money I would spend on their presents to some deserving charity. But really, how do you tell a little kid that their gift is the knowledge that some homeless person will sleep in a warm bed tonight?
I know, I know. In that way I have succumbed to all of the marketing and commercial come-ons that saturate our holidays. But, two days after Halloween I visited a Walgreens and found myself face-to-face with a giant, inflatable Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (itself an entirely commercial character, created to entice Christmas shoppers in the mid-twentieth century). Alas, with so much marketing stacked against us and our wallets, how can we possibly resist?
Undoubtedly the commodification of Christmas (or the “Holidays” if you want to get a piece of everyone’s money) has become an indispensable part of our economy. There are plenty of businesses that would fade into the sunset without their November-December sales figures. And, while I miss the Charlie-Brown-Christmases of my youth, I cannot deny that once the holidays are upon us, the manifest from society is “Go forth and spend.”
So, gentle Gabber reader, that is why this year I am extolling the virtues of the small business.
I mean, really. Why should Macy’s and Penny’s and Best Buy get most of your “good will”? In my opinion, giving all of your hard-earned money away to these holiday profiteers is just one step away from selling your soul. For yourself and for your giftees, I say: You can do better.
Remember the Art District? Yeah, that’s not just a quaint promenade for you to stroll twice a month. These are (tiny, community supported) businesses with way cool items for sale—items that would make a very fine (and interesting) contribution to the extravaganza under your tree. Anyone can walk into Circuit City and get a flat-screen TV or some yuppie HD radio, but c’mon. If you can afford that stuff, chances are your family can as well! Let them get the impersonal, big-ticket items.
Local businesses are what make our communities such fine places to live. They’re what we’re built on. Think about it: Why not make your loved-one happy AND contribute to the local economy? As Martha Stewart—the First Lady of creative gifts—would say: It’s a good thing.
I am not here to endorse any one business over another, or any one district over another. (Though, for that matter, the Grand Central District in St. Pete is the perfect place for you to pick up some enchanted item for that finicky gift-receiver.) All I’m saying is that if you, like me, are crippled by the expectations of the gift-giving season—if the thought of setting foot in a mall makes you break out in hives—there are alternatives.
Personally, I’m still pulling for the real spirit of Christmas. And I’m hoping that this year, my family will not be too outraged by a wee fewer presents under the tree. What I mean to say is that you see, little Susie…your gift this year will be the satisfaction of knowing that Aunt Shelly is spending Christmas under a palm tree in Puerto Rico.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/27/2007
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