I walked towards my gate. I was early. Go to the gate? Read? Get something to eat? Grab a beer? I saw a group of six men sitting at one of the tables in the bar near my gate. As I approached they busted out into the chorus of “My Girl.” I glanced up; they were staring. I laughed a slight laugh and walked to a table in the bar. The bartender was very attentive; he brought me a beer right away.

I sat, typing away, occasionally noticing the boisterous group across the way from me. Older men, several wearing baseball caps. Polo shirts, Bermuda shorts, sandals, some with socks, some sans. Tanned, sunglasses on head, mid-life men out for a vacation. I guessed they were golfers. They had that golfer look.

I continued typing. One glanced over at me as he was finishing his chicken satay. He put the stick up to his mouth, cigar style, and performed a quite impressive impression of Groucho Marx. I laughed again, this time more whole heartedly, then continued my typing.

A few minutes later two of them approached the bar. As they waited for their gin and tonics they struck up a conversation. “So, where are you heading to?” they intoned with a slight nasal accent.

“San Francisco,” I replied.

“Oh, you’re so lucky. Beautiful city.”

“Thank you. Going home. How about you?”

“Vancouver. Been here to golf.” I knew it. They so looked like golfers.

“Special occasion?”

“It’s his 39th birthday. At one time,” the one with crystal clear blue eyes responded with a laugh.

We chatted about Canada, Whistler, San Francisco, Marin, travel, golf, then the one with the blue eyes said, “What’s up with your ring?”

“This? It’s just a ring.”

“What is it? Amethyst?”

I was impressed he even knew what amethyst was. “No. Not amethyst. Amethyst is purple. This is, this is…” How to explain it? It was my impulsive purchase. My JLo pink diamondique obnoxious sparkly, I-love-to-shine ring.

“It’s just a ring. Just…”

“It matches your skirt,” he said.

“Exactly. It matches my skirt. That’s why I’m wearing it. It’s my bling bling.”

They laughed. We talked a little more, then they returned to their group of golfers.

A few minutes later the final boarding call for Vancouver was announced. They picked up their bags, headed towards the gate, turned around, and belted out a final serenade, “My girl… Talking about my girl…”

I’m fickle. I know that. I now have a new favorite hotel for business travel.

We were due to teach a class in Albany, Oregon, the day after teaching a class in Vancouver, Washington, the day after teaching a class in Portland, Oregon. I suggested that we finish our class in Vancouver, drive to Albany, spend the night there, then be right there in town, ready to teach the next day. Maximum efficiency. She agreed.

In Monday’s class they asked us where we were staying. We told them The Phoenix Inn in Tigard, but that we would be driving to Albany after Tuesday’s class and staying there. Raised eyebrows greeted us, followed by incredulous comments, “You’re staying in Albany? Are you sure? Where?”

“The Comfort Inn.”

“Oh. You don’t want to stay there. That’s in between an adult book store and a truck stop. Plus, it smells.”

I glanced at my colleague. She shrugged. Neither of us had ever been to Albany.

“Don’t stay at The Comfort Inn. There’s a cute bed and breakfast downtown. The Trainhouse. If you must stay in Albany, at least stay there.”

I conferred with my colleague. The cancellation policy for The Comfort Inn was by 4pm day of arrival. We decided to try the bed and breakfast.

She called information for the Trainhouse. No such listing in the directory. “That can’t be,” I said. “I’ll find it.” Monday night I googled the Trainhouse. And found a rudimentary, but somewhat over informative website. How long the owners had been married. Where they went to school. The names and decor of the rooms. What to do in downtown Albany. Quaint. Very quaint. Three rooms total. But it could be interesting. I wrote down the phone number, figuring that Sheila could make reservations at the Trainhouse and cancel reservations at The Comfort Inn during as I drove to Vancouver the next day.

First, the phone call to make reservations. Don’t cancel before you have a sure thing.

“Hi, do you have two rooms available for tonight?” she asked. She waited. A few pleasantries exchanged.

She related later that the woman on the phone suddenly switched her tone and demanded, “Who is this????”

Sheila explained who she was and that she wanted two rooms for the evening.

“Oh, I thought you were my sister, making a prank call.” Whatever.

One reservation for the Trainhouse Inn, one cancellation for The Comfort Inn.

After Tuesday’s class, the participants wanted to know where we were staying. “Albany – at a bed and breakfast.”

Again, incredulous looks. “Don’t stay there. Oh. So don’t stay there. Stay in Portland. Drive down there tomorrow morning.”

We again exchanged glances.

“It smells. Seriously. It smells in Albany. You simply must stay in Portland. Then drive to Albany in the morning. Here, I’ll have my admin make the arrangements for you.”

Moments later we had reservations at the Westin in Portland and had left a message for the Trainhouse saying we weren’t coming.

We drove to Portland, valeted the car, and checked into our rooms. The first thing I noticed was that the bed, meticulously made, had pressed sateen sheets and multiple pillows, one of which said, “Oui.” What could you not like about a bed that beckoned you with the word “yes” in a foreign language?

I prepared for bed. I finished email, pressed my clothes for the next day, took a long hot bath (in the bathroom with marble floors and a separate shower and bath), then slid into bed. Into bed? Or into clouds, merely masquerading as a bed? I sank down. My head rested comfortably in the down pillows. Within moments, I was sound asleep.

“Good morning, Miss McLeese. This is your 5:50 wake up call. Would you like another?”

Ohhhhhhh…. morning. But, the chance to sleep longer. “Yes…. 10 more minutes, please.”

I drifted back to sleep. Ahhhhh, comfort. Softness all around. The weight of the comforter against my bare skin. Bliss.

Ring. Ring. “Good morning, Miss McLeese. This is your 6:00 wake up call. Would you like another?”

“No. No. I’m up. Thank you,” I replied groggily.

“Today’s weather will be 94 degrees. Have a great day.”

I couldn’t believe they had actual people dialing the wake up calls. Not an automated service, real people. That talked to you then told you the weather. That’s service.

When I found out we were teaching a class in Portland, I emailed my colleague:

“Let’s stay at the Phoenix Inn. They have awesome fresh baked cookies when you check in.”

She emailed back:

“But how are the rooms?”

This is by far my favorite hotel to stay in when traveling for business. It’s not particularly fancy, but it does have free wi-fi (a recent addition they’re very proud of), homemade cookies every afternoon (today’s were oatmeal raisin, my favorite), a 24 hour pool, free “expanded” breakfast (which includes eggs, yogurt, fresh fruit, waffles, and oatmeal), and feather pillows. And an adorable front desk staff.

The last time I stayed here, I was alone. After a long day of teaching, I decided to venture into downtown Portland. I asked the front desk staff for recommendations. The two young girls conferred, then told me about a restaurant on the river with the comment, “It’s so romantic. It’s where we went for prom! You’ll love it!” Not exactly what I was looking for as a single business traveler, but their enthusiasm touched me. I thanked them then found a brew pub on my own.

There is something very comforting about a non-pretentious front desk staff. And a pool that’s yours for the swimming any time of the night or day. You’ve got my business, Phoenix Inn.

that this banana is $1.46. Do you still want it?”

I looked at her quizzically. When someone begins a sentence with the words, “I’m required to tell you…” I expect time sensitive or potentially life altering information to follow. In my world, the price of bananas is neither.

I nodded. “Yes, I still want it.” This was my dinner, along with a quart of water, on my way to Portland. Terminal one has slim pickings as far as eateries are concerned.

She smiled as she rung up my purchase. “Just think, one day you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you paid $1.46 for a banana!”

Again, I looked at her quizzically. First of all, that’s a huge assumption that I’ll even have grandchildren. Secondly, an even larger assumption that I’ll be telling them about the price of bananas. “Thanks,” I muttered as she handed me my change.

The businessman in the pressed suit behind me also had a banana. “I’m required to tell you…” she began.

He interrupted, “I still want it. I know it costs $1.46.”

She rang him up. I turned to face him and in all seriousness said, “You, too, will be able to tell your grandchildren you paid $1.46 for a banana.”

He burst out laughing. Happy times at SFO.

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in our society. Lying has become acceptable. Even encouraged. Witness.

In this week’s New York Times top stories:

“A Race to Be First to Break Someone’s Heart, but It’s Only a Game” – an article about the newest reality tv show, in which

“a model is given a chance to break the hearts of ladies’ men before they break hers, appears to be devoted exclusively to savoring the glories of the words “player” and “game.”

Dawn, the club-hopping model, sets the tone: “If I get one of these players to fall for me, I’m the player. If I fall for them, I could get played.” She dilates: “I’m a player, and when you’re a player you have game. And I’m good at the game.”…

… Her explanation of the show, in fact, is something of a reality masterpiece:

“A player is someone who really isn’t looking to settle down with anybody, but he’s so charismatic and charming that you don’t even care that they’re with other people. You just want to be with them, and have fun. The tricky part is that sometimes someone’s game can get so good that you actually fall for them, and you’ll end up getting your heart broken, and you’ll end up getting played. And that’s what this game is all about.” New York Times, By VIRGINIA HEFFERNAN, Published: August 3, 2004

So the rallying cry “play or be played” is simply “lie or be lied to.”

The concept of this show bothered me, but then I read this article, summarized here:

Escape A Date – “If you’re going out on a date, you can arrange to have your cellphone ring at a specified time. The call guides you through a script that makes it sound, to the gullible party across the table, as if you’ve got to rush off. Think of it as a wake-up call with benefits. If the date’s going well, just don’t answer.

Dating has always been a game of sorts, but the gaming has gotten more serious. Witness “The Player,” a new reality show about competitive heartbreaking on UPN. Those contestants could really use the Escape-A-Date service, which Cingular calls an added “functionality,” except that their dates probably already suspect that they’re being gamed – a new euphemism for being lied to.” The New York Times, Opinion, August 5, 2004

Excuse me, you have to have a third party service get you out of a date that isn’t going well? Whatever happened to honesty? The “It’s nice to meet you, but I don’t think this is working out.” Or, “I enjoyed meeting you, but I don’t think we should continue seeing each other.” Whatever happened to accountability? I abhor the fact that this new service exists, and, that it will probably be quite successful.

People. Be honest with yourself. Be honest with others. What’s so hard about that?

Our work was done…

Top: The final moments of the Democratic National Convention in Boston

Bottom: Maggie, me, and Bryan. Very tired, very happy.

Of course, one of the tensest moments came on the last day. I’m sure the lack of sleep all week, as well as my state of pure physical exhaustion, contributed to that moment. I was in charge of distributing signs to the delegates in Zone 3 from American Samoa, North Dakota, Wyoming, Oklahoma, Washington DC, and Louisiana. The delegates from American Samoa, North Dakota, and Wyoming were incredibly gracious. Washington DC was never happy and Louisiana constantly complained I was shortchanging their delegation. “We need more signs,” was her response when I handed her stacks of at least 150 placards for their 70 something delegates. I merely smiled as sweetly as possible and said, “But I gave you more than any other delegation. Really. I think there’s enough to go around. Trust me,” and walked away as swiftly as possible.

The call came over the walkie talkie we were required to wear. “We have 5 minutes to move all signs. All remaining signs for the night need to be brought into the voms. Over.” Preposterous. Surely that wasn’t true. We still had multiple pushes. Of many signs. The big, tall, 5 foot vertical signs. At least 5000. In my area alone. And multiple placards. Boxes upon boxes. What was this crazy talk?

“Lori for Bryan. Lori for Bryan. Come in, Bryan.”

“Go for Bryan.”

“Was that last call only for Zones 1 and 2 (on the floor)? Or for everyone? Over.”

“Everyone. All signs must be within the voms in 5 minutes. Secret Service is closing the floor. Over.”

“We have 5 minutes to move all signs? Over.”

“Correct. Over.”

Holy crap. I mobilized my team and we raced signs from the staging area to the voms, stacking them as neatly as possible. At one point, a volunteer blocked my entrance to a vom, stating the Fire Marshal had closed all entrances. No one was allowed in. “But, I’m just putting signs in. I’ll be right out.” Didn’t matter.

I radioed the woman in charge.

“Lori for Ellen. Lori for Ellen.”

“Go for Ellen.”

“Ellen, I can’t enter the floor. All voms on floor 5 are closed. Over.”

“Standby.”

I waited.

“Ellen for Lori. Ellen for Lori.”

“Go for Lori.”

“The Fire Marshal has approved all vests. All vests approved to enter and exit voms. Over.”

“Thanks, Ellen. Over.”

I told the credentialed person at the entrance to the vom that I was okay to go in. The Fire Marshal had okayed anyone wearing a vest (me included) to enter the floor. He shrugged, then let me through. As I passed through the curtain, carrying garbage bags full of “Kerry” signs, I felt a forceful hand on my shoulder.

“Hey!” he shouted as he twirled me around. “You are a liar! You lied to my person! You are not allowed to be in here!”

I was shocked. “No. I am allowed in here. The Fire Marshal said. He radioed everyone. Excuse me.”

He followed me, badgering me.

I exited the vom. I radioed Ellen.

“Lori for Ellen. Lori for Ellen.”

“Go for Ellen.”

“Ellen, I’m having problems on the 5th floor. I’m not being allowed access to the voms. The supervisor just called me a liar.”

This is the point where I broke down.

Sobbing, over the walkie talkie, I repeated, “I’m not a liar. I’m not lying. The Fire Marshal said we could go in. Please clear with all Security. Over.”

“Lori, I can’t understand you. Who won’t let you in?”

“The supervisor. Steve. (sob, sob) He… he… he… called me a liar…. I’m not lying… I (sob, sob) I’m just trying to get the signs where they need to be…. (sob, sob) Over.”

“Which supervisor? What is he wearing?”

As calmly as I could, I explained what he was wearing, the white polo which identified him as DNCC staff. Calm being a relative term. I could barely breathe as I repeated his words. I’m not a liar. Why would I make something up? Especially when Secret Service was involved.

Within seconds, we were allowed in and Steve apologized to me.

Signs were distributed, balloons were dropped (although a little late), and all was right at the convention.

I love living in a city with a Major League team. Because people always have extra tickets. Tonight was no exception. A beautiful balmy night in SBC Park, the sound of the water the backdrop for the excitement of the game. Life is good.

a beautiful day at the Jersey shore…

There is nowhere I feel more beautiful than when I’m at the beach. The warm sun beaming down on my strong body, grains of sand clinging to my damp skin, my wet locks blowing wildly in the wind. I love the force of the ocean, the crash of waves, knocking me off my feet, floating on the salty water, twirling and spinning like a seal. I float on my back, my red toenails peeking out above the water. I spin, around and over, over and around, undulating with the rolling waves. I allow the current to carry me in them I swim back out, pushing my body against the determined force of the water.

I decided to take advantage of being on the East coast to visit friends in New York. Megga asked me what I thought about taking the ferry to the Jersey Shore on Saturday. Nothing sounded more appealing. A boat ride, warm sun, swimming, paradise.

The ride over was delightful. We stretched out on the top deck with a glass of chardonnay. Two Greek men struck up a conversation with us, making the trip seem shorter. Past the Statue of Liberty, past the burroughs, out on open water, docking at the Jersey shore, at Sandy Hook.

I returned from the water, laughing from pure joy. Megga called me close. “We need to make a decision,” she began, complete seriousness veiling her otherwise laughing face. “We can either stay here and you’ll have plenty to write about or we can flee fast.” The family she dubbed Sandy Crack was next to us. My educated guess is that they were locals. Grandpa, husband and wife. Grandpa was a thin man with a military tattoo engraved on his left bicep. Nasal tones and dropped r’s boomed our way. No one spoke in normal voices. Loud, loud, loud. Husband, white belly folding over too low, too tight blue jean shorts, bellowed, ” We enjoyin’ a day at the shoe-ur, pops. Who’s comin’ to the wah-ta? Huh? Huh?” Megga cast me a look. “Just call me Ishmael,” she mouthed.