Let's Play Family Feud!

I wouldn't consider my recent trip to Ireland a "vacation". I would say that it was a good "trip", but not a vacation. Between the circumstances that brought us there to all the things we tried to accomplish (600 miles in 11 days), there were just too many "to-do's" on our travel list to really consider it a vacation. As I mentioned before I left, it was a historic opportunity for my siblings and parents to travel together...outside the United States...for a really long time. Along those lines, we asked 100 people on the street to name the #1 source of friction on a Genovese family vacation. The number one answer will be revealed shortly.

To clear up any confusion, my wife and daughter did not join me on this trip. Back in December when the trip was being planned, Jen was six months pregnant and, as you remember, quite miserable. We had no idea how Kaitlyn's arrival would impact our lives, or what complications might arise that could put the kibosh on a trip of this magnitude. Due to the importance of the event, we decided I needed to go, but with so many unknowns, Jen would stay home with the baby and recruit her mother to help out with the child.

That left just the five of us—my mom, dad, brother, and sister—to plan the pilgrimage to Nana’s country of birth. Sometime after the New Year, we began having four-way conference calls to hammer out the logistics of the trip. Ireland may be a small country, but there is plenty to see and emotions ran high in the group about how best to spend our eleven days in country: seeing the sights or visiting with family. Plus, if there is one thing I've learned over the years traveling, always have a backup plan, because shit does happen. This was especially important with respect to getting to Ireland since my parents and brother would be flying from Los Angeles, my sister and I would rendezvous in Chicago from our respective home cities, and we were all hoping for a happy reunion at the airport in Dublin. We all know what can happen with air travel these days. We prepared a very detailed plan of arrival and rendezvous "in case shit". Thankfully we didn't need it. (That's not to say shit didn't happen, it just happened a few days later after too many pints of Guinness. Lesson learned.)

Shannon and I were the first to arrive in Dublin. We went through customs, gathered our luggage, and bumped into Uncle Father Seamus (my dad's oldest brother), Uncle Gary (my grandmother's youngest brother), and Gary's partner Josh in baggage claim. With two hours before the arrival of the Los Angeles contingent, we headed straight to the bar for a pint of Guinness. It was 10AM. This was certainly the vacation portion of the trip if there was one.

My grandmother's funeral and burial were scheduled for August 11th, nine months to the day after her death. We thus decided to divide our trip into two parts: the first five days would be the tourist part of the trip--the "vacation", if you will; the remaining week would be spent in Lurgan where my grandmother grew up, and where the main event would take place. As soon as the Los Angeles contingent arrived, we all hit the airport ATM to get some local currency and then picked up our rental car to head to our hotel in Dublin where we would kick off this fun old-fashioned family vacation for two nights. Gary and Josh were staying at the same hotel, but they had their own car and decided to go on ahead and meet us at the hotel. I guess they didn’t want to wait for us to load five people, seven bags, and a bear into our Ford Edge, despite the fact that we had the satellite navigation. We split up, a decision that would prove costly for one of us.


So the number one source of friction on a Genovese vacation abroad? Survey says: driving the car.

Here's To The Irish

Sometime in late 2006, just before the holidays, my paternal grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Many of you have met "Nana" over the years and know that under no circumstances did she wish to be called "grandma". She was much too young for that. It wasn't just the name though, it was a state of mind because at 79 she really was still a very young woman. So although the cancer was beyond its initial stages, it wasn't necessarily a death sentence. Faced with the option to "let it go" or "fight", Nana decided to fight. Several months later, in March of 2007, we celebrated her 80th birthday with a bash that had been in the works long before the diagnosis. As is usually the case with the Irish portion of the family, a good time was had by all. One of the great things about the Irish--they party hardest in the face of adversity.

After her birthday, the cancer battle unfortunately went uphill. Upon my return from England in October, I had the pleasure of visiting the Bay Area and spending a few days with Nana before collecting my pregnant wife and returning home to Texas. Her condition deteriorated very rapidly after that and so it came as a blessing to the family when the Lord finally brought her home in November. Her postmortem wishes were clear: she wanted to be cremated and her ashes buried next to her sister in Ireland.

Tomorrow I depart on a 13 day trip to Ireland. The primary purpose of the trip is to bury my grandmother as she requested. The event will take place on Monday, August 11th, nine months after her death. As I've mentioned though, the Irish celebrate best when the circumstances are not, so we are also taking the opportunity to tour the country Nana once called home. This will be the first time my entire immediate family has vacationed together for more than a weekend trip to the lake. I'm sure it will be an experience worth writing about.

This is also the first time in nearly ten years that I will not be traveling with a computer. So that means no TRS updates until after my return later next month. And, just to kick things up an extra notch, as I wrote the last sentence, my wife dropped a pint glass on her foot, lacerating her toe. When the date for this trip was chosen late last year, it was a tough decision for us. Do we take the baby with us? Do we leave her with Grandma? It was finally decided I would go alone and Jen's mom would fly out to help her with Kaitlyn. At the time it was a decision I was not terribly pleased with. Now that my wife is about to get four stitches in her toe and can barely walk, I'm rather relieved she's not going (although it certainly adds to the stress of me leaving her home).

In fact, now that I ponder our relationship, this seems to be a recurring theme:

2003: Two days before my departure to Switzerland for the summer, Jen breaks her foot at my parent's house.

2006: One week prior to our wedding and subsequent honeymoon in Europe, I put a gash in my forehead requiring three stitches.

2007: The day before our departure to England for the summer, Jen announces she's pregnant.

2008: The day before my departure to Ireland for two weeks, Jen cuts open her toe, requiring three stitches.

Every time I leave for an International trip, something dramatic happens. I'm 25% Irish, so I'll handle this the way the Irish do; I'll be in the kitchen with a bottle of Jameson.

Here's a map of the places we're going to visit before arriving in Lurgan for the burial/memorial. I'll have a cell phone and I'll try to text message a few bits directly to the blog over the next two weeks. If you'd like, sign up for the RSS feed here.

Slainte.



View Larger Map

It's About Time Already

I know I know…it’s been far too long since the last Road Scholars update. I think we last left off with The Car Alarm in San Antonio. Since then it’s been rather busy, but I know that’s no excuse. Let’s see, there was the wedding, the honeymoon, the new house…where to begin? I’ve got it…Venice. In the spirit of Quentin Tarantino we’ll begin in Venice and we’ll work backwards. So to end…or begin the story…”I’m done talking to them!” Let’s go back…

We watched from the bow as our cruise ship, The Grand Princess, navigated the grand canal of Venice to dock in our final stop on a 12 day Mediterranean Cruise. After cocktails on their balcony, we dined that night with our friends the Parents. After dinner we spent our last hours on the cruise ship getting jiggy in Skywalker’s Nightclub: yes, 180 feet above sea level. The next morning the party was over, it was time to disembark. As in Rome, our travel agent had arranged for transportation from the ship to our hotel on Venice Lido. What we weren’t sure of was the mode of transportation. Having visited Venice once before, I was familiar with the preponderance of waterways in lieu of roadways. It turned out there was another “Genovese” sign waiting for us. The sign gained us access to the front of a very long line of our fellow cruise passengers as they waited for their own unreserved water taxis.

It was about a 30 minute ride to our hotel. The Venice Lido is actually not on what you might consider Venice Proper but across the grand canal on it’s own stretch of land bordering the beach—in Italian, lido. The hotel looks fabulous from the outside. In back is it’s own private dock providing water taxi access to the grand canal. In front is a private beach along the Adriatic sea. As impressive as the hotel looks from the outside, the rooms were rather dated. The walls were covered with fabric which gave it kind of a stale smell that even the champagne and strawberries couldn’t get rid of. We decided it was time to visit mainland Venice.

Anyone who has seen the movie “Just Married” has experienced all one needs to experience in Venice…pigeons, people, and high-priced souvenirs. Our first trek on the free water shuttle and about 60 minutes was all Jen could stand. A gondola ride was going to cost as much as a nice dinner..and that was the negotiated price. Add to that some heat, cigarette smoke, narrow streets, and rude people and Jen was at her limit. We had to negotiate for our oil painting in Venice, and we still violated our general guidelines. We intended to meet up with Chris and Carol, but no one seemed to know that it existed let alone where it was. We found a little Italian restaurant, had a quick dinner and it was off to bed.

The next morning we treated ourselves to another fabulous breakfast at a four star hotel, only this time we overlooked the Adriatic ocean. Somewhere out there was our ship, but we no longer cared. It was time to begin the trip home, and we were ready. Much to Jen’s approval, our travel agent had arranged for a water-taxi to pick us up four hours before our scheduled flight. We arrived at Marco Polo airport nearly three hours early for our flight. That, it turns out, was not for the best.

European airports have limitations when it comes to checking in for flights. You can’t do it more than two hours ahead of time. Our first 45 minutes at Marco Polo airport were thus spent twiddling our thumbs waiting for our flight to appear on the board telling us what desk to go to in order to check in for our flight. Finally we were on the board. Jen and I made our way—with our six bags—to the appropriate desk. I provided our passports to the agent and she began typing away at her computer. We waited…more typing…more waiting…finally a “hmmmm”. “May I have your tickets” she asked. My reply was some form of “huh?” I haven’t traveled on a commercial airline with a ticket since—never. I explained to the agent at the desk that I did not have “tickets”. I showed her my itinerary. She assured me that she could see me—and my new bride—listed as passengers on their glorious airline but that we were not listed as e-ticket passengers and without a ticket she could not let us on the airplane. We would need to speak to the lovely ladies at the ticket counter behind us. Hmmm….ok, fine.

I parked Jen at some chairs with our luggage and got in line to speak to the ladies at the ticket counter. I would like to point out at this time that our flight was scheduled for departure at 2:15PM local time. We arrived at the airport around 11AM, sat on our asses for two hours and now it was approaching 1PM. Finally it’s my turn. I explain my situation and after fifteen minutes or so of polite tapping on the keyboard I’m told there’s nothing she can do. Since we booked our trip through United and there is no United representative at Marco Polo airport, she refers me to the Lufthansa counter next door since Lufthansa is a star alliance partner. Luckily there’s no line. That was where the luck ran out. I’m told I need to contact United customer service. She gives me a phone number. I ask her if it’s a local or toll-free number. It isn’t. Great. At this point it’s worth noting that I have no cell phone, no phone card, and very little patience left as it’s now after 1PM and my flight is scheduled to depart in less than an hour.

I waste 15 minutes and about $30 trying to get the pay phone to work with my credit card before asking someone at the customer service counter how the hell to make a call on the pay phones. She tells me I need to get a phone card at the newsstand. I run to the newsstand, passing Jen on the way. I wave. The newsstand is out of long distance phone cards, I have to go downstairs. I sprinted, rudely barking my request to the gal behind the counter. I run back upstairs and make the call. It takes me almost ten minutes to explain the ordeal thus far to the person in India who pretends to be interested in my dilemma. He assures me he’s working on it and puts me on hold…for 20 minutes. I bought a 30 minute phone card. About five minutes before my phone card runs out Mr. Pakistani comes back on the phone and assures me he will have the problem fixed shortly. I emphasize to him the fact that my phone card will run out of money soon. He reassures me.

I get disconnected. Anger, depression, and hopelessness set in simultaneously. I wave again to Jen as I run past her to go downstairs to buy another phone card. This time I was even more rude as I requested my phone card. I didn’t bother running back upstairs this time. I grabbed the closest phone I could find, dialed, and wasted ten minutes explaining the situation to another guy in India who was supposed to pretend like he cared about my situation. He didn’t. Now it was 2PM and this guy was explaining to me how it was too late to board the flight, there was nothing I could do but wait until the following morning for the first flight to Vienna. I explained to this rat bastard that I was not spending the night in Venice, I was going to Vienna and he needed to figure out how to make that happen. Then I asked for his supervisor and wasted another five minutes on hold.

For those of you that skim, here’s where the story gets good. The supervisor informs me, after researching my reservation, that there’s no reason why the agents should not be letting me and my blushing bride on the plane. “OK”, I told him, “and what should I do when I go back to the counter and they tell me otherwise?” He told me to call back. Aggravated and desperate, I said OK and hung up. I ran back upstairs. Naturally there is nobody left at the Austrian Air desk. I ask the woman at the desk next door if she can help me. It’s now 2:15 and I explain to her how I’m supposed to be on the flight to Vienna leaving right now. She asks me why I’m just now checking in. I nearly climb over the counter but instead use every ounce of self control to explain, through clenched teeth, that I’ve been at the airport for over three hours. She refers me to the lovely ladies at the ticket counter behind us. Apparently I raised my voice when I responded, “I don’t want to talk to them anymore!”. She picked up the phone.

From poor Jen’s perspective, she’s been sitting with the luggage for nearly two hours, not knowing much about what’s going on and having desperately to pee. She’s seen me run back and forth several times and talk to several people in the airport without any real update as to what’s going on. The only thing she’s sure of is that we’re not getting on our scheduled flight and I appear to be quite upset. Now I’m talking to an agent at another airline counter and the only thing she hears from me in two hours is “I don’t want to talk to them anymore!” followed by the agent picking up the phone. Concerned that I’m about to go to jail, she abandons our luggage and runs to my side. Thankfully for both of us, there must have been some element of my desperation that appealed to the gal I was now yelling at. When she picked up the phone she was calling an Austrian Air agent back to the counter, not la policia.

Relieved with the situation, Jen pointed me to the luggage and went to relieve herself. Whatever Mr. Pakistani managed to do down in India apparently was the right thing, because the Austrian agent pulled up our reservation and without any trouble booked us on the next flight to Vienna…still in Business class. We didn’t get to see much of Vienna except our hotel and the airport. We’re told our hotel was adjacent to the Danube…I think I heard the faint babbling of a river, but it’s hard to say. At least we didn’t spend the night with Marco Polo.