I hate to be feeling anything but patriotic as we get closer to America’s 250th birthday this July 4th. America has so much optimism in my corners of the world from nuclear energy to artificial intelligence and I want to celebrate this with my countrymen.
Alas there is always the nagging feeling that no matter one’s dedication to one’s nation, having a plan B in place has proven wise. Historically speaking in times of great change, technological shifts, and generational hand overs it has paid to plan ahead and be flexible.
Maybe I feel this more keenly with the rise of antisemitism from populist camps both left and right. I’m not Jewish, but my husband is culturally Jewish.
The fear that lurks in the back of the mind can’t be dismissed. They are history’s favored scapegoat. And I can’t help but feel technology is right behind as the next source of blame.
Add in the challenges of getting travel visas for unfavorable passports in my extended family, and I am always abroad. I never excited visa issues to prevent someone from being allowed to visit my own family America and we’ve never found a solution in a half a decade of work and advocacy.
So now we consider having a hide-y hole secondary residency sometimes. Never in my life did I expect to lose years of our lives to trying to manage visas that simply cannot be granted or to decide that perhaps it might be wise to have another residency just in case.
Many other nationalities are “Non Doms” in cities like London for similar reasons. You may want to get further from the front of a kinetic conflict or perhaps your government is looking messy or corrupt, perhaps your work has caught the attention of Leviathan in your home but other nations will welcome the work you do.
So I have been keeping on the on other jurisdictions I could see us living in if only for vacations for now. I see the value in owning a plot of land and having residency on another country should my passport become a “bad” passport in the future. Being prepared has new boundaries.
My sleep has been really poor as I’ve been jaunting about pretending to be a Eurotrash island hopper for a week or so. It’s both glorious but a little concerning as restorative sleep is crucial.
I’ve not gone as long and as hard as I have this late spring into summer since I was diagnosed with an autoimmune condition. A condition that seems to have potentially gone into remission.
And I’m trying not to worry. Something about late evening sunsets extending daylight, last week’s brilliant full moon lighting up the bay over Corfu all through the night, and the intense physical combination of swimming, talking, and eating communally has made it feel like I’ll can’t come down at night.
A late sunset over Greece turns to moonrise all too quickly leaving bright light at all turns
Last night I fell asleep as the sun was rising around 4am despite doing everything I could to be asleep earlier. I got in bed at 10pm with a boom, did vagal nerve exercises and breathing, took an OTC sleeping pill and a Benadryl, used only red lights past sunset, and wore earplugs and eye mask. I was doing it all right and my body’s response was all wrong.
So today I am aggressively injecting whimsy and exertion into my day with the hope that the risk of a flare in my conditions will be mitigated by the efficacy of my peptide protocol. My sleep was most disturbed up on my pulse off days so perhaps as I pulse back on into the week it will be better?
My logic is simple. Surely a messed up circadian rhythm is more dangerous than running around getting my steps, buying little treats at Flying Tiger (a forever travel notebook?!) and doing mat Pilates with travel bands. I couldn’t possibly flare myself with that kind of gentle whimsy exhaustion as my nervous system isn’t being pounded by training but extended gently with enjoyment.
I write about packing so much on this daily blog that you’d think I’d have an equally large collection of posts on the art of unpacking. I enjoy unpacking emotions, family systems work, a complicated social graph so why not my travel bags?
The forethought and execution required for a well packed travel bag in summer high season is a tactical exercise I both love and loath. My husband and I compete on who can most effectively compress down different categories of items from first aid kits to travel cosmetics.
I am however in my mind not a particularly fastidious unpacker. Or maybe I am? I repack my bags on the return leg as closely as possible to resemble the outbound packing trip. There are labeled bags for under garments, separates, and dresses.
I’ll transition some garments into a bag that is designated laundry, but I’ll almost always take laundry detergent with me. So it’s not unusual for me to make a return trip with clean clothing. When one travels as much as I do it can help to treat as much of road life as you would your regular life.
I unpack immediately upon arrival at my destination whether that is home or away. I prefer to get things out and tucked into the proper drawers and line ups. This applies doubly when I return home. I once had a suitcase sit unpacked for two weeks after a particularly bad flare. It was a nightmare.
So today I had unpacking work that required a bit of disassembling of multiple types of trip packs from gala makeup and silk gown to Greek island hopping swimsuits and even Utah desert nuclear facility visiting garments. It’s been a pretty busy couple of weeks.
I feel almost like I’ve found the bits and bobs of items that were misplaced inside tiny pockets or stowed away in unseen baggies. I am still searching for a few things but unpacking why the unpacking took so long is for another day.
Heat and sun only added insult to injury as my body struggled to manage inflammation. I had purchased a bathing suit I loved that became known as “the bathing suit I never wore” as I was simply packing it as an aspirational garment.
It was packed carefully in my suitcase trip after trip, in the hopes that I might have a good day without pain. Years went by and I never wore it. It was a sad joke. Not for aesthetics or vanity, but for the cruel pain that poor health puts you through.
If you go through the tags on the blog for ankylosing spondylitis you will see a journey of some length. The blog chronicles it from its starting years and, one day I hope, to its finish. I’ll may never be cured but I am finally living again.
The pale blue Ionian coastal waters protected from development and over traffic contain a beautiful array of fishes
I know it sounds silly that being able to wear a bathing suit without pain is a huge milestone, but I was unable to participate in the most basic outdoor activities with my own family.
A bathing suit was an aspirational garment not because I too afraid to be seen in it, but because the compression along my rib cage and spine hurt so badly.
And today I was on a boat for four straight hours including jumping off into the warm aquamarine waters of protected coastal Ionian water.
Nothing hurt at all. And I am not on any immune suppressant drugs at all at the moment. I am not on antibiotics. I am on a simple peptide regime. And now my swimsuit is being worn so often I need a second one so it can dry.
A halter top from Norma Kamali and a hat from a tourist shop.
Fashion rules are not hard rules. Soft rules apply to soft people who lovingly break them if something better would liven the mood. Being mercurial is a delight for them.
Soft rules do bind some people though. That’s the old canard about conservatism.
Conservatism consists of exactly one proposition, to wit: There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect. Frank Wilhoit
If you take the above statement at face value it makes for interesting thought experiments. Is the fashion industry is a conservative industry? Why then does it present to some as an entirely progressive culture? Fashion scholars could go on at length.
And this cultural rules exist ,about when to wear white that no one follows except those who are fearful enough to have it forced on them.
I am on an island after Memorial Day so I’m well into wearing white territory. No white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day isn’t enforced now in any meaningful sense but years after late‑1800s upper‑class habits dictated a practical, status‑signaling summer color meant for seaside or country time which were put away when people returned to sootier cities in fall.
At least I hope you aren’t somewhere covered in soot in either winter or summer. I myself am in full costal grandma regalia from white cotton pants to summer weight cashmere. Isn’t it absurd we have summer weight wools? It should really be a tee shirt but like I said soft rules for soft people.
Trains, planes and automobiles are nice but it’s not really summer till you have been on a boat. That’s right, I’m on a motherfucking boat. Well, I’m on ferry so the favored class of boat of certain Saturday Night Live cast mates.
I’m headed to a Greek island to relax with some friends. One of us came partially by train, one by ferry and car, and one by puddle jumper plane.
We’ve run the gamut of transportation across Europe to make it to a favored island known for its views, its caves, and of course its clear Ionian blue.
It’s been an adventure organized somewhat last minute as various itineraries made it clear we’d be within a few hundred miles of each other. So an Airbnb villa was procured at the last minute and the race was on to find our way to the island.
Grecian blue decks out the back/front of one of the many ferries leaving Port of Igoumenitsa
I’m looking forward to a few leisurely days on the water, hopefully involving a few more boats but of the more manageable island hopping varietals. One can’t exactly jump off of a ferry into clear blue waters.
The chaos of loading a ferry fully of cars, mopeds, and tourist buses is an amusing sight. I’m not quite sure how the Greeks manage such an intensely maritime environment but it’s certainly a fun way to travel.
Small barking dogs, screaming children, sullen tweens, and irritated elders all being screamed at by deck hands is quite a way to start a relaxing time.
Having decided to take a proper break I am going all in on making sure my body and mind get the proper signs and signifiers to just let go.
My first activity after a long mess of travel was to sleep for an impossibly long term. Whoop approvingly noted that my 11 hours and fifteen minutes was the longest I’d slept all month.
Low stress, a green recovery and plenty of hours of deep and REM sleep
I know they say you should stick to a regular sleep schedule. I generally have a firm bedtime just past 9:30pm and will sleep nine hours if I can.
But between conferences with evening events, long drives late into the night and an eight hour time difference I was carrying a sleep deficit that needed to be remedied.
My next order of business was equally taxing. I booked a spa appointment for a pedicure and a waxing. Fresh toes and a clean bikini line seemed like just the trick before laying out on a pool lounger or on a beach.
Not that anyone will be taking too close a look at me but I like feeling as if I’ve cared for the little details. Cosmetics and beauty are more of a way of appreciating my own body than adhere to someone else’s preferences.
I usually wear a very basic nude shade on my toes. I almost never do my hands but I appreciate a but I felt like I needed something more Ionian in quality or perhaps one of David Hockney’s pools.
A bit of pool blue lacquer
Normally I wouldn’t go quite so exotic on a pedicure as I’m much more basic in my preferences but if I have a chance to stare out at wine dark sea over an aquamarine pool I may as well make the most of the experience.
I just had a lovely transcontinental polar flight from San Francisco to Munich. I had access to the Polaris lounge for dinner beforehand where I got a hot meal and was able to livestream an event.
Afterwards I sat myself to watch the sunset and enjoy the parade of takeoffs. Every 2-5 minutes a jet would arc up across the lounge windows, and depending on its size and destinations would slowly bank to the right.
Airplane taking off from San Francisco International airport as seen from Polaris Lounge in the G Gates
It couldn’t have been a more enjoyable way to spend a layover. I must have recorded half a dozen airplanes soaring past to send to Alex as he and I both share a life of air traffic control logistics. The G terminal is undergoing a renovation as well so it has bonus heavy equipment to watch as well.
From the Polaris lounge the G terminal area renovations
I headed to my flight with time to spare so I could get in line first for my boarding class. Too much standing with a backpack hurts me spine. It turned out to be a mistake. The gate agent came over immediately and insisted she weigh my roller bag & my backpack as as it “looked too heavy” so she needed to check. Even though I had a business class ticket, she said would gate check my carry on roller unless I repacked or threw away unnecessary items.
I was confused as I’ve never has anyone weigh my bag at the gate. It has been weighed on my first leg and deemed fine. It fits all normal size constraints even for a regional yet. It should easily fit into the large containers of a transcontinental Airbus where the overhead only needs to accommodate two people’s luggage. None of this made a difference to her.
My suitcase was 2kg over the limit though my backpack was 2kg under the limit. I explained to her I generally pack my suitcase heavy and backpack lighter as I have ankylosing spondylitis so I keep my pack light. S
he scolded me saying if that was true I’d have registered my disability. I tried to explain that disability pre-boarding has become such a scammer’s paradise this method was easier on my spine. I was under the total weight and she could measure to confirm it worked.
Power makes people do odd things. She forced me to repack both bags so they each worked under the limit. But even then tagged my luggage as “heavy and oversized” saying she’d still need to gate check it. I excused myself to the bathroom and removed the tag as it fit the bin and had the correct weight. I wasn’t going to allow her to bully me out of the fair faire I’d purchased.
I got back in the business class line where more trouble awaited me. A very haughty man said I shouldn’t be in the line it was for first class. I explained that there was no first class on this flight, which is why boarding group 1 was combined with 2 but he said I was being silly as we all had to wait and he should be ahead of me and I shouldn’t be in line at all till they called business class.
I didn’t even attempt to explain the disability situation. He was certain he has better status than me so he should be upfront and I should sit down and wait my turn. He accused me of abusing my privilege. I tried a joke saying he’s well life is so hard “ha ha right” and that I just wanted to be prepared to go as I would board after the children.
Then another woman was pulled out of the business class line. The haughty gentleman admonished her as well to not be “like this woman” and listen to the gate check attendant. She looked confused and upset.
Having witnessed my issue, she complied and her bag was gate checked though. Even though she too was allowed two bags and a personal item in business class as well. She had a sling purse and her roller bag. They took her roller bag.
We began boarding and I rushed in to be sure I was in the line I’d tried to be first in, trying to avoid eye contact with the gate check woman. I hoped she forgotten about me. She hadn’t but she was too late. Just as I was being scanned by the biometrics device, she saw me and started towards me. Thankfully device pinged green, the check in woman sent me along and you better believe I ran down the jet bridge.
I reorganized my bags back to my preferred weight balance and stored them above my seat. I had plenty of room. I scanned for the gentleman and asked if I had been mistaken about first class. No, turns out business is the top class and they don’t offer first class. Furthermore, the gentleman turned out to be in coach.
I saw the girl board with only her purse and in some distress. She plopped down in her seat two rows behind me which had an empty flat law next to her. She had none of her essentials and seemed flustered. The sear next to me was also empty.
I kept waiting for the seats to fill to justify the gate check situation. It wasn’t until we pulled back from the jet bridge that I realized both of us were seated alone. Each of us had an entire row to ourselves. There had been no point in the gate nonsense at all.
The man wasn’t up front and our luggage overhead was more than half empty as mine could accommodate two people. The other woman’s overhead was entirely empty as her bag had been taken and her purse was in her lab.
I was so glad I had my things as she was completely lost. I offered up some of my cosmetics so she could clean up, as well an Advil for the headache. She needed tissues more. The poor girl has been bullied into letting go of her luggage by an asshole and a power drunk gate attendant for no point. There was plenty of space for luggage.
Why flying has turned into some kind of battle royal of poor manners and power games I’ll never understand. I wasn’t blocking the boarding inappropriately, I was just first in line for my section to avoid strain on my spine.
I had no reason to give my bags up and simply wouldn’t. Neither did the other woman, but she didn’t want to be bullied so gave in with both the gentleman and the gate attendant on her ass.
I’ll note we were both 30-40 something white women, so maybe we were just easy pickings. Middle aged Karens either go unnoticed or become targets who we tolerate bossing around a bit. No fighting back allowed lest you become one of those hysterics everyone hates.
It doesn’t matter if we followed the rules. Or that we paid to have the space. I clearly should have gone for the disability even if I loathe it as invisible disabilities always get questioned now that it’s everyone favorite scam. I may need to rethink that.
But I made it onto the airplane with my two bags (paid in full for the privilege) and an extra seat to keep them out with me if I so desired. Turns out one chair was broken so I couldn’t use it to sleep on the inside next to the bulkhead. But it stored all my luggage. And I had a lovely sleep on the aisle side. The weights and measures were pointless and I was victorious over petty power battles. Let’s hope I’m as lucky on the next leg. You just never know anymore.
A beautiful blur of lights and bridges and boats over the bay
When the pandemic first kicked off I was relieved that travel ground to a standstill in my own life. I am a bad traveler. Which is a shame as I travel a lot.
If exposure therapy actually worked, you’d think I’d be better at managing the sympathetic response my nervous system kicks in at the prospect of leaving home.
Even well into being middle aged and well traveled, I find every aspect of travel from packing to driving to transcontinental flight to be anxiety inducing.
I should be better at this. I was was the founder of a company that specialized in travel cosmetics. I am an expert level packer as I am still on the road every few weeks. I even have a three bag cascade system complete with emergency medical supplies and plans for almost any issue you could encounter.
None of that makes it any easier. My body hates travel on a deep visceral level. I drove to the remote deserts of Utah to visit a nuclear reactor and then back to Montana in the space of three days.
Now I’m flying across the pole to another continent. I had 36 hours between the trips to unpack and repack. Logistically that would be a challenge for almost anyone. Not for me. I breeze through it.
But the fear and anxiety that my nervous system kicks in has never gone away. No amount of breath work or training or planning tamps it down. Even beta blockers and benzodiazepines barely scratch the surface of the fear. Maybe my my mother was right and being put on airplane at six weeks old was a bad idea
Everyone goes at their own pace. True for kids, organizations, nation states and Americans on road trips. I don’t like to be rushed anymore than anyone else. I probably dislike it more honestly. I take my time with almost everything.
But I understand that I need to get out of the way of someone who wants to go faster than me. I let folks going at a faster pace enjoy the right of way. I’ll encourage them to accelerate by getting out of the way.
It seems I am a bit unusual in this self awareness when it comes to sharing our transportation paths. Maybe I get it from learning to drive on mountain roads where one unaware driver can slog traffic for hours. Or maybe it was reinforced during years of city living where slow walkers are punished with jostling and cussing. “Get out of the f*cling way you damned tourist!”
But America’s interstate system carries travelers of all kinds from all nations. Especially on a long holiday weekend like one.
Interstate 15 run 1,433 miles long from end to end. Starting in San Diego at the Mexican border and ending in Sweet Grass Montana where it turns into Highway 4 in Canada it covers a lot of different terrain.
I did the Montana through Idaho to Utah portion which is pretty much straight through. It is roughly 558 miles from my home in Montana to the Utah San Rafael Energy Lab in Emery County) and much of that distance is a straight line on I-15 through 3 states.
Montana’s scenic routes merging to I-15
That means I’ve driven over a thousand miles this week. Welcome to the summer amirite?Even if you take a detour for the scenic routes through Yellowstone, or pop up to Deer Valley in Park City like I did, you are running about a third of the route of one of our greatest roads.
I law a lot of misunderstanding of the manners involved in using the left passing lane and the right merging lane. The right lane or lane #2 is for merging onto the highway, exiting, and driving at or below the average speed. Slower traffic must stay here. The left lane or lane #1 is for passing traffic. In some states, cruising in the left lane is illegal and can result in traffic fines.
This system is now how one is meant to aid the smooth flow of motor vehicle traffic on our interstates. And boy I saw a lot of misunderstanding of the manners of this system.
Utah Bluffs
I saw a cop have to ride the butt of an old couple going 50mph in a 75 express lane before he gave up and flashed his lights. They still didn’t yield.
I saw a pile up of 20 plus cars behind a struggling 4 wheeler who inexplicably wouldn’t budge from the passing lane even when he could have gone to the right.
I saw a pair of motorcyclists dodging and weaving between left and right lanes around motorists as they raced each other, several times swerving back and forth around our Subaru. Heck I even saw a tricked out rice rocket style Subaru barrel through the interstate that runs through Idaho Falls.
So please if you take to our fine interstate roads this weekend please remember to stay in your lane. That’s not a metaphor. I mean it literally. And if that’s not for you maybe consider another mode of transportation? You can do 500 miles like Arlo Guthrie that way. Every native son knows the tune.
Good morning, America, how are you? Say, don’t you know me? I’m your native son I’m the train they call the City of New Orleans I’ll be gone 500 miles when the day is done. – City of New Orleans
