The Worst Copilot EVER

A good copilot is an essential part of any road trip.  The duties of the copilot are simple but important: remove obstacles for the driver.  Whether it be reading a map and providing navigational assistance, helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, or providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along a dreary road, a good copilot is not a necessity, but it sure makes things a heck of a lot smoother.

I remember during the Y2KRTE, somewhere around Day 21, we were trying desperately to get out of Texas.  This was before units like Vicki were available to most consumers, so we had Microsoft Streets loaded onto our laptop with an external GPS receiver plugged into a serial port. The GPS receiver simply showed a little car on the map that represented our current position.  If you went off route, it showed your little car on the map no longer along your intended route.  It was the copilot's job to provide navigational support to the driver to make sure the little car stayed on the route.

On day 21 we were on a two lane highway in the middle of nowhere.  I was driving and my copilot had been doing a good job of providing engaging conversation to keep his driver alert and engaged.  After about half an hour, Chris asks me what highway we’re on.  I paused for a moment to think about it, and then I looked at him and asked, “Don’t you know?  You’ve got the damn computer!”  “Well here’s where we’re supposed to be” Chris told me, pointing to the highlighted green highway on the screen, “and here’s the car”, pointing to our actual location on a diverging highway a few miles away.  I remember thinking "you're the worst copilot EVER".  I may have even told him as much.  I was wrong.

On day two of Ireland 2008, my family and I loaded our luggage into our rental car and got on the road to the Trinity Capital Hotel in downtown Dublin.  Thanks to Danny Boy, navigational support is not something my copilots have to deal with too much anymore.  That leaves helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, and providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along dreary roads.  Nowhere in the list of copilot duties does it include pestering, heckling, tormenting, or aggravating.  So let's go over the seating arrangement in the car. 

I am in the driver's seat on the right hand side of the car. Behind me in the back seat is my mom, an appropriate place for her considering her nickname, Miss Daisy. Next to Miss Daisy, in the middle seat, is my sister and next to her rounding out the back seat is my brother. In the front passenger seat, in the esteemed copilot position, my dad, my Number One, my left hand man. 

Our vehicle was a Ford Edge and, like most of the cars in Ireland, it had a manual transmission.  The last time I drove a car with a manual transmission was five years ago in Lugano Switzerland. Most of the time I was navigating the narrow, hilly roads of Lugano in a ten passenger van filled with children aged six to ten.  That was easier than the short trip I was about to take to our hotel.

I'm not here to make excuses, but I did have a few things on my mind, like keeping to the proper side of the road, yielding appropriately at roundabouts, following Danny's instructions, and maintaining a good balance of gas and clutch.  I was not always successful at the latter and on several occassions we stalled.  No problem.  Stay calm, depress the clutch, start the car, back in gear, here we go.  It's just like riding a bike...at the top of the Empire State Building...on the ledge...with someone pointing a gun at your head telling you not to fall!  Here's where my copilot comes in.

The first time I stalled, my copilot's helfpul conversation consisted of: "SWEET JESUS!"

The next time I stalled, as I tried to take the car out of gear start the car depress the clutch put the car back in gear and start driving before the cars behind me starting getting upset and honking, my copilot could have rolled down his window and given that International wave that says "we're not spacing out trying to get you to miss this light, we're just morons and stalled".  What he actually did was shake his head in disgust and shout: "SACRED HEART!"  That was much more helpful.

I must have stalled at least three more times because I remember going through "JESUS MARY AND ST. JOSEPH!", "MOTHER OF GOD!", and my personal favorite “LORD HAVE MERCY ON THE POOR SOULS!”.  It was no different than if I'd put Miss Daisy in the copilot's chair, gripping the oh shit handles with white knuckles and trying to put her foot through the floor in a vain attempt to get her brake pedal to work.  

As tumultuos as our ride was, we made the eight mile drive to the hotel in less than half an hour.  It took us another half hour and about five trips around the block to find the car park for the hotel, which was three blocks away and hidden behind a nondescript rollup door.  Of course, even after all that our room wasn't ready, we were about two hours too early.  We propped ourselves up at the bar, ordered some lunch, and of course, a round of pints.  

Meanwhile, Gary and Josh, who left the airport before us, still had not made it to the hotel.  In their case, driving was not the issue; anyone who's ever ridden in a car with Uncle Gary knows that braking, not acceleration is his challenge.  Without a GPS or a good map, navigation was their undoing and tensions were running high in their vehicle now too.  Finally, in a fit of exasperation, Gary pulled over, got out of the car, hailed a cab, and waved for a bewildered Josh to follow in their rental car.  So much for easing into UK driving.  It turns out they were only a few blocks away.  Lucky for them I was now an expert on the car park, saving them at least a little bit of added aggravation.  

We finished our pints and finally got into our rooms to freshen up from 18 hours of travelling.  By this time most of us had been up for 24 hours.  The day was barely half over.  

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