Mile High Expectations

   With the Olympic flame doused and Beijing returning to the smog-filled, state-controlled city of KFC franchises, it’s time for another equally colorful competition and media frenzy to begin.  That, of course, is the Democratic National Convention in Denver and the Republic National Convention in St. Paul Minnesota.      

    It’s a shame we can’t expect the politicians to play as fairly and with the sense of sportsmanship we see from the Olympic athletes….but oh, other blogs will clog cyberspace about that.

   I wish I had some exciting stories to tell about each city or stories that I’ll be writing from there, but I don’t.

      I’ve flown through DEN on my way to and from places like Juneau, Calgary, San Francisco, Telluride and Santa Fe.  I guess it’s the mountains or something, but it seems the approach is always a little rough.  Back in May, our flight was delayed out of Rapid City because there were tornadoes on the ground less than a mile from the airport.

   The Denver airport is one of my favorites now that they offer free wifi and they’ve stopped losing luggage so much.  It’s open and airy and easy to get around in, although if you have to run to catch a flight, that mile high altitude is a killer.

   I haven’t used the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport that often, but really, after the Larry Craig situation surfaced in the men’s restroom at MSP, can’t you imagine that GOP officials wished they had chosen another city to host their convention?!

   The Midwest Travel Writers Association was supposed to have had our fall conference in St. Paul this year, but apparently they would rather wrangle with a bunch of elephants than a bunch of travel writers.  MTWA got bumped and we’re going to Disney World instead. You decide who is the real winner and loser in that scenario.

   Otherwise, I’m working on a story this week about the downtown Kansas City airport.  Charles Lindbergh dedicated the place in 1927 and it’s where most of the politicians land when they fly into our fair city courting voters.  That story is for Kansas City Urban Times, but it’s not coming out until October.

   But next week, I promise you more fun in Diana’s Destinations.  How does boiled fish sound? Really, it’s what’s for dinner.

Seeking Employment As Jabba The Hut

  You know that yucky sluggish feeling, often on Monday mornings, when you’ve spent a couple of days eating too much, not getting any exercise, and you feel like Jabba the Hut?  It’s common in most humans around the holidays or after Super Bowl weekend.

   It’s also a common condition for travel writers any time the year.  Much of our responsibilities in exploring new communities and unusual cultures is to report on the food.  That means we have to eat it.  Yeah, tough job, I know, but have you really looked at some of the things the rest of the world eats? 

  In addition to a comfortable pair of walking shoes and clean underwear, a savvy travel writer always packs Tums, Imodium, Pepto, Beano and an entire medicine cabinet in their carry-on. And for some countries, a prescription for Cypro is a necessity.

   Fortunately, or not, my gastrointestinal hang-over this Monday morning is not from eating toasted crickets in a far off land, nibbling at street markets in a third-world nation or imbibing in drink that should not have been drunk.

   My Monday morning belly-ache comes from what I will call a Tummy Tour of Missouri.  It included guberburgers, booch burgers, Greek pizza, Moose Tracks ice cream, peach & pecan cake with butter cream icing, and fava beans – yes, the kind that Hannibal Lecter prefers, although I had a glass of Dr. Pepper as opposed to Dr. Lecter’s pairing with a glass of Chianti.

Guber burgers are hamburgers with warm peanut butter on top. yum!

My tummy tour was part scouting assignment for Midwest Living, a little bit of Day Trips from Kansas City, some stuff for Show Me Missouri, and a few assignments yet to be landed.  And I’m happy knowing that if those assignments don’t materialize, I’m very well qualified for the role of Jabba The Hut in the next Star Wars movie.

 

 

 

 

Promises, Promises

    My husband and I have the honor of being parents to an only child, a fabulously charming young man to whom we’ve attempted to show the world as he has grown up.

  We also have the honor of being aunt and uncle to three equally charming nephews who are among our favorite creatures to harass, tease and in general give a hard time to.

   So over the years, we’ve invited said nephews to travel with us on vacations and some work-related trips as age appropriate companions to our son. The first destination was Disney World, followed by a few trips to Colorado and horseback riding for a week in the Kansas Flint Hills.  Then there was the trip to Boston, which has since become known in our family circle as Aunt Diana’s Bataan Death March to Every Historic Site on the East Coast.

   But we’ve had fun, and hope the nephews have had as well. 

 Except poor Aaron.  Aaron is the baby of the family and a real cutie (he looks like his Aunt Diana).  But by the simple fate of birth order, logistics and other factors out of everyone’s control, it’s always been one of Aaron’s older brothers to hop in a mini-van or on an airplane with his cousin, aunt and uncle.

   Once as we were loading the vehicle with one of his big brothers and the many accoutrements of a teenage boy, Aaron stood off to the side with a forlorn look on his face. Realizing how he must have felt, I gave him a big hug, promising him that the very next trip was his. 

   “Anywhere you wanna go, that’s where we’ll go,” I said, fully expecting him to ask for Disney World or some place with a beach, or an otherwise typical destination for an eight-year-old boy.

   As we continued the loading process, Aaron was very quiet.  Finally, as we were saying our good-byes, Aaron had made his decision, announcing in very certain terms his preferred destination.

   “Aunt Diana, I’ve heard about that big wall they have over there in China, and I’d really like to see that some day.”

   We were flabbergasted that he had even heard of the Great Wall, but we promised to do our best.

   Well, now the Beijing Olympics are underway.  Little Aaron is going to be 16 in a few days, and he was really counting on Uncle Bruce, who does a lot of sports photography, to get him to China to see that big wall for his birthday.

    That hasn’t worked out, nor has a trip Aunt Diana was planning to China in ’09.  But we’re not forgetting our promise to our nephew, nor our own desire to see that Great Wall, the Forbidden City and all of the exotic mysteries of China.

   In the meantime, perhaps Aaron and others who have a desire to learn about China can read a story I have in this week’s Kansas City Star.  It’s a virtual story, for virtual travelers, complete with virtual souvenirs, post cards and the works.

   And next week I’ll have another story in the Star that I was able to research and write on line.  It’s about sites that were built for the Olympics but will be there long afterwards the games are over – sites that travelers to the great city in the future will not want to miss.   

That’s you and me, Aaron baby!  You, me and that big wall over there.  Keep your passport ready.  I haven’t forgotten, I promise.

 

 

 

Yabba-Dabba-Doo Time

  My friend Amy spent this weekend shopping for a new motorcycle.  I haven’t yet heard the results of her individual effort to boost the U.S. economy, but she signed off cyberspace on Friday afternoon like Fred Flintstone sliding down a dinosaur tail when the 5 o’clock whistle blows at the Slate Rock and Gravel Company.

yabba-dabba-doo!

   Otherwise a soft spoken, petite woman and mother of two at an age I shouldn’t mention for fear of retribution, Amy is not your stereotypical biker chick.

   Then there’s our friend Larry – a worthless creature six days out of seven who tells us he is gainfully employed, although we’ve never seen any real proof.  So when he roars into our driveway on his Harley wearing leather chaps and a do-rag, all possibility of virtue goes out the door.

   Maybe I got all of that stuff out of my system as a teenager, roaring around the back roads of southern Illinois on a Kawaski 175 in an attempt to appear as cool as the Easy Rider.  Of course, a six-inch gash on my right knee that still oozes gravel chips 30 years later, obtained from losing control of said Kawaski, certainly contributed to getting the motorcycle bug out of my system.

   But Larry and Amy are not alone in their adult obsession with big toys that make a lot of noise.  If they didn’t have responsibilities that require them to behave like adults this week, they would be on the road to Sturgis South Dakota…

…and oh, Bob McClintick, we know you would be leading the pack on your new toy, leaving Lisa and those three kids behind like dust in the wind.

   A tiny little town in the Black Hills with just about 5,000 residents, Sturgis is making a lot of noise this week.  It’s the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and Black Hills Motor Classic, and with 600,000 bikers, yes, it’s a noisy place.

   But when Bruce and I visited in May, it was so quiet you could hear the birds chirp and the flags snap in the breeze.  That’s one of the many things we love about the Black Hills, and it’s my lead in a brief story that appears today in the Dallas Morning News. 

   If that story whets your “I gotta do that” appetite, then about mid-afternoon Tuesday, August 5, log on to www.pocketexpressblog.com for another story I’ve

Devil’s Tower

written about a beautiful ride many of the bikers from Sturgis take over to Devil’s Tower Wyoming.  Again, we love it for the peace and quiet and natural beauty of the region.

 

  But hey, if you wanna dress up in leather on a hot summer day, drink a little alcohol and participate in borderline promiscuous behavior all on two wheels – go for it baby.  I’ve been there/done that.

 

   Just remember as you’re having your yabba-dabba-doo time to raise a toast to poor old Fred Flintstone.  The good times in Bedrock were powered only by Fred’s two feet.