Month: April 2023

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4/28/23

It’s been a bad week for misbehaving airline passengers. The FAA has a zero-tolerance policy for addressing unruly behavior. So, when you act up on a plane, there’s literally no escape from punishment.

Some of the more serious incidents that have made the news include assaults on passengers and flight attendants, attempts to enter the flight deck, and threats to open the airplane door. I recently wrote about a lunatic who was guilty of all three of those offenses (see my blog post, “A Spoonful of Sugar Makes the Airplane Go Down.”) But lesser offenses are just as likely to result in arrests. Just ask the person who caused a ruckus because a baby was crying, or the person who refused to go back to their assigned seat after sitting in a seat reserved for flight attendants. Both incidents occurred this week.

The baby-crying incident, which occurred on a flight from Baltimore to Ft. Lauderdale, would be comical if it weren’t for the shouting man’s over-the-top reaction. (Warning: The YouTube video below contains cursing.)

Here’s the cleaned-up version of what he said:

“Why is the baby yelling? I’m not screaming. Want me to scream? I’ll scream. Please stop the baby. We are in a tin can with a baby in an echo chamber… Can you lower that voice? I paid for a ticket to have a comfortable flight. That child has been crying for 40 minutes!”

The man was taken out of the Orlando Airport by security and law enforcement personnel. He reportedly calmed down after he was fed and changed.

The other incident mentioned above occurred on a flight from New Jersey to Tel Aviv when a passenger sat in a seat intended for flight crew while he waited to use the bathroom. When a flight attendant raised their voice at the man and asked him to get out of the seat, he shouted back and would not get up. Crew members told him that if he did not return to his seat, the plane would be turned back. The unruly passenger apparently didn’t believe the threat because he stayed in the seat. To everyone’s surprise, the crew member followed through with their threat and instructed the pilot to turn around (the flight had already been in the air for three hours). Law enforcement met the aircraft and removed the passenger.

The FAA opened investigations into 831 unruly passenger incidents in 2022. So, if you intend to misbehave on an upcoming flight, you should know that flight attendants aren’t messing around anymore. Gone are the days when the customer was always right. Now it’s: “One more word from you and we will turn this flight around.”

On a recent Spirit Airlines flight from Buffalo, we learned about this new breed of flight attendant. When Donna had the nerve to ask for water, the flight attendant flashed her incisors and growled that it wasn’t free.

“Even water?” Donna said incredulously.

I nervously grabbed her wrist.

“Let it go. I don’t want any trouble.”

Normally, I like for Donna to have anything she wants, at least when we’re on the ground. But when you’re flying inside a powder keg 30,000 feet in the air, where raised voices can spark an incident and you end up on YouTube, I prefer to play it more cautiously.

FYI, regarding Donna’s request for water, I got her all the water she could have ever wanted… after we got off the plane.

Have a nice weekend.

#noshoutinginairplanesorlibraries

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4/27/23

4/27/23

Today is National Tell a Story Day, which is right up my alley. This blog is all about travels of the body and mind. So, you’ll forgive me if I travel back in time.

When I was 13 or so, I had this delirious crush on my English teacher. I sat in the front row of her class and was mesmerized by the way the light caught her hair. She wore round, old-fashioned glasses like I did, which only made me adore her more. I would’ve done anything to impress her. But the moral of this story is to be careful what you wish for.

One day, when she was handing out the suggested reading assignments for the month, she made a casual comment about one of the books on her list.

“This month we have one of my favorite books on the list. But it deals with very difficult subject matter. So, it may not be for everyone.”

My ears perked up. (Actually, they’d been perked from the moment she walked into the room and said, “Good morning, class.” Did I mention that I adored my teacher?) The wheels in my head automatically began to spin. I could see only one path to winning over the affections of my teacher. If I read her favorite book and wrote the world’s most fantastic book report, she would be so impressed with me that she’d have no choice but to marry me (when I turned of age, of course). Then, in our latter years, we’d have a jolly old time telling the kids about the fateful day the tides had changed for our love.

Foolproof plan, right? Just one thing in the way of that happy ending, the actual reading and writing of that award-winning book report. The book that my teacher had spoken so highly about was The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski. I fought my way through the tough library crowd to find it. But as I read the book jacket, I was stunned. The story is set in Europe during the Holocaust and is about the brutality of human nature.

I swallowed hard. Okay, so she’d warned us that it wasn’t light reading. But could I stomach reading about the brutality of human nature? I mean, like how brutal? Like being mean to my sister and brothers kind of brutal? Was it stuff like that?

OMG. I wasn’t prepared in the least. The plot deals with a six-year-old boy whose parents are afraid of being arrested by the Nazis, so they go into hiding and arrange for their son to travel alone from their city to a village far away. The peasants there are isolated, poor, and superstitious. Because the boy is dark-haired and dark-eyed (the narrator never reveals the boy’s ethnicity), the peasants, who are fair, shun him as a Gypsy or a Jew. For the entire story, he wanders the countryside being tormented and abused (or witnessing torment and abuse).

Have you ever read a book that got stuck in your head for all the wrong reasons? I read The Painted Bird about 50 years ago, and I still get the shivers. (Is it possible to get PTSD from reading a book?) Published in 1965, the book has been called a “dark masterpiece” and was made into a movie in 2019. But if it’s anything like the book, I caution anyone about seeing it without being properly medicated.

In the book, the boy stays with a bird catcher, who after being jilted by his lover, paints birds and releases them into the wild to be torn apart by the flocks that no longer recognize the painted birds as their own. And that was one of the cheerier highlights of the book.

As I began to write my book report, I thought long and hard about my motivations for reading the book. I’d tried to paint myself as a different species to attract my teacher. I’d read a book I wouldn’t normally have read to fit into her world. But in the process, I’d turned my back on who I was, a kid who liked comedy and reading sci-fi fantasies about spacemen. (I was also just a teeny-weeny bit curious about girls, or women, in my teacher’s case.)

When I got my book report back from my teacher, she’d written that it was one of the most “eloquently written” reports that she’d ever read. It was the first time anyone had described my writing that way. I liked the word “eloquent,” but I didn’t like the experience. I received my A+, but I received something else too. I received a life lesson.

Don’t stretch yourself too thin trying to please other people, not if it means giving up too much of yourself. I never bothered to ask my teacher what other books she liked. There’s nothing wrong with venturing out of your comfort zone and experiencing new things, but just remember your roots. There’s a reason certain colors fit you better than others. That’s why they’re called “true colors.”

#CyndiLauperlikestruecolorstoo

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4/26/23

I remember visiting the block where it happened. As a realtor’s helper, I get to travel the width and breadth of Florida. But I’d never walked the block where a murder had taken place. So, Telford Lane will forever be etched in my brain as the quiet block where six people and their dog were murdered by Troy Victorino (shown above) and his friends.

The house is in Deltona, Florida, minutes from where we live. And when the murders occurred, I had to field judgmental questions from my coworkers like, “Isn’t that where you live?” (as if the whole city was tainted and I had refused to evacuate or that I was personally in favor of ritualistic murders like in The Purge movies).

Not surprisingly, Donna wasn’t able to make a sale the day of our visit to Telford Lane. Who wants to live in a neighborhood where the aura of such a horrific crime might still permeate? I mean, what’s the statue of limitations on a haunting? One of Donna’s close realtor friends actually showed the property.

“Please follow me around the crime-scene tape as we enter the formal dining room. No, don’t touch that. That’s evidence.”

The murders occurred almost 20 years ago, dubbed the “Xbox Murders,” but the story is in the news again this week. Troy Victorino and an accomplice were sentenced to death back in 2004, but the sentence was overturned in 2017 because it wasn’t a unanimous verdict and Florida has a new law that says death penalties no longer have to be unanimous.

Despite the new law, the judge has already ruled that the verdict will have to be unanimous once again or the convicted killers will be sentenced to life without parole. As of this report, the trial is ongoing.

I don’t know who eventually purchased the house on Telford Lane, but I bet they got a great discount for blood-spatter removal. I joke because I’d otherwise cry.

Unfortunately, selling homes where murders have taken place is part of a realtor’s job. (So, maybe I will cry anyway.) Donna was lucky she didn’t have to enter the house on Telford Lane. But she wasn’t so lucky the next time.

She told me about the event a few years ago when she showed a house where a 17-year old had strangled his mother. He was apparently upset about getting a bad grade at school. (I think “school” was his worst subject.) I wasn’t with Donna the day she showed the house, but I wonder if my hairs would’ve stood on end as I entered. (I’m so sensitive.)

Donna recalled how the adjacent homes were also for sale, as if a cancer had spread. So, I guess there’s something worse than having termites in your home. At least those kinds of pests you can convince to vacate a property. For ghosts I think the protocol is to direct them forthwith to the nearest convenient parallel dimension or to the light (Carol Anne), whichever is closer.

Again, the visit to a murder house resulted in a no-sale. I really believe realty companies should provide special training to sell those types of properties. No knock on Donna, but I bet Dr. Venkman from the Ghostbuster movies could’ve closed the deal.

#ImayhavetobuyDonnaaprotonpack

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4/25/23

It’s easy to criticize something when you haven’t tried it. I do it all the time and don’t lose a wink of sleep. But when Donna announced that we’d be flying Spirit Airlines this past week, I did a double-take.

“Isn’t that the big yellow banana plane?”

I already knew that Spirit was a low-cost carrier with a bad reputation. But after I did a little more research, I realized I’d been wrong about them. They are a low-cost carrier with the WORST reputation. Plus, I think their planes are made of LEGO©.

I wrote a post about Spirit last year based on other people’s experiences (see Spirit Airlines). But now that I was actually going to be a passenger, I was curious to see how much of my comments had been fair. JetBlue is currently in the process of merging with Spirit Airlines (despite a Department of Justice injunction), which I took as a sign of credibility. Then we boarded the plane.

My first reaction was that my legroom had been giving away to someone else. But everyone was as cramped as I was. And when I tried to sleep before takeoff, strange sensations interrupted the effort. Is that pain? I asked. Sure enough, my body signaled its distress to me. I’ve experienced the occasional neck crick while flying, but this was different. My left toe and my right eyeball throbbed sympathetically.

With the plane still on the ground, the captain’s voice suddenly came over the microphone to warn us that things were going to get a bit uncomfortable on takeoff because of expected turbulence. I could only hope that the additional discomfort would cancel out my present discomfort. But that’s not what happened.

As we bounced along on clouds made of stone, the captain made more announcements, although it was more like he was talking nervously to himself.

“Uh, this is your captain speaking. I’m going to try to reach out to any of the planes ahead of us to see if they know of any smoother routes. Hey, Flying Dutchman, how’re things looking up there where you are? Ask One-Eyed Willy if he can see a way out.”

I thought airlines were supposed to have turbulence-detecting technology. But at least the captain’s chatter and the subsequent rollercoaster ride distracted me from the uncomfortable seats. Miraculously, the turbulence disappeared a few minutes later but returned when we landed.

Okay, at that point I thought I’d figured out why Spirit has such a bad reputation: They don’t know how to take off or land. Not the best thing for an airline to be bad at, but at least they’d gotten us from point A to point B.

Two days later, it was time to fly home. Would we have the same scary flying experience? I doubted that was possible, and I was right. Because although we experienced the same turbulent conditions on the way back, another ingredient was added to spice things up: The plane was packed with children.

Have you ever found yourself caught between two powerful but opposite emotions? As I held Donna’s hand to keep her from panicking, I fought hard to suppress my laughter. Every time the plane bumped, the kids shouted from the front and the back and the sides of the plane, a veritable symphony of low- and high-pitched screams. The older kids were ecstatic about the thrill ride. The younger ones moaned about their doom. When we hit smooth patches, the plane got silent. Then the turbulence resumed, and the symphony started up again.

And like any good symphony performance, our ride ended with thunderous applause. Before this flight, I’d never really understood why some people applaud at the end of a flight, which to me is the equivalent of saying, “I’m really surprised that you were able to land this thing. Wow. Who knew you were capable?”

I’d prefer to fly with confidence in my airline pilots. But as the Spirit Airline flight came to a rickety halt, I experienced a kind of euphoria. I knew I was clapping on the inside.

I was glad that we were able to get such a good deal on airline tickets and survive the experience, but I have one piece of advice for those Spirit pilots we flew with: Please reread the sections on takeoffs and landings in your plane’s owner’s manuals. As for JetBlue, you might want to give Spirit a few minutes to get up to speed before you merge with them.

#turbulencemakesplanesgoBoeingBoeingBoeing

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4/24/23

When I last walked the streets of Baltimore in August, Brad and Colette were giving lessons on how to throw a wedding. It was an unforgettable affair, but we didn’t get to see much of the city. So, when the opportunity presented itself to revisit Charm City (Brad and Colette live there now), Donna and I jumped on it. I mean what’s Baltimore like on a normal weekend, I thought, when it’s not hosting weddings like Brad and Colette’s?

We drove around their Mt. Vernon neighborhood to take a closer look at what there was to see. Make no mistake, Baltimore has all the offerings of a big city, including restaurants, shops, entertainment, and attractions, but it also has a high property-vacancy rate, high taxes, crime, and homelessness.

It’s also home to the high-flying Baltimore Orioles. I’m a huge baseball fan, so I was psyched when Brad said he got us tickets. But on the way to the stadium, I was less than thrilled to see a homeless person I recognized from my last trip to Baltimore. I had given him a few dollars on that occasion, but his station in life didn’t seem to have improved much in the interim.

I don’t know why I felt so disappointed. Did I really expect to see him in a business suit on his way to Camden Yards, bragging to other financial analysts like himself about how the dollars I’d given him had changed his life? That woulda’ been ridiculous. But it also woulda’ been nice. Maybe next time.

But Camden Yards surely didn’t disappoint. The ballpark was beautiful and just one of several highlights I recommend for those visiting the area. Another is the Baltimore Farmers’ Market, where vendors hawk their goods to the sounds of live music. The prevalent party atmosphere had me convinced that the food truck vendors were pumping pheromones into the air. How else do you explain how delicious the food was and how no one complained about the long waits?

“What’ve you got left, sketchy-looking empanadas leftover from last Tuesday? Sure, I’ll take some of those. Hang on a minute while I empty all my pockets and spend my rent money.”

We also had fun at the first monument erected to George Washington. (Take that Washington, DC. You don’t have a monopoly on GW!) Started in 1815 but not completed until 1829, the top of the tall tower can be accessed by climbing a winding staircases consisting of 227 steps, a distance I would’ve been glad to climb if I had had the right shoes, and if I was the kind of person who enjoys throwing his physical prowess in people’s faces.

But that’s not the kind of person I am. I’m the kind of person who enjoys a good laugh and doing exactly what his wife tells him to do. The convergence of those two interests was the very reason we flew to Baltimore in the first place. There was no way Donna and I were going to miss Brad’s inaugural steps into what could turn out to be a moonlighting opportunity for him in the high-intensity world of comedy law.

We stopped in at The Baltimore Improv Group to catch his act. As it turns out, Brad has marvelous comedic timing, an indisputable stage presence, and jokes for days. I imagine he’ll eventually find some way to integrate these talents with his legal skills. Although he’s not currently a trial lawyer, I can see him being a standout in that setting.

“Your honor, may I ask the court’s indulgence for a moment? Before the jury renders its verdict, may I be allowed to put the jury in a better frame of mind? Who’s in the mood for the comedy stylings of Be-Rad, Comedian at Law?”

The courtroom is a notoriously stressful setting, so Brad may be onto something with his foray into improv. It makes me hopeful about potential opportunities that I myself have dreamed about pursuing. By a show of hands, who thinks I should pursue a career as a magician? I could be Mysterious Mike, blogger magician. No?

#okaywhojustwantstohearmoreaboutBrad?

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4/21/23

There’s a first time for everything, like the first time you go fishing or the first time you go on a cruise ship or the first time you get banned for fishing on a cruise ship. Wait. How did those things get combined?

The news out of Nassau, Bahamas is that two Carnival Cruise Line passengers used their stateroom balcony to reenact the scene from Jaws where the intrepid shark hunters test their ability to reel in the catch of the day. The Carnival passengers not only succeeded in hooking a fish, they achieved TikTok fame by posting a video that got them kudos and red hearts and also a lifetime ban from cruising with Carnival.

But what did they do wrong? You mean besides treating their stateroom like a bait-and-tackle shop?

Here’s what Carnival shipboard rules state:

“No Guest is permitted to bring on board the Vessel live animals” other than qualified service dogs with appropriate advance notice. “Fish of any kind” are also explicitly listed on Carnival’s prohibited items list (even fish caught during an excursion must be shipped home rather than brought onboard the ship).

The two passengers may also have violated the cruise line’s environmental policy, which covers “releasing any unauthorized item overboard” – and an illegally caught fish could certainly be regarded an unauthorized item, although what ultimately became of the fish is unknown (please don’t tell me they made sushi out of it).

Finally, all Carnival guests are subject to “local requirements in respect of immigration, border patrol, customs and excise, agriculture, health, environment, or any other government regulation whatsoever.”

This means the two guests may also have broken local laws by not securing the proper permits for fishing. I guess that makes them outlaws. It’s a good thing they were able to make a quick getaway on that speedy cruise ship.

The video of the fishy crime, which was removed from TikTok (although plenty of copies abound on the internet), shows the fish being reeled in from the ocean at the end of a long rope. So, if you were a passenger aboard that ship and happened to see a fish soaring past your window, no, you did not see the Guinness World Records highest leap by a flying fish. You saw first-time cruisers acting like fish out of water.

Of course, the incident should in no way shape or form give fishing a bad name. I hear it’s a very relaxing sport, the kind of thing that dad’s pass down to their kids. My dad was working all the time, so we never did things like fishing. But Donna said she’s had great experiences at sea, fishing with Darren and his dad.

As a matter of fact, she relayed to me a story that confirms just how skilled she is at most anything she tries. While on her FIRST fishing trip with a group of veteran fishermen (or is that fisher people?), she not only held her own against the salty bunch but ended up catching the biggest fish of the day, for which she was awarded a cash prize.

She did confess, however, that she initially had trouble stringing the worms on the hook. But she eventually got better at it. In fact, even though I wasn’t there, I’d be willing to testify that she must have gotten really good at it. After all, she hooked me, didn’t she? Have a nice weekend.

#fishthatgetBrazilianbuttliftshavehalibuts

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4/20/23

Today is National Marijuana Day (I’ve also heard the holiday called World Marijuana Day), otherwise known as 4/20 Day, the day people celebrate cannabis. But before you run onto the streets to celebrate, take a look at the map above and make sure marijuana is legal in your state, either for medical or recreational uses.

How was 4/20 chosen as the official day to celebrate marijuana? There are many myths that have circulated about how the 4/20 reference came to be, with most reports proving unverifiable. 

However, most believe 4/20 originated in California in the 1970s when a group of teenagers from San Rafael High School in Marian County would ritualistically smoke marijuana at 4:20 each day. The number 420 became their code for marijuana. 

So, nothing really happened on April 20. I mean Columbus didn’t discover marijuana on April 20 or anything like that. It’s just a random date celebrated by 40 states and Washington, DC where the medical use of cannabis is legal. In 21 of those states, marijuana is legal for recreational purposes, and about half of the states that legalized recreational marijuana did so in the past three years.

However, marijuana is still illegal in 10 states: Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Kansas, Texas, Wisconsin, Indiana, Tennessee, and the Carolinas. The year 2023 may be a year of change though, with legalization buzz circulating around new legislation in North Carolina, South Carolina, Wisconsin, Indiana and Nebraska.

Meanwhile, the debate rages on about whether marijuana should be legalized at the federal level. And if it was, what would happen to all those people currently in jail for marijuana offenses? In April 2022 the House voted in favor of legalizing marijuana. But the bill (known as the MORE Act) has yet to pass the Senate. If it did, cannabis would be removed from the federal Controlled Substances Act, giving it a legal status on par with alcohol and tobacco. In addition, all federal district courts would be required to review their records for nonviolent cannabis convictions and arrests, order them to be expunged, and notify individuals whose records were cleared. This would apply to any cases dating back to May 1, 1971, when the Controlled Substances Act took effect. Federal courts would also allow people currently in prison to have their sentences reviewed, which could mean reduced sentences and/or early release. 

But this would only affect people federally incarcerated for marijuana offenses. The MORE Act wouldn’t require all states and territories to legalize cannabis. If the MORE Act passed tomorrow, we could still be waiting years (if ever) for states like Florida or Texas to follow suit. 

All I know is that marijuana is a miracle plant. No, I don’t smoke. But I’m a huge fan of what manufacturers have been able to do with ingredients like THC and CBD. Research suggests that cannabis-infused topical creams may have the ability to combat inflammation and pain. Cannabinoids like THC and CBD have been found to have anti-inflammatory properties that may provide relief wherever the cream is applied.

Take it from a converted skeptic, the stuff works. As a writer, I can’t type without having some dexterity in my fingers, which have served me valiantly for decades before recently showing signs of arthritis. I’ve tried all kinds of creams without success, so I was eager to see what a THC/CBD cream could do for me. (This is not a commercial, but THC/CBD cream manufacturers should feel free to contact me for any endorsements they may see fit. Samples greatly appreciated.)

The first time I tried a THC/CBD cream, the discomfort in my finger joints was reduced by at least 50 percent. Subsequent uses have made me feel even better. I’m not feeling ready to hand wrestle anyone yet, but the difference has been remarkable (and I don’t use it every day).

So, don’t sit around and suffer unnecessarily. Get yours today.

“Okay, that’s a wrap. We’ll try another take tomorrow.”

#seaweedispotforfish

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4/19/2003

A parking garage collapsed in Lower Manhattan yesterday, killing one worker and injuring five others. Much of the immediate vicinity, which is in the Financial District, remains shut down today while officials investigate why the concrete floors collapsed atop each other. The investigation is expected to take some time, given ongoing concerns about the integrity of the remaining structure. The garage, which was built in 1957, is on Ann Street, a street I’ve walked down a hundred times. Once upon a time, I suffered a collapse there too.

I tell a lot of tales. This one’s a tale of the heart. During a period of time from my senior year in high school to my first year in college, Ann Street was a familiar place. It was one of the routes I walked from the subway to get to Gold Street, where Ann Street ends. Gold Street was where she lived.

In looking up the Google Earth photos of the parking garage collapse, I was startled to find myself on Gold Street again, startled mostly by the fact that it looks exactly as it did when I was 18 years old. I grew up in Manhattan, moving to the Bronx when I was 11. Below is a photo of the rustic building I lived in on 67^th Street before it was torn down (in 1971, I think), along with the adjacent buildings. After it is a photo of the polished condominiums that replaced them. (Note the drab architecture.)

I didn’t know what gentrification was back then, or the power that greedy developers had to transform rent-stabilized buildings into market-rate housing. I just remember missing Manhattan once we moved.

Then, I met my girlfriend. Let’s call her Gold Street Suzy. She gave me an excuse to spend nights back in Manhattan again. She already lived in a condo, which probably explains why her building looks the same today, and her father made a good living. So, I was definitely a kid from the wrong side of the tracks. But she didn’t seem to care, which was a big attraction for me, because from my point of view, she was from the wrong side of the tracks too. Never mind that her side was paved in gold. As far as I was concerned, it was fitting that Suzy lived on Gold Street.

She was like a rare species of fish, and I was like a happy fish scientist doing research. We spent endless hours on date nights in her bedroom talking about her hopes and dreams. Then I’d stumble out of her place at 3 a.m. to ride the subway for an hour and a half back to the Bronx. But the time was well spent, as far as I was concerned. I was learning all about me, and girls, and how relationships worked. She was the first girl I said the “L” word too. Repeatedly. But she never said it back. Finally, I had to call her on it.

“How come when I say I love you, you never say it back? Don’t you love me?”

“What kind of question is that?” she said. “Of course, I do.”

It wasn’t the response I was expecting. Although I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, maybe to actually hear the words. Mostly I just had the feeling that she wished I would stop pressing her. Her evasiveness was a bad sign, I thought.

Looking back, I think I was like an exotic fish to her the same way she was to me—in the beginning at least. But when she went to college a year after we met, I think I lost a lot of my shine. She got busy. She met people. I called less to keep the hurt away. Eventually, I became like that parking garage on Ann Street, burdened by too much neglect. I lost the confidence to stand up for myself, and when the bad weather came, it seeped into my pores. Eventually, I collapsed. It was a loud, messy collapse.

But I didn’t stay in disarray. Time and life experience and love built me back up. And that’s where I am today, standing strong.

So, I hope they rebuild that building, the way I was rebuilt. I hope they make it stronger than it’s ever been. I hope it achieves a future where it’s loved and appreciated, a future without any more collapses. I hope it ends up happy like me.

#hopespringseternal

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4/18/23

Did you hear the terrible Airbnb story coming out of Seoul, South Korea about a host who was stuck with a $640 utility bill when guests intentionally left the gas and water taps running? It seems the guests were annoyed because the host didn’t accept their request to cancel their reservation due to COVID. Instead, the host demanded proof of a positive COVID test. The guests kept their reservation instead, planned their revenge, and the rest is history. Airbnb has a protection program that covers guest damage to homes and damage to guests’ belongings, but not high utility bills.

So, what can we learn from this tale of woe, that karma is a witch? In retrospect, it’s easy to say that the Airbnb host should’ve accepted the COVID cancellation request. When you play hardball with people, you run the risk of opening your home up to someone you’ve ticked off with your hardball tactics. On the other hand, a last-minute cancellation of a lengthy reservation (25 days in this case), probably represented a large unrecoverable loss of income.

If you go to the Airbnb home page, a calculator estimates how much you could get if you rented out your home. The figure Airbnb cited for a home in my area is $121 a night. Multiply that by 25 days and you’ve got yourself a nice vacation (paid for by your wise decision to rent). So, what would I do if someone made a reservation and then tried to cancel last minute?

Hmm. I can see the arguments for and against accepting that cancellation request. But I tend to err on the side of a certain golden rule you may have heard of: Treat others the way you want to be treated.

At this point you may be saying, “Come on, Mike. What century were you born in? What kind of commie pinko talk is that? That’s not how we do things in America today, with the exception of the Amish, of course. (But I didn’t realize you were Amish, Mike.”)

Laugh at me if you will, but we had a situation go south on us a few years ago when we rented a home in Arizona. The end result was that we were satisfied with the Airbnb host’s efforts to treat us as they would’ve liked to have been treated, although definitely not at first, thanks to another golden rule: Whatever can go wrong will go wrong (known as Murphy’s law).

The story goes like this:

It was a dark and stormy night when we arrived in Arizona. In truth, it was probably neither dark nor stormy, but it wasn’t a sun-shiny day. In fact, depending on when you go to Arizona and the elevation of the city you’re visiting, nights can be rather chilly despite warm daytime temperatures. We experienced one of those nights. So, we immediately ran to the thermostat to bump up the heat. Nothing happened. We couldn’t find a fuse box to see if a circuit had been tripped, so we bundled up and took on the subfreezing night.

At sunup we contacted the owner. We hadn’t contacted her the night before because we’d arrived around midnight and we didn’t want to disturb her at that late hour (yeah, the golden rule thing again). The owner appropriately promised to dispatch repairmen and we didn’t spend another moment thinking about it. Off we went to enjoy our day.

When we returned that night, we walked into the same freezing conditions, except this time there was a note. It was from the repairmen. The heating system couldn’t be repaired. We immediately got the owner on the phone, who promised to purchase heaters for us. All we had to do was pick them up from the store. Reluctantly, we accepted her solution and hunkered down for the another night sleeping Eskimo style.

The following day we picked up the portable heaters the owner had purchased for us. Yay! That night we ran to our respective rooms, snug in the thought that we had a warm night of sleep ahead of us. Wrong. The surge from the multiple heaters blew a circuit (we had a large party). Part of the house was without power that night. All of the house was without heat.

The next day, we told the owner what had happened. She told us where the circuit breaker box was (outside), and we came up with another plan to keep from freezing. We figured out that we’d overloaded certain circuits but not others, so, with the use of extension cords, and a little trial and error, we mapped which outlets we could plug into without cutting off the power.

The vacation was fine after that but not great due to all of our early troubles. Thankfully, the owner recognized her liability in the matter and refunded some of our money. But the point is that both parties made an effort to make things work. We were patient and tolerant and the owner was conciliatory and apologetic. We tried to consider her point of view and she tried to consider ours. It took a while to get things right, but the owner made an effort to smooth our ruffled feathers.

I know. I know. In some people’s minds, efforts are pointless. Results are the only thing that matter. So, for those people I will end this post with the rule of thumb that addresses the mindset of over relying on trying. It comes from that wise philosopher Yoda, and it goes like this: “Do or do not. There is no try.”

#Ican’targuewithaJedi.

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4/17/23

Stephanie celebrated a birthday this weekend. I won’t say how many years ago she came into this world, but I will tell you the tale.

It started like this:

“It’s time,” my wife said, to which I wanted to reply, “Can we do this another night?”

But I was already sitting up. I knew she wasn’t joking, and the look on her face gave me a serious case of the shakes. The problem was that, even though I had the easy part, I wasn’t ready. I was never going to be ready. Please don’t make me be ready.

But Gail was ready, and she was the important one. She had to do all the heavy lifting, at least on day one. Even though she was nervous, I didn’t have a doubt about her strength. I may have helped her pack and walk to the car and driven her to the hospital. But she was going to help me get through the rest of the night.

Her water had broken. Contractions had begun. I had one job at that moment, to deliver her to the people who were going to deliver our baby. It was 3 a.m. I couldn’t ask for better driving conditions in NYC. But still I stared at the gear selector. What’s the “P,” the “N,” and the “D” for again?

Gail patiently but firmly told me to get my ass in gear, so I did. Nothing like some direct communication to get a person moving. I jerked the car out onto the roadway and prayed I didn’t hit anything. Who’s idea was this baby, again? Also, wasn’t I supposed to have a police escort? I thought that was part of my Aetna plan.

Thank God the hospital was only 5 minutes away. But I caught every red light. I looked at Gail and said, “Sorry, but I’m going to take this next light.”

She said, “Okay, but be careful.”

I slowed down for the red light, looked both ways, and kept going. The hospital was up ahead. I don’t remember where I parked. I don’t even remember slowing down. For all I know the car just found its way into a parking spot. A minute later, Gail was in a wheelchair and we were in an elevator on the way to the delivery room.

Soon after Gail was transferred to a bed, a nurse announced that she was dilated. The baby was coming. Everything was happening so fast. I wiped my face. I was sweating badly. Wasn’t I asleep a few minutes ago? So, where was the doctor?

I have to confess that I don’t know if we called the hospital or we called the doctor directly before we started driving. But somehow he knew that we were at the hospital in need of his services. Even when the nurse said Dr. Lar would be in shortly, I was in disbelief. How was it possible that he was there at three o’clock in the morning with us? Did he live at the hospital? Had he been at the hospital all week just waiting for us to show up? Did he work on tips? If so, he was going to get a big one.

Then Gail took my hand and squeezed it HARD. The nurse told us that we could see Gail’s uterine contractions on the monitor over Gail’s shoulder. The higher the peaks, the more intense the contractions, the nurse explained.

Gail and I had taken Lamaze classes, so when I saw her using her deep-breathing technique, I felt encouraged. Then Gail burst my bubble and said, “It isn’t working!”

She kept trying to relax, but her hand squeezes were starting to feel panicked. The nurse told me to wipe her forehead, but when I did Gail gave me an annoyed look. I felt totally useless. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I announced what was on the monitor.

My crazy narration went something like this:

“Okay, the line is going up now. But it’s not staying up there. We’ve seen this before. It goes up and then it goes down. So all you have to do is hang in there for a minute. It’s at the top now, but it’s not going any further. There. It’s going away, just like I said. It’s going away. It’s going away.”

I expected Gail to slap me or to tell me to leave the room. Instead, she said, “Keep talking. Tell me what it’s doing now.”

So, I wiped my sweaty face and gave her my best play by play again, amazed that the helpless words coming out of my mouth could make a difference. When the line dipped low, she was so relieved. But when it peaked, her pained sounds made me shudder. I wanted a do-over so bad. Then the doctor came in. He gave us a calm smile. “There’s nothing to fear,” his look said. But Gail’s pains were intense.

“I want to push! I want to push!”

She said it like she’d never wanted anything so bad in her whole life. I prayed for God to help her. As the doctor leaned over her, my eyes remained transfixed on the monitor over Gail’s shoulder, even though the contractions didn’t matter anymore. The baby was on its way. And then, after only a few pushing attempts, the room grew by one more person.

I saw Dr. Lar holding my baby. Wow. Then the nurse was on the other side of me, handing me what looked like a pair of scissors. I did as she instructed and cut the umbilical cord. As I did the world’s worst scissor cut, the doctor declared that we had a baby girl. But something was wrong. I felt it.

From the worst seat in the house, Gail cried out. “Is she alright? Why isn’t she making any sounds?”

I gasped when I realized the doctor had the baby turned away from us. Then he pivoted back and gave the baby a gentle slap on her tush. Her cry was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. When I attempted to wipe the sweat from my face again, I discovered a different kind of moisture had taken over my face. Tears. How in the world was I crying when I was so happy? I thought tears of joy was just something that Hollywood made up.

As the doctor placed our baby against Gail’s chest, I couldn’t help but think how quickly our lives had been transformed. Two hours ago, I was asleep. Suddenly, I was a dad. I had parent-teacher conferences I had to go to. I was never going to go to sleep the same way again. I was never going to drive the same way again. I was never going to breathe the same way again.

So, happy birthday, Stephanie. I thought I knew everything there was to know before you were born. But since the day you arrived, I’ve never stopped learning from you.

#howImetmybaby