Crazy Travel: Are You a Road-Tripping Deviant?

As I begin my exploration into mental health and travel, there are so many paths from which to choose. As I mentioned in a previous post, place-related ailments, such as Jerusalem Syndrome and Paris Syndrome, fascinate me for some crazy reason. But given that the majority of us are unlikely to fall prone to such maladies*, perhaps we best embark on the journey elsewhere.

Let's start, instead, with a quote I discovered while reading boatloads of backgrounders about Jerusalem Syndrome and related psychological disorders. The research comes courtesy of the Department of Hotel and Tourism Management at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev in Israel.

But, if I may, a slight digression--when reading the faculty roster, I was thrilled to note that said list includes one Dr. Yaniv Belhassen, whose research interests include “Deviant Behavior and Drug Usage in Tourism” and “Ideological Manifestation and Consumption in Tourism”. Holla…or should I say “Challah”? Have I found the Holy Grail or what?

Back to our tale, my little teacups. After finding my U. of Essex grad school beanie, I donned it before ingesting Dr. Belhassen’s Cannibis Usage in Tourism: A Sociological Perspective and his Drugs and Risk Taking in Tourism (and one more digression before continuing: I would like to note truthfully that I may be the only person who didn’t inhale. Really…just ask my college boyfriend if you can track him down).

Okay, full disclosure out of the way, let’s go back to that aforementioned yet unmentioned-to-date quote mentioned at the beginning of paragraph two (lesser minds may need to get high to understand that sentence). Cannibis Usage cites a sweet guy named Hirschi, who says “every one of us is attracted to what is considered deviant behavior. However, the fear from social sanctions deters us from acting upon such temptations.” EXCEPT…as one Dr. Bellis writes, “individuals abroad are often free from the social constraints of work and family….” Therefore, Dr. Belhaussen and Cannibis co-authors Carla Almeida Santos and Natan Uriely conclude, “The notion that while on vacation individuals feel that they are free from norms that govern their daily life is quite familiar..."

Next up in Cannibis is a heady dude named Shields, who defines travel as a “liminal zone” --"an area where ‘social conventions…are relaxed under the exigencies of travel and of relative anonymity and freedom from community scrutiny’.” In non-academic terms, the straight dope is that we are all prone to going a bit crazy when traveling.

I myself am certainly not immune to travel-induced crazy (see right). However, I will plead the Fifth in terms of the specifics of my own deviant behaviors while on the road. After all, my journalistic integrity and objectivity must not be questioned. However, I should very much enjoy hearing about yours. Not, I should emphasize, in a voyeuristic sense, but merely as a journalistic/academic exercise. Now, I realize such a request is unlikely to yield results unless anonymity is protected. So, please feel free to use a secret e-mail address from which to share your heteroclitic travel proclivities.

*undocumented in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM)/the American Psychiatric Association's standard reference for psychiatry

Crazy Travel: Place-Related Syndromes

As I will be referencing various place-related syndromes in some of my pieces on mental health and travel, here’s a brief primer. More in-depth features on each specific syndrome will be written soon--please grant me a bit of writer’s asylum.

The big kahuna is Jerusalem Syndrome. The malady is reported to impact some pilgrims to the Holy City, and is characterized by religiously-themed obsessive ideas or delusions (thinking one is the Messiah or feeling the need to shout verses from the Bible), or by psychotic behaviors ranging from ritual bathing to compulsive fingernail and toenail cutting. Although it may affect those of any religion, Scandinavians and American Protestants seem particularly susceptible. Some psychologists say Jerusalem Syndrome is a unique illness, while others say it is merely a symptom of pre-existing mental conditions.

If you are on a tour of Jerusalem, beware of the following behaviors from members of your group, as cited by one Dr. Gregory Katz in the British Journal of Psychiatry in 2000.

Stage 1- Afflicted tourist becomes nervous, agitated and tense.

Stage 2- Tourist splits away from the tour group.

Stage 3- An obsession with cleanliness.

Stage 4- Sufferer prepares a long white robe.

Stage 5- Person begins to sing psalms, Bible extracts or religious songs.

Stage 6- Person marches to a holy place in Jerusalem.

Stage 7- Person starts delivering sermons on any mount.

Meantime, Paris Syndrome is a transient condition, most often suffered by the Japanese, during visits to the City of Light. It was first widely reported in Nervure, a French psychiatric journal, in 2004. About 20 Japanese tourists a year are affected by the condition, which is characterized by delusions, hallucinations, anxiety and sweating, among others. According to the authors of the Nervure study, Japanese are particularly prone due to language barriers, culture clashes, travel exhaustion, and a pre-idealized image of Paris, to which the reality does not mesh.

Finally, Florence Syndrome, better known as Stendhal Syndrome, is a condition named after the 19th-century French author, who was overcome by the beauty and breadth of Renaissance masterpieces during a visit to Italy. Nowadays, what is considered a psychosomatic condition is marked by symptoms including rapid heartbeat, weak knees, dizziness, fainting, and confusion. It is said to happen when individuals are exposed to art that is profoundly alluring or uncommonly comely. But given that the affliction is primarily the bane of middle-aged British women, perhaps it is exposure to, ahem statuesque exposure, that sets off such carnal responses.

Crazy Travel

It seems we live in an age of specialization. The jack of all trades and mistress of many is increasingly undervalued. To wit, even though I have covered travel for 25 years (I started very young) and I know a lot about a lot (if I do say so myself), it's not enough. Seems expertise isn't valued unless billed very specifically--family travel expert; tennis travel ace; hotel industry hot shot; nude travel maven, etc. I have frequently covered all of the above (although I suppose it is somewhat oxymoronic to "cover" nude travel), and likely have far more knowledge than many of the so-called experts with blogs devoted to a particular proposition. Nonetheless, my expertise is left under-appreciated.

Finally recognizing that you can't fight City Hall (despite the best efforts of Occupy Wall Street),  I decided the beginning of the new year was a fine time to establish a singular specialty. Not so easy, my friend, as  much of the travel world is plucked over. But then, after a spate of visions about phenomena like Stendhal's Syndrome, Paris Syndrome and Jerusalem Syndrome, something clicked.  "Why," I said to myself (not that I really talk to myself...okay, I do), "maybe I'll become an expert in travel and mental health." After all, people frequently say I'm crazy. Plus, is it delusional to explore why sojourners so often succumb to the artistic beauty of Florence with hallucinations and quivers? Or why American and Scandinavian pilgrims (usually Protestant, according to the research) turn into raving lunatics in Jerusalem? Or why Japanese people are especially prone to depression in Paris? I will explore all of these issues in later columns, mes amis.

But let's start at the very beginning, with a phenomenon known to travelers since time immemorial. Said phenomenon--Travel Stress Syndrome.  To intelligently discuss, let me refer to a "Travel Mental Health Checklist-Travel Stress" developed by the International Association for Medical Assistance to Travellers (it's based in Britain, hence the "ll").  Parenthetically, but without parentheses, IAMAT also provides a travel checklist for psychosis, but I realize it would be crazy to start with that.

So, here was go. As we all know, travel is always stressful to some extent. Even the most experienced traveler gets annoyed at the airport; is flummoxed by foreign fare; and becomes rattled by reversals in routine. And certainly, no one is insulated from culture shock (or culture schlock, as the case may be for travelers heading to Disney World or shopping areas around any major tourist attraction).

According to IAMAT, travel often exacerbates mental health problems. And even those with no prior experience with mental illness could develop panic attacks, anxiety, et al, due to travel stress. In order to circumvent such mental ills, IAMAT offers the following suggestions:

1. Before you leave, assess your travel plans and change them if needed to minimize your stress levels.
    Dr. Laura's interpretation (no, not that Dr. Laura)   Leave yourself plenty of time to get to the airport; don't overschedule your days; and don't try to see too much in too short of a time.
2. If your expectations are not met, find non-confrontational solutions to improve the situation.
    Dr. Laura's interpretation: Don't yell at the airline agent o the front desk clerk; cast aspersions at your neighbor on the aeroplane; or pick a fight with your tour guide.
3. Take the time to enjoy the people, new sights, sounds, smells and experiences when in country. Be present and try to live in the moment. Know your mental and physical limits.
    Dr. Laura says, "Amen, IAMAT."

IAMAT also offers suggestions on dealing with more specific issues, ranging from culture shock to the aforementioned psychosis. We shall check in with some of those issues in upcoming posts.

Stocking Stuffers to Knock Your Socks Off...and Suitcases to Boot

If you still haven’t bought that perfect gift for your favorite traveler (or me--address provided upon request!), here are a few last-minute ideas. If you watched my segment on WUSA-TV in Washington today, here is the promised where-to-purchase information. If you are shopping online, however, you will have to make due with a product picture for Christmas Day itself. Or procrastinators can put a positive spin on the delivery delay and say they are extending the holiday.

On the Saturday before Christmas, you don’t want to find yourself at Best Buy, Target or Wal-Mart…you really don’t. Instead, hit a luggage store. No lines here, which, you must admit, is an anomaly when suitcases are in the picture. So many of us travel with boring black or blue bags, which can be easily mixed up at the baggage carousel. So, why not buy a present that pops? Heys Britto Collection is based on the designs of pop artist Romero Britto. Thanks to its polycarbonate material, the carry-on size weighs a mere 6.7 pounds. Yet, it’s as hard as nails in terms of protection. The Britto 22-inch bag retails for $300.
If you prefer something a little lighter, a little cheaper and a little less flashy, Heys 20-inch xCases cost $150. They weigh in at just 5.1 pounds. www.heysusa.com

If you prefer something super-duper lightweight, you can go with canvas. The Briggs & Riley BRX collection provides a lightweight solution with extreme performance capabilities. The Exchange Duffle is like two bags in one…it goes from duffle to backpack in one easy zip. Since the duffle compresses, it’s perfect for squeezing into small spaces, like overhead bins. It costs about $160 and is available at fine luggage shops. For a store locator-www.briggs-riley.com/

If you are looking for last-minute stocking stuffers for the traveler, iPad and tablet accessories will knock their socks off. Aside from being available on-line, you can find them at electronics and computer stores.

Love, love, LOVE the Menotek Waterproof Bluetooth Flexible Keyboard. Anyone who has been frustrated trying to write an article (ahem) on their iPad or a text on their iPhone will find this type of gift striking. It’s waterproof, it’s washable, and it’s wonderful. The retail is $79.00, but I found it on Amazon for $29.99.

If your travel/computer geeks are also yoga freaks, they will be head over heels…or heels over head…for this adjustable Gorilla Mobile Yogi for iPad by Joby. The Yogi stabilizes the iPad on any surface and offers adjustable viewing angles, including Downward Dog (left), Half Lotus (below) and Spinal Twist. You can also hang it from a bar, in case your exercise of choice is pole dancing. It retails for $39.95, although I found it cheaper on Amazon.


Joby also makes the Gorilla Mobile Ori for iPad for your favorite Zen master. Inspired by the art of origami, it’s a iPad case that bends and folds in multiple ways. Best yet--it has a swiveling hinge. It costs $59.95 at http://www.joby.com/

Speaking of iPad cases, this year's style is both fashionable and functional. In this case, if you want your iPad to look super skinny, just like a catwalk strutter, there’s the STM iPad Skinny case. Like its supermodel cousin, the case is sleek with a hard shell. It has an auto on and off front cover that wakes up the device, and control buttons are easy to access.
The foldable front cover can be styled for typing or viewing angles. It retails for $50, but you can find the case on Amazon for $30 or so. http://www.stmbags.com/

Untried But True Holiday Travel Tips

It's that time of year when scores of people ask me, "Laura Powell, you are a travel expert. Give us some tips." Generously, I comply, with directions to allow yourself plenty of time when traveling; to keep presents unwrapped if you are going through airport security; to wear your bulkiest clothing and boots on board to save luggage space; yadda, yadda, yadda. But this year, I want to present to you, dear reader, the gift of tips that keep giving all year long. And lest the headline fool you, I have tried them all, and they all work like a charm.

First, if you are a contact lens wearer, stop by a local optometry office to pick up a free, TSA-approved-size bottle of contact lens solution. By law, these offices cannot sell sample-sized bottles, but most will give one or two to the nicely-dressed consumer who asks nicely. If you are naughty, though, expect nada.

Feet aching after a day or two or three in stiletto heals? Raid your panty liner container. (For any gentlemen who are still with me after reading the word "stiletto", you may skip ahead two paragraphs). A panty liner can prove a pillow for your sole. Simply stick the adhesive side onto the sole of your shoe (liners are skinny enough so that they will not bleed over the sides of even the narrowest shoe) and let the ball of your foot absorb the newfound comfort.

As an aside, let me also mention that the larger sanitary pad can serve double duty as a duster, particularly for wooden floors. Lest you laugh, do note that The Swiffer was invented in the 1990s by an engineer at Procter & Gamble who noticed that very phenomenon. So, if any of you have extra pads lying around, you can always fashion your own cheaper version of The Swiffer and clean carefree.

But I digress. Gentlemen, welcome back to the conversation. Did you know that those little environmentally-wasteful bottles of amenities placed in your hotel rooms can also do double duty? That's right. In a pinch, conditioner can become shaving cream; shampoo can become detergent for washing your delicates; and skin lotion can serve as an anti-static agent for hair or for clingly socks/stockings that insist on sticking to your pant leg/skirt.

I will be back with more heartfelt travel tips as the holiday season progresses. Meantime, please share some original tips from your list.

What You Don't Know About Idaho

After spending two months in Idaho this year, I have unearthed many interesting facts about a state best known for its potatoes. To wit...

Despite its beauty, Idaho is the only state that has not staked claim to the Miss America title.

Sun Valley is considered the first winter destination resort in the United States. It was built in the 1930s by railroad magnate W. Averill Harriman.

Sun Valley was the home of the world's first chairlifts. The lifts were installed on Dollar and Proctor Mountains in 1936.

The Hokey Pokey was invented in Sun Valley during the 1940s.

Elsewhere in Idaho...

Idaho is the only state with two time zones divided north and south. The state divides between Mountain and Pacific Time just north of Riggins.

Television was invented in Rigby, Idaho in the 1920s by local science prodigy and farm boy Philo Farnsworth.

Bruneau Dunes State Park is home to North America's tallest sand dune, at 470 feet.

Calling All Spuds...


Potatoes are not the top agricultural product in Idaho. Milk is.

Potatoes are the #1 crop, but are third in the agricultural product list after dairy and cattle.

And while we are on the topic, Idaho is the country’s #1 potato producer, serving up 29% of the U.S. total.

A Farewell to Yarns: A Sheep's Tale in the Land of Hemingway

Ever since I caught wind of its existence, I have been fixated on attending The Trailing of the Sheep Festival, which takes place in Hailey and Ketchum, Idaho every October. Perhaps it was the sheep poetry sessions that roped me in....after all, who could resist a sheep bleating Keats.

At any rate, as my obsession grew, I knit together a fantasy about becoming Queen of the Sheep. My dream was to show off my good breeding by donning a tiara and walking amongst my little lambs as we strode in unison down the streets of Ketchum. In order to blend in (somewhat) with the flock, I would enrobe myself in a virgin wool fleece frock.

And so, in order to get out of a rut and make my dream come true, I booked a trip to the Sun Valley area for the autumn of 2011. Hailing from Washington, DC, I decided the best way to win the title was to start lobbying Hailey town elders and the festival organizers. But as I grazed the landscape, I realized there might be a few hitches in my plan. First, I discovered that "The Trailing of the Sheep" took place during Yom Kippur weekend. Now, if this festival were to be renamed "Jews and Ewes" or "Hey, Ewe Jew", I would be a lock for the title. But alas, it was not, and I started to fear that the parade would be taking place on the Holy Day itself. Even though I planned to maintain my fast, I wondered if it would be kosher in God's eyes to be parading amongst sheep while atoning. On one hand, Moses was a shepherd. Still, he led his most important flock around Passover and not the High Holidays.

As I ruminated over this ruminant dilemma, I discovered that the parade was delayed until the day after Yom Kippur. Thus, I was back on the non-fast track to becoming sheep royalty. But soon enough, I was brought to the realization that my lovely dream could become a wolf in sheep's clothing. While having a moveable feast at the home of the lovely owners of a Ketchum art gallery, the husband started raining a bit on my parade. (Said husband, parenthetically, hence the parentheses, resembled a hip version of Mr. Keaton, the dad on "Family Ties"). Mr. Bleatin' advised me that, at times, the parading sheep have been known to run amok. One sheep wanders off in a different direction and the entire flock ends up pulling a big ewe-turn. Or, Mr. Baa Humbug noted, as the hills at the end of the parade route come into sight, the sheep sometimes start stampeding to quicken the journey to their winter digs.

At any rate, instead of ending the parade in a path of glory, I suddenly envisioned myself in my own private Pamplona, overtaken by a mad mob of sheep goring me with their puffballs of wool and leaving me with tiara askew and my garb transformed into the world's largest livery of lint.

Of course, the citizens of Ketchum might not take kindly to this intruder amongst their ranks, no matter how stunning said intruder was. In fact, the stunt might even get their collective goat. Therefore, after rising up, dusting myself off, and repositioning my tiara, I realized I might have to go on the lamb (sic) or risk being pelted. However, I knew it was likely that I would be quickly found, as after the sheep were long gone, I would be the only one in the valley for whom the smell lolled.

Thank ewe very much.

For more on the event, go to www.trailingofthesheep.org. There is still time to make your travel plans. It takes place October 7-9.

I Can CCCP Russia From My Backyard

I recently noted a short thread on one Adam Junkroski's (a friend and former babysitting client) Facebook page, trading obvious puns about all things Soviet. As a punmeister, I couldn't resist the temptation to Russian. Below, Laura and Adam's no-so-Cold War of Puns (which lasted 45 minutes versus 45 years). It's oblast. By the way, if some of these references are too obscure, you'll be vlad to know you kazan surf around Siberia-space to chechen on things.

LP: I give you high Marx for the Russia thread. You didn't even Boris me to tears.
AJ: What can I say? We covered all the Engels.
LP: I'm tsarry, but you certainly didn't cast a wide nyet for that one.
AJ: Yuri just jealous.
AJ: But I suppose I could curl up Andropov the face of the planet.
LP: Damn, yuri good, comrade (oops, just saw you already used that). I was trying to figure out something Andropov and you beat me to the pun-ch. I'm such an Idiot (get it?) Ivan to win this game, but clearly, you are a steppe up, no Bolshevik.
AJ: I'll ruble the day I tangled with you yet.
LP: I'm stoli-ing (and stalin)for time.
AJ: Be-cossack I'm so clever?
LP: We need to take this show to the Borscht Belt.
AJ: Anyone reading this would probably rather we take it to Siberia. : )
LP: Speaking of ex-Soviet regions, as they say in Georgia (well, the U.S. one), Y'altap the list.
AJ: You just proved your Proletariat status with that one.

LP: (after a brief pause in the back-and-forth)
Had to Trotsky to write a new blog post.
AJ: I wondered why you went Romanov on us.
LP: Soyuz say. You probably thought I was mir-ly procrastinating.
AJ: Clearly you think I Kerensky.
LP: I have to gulag Kerensky...don't know who he is.
LP: Or gogol.
AJ: LOL! He preceded Lenin.
LP: Surely, you wikipedia'ed that, my little pierogi.
LP: Now, I don't mean to be volga, and I don't want to hammer this in, but I think we are both sickles.
AJ: Yes, we have a mig problem.
LP: Like Michelle Bachmann, I'm getting a mig-raine. And like her doppelganger, Sarah Palin, I can see Russia from my backyard.

Now that you have red your way through, a few other notes before closing.
First, I'm a slav to fashion. So-vi-et.
Any other puns you want to Chekhov or Markov the list? Do feel free to commune with us or matryoshka-late in our puniversity. We are happy to grad your entries.
Tatar, everyone.



Photo Credit: Matt Banks

Laura of Arabia: Part I

Out of the blue, a call from Amman. "Laura," the call said, "Could you come to Jordan to speak at a USAID conference on tourism development next week?" Weary from the heat wave that was swamping Washington, DC, I decided a trip to the desert was just what I needed to cool off.

In a series of upcoming posts, I will share my adventures, my discoveries, and insights garnered from my first trip to the Middle East. However, in this post, I will discuss my panic as I perused my summer wardrobe and perceived that everything I owned was either too short, too tight or too sleeveless for an Islamic country. Did I have any garb to wear? Would I be kicked out of the country for dressing inappropriately? It was a clothing cliffhanger.

Now, I am not a slut, mind you, nor do I play one on TV (as you can see from previous blog posts). But all my hemlines seemed unseamly, and my business dresses, thanks to Spanx, were quite form-fitting. And, just like Right Said Fred, with low-cut collars and keyholes, I was too sexy for my shirts. And so, with only three days to go before the trip (and with a 30-minute presentation to write about tourism development in a country I knew nothing about), I had to squeeze in a manic shopping spree.

I had been through this exercise before, prior to a trip to Morocco in 2001. And just like a decade before, I found shopping an exercise in frustration. You see, I am a Size 2. Not a lot of people in Washington are Size 2. So, choices were going to be limited.

I was simply petra-fied of finding nothing apropo for Jordan. And as I zipped from store to store, my fears were being confirmed. Lord & Taylor--oh God, nothing. T.J. Maxx--initially, it seemed promising. But a suitcase and a Calvin Klein knee-length (but sleeveless) frock were all-ah got. My patience was hanging by a thread until Filene's Basement, which became my own private Mecca. It yielded two Marc Jacobs cotton shrugs, perfect for covering the shoulders. I also found two pairs of knee-length shorts, an oversized pair of khakis, and a past-the-knee-length cotton khaki dress with short sleeves. It was fugly, but it was perfect for my needs and with it, I felt my Islamic ensembles were buttoned down.

But as I was packing my new suitcase the night before the journey, I discovered that the fugly khaki kimono still had its security tag attached. Ever wonder what happens when you try to pry off a security tag by hand? I'll tell you. You get green ink all over your hands and your new fugly dress.

Well, long story short, when I got to Jordan, I found that my clothing concerns were overwrought, though not for naught. While dress there is certainly more conservative than in the U.S. of A., Western women can get away with showing a bit of skin. Sleeveless was fine at night and outside the city (except in mosques and churches). Knee exposure was fine, even during the day. The piggy toe cleavage revealed by my slingbacks was kosher; all other cleavage was left to the imagination. Though my ink blot of a dress was left home, I still passed the wardrobe Rorschach test.

The moral of this yarn is that you can never judge a cover by the book. Even though most tomes said cover up, the reality of Jordan was a mythbuster. And, as I was soon to discover, there were plenty of other myths and misconceptions about the country also waiting to be uncovered.

Stay tuned for Part II of Laura of Arabia.

The Mile High Book Club

It seems I am addicted to books that discuss the evolution of things. I’m not speaking in Darwinian terms (although I have been to the Galapagos Islands). Rather, I love books that explore the origins of Spam, or Twinkies, or the Yugo.

As I think back, I believe I may have discovered this gene in my reading DNA thanks to The Panama Hat Trail by one Tom Miller. More than a mere exercise in travel journalism, Miller, in my humble opinion, stages a coup d’tete (sic) in weaving the tale of the Panama Hat, which actually has its origins in Ecuador (home of the aforementioned Galapagos). While he does not discover giant tortoises sporting jaunty straw hats, he does write a captivating (ahem) yarn of Ecuador and its people…and why its indigenous bowler has been pinned with the name of another country (the chapeaus were, in the day, exported worldwide via the Isthmus of Panama).

More recently, I have taken to treatises on the origins of food products. Among the goodies I have explored in the past year are Twinkies and doughnuts (neither of which I can eat due to a gluten intolerance). I must say that Twinkie Deconstructed by Steve Ettlinger was a bit dry (like a 20-year-old Twinkie), a little too scientific for my taste. Then again, considering that the Twinkie is more of a science project than a food product, maybe the tone is appropriate. Glazed America: A History of the Doughnut, by Paul R. Mullins, was also a bit professorial in tone, but more delectable to read. Sure, it's more about consumerism and soci0-economics than sugar and ice, but one chapter on doughnut history and another on the morality of downing dunkers are the frosting on the cake.

Lest you think I am a food addict, let me also mention another recent read--The Yugo: The Rise and Fall of the Worst Car in History by Jason Vuic. I can’t say it better than Sonja Sharp of Mother Jones. “Jason Vuic, a professor of modern European history, could have easily written a straightforward takedown of the most maligned automobile since the Ford Pinto. Instead, he uses the Yugo as a vehicle for an insightful and witty look at car culture, a half-century of Balkan history, and the last decade of the Cold War.” Indeed, Vuic’s paean makes luscious lemonade out of the world's most famous lemon.

Parenthetically, it does seem as though I am addicted to books with colons in their titles. As I wander through bookstores, monographs sporting colons are the ones I tend to digest. Both The Banana: The Fate of the Fruit That Changed the World and Bananas: How the United Fruit Company Shaped the World sound appeeling and are next on the reading list. There’s a lengthy book called The Toothpick: Technology and Culture that never fails to capture my attention in the bookstore. But I haven't sunk my molars into that one yet. Finally, The Book of SPAM: A Most Glorious and Definitive Compendium of the World's Favorite Canned Meat looks spamalicious (to coin a phrase). That's one, though, for which I'll have to work up an appetite.

Please Do Not Steal the Towels

Now, Dear Reader:

I have been very honest with you about my predilection for filching hotel bathroom amenities like soaps and shampoos. Mind you, my pilfering ways never extend to anything material.

But for those of you who prefer to purloin linens, consider yourself forewarned. Because, you see, a company called Linen Technology Tracking is watching you. Said company has developed radio frequency identification (RFID) chips that can be sewn into towels, sheets and bathrobes. The chips can survive hundreds of wash lickings and keep on ticking.

Right now, just a few hotels in Manhattan, Miami and Honolulu are using the chips. But as costs associated with disappearing linens soar, expect more and more properties to chip and charge.

Airline Etiquette

As my writing mojo seems to be in hibernation, I figured, environmentalist that I am, that I would recycle an old column. This story, written by my alter-ago Jane Air, originally appeared on www.womenontheirway.com.

Jane Gets to the Bottom of Airplane Seat Etiquette

Now that planes are more crowded than ever, the likelihood is the middle seat in nearly every row will be occupied. Hopefully, dear reader, it will not be your delightful derriere that will be dwelling in said seat. Still, regardless of whose behind is there, the bottom line is that there are accepted rules of behavior when it comes to middle seat manners. In fact, as Jane will discuss, other seats have their specific rules as well. But middle seat suavities are of greatest consequence.

Herewith are hints from Jane’s Book of Travel Etiquette.

1. To the middle seat belongs the armrests. Window Woodrow gets the armrest next to the wall. Aisle Annie gets the armrest at the other end of the row. Unfortunate Middle Seat Mickey gets both of the middle armrests. Period. However, Middle Seat Mickey does not have the right to lift either armrest up without the expressed permission of fellow seatmates. After all, it is every passenger’s right not to be rubbed up by a nearby thigh.

2. Those occupying both the middle and window seats should limit their fluid intake. Yes, it is important to stay hydrated on a plane. But if you have a weak bladder, or like to imbibe gallons of fluids, reserve an aisle seat.

3. That said, if you are in the aisle seat, do realize it is your duty to get up when your fellow aisle mates have to go. Don’t build a fortress of magazines, beverages and laptops around you that has to be dismantled every time someone needs to get out. The fortress-building privilege is solely reserved for those in the window seat.

4. Now, what happens when it appears that the middle seat will be unoccupied? First, wait until the cabin doors actually close before getting excited. How many times has Jane’s pulse quickened and her heart rate increased in anticipation of additional amplitude, only to experience the heartbreak of that last-minute arrival sprinting down the aisle directly toward Jane’s extra elbow room? However, if said passenger doesn’t show up, congratulations. The middle seat is fair game….but only by half.

If the middle seat stays empty, immediately lay claim to your share of the seat by discreetly placing a jacket or a book on it. This prevents the passenger on the other side of the middle seat from hogging the entire space for himself. Likewise, feel free to use half the storage room under the middle seat. Once you are airborne, if it appears that your fellow aisle mate has not laid claim to the other half, feel free to use it all. Jane also says it is perfectly kosher to use the middle tray table for beverages. But don’t use it for the meal service. For one, if you do so, you will likely be using more than your fair share of the table, which is not seemly for a lady of your stature. For two, in the event of turbulence, your meal could end up in your aisle mate’s lap.

Speaking of which, do not use the middle seat as a place to stretch out, unless you have the other passenger’s expressed consent. If said person is kind enough to grant you full-body access to the middle seat, make sure your feet are pointing in the direction opposite his olfactory organ. Also, make sure that the armrest between the two seats is down. Otherwise, you might end up in your fellow passenger’s lap….and that, dear reader, is not acceptable airline etiquette.

Jane is always happy to add new rules to her book. Please post your thoughts.

A U2 Christmas Miracle

Given the mysterious ways of the debacle that is Spiderman on Broadway, I guess we should desire that Bono, the Edge, and the U2 gang have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year's Day. However, with thousands stranded at European airports this holiday season, thinking they are stuck in a moment you can't get out of, it somehow seems unfair that the Irish supergroup can walk on to a closed luxury hotel at the snap of their fingers. Not to mention that the group did so this week upon being stranded at Shannon Airport in Ireland. You mean Bono and his pop band couldn't find at least one friend, family member or fan with whom to stay during this sort of homecoming? I mean, that's like the Virgin Mary being turned away at the Inn of the Immaculate Conception. The thought leaves me verklempt with vertigo.

Achtung, baby. Here's the tale, courtesy of Dromoland Castle's PR firm:

Even the royalty of rock n’ roll can’t fly above the terrible weather plaguing Europe, it seems. No sleeping on the floor of the airport lounge for U2, though. When their plane was diverted to Shannon International Airport recently on return from a five-week tour in Australia, Bono declared that the destination was acceptable ... if the group could stay at Dromoland Castle, County Clare’s five-star luxury resort. Only a celebrity of Bono’s stature could dictate such a thing, of course, and only a bespoke Irish castle hotel could rise to the occasion. One of Ireland’s finest, Dromoland is a secluded retreat located just 7.5 miles from Shannon Airport. The resort was closed for refurbishment, (but) unfazed by Bono’s decree, Mark Nolan, the Managing Director of The Dromoland Collection, stepped into service, finding a room at the inn for the band. In the true spirit of the holidays, he even managed to arrange a festive Irish dinner for his guests -- in the form of the huge Shepherd’s Pie his wife Maria had put up for the family’s holiday.

Well, isn't that the sweetest thing? Despite the weather, U2 had a beautiful day, thanks to Mark and Maria. Just goes to show that sometimes you can't make it on your own. Meanwhile, back at Shannon and Berlin's Zoo Station or other transportation hubs in winter-weather-weary Zooropa, a pride of stateless wanderers still haven't found what they're looking for and are planning to spend Sunday, bloody Sunday in waiting areas, left to imbibe on Xanax and wine and other miracle drugs. So cruel. Mercy and Mofo. I guess some days are better than others.

To check on the italics, note this U2 song and album list. And yes, I know, I left out Where the Streets Have No Name. If you can find a place to fit it in, rise up and love, rescue me. And while you're at it, do you know how to dismantle an atomic bomb?

The Audacity of Grope

Now, dear readers, as someone who travels for a living, I realize that going through airport security isn’t a barrel of monkeys. But when I read about groups going ape about full-body scanning machines, or farcockt factions calling for travel boycotts to avoid Transportation Security Administration (TSA) pat-downs, I say get over it.

My ire is currently aimed at the inane idea of Opt Out Day (I shall not deign to dignify the premise with a link). Opt Out organizers want to make November 24...the day before Thanksgiving...the time when passengers just say no to advanced imaging machines, aka virtual body scans. Ah, brilliant. Encourage people to hold up security lines on the busiest travel day of the year. That'll work like a charm, I'm sure.

There is an option, of course, for opting out of the scanner. However, the full-body pat-down opens a whole new can of worms for civil libertarians and harried passengers who say the touching is too much.

Hence, another protest group, called wewontfly.com, is asking its sympathizers to reject the pat-downs. Prima facie evidence of this group's acumen: Its website equates pat-downs with groping and suggests "jamming TSA checkpoints...until they remove the porno-scanners." Porno-scanners? Really?

"It is irresponsible for a group to suggest travelers opt out of the very screening that could prevent an attack using non-metallic explosives," TSA Administrator John S. Pistole says (as quoted in the Washington Post). "This technology is not only safe, it's vital to aviation security and a critical measure to thwart potential terrorist attacks."

I agree. The choice between an overly-friendly pat-down or a body scanner that might reveal a blurred image of one’s privates to a solitary TSA agent versus being blown up in an airplane seems like a no-brainer to me.

Seems logical to the American Association for Nude Recreation (AANR) as well. The group can barely contain its excitement about the technology. “Put it in perspective, America,” an AANR press release says. “Allowing body scanners aids in travel safety and security, which is far more important than parochial concerns over a scanned image of a clothed body.” AANR’s executive director suggests imagining imaging as “a virtual skinny dip, something regarded as American as apple pie since before Norman Rockwell. (Then), everyone wins in the name of better air travel security.” Good points all (though it does give me pause to agree with a group that promotes nudist vacations as the ultimate way to avoid baggage fees).

Now, there are some arguments against scanners and pat-downs that I might buy. For example, some people are concerned with possible radiation being emitted by the scanners. I can't comment knowledgeably on that, given that I am not a scientist. Some true believers and some who are truly prudish balk at being patted down. But instead of pitching a fit, those groups can walk through a scanner.

Then there are the political theories. To wit, some say pat-downs and scanners are merely window dressing/government propaganda, and that the real evil-doers will always be one step ahead of our security systems. And there's the noted nexus between high-level DC insiders, like ex-Homeland Security Chief Michael Chertoff, who are touting scanners as the ultimate security option, and the manufacturers of whole body imaging machines. It's a crowded lobby, indeed.

Of course, on the other side of the coin is one Mr. Ralph Nader. The consumer activist and former presidential candidate is getting his Nader’s crusaders to take an anti-scanner stance. Now, there’s a Morton’s Fork...self-interested politicians versus the guy who screwed up the 2000 election.

Nearly 500 scanners will be in U.S. airports by the end of the year, Another 500 are expected to be installed next year. Ultimately, TSA plans to have the machines replace metal detectors at nearly every airport checkpoint. So, in the 2000-teens, body imaging is going to be a fact of life. As for pat-downs, I truly doubt they are designed to provide TSA employees with a cheap thrill. That said, if a guard is the subject of frequent complaints, he or she should be retrained or reassigned to patting down cargo packages.

Perhaps a better idea is to get robots on the case. After all, if you can train Cody to give a sponge bath, scientists should be able to develop a robot that can render a reliable rubdown.

The Naked Truth: Undressed to the Neins Part II

The German spa experience is quite different from its American counterpart. Across the pond, it’s about taking the waters, relaxing, and invigorating all of one's senses (to wit, many German spas actually have concert halls where one can enjoy the sound of music in the quest to lower one's blood pressure. Quite civilized, that). Pampering and prissy treatments are verboten. Also, most spa facilities are not located within hotels or resorts, but are community centers for all who seek to unwind.

That preamble out of the way, let us return to our tale of the Naked Spa of Bad Fussing. I am traveling with a quintet of women of a certain age, including a statuesque guide of German and French Guianan descent. Given her height, her exotic skin color, and her status as an ex-model, she diverts the attention of all wandering eyes. Therefore, I suppose she is also acting as our bodyguard. Ah, Isabelle, I shall always love you.

We enter a facility that seems somewhat antiseptic, like a sanitarium of yore…not to imply that I intimately know what a sanitarium of yore looks like. (This reminds me of a recent conversation with someone who had taken a tour of an insane asylum back when political correctness had not invaded our language. Said “tourist” mentioned her guide was a schizophrenic. To which I replied, “At least you got both sides of the story.”)

Apologies for the digression. I know you are probably sitting at the edge of your seat waiting for the Naked Spa story. And naked truth be told, we were sitting at the edges of our seats naked in the honey-baked sauna. But I get ahead of myself.

The first clue that something might be amiss was in the changing area. While our little group changed into our bloomers (swimsuits were required for the pool area), we noticed men...and children...walking right on by. Here we were, buck naked (ring a bell, Seinfeld fans?), and parades of Germans were marching past. Enjoy the cabaret, mein herrs.

To warm up, three of us took part in a water aerobics session, set to a tune that was a fusion of bad 1980s Euro-disco (I know, that's redundant) and an alpine yodel. Next, our intrepid quintet made its way to the sauna garden. There, Isabelle knocked up the Sauna Meister. Apparently, Sauna Meister is a full-time job in Germany ("...and what do you want to be when you grow up, little Helmut?"). The Sauna Meister gave us the skinny on Naked Spa activities (in the name of journalistic accuracy, I should mention that the facility was actually called Thermae I).

The first sticky situation reared its head as we entered the Honegspeeleng (the honey sauna). This was the point at which we fully realized we not only had to lose our outerwear, but our towel wraps as well. Frankly, there was no choice. With the sauna room packed cheek to cheek, it became quite apparent that we would poke out like sore thumbs (or something) if we remained clad.

Thus we sat, a co-ed group of 40 naked people, with nary a washboard ab in sight. Within minutes, the Sauna Meister cometh. For those trying to picture the scene (and please leave me out of it if you are), the Sauna Meister was not naked. Nor was he wearing a Speedo, so his status as a bearer of washboard abs is in question. No, it was a fully-clothed Sauna Meister who came in bearing pots of honey. He passed them out and everyone proceeded to slather themselves and their neighbor. Isabelle advised we naifs that the honey should not be rubbed on die scheide.

After the honey mixed with sauna-induced sweat, lo and beehold, we were all detoxified. After leaving the sauna, the next step was to cool off with a naked foot bath. I had the pleasure of taking mine next to an incessant hummer (to clarify for readers of the Urban Dictionary, please note that said man was merely singing without words).

As for the rest of the afternoon, we got naked again, yadda, yadda, yadda, and then we left the premises. Seriously, after being naked for so long, it blurs altogether.

Now, lest this scare you off a spa trip to Germany, be advised that all spas aren’t naked spas. In fact, at the next place we visited, the Wellness-Hotel Sonnegut in Bad Birnbach, swimsuits were de rigueur. And interestingly enough, the bodies in those swimsuits were much more fit than the naked bodies at Thermae 1 (not that I was looking, mind you). Go figure.

The Naked Truth: Undressed to the Neins-Part 1

In retrospect, it all started with a conversation I had two days before leaving for Germany. During said conversation, a friend revealed a secret past that included a nude streak in some California canyons back in the late 1960s (you know, the Age of Aquarius). As a member of a slightly younger and more prudish generation, this revelation left me feeling a bit disconcerted. Little did I know that just weeks later, I would be the one letting my hair down and letting the sunshine in (so to speak).

The foreshadowing began in Berlin. As I was on a mission to investigate the remnants of the Cold War in the once divided city, I visited the DDR Museum, devoted to all things East Germany (DDR is short for the Orwellian Deutsche Demokratische Republik). Among the exhibits was one on naked tourism. Yep, those East Germans may not have had any political freedom, but they sure let it all hang out on vacation. The exhibit was marked by what Americans would deem illicit photos (full frontal images of an unclad Mom and Dad swinging bare naked Junior through the sea) and a lovely diorama depicting all of the things East Germans did on nude beaches (I will spare you the details).

The next harbinger of things to come happened in Bad Kissingen, when I was given a rubdown with hot, oily balls by Stefan, a masseur half my age (you do the math). Mind you, I've been kneaded by many a male massage therapist, including Dan the Man the Romanian Rubber and Bud Light. But the combination of Stefan's youthful appearance and the lack of a modesty towel or sheet did give me pause.

But my dalliance with Stefan rated a mere PG-13 when compared to what happened in Bad Fussing. Now, normally, what happens in Bad Fussing stays in Bad Fussing. But this tale is too good not to bare.





To Be Continued...

A Soap Opera Bar None

I haven’t bought a bar of soap in years. No lye. No, I don’t stink (I think), and no, to beat any snarky commentators to le punch, I am not French. Nor have I had my sweat glands removed or Botox-ified.

Rather, my name is Laura and I am a soap-oholic. Or to be more specific, I have a zest for checking out with hotel soap. There’s nothing that can safeguard those pristine bars from my little paws. And yes, sometimes I do coast by the unattended housekeeper’s cart and lift a hunk or two. I can’t help myself. Those little pieces of wrapped ivory are as tempting to me as the ebony washboard abs of the new Old Spice Man.

Now, mind you, I am particular. I don’t do Cashmere Bouquet nor other tiny soaps exsiccated to the point of flakiness (you know, the ones that seem to be de rigueur at chintzy hotels worldwide). Nor do I pry the ever-more-present (green) soap dispenser from the wall. But dial me up a lovey-dovey bar of Gilchrist and Soames, Crabtree & Evelyn, Caswell-Massey (so many soap names seem to come in pears**), and other lux brands, and I’m in a lather. And if I stumble upon Hermes or Kiehl’s (the former stocked in a mere two dozen American hotels; the latter in fewer than 10)…well, that‘s a rarity in life, buoy or buoy.

I used to be addicted to hotel shampoos and lotions, too. (I have never had much use for bath gel, which, although soap in definition, doesn’t meet my bar). But now that one’s liquids are on full frontal display at security, well, it’s simply not suave to have one’s one-quart plastic bag stuffed with dozens of two-ounce elixirs. Even when traveling with a checked bag, the notion of lotion caressing one’s DWF wrap dress leaves me feeling unctuous. So, clearly, I have been cured of my liquid predilection. Olay.* But, alas, I believe my soap opera is to be continued.

*In the name of full disclosure, I must parenthetically add, dear reader, that yours truly was once a spokesmodel for the Olay brand.

**For the soap-pun challenged, please note that all misspellings are intentional.

Time After Time

Apologies, dear readers, for being out of touch. But between television appearances in New York City, an article for The Washington Post, a project for National Geographic (sorry, name-dropping is a DC institution), and trying to avoid exhaustion while playing tennis in the 95 degree heat, my attention has been elsewhere.

However, I have come across some engaging facts that I would like to share with you. Some of you may know that Indiana is split (not evenly) East/West between the Eastern and Central Time Zones. But do you know the only state that is split between times zones on a North/South basis? As you ponder, I have my eye on you, you little spud. Any IDeas? It's Idaho! The southern part of the state is on Mountain Time, while the northern part of the state is on Pacific Time. The dividing line is marked by the Time Zone Bridge in Riggins.

Speaking of time zone trivia, let me share a few other tidbits I learned in Googling the topic. I knew that Hawaii and Arizona do not observe Daylight Savings Time. But the Navajo Nation, located geographically within Arizona's borders, does give the sun its due in the summertime. U.S. territories including Puerto Rico, Guam, American Samoa, and the U.S. Virgin Islands stay on standard time all year long. But with those island climates, who needs summer time?

Internationally, Argentina decided to skip DST last summer (October, 2009-March, 2010) in order to save energy. China, in a normal world, would span at least five time zones. But after the Communist Party took over the country in 1949, it reverted to one common time zone (UTC +8), helping the trains run on time (oops, that was Mussolini) and leaving the poor farmers in Xinjiang and Qinghai provinces in the dark most of the morning. The PRC doesn't not observe DST. Only three countries on the continent of Africa (Egypt, Morocco and Namibia) follow Daylight Savings Time.

I don't know how Vanilla Ice, Ice Baby feels about Daylight Savings Time, but Iceland and Antarctica are officially frozen on standard time all year long (although some bases and stations on the tundra stay consistent with their home territories). If you are hanging out at the South Pole though, you can walk through 24 standard time zones in a matter of seconds.

A Bee Story/A Sting Operation/To Bee or Not to Bee

Have you heard the buzz about the Marriott Magnificent Mile in Chicago? Well, honey, let me tell you all about it.

You see, recently, Myk Banas, who acts as the hotel’s executive chef and director of food and beverage operations (he’s a busy bee) was pondering ways of expanding his property’s F & B philosophy. Said philosophy is to make food from scratch whenever possible.

His brain swarming with ideas, he decided he needed a little fresh air (or thus the story goes, as warped though my mind). So, he wandered up to the roof of The Richard J. Daley Center (the skyscraper with the abstruse Picasso sculpture in front of it). For reasons unbeknownst to him, the roof was filled with bees and their cribs. Suddenly, his mind was pollinated with the nectar of a new idea. “What if,” he thought (and again, I take the liberty of creative license in paraphrasing his thoughts--sorry, Myk), “I bought some bees and put them to work making honey? Wouldn‘t that be a sweet idea?”

Banas searched far and wide for the licenses that would allow him to place a bunch of bees on his hotel’s roof. Interestingly, however, there was no red tape to be found. So, Banas found an abbondanza of Italian five-striped honeybees and moved them to his rooftop in 2009.

These Italian stallions worked hard, producing more than 200 pounds of the golden stuff last year. (In this city of big shoulders and big unions, I wonder if these industrious worker bees have labor representation). After a winter in hibernation, Banas expects even more honey for his money in 2010. That money--a $2500 total investment in Italian bees, hives, honey extracting equipment and protective bee suits (made by Armani?).

So, you may wonder, what does the hotel do with a tenth of a ton of honey? Banas brews Rooftop Honey Wheat Beer, he bakes up honey-kissed pastries, and he sticks his honey on the breakfast buffet.

For now, dear reader, I won't drone on further, as I simply can no longer wax poetic on this subject. For more on this story, check out my article in the May issue of Hotel F & B (http://www.hotelfandb.com/).

Traveling with Thomas Jefferson, A Hen, and a Crab

Hey Guys,

Please enjoy my homage to Mr. Bill by clicking on the link below. Then, vote early and vote often!

http://www.hostourcoast.com/submission.cfm?v=5D57138E-3048-71C2-17210582D5540E5F&c=1