Adventures in Travel, Episode Two: Unplugged

This second episode begins at a hotel in Hawley, PA, where Mom and I stayed during the week of my move. The Settlers Inn reminds me of that lodge in Dirty Dancing, minus watermelons and scheduled archery lessons. Since DD was filmed in the Poconos, not far from Hawley and Honesdale, maybe the resemblance isn’t too coincidental.

On the morning of our planned NY excursion, I sat in the Settlers Inn dining room, trying to decide whether I should devote more attention to my homemade granola with yogurt and seasonal berries, or to the generous smattering of Swayze-esque college-aged waiters circulating with fresh coffee. I’ve always been indecisive (or have I?), so I should probably thank the noisy family of five who made my choice easy – with a prepubescent brother-sister pair fighting over swimming goggles and Mom and Dad reading menu items in Yankee Stadium voices, this family demanded everyone’s attention. "No one puts Baby in a corner" times five.

Amidst the squabbling and cereal-choice listing, one member of this clan remained silent. A kid whom Piaget might classify as preoperational – not more than three or four years old – had reached such a state of Zen with his Game Boy that he couldn’t see the orange juice, goggles, waiters, silverware, or pressed tablecloths. It’s likely that this boy had only recently begun speaking in full sentences, yet I’d bet my nonexistent paycheck that he’s reached level 12 on whatever game he was playing.

If I were a couple of decades older, I might say something such as, "These kids with their electronic games! In my day, families really shared their meals – none of this clicking and beeping at the breakfast table." Then, I suppose I would lament the decline of family togetherness, values, etc. But instead I offer my thanks to the Nintendo corporation for keeping one piece of this bickering, shouting family quiet. The electronic babysitter deserves a raise.

Okay, you know I’m sort of tongue-in-cheek....I never spent much time with my Game Boy, and I’m glad. If I had latched onto Mario and Yoshi, I would’ve forsaken Rodgers and Hammerstein, the sing-along staples of our family road trips. I also would have missed our family road games. When I was Game Boy Kid’s age, my mom devised all sorts of activities for "Are we there yet?" situations. We had the "Alphabet Game": starting with A, find words on roadside signs beginning with each letter of the alphabet. The letter X took us at least 100 miles. We also played the standard "License Plate Game," looking for license plates from each state. And we had "Road Bingo," with bingo cards that Mom created. In the center square, she always wrote the name of our destination ("Grandmother’s house"), so it was impossible to win until the end of the trip. Somehow, I never noticed the ingenuity of the center square – I guess I was too busy singing "Bali Hai."

In the spirit of Mom’s Road Bingo, I offer the following few observations from the NY-PA-TN haul:

Can you spot.....the vegetable samosa? We arrived in New York around 3 p.m., after negotiating a reasonably secure parking spot on 42nd Street. After unpacking (and assuring my grandparents that, yes, we made it to the hotel; yes, the hotel is clean; no, we haven’t been mugged, converted, or price gouged), we set out to scavenge for a meal. It had been at least nine hours since the granola, and we couldn’t wait for the chic 8-p.m. dinner hour. We needed the vegetarian version of the NY sirloin strip.

Like many "noble masses" from afar, we landed in the Grand Central Station food court. In TN parlance, "food court" guarantees a Sbarro, and, if you’re lucky, a Dippin’ Dots. NYC must shake its Paul Mitchelled head at this sad culinary fare. The first two kiosks we spotted in the Grand Central Station court offered sushi and Indian food. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Stones River Mall.

When I lived in Honesdale, Mary and I used to drive almost an hour to get take-out from the closest Indian restaurant. That would be two hours, round trip – we’d return with cold naan and congealing basmati rice, as happy as if we’d smuggled ambrosia from Mount Olympus. As much as I enjoyed my curried chick peas and samosa from Grand Central Station, I’m a bit disappointed that New Yorkers don’t have to work for their kormas and masalas.

In my day, we trekked countless miles for our Indian food. And we didn’t play Donkey Kong on the car ride.

Can you spot.....the Ann Taylor debacle? In my packing-and-shipping frenzy, I forgot to save a dressy outfit for NY playgoing. So on Saturday Mom and I hiked to the Ann Taylor Loft, where I prepared to pay twice the TN price for a halter-top sundress. In function-over-form style, I didn’t spend much time digging through the clearance racks or price-checking at nearby Gaps and Limiteds. I grabbed the first three sundresses worthy of Broadway tripping and headed toward the dressing room.

There, I quickly made another NY discovery: in the Big Apple, dressing room attendants work on commission. Or at least, the Ann Taylor Loft attendants do. "I’m Rachel. Let me know if I can help you with anything. And by the way, I’m Rachel."

Rachel obviously uses her Ann Taylor savings to supplement her fledgling modeling career. With a Crest Whitestrips smile and a perfectly yoga-toned arm, she directed me to a vacant room. "Let me know if I can help you with anything." Right. Imperative, not interrogative.

As it happened, none of my sundresses fit – I needed smaller sizes.

A good friend recently observed that the well-documented super-sizing of meal portions in America has catalyzed the super-sizing of clothing. I am not a size 2 petit. But Rachel (borrowing from Sam I Am) convinced me to try the size 2. I shall not buy size 2 today. "Try it, try it, and you may. Try it and you may, I say."

Through the Ann Taylor Loft rabbit-hole, a size 2 fits me....well, everywhere but in the upper deck. Rachel eyed my gaping halter and arched an intricately plucked eyebrow: "Are you wearing a bra?" I considered responding as Ellie Mae in "The Beverly Hillbillies": "Why, no ma’am. In Tennessee, we don’t take stock in yer citified undergarments." Instead, I blushed and nodded yes.

The thing is, Rachel, size-2 girls don’t wear double-D cups. I have no problem with flattering America’s ego by altering clothing sizes, but can we please use standard, human-body proportions?

"Maybe you’d be happier in a blouse-and-pants combo," Rachel offered. I shrugged off the sundress and stepped into size-4 jeans. Several spaghetti straps later, I found a silky turquoise tank with plenty of gathered material in the front – enough material to deceive all members of the boob-fixated NY populace. Is she an A cup? A C cup? The Shadow knows.

"Ah, that top is perfect," Rachel smiled. "It doesn’t matter that you’re...." I thanked her and left before she could say "flat-chested." And before she could remind me that, by the way, her name is Rachel.

Can you spot....the Waldorf-Astoria flub? Rachel’s carefully selected casualwear delivered me through two nights of Broadway theater. On Saturday evening, Mom and I scored tix for The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, a musical spoof of young vocab-philes, ideal (or ai-deal) for a Scrabble fetishist like myself. Sunday afternoon, we got seats at Fiddler on the Roof, starring Harvey Firestein as Tevye. If you’ve seen the Fiddler movie a few times (not that I have....nor have I memorized "Matchmaker, Matchmaker," or anything like that), I’d skip the Broadway show. Firestein’s high-profile drag performances of years past create a discordant backdrop for the uber-masculine Tevye character. I don’t think "discordant backdrop" is a phrase acceptable in NYT theater reviews, but you know what I mean.

After the final mazel tov, Mom and I window-shopped until we reached the Waldorf, an appropriate public restroom site for the upscale traveler. We walked under three chandeliers, past about five ottoman sets, straight into....a Jewish wedding reception. I kibbitz you not. We settled into an ottoman to watch the stomping and singing. For a mousy Episcopalian, I loved it way too much.

When the last yarmultke-clad guest had vacated the wedding hall, adjacent to the reception area, Mom and I stole a stranded program. Beautiful script, extensive wedding party, and a special note:

"On this happy occasion, we wish to remember our grandparents. Though we miss their physical presence, we know their soles are with us."

Their soles? Unless Gran and Gramps were fishmongers or shoe peddlers, this was a misprint. And I don’t want to be a snooty ex-editor – well, okay, I do – if you’re going to get married at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, add a proofreader to your guest list.

Now that I’ve snidely pointed out the homonym slip-up, you’re going to scope this essay for grammatical errors. Alright, I can take it. Perhaps you can proofread to kill time while waiting for a latte or for the next mile-marker. I’ll put Spell Check in the center square.