Wednesday, May 11, 2005
I'm Trippin', Yo
This year I've gone away twice for work. This is still novel and fun because I like staying in nice hotels, and work feels more like a holiday. I imagine that the fun will wear off though, because all of my coworkers who travel often could care less about where they are no matter how nice. This is probably because they can afford to stay in places where they're the only ones in the room and sleeping on bunkbeds isn't mandatory.
The first trip was out West to Banff, and while it was a very busy time, with three meetings to organize, we still managed to have some fun. The boy even got to come along, which made things even better. We stayed in this lovely apartment-style room that had a fireplace they stocked with wood everyday. I had thought that the boy was the manliest genius out there because he had no problem whatsoever lighting the fire. It took no effort at all! I'm used to a certain amount of swearing and discussions of which solvents would be most likely to get the fire started, but least likely to burn the house down in my pyro experiences. So here, before my very eyes, was someone for whom fire lighting was not a problem. A veritable modern day Prometheus.
Well, you know, ancient man would have looked pretty darn clever if he'd had a gas lighter for his fires too.
Some of my friends came down to visit for the Saturday we were there and we went shopping and had some cocktails. Since they'd been to Banff before they could show us all the hotspots, including the store that sold the pink cowboy boots. A must have for any modern woman who wants to looks like a flaming arsehole. The boy had this thing for one candy store, located on the main drag. He kept getting people to come and stand under the vent and smell whatever was baking. Forget the mountains, they made caramel corn fresh while you waited. I lobbied to move our meetings under the vent, but my boss looked at me like she'd just dug me out of her ear. We bought these things called bear paws, which are like turtles only somewhat more so. I could really go for one of those right about now.
I can't go into too much detail about my colleagues, who were also on this trip, but let's just say I learned a whole lot more about them than I ever would have back in the office. One of the things I learned was that they like Trooper. You remember Trooper, don't you? "We're here for a good time, not a long time." As it turned out, they were in Banff performing on our last night there. Having worked two meetings that day the only good time I was looking for was my head on a pillow and the boy hugging me to sleep. It wasn't to be, I got Trooper. I was there for a long time, not a good time.
Trooper doesn't seem to have written much these last few years, as they were forced to play that hit more than once. The crowd, aided in part by cheap booze, didn't appear to mind. You would think that a band like Trooper would appeal to a certain class of people (skids and cougars) but the two fans I noticed most often were pretty young. One young gentleman wearing a Slipknot hoodie lost his shit entirely when they started to play "the Boys in the Bright White Sports' Car." He had his foot up on the stage and was banging his head like he was hoping he could make it fall off. We were all rooting for him.
My favourite though, hands down, was this twenty-something year old girl, who was quite cute, and quite obviously smashed. She lurched all over the dance floor, looking a bit Benis-like, when she would abruptly decide, for no obvious reason, to flash her tits at Trooper. She did it a lot, so much that I couldn't stop watching her. She was fascinating. What would make a pretty, young girl with her whole life ahead of her want to flash Trooper in a Banff bar? We had brought the camera with us and it would have made a great addition to our scrapbook, but she was too darn unpredictable, and I was too shy to ask her to pose. Besides, I was sort of busy mooning the bartenders.
I recently returned from New Brunswick, where I lived for four years when I was a kid. This was an important trip because it was to be my first alone. With the help of a senior supervisor I organized three dinner meetings in three cities. I would drive from city to city with my client and our speaker. I made plane and hotel reservations and I rented a car. I had everything I needed for the meetings and I was ready. I was flying out on Monday and on Sunday I received two separate emails from my parents about the flood conditions out East. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate being forewarned, it's just that I was already nervous about the trip, and now I was nervouser (I know it isn't a word, but I like it) because of having to drive around NB while fording rivers in my one and only suit. I don't need this kind of pressure. No one offered advice, all I heard was "don't panic", "think positive!" which doesn't help me much from a strategic standpoint. So I got a little cranky.
We've already established from previous postings that I have quite the imagination upstairs, so obviously the flooding wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought it would be. I was diverted to higher ground in a few places around Fredericton, but aside from that no worries. Speaking of higher ground, I was travelling in the highest ground available. Did I mention I'd rented a car? I did. It was supposed to be a mini-van, but thanks to the complimentary upgrade I ended up in a Lincoln Navigator. They should have called it Everest. The thing is massive and high tech, and all together unnecessary. There were so many buttons and nooks and crannies that there was no way I'd ever be able to figure out all the mysteries of this car. I was worried that while trying to access the radio I'd end up hitting "eject" or "self-destruct."
The meetings turned out to be more or less a snap. Everyone got their meal and their wine on time and the speaker was lovely and knew her stuff. My client, however, was a touch on the bizarre side. I didn't know whether or not to take her seriously when she asked me what "N, P, and R" were on the car's gear shift. I also had to ask her if she was serious when, while driving to Moncton, she asked if we should stop to pick up a hitchhiker by the side of road. Ha ha! Really? Outside of a port town? Not so much! As it turns out Luke - or Hitchy McHikerson - was a fine enough young lad who'd had his truck stolen the night before in Saint John. It was an antique he'd just put a lot of money into, and it wasn't yet insured. Bummer, Luke. Aside from smelling like he'd rolled in a puddle of old beer and cigarettes the night before he was a suitable enough travelling companion. All I could think of, though, was the Tiny Toons movie and the hitcher Plucky and Hampton picked up. But since the car was so bloody huge I didn't worry too much about any of us hitting one of his triggers. We'd have seen him coming from far away, or else one of the buttons in the Navigator was put there to deal with potential serial killer hitchhikers.
But who does that? Who picks up transients when they're on a business trip? I was petrified that it was going to be the last trip I ever took. Nothing good has ever happened to me in Moncton or en route to or from. The first time I went there was to have my arm rebroken because the people at the hospital in Dalhousie NB had set it improperly. On the way home from Moncton that evening I threw up in the car. My father was not amused. This time that same arm could've been gnawed off by a psycopath, and all because of some peculiar girl's European, hippie-ass, bohemian background!
Maybe it's time to ask for another raise...
This year I've gone away twice for work. This is still novel and fun because I like staying in nice hotels, and work feels more like a holiday. I imagine that the fun will wear off though, because all of my coworkers who travel often could care less about where they are no matter how nice. This is probably because they can afford to stay in places where they're the only ones in the room and sleeping on bunkbeds isn't mandatory.
The first trip was out West to Banff, and while it was a very busy time, with three meetings to organize, we still managed to have some fun. The boy even got to come along, which made things even better. We stayed in this lovely apartment-style room that had a fireplace they stocked with wood everyday. I had thought that the boy was the manliest genius out there because he had no problem whatsoever lighting the fire. It took no effort at all! I'm used to a certain amount of swearing and discussions of which solvents would be most likely to get the fire started, but least likely to burn the house down in my pyro experiences. So here, before my very eyes, was someone for whom fire lighting was not a problem. A veritable modern day Prometheus.
Well, you know, ancient man would have looked pretty darn clever if he'd had a gas lighter for his fires too.
Some of my friends came down to visit for the Saturday we were there and we went shopping and had some cocktails. Since they'd been to Banff before they could show us all the hotspots, including the store that sold the pink cowboy boots. A must have for any modern woman who wants to looks like a flaming arsehole. The boy had this thing for one candy store, located on the main drag. He kept getting people to come and stand under the vent and smell whatever was baking. Forget the mountains, they made caramel corn fresh while you waited. I lobbied to move our meetings under the vent, but my boss looked at me like she'd just dug me out of her ear. We bought these things called bear paws, which are like turtles only somewhat more so. I could really go for one of those right about now.
I can't go into too much detail about my colleagues, who were also on this trip, but let's just say I learned a whole lot more about them than I ever would have back in the office. One of the things I learned was that they like Trooper. You remember Trooper, don't you? "We're here for a good time, not a long time." As it turned out, they were in Banff performing on our last night there. Having worked two meetings that day the only good time I was looking for was my head on a pillow and the boy hugging me to sleep. It wasn't to be, I got Trooper. I was there for a long time, not a good time.
Trooper doesn't seem to have written much these last few years, as they were forced to play that hit more than once. The crowd, aided in part by cheap booze, didn't appear to mind. You would think that a band like Trooper would appeal to a certain class of people (skids and cougars) but the two fans I noticed most often were pretty young. One young gentleman wearing a Slipknot hoodie lost his shit entirely when they started to play "the Boys in the Bright White Sports' Car." He had his foot up on the stage and was banging his head like he was hoping he could make it fall off. We were all rooting for him.
My favourite though, hands down, was this twenty-something year old girl, who was quite cute, and quite obviously smashed. She lurched all over the dance floor, looking a bit Benis-like, when she would abruptly decide, for no obvious reason, to flash her tits at Trooper. She did it a lot, so much that I couldn't stop watching her. She was fascinating. What would make a pretty, young girl with her whole life ahead of her want to flash Trooper in a Banff bar? We had brought the camera with us and it would have made a great addition to our scrapbook, but she was too darn unpredictable, and I was too shy to ask her to pose. Besides, I was sort of busy mooning the bartenders.
I recently returned from New Brunswick, where I lived for four years when I was a kid. This was an important trip because it was to be my first alone. With the help of a senior supervisor I organized three dinner meetings in three cities. I would drive from city to city with my client and our speaker. I made plane and hotel reservations and I rented a car. I had everything I needed for the meetings and I was ready. I was flying out on Monday and on Sunday I received two separate emails from my parents about the flood conditions out East. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate being forewarned, it's just that I was already nervous about the trip, and now I was nervouser (I know it isn't a word, but I like it) because of having to drive around NB while fording rivers in my one and only suit. I don't need this kind of pressure. No one offered advice, all I heard was "don't panic", "think positive!" which doesn't help me much from a strategic standpoint. So I got a little cranky.
We've already established from previous postings that I have quite the imagination upstairs, so obviously the flooding wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought it would be. I was diverted to higher ground in a few places around Fredericton, but aside from that no worries. Speaking of higher ground, I was travelling in the highest ground available. Did I mention I'd rented a car? I did. It was supposed to be a mini-van, but thanks to the complimentary upgrade I ended up in a Lincoln Navigator. They should have called it Everest. The thing is massive and high tech, and all together unnecessary. There were so many buttons and nooks and crannies that there was no way I'd ever be able to figure out all the mysteries of this car. I was worried that while trying to access the radio I'd end up hitting "eject" or "self-destruct."
The meetings turned out to be more or less a snap. Everyone got their meal and their wine on time and the speaker was lovely and knew her stuff. My client, however, was a touch on the bizarre side. I didn't know whether or not to take her seriously when she asked me what "N, P, and R" were on the car's gear shift. I also had to ask her if she was serious when, while driving to Moncton, she asked if we should stop to pick up a hitchhiker by the side of road. Ha ha! Really? Outside of a port town? Not so much! As it turns out Luke - or Hitchy McHikerson - was a fine enough young lad who'd had his truck stolen the night before in Saint John. It was an antique he'd just put a lot of money into, and it wasn't yet insured. Bummer, Luke. Aside from smelling like he'd rolled in a puddle of old beer and cigarettes the night before he was a suitable enough travelling companion. All I could think of, though, was the Tiny Toons movie and the hitcher Plucky and Hampton picked up. But since the car was so bloody huge I didn't worry too much about any of us hitting one of his triggers. We'd have seen him coming from far away, or else one of the buttons in the Navigator was put there to deal with potential serial killer hitchhikers.
But who does that? Who picks up transients when they're on a business trip? I was petrified that it was going to be the last trip I ever took. Nothing good has ever happened to me in Moncton or en route to or from. The first time I went there was to have my arm rebroken because the people at the hospital in Dalhousie NB had set it improperly. On the way home from Moncton that evening I threw up in the car. My father was not amused. This time that same arm could've been gnawed off by a psycopath, and all because of some peculiar girl's European, hippie-ass, bohemian background!
Maybe it's time to ask for another raise...
