A Rock In My Shoe--Blog

Danger: You May Be Pre-Something

3/1/2019

This is a rant, pure and simple.

I don’t answer phone calls unless my phone indicates whom they are from. So for the past month my voicemail in-box has been getting a lot of messages from my Veterans Hospital. The guy leaving the message (who is obviously reading from a script) keeps telling me that my doctor says I am pre-diabetic—and that I should enroll in a new program they are starting that will help me make some important lifestyle changes and avoid getting diabetes.

I find this annoying on several levels and I refuse to call him back.

First of all, if I am pre-diabetic why didn’t my doctor tell me that himself? After all, I see him twice a year. And my most recent blood tests indicated that all of my “levels” were normal.

Second, as we age we are all going to become pre-diabetic, pre-cancerous, pre-arthritic, pre-heart diseased, pre-something. Pre-dead.

Third, I eat quite well, thank you. And I walk a mile every day. I don’t need to enroll in a program at the V.A. and attend classes once a week.

Fourth, and this is the one that really pisses me off.

My observation at the V.A. Hospital is that most of the guys who go there (I see very few women vets) are not exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer. V.A. medical care is basically free, with a small “co-pay” for those of us who can afford it. And many of these vets could no doubt benefit from some free advice about how to live a healthier life.

This guy that keeps calling me goes off script occasionally and has a sanctimonious voice—like, I’m just a stupid Viet Nam Era vet and I really need to do this.

I’m wondering if he is on commission.

Hey, V.A.--It sounds like you just received a new Federal Grant.

End of rant.

Dijon Debrief

2/9/2019

THIS is going to be a grasshopper blog entry. In other words, I’ll jump around a bit. Please bear with me. But before my memory fades I want to get a few random thoughts down about our recent two-month sojourn in Dijon, France—so I’m just going to write as things pop into my head.

Many of you have asked us about our experience living in France, even though it was only for two months. So I’m hoping this might also be helpful to those of you who may be thinking of moving to a foreign country. Please feel free to contact me directly with any questions you may have if I don’t answer them here.

The Mission Statement

If you’ve worked in the corporate world you know that you can’t begin any project without first pulling together a cross-functional team and crafting a mission statement. Better yet, also draw up a vision statement. And to really drive home your point, put everything into a PowerPoint presentation.

Pam and I have each been to France over 20 times. So we didn’t “Need no Stinkin’ Mission,” to paraphrase that famous line from the movie, The Treasure of Sierra Madre.

Simply put, we like it in France--and in recent years have talked seriously about making it our home. But everything we’ve read about becoming “expats” in France (or any country, for that matter) has told us that while it is one thing to visit your favorite city or country—it is an entirely different thing to actually live there. Always do a test drive for two or three months, we were advised.

Therefore, our “mission,” if you will, was to actually reside in France for two months--to live as much as possible like regular residents. No hotels. No dependence on restaurants and/or room service for every meal. And to do all this with our two adorable and spoiled little dogs, Gravy and Salsa.

Originally, we wanted to go to Lyon for our two months. Second choice was Bordeaux and third choice was Strasbourg. We had been to each of those cities at least once—for no less than a week each time. We had made three trips to Lyon in recent years. (We decided to eliminate Paris because the cost of living in Paris is about the same as New York City and we wanted to scale back on expenses should we decide to make a permanent move.)

Background Information

I grew up in Missouri in an area outside of Kansas City that at the time was almost rural. But at about age eleven I knew I wanted to live in New York City. That eventually happened, of course. And my wife, Pamela, is a native New Yorker—one of the few actually born in Manhattan where we live today. But she went to college in Austin, Texas. So, in addition to our love of New York City, we also share a fondness for barbeque and country music. Well, not so much with the country music for Pam—but she can still finger-pick a folk song on her guitar better than I could ever hope to.

Anyway, I’ve got the New York City living thing pretty much down by now.

Get to the point, Richard!

My point is that I live—and love living in—what many may call a hyperactive environment. For example, our apartment building adjoins one of the most famous, smaller, and most exclusive hotels in NYC—the Gramercy Park Hotel. I can’t count how many rock stars and celebrities I’ve seen standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel over the years I’ve lived here. And even our short block has its share of celebrity inhabitants. Restaurateur Danny Meyer lives across the street (our dogs have sniffed butts), Uma Thurman keeps an apartment in the same building, Julia Roberts used to live around the corner. And in earlier days I used to frequently say hello to Margaret Hamilton, The Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the West.

More to the point of this missive is that my experience living in Manhattan is so different from that of those living in a smaller city. I know, I know--many, if not most senior Americans, prefer to retire to someplace smaller and quieter. In other words, move to God’s Waiting Room in Florida.

Not me.

For almost 40 years I’ve lived in a building with 166 families. We have ten full-time building staff members, including five doormen who keep us protected 24-hours a day.

In my younger days I was politically active as a building organizer. Before our building converted to a co-op, I was the president of the then tenants’ association.

What I like about where I live is the energy I get from always being around other people. I share so many laughs, for example, with our main daytime doorman, Dowen, who started working in our building the same month I moved in.

So, as much as I find French/European “charm” appealing, for the longer term it gets old real fast. Just sayin’.

Planning the Trip

Let me be clear. The Bradley’s never travel lightly. On our honeymoon to London and Paris (a two-week trip) we left New York City with eight pieces of luggage. We returned home with ten. We’ve gotten better over the years, but we still both like to have “options” when it comes to clothing, jewelry, and shoes, when we are traveling.

I quit my job—retired, that is, for the second time--on August 31, 2018. Our plan was to travel to France on or about October 1, and stay there through October and November and then get back to NYC in time for the holidays. So that gave us September to get ready for the trip. Some things, of course, had to be done long before September--like booking our flights and finding a place to live.

Surprise, surprise! We couldn’t find an apartment in Lyon that we could rent for only two months—and that would allow our dogs. Same for Bordeaux and same for Strasbourg. Forget about Airbnb and their competitors. Useless for our needs.

But at almost the last minute, Pam found us a great apartment in a city that we hadn’t considered—Dijon. Not only could we rent it for just two months, but the owner agreed to make an exception and allow Gravy and Salsa as well.

Neither of us had ever been to Dijon, so this was a bit of a crapshoot. On the other hand, our “mission” was to experience living in France like locals. In that regard, the city didn’t really matter quite so much as we originally thought it might. We decided to roll the dice and go to Dijon.

We had passports, of course. And a couple of years ago we went through the process of becoming Trusted Travelers. So we could check those off our pre-planning list.

But we had never traveled with our dogs, except for one brief flight to Missouri when we had only Gravy.

Contrary to what many people still think, dogs coming from the U.S. into most countries in Europe no longer have to be quarantined for several weeks upon arrival. For certain, not in France. England is one exception. So I’d like to set the record straight on that.

However, your dogs do need to have their own paperwork. So in September I worked with our veterinarian to get Gravy’s and Salsa’s “passports.” Long story short, they each had 9 pages of official documentation from our state’s capital in Albany, NY attesting to their health, ownership, breed, etc. They asked for these papers at JFK airport in NYC as well as at CDG airport in Paris. Of course, the bureaucrats at both airports never looked closely at the papers. Just flipped through them. Duh, what a surprise.

We toted our dogs in little carriers that we put under the seats in front of us. Honestly, I don’t think most people on the planes even knew we had dogs with us—including the flight attendants. Our pups we very well behaved. Oddly, apparently dogs are not allowed in first class or business class. How stupid is that? In the past few years we have flown to France business-bed class so that we could spread out and even try to sleep. But since we couldn't do that with our dogs, we had to fly premium economy this time. What we did do, however, was to purchase a third seat. So we had three seats for the four of us, with no one else sitting in our little row.

The only other planning we did was to read up a bit on Dijon. We both tend to be spontaneous travelers. We never have an agenda. I mean, like what if it is raining the day you decided in advance to go to the beach? The only thing we have ever planned in advance are tickets to a concert or a play that we did not want to take a chance on missing—e.g., the late Johnny Hallyday.

Arrival

We spent our first two days in Paris. We wanted to give the dogs (and us) some time to recover from jet lag before traveling on to Dijon. While in Paris we happened into a nice boutique pet store. We bought a fancy bed that would accommodate both dogs. Of course, that meant one more item to schlep around.

There was no way that we were going to get back on a plane to travel to Dijon. As you might imagine, the in-country planes are much smaller. So we had previously decided to travel from Paris to Dijon by car. The trip is about 3:15 hours. We found a wonderful car service named AbiTransport. Abi himself met us at our hotel in Paris. He showed up in a black Mercedes mini-van with leather seats—and WiFi. We kept the dogs in their carriers so that the seats wouldn’t get scratched by their nails. Abi speaks English, so he also turned out to be sort of a tour guide as well—pointing out sights along the way. If you ever need any kind of car service in Paris I can heartily recommend AbiTransport.

When we were about thirty minutes away from Dijon I sent a text message to Alexia who was going meet us at our apartment. She was right there when we arrived—mid-afternoon, if I recall correctly. BTW, our host was a lovely woman named Viviane. We never actually met her because she was living in another country at the time. But she was readily available by email, and Alexia was very helpful to us the entire time we were in Dijon.

It took us about a week to completely unpack.

The Bonjour Effect

Now we get to the good stuff—living day to day.

No, we don’t really speak French. I had one year of French in college and Pam had about four years in high school and college. I have tried some self-study computer-based courses, but I never really found them to be very helpful. More honestly, I would loose interest and just couldn’t stick with them.

That said, I can get by with my “pub French”—a term that a friend of mine recently introduced me to. One thing we learned years ago is that you always want to start a conversation with “Bonjour.” It’s simply considered good manners, whether you are talking to a salesperson in a department store or asking someone for directions on the street. I once saw a couple of young men in a department store fail to do this and the salesperson barely gave them the time of day. Then when he was finished with the boys, I approached him with the usual “Bonjour.” He couldn’t have been more helpful and polite to us.

After Bonjour, you might want to throw in some “How’s it going?” just to get the ball rolling. But I almost always get right to the point that I don’t speak French and I ask the other person (in my pub French) if they speak “Anglais.” If the other person does, then you are off to the races. If not, it becomes more of a challenge, but it’s usually fun and a learning experience.

Also, necessity is still the mother of invention—or of learning. When you run out of toilet paper, for example, you quickly learn the French word, “papier toilette.”

Daily Eating and Grocery Shopping

You’ve probably heard that the French and Italians basically buy food for the table every day—and in their local neighborhoods. That seems to still be true. You’ve got your local butcher, your baker, your cheese place, your veggie place, etc. So the locals tend to go out and buy stuff for each day’s requirements. That baguette, for example, will be stale by tomorrow, so you keep buying food every, single, day.

I found this to be a drag. While it is true that Dijon and other cities do have some super markets, they are few and far between—even though some of them are truly amazing. There was a Monoprix store a few blocks from our apartment that had a decent-sized grocery store. But in New York we are accustomed to only shopping for groceries once a week—five to seven bags—and having them delivered to us a few minutes later. I got really, really tired of buying only what would fit in my “granny cart” and schlepping it home several blocks every two or three days. Just sayin.’

Doctors

I’ve had back pain ever since I left my job. I don’t know if that is psychologically relevant, or if it is just a coincidence. But for a moment or two, I thought I might have to cancel our trip. But then I realized that I can be in pain anywhere in the world. So let’s go!

I did see a doctor in Dijon—twice. He wasn’t much help (gave me some pills), but he spoke English and was very nice. But what I was most amazed by was what it cost me. Here in New York you are lucky to get out of a private doctor’s office for less than $250 for a ten-minute “exam.” The Dijon doctor charged me—are you ready for this?—30 euros, about $34 for each visit. Full discloser, when I returned home I got x-rays of my back. Nothing conclusive. My doctor advised me to walk a mile every day to strengthen my back. Been there, done that, dude! Well, I won’t get started here on the sorry state of our American healthcare system.

Haircuts and Manicures

I get a haircut every six weeks. So I knew that at some point I would need to get a haircut while in Dijon. I did, and I found a really nice salon that charged only about one-third of what I pay here in New York for a haircut.

That made me a little nervous at first. How good can such a cheap haircut be, I wondered? But it was apparently a high-end salon for Dijon. And my haircut was just as good as what I get in New York. Pam, on the other hand, refuses to get her hair cut by anyone other than her guy in NYC. But she did join me at my salon and had a manicure and pedicure while I got my hair cut. So this was another experience that we would not have had if we were only visiting for a week or two.

Transportation

This was disappointing to us. As New Yorkers living next door to the Gramercy Park Hotel, I suppose we are spoiled. There is almost always a taxi available at our front door. But even in other European cities there are usually plenty of taxis, even if you have to search out a taxi stand.

As far as I could tell, there are very few taxis in Dijon. There must be a few at the train station. But how do you get to the train station with all your stuff? By taxi! I think we only saw two taxis on the streets during our entire two months in Dijon.

Then you have Uber. Give me a break, Uber. Even though you are supposedly in Dijon, not once did my Uber app show any cars available. What a joke.

They do have a tram system in Dijon. It doesn't cover all of the city, but if you need to get out to the edges of the city it works well. We took the tram to a pet supply supermarket once.

There are no subways in Dijon.

Laundry and Dry Cleaning

Let me be clear. I HATE doing laundry. Well, of course, who does like doing laundry? But I hadn’t been to a laundromat since I was in college. We send all of our laundry out. I leave our laundry with our doorman, then give Alan a call and ask for a pick-up. Laundry comes back the same day—all nicely folded. Dry cleaning comes back in about two days.

My apartment building does have a laundry room, and I use it once every two weeks—only to wash (in cold water) some items that Pam prefers not to send out.

Our apartment in Dijon did have a small washing machine in its bathroom. But no dryer—just some sort of folding rack contraption to hang wet clothes on. Hello? This seems to be quite common in France. I just don’t get it. We never used the washing machine. I don’t want to have laundry constantly hanging around and drying in my apartment. This seems like a no-brainer to me, but what do I know, I’m just a stupid American.

Miscellaneous and Final Thoughts

Time and space here don’t permit me to go on forever about Dijon. I didn’t mention the wonderful museums, some excellent restaurants (Yes, we did eat out occasionally.), a theatre we went to, watching French television, and a few other things. There are many pictures of Dijon with descriptions right here on A Rock In My Shoe.

Our apartment was perfectly adequate and was about the same size as our apartment in New York. Excellent WiFi. Pam was able to continue her HR consulting remotely with no problems whatsoever. And I was able to easily write blogs and take pictures and make uploads to my website.

Plenty of hot water and a shower that didn’t take an instruction manual to figure out how to operate. Also, the shower was designed in such a way that its water didn’t get all over the floor—such a common problem with hotel showers in Europe. The only minor complaint about our apartment was that it did not have a gas stove—it was electric. Pam is a gourmet cook and no chef uses an electric stove because they are slow to heat up and you don’t have as much control—like if you want to go from high heat to low heat instantly. But apparently electric stoves are common in France. Maybe they have a gas shortage.

We found Dijon to be a lovely city. However, Pam and I both agree that we would not want to move there permanently. It’s just a little too small for us. Since we are both extroverts we tend to “charge our batteries” by being around lots of activity, people—and, yes, noise. And Dijon does not have a river running through it, something we really missed. On the other hand, if you use a lot of mustard, Dijon is the place to be.

I want to say this about Dijon. We found it to be one of the friendliest cities we’ve ever visited. It was easy to strike up brief conversations with people. And when we went back to a restaurant for the second—or third, or fourth, time—we were always warmly greeted.

Pam and I have always loved Indian food. There was one Indian restaurant in Dijon that we went to four or five times—Shalimar. This was a nice restaurant—not the typical “Curry in a Hurry,” so popular here in New York. The owner had spent some time in New York and would always come by our table and chat with us. After our third or fourth visit he asked us why we didn’t bring our dogs with us. Really, we said? “Yes, of course!” So the next week Gravy and Salsa joined us at Shalimar. They sat quietly under our table. They really are such good kids.

Finally, I want to say that we made some new friends in Dijon that I hope we will be able to stay in touch with and see again. I’ve already mentioned Viviane and Alexia. But I haven’t mentioned Bruce and Pierrette. I met Bruce while walking Gravy and Salsa and Bruce was walking their own small dog.

Dog butt-sniffs can lead to friendships. When I asked Bruce—again in my pub French--if he spoke English, he said, Oh yes, I’m Canadian! How cool is that? But he has lived in France for many years.

A week later I was walking our dogs again when all of a sudden a car pulls over to me, stops, and rolls down its window. OMG, my immediate thought was that I was doing something wrong—like jaywalking with my dogs—and that I was going to get a ticket.

It was Bruce again, this time with his wife Pierrette. Bruce handed me his business card and over the next few days we corresponded by email. We both enjoyed each other’s websites. Long story short, Bruce and his wife are musicians—with very impressive degrees and teaching credentials. We went to see a delightful musical comedy—set in the 1930s in Marseille--for which Bruce was the musical director and conducted the orchestra while also occasionally playing the piano. This was in an impressive theatre that reminded me somewhat of NYC’s Lincoln Center Theatre.

Bruce and Pierrette also invited us to dinner at their home. What a delightful evening. They have a baby grand piano and their dog loves to sing when Pierrette plays it. He was a little shy with his new audience, but we got the idea.

I loved our time in Dijon.

Mission accomplished!

Dijon and Dog Stuff

10/17/2018

I added three new pictures yesterday to the Dijon photo gallery. I'm finding Dijon doesn't seem to be as photogenic as Lyon, Bordeaux or Strasbourg, for example. And of course, Paris. No rivers running through the heart of the city. Not a lot of greenery or color. Kind of drab, IMHO. But perhaps that is just me and limited to the area where we are right now. Regardless, photographically I think I will focus more on little interesting things I see around me.

Eventually we need to find a pet store so that we can buy more poopie bags and WeeWee pads for Salsa, who still likes to use them occasionally. So we decided to ask people that we see walking their dogs for advice. Pam even wrote down a couple of questions (in French) on a slip of paper so that if a person doesn't speak English we can just show them our question in writing. Of course, I'm not sure how we would understand the answer.

That is one of my problems with learning how to ask a question in French. It's easy to ask, for example, how much something costs (combien?). But then when they answer "ipsum lupus congratus pleesum" you go, like, okay, merci. Huh? So it is not enough to just be able to ask questions, you have to be able to understand the answers as well.

About 8AM this morning I was walking our dogs and this older man (i.e., about my age) was walking his as well. Soon his dog and Gravy decided to do the butts-sniffing routine. So I figured this guy might know where a pet store is. I asked him--in French--if he speaks English. He said, yes, I'm Canadian. How cool is that?

I thought at first that he might be a tourist, but no, he has lived in France for over 40 years and is now retired. He told me about a huge pet store (Maxi Zoo), but it is about a 15-minute tram ride away. He gave me directions and I looked it up on the Internet. It will be another adventure, but we can hold off on that for another couple of weeks. Anyway, it was a nice encounter and we shook hands and agreed we would no doubt see each other again soon.

Then I went to what's becoming my regular place to get an overpriced "take away" cup of coffee. It's a little restaurant with a bar right inside the door so I just take the dogs in with me right after they've done their business. They are very friendly there and now I'm a "regular."

Today I'm going to trim my fingernails.

Roughing It In Dijon

10/14/2018

Mark Twain may have roughed it in America’s “wild west,” but I don’t think he ever went to Dijon. So I will try to fill you in with what he missed.

We have been in Dijon, France for ten days now. We plan to stay here until the end of November. The purpose of this trip is to experience what it might be like to actually live in France—instead of just visiting and eating in restaurants everyday and having our hotel take care of everything for us. I must admit, it is a challenge.

We are—as New Yorkers living in a building with 166 apartments and 24-hour doorman service—kind of spoiled. And living in the heart of Manhattan, everything we ever need is within one block of where we live.

Convenience is now something we are learning to live without. For example, in a country (and city) that is so identified with its wine, I find it amazing that it is hard to find a bottle of wine on the spur of the moment. At home in New York we have three wine stores within one block—depending on which direction you want to walk. And they are all open seven days a week. Here, you have to go foraging. And Sundays—forget about it. In fact, forget about doing much of anything on Sundays.

Thus far, we are basically learning how to simply survive. Neither one of us is fluent in French, so that makes everything more difficult. But the people here are friendly and helpful. We brought our dogs, Gravy and Salsa, with us and they are always getting smiles from people and occasionally people will stop to “talk” to them.

We shop for groceries everyday, because we can’t buy five to seven bags of food once a week and have it delivered. This we expected. Survival on a daily basis.

We have learned how to do laundry, for example. Golly, I haven’t been to a laundromat in probably 40 years. Here, the apartment does have a washing machine—but with no dryer. Hello, what good is that? No calling Alan for a laundry pick-up. Surviving with laundry.

We’ve had to buy a lot of supplies. For example, Pam is a great cook. But she needs more spices than just salt and pepper. Paper towels, napkins, soap—you name it, we have spent a lot of time running around getting the things we are accustomed to having. Like wash cloths! Staying alive.

I have had some terrible back pain since leaving New York. I think I pulled my back lifting luggage. As you may know, the Bradleys don’t travel lightly. So I went to a doctor. Again with the nice people here. A woman at our local pharmacy (who speaks English) found a doctor for me and called him to make an appointment. He gave me three prescriptions (for pain, muscle relaxing, etc.) and I’m feeling somewhat better now.

The WiFi in the apartment here is very good. And so is the hot water. And unlike so many showers I have experienced in France and Italy, here the water doesn’t get all over the bathroom floor!

I haven’t really had a chance yet to take many pictures. But I did set up a new page here on A Rock In My Shoe. I posted nine pictures this morning—with descriptions. More to follow.

Buried Alive

2/11/2018

Well, not quite. But I couldn’t stop thinking of Edgar Allan Poe’s terrifying short story, The Premature Burial, as my colleagues and I visited an “escape room” in Manhattan last week. In Poe’s story, the protagonist describes waking up from sleep to discover he is in a coffin and has been buried alive.

Before embalming was invented, this actually happened occasionally to a few unfortunate souls. We know this now because some graves were dug up and the coffins opened—and scratch marks were found on the inside of the coffins’ lids. Eventually, bells were installed outside many graves. A string ran from the bell to inside the coffin. If the person really wasn’t dead—and suddenly woke up—he or she could pull on the string and ring the bell for help. Hence the term, “Saved by the bell.”

Full disclosure: I'm significantly older than most of the people who participate in these escape room games. I suppose if you are a teenager or a 20-something celebrating a birthday you might find this fun. Not me. I'm also claustrophobic, probably the result of having once been trapped in an elevator by myself for two hours. Further, I experienced 911 up close, which still haunts me today. So admittedly, I brought a lot of mental baggage to my escape room experience.

My company took 12 of us to this popular NYC facility to do their Penitentiary Room escape exercise this week. Now, I have "done time" in a real penitentiary. Not as a prisoner, but as a volunteer working with inmates to stage a play (Brother Orchid) in the Federal Penitentiary at Leavenworth, KS. I was locked-in with these guys every night for a month. And let me tell you, there were no clues as to how to escape. But it was one of the best experiences of my life. I'm also a Vietnam era vet, so I have experienced a few scary things in my life.

But none of my life's experiences prepared me for the sheer terror I felt upon entering the so-called Penitentiary escape room. Let me explain.

First of all, I found the place tacky. Admittedly, that's a subjective opinion. But first impressions count--at least with me they do. The whole place looked like a cheap "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" movie set. Hey guys, what happened? Did you run out of money and couldn't afford to build a really nice facility? The flimsy coat rack falling over with all our coats on it was a dead give-away as to how much thought went into designing this joint. Indeed, for some bizarre reason there were even fake sawed-off bloody arms on display in the lobby. I guess they were going for the Halloween effect. But why?

And it was dark. At least the prison at Leavenworth was well lit.

The young receptionist was pleasant enough. But clearly he hadn't been trained in customer service. He just told us to, yeah, like, you know, let him know when everyone got there. When we had all finally arrived, he took us to our room.

The room's "foyer," was a non-descript cave about 15X15 feet. It was dark, so I can't really tell you what was in it, although I did trip over some kind of box on the floor (later, I would sit on it). At the far end of the cave were three jail cells--two side-by-side and one at a right-angle facing the other two--complete with real iron bars for doors. These cells were about 8ft-square, I'm guessing. The idea was to put four of us into each cell and then of course lock us in.

Well, one of the cells only had three participants.

That's because I just couldn't bring myself to be locked up like an animal in a cage for up to an hour with three other people. I went into one cell, started to panic--and then ran right back out. Fortunately, my boss and colleagues were understanding and said I could just stay in the foyer by myself while they were being locked in their cells.

Then the lights went off in their cells.

Each cell was equipped with a flashlight and a walkie-talkie with which they could call the receptionist for clue clarification if needed.

Let me be clear. These rooms are really locked. If there is a fire or other kind of emergency, you are totally dependent upon someone from the staff to get you out in a hurry. That was no doubt the crux of my fear. I serve on the emergency response team of my company. OMEscape did not instill in me any confidence whatsoever that if there were an emergency they would be able to handle it.

Pause now for a Big Duh! Think about it.

Pause some more.

When the receptionist left us--and exited through the main door to the foyer, I started to follow him out. I was too late. Even that door was locked. I pounded on the door with my water bottle, but clearly he was already down the hall, checking his Snapchat or whatever, and didn't hear me. So I stayed trapped in the foyer all by myself, taking occasional deep breaths, for about 45 minutes. All this time, listening to my colleagues (and barely seeing them when they turned on their flashlights) trying to escape from their cramped cells.

Oh, BTW, the foyer was not only dark, it was hot. Clearly their HVAC system wasn't working up to par. I took my sports coat off and sat down on one of the boxes I had tripped over earlier.

I was finally "rescued" when one of the room's walkie-talkies failed. I guess if this was a teambuilding exercise you could say it was a success because . . .

. . . one cell called out to another cell and asked them to call the receptionist and bring them a new walkie-talkie.

When the receptionist finally came back into the foyer with a new walkie-talkie I made my own escape through the door--which for his short visit he didn't feel was necessary to lock.

Saved by the bell.

(Note: The picture at the top is from the company's website; those people are not my colleagues.)

Mug Shots

3/11/2015

There’s an old Chinese proverb that says, “Buy the best and cry once.” I’ve always tried to live by that motto, but sometimes I slip a little. Yesterday (since I was wearing a suit and tie--I decided to have a new passport picture taken because my passport will expire this summer.

So I went to a local drugstore that also has a photo department—and where they take passport pictures. I should have known better, but the drugstore is only one block from my apartment.

The kid who took my picture couldn’t have cared less how I would look in the photograph. He pulled a cheap little digital camera out of a drawer and had me stand against a white wall. He knew nothing about photography. All he knew how to do was to print and trim the picture to the required 2x2 inches for the government’s passport application form.

Now, no one expects a passport picture to look great. It is, after all, simply a mug shot. But is it really necessary to look like a criminal who was just arrested for tax fraud? And don’t forget, a US Passport picture is good for ten years.

So today I Googled “passport pictures, NYC” and found a real photo studio that also does passport pictures. But it was farther away from my apartment. And, of course, the fee was a few dollars more than at the drugstore.

Both pictures are included here—the drugstore shot being the one on the left.

As a former semi-professional photographer myself, here are some tips about how to have a good (or at least not a bad) headshot taken of yourself.

1.    If you are over 40 years old, insist that the photographer shoot you from at or slightly above eye-level. When you are shot from a lower angle you are basically getting an exaggerated picture of your neck. Not flattering.

2.    Don’t let the photographer stand any closer than six feet away from you (eight feet is better). That’s because when the camera is in close to you your face will look like it is a stretched-out balloon. A professional photographer will use a “longer” lens, which captures more accurately how you really look.

3.    Make sure the photographer uses diffused lighting—or “bounce lighting,” as it is often called. It gives a softer look.

You be the judge—Drugstore (left) or photo studio (right)?

What I've Learned in Real Life

3/10/2015

I was cleaning out my computer's hard drive today when I came across this short note to myself that I wrote several years ago. I never did anything with it, but I feel it still holds true.

What I learned in the training business.

1.    You can’t please everyone every time. There will always be someone who doesn’t like your style or the fact that you don’t “follow the manual.”

2.    Groupthink kills creativity.

What I learned in the film business.

1.    When you are the responsible person and there is a problem, you do not ever, ever, assume that someone else will take care of it for you. You may not be able to solve the problem all by yourself, but you have to stay right on top of it until the issue is resolved—even if it means working 48 hours straight.

2.    It is easier to get forgiveness than permission.

What I learned in the military.

1.    Teamwork is everything. Your life depends on it.

2.    Appearances count more than reality. If the old man is coming to inspect the troops, make sure your boots are shined and your truck is freshly painted. He’ll think everything is fine.

What I learned in college.

1.    Nothing.

Opening Lines

2/18/2015

I’m on page 67 and growing restless. What went wrong? The novel got terrific reviews. Its plot revolves around a subject that I’m interested in. There are a couple of eccentric characters. The story is set in post Civil War America, so you’ve got all that historical stuff going on. One dead body has appeared. Still, I can’t get excited about the book.

This book and I are almost at V-2. That’s the point I’m told a pilot reaches while speeding down the runway at which he must decide to either pull back on the stick and lift off, or immediately abort his takeoff. How much more time should I invest in this book, I ask myself, before I learn if it ever takes off?

The title of the book shall remain unmentioned because it is a first novel and I don’t want to discourage any new writer. After all, it could possibly just be me that is having a problem. But as a management guru once told those of us attending his seminar, “You’ve got to keep the ball moving down the field.”

I don’t generally care for sports analogies because I don’t like sports. But moving the ball down the field seems appropriate when analyzing business challenges. It also applies to writing, IMHO.

So I’m thinking today about what kinds of books I like best. The more I think about it, a book’s subject doesn’t make much difference to me. If the author keeps the ball moving then he’s got me. This no doubt has something to do with my short attention span.

Generally speaking, I prefer short books—300 to 400 pages. I tried reading War and Peace once but found I didn’t have the endurance. In my view, if an author can’t tell his story in three or four hundred pages then he’s got more than one story. But of course, that’s just me.

I also like short chapters that I can complete in one sitting. I’m not one of those people who reads on the subway or while standing in line at Frank’s Pizza. A doctor’s waiting room is another story. You can usually finish two or three chapters while waiting to see the doctor.

And in addition to short chapters, please give me short paragraphs—and short sentences! I couldn’t get into Thomas Wolfe because he never wrote a sentence that had less than a million words in it. Come on, Tom, give me a break—literally. Break those sentences down into bite sizes. I always wondered how much more popular Thomas Wolfe would be today if Max Perkins, his editor, had reined him in a bit more. As it was, he reined him in lot because he wrote thousands of more pages (by hand) that never made it into print.

I can usually tell if I’m going to like a book after reading the first paragraph. In fact, I can usually tell if I will like a book after the first sentence. I know, I know. This is unfair, and is probably not the best way to judge an entire book. But my own experience has shown me that if a book doesn’t start off well, there’s a good chance it’s not going to get much better. There are exceptions, of course, but I just don’t understand why any writer who has toiled for months or years writing a book can’t at least go back to the beginning and write a first sentence that grabs you.

I went through some of my 2000 books today and pulled out a few that have what I feel are some of the all-time great first sentences. Without even having to open the book, I remembered almost verbatim—thirty years after reading it—the gripping first line in Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.

The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call “out there.”

Now does that grab you or what? I immediately want to know more, don’t you?

The “out there” metaphor works well. See how Tom Wolfe uses it to open The Right Stuff.

Within five or ten minutes, no more than that, three of the others had called her on the telephone to ask her if she had heard that something had happened “out there.”

Wow! Here’s a few more of my favorite openers.

I was leaning against a bar in a speak-easy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. The Thin Man—Dashiell Hammett.

She was so deeply imbedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seemed to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise. Portnoy’s Complaint—Phillip Roth

When he was nearly thirteen my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the wrist. To Kill a Mockingbird—Harper Lee

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. Lolita—Vladimir Nabokow

I can see by my watch, without taking my hand from the left grip of the cycle, that it is eight-thirty in the morning. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance—Robert Pirsig

I always wondered how Pirsig could drive a motorcycle and write at the same time.

Of course, with some classics you simply must wade through all the boring exposition before the ball starts moving. Take Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, for example. It’s one of my all-time favorite books, which just goes to prove the exception to my own self-imposed rule.

I was born in the Year 1632, in the City of York, of a good Family, tho’ not of the Country, my Father being a Foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull; He got a good Estate by Merchandise, and leaving off his Trade, lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my Mother, whose Relations were named Robinson, a very good Family in that Country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but by the usual Corruption of Words in England, we are now called, nay we called our selves, and write our Name Crusoe, and so my Companions always call’d me.

Thanks, Dan. I’m sure glad you cleared that up before getting into your story. But I prefer something more like this:

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. The Catcher in the Rye—J. D. Salinger

The book in which I’m stuck on page 67 actually has a pretty decent first line. In fact, the whole first chapter was good. But then the ball stopped moving down the field. And it wasn’t long before I was seduced by the first line of another book—one that my wife had just finished reading. Here’s the entire first paragraph:

It’s only midafternoon and already the whole day is a bust. I may only be a sixteen year old girl, but I’m an experienced gambler so I believe in probability, not luck. However on days like this, you really have to wonder. Beginner’s Luck—Laura Pedersen

And finally, here’s probably one of the most bizarre opening lines I’ve ever read:

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into a giant insect. The Metamorphosis—Franz Kafka

Now that gets my attention!

Daylight Savings Time

3/9/2014

Today we Americans went on Daylight Savings Time. Again. At 2AM last night the official time in NYC suddenly became 3AM. Computers and connected "devices" instantly made the correction. But a hell of a lot of clocks and watches had to be manually reset.

But mostly what this means is that we all lost an hour of sleep last night.

Accordingly, my internal body clock--not to mention my "13 Clocks" (The title of a children's play, FYI.)--became discombobulated. And I noticed this morning that others were affected as well.

The waiters at my diner where I have breakfast every Saturday/Sunday morning just couldn't get their act together. One waiter even accidentally bumped into another waiter--resulting in a huge, go-get-the-mop, mess on the floor.

Even my dogs are confused today.

I think it is time to get rid of Daylight Savings Time (DST). Like our Electoral College, the War on Drugs, and pennies, DST is so yesterday. We don't need it anymore.

I hated DST when I was a child and was forced to go to bed when the sun was still shining, and I still hate it now.

I have some advice for farmers--and their Washington DC lobbyists. If you need an extra hour of sunlight at the end of the day to get your friggin' work done, just get up an hour earlier like the rest of us.

Dry Cleaner Request

11/24/2013

Dear Dry Cleaner,

Here is all I need. Is this too much for you to do?

1. Can you please, please, put a crease in my khakis the way you do all my other slacks? Is that too much to ask? Why do you arbitrarily decide that my khakis don’t need a crease? Without a vertical crease they have that flared-out horizontal look—like some horse rider’s jodphurs. Did you see me come in on a horse?

2. I wear a lot of knit shirts on “casual days” at my office. Maybe you’ve never noticed, but knit shirts in particular tend to take on the shape of how they are stored. If a knit shirt (after being cleaned) is nicely pressed and folded it will look nice on its wearer as well. But if it is hung on a wire hanger by its shoulders, those shoulders are going to look like the peaks on a lemon meringue pie. Please, fold my knit shirts and drape them—drape them--over the hanger! A little tissue paper inside wouldn’t hurt, if you can afford the extra expense.

3. Dress shirts. Now we come to the crux of the matter. I realize that a lot of guys really don’t care about dress shirts, but their company has a “Tie Policy.” So they can only wear a tie with a dress shirt—although some will challenge even that. Personally (I worked in clothing retail while in college), I love wearing dress shirts. For the past 25 years my dress shirts have all been custom made and they all have French cuffs—because, well, I also love (and collect) cuff links. So I want you to pay particular attention to how you launder and press my dress shirts. To begin with, let’s get them starched correctly. I like my shirts heavily starched. Heavy starch means heavy starch. Think Brian Williams on the nightly news. Not just whatever limp skim milk you happen to have in the tub. I want my shirts to come back hard as sheet-rock. Since I also like my shirts in a box, I would also appreciate it if you didn’t cram five shirts into a four-shirt box. And while you’re at it, please fold the cuffs back and clip them in place—instead of wadding them up whatever-which-way they go into the box.

4. Suits are the most expensive item of clothing a man wears. We spend hundreds—even thousands—of dollars on them. That’s why we don’t toss them into the washing machine. A little tender loving care is order when it comes to our suits. So when I bring my suits in to you, please take a moment to check their pockets for any loose change, tissues, or dog biscuits that may gum up the dry cleaning process. Not only do I expect my suits to come back neatly pressed (creases in the pants, remember?), but it would be nice if you could also send them back to me with some protective padding on the shoulders of their hangers. Would that be too much to ask? Hey, it would even be a nice idea to put some paper stuffing in their sleeves like they used to in the good old days. In other words, try to return my suits to me in some sort of packaging that will keep them looking nice until I actually put them on or transfer them to my own suit hangers.

5. Ties. Don’t worry about this one because there is no way I will send my ties to you for dry cleaning. Yes, I am one of those few people who actually likes to wear a tie—to work, to a wedding, to God’s house, to the theatre, to the dog run. When I go to France or Italy I can’t wait to see what kind of ties Lanvin or Missoni are serving up. I have almost a hundred ties in my closet. Most of them—well, actually all of them—are expensive by most men’s account. I go by the maxim, “Buy the best and cry once.” That’s why some of my ties are over twenty years old and I still wear them to the office occasionally—and get compliments. There is no way (it would be a frosty Friday in July) that you will ever clean my ties. I know your game. You mangle them in your ironing presses, you bruise them, and you overheat them—making them look like shit. Sorry, but I always send my ties to Tie Crafters for loving care and cleaning.

6. Finally we come to your tailor. Tailoring is an almost lost art. The simple fact is, there are very few good tailors anymore, but I will still bring my clothes to you to be altered—just because there is no place else to take them. So, if I bring my pants to you to have shortened and the waist taken in or let out, I would appreciate it if I only have to visit you once—not two or three times. Can we get it right the first time? It’s not like I grew (or shrank) in three days. Please mark my clothes to be altered with tailors chalk instead of sticking pins into everything. Pins fall out, in case you haven’t noticed. Finally, I prefer to have you mark up my clothes while they are actually on my body. Please don’t even think that you can just measure my waist and then measure my pants and then try to calculate the difference.